Llarm had carried him to safety, though "safety" felt like a cruel joke. The ground beneath Lucy was warm with residual heat from spells, sticky with blood that had seeped into the cracks of the obsidian. Llarm hadn't even faced him toward the fight.
From what Lucy could tell, he was about fifty feet away from Tara and Fenara. Far enough to barely feel the tremble of their blows in the soles of his boots, but close enough that no other soldiers dared approach. It was a dead zone—no-man's-land carved out by sheer power.
'Is there anything more embarrassing than being a helpless cripple on a battlefield after challenging a general?' Lucy's bitter thought rang hollow. He tried to smirk and laugh at his misfortune, but the gesture died on his cracked lips.
There was nothing funny left in him.
Not after watching billions die. Not after feeling the wet, hot spray of a man's blood on his face. Not after screaming through torn lungs as his own body was torn apart by divine force.
'Damn it, I need to move.'
He clenched his jaw, trying to force sensation into his limbs. Nothing. His muscles refused to respond, twitching uselessly beneath the weight of trauma and shock. A dull, pounding ache echoed in every inch of his bones, like his very marrow had been fractured.
The air reeked of scorched flesh and sulfur. Every breath tasted like blood and burning. The distant roars, screams, and crashes of war were muffled behind the ringing in his ears.
He was alive. But only just.
But Lucy wasn't the kind to give up just because the odds spat in his face. His body might be a shattered husk—but that didn't mean he was out of the fight.
He had magic.
'If my body won't move, then I'll make it move.'
Gritting his teeth, he reached inside, drawing from the wind manual etched into his memory. He whispered to the air—not with words, but with will. It answered him like an old friend, brushing against his skin like cool silk.
The breeze swirled around his body, lifting strands of blood-matted hair from his face. He felt it tug beneath his arms, curling around his legs, cradling his weight like invisible hands. There was no pain in the wind—only motion, only freedom.
Using his mana, he poured strength into it. More. More. Until the wind surged beneath him, lifting him upright with a whoosh that rustled the bloodstained fabric of his uniform.
His boots barely touched the ground as the wind held him steady, a marionette moved by an unseen puppeteer.
He turned, and finally, finally, he saw them.
Tara and Fenara were locked in brutal deadlock. Dust and debris spiraled around them as if the world couldn't decide who would win. Tara was on one knee, her breathing ragged, teeth bared in defiance. Fenara loomed above her, a monstrous vision of feral elegance—claws gleaming, stripes dark with blood.
Every clash of their strength sent a wave of pressure rippling through the air, strong enough to rattle Lucy's ribcage from a distance. Sparks flew as armor scraped against claws, and their snarls cut through the cacophony like daggers.
Lucy's heart hammered in his chest, not just from fear, but urgency.
'She's going to lose.'
He didn't hesitate.
"Help her," he whispered, voice raw and hoarse, barely more than a breath. "Push."
The wind coiled like a predator unleashed. It slithered toward the two generals, invisible to the eye but very much alive in intent. It wrapped around Tara, filling her lungs, bracing her limbs, pressing back against the crushing weight of Fenara's overwhelming strength.
Lucy poured mana into it—mana without end, drawn from the vast pool gifted by Seraphine's blessing. The wind responded with joyous violence, roaring as it surged around Tara like a tempest.
Bit by bit, she rose. Her foot dug into the obsidian. Her shoulders squared.
Fenara snarled, low and confused, her lip curling as she felt the unexpected resistance.
Lucy's vision blurred as he fed more of himself into the wind. Sweat rolled down his face, stinging cuts he didn't remember receiving. His throat burned with dryness, and his arms shook despite the wind carrying his weight.
'You're not alone, Tara.'
He could feel Fenara's attention shift—feel it in the sudden tension in the air, in the sharp note of irritation that crept into her next growl.
And still, Lucy stood—bloody, broken, half-alive—but standing.
However, good fortune did not smile on Lucy today.
Just as Tara began to gain the upper hand—her momentum visibly shifting, her aura crackling with raw might—something changed.
A shadow fell over them.
Not the kind cast by a tree or even a beast, but a colossal darkness that swallowed the moonlight whole. The light dimmed. The battlefield, already painted in crimson and ash, now drowned in an unnatural gloom.
Lucy's breath caught in his throat. A sudden, biting chill danced down his spine.
He slowly tilted his head upward, the wind groaning under the strain of his mana as it helped guide his motion.
Then he saw it.
A towering form—over three hundred feet tall—hurtling down from the heavens like a meteor sent by a cruel god. A monstrous body with no head. Just an immense, grotesque torso carved of flesh and fury.
'The Giant General?' The words struck his mind like lightning.
It was falling fast, too fast. Its impact would level everything—Tara, Lucy, the obsidian beneath their feet, the very atmosphere screamed of impending annihilation.
It blocked out the moon completely, turning night into something darker, deeper, almost suffocating. Once loud with clashing steel and magic, the battlefield fell into eerie silence for a moment as the shadow grew, as if even the war itself dared not speak.
Lucy's eyes widened in helpless horror.
He glanced at Tara, still locked in battle, unaware of the doom that plummeted toward them.
But Fenara knew.
The tigress's nose twitched. Her ears perked. A flicker of fear cracked through her predator's confidence. She didn't hesitate. Tara's blade hadn't even landed when Fenara twisted free, turning tail and sprinting toward the rear lines with agile grace, abandoning the duel without a word.
"Tara!" Lucy's voice was hoarse, cracked from dust and dried blood, but loud enough to pierce the moment.
The cheetah general turned.
He watched the confidence melt off her face, replaced by naked terror. Her golden eyes reflected the massive figure above, its titanic mass barreling toward them like the wrath of the gods.
'Crushed to death by a giant...' Lucy thought, his stomach turning to stone. 'A fitting end, I suppose.'
He couldn't fly away—not fast enough. The wind couldn't carry him out in time. His body, still sluggish and numb from earlier blows, lay useless.
His shoulders slumped. His head bowed low. The gritty taste of dust and blood coated his tongue as he whispered a bitter farewell to life.
But Tara did not give in.
The air changed. Lucy felt it before he saw it—a shift in pressure, the sudden gathering of vast mana. It rushed in like a tide, thickening the atmosphere with electric weight. His skin tingled, the hair on his arms rising.
Using the wind, Lucy lifted his head just in time to see her.
Tara stood a few feet away, eyes closed, her knees bent, crouched like a predator preparing for the final pounce. Mana poured from her like a river bursting its dam, golden and wild. Even the dust around her was blown away in a spiraling dance.
Then, she moved.
A flash. A boom. A blur of motion so fast the wind itself was left behind.
Before Lucy could even blink, she was at his side, arms wrapping around him in a tight, protective grip. The next heartbeat, they were flying—no, rocketing—across the field.
The sky thundered.
Behind them, the Giant General crashed into the earth like a fallen mountain. The impact shattered the ground, throwing chunks of obsidian into the air. The shockwave hit like a divine hammer.
Tara stumbled from the force, her grip faltering.
Lucy was ripped from her arms mid-flight.
He hit the ground hard. Pain bloomed across his entire body like wildfire—ribs screaming, lungs burning, skin scraping raw against the black, jagged stone. He tumbled, rolled, and finally skidded to a stop.
Dust clouded his vision. It choked the air, filled his nose with grit, and the copper tang of blood. All sound seemed muffled through the ringing in his ears.
For a moment, everything was in confusion. Gray skies. Blurred shapes. Pain.
Then, he heard it.
Two voices. Two commands. One moment.
"Retreat!"
The word echoed across the battlefield like a war drum. One shouted in wrath. The other in mercy.
Ithriel and Seraphine had spoken in unison.
A retreat had been called.
The war, for now, was done.