The battlefield did not end.
It decayed.
What had been noise—steel, hooves, screams—collapsed into something slower, heavier. The air thickened with blood and heat. Smoke crawled low across the ground where bodies burned or smoldered, where shattered wood and broken armor still radiated the last warmth of violence.
Ruger stood in the center of it.
He did not move at first.
He simply breathed.
Each inhale tasted of iron. Each exhale came uneven, dragged through lungs that had not yet decided whether they would keep working.
His axe hung at his side.
Heavy.
Too heavy.
Around him, the remnants of the Dragon and Beauty shifted through the ruin.
Some walked.
Some crawled.
Some did not move at all.
A man called out for water.
Another for help.
Another for mercy.
No one answered all of them.
Ruger's eyes drifted—
And stopped.
A face.
Young. Pale.
Eyes still open.
He stared into them.
And for a moment—
The world narrowed.
That face wasn't looking at him.
It was showing him something.
In those pupils—
He saw a figure.
Covered in blood.
Smiling.
Wrong.
The figure moved closer.
Closer—
Ruger didn't breathe.
Because he recognized it.
It was him.
The illusion snapped.
The body dropped.
Reality returned.
Too much red.
Ruger looked down.
His hands.
His armor.
His chest.
Blood.
Layers of it.
Drying. Cracking.
Fresh warmth still seeping from somewhere he didn't remember being cut.
The axe slipped slightly in his grip.
For the first time—
He hesitated.
A sharp cry broke the moment.
The young knight—
The one whose eyes had held him—
jerked violently.
Then rose.
Not standing.
Lifted.
A dagger fell from limp fingers.
Ruger turned.
Floya stood behind him.
Silent.
The scythe in its hands dripped slowly.
Dark energy coiled around it, thick and unnatural, like something that had been dragged through death and brought back with it.
The young knight's body dropped.
Still.
Empty.
Ruger looked at Floya.
For a moment—
They did not move.
He felt it again.
Not command.
Not control.
Recognition.
As if something behind those hollow sockets was aware.
Watching.
Then—
A roar shattered everything.
Hart.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
At the center of the field, he moved like something that refused to die. His armor was broken, his body soaked in blood, yet every strike of his greatsword carried the same crushing force as before.
Kate met him head-on.
Halberd and greatsword collided again and again, each impact echoing through the clearing. Kate's breathing had grown heavier, his stance slightly slower—but he did not yield.
Franco circled.
Waiting.
Searching for openings.
But Hart allowed none.
He turned, shifted, adapted—
Each movement precise.
Each strike lethal.
Ruger clenched his jaw.
He couldn't join them.
Not like this.
His body screamed with every attempt to move.
His vision flickered at the edges.
But he could still think.
"Kill the horse!"
The command cut through the chaos.
Franco reacted instantly.
His blade darted forward—
Low.
Precise.
The horse screamed.
Its leg buckled.
It collapsed.
Hart dropped with it.
Not falling—
Landing.
Balanced.
Still dangerous.
"Loose!" Ruger shouted.
Bolts flew.
One struck.
Then another.
Then more.
Hart stood through it.
Pinned.
Bleeding.
Watching.
Silence spread outward.
No one wanted to be the one to step forward.
Ruger did.
He walked slowly.
Each step heavy.
Measured.
"…Go in peace."
The axe rose.
Then fell.
Hart's eyes dimmed.
His body collapsed.
For a moment—
Everything stopped.
Then reality returned.
And with it—
Numbers.
Three hundred sixty-eight.
That had been their strength.
Now—
Barely more than a hundred remained.
Over one hundred sixty dead.
More than thirty crippled.
Victory.
If that word still meant anything.
Eit lay nearby, unconscious.
His leg—
No longer whole.
Bone exposed. Flesh torn.
Firth sat beside him, pale, drained, his hands still trembling from casting beyond his limits.
Lens moved silently through the field, collecting what could still be taken.
Franco stood.
Still.
Watching.
Kate lowered his weapon.
Slowly.
Ruger looked at all of them.
"We move."
No one argued.
They burned their dead.
Quickly.
No names.
No words.
Smoke rose.
A signal.
They knew it.
They left anyway.
The forest ended.
Light returned.
Harsh.
Unforgiving.
Ruger blinked—
And stopped.
On the hill ahead—
Figures.
One.
Then ten.
Then hundreds.
Then thousands.
Banners rose.
Ice Fox.
Silver Fox.
Wind Fox.
The air shifted.
Not pressure.
Finality.
Three riders moved forward.
Oxley.
Lawrence.
Eri.
Each carried something different.
Authority.
Elegance.
Wrongness.
"Where is Hart?" Oxley asked.
Kate answered by throwing the head forward.
Silence.
Then—
Eri laughed.
High.
Sharp.
Unsettling.
The negotiation began.
"The Infernal Angel statue," Oxley said.
"Return it."
"You may live."
Ruger hesitated.
Not from pride.
From instinct.
Something about that object—
Something about this moment—
Felt wrong.
Then—
The ground shook.
Not lightly.
Violently.
The horizon burned.
Light rose—
Like a second sun.
And from it—
They came.
The Golden Lion Knights.
Five hundred.
Perfect.
At their front—
Ophiroc.
Golden.
Unreachable.
Behind him—
Elesis.
Black flames twisting like something alive.
The battlefield changed.
Instantly.
"You've been busy," Ophiroc said.
No one answered.
Because no one could.
"Shall we begin?"
The charge came like the end of the world.
Gold met silver.
The clash shattered the air.
Oxley was thrown from his horse in a single exchange.
Lawrence's charge broke—
Against something that did not break.
Eri's magic burned—
Then vanished into black fire.
Elesis descended.
And everything died.
The Twelve Round Table Knights advanced.
A wall.
Nothing passed.
Nothing survived.
Ruger watched.
And understood.
This—
Was power.
Not survival.
Not struggle.
Control.
Absolute.
He moved.
Not to fight.
To take.
The weak fell first.
Then the wounded.
Then the slow.
He killed them all the same.
Floya moved beside him.
Silent.
Not following.
Choosing.
The battlefield ended.
But the world—
Did not.
Because far beyond—
Something watched.
Not the battle.
Him.
And for a moment—
Ruger felt it.
Recognition.
The world shifted.
Slightly.
Enough.
END OF CHAPTER 14