The sword saint watched the beasts retreat, her puzzled expression undeniable. But she was thankful; she knew if the battle had raged on, the defensive line eventually would have fallen.
The adventurers beside her began to drop one by one, the fatigue in their muscles finally released to the surface. Almost in unison, they all let out a long sigh of relief.
The sword saint smiled slightly; she was glad that so many of them had survived.
Her mind travelled back to her party members. Prometheus had been taken back to the guild hall to receive treatment and ensure there weren't any backlashes after draining all his mana into one singular attack, but the rest hadn't arrived yet.
She tried to be hopeful, believing that they had survived their battles against the war grades.
A silhouette in the distance elevated her hopes. The person walked slowly, with hands resting against a long sword for support. After a few moments passed, she was finally able to make out who it was. Although his long dark hair looked a mess and his skin had gone drastically pale, she could tell it was Socrates.
The seated adventurers gave him small nods and looked with eyes full of admiration as he passed; he had killed a war grade.
Socrates responded with a nod of his own. His steps were slow but firm, and finally he reached the sword saint. Even with all this bloodshed, she still looked like an ethereal grand general of war.
The sword saint pulled him into a hug. A sharp wince escaped his lips and caused her to let go just as fast. Her eyes scanned his body, finally landing on the gaping hole that split through his armour and bit into his torso.
She turned her head, ready to call for a healer, but his hand stopped her mid-motion.
"I'd get to them myself, don't bother calling. They're just as tired," Socrates said to her. He pushed his long sword forward like a cane, making his way to the healers.
The sword saint watched him go, her shoulders eased slightly, thankful that he had survived. But her mind still wasn't at rest since Vivian and One Eye hadn't arrived, even though One Eye wasn't a part of her party.
Minutes passed until she finally saw something—a feminine figure trailing something behind her. Some adventurers got up and went to assist her, the sword saint already guessing it was Vivian. The figure didn't object to the assistance, allowing the adventurers to take on the burden of whatever she had been dragging.
The moment the sword saint saw what she had been dragging, her breath hitched for a second. It was a body.
It didn't take long for them to get back to the rest of the group. The sword saint looked at Vivian; her injuries were far worse compared to Socrates. Each breath was taken with effort. She turned back and called for a healer. Unlike Socrates, Vivian didn't object—she didn't have the strength to.
The sword saint's reason for calling the healer wasn't entirely because of Vivian, but One Eye. The missing arm couldn't be ignored and had to be attended to immediately. Currently, his whole body felt cold and looked pale; without immediate treatment, he might end up a corpse.
"Did he fight the beast alone?" she asked.
Vivian, who knew the question was directed at her, replied, "No, we fought it together."
"How many?"
"One."
Vivian answered truthfully, giving the sword saint the answers she needed. The sword saint filed the information somewhere in her mind. They had fought against one, and yet they both looked worse than Socrates. This showed that even among war grades, strength differed.
The adventurers began to get up, each one heading back into the town. The sword saint and Vivian did the same; they were all tired and needed the rest—some more than others.
Beyond the walls, what welcomed them was a ghost town. Everyone had been evacuated.
They made their way to the guild hall, which wasn't that far—a large building made out of fine wood and stone slabs. Many adventurers were gathered up front, both those that had taken part in the battle and those that had provided logistical support. Everyone was present. The guild master walked out from the enclosure and moved towards the approaching sword saint.
The sword saint gave a small bow the moment she faced the guild master. Her respect for him felt boundless; he had trusted her enough to lead the charge against the horde.
"Stand up, Elaine," she heard him say. A smile broke across her lips. This was the first time someone hadn't addressed her by her nickname in a long time. She rose and stared at the old man. His eyes showed how proud he was. The history between them ran deep—deep enough for the sword saint to notice the sadness behind them.
"Guild master, is something wrong?" she asked, her tone genuinely concerned.
The old man let out a small laugh, one that sounded more sad than hearty. The child had studied him well enough to tell when something was wrong.
"Let's go take a seat," he responded, his hand gesturing for her to follow him back into the building.
He turned and continued walking. The sword saint followed closely behind, and a few moments later, the sound of a closing wooden door signaled their departure.
The lobby was empty and sparse. Aside from a few wooden chairs and tables, it looked bare, lacking the usual enthusiasm of young adventurers and sober veterans who looked forward to getting drunk after a day's work. Compared to all that, what stood before them felt like a hollow form of its former self.
The sword saint felt that the deafening silence of the empty building added to the sobriety of the atmosphere. She knew that whatever the guild master was going to say was something important.
The guild master walked towards the empty seats and sat down while he waited for the sword saint to do the same. Not long after, she did. The sword saint tried to assess the situation in her mind, coming to the conclusion that whatever he needed to tell her was grave.
"Elaine, I trust that you know how to handle your emotions well enough. So do not disappoint me with an outburst," the old man said, staring directly at her.
The sword saint's thoughts, for a moment, grew still. He's asking me to be emotionally indifferent, she voiced internally.
"I understand," she replied flatly.
The old man sighed. Then he said—
"They're all dead."