The sun was rising, but no one felt its warmth.
They walked in silence — the surviving slayers, wounded but not broken, trailing behind Aira and Ezrah. Every step crunched over debris, bones, and ash. The ground was a graveyard. No names, no tombstones. Only memories buried beneath soot.
Aira hadn't spoken since they left the field.
Her hand still gripped Kaien's blade.
She carried it now, not like a weapon — but like a memory she refused to let go of.
Ezrah kept beside her, limping slightly, his own blade sheathed. His eyes stayed sharp, scanning their path, even as his heart dragged behind.
Shino walked a little farther back, eyes narrowed, his knuckles white. Hirata followed, carrying a young slayer on his back — one too weak to walk, face stained with dried tears and blood.
When they finally reached what was left of their outpost, it looked more like ruins than shelter.
The wooden walls were scorched. The roof sagged. A wind passed through the holes like a whisper of the dead.
Ezrah called out first. "Rest here."
No one questioned.
They collapsed onto what remained of the benches, or leaned against broken walls. The slayers didn't speak — just breathed.
Until Aira stood.
Her voice was low. "We need to talk."
Ezrah turned. Her eyes were steady. Not cold. Not hollow. Just… focused.
She raised Kaien's blade.
"This doesn't end here," she said. "Kaien died because he believed we could still win this. Because he believed in us — even when I didn't believe in myself."
The others looked at her now.
She continued, voice stronger, "I'm not going to waste that belief. If the Hollowborn think they can crush us by breaking our hearts, they're wrong."
She turned to Ezrah. "You once said fighting is about choosing what's worth bleeding for."
He nodded silently.
Aira planted Kaien's sword upright in the ground, beside her own. The blades glinted together in the sunlight.
"I'll bleed for him," she said. "And for everyone who still has a heartbeat."
Shino stepped forward. "And for the ones who didn't."
Hirata, voice hoarse, added, "And for the kids who still have nightmares and no one to protect them."
Ezrah drew his sword — not to fight, but to place it beside the other two. The hilts aligned. The blades shimmered in the breeze.
Aira stretched out her palm.
"One oath," she said. "Together."
One by one, they placed their hands in hers — slayers of different ages, different fears, but the same fire in their chests.
And in that broken outpost, surrounded by ash and loss, they didn't cry.
They swore.
To fight.
To protect.
To remember.
And most of all…
To survive.