Chapter 30: Ashes of the Fallen

Princess Alisanne sat near the edge of the command tent, her fingers wrapped loosely around a steaming cup of herbal brew. The flaps had been rolled up to let in the morning light, but her eyes weren't focused on the trees outside. They were locked on the horizon—toward the village Reivo had ridden into alone.

"Maybe we should've sent some other soldiers with him," Lira said quietly.

The Awakened's voice was calm, but Alisanne didn't miss the bite beneath it. Lira's golden hairs where braided tight as always, she was nervously tapping the sleeve of the white healer robe. Her pale eyes flicked once to Meira, then back to the princess. "He's still a boy, whatever else he might be."

Meira stood at Alisanne's side, her arms crossed over her maid dress. She looked equally uneasy but less judgmental. "He volunteered," she said, as if trying to soothe both sides. "And we all saw what he did during training."

"But at what cost?" Lira challenged. "He hasn't even received his System training. And you sent him into a breached zone alone. What if it twists him further?"

Alisanne exhaled slowly and placed the cup down.

"I didn't send him," she said. "I gave him the chance to prove himself. That's what he wanted."

"No," Lira countered. "He wanted to punish himself."

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended above them.

Meira lowered her head, lips pursed. "You're not wrong. I've seen survivors carry grief before, but not like this. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't speak unless required. And there's something in his eyes. Like the light got pulled out and replaced with coals."

The princess looked down at the map again.

"I saw that light die," she said softly. "When Caelis ordered his execution. When the ashes of his village still clung to his skin. But he didn't break then. He didn't break when he looked at me and chose to live."

She stood now, straight-backed.

"He's not just surviving. He's changing. Becoming something else. Something the Reign can't afford to ignore. If I smother that now… I'd be no better than the general."

Lira didn't reply immediately. The fire crackled in a nearby brazier, popping once with an ember's leap.

Then she said, "Just don't pretend it's mercy. You want to mold him into a weapon."

Alisanne's jaw tightened. "No. I want him to choose what kind of blade he becomes."

There was a pause.

"…and if he chooses to turn that blade against us?" Meira asked.

The princess didn't answer.

---

The corpse crumpled at Reivo's feet with a final twitch.

The village outskirts were a maze of half-burned fences, charred haystacks, and smoldering carts. Reivo's chest rose and fell steadily, sweat clinging to his skin despite the cold wind that cut through the fields. Ash clung to his clothes like a second skin.

He yanked his blade free from a ribcage, the bone cracking as it gave way. The sword gleamed in the light of distant flames—eager, alive, and whispering.

The whispers were louder now.

They slithered under his thoughts, half-formed words just below comprehension. At times, they sounded like his mother's voice. At others—like the guttural snarls of the giant that had slaughtered his family.

But he pushed them down.

Another groan rose from the field ahead, and he turned.

A larger undead shambled from the mist, this one armored in remnants of old guard plate, blackened and rusted through. Its jaw was metal-clad, its hands wrapped in leather bracers caked with dried blood. Behind it came four more—standard ghouls, twitching and swaying like dancers out of time.

Reivo wiped the blade with a flick of the wrist, then shifted into stance.

"Come on, then," he muttered.

The armored one roared and charged first, the others following its lead.

Reivo met it head-on.

He ducked under the first swing, the massive rusted cleaver hissing through the air where his head had been. He came up inside the guard's reach, both hands gripping his sword, and drove it forward under the thing's ribcage. The cursed blade punctured rusted mail and bit into rotten organs, but the undead didn't fall.

It grabbed him.

The strength in the thing was immense—inhuman. It slammed him backward, throwing him into the side of a broken wall. Pain exploded across his back, but he rolled with the impact, gasping.

The four others closed in.

Reivo gritted his teeth.

Then Reivo moved.

Faster than thought, he crossed the gap and slashed low, severing the tendons of the first ghoul's knee. It collapsed. He spun, used the momentum to sweep the blade in a wide arc—two heads fell from twitching bodies.

The fourth swiped for his chest—he caught the claw with one hand, twisted, and snapped the wrist with a sickening crunch. Then he drove his sword into its face, crushing bone. The undead collapsed, choking on its own ragged breath.

The armored one had recovered and was charging again.

Reivo's eyes narrowed. He stepped aside at the last second, letting the cleaver slam into the stone well. It stuck—just for a second—but it was enough. Reivo surged in, jumped, and vaulted onto its back.

The whispers screamed approval.

He plunged the blade down, not once, but five times—hammering it through the armor at the base of the neck. On the sixth strike, the monster dropped to its knees.

Reivo grabbed its head and twisted.

The crunch echoed across the empty field.

The monster collapsed, and Reivo stood still for a moment, breathing hard.

Ash fell from the sky like dark snowflakes.

His hands were covered in blood—some of it his own. But he still stood.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

He turned his head toward the rest of the village.

More were coming. He could see them now—drawn by the noise, the blood, the death.

His gaze narrowed. There were at least eighty basic undead shambling forward, their movements slow but relentless. Behind them, ten armored undead formed a protective circle around a taller figure—the dungeon boss. A necromancer, twisted and half-decayed, caught somewhere between life and death. His hollow eyes locked onto Reivo, calculating. Then, with a slight motion, he sent only ten of the lesser undead forward. A guerrilla tactic. He wanted to tire Reivo out before the real fight began.

Reivo adjusted his grip on the sword and began walking.

He would clear this entire village if he had to.