The road into Biringan felt like a promise. Jay moved slowly now, each step heavy but steady. Children clustered behind him, small faces wet with tears and dirt, clinging to each other. Den walked close, carrying a small pack. Luz followed, the scroll still folded in his hand, his shirt torn but his eyes bright.
At the gate the medic army waited — white cloth and steady hands. They rushed forward with stretchers, water, herbs, bandages. Jay breathed a shallow sigh of relief when the healers reached the children first, wrapping sleeves around little wounds and offering warm broth. A soft murmur of welcome passed through the crowd.
Luz stopped when he saw a woman in the crowd. She stood like someone who had been waiting forever, hands trembling. Her hair was tied back loosely, tears running down her face. For a moment Luz froze, the old fear squeezing his chest — his parents had told him not to go. He had expected anger, a slap, the harsh words he'd heard so many times.
Instead she stepped forward and threw herself at him, hugging him hard. "My boy! I thought you were dead!" she sobbed into his shoulder.
Luz stiffened, then wrapped his arms around her. "I'm fine, Ma. I'm alive. Look—Jay helped me. He taught me."
Jay bowed his head slightly when Luz's mother noticed him. "The student of the Fifth Descendant," she said, voice full of gratitude. "I must meet you and thank you. You saved our children."
Jay nodded, too tired to speak much. The medics moved them into tents. Light army healers checked broken bones and cut skin. Den stood by, watching his father's name and his own face in shadow, but relief warmed him now — they had made it back.
---
Far from the safety of Biringan, chains clashed like thunder.
Fuhkiko met Julius in the ruined square, both men breathing hard. The world around them burned—smoke curled into a blood-red sky. Their chains struck, rang, and wrapped like living metal. Sparks flew.
"You never asked," Julius snarled between breathless strikes. "Why would I stay? The family never gave me my place. They loved you. They left me hollow."
Fuhkiko blocked a furious lash, then slammed his weight forward. His chain hooked Julius's side and drove in. Julius gasped, wind knocked out of him. He went down to one knee, clutching his stomach, eyes wide.
"Brother… don't…" Julius managed. Pain and shock and something that might have been regret crossed his face.
Fuhkiko looked at him, the chain tight in his hands. For a second he saw the boy Julius once was—the boy who had protected him on fields and laughed beside him. The old soldier's breath came slow and heavy.
He loosened his grip. The chain uncoiled. He did not finish the strike.
"Stand down," Fuhkiko said softly. "This—this is not what our blood taught."
Julius spat blood and rose, face twisted. "You always pardon me," he hissed. "You always spare me. That is your weakness!"
Before Fuhkiko could answer, black wind cut behind them. Rigor moved like lightning, his wrist blades flashing. He pushed through smoke and rock to Julius's side and wrapped his quick blades around the wretched wound. He shoved Julius back to his feet with a hard shove.
"Darn," Fuhkiko muttered. The two brothers had a brief, sharp moment of eye contact. Julius staggered as Rigor steadied him.
Rigor's voice was cold. "Move. We leave now."
Julius coughed, then laughed in a ragged voice. "You save me again, coward. You will not be forgiven."
They vanished into the dark with speed. Fuhkiko stood with his chains low, chest shaking. He watched them go. He had wanted to stop his brother without killing him. But Julius's hatred would not be quelled so easily.
Fuhkiko wrapped his chain around his wrist and turned away slowly. There was a heaviness in his chest he could not shake—like bad weather coming. He did not chase. He did not want to drag more blood across the land. For now he stayed where the battle had been worst, gathering wounded where he could. He felt a shadow closing in on the world, and he worried.
---
High above the city, in a ring of falling ash and dust, Bin and Malakar bent and rose as if moved by two different tides.
Malakar's dark aura had hardened into a dome that pushed everyone back. The shield had held them inside so their feud could burn without outsiders interfering. Now the dome trembled.
Both men were breathing raggedly. Their armor and skin were scorched; their clothes were torn. The dark shield flickered, thinning thin as a dying candle. The energy that fed it had been drained by the long fight.
Malakar stumbled backward. The dark fire that had roared from his palms spat and sputtered like a hungry beast that could not find food. He crawled a few paces, hands scraping on broken stone, his shadow cloak riven. Sweat and ash caked his face.
"Brother…" Malakar's voice cracked. He held both hands up, not to strike but to plead. "Please... please have mercy. I am sorry. I am—don't finish me."
Bin stood beyond the circle of battle, sword in hand, light trembling along the edge like a burning promise. For a moment his face showed sorrow, the old pain of two boys who loved the same dream and tore each other for it. He looked at Malakar, saw the man's ragged chest rise and fall, the eyes that used to smile at him as a child.
All around, soldiers of light and dark watched through thin cracks in the dying dome. Many could not move. They had been shoved back, but their eyes followed every step. Hope and fear hung like a thread over the ruin.
Bin took a slow step forward. His boot crushed a shard of glass; it skittered away. He did not rush. He did not shout. He kept the sword steady.
"Malakar," Bin said, voice flat as stone, "you made your choice. But I am the one who must stop this. For the people. For the world."
Malakar's breathing hitched. "I was cast away. I wanted what was mine. I wanted to be needed. I needed—" He coughed and tried to stand. The dome buzzed and cracked. The dark shield was almost gone.
Bin's light hummed warmer. He could end this now. He could raise the sword and cut the root of darkness at Malakar's heart. He could free the world from this war.
Yet as he lifted the blade, his hand shook. The sword felt heavy in a different way—the weight of a brother, the weight of a history only they shared.
"Please," Malakar whispered again, crawling, tears in his eyes. "Brother… I beg of you. Remember us."
Bin looked at him—at the man who had been his brother, equal and opposite. Around them the world burned.
The last thin threads of the dark dome snapped. The storm of battle would spill outward again. Bin knew others would rush in, that men would fall, that this choice mattered.
He took another step.
His sword caught the bleak light of the dying shield and glowed like dawn.
Whatever he chose next would change everything.
For a moment time seemed to slow. The world held its breath.
Then Bin lifted the Sword of Light higher, ready to finish the darkness forever.