End of Hope (Sub-chapter)

Although winter has passed, its icy grip still envelops the northern front, snow continues to fall, as if erasing the bloodstains of the conflict in the border buffer zone, yet it is still not enough to hide the tragedy of war. Deep within Organization's border buffer zone, near the frontier, a once-majestic outpost of the national bloc, now the final stronghold of the 12th Legion in their desperate campaign to conquer Nation, where weary soldiers struggle to hold on. A lonely fortress standing amidst the cold mist. Under the pale winter sun, Leon Smith, commander of the 12th Legion, silently surveys the battlefield from the command post, his eyes wavering between resolve and vague anxiety. Two days ago, under pressure from Nation Guard, he and his legion were forced to retreat here. Each retreating step felt like a knife slicing into his pride of a commander like him. Yet, he still believes in his army's strength, trusting that those who fought beside him through countless battles will stand firm against any foe, even Stratos. Still, his mind is consumed with one thought: when will the 7th Legion arrive?

"Sir, radar reports... Within five kilometers, there are only eighteen enemies. Just eighteen, sir!" A subordinate officer rushed forward, breath uneven.

His eyes flashed with rare hope. He took a deep breath, turned to look at the soldiers huddling behind barriers. His voice was hoarse, tinged with the tremor of a man at his last stand yet unyielding. He reminded the soldiers they had faced battles where enemies outnumbered them tenfold yet still stood firm. So now, there's no reason to fear such a meager number. Though he knew all were exhausted, even terrified, he asserted this was the moment to take up arms and stand firm. He declared they'd crush any enemy daring to come near this place. His words made some soldiers raise their heads. Some bit their lips until they bled, others nodded in silence. He looked straight into their eyes, swallowed hard, then firmly vowed no enemy would enter here and leave unscathed, as a final encouragement. Whether the 7th Legion comes or not, they must fight on their own. He urged them to believe that if they must die, let it be standing tall, not kneeling.

"Leon Smith, what hope do you have standing amid this rubble? Surrender! The 7th Legion you wait for won't come anytime soon," Stratos's voice suddenly boomed from the loudspeaker.

"Stratos, don't get cocky! You have just a small team; don't think you can shatter Organization. Even if the 7th Legion doesn't come, don't think my 12th Legion will surrender to your ragged Section W!"

Leon clenched his fist tight, nails digging into his palm until it bled. He knew he was deceiving himself: The 7th Legion was far off; Nation was hunting them down; who would save a legion teetering on collapse? But he had to maintain that faith at all costs, at least for the survivors, those fearful faces huddled behind icy stone walls.

"A dry laugh escaped him for a moment. Then came a weary sigh. And then came the order 'Exterminate' issued."

Just one word was enough; Leon knew it was the end.

"Her Highness Theresa is blessing upon you…" Stratos whispered to himself, as he firmly planted his dual swords into the ground."

"Exterminate..."

From the moment 'Exterminate' was spoken, his figure dashed through the main gate, his dual swords blazing with vivid red magic. He charged in like a storm of ice and fire, gliding through gunfire smoke and hastily raised spears. With each strike, blood spread across the snowy ground, drawing patterns terrifying enough to horrify onlookers. Screams erupted in terror, each soldier of the 12th Legion fell, eyes wide in sheer terror. Many tried to kneel down, begging for a shred of mercy, but he showed no sign of stopping.

The remaining members of Section W appeared from all sides, like wolves hunting in winter's chill. They did not laugh, nor speak, only acted in silence. One stabbed with a dagger through necks, another shot down trembling spearmen holding rifles, another swung their spear swiftly, tearing apart each limb of the enemy. The smell of gunpowder, the stench of blood overwhelmed, drowning out the moans of those cast into icy hell.

"No... no! Don't run away!" Leon shouted in despair, his voice hoarse, trying to hold together the remnants.

Their eyes had grown dimmed, their faith extinguished, they dropped their weapons, fleeing amidst their piercing screams. Now, his faith in the 7th Legion shattered like thin ice beneath him. No one came to save them, only Stratos and his wolf pack were tearing this place apart.

Amidst a sea of bodies, he was forced back to the battlefield's edge. He saw a young warrior sobbing in despair, clutching a wound in his belly, "Commander... will the 7th Legion... come?" Leon swallowed hard, no word of comfort escaped him, only a desperate shake of his head ensued. He suddenly realized: the hope he clung to was merely a fragile straw. All around him, this was no longer the battlefield he had known, it had turned into a massacre, an event he'd remember till his life's very end.

He mustered his last strength, leading a few surviving soldiers in desperate flight. Each step of retreat was like a knife cutting into his pride. He fled while glancing back repeatedly: a blood-soaked slaughterhouse of carnage, where the 12th Legion met its end. By morning perhaps only snow and frozen bodies gripped by ice.

Organization's initial northern frontier assault, under leadership of the 12th Legion, ended in total failure. With statistics horrifying enough to make officials gasp in shock: nearly 80% of forces perished, of which roughly 42% died on battlefield, and 38% remaining fell during massacre. The 12th Legion's banner utterly shredded, drenched in blood, and might never rise high as before.

Sun gradually set, horizon dyed red like spreading blood pools. Leon trudged forward, eyes brimming with hatred and agony, but what could he do now? Hope perished beneath Stratos's blade and Section W's unfeeling gaze. He bit his lip until it bled. This time, truly no space for justifications anymore, no one remained to hear stories of ancient glory. All lost in oblivion under early spring's harsh chill, when only hatred and void trailed him into infinite darkness.