REGRET OVER PRIDE

The battle was over, but the war within their hearts had only just begun.

The twilight sky over Lumisgrave dimmed to soft violet, broken only by the quiet hustle of the wounded being carried through the city's ruined streets.

Broken glass. Fallen banners. Shattered stones. Yet the air held something rare—survival.

Dozens of Echelon Knights moved through the rubble with focused urgency, lifting the injured from debris, creating makeshift stretchers out of shields and capes. Healers from the Council of Surge rushed in from all corners.

Meanwhile, the Mythic Knights, though exhausted and battered, supported one another without a word. They moved as one—shoulders against shoulders, grim but alive.

Among them, Arslan walked slowly, dragging his boots through puddles of blood and dirt, his coat torn and soaked in sweat. His head was low, yet every eye tracked his movement.

He had done it. He had defeated ZARELLE.

---

Near the scorched courtyard, King Farhan and Julius stood at the high steps of the royal command post, eyes fixed on Arslan as he passed.

Farhan broke the silence first, his voice calm but laced with awe.

"Kar'Thael… you were right." He turned to Julius. "Arslan is nothing like the rest. Even Zenith Knights couldn't bring ZARELLE to his knees—but Arslan did."

Julius nodded. "It wasn't just strength. It was precision. Strategy. And… something else."

The King stepped down and approached Arslan, who paused out of respect.

"Arslan," King Farhan said with authority, "you've done more than we expected. Your condition is fragile—you should rest now."

Arslan bowed slightly. "That is my responsibility, Majesty. I only did what I had to do."

Farhan looked him over for a moment longer, then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Then carry that responsibility proudly. But don't carry it alone."

At the Mythic Base Medical Ward…

The ward glowed dimly, illuminated by floating bluish orbs above each bed. Six Mythics lay resting—bandaged, breathing, whispering quietly.

The others stood around them—some seated, some leaning against walls, cleaning weapons or holding cups of warm herbal mix.

As Arslan entered through the arched doorway, his figure cast a long shadow across the ward.

And then… silence.

Every eye turned to him.

He paused, standing still at the center, eyes drifting across his teammates—across the pain in their expressions… and the hope.

He took a breath.

"I… know I hurt all of you."

His voice trembled, not from weakness, but regret.

"I became proud. I thought I didn't need anyone. I believed power was all I needed… and for that, I pushed you away." His eyes found Tharion, Yuna, Caelis, and the others. "I was wrong. I am sorry."

He lowered his head.

"Please… forgive me. If you believe I deserve punishment—I will accept it."

There was a pause.

Then, a deep, rumbling voice—Orien Dravell—spoke from near the back.

"You're right. You do deserve punishment."

Arslan raised his eyes. "Then I am ready."

From the corner, Yuna Solthrae, arms folded and expression unreadable, added, "The one you hurt most wasn't just us—it was Nirela."

Arslan clenched his fists.

Yuna looked over at Nirela, lying unconscious in a ward bed, a gentle light hovering above her chest.

"When she wakes, she'll decide your punishment."

Arslan nodded solemnly. "But until then… I ask you all for forgiveness."

A beat of silence—then a low chuckle came from Tharion Vale, leaning against the frame of a bed.

"I forgive you, brother… but on one condition."

Arslan looked up. "Name it."

Tharion grinned. "You train us."

A few Mythics raised brows, surprised.

Tharion continued. "You're powerful. We saw what you did. That kind of strength doesn't come from nowhere. You owe us—to make us stronger too."

Arslan smiled softly. "Deal."

From across the room, Zhalya, Caelis, and Seris nodded one by one.

"I forgive you."

"Me too."

"It takes courage to admit that."

Each voice added warmth to the cold stillness that had lingered since the battle.

---

But near the ward's center, one bed remained quieter than the others.

Nirela Quen.

Still unconscious. Her hair brushed over her pale cheeks. Her breathing shallow but steady.

Arslan moved beside her bed, slowly lowered himself to one knee, and gently took her hand. He whispered, barely loud enough for even himself to hear:

"I don't know if you'll ever forgive me… but I'll wait. I'll prove I'm worth it."

---

As he stood, Kar'Thael's voice echoed softly in his mind:

> "You did well… finally. But forgiveness is a seed, Arslan. You have to water it—every single day."

Arslan nodded silently.

The Mythics didn't speak again. But something had changed.

The silence in the medical ward… wasn't heavy anymore.

It was calm.

A silence of peace—not of distance.

And for the first time since ZARELLE's arrival…

They felt like a team again.