The Supreme Lord allowed the Time Field to collapse. He wanted them to see. He wanted the despair to be absolute.
The stillness broke, replaced by the collective gasp of an army witnessing the impossible. Their Blessed Nebras, the man who was supposed to break their chains, hung limp on the enemy's blade, his eyes wide and glassy, staring into nothingness.
The Giant leaned heavily on his axe, his breath hitching in his chest. A bitter taste flooded his mouth.
"Impossible," he rasped, his voice cracking. "Nebras... he cannot fall this easily."
The Archer stood paralyzed. The shock shattered his composure. His bow slipped from his nerveless fingers, hitting the dust.
"Nebras!" His scream tore through the battlefield, raw and agonizing.
The rank-and-file soldiers, confused by the sudden shift in momentum, froze until a voice cut through the din.
"The Hero Nebras is dead! We are broken! Fall back! Fall back!"
"Run where?" another soldier shrieked, hysteria taking hold. "The world has closed in on us! There is nowhere left!"
The Archer snapped out of his trance. He turned to the wavering lines, his face twisted with desperation.
"We must recover the body!" he roared. "Perhaps he is not gone! Perhaps it is not too late! Throw your lives down for the future! For the generations that will spring from our ashes! Do not let the hope of this world be buried in this dirt!"
The soldiers hesitated, fear warring with duty. Then, a resolve hardened in their eyes. A thousand men raised their spears and swords. They knew they were dead men walking. Escape was a fantasy; survival was a lie. But hope... hope was something they could buy with blood.
They charged the Supreme Lord.
The Supreme Lord yanked his black blade from Nebras's chest with a wet slide. He watched the wave of screaming soldiers approach, his expression bored. He stepped forward to meet them.
It wasn't a battle; it was a harvest. Men fell in droves, cut apart by strikes too fast to follow.
Amidst the slaughter, the Archer sprinted into the kill zone. He slid to a halt beside Nebras, hefting the limp body onto his shoulder. He turned to run, adrenaline fueling his legs.
The Supreme Lord didn't bother to chase. He simply thrust his sword at the empty air.
The black steel elongated, shooting forward like a striking viper. It closed the distance instantly, driving through the Archer's lower back and piercing through Nebras's body a second time.
The Archer screamed, his legs giving out.
As the Supreme Lord retracted the blade, the Archer began to collapse, but a massive hand grabbed him by the tunic. The Giant was there. He scooped up both the Archer and Nebras, throwing them over his broad shoulder like sacks of grain.
The Giant didn't run in a straight line. He moved with deceptive speed, zigzagging wildly, anticipating the extending blade that sought to skewer them all.
The Supreme Lord moved to pursue, shrinking the distance with terrifying ease. He raised his sword to end the chase.
Suddenly, a blur of yellow and green intercepted him.
The Spearman stood between the hunter and his prey. His face was a ruin—swollen and purple, his left eye sealed shut by gore. But his right eye burned with defiance. His spear, shattered only moments ago, was whole again, humming with restored Art.
He spun the weapon, creating a defensive barrier.
"You shall not pass, Dream Stealer," the boy spat, blood flecking his lips. "I am not finished with you."
The Supreme Lord paused, tilting his head.
"Still alive?" He sounded mildly impressed. "I commend your durability, little ant. But you will not survive another touch."
The Spearman didn't answer with words. He poured his Art into the weapon. The spear flared with blinding light. He attacked, a flurry of strikes so fast they blurred into a solid wall of motion.
The Supreme Lord parried every single one. He didn't just block; he anticipated. It was as if he were reading the script of the battle before it happened.
They tore across the battlefield, two comets colliding. The ground beneath them cracked and groaned under the pressure of their leaking energy. Soldiers nearby fainted, their spirits crushed by the sheer weight of the power on display.
But the gap was too wide.
With a precise, brutal swing, the Supreme Lord shattered the yellow spear for the second time. The black blade continued its arc, carving a deep, horizontal gash across the Spearman's chest and shoulder.
The boy fell, looking up at the tyrant with pure hatred. This monster didn't just kill men; he hollowed out their futures. To the rebellion, he was the Dream Stealer. To the sycophants, he was the Supreme Lord.
The delay was enough. The Giant had put significant distance between them and the monster. He reached a waiting cart, guarded by a handful of weeping soldiers. He gently laid the bodies of Nebras and the Archer onto the wooden bed.
"Take them to the Oasis," the Giant commanded, his voice low and steady. "No one can track them there. Go. Now!"
The soldiers nodded, tears streaming down their dusty faces. They whipped the horses, and the cart rattled away, disappearing into the haze of war.
The Giant turned back. He watched the Supreme Lord approach.
A blue aura erupted around the Giant's body, dense and brilliant. He looked like a guardian spirit of old. He stomped his right foot, then his left, rooting himself to the earth. He opened his arms wide, leaving his chest exposed, a challenge to the reaper running toward him.
"Come to me, Dream Stealer!" the Giant bellowed, a smile stretching across his face. "You may have stolen our dreams, but you will never steal the hope from this world!"
The Supreme Lord leaped, his sword raised high. The Giant met him, the smile never leaving his lips as they collided.