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Continuation from part 2 of chapter 4.
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But this man… this lone warrior who now stood before her, bloodied and breathless, was different. He did not shine with pride. He did not scream justice into the winds. He did not chant empty declarations of vengeance. His gaze was hollow, but not with madness—rather, with pain. His stance was firm, but not for glory rather, as if burdened by an invisible grief. This undead's demeanor radiated honor, yet he had none left. His hands yearned to preserve life, yet no life remained in him. And for the first time in all her long and mighty history, Adula—the Devourer of Sorcerers, the Silent Flame of the Forgotten Peaks—could not sense malice in her enemy.
She did not understand him.
And that terrified her more than any sorcerer's spell ever will.
But this man, who is this man who holds a sword and yet reeks of not malice, not even a single bit? She can smell it clearly—his soul, not merely tainted, but rotting. The necrotic stench of dying flesh clings to him like fog. He is, without a doubt, an undead. An Undead who has long crossed the threshold of mortality, who walks not because he chooses to, but because fate drags him onward. In the truth of his existence, this man is no mere revenant. He is an undead, reborn from ashes and bound by the will of some divine curse, a candidate chosen to rise and conquer the shattered throne of the Elden Lord. But then—why is he here? Why does he stand before her in this forsaken place, if not to claim her head like the rest? Surely, he knows who she is. Surely, he was warned. Yet there is no triumph in his eyes, no glee, no glory-seeking arrogance. He fights her, yes—but there is hesitation in his strikes, as though the blade carries weight beyond its metal. He moves not like a killer, but like a man with no desi
And strangely, despite everything, this man felt safest to her. There was something in him that didn't scream of threat, but of sorrow. Ironic, that she happened to be this man's opponent—the only person she had met in centuries who felt more like a companion than an enemy. The only one who smelled like a friend. The more her thoughts spiraled around his presence, the more her logic unraveled. Who was this man really? What cursed tale does he carry in his silence?
She turned her gaze downward toward his sword, chipped and splintered, threatening to fall apart with each clash. Yet, he held it like it still held purpose, like it had meaning. Her wings—majestic and terrible—were battered now. One broken, dangling weakly; the other barely lifting under its own strength. Fatigue had begun to settle into her bones like molten lead poured into her veins. Each breath burned. The wound she received earlier throbbed, sharp and constant, reminding her that even dragons could bleed.
And tonight, for the first time in centuries, it felt like a fortunate night. Not for victory. Not for survival. But for meeting a man who truly deserved her respect. A man she didn't want to kill, not because he was strong, but because he refused to show her malice, even when he had every reason to. She looked up at the fateful sky beneath which this encounter unfolded. Her eyes closed gently, her breath slow and deliberate. She let out a gruntful sigh, not of pain, but of strange peace. She looked at the moon, hanging high like a beacon of old, glowing silver and cold.
The moon, symbol of serenity and beauty, stared back at her. Its gaze unyielding, ever-watchful. How strange it felt tonight—this hollowness blooming inside her chest. Was it the moonlight that now rested on her closed eyelids like the touch of falling snow?
She slowly opened her eyes, her vision blurry at first, but gradually focusing on the Tarnished standing before her. He was barely upright, his figure trembling under the crushing weight of exhaustion. His back was hunched forward as if the burden of every battle he'd fought now bent his spine. His limbs twitched slightly, then fell still, going numb as the fatigue began to seep deeper, gnawing away at his very marrow from the inside out like a slow, burning poison. Both of his arms dangled at his sides, lifeless, save for his left hand, which stubbornly clutched the sword as though letting go would mean surrendering everything he had left.
He reached out with a trembling hand, unscrewed his flask, and took one final sip—the last remnants of life-giving fluid sliding down his throat. His hand shook as he returned the flask to his belt, and then, with a staggering breath, he shifted his stance. Every muscle screamed in protest as he began channeling the last flickers of mana within him, pouring them into his sword with fragile determination. His lips quivered, and he spoke in a broken, barely audible sentence, "th-this.. is.. las- *Cough* *Cough* *Cough*" and coughed blood out.
His whole ribcage is shattered, and sharp bone shards have pierced in his lungs. Adula's eyes widen up and with a slight understanding nod, she start charging up a huge amount of mana in her mouth. The Huge light of mana charging is radiating. Both of them used every ounce of strength and mana in charging this one attack. and with a unsaid mutual signal, both unleashed the attacks, Adula fired a intense beam of her draconic breath from her mouth while keeping her jaw open. And Tarnished formed a massive mana spear and threw it in her direction. As the attack collides..
Silence...
Followed a huge blast with bright flash of light,
On the other side of the valley, Luth and the villagers were locked in a fierce struggle against the monsters that had climbed up toward the village, attempting to escape the deadly mana erupting from Adula. Though the threat was dire, this time the number of beasts was surprisingly low, and for the first time in many moons, they achieved a perfect, unblemished victory. The relief was palpable.
Later that evening, the entire village gathered in the center square. A massive campfire roared at the heart of the gathering, illuminating faces flushed with joy and flickering in the eyes of children and elders alike. The whole village was bathed in the warmth of the flames, the smell of roasted meat filling the air, mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread and herbs. Men and women danced in circles, holding hands, their laughter echoing under the twilight sky, and many raised their arms to the heavens in thanks to the Golden Order for their survival and triumph.
Every corner of the village buzzed with chatter and song, clinking mugs, and the occasional burst of storytelling from old warriors reminiscing their younger days. Spirits were high, children ran freely without fear, and for the first time in years, it felt like peace had truly returned. The villagers spoke in excited tones about how the beasts had dwindled, fewer and weaker than ever before. They were joyous, intoxicated not only by the mead but by a collective sense of hope. One villager, a burly man with soot on his cheeks and a grin wide as the moon, said while smiling brightly, "Fate is truly smiling upon our village tonight! No one died—not a single soul. Aren't you happy, Chief?"
Luth, however, sat on a wooden bench with his fingers intertwined, his brows furrowed in thought. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere beyond the flames and music, high upon the distant, dark silhouette of Adula's mountain. He was haunted by what might be transpiring up there—the battle, the sacrifice, the unknown. When the villager's voice cut through his reverie, he snapped out of it suddenly, blinking. "Uh… I am happy… don't worry, kiddo," he stammered with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Just then, a sudden, blinding flash of white light split the night sky from the direction of Adula's mountain, momentarily silencing the festivity. The light was followed by a deafening blast, its echo bouncing off the cliffs and trees, and then came a tremendous shockwave that swept through the village like a harsh gust, snuffing out smaller fires and making villagers stumble.
A few screamed in fear, children clung to their parents, and the music died. But Luth quickly stood up, raising his arms. "Calm down! Adula never strikes first. Do not let fear rob you of the joy we've earned. Don't ruin the feast by worrying unnecessarily," he said with calm but commanding reassurance.
The villagers hesitated, but one by one, they returned to their celebration, quieter at first, then slowly regaining rhythm. Yet Luth remained still, his eyes never leaving the shadowy peak where the flash had come from. He whispered into the wind, a prayer no one heard but the night itself: "Be safe, ye brave warrior. May your flame never falter."
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So what do you think about The Title "Broken Blade Of Justice"?
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