At the front lines, Jericho and Erica had made overwhelming progress.
With the assistance of the Elite SoulBound Knights, every Lost in the area had been eradicated. Confident the remainder could handle what little resistance remained, Jericho and Erica broke away and began advancing toward the capital.
They hadn't gone far when Jericho felt a familiar pull in his mind.
A communication request.
He answered immediately.
"Drako," Jericho said. "Speak."
"My king… something truly strange has just occurred here."
Jericho's brow furrowed slightly.
"What happened?"
"One of the humans closest to Lord Jace rushed in just moments ago," Drako continued. "He looked like a man who had seen a ghost. He was demanding to see your brother immediately."
Jericho slowed his pace.
"That alone wouldn't concern me," Drako added, "but what followed did. The intelligence that sent Lord Jace to Warmark was supposedly provided by him. That is what Lord Jace told us."
A pause.
"When I brought that up," Drako said carefully, "he looked… lost. Completely unprepared. He chose to play along rather than question it, and when I pressed even slightly, he became defensive."
Jericho's expression hardened.
"He is now heading to Warmark as well," Drako continued. "Which means, my king… there will soon be multiple high-ranking members of Lord Jace's forces converging on you."
Drako's voice lowered.
"Please—allow me to join you. I know your strength better than anyone, but even you cannot be expected to face Lord Jace and three of his highest-ranking subordinates alone."
He exhaled sharply.
"Just say the word, my king. I will come."
Jericho exchanged a brief glance with Erica as they continued moving. She returned it with a questioning look, clearly aware something serious was unfolding.
After a moment, Jericho spoke.
"Drako… you have proven your loyalty."
Drako froze.
"From this moment on," Jericho continued, "I formally acknowledge you as my retainer…. And a friend."
A warmth surged through Drako's chest.
Friend.
That single word echoed louder than any title.
"I will personally work to sever the contract binding you to my brother," Jericho went on. "Once that is done, you will stand at my side."
Drako's breath caught.
"But until then," Jericho said firmly, "you must remain where you are."
Drako's excitement wavered—but Jericho wasn't finished.
"I cannot reveal you yet. Your position is too valuable. I understand your concern, and I appreciate it more than you know… but you must trust me now."
His voice carried quiet certainty.
"I will not lose today. Not when the fate of the world hangs in the balance."
Drako clenched his fist.
"Your information has given me something priceless—time. And that alone gives me the edge I need."
Jericho smiled softly.
"Thank you, my friend. I will handle this."
There was silence on the other end.
Then Drako exhaled—and laughed quietly.
"Of course, my king. You will always be victorious."
His voice steadied, filled with conviction.
"I will pray for your success. But remember—should you ever need me, all you must do is think of my name. I will come to you in a heartbeat."
Jericho smiled.
"I expect nothing less."
His gaze sharpened.
"Now go. I have a pest to deal with."
Drako bowed instinctively, even though Jericho could not see him.
"Good luck, my king."
The transmission ended.
Jericho and Erica continued their advance toward the capital, cutting down every Lost foolish enough to stand in their path.
After a while, Erica glanced at him sideways.
"So," she said, "what was that about? You and Drako were talking for quite a while."
Jericho didn't slow.
"Oh, nothing much," he replied. "Just found out things are about to get… more difficult."
A strange smile curved across his face.
"But honestly? I see it as an excuse not to hold anything back."
Erica stared at him.
"…Oh no."
She sighed heavily.
"I almost feel bad for whatever we're about to run into. Almost."
Then she added, rubbing her temple, "Let's just hope Warmark doesn't send us a repair bill afterward."
She glanced at him again.
"And hey—don't forget I'm on your side, yeah? When you start rampaging."
Jericho said nothing.
He just kept moving—
that unsettling smile never leaving his face.
⸻
At the southern edge of Warmark, the two ships bearing Jace and his forces slipped into port.
No alarms.
No resistance.
Jace stepped onto the dock and surveyed the distant glow of chaos spreading across the nation. Fires burned faintly on the horizon, and the echoes of panic carried through the air.
His plan had worked.
The Lost had done exactly what they were meant to do.
Even though more than half of them had been wiped out before reaching the capital, enough remained—enough to drown Warmark in confusion and blood.
A thin smile crossed Jace's face.
"How wonderful," Demiurge said, gazing toward the unrest. "Just look at all this chaos. Some of the Lost still made it through—and we arrived completely undetected."
He turned toward Jace, admiration clear in his voice.
"Your plan has unfolded beautifully, young master."
"Of course it has," Pyon added proudly. "Anything conceived by our lord is destined to succeed. A supreme being's will cannot fail."
Demiurge chuckled softly to himself.
{"He really does sound like Kolpa whenever Pluto is involved"}, he thought.
Jace remained silent, his crimson eyes scanning the land before him.
"So," Demiurge said after a moment, "what are your orders, young master?"
Jace's gaze lingered on the distant skyline.
For a brief instant, memories surfaced—his earlier visits to Warmark, its people, its streets, its royal family.
Then rage surged.
The memories shattered, swallowed whole by hatred and ambition.
What remained was resolve.
"Now," Jace said coldly, "we split up."
Pyon straightened immediately.
"Pyon," Jace continued, turning to him, "you will take fifty men and head directly for the castle."
"Yes, Lord Jace."
"You are to secure Princess Clover," Jace said, his voice hardening. "Anyone who stands in your way—destroy them."
Pyon's grin widened.
"Understood."
He turned and began issuing orders at once.
Jace shifted his attention.
"Demiurge."
"Yes, young master."
"You will take the remaining troops and move through the city," Jace instructed. "Your priority is King Leohart."
Demiurge listened carefully.
"Continue monitoring the Lost. Deploy some of them to search for him as well. If he is located—do not harm him."
Jace's eyes gleamed.
"Capture him alive and bring him to me."
He paused, then smiled.
"No… on second thought—if you find him, inform me immediately."
His smile sharpened into something far more sinister.
"I will retrieve him myself."
A chill ran through the assembled soldiers.
"Yes, young master," Demiurge replied solemnly.
With that, the orders were given.
The forces of Jace dispersed into the shadows of Warmark—
each carrying out their role in a plan that threatened to tear the nation apart from within.
And at the center of it all…
Jace moved forward,
fire burning in his eyes.
⸻
Pyon moved through the city streets with undisguised delight, laughter echoing behind him as buildings burned and bodies fell. Every blast, every scream, fed the thrill coursing through his veins. By the time he reached the castle gates, the stone before him was slick with blood.
Waiting there was Sirius.
The commander of the royal guard had rushed ahead the moment reports of the disturbance reached him, ordering Sir William to remain behind and protect the kings and princesses. Now, standing before the gates, Sirius was met with a sight that made his chest tighten—his men lay scattered across the ground, lifeless, their skin discolored, veins darkened by poison.
Then their eyes met.
Pyon smiled.
"Well now," Pyon said lightly, tilting his head as though amused. "You must be the one in charge of this… unfortunate pile of bodies." He gestured lazily at the fallen guards. "Ah, I truly am sorry. I did ask very politely for them to take me to Princess Clover. But they became hostile." He shrugged. "I was simply defending myself."
His grin widened, eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.
"Now that you're here, perhaps you'll be more reasonable." He took a step forward. "Either bring Princess Clover to me… or take me to her. I promise I'll be on my way once that's done."
Sirius felt anger surge violently through his chest.
How… how did they get this far into the capital? Completely undetected…
He raised his sword and turned to his remaining forces and reinforcements—barely eighty men now, facing fifty-one enemies… including this monster.
"MEN!" Sirius roared.
"TAKE BATTLE FORMATION!"
"DO NOT LET ANY OF THEM THROUGH!"
"PROTECT THE CAPITAL AND THE CASTLE—NO MATTER WHAT!"
The soldiers responded with a unified shout.
"ATTACK!"
Sirius charged first, his battle cry cutting through the air as the royal guards and slingers surged forward toward Pyon's troops.
Pyon sighed theatrically.
"Unreasonable, even the commander," he muttered. "I suppose that explains the men." He lifted a hand, signaling his forces. "Such a shame. I really did want to do this peacefully."
Then his voice dropped.
"Very well. The hard way it is."
"Soul Casting—Aura Dilitirio."
A deep, sickly green mass erupted from his hands, engulfing his body entirely. It clung to him like living flame—poison incarnate. Pyon began walking forward, calm and unhurried.
Men died simply by approaching him.
Swords melted mid-swing. Armor corroded. Flesh blackened. Anyone who touched the toxic aura collapsed in seconds, lifeless, without Pyon lifting a finger.
He advanced through the carnage until Sirius stood before him.
With a sharp breath, Sirius lunged.
Steel flashed.
Pyon didn't dodge.
{"Foolish,"} he thought. {"Another useless blade."}
But the sword did not melt.
It cut.
The blade tore across Pyon's chest, slicing through flesh—and in the same instant, a violent jolt of electricity surged into the wound. Pain exploded through his body.
"What—?!"
Pyon staggered, dropping to one knee.
Before he could recover, Sirius was already moving.
The commander drove his sword forward, plunging it clean through Pyon's abdomen. A second, far stronger surge of electricity followed, blasting Pyon backward and slamming him into the ground.
Silence fell for a brief moment.
Pyon lay motionless.
Sirius stood over him, breathing heavily, his expression grim. He turned to rejoin his men, intent on ending the battle—
Then it hit him.
A crushing pressure.
Cold. Dense. Overwhelming.
A chill raced down Sirius's spine.
Slowly, he turned.
Pyon was standing.
The wounds across his chest and stomach were already closing, flesh knitting itself together as though death itself had been denied.
"Oh my…" Pyon murmured, brushing dust from his clothes. "I'm rather glad Lord Jace wasn't here to witness that." He sighed. "He warned me not to underestimate anyone… and I disobeyed."
His eyes locked onto Sirius.
"I'll have to be punished for that oversight."
A smile—sharp, predatory—spread across his face.
"But first… I'll correct my mistake."
The poison aura thickened, darker than before.
"My dear commander," Pyon said softly, stepping forward. "You truly surprised me." His smile widened. "It seems I held back far too much."
Cold sweat rolled down Sirius's face.
"Forgive me," Pyon continued. "Shall we try again?"
His voice hardened.
"This time… you have my full respect."
And with that, Pyon lunged—no longer restrained.
⸻
Pyon moved.
Not just faster—violently so.
His figure blurred as he closed the distance, strength radiating off him in crushing waves. Sirius reacted instantly, pulling free his second weapon—a compact pistol. The trigger snapped repeatedly, releasing concentrated electric charges, each one carrying lethal voltage.
They meant nothing.
Pyon swatted them aside with casual flicks of his wrist, the crackling bolts dispersing uselessly into the air. In a heartbeat, he was upon Sirius.
A fist came flying.
Sirius barely registered it before it connected.
The impact was catastrophic.
His body was hurled backward like a ragdoll, smashing into the castle gates with a thunderous crash. The reinforced metal buckled inward, leaving a deep crater. Sirius collapsed to the ground, coughing violently, blood spilling from his mouth as he struggled to draw breath.
Pyon approached slowly, hands in his pockets, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"I'm impressed," he said lightly. "I really thought you'd bring the gates down after that hit." He glanced at the dent. "That's one sturdy gate. Clover truly never stops amazing me."
Sirius groaned, forcing himself upright despite his body screaming in protest. His vision swam, lungs burning, but he wiped the blood from his lips and charged again.
"I—I would never…"
cough
"…let you touch… our princess…"
He swung wildly, fueled by sheer will. Punch after punch flew—but Pyon avoided them effortlessly, like a man sidestepping falling leaves.
Then—bam.
Another punch landed.
Sirius was sent skidding across the stone, rolling in agony. His men noticed immediately and rushed forward—but Pyon's troops intercepted most of them. The few who broke through were swatted aside like insects as Pyon advanced, no longer holding back.
Using the brief distraction, Sirius grabbed his pistol and fired again while forcing himself upright.
Still useless.
Pyon appeared before him in an instant and seized him by the throat, lifting him clean off the ground.
"Do you really believe such feeble attacks will work on me?" Pyon sneered, disgust etched across his face. "Show more respect, human."
He hurled Sirius away.
The commander crashed back into the battlefield, landing among his remaining men. As Pyon strode toward him, Sirius raised his hand weakly—and gave a sharp signal.
The men froze.
Their faces twisted in horror as they understood.
Some hesitated.
Others clenched their teeth.
Then, one by one, they retreated—pulling back despite the tears in their eyes, obeying their commander's final order.
Sirius was left alone.
Pyon's remaining soldiers closed in. Sirius fought like a cornered beast—firing wildly, grabbing fallen weapons, emptying every charge he had left. Bodies fell, smoke filled the air—
Then Pyon reached him.
He grabbed Sirius by the neck again, lifting him effortlessly, staring straight into his eyes.
"It seems your men have abandoned you," Pyon chuckled. "The king comes first, hm? As it should." He laughed. "Still… you've earned my respect, commander. I never imagined a human like you existed."
He sighed.
"I truly wish we'd settled this reasonably. I hate ending talent." His eyes hardened. "You'd have made a fine Grand Four. Far better than that worm Drako."
His eye twitched.
"This is the end for you."
"Soul Casting—"
"Don't… think…" Sirius rasped, blood spilling from his mouth as he smiled.
"…you've won… demon…"
Pyon frowned. "What are you—"
"If I'm dying…"
choking
"…I'll take you… with me…"
His eyes softened, just for a moment.
{Forgive me, my king. It was an honor… to die for you… and our nation.}
The explosion tore the world apart.
A blinding flash—
A deafening roar—
Then darkness.
——
When Sirius had received his upgraded weapons from Princess Clover, she had warned him—gravely, without humor.
Never let them overheat.
They were prototypes. Unstable. Dangerous.
——
So Sirius had done exactly that.
He had fired relentlessly—his pistol, his sword, every weapon he could grab—pushing them far beyond their limits. Then he sent his men away.
And when the pressure peaked—
They detonated.
The blast consumed everything.
Pyon's troops were erased instantly.
The battlefield vanished beneath fire and black smoke.
The royal guards watched from afar in stunned silence, knowing their commander had chosen this willingly—had died smiling.
Moment later.
Slowly… the smoke began to clear.
A silhouette emerged.
One step.
Then another.
Horror gripped their hearts.
Pyon walked out of the smoke.
One eye was gone.
Blood streamed from his ears.
One arm was missing entirely—torn away by the blast.
Every one of his soldiers lay dead.
Pyon stopped, breathing heavily.
Then he laughed.
Low.
Broken.
And furious.