The northern wind arrived first—thin, razor-edged, and strangely hollow, as if the world itself had swallowed a scream and left only the echo behind. It slid through the fractured walls of Reflynne, stirring the collapsed roofs, rattling loose stones, and whispering of what marched toward the city.
Yoshiya Hazeru felt the wind before he heard the war drums. He swayed where he stood, boots planted unevenly on broken cobblestone, his vision washing in and out as though he saw the scene through ripples of water. His mana reserves were so empty they felt like glass scraped clean. Every muscle complained. His head pulsed with the dull ache of too-much healing magic forced through too-small channels.
Yet he stayed upright.
Because Kouki stood beside him.
The guildmaster—Reflynne's sword saint—looked like a man carved from shadows and blood. Half his armor hung in tatters. Three deep gouges cut across his torso, and a crust of drying red clung to his jawline. But his eyes… sharp, steady, bright even in ruin. Kouki always looked like the last man who would fall. Even now, even like this.
Omina's blade flicked upward as she glanced toward the northern ridge. Her usually calm eyes twitched. "They're coming."
The drums slammed into the air seconds later.
A thunderous cadence. Ogre war-beats—footfalls heavy enough to shake snow from the distant pines. Behind them came the metallic chime of Valerian marching arrays locking into step, the harmonic sound used to coordinate long-range charges.
Reflynne had minutes left, not hours.
Yoshiya wiped blood from his lip with the back of his glove. "East barricade's gone?"
"Crushed," Seiko Nakahara answered, limping toward them with her staff in hand. Her robes clung to her from earlier water-magic steam bursts. "I tried sealing the passage with an ice shelf, but their shock troops punched through it. Literally."
"Their fists were glowing red," Nishi Sayuri added breathlessly, clutching a bundle of shattered alchemical vials. "Like molten iron wrapped around bone."
Akihiro Kongo dragged himself from behind a collapsed pillar and leaned against it. His hands glowed faintly—healing magic flickering unstable. "We can't fortify anymore. This is it."
Yami Kurikage appeared in a blink of shadow-step, her cloak charred at the edges. She shook ash out of her hair. "They burned the western quarter. If you don't smell it yet, consider yourself blessed."
Omina exhaled through her nose, slow and sharp. "So Reflynne falls today."
"Unless we run," Yoshiya said.
"Unless we run," Kouki repeated, his voice low, unreadable.
The ground trembled again.
Torches. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
The ogres came first—towering, gray-skinned beasts with tusks shining wet under the firelight. Their breathing was deep and animalistic, a constant growl vibrating through the ruined streets.
Behind them came the Valerian soldiers—sleek armor, precise lines of rune-etched plating, crimson banners snapping sharply in the frozen wind. And at their center, walking with the calm arrogance of a man who believed death was merely a tool, strode a Valerian commander in obsidian plate.
The commander lifted a hand.
Ogres charged.
Kouki stepped forward.
"Form up behind me," he said, tone crisp even through his pain. "This city dies, but you won't."
Yoshiya moved to object—
But Kouki lunged first.
His blade flashed with a brilliance that cut through the night. Even exhausted, even bleeding, his movements carried the authority of a master who had built his life on the edge of steel.
The first ogre reached him, raising a club thicker than a man's torso.
Kouki severed its wrist in a single downward arc.
Another ogre roared and slammed forward. Kouki pivoted sideways, blade scraping against hide, and struck across its throat. Blood mist sprayed in a wide circle.
For an instant, it looked possible.
Then the next wave hit.
Five ogres at once. Behind them, Valerian shock troops fanned out, their swords glowing with kinetic-binding magic that amplified every strike.
Omina's eyes glazed over.
A crackling sound lit the air—like green fire igniting. Her irises widened until they nearly swallowed the whites. Her muscles trembled, veins rising under the skin.
Yoshiya cursed. "Not now—"
Too late.
Omina tore forward in berserk mode.
She crashed into the ogres with a sound like a storm hitting stone—bones shattering, blood spraying in red arcs. Her blade ripped through bodies with inhuman strength, carving a chaotic path through the monsters. Limbs flew. Ground shook. Screams were brief.
The Ogre King lumbered into sight—massive, horned, wielding a slab of metal that resembled a door ripped off a fortress. He swung—
Omina stepped into the blow.
Metal met flesh and bone.
But Omina did not break.
She caught the blade with her own, muscles screaming, and twisted. Her sword sank deep into the king's gut, carving upward with brutal force. The Ogre King howled—a deep, beastly sound—and fell backward, collapsing like a felled giant.
The battlefield stuttered in shock.
Even the Valerian commander paused.
Yoshiya stared, horrified. Omina moved beautifully and terribly in equal measure—every motion a masterpiece of slaughter, every strike wild yet efficient. This wasn't her. This was the berserk enchantment devouring her sense of self.
She wouldn't survive it.
Or worse, she would survive and never return from the madness.
Yoshiya forced his exhausted legs to move. Mana scraped from the bottom of a dry well. His hands trembled violently as he raised them.
"Purify."
It came out ragged, ugly, incomplete—but the spell ignited.
A ring of soft white light burst outward, crossing the battlefield. It washed over Omina mid-swing, softening her breathing, dampening the red haze in her eyes. Her muscles slackened; the tremors faded.
She dropped to one knee, panting.
Her blade clattered beside her.
She looked up, dazed, and met Yoshiya's eyes. "You idiot… you'll kill yourself doing that."
"Better me than you."
The world didn't pause to appreciate the sentiment.
Ogres were still pouring in.
Valerian troops surged behind them.
And the commander finally stepped forward.
Kouki was waiting for him.
Their blades met with a crash that shook the fractured walls.
The commander fought with the clean, economical efficiency of a man who had spent a lifetime perfecting his craft. Every strike precise. Every movement controlled. His sword was a dark, curved thing—runic channels glowing faint violet.
Kouki fought like a storm. His style had always been fluid, but now it carried something desperate and blazing—like a candle burning its own wick to shine brighter.
Steel clashed.
Ogres circled.
Yoshiya tried to reach him, but Seiko grabbed his arm. "Don't. If you go in now, you'll just die."
"He'll die without help!"
Seiko's voice cracked. "He knows."
Kouki parried a heavy blow, stumbled, regained footing. Blood dripped from his ribs. His breath came in hard bursts. Still he fought, carving a circle of dead around him.
The commander struck low.
Kouki blocked.
The commander rotated his wrist, angled the blade, and—
The sword punched through Kouki's abdomen.
Time froze.
Kouki's breath hitched. His fingers loosened on his hilt. Blood ran warm down his leg, steaming in the cold air.
Yoshiya screamed his name.
But Kouki did not look toward him. Instead, he grabbed the commander's wrist with his free hand, pulled the blade deeper—securing the man in place—and whispered something too soft for anyone to hear.
Then Kouki's sword ignited in a final burst of radiant mana.
He drove it upward into the commander's throat.
Both men fell.
The world snapped back into motion.
Yoshiya sprinted, nearly collapsing beside him. He pressed glowing hands to Kouki's wound, but the mana sputtered uselessly.
"Don't," Kouki whispered, blood coating his lips. "Save who you can."
"Kouki—"
"Reflynne is lost." His voice was quiet, but steady. "But Ostoria hasn't fallen yet. Take them south. To Orleaf."
"Kouki—please—"
Kouki placed a hand on Yoshiya's shoulder, grip faint but intentional. "Live. That's an order."
His hand slipped.
His eyes dimmed.
And the sword saint of Reflynne died with a faint, almost content exhale—as if he were proud of the choice he made.
Yoshiya bowed his head, forehead touching Kouki's blood-soaked armor. Something inside him broke quietly, like thin ice cracking over deep water.
Behind him, Seiko, Nishi, Akihiro, Yami, and Omina stood in stunned silence.
Ogres roared again—new ones approaching.
Yoshiya rose slowly.
His voice emerged hoarse, but unshaken.
"Retreat south," he said. "To Orleaf. Now."
No one argued.
They gathered their wounded, gathered what little remained, and ran into the frozen night—leaving behind Kouki's body, Reflynne's ruins, and a piece of their hearts they would never again retrieve.
And above them, the storm front rolled onward, swallowing another corner of Ostoria.