17

The fire crackled and hissed—but only for a moment longer.

Without warning, a heavy downpour descended from the heavens. Rain hammered down on the wounded earth, quickly extinguishing the flames that had scorched dozens of murloc corpses. Smoke curled upward from the dying embers, mingling with the thick mist creeping through the trees. The sudden coldness made the children's shoulders stiffen, their trembling hands gripping soaked cloaks and broken weapons. Only silence remained—except for something breathing.

From a distance, they saw him—Milark.

The monstrous creature stood tall, half-hidden by the shadows of broken trees, his long tongue licking the air. His scaled, bloated body shimmered under the falling rain. His yellowish eyes locked onto them with the stillness of a predator already tasting the kill.

None of them moved.

None of them breathed.

The chill that ran down their spines was not just from the rain—it was from him.

Anna's brother, kneeling beside her lifeless body, shook uncontrollably. He had raised her since they lost their parents to the Holy Church. When their world collapsed, he became hers. But now… she was gone. And so was he.

"I couldn't protect you," he murmured, voice cracking through the storm. "I'm sorry…"

He stood, tears mixing with rain, gripping the broken spear like a madman. Hatred burned in his eyes, even as exhaustion blurred his vision.

Dorothy staggered from the ziggurat's shadow. Her skin looked stretched and pale, and dark energy crawled up her veins like cracks in porcelain. Her magic had pushed her body past the point of no return—her left leg was twisted, her hands barely moved—but she still stood, anchored by pure will.

Ishlar stood in the center of the clearing. Soaked in blood and rain, he leaned on his blade, every breath a battle. The deep cut across his chest still leaked warmth into the cold rain. But he did not fall.

He saw Milark step forward, grinning with monstrous joy.

The first round began.

Milark lunged like a shadow, claws slashing, tail whipping, jaws snapping. Ishlar met him head-on. Steel and scale clashed in a cacophony of shrieks and roars. Sparks danced through the storm. Ishlar bled more with every second, but his sword kept moving—a dance of defiance in the face of death.

But Milark was playing with him.

Then—he vanished.

Ishlar's eyes widened.

Invisible. Milark had gone completely invisible.

Pain exploded across Ishlar's back. Then his ribs. Then his thigh. Slashes came from nowhere. Claws tore through his armor. He stumbled, knees hitting the muddy ground, trying to sense the predator circling him unseen.

The children screamed, some cried. One of them threw a stone into the darkness out of desperation.

Ishlar dropped his blade for a second. Blood poured from his mouth.

He muttered something beneath his breath—an incantation, a prayer, or maybe a curse.

Golden light flashed in his eyes.

Dark aura spiraled from his back, surging into his arms, wrapping around his sword like a storm. The mixture of power burned the ground beneath him—darkness thick as tar, and light that shimmered like the dawn.

Milark appeared again—charging, laughing, claws extended to end it all.

Ishlar pressed forward.

With a scream that shattered the rain, he slashed downward—not at Milark's body, but at a shadow, the hidden true form lurking behind the monster's invincibility.

Steel met flesh.

Milark shrieked. His scream wasn't like any beast's—it was a twisted, monstrous cry of agony and disbelief.

Ishlar's blade tore through the shadow, through the beast's neck.

And Milark's head flew into the air.

But before it fell, Ishlar gasped—his eyes widened in pain.

Milark's claws had pierced Ishlar's chest in the same moment.

A black-scaled hand gripped his still-beating heart.

Milark's head, even as it fell, smiled.

The light faded.

The rain continued to fall.

Ishlar's knees buckled, and he dropped to one side. The golden glow in his eyes dimmed, and the dark aura that had fueled him vanished like smoke.

He turned his head slowly, barely able to lift it, and looked toward Vanthelis, who stood frozen among the wreckage.

Ishlar's gaze softened.

A faint, tired smile.

A look that said: I didn't disappoint you…

And then… he was still.

Ishlar, the blade of the Blackthorn, the one who held the line when all else fell apart—was gone.