Three days blur past.
I haven't talked to anyone—only Mia, during our meal sessions. She's gotten a little more lively after our first conversation, but the sadness keeps settling over her like a thin fog.
Her appetite shrinks day by day. Dark rings bloom under her eyes from sleepless nights. I want to give her more hope, to force a light into that hollow place, but Noctharion's voice keeps circling in my head. I am afraid his observations might be true. That's why I stay distant. I don't talk to her more than I must.
Most of the worker class is being moved to other cities. Some choose to remain. Mia's mother is one of them.
The Commander is busy; he doesn't come to train me. I spend these days training alone. Noctharion doesn't come around either—and I don't call for him.
For once, I appreciate the quiet. It gives me space to sort my thoughts.
Now the time comes.
Time for truth.
Time to find out whether we live… or die.
---
Step. Step. Step.
The sound of countless boots striking the earth resounds through the air like a war drum. Knights clad in dark, heavy armor move with perfect precision, the rhythmic clank of their pauldrons accompanying their movement. Their formations shift, a massive, silent iron tide.
Each breastplate bears the insignia of House Thorne.
We stand at the fortress gates, facing the endless, oppressive expanse of the Dark Forest.
The land around us is scoured clean—five kilometers of earth stripped bare and churned to a reddish dust. No trees. No vines. No cover. Where there once were towering trunks and tangled undergrowth, now there is only an open, bleak killing field where the sun glints sharp off scattered rock. A stark contrast to the wild tangle that surrounded the fortress days ago.
This is the battlefield.
This is where the monsters will die—or we will.
I shift my grip on the spear, its polished wood cold under my palm. Around me, every knight is at least C-rank, their aura heavy enough to make the air feel thicker. Their aura is not just making the air thicker, but pressing down on my lungs, a tangible weight that demands silence.
I am the outlier, the anomaly—a D-rank standing among predators.
Commander Arvell wanted me at the rear. He even gave the order twice. But I refuse.
This is where I belong—the first line of defense.
If I can't survive here, if I can't hold my ground when death rushes straight at me, then I have no right to talk about the future. The bleak nightmare I know is coming will make today's battle look like a child's game.
I clench my jaw, staring into the dark edge of the forest. My heart doesn't just beat—it pounds a steady, aggressive rhythm against my ribs, an instinctual drum of savage anticipation.
This is my test.
This is the moment to prove how far I have come in this world.
---
I look around me. The knights stand tense, their armor gleaming faintly under the dull, steel-gray light that promises a storm.
A hushed whisper comes from my right. It's Daren, the man standing beside me.
"Hey, Kael… are you really sure about this?"
I turn to him, my gaze level. "Sure about what?" I ask in a low voice.
Before he can answer, another voice cuts in—John's, a strained edge to it.
"About fighting here… in the front line."
I meet his gaze for a moment. They still don't understand.
"Yes, I'm sure," I say quietly. "Fighting in the back or the front—it's all the same."
Daren scoffs softly, a dry, nervous sound. "It's not the same, Kael. Not when the front is where people die first."
"People in the back die too when the front collapses," I tell him. My voice is flat; the logic is simple. "So it doesn't make any difference."
A third voice comes from behind me—Nicholas, trying too hard for confidence.
"Don't worry, Kael. As long as I'm here, no monster will lay a hand on you. And if things get rough, just run. We'll cover you."
He laughs, joined quickly by Daren and John.
Their laughter sounds light, a desperate attempt at normalcy, but their trembling hands betray them. Even as they grip their spears tightly, their knuckles are pale. They are scared—hiding it well—but scared nonetheless.
And still, in this suffocating tension, they worry about me. Always about me.
I glance around. Every knight looks the same—tense, silent, waiting. Some tremble outright; others try to breathe steadily, the effort visible in the rise and fall of their chests.
The tension is a living thing, a coil of silence broken only by the rasp of nervous breathing and the soft, metallic clink as a knee plate bumps a thigh guard.
This is the first time many of them face a true battle—one where survival is uncertain.
I listen to my heartbeat. It pounds fast in my chest… but not from fear.
No—it is excitement.
The thought of battle, of blood, of steel clashing and monsters screaming—it sends a delicious shiver through me. My fingers tighten around my sword's hilt, and I feel the darkness stir faintly at my side, writhing like smoke.
No one notices.
Everyone's eyes are fixed forward—waiting for the storm to begin.
---
After about ten minutes, a man steps forward.
It's Gareth—one of the instructors, an Elite Knight (A-rank). His armor carries the Thorne insignia, detailed with crimson filigree and a single star on his shoulder and breast, marking him above the regular soldiers.
His rank is Elite Knight—the highest a warrior reaches before Commander.
Below him stand the Senior Knights (B-rank), the Knights (C-rank), and trainees (D-rank).
I am a trainee, but I fight here alongside official knights by the Commander's grace.
Gareth stops in front of our squad and looks at us with hard, unyielding eyes that show only conviction.
"Knights of Thorne," his voice blooms across the line, vibrant and strong.
He points a gauntleted hand toward the Dark Forest.
"In front of us is the Dark Forest—the place the monsters come from. They are merciless, cruel, and bloodthirsty."
He lowers his arm and looks each of us in the eye.
"They do not care for anything but killing. They slaughter men, women, the elderly, even children. Not for food, not for survival—but for their own twisted pleasure. If we do not stop them, they will not hesitate."
He speaks of 'twisted pleasure.'
He should see his own kind, I think, my expression still. The pleasure they find in this manufactured courage.
He pauses, sweeping his hard gaze across our faces.
"We, as knights of House Thorne, have taken an oath to protect innocent lives from those monsters. Those children, those families—they sleep because they trust us to keep them safe. Do you want to betray that trust?"
"No!" the knights shout in unison, the sound echoing the nervous relief of a vow.
"Do you want to let those people die?" he presses, his voice dropping to a dangerous baritone.
"No!" comes the answer again, louder, firmer.
The ground begins to tremble beneath my boots, a low thrumming that climbs from the earth and settles in my teeth.
A distant roar rolls through the air, an immense sound that makes the forest line—a deep, bruised purple against the horizon—seem to lean toward us. The pressure is a physical thing we feel in our bones.
But Gareth's words have cut through the fear. Hesitation falls away; a fierce resolve steels itself in every man.
Gareth turns his gaze once more toward the dark line of the forest, then back to us.
"So we will fight. We will kill. We will bleed. We may die. But we cannot let these monsters pass the fortress and destroy the peaceful lives of the innocent. Knights of Thorne—are you ready?"
"Yes!" the line answers, fierce and certain.
Gareth lifts his spear high and screams at the top of his lungs:
"Through pain, we endure!
Through pain, we prevail!"
The chant spreads and swells. It is the Thorne family motto—a hymn of resilience and endurance. Pain is not merely physical to them; it is teacher, companion, and rite.
"Through pain, we endure!
Through pain, we prevail!"
"Through pain, we endure!
Through pain, we prevail!"
The cry rolls across the field until every throat is hoarse.
I glance at Daren, John, Nicholas. Their trembling has stopped. Conviction burns in their eyes. They are ready to die.
Pathetic, Noctharion's voice hisses in my mind—and for the first time, I find myself agreeing with him.
Humans so easily bend to words; a few fierce lines and they become something else.
---
Gareth stops and turns, eyes fixed on the horizon.
The monsters are coming—their numbers swell with every heartbeat.
What starts as a trickle has become an ocean of claws and fangs.
A wave of grotesque bodies stretches out as far as I can see, a living black tide rolling toward us. Its approach is a symphony of snapping jaws and rhythmic, heavy footfalls that choke the air with the smell of wet earth and rot, threatening to devour everything in its path.
"Through pain we endure!
Through pain we prevail!"
The knights' chant rises behind me, steady and sharp, even as the ground trembles beneath our feet.
The monsters come closer, their shapes becoming clear—grotesque bodies of all sizes, snarling maws, too many limbs, scales and fur and bone all mixed in a nightmare stampede.
Gareth stands at the front, utterly unflinching. When the first ranks of monsters breach the kill-zone, he raises his spear, his grip a blur.
"NOW!"
He hurls it with a roar. The weapon whistles through the air like a streak of pure light.
BOOM!
The spear hits the first line of creatures and detonates like thunder. The shockwave hits us first—a physical blow—before the horrific spray of hundreds of segmented bodies and steaming blood scatters across the field.
But still, the monsters keep coming, unrelenting.
Gareth glances back at us one last time, his face calm and hard as iron.
The air is a furnace of dust and gore, and a terrifying, pure joy ignites in my chest.
This is the only place I belong.
Then he faces forward again, eyes locked on the charging horde.
"Advance!" he bellows.
And we surge forward.
The knights scream their battle cry, feet pounding the earth as we charge to meet the tide head-on.
My own cry is silent, swallowed by the roar of the horde and the blood in my ears.
This is it.
The moment that will decide our future—whether we live or die.