"You guys really drew the short straw this time…" Fritz muttered, a hint of forced humor in his voice. "The most troublesome opponent has shown up right here."
"Captain, next time, we'll have better luck!" one squad member called out.
"Yeah, can't always end up with the short straw, right?" another added.
"Come on, we'll figure things out, like always!" a third chimed in.
Their words were joking, but the understanding behind them was clear. They had no illusions—they might not survive this. Yet their duty as paladins, and their pride, demanded that they fight to the last breath.
"All right! If we survive this, I'll buy you all as much alcohol as you want! That's an order! Don't die, everyone! Move out!!" Fritz bellowed, charging forward with the resolve to risk his life.
The paladin who had been downed at the start had been healed. Now all eight were ready. Their coordination was flawless—more precise than during any training session, their movements irregular yet perfectly synchronized. Each strike, each dodge flowed naturally with the others. Together, they surged toward Ranga.
Pain washed over him, tearing through every fiber of his body. Fritz groaned, struggling to awaken. It was agony so deep that even unconsciousness would have seemed a mercy.
(Oi… if I'm conscious… that means I survived? Did we… defeat him?)
With a jolt, Fritz opened his eyes. The battlefield was unrecognizable. A storm had clearly swept through, gouging the earth in spiraling scars, as if a tornado had torn across the land. He could barely comprehend how he had survived.
His eyes darted desperately to find his comrades. Relief and dread battled within him. Bodies lay scattered—blown apart by the overwhelming force of Ranga's assault. Fritz tried to rise, but his strength failed him. Summoning every ounce of willpower, he crawled toward the nearest form—it was his adjutant, Rama. Alive.
A surge of relief filled him, almost making him forget his own agony. One by one, he confirmed the survival of each squad member, his chest heaving with both pain and gratitude.
Then, cutting through that fragile relief, a voice rang out—a voice that carried with it the weight of despair.
"O human, if you've recovered, let's continue. I haven't had nearly enough fun yet. Look—I brought full potions just for you. These should be enough to restore you. Now, recover quickly so we can enjoy the continuation of our battle!"
The words rolled out of Ranga's mouth like a proclamation from a god of war, yet there was a perverse cheerfulness in his tone. He wagged his massive tail, every movement radiating raw power, and even in the way he spoke, there was the undeniable presence of a predator enjoying the hunt. The golden lightning along his limbs crackled faintly, as if echoing the mirth in his voice.
Fritz's stomach churned. The sheer audacity of the wolf—no, the Star Wolf—was enough to suffocate him. His vision swam as hopelessness clawed at his mind.
(Aah… if I could just faint, just let this nightmare take me away…) he thought, feeling the weight of every muscle in his body screaming in pain. The ground under him seemed distant, as if the battlefield itself had transformed into a chasm separating him from safety. His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat reminding him that he was alive—and utterly powerless.
He had survived Ranga's first assault, had crawled to confirm the lives of his comrades, and yet here it was again—this overwhelming monster, practically taunting him with its words. There was no hesitation, no mercy, only the raw, joyful thrill of dominance. Every instinct Fritz possessed screamed at him to flee, to surrender, to collapse, but he was trapped by his duty and by the reality of his comrades' reliance on him.
Even the spiritual armament he had relied on, every barrier they had painstakingly constructed, seemed trivial now. The golden lightning, the aura of the Star Wolf—it was as if the air itself had turned into molten electricity. Breathing felt like inhaling fire, and Fritz's vision swirled with sparks of light dancing across his eyelids. He could barely keep his consciousness tethered to his body.
The more he tried to cling to reason, the more hopeless it became. Ranga wasn't merely a beast. This was a creature imbued with the power of Atem himself, a living extension of unimaginable strength, speed, and intelligence. Its tail whipped, its golden horn glinted, and every movement radiated the certainty that Fritz and his squad were insignificant obstacles—pawns in the Star Wolf's game.
Yet beneath that despair, a spark of stubbornness flared. Fritz's lips trembled, but he gritted his teeth. He was a paladin, sworn to protect life and uphold his honor, no matter how impossible the situation seemed.
(I… I can't… I can't just collapse. Not here. Not now. If I faint, everyone dies…)
A shiver ran down his spine as Ranga padded closer, claws barely touching the ground, yet every step resonated like a drum of doom. The wolf's eyes gleamed, the golden horn crackling with static energy. Fritz felt as though the world itself bent to the monster's will.
The words of Ranga replayed in his head: "Recover quickly so we can enjoy the continuation of our battle!"
A cruel mockery. It was not just a statement—it was a challenge. A proclamation that Fritz and his squad were utterly at the mercy of the Star Wolf. And yet… deep down, beneath the despair, Fritz's resolve began to simmer.
He would not go down quietly. Not while his comrades still drew breath. Not while Eterna itself—his home, his people—relied on those who dared to stand against calamity.
Even as the darkness of hopelessness began to pull him under, Fritz clenched his fists, feeling the faint warmth of the elemental spirits in his sword, ready to fight again. He could not allow himself to be a bystander in this storm.
The Star Wolf wagged its tail, golden lightning dancing, and its voice carried over the battlefield: "Come, human. Recover, and let us continue! There is no escape from me!"
And in that moment, Fritz's despair became something else—a seed of grim determination. If survival was impossible, he would make it a battle worth remembering.