Dixon saw him coming from afar, and his blood ran cold. That look in William's eyes—he knew it too well. The same look from back then, when William had first stood against the nobles to defend them. A gaze that screamed one thing: he didn't care about consequences. If anyone got in his way, he would crush them.
They had all known this would happen if he ever found out. That's why, for months, none of the eleven had said a word. Not because they didn't need help—they did—but because they knew that if they asked, William would tear the world apart for them. And that could cost him his life.
It had started with tension. The nobles were furious over the massacre: a hundred of their own had died, and the culprits were still breathing. But they couldn't retaliate directly—not yet. Those twelve commoners had survived an impossible battle. They weren't easy prey. So the nobles started testing them. First one-on-one duels. Then two against one. Then three.
And the commoners kept winning.
Their group became something rare among the noble circles—not respect, but fear. Fights became routine. Blood spilled daily. Bones broke. Scars multiplied. But none of the eleven backed down. If anything, they grew fiercer. Stronger. Sharper. Every day they lived through was a badge of fire.
They endured their private hell in silence. At night, they'd huddle together, wounded, exhausted, some crying quietly—not from fear, but from sheer rage. They missed the security of William's presence. But they couldn't drag him into their war.
Dixon had stepped up to lead, trying to fill the void William left behind. He couldn't match him, but he kept them united. Until yesterday.
It was Thom who heard the rumor. William had killed a hundred nobles—alone. Ended the fight with every limb broken, barely breathing. The reason? To defend the girls who had once been the first lovers of their group. That news lit a fire in the eleven that couldn't be put out.
They charged out, burning with fury. But they weren't the only ones waiting. Nearly 900 noble knight-aspirants blocked their path. And like a brittle dam under pressure, the situation snapped.
The battle wasn't a fight. It was a beating. A public execution.
The eleven were left mangled, broken, crushed under the weight of noble wrath. Only when an instructor reminded the nobles that killing a candidate would bring death to all of them did the carnage stop.
Anthon had seen it coming. He arrived just in time to give the eleven a diluted healing potion—just enough to keep them alive and repair their internal organs. Their faces, though, remained a grotesque reminder of what they'd endured.
When William arrived and saw them like that, something inside him shattered. The air around him grew thick. Oppressive. Like hell had opened its jaws inside his chest.
Dixon, lip split and jaw clenched, was the first to speak.
"This fight is ours, not yours," he rasped. "We'll take our own revenge. We don't need a babysitter."
His voice was a mix of pride, pain, and burning frustration. Yes, they wanted William to destroy them all. But they also knew what that would mean. Death.
The nobles William had killed before were the guards of magical candidates—combat scholars trained in a mix of disciplines. But the ones who had attacked them this time... were soldiers. Pure-blooded warriors trained for one thing only: war. Letting William face them would be suicide.
"We can still fight. You don't need to carry us forever," Cedric said, stepping forward. One eye swollen shut, his voice rough. "Don't humiliate us by assuming we can't stand on our own. You've got your path. We've got ours. We don't need pity."
Without another word, the eleven turned away and walked toward the back of the dock, joining the line of slaves. That hit harder than any wound. William stood frozen, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. But he said nothing. Just watched them go.
The nobles watching sneered, trying to bait him. He didn't flinch. Instead, he turned and walked to his companions.
Lia reached him first. Her face, somber moments ago, lit up with relief as she gently touched his cheek.
"It's good to see you. We were all so worried," she whispered.
The other girls gathered close, nervous, almost reverent—as if afraid even a touch might hurt him. William gave a weak smile.
"I'm fine. Just a few scratches."
No one believed him. They'd seen Jayce carry him off the battlefield nearly dead. But no one pushed the topic. They didn't want to ruin the moment.
The nobles kept glaring at them, but William and the girls laughed, chatted, sharing stories and stolen moments of lightness.
"Seeing you fight like that… it was so hot," one of the girls whispered with a grin, making him blush just a bit.
And then everything changed.
A deep, beast-like horn echoed across the harbor, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. At the far end of the docks, a colossal ship cut through the sea like a monster surfacing from the abyss.
Over a hundred meters long, its hull was jet black and seemed to absorb the sunlight. The prow was shaped like a demonic gargoyle, and its sails were as dark as a moonless night. As it approached, a heavy sense of dread spread across the harbor, like the ship carried death itself.
The ship docked with a thunderous groan. Three old men in long black robes stepped down in perfect silence. They greeted Aurus with a slight bow, and the mage returned the gesture before stepping aboard.
Soldiers began herding the slaves and knight candidates into the lower decks. Only the magic aspirants remained topside. They waited in silence as crates and supplies were loaded onto the ship.
One of the elders emerged again and began handing out room assignments by academy. William caught the names of at least twelve different schools. Only six rooms were taken in his section. The rest remained empty, waiting for those who would never arrive.
Before heading to his cabin, William saw Aurus return and enter the largest chamber on the ship. The anchor was raised without fanfare.
The city of Caerlin slowly disappeared into the horizon.
And so the true journey began.
Toward the unknown.
Toward hell itself.