The Forgotten Phantom General stepped out from the mist. His face was shrouded in haze, fog curling around him like living smoke, dark flames licking across his form. He stood tall — 200cm(6.7 ft) of deathly presence — and the long sword in his hand was nearly Tarse's height. Every step he took was measured, almost rhythmic, like a grim march to an inevitable end.
"Get ready. Here I come, peasants."
His voice was commanding, deep, and cold enough to freeze courage. Without warning, he charged forward — and then suddenly vanished.
He appeared behind Tarse, materializing from the shadows like a nightmare given flesh, and swung his massive blade with deadly precision. Tarse barely managed to react, dodging by the smallest margin, his heart hammering. The General pressed his attack with relentless force, every strike testing Tarse's defense. For now, Tarse could only block, never striking back.
Azmirack stepped into the fray, hoping to turn the tide. He got the General's attention — a mistake he immediately regretted. The General attacked both Tarse and Azmirack at once, forcing them back step by step, while Cynthia hid behind the rubble, reciting her spell and waiting for a single opening.
The General kicked Tarse aside with a savage strike that sent him crashing into a wall. Azmirack gritted his teeth and summoned his nightmares — half-human, half-monstrosity, their bodies dripping in thick, black fog, glimmering faintly as if wet with blood.
Umari sat back from a distant perch, arms crossed, watching everything unfold like a spectator at a deadly theater. His eyes stayed on Tarse and the others.
"Gladial," he said slowly, voice smooth, "tell me more about the Forgotten Phantom General."
He smiled with cruel amusement. "I want to know what kind of trouble they're really in."
Gladial sighed, snapping her romance book shut with a faint thwack. "I shouldn't care to answer you, but—" she paused, a rare grin tugging her lips, "he is my favorite Lumoria."
She turned serious. "The Forgotten Phantom unlike most Lumorias is of unknown origin and is one of the oldest Lumorias, as far back as history goes. The only things we know to be older are the TRUE PRIMORDIUS — the Creator Himself — the Witch King, and a few Lumorias from the Third Singularity. This General was worshiped as a god in Vaorath, an entire country devoted to him for nearly a century. His cult ended with the Fourth Singularity and there is no information on what happened to them and how half a country just went out and disappeared overnight. We know he can control shadows, lightning, fire, and mist… he is a Grade 0 yet only being an incarnation of a stronger self, which would mean the original was probably A disaster grade or spécial grade."
"It's not wrong to say that he is a copy of himself though he is still the original just weaker than before."
Umari chuckled, his grin widening.
"All I heard was that they are screwed." He laughed aloud, delighted by the impending disaster.
Back on the battlefield, Azmirack's nightmare whips coiled around the General, holding him in place while the humanoid creatures swarmed him, attacking with feral rage.
"You humans are annoying." The General's voice was low with irritation. He tore himself free with terrifying ease, lunged at Azmirack, and slashed. Azmirack dodged — but not without taking a shallow cut across his arm. The General pivoted, swung again. Azmirack barely avoided the strike, saving himself only by sacrificing one of his nightmares as a substitute.
The General roared, his fury shaking the room.
"I'll kill all of you, peasants!"
Tarse returned to the fight, flames wreathing his fists. He swung, but Azmirack's nightmare collided with him by accident, knocking him off-balance. The General ignored him completely, focusing only on Azmirack as though Tarse were an insect not worth stepping on.
Tarse's blood boiled. He hated being dismissed, hated being treated as weak. His teeth clenched, and then he let go — his flames erupted violently, raging through the chamber like a furnace. His aura of anger and malice was almost palpable. He charged, striking the General so hard that the phantom warrior staggered back for the first time. The General straightened, adjusting his stance, then swung again — this time with clear killing intent.
"So! You notice me now, Phantom General!" Tarse shouted, his voice ringing with fury and exhilaration.
"All I see," the General said flatly, "is a brat desperate to die before everyone else."
Cynthia, emboldened by Tarse's rage, finally stepped from cover and cast her single ice spell. The frost bit into the General's back, freezing him in place for just a moment — long enough for Tarse to follow up. But the General shattered the ice with a flex of strength, his blade now glowing with lightning and fire. Azmirack barely had time to shield himself.
The General vanished again. Before Tarse could react, pain exploded in his gut — a punch that knocked the air out of him — followed by a slash across his face. Blood trickled into his mouth. Te general swung again and this time cut his arm clean off. He pushed his remaining hand on the General's chest, pressing his flaming hand into him, and unleashed his full power.
Cynthia struck again from behind, freezing him just as Azmirack's nightmares re-formed and bound him in place. Together they held him long enough for Tarse to gather every ounce of strength and strike with everything he had.
The General flew backward, smashing into the wall with bone-cracking force, leaving a massive crater in the stone. He fell to the ground, motionless.
Tarse picked his severed arm, blood still spewing out and reattached it. The pain was heavy.
The relished in the moment of overcoming an overwhelming for, praising each other even.
The three of them collapsed, breathing hard, relief flooding in. Cynthia even allowed herself a smile.
SLASH.
Cynthia's head was severed in an instant. It rolled to a stop at their feet.
THUD.
Her body dropped next, blood gushing across the floor.
The shock was paralyzing. Fear closed around their hearts like a fist.
The General stood tall once more, no longer pretending to be defeated.
"You mortals actually thought you could kill a being such as me, as weak as you are?" His voice was colder than death.
Tarse froze, staring at Cynthia's lifeless body. Blood still seeped from her neck, soaking into the floor. His legs refused to move.
"Tarse! Get up!" Azmirack shouted desperately. "We need to fight or we'll be killed!"
The words echoed in Tarse's skull like a fading bell. His mind replayed the moment of Cynthia's death over and over and the blood now at his feet and hands made it worse. His stomach churned, and he vomited.
The General charged. Azmirack fought with everything he had — but he was cleaved in half with a single strike.
Tarse staggered to his feet, tears mixing with blood.
"What the hell… what kind of monster are you!"
He was terrified — but death was worse. He launched himself forward, fists blazing.
"I don't want to die! I want to live! It can't end like this!"
His flames roared hotter, so bright they turned white.
"I WON'T DIE LIKE THIS!" he screamed from the depths of his soul. "I WANT TO LIVE!"
The fear melted away. He swung with everything he had, flames erupting in a blinding inferno as he struck the General.
The heat caused an explosion that rocked the room. Tarse allowed himself a smirk, thinking it was over.
"Your desire is so basic," came the General's calm voice from within the flames. "It's what every living being wants…"
Tarse's smirk fell. The fear returned, stronger than before.
"…TO LIVE."
The General stepped out of the fire unharmed, grabbed Tarse by the head, and slammed him into the ground. He dragged him across the floor, kicked him like a ragdoll, then pummeled him mercilessly. He didn't even use his sword — just his hands and feet — and still he dominated the fight.
The dust cleared and Tarse lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
*"I'm about to die...
aren't I."*
The General approached slowly, his shadow falling over Tarse.
"Maybe next time, you won't be such a worthless peasant."
He knelt down beside Tarse in silence, no words wasted. Then he drove his sword into Tarse slowly, almost gently — not to humiliate, but to show how helpless he truly was. The sound of flesh being cut was faint and Tarse was enduring the pain.
Tarse felt cold, then hot. His breathing grew light and shallow. There was no more strength to fight back.
"I… I… guess it… it's… over… for me."
The general stood surveying his surrounding in deep hollow gaze. He walked away from Tarse's now lifeless corpse, victorious.