At the same time Wein killed his first Overgrown Wolf, nearly 50 km (31 miles) away at the northern border, a very different scene unfolded.
Thousands of corpses lay scattered across a small plain. The ground had turned dark and muddy from blood. Broken weapons, shattered shields, and torn banners were half-buried beneath piles of lifeless bodies. The cold northern wind drifted slowly across the battlefield, carrying with it the heavy metallic smell of death.
If someone had stumbled upon this place, they might have believed the corpses had gone through some kind of massive public execution. None of them had their heads intact. Nearly every body had been cleanly decapitated.
Not far from the bodies, thousands of human heads lay scattered across the dirt like discarded stones.
Some had their eyes wide open in terror. Others had mouths frozen mid-scream. The horror of their final moments remained etched onto their faces.
At the center of the battlefield stood a woman.
She was surrounded by silence.
Long black hair fell down her back, though several strands were stuck to her blood-covered face. Her brown eyes calmly surveyed the carnage around her. Her fair skin was smeared with streaks of drying blood, some of it clearly not her own.
The armor she wore was once elegant, but now it was battered and torn. Several dents marked the metal plates, and one shoulder guard hung slightly loose. Despite the damage, she stood upright without the slightest sign of pain.
Beside her stood a man with a shining bald head who looked to be in his thirties. His breathing was heavy, and his shoulders rose and fell slowly as he tried to recover his strength.
The woman slowly turned her head, scanning the battlefield as if counting the fallen.
Her gaze lingered on several bodies wearing the same armor as hers.
After a moment, she looked toward the bald man beside her.
"Ghul," the woman asked calmly, "did everyone else die?"
Her voice carried no panic or grief. It sounded more like someone confirming a simple report.
The bald man, named Ghul, wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers trembled slightly from exhaustion.
"It seems so," he replied weakly.
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
The woman nodded slowly.
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
"That's too bad," she said, folding her arms loosely across her chest. "To think we lost forty-eight Awakened Bloodline Knights in one battle. The old man is surely going to be upset."
Her tone carried mild annoyance rather than sorrow.
Ghul didn't respond.
Instead, he slowly lowered himself to the ground. His knees buckled slightly as he sat down among the corpses.
He didn't appear to have any lethal wounds on his body. There were cuts and bruises, but nothing fatal.
Yet the exhaustion in his eyes suggested he had pushed himself far beyond his limits.
His head tilted back as he stared at the gray northern sky.
"Anyway," the woman continued casually, brushing a piece of dried blood from her cheek with her thumb, "I really didn't expect the northern savages to amass such a huge army."
She glanced toward the endless rows of corpses stretching across the plain.
"Their numbers must have been in the thousands."
The wind shifted again, stirring loose strands of her hair.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Eventually, Ghul forced himself to answer.
"This will also be a huge setback for the north," he said slowly. "Losing so many men… they won't be active for the next couple of years."
The woman chuckled softly.
The sound felt strangely out of place in the middle of such a graveyard.
"About that…" she said, tilting her head slightly. "I don't think so."
Ghul turned his head to look at her.
His eyes narrowed faintly.
He clearly didn't understand her reasoning, but he was too exhausted to question her further.
The woman lifted her gaze toward the sky.
Clouds drifted slowly above the battlefield.
Then she turned her head toward the northern horizon, where the distant mountains stood like dark shadows.
Her lips curved into a faint smile.
"It doesn't matter," she said quietly.
Her fingers flexed slightly, as if remembering the feeling of cutting through flesh.
"I will kill as many men as they send south."
Her smile widened.
"Every single one of them."
Blood stained the corners of her lips, giving the grin an unsettling appearance.
"Ghul," she continued after a moment, glancing down toward him, "according to procedure, once our soldiers die, I can absorb their bloodlines."
She gestured lazily toward the battlefield.
"Since I'm in such a good mood today, I'll share twenty-four corpses with you. You can absorb them."
Her eyes sparkled slightly with amusement.
"The rest are mine."
She waited for a response.
But none came.
After a few seconds, she frowned slightly.
When she looked down again, she realized Ghul had already fallen asleep.
His head had tilted to one side, and his breathing had become slow and steady.
The woman blinked once.
Then she shrugged.
"It's such a shame," she murmured, glancing back toward the countless severed heads scattered across the battlefield.
"We didn't kill a single Awakened Bloodline warrior among those savages."
Her brow furrowed slightly.
"Either they didn't send any… or they survived the battle and ran."
Nearly 25 km (15 miles) north of the battlefield, a lone man walked slowly through the rocky terrain.
Each step looked unsteady.
Blood dripped steadily down his neck.
A wound cut across his throat so deeply that it seemed impossible for him to still be alive. The slash was wide enough that, with just a little more force, his head might have been completely severed from his body.
Yet he continued walking.
His breathing remained calm.
"I see…" he muttered quietly.
"So she's The Headless."
His lips curved slightly.
"One of the most dangerous warriors from the south."
Despite losing nearly ten thousand men in the battle, his expression showed no anger or grief.
His face remained calm.
Thoughtful.
A familiar face suddenly flashed through his mind.
"That reminds me…"
He adjusted the cloth wrapped loosely around his wounded neck.
"I wonder if Polka has already completed the conquest of the northeast."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Without him and his men, I don't think the tribe could move further south."
The man continued walking toward the northern hills.
The cold wind blew past him, carrying the distant scent of smoke.
As he walked, a faint smile appeared on his face.
He began to wonder if he would ever meet The Headless again in a future campaign.
At the center of the City of Flower stood a magnificent castle that could be seen even from afar.
It towered above the surrounding buildings like a mountain of white stone.
The castle was surrounded by walls even higher than the city's outer walls. Thick towers stood at every corner, guarded by countless watch posts.
This fortress was known as The Indestructible.
No army in history had ever managed to infiltrate it by force.
Inside one of the many rooms within the castle, two figures sat across from each other at a polished wooden table.
One of them was a young woman with short black hair and calm brown eyes.
She wore a white regal dress layered with hundreds of shining gems. When she shifted slightly in her seat, the jewels caught the light and glittered softly.
Her posture was straight, elegant, and controlled.
She looked at the hooded figure sitting across from her.
A hint of curiosity appeared in her eyes.
"How was it?" she asked.
Her fingers lightly tapped the table.
"Did she die?"
The other figure was dressed entirely in black robes.
A hood covered their face, leaving only darkness where their eyes should have been.
"No," the figure replied calmly.
"I can still sense her fate."
The woman's brows lowered slightly.
A trace of disappointment flickered across her face.
But she quickly composed herself.
"I didn't expect her to die so easily," she admitted.
She leaned back slightly in her chair.
"However… to think she survived such a battle."
"It is to be expected," the hooded figure said quietly, "from someone who awakened with a Mythical Spiritual Essence quality."
The woman sighed softly.
"You don't have to remind me."
With a small gesture of her hand, a translucent window appeared in front of her.
She silently reviewed the information displayed there.
Name: Altair Shiveron Emerald
Status: Cursed
Bloodline:
Ice Bloodline — Ascended
Spiritual Essence Quality: Legendary
Spiritual Essence Status: Maximum
Altair stared at the word Cursed for a long moment.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the armrest of her chair.
"I wonder when my curse will finally be lifted," she said quietly.
Her gaze shifted back to the hooded figure.
"Can't you see any possible way to remove it?"
"As of now, no," the hooded figure replied.
"But I can sense something within the Symbol of Fate."
The figure paused.
"Given enough time, I might discover a clue."
Altair slowly nodded.
This was not the first time she had heard such words.
Because of that, she felt little excitement.
She had already waited for a long time.
And during that time, she had learned patience.
Her eyes slowly drifted toward the window overlooking the city.
Without her curse lifted…
There was no way she could personally kill Elisa the Headless.