The battlefield was quiet now.
Not the fragile silence of fear—but the deep, exhausted stillness that followed survival.
The sky slowly cleared, torn clouds knitting themselves back together as if the world were embarrassed by what it had allowed to happen. Craters steamed. Broken weapons lay half-buried. Summons faded one by one, returning to their realms with final nods of loyalty and relief.
Rocky stood at the center of it all, breathing hard, shoulders heavy, blood drying on his armor. The war was over.
The empire still stood.
Then arms wrapped around him.
Firm. Real. Warm.
Rocky blinked in surprise as Sylvia pulled him close, pressing her forehead against his chest. Her armor was cracked, her cape torn, but she was standing—alive.
"Rocky," she said softly.
He looked down at her, still processing everything. "Sylvia…?"
She tightened her grip, as if afraid he might disappear if she let go.
"Sylvia Sanchez the Third," she said clearly, her full name carrying weight—noble, sworn, unbroken. "Knight of the Empire. And today…"
She lifted her head and met his eyes.
"…I owe you my life. And the empire owes you its future."
Before he could respond, she rose on her toes and kissed him.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
A kiss full of gratitude, relief, and unspoken promise.
The watching knights froze—then slowly lowered their weapons. Some smiled. Others looked away respectfully. A few quietly knelt.
Rocky's breath caught, then he gently returned it, one hand resting against her back.
When they finally parted, Sylvia stayed close, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You didn't just save a country," she said. "You saved everyone who lives in it."
Rocky exhaled, a small, tired smile breaking through. "Then… I'm glad I stood my ground."
She rested her head against his shoulder, still holding him as the sun finally broke through the clouds.
And for the first time since the war began—
The empire felt safe.
The moment lingered longer than either of them expected.
Around them, the battlefield slowly returned to the world.
Medics rushed in from the rear lines, calling out names, kneeling beside the wounded. Knights helped one another to their feet, battered shields clanging softly as they were lowered at last. Some soldiers laughed in disbelief. Others cried openly, gripping the earth as if to reassure themselves it was still there.
High above, the last traces of divine light faded. Nikkei gave Rocky a final nod before dissolving into radiant particles, victory complete. Lucifer planted Excalibur into the ground for a brief moment of silence, then turned away, his expression unreadable but respectful. Risha stood nearby, arms crossed, watching Sylvia and Rocky with a faint, knowing smile.
"So," she muttered, "that's how it ends. Figures."
The Guardian Wolf released a final, low howl—not of war, but of closure—before fading into mist. The slimes dissolved harmlessly into mana, soaking into the soil like rain that would one day help the land heal. The elementals dispersed into wind, flame, stone, and tide, restoring what they had broken.
The scars of battle remained.
But the threat did not.
Sylvia finally pulled back just enough to look at Rocky properly. Her eyes traced the bandage on his shoulder, the dried blood, the exhaustion he hadn't let himself feel until now.
"You're hurt," she said.
Rocky shrugged weakly. "Still standing."
She huffed softly. "That seems to be your specialty."
Behind them, a line of knights approached. At their head was the imperial commander, armor dented, cape torn, but posture rigid with respect. One by one, they knelt.
Not just to Sylvia.
To Rocky.
"On behalf of the Empire," the commander said, voice steady despite the ruin around them, "we acknowledge Rocky the Summoner as the defender of this realm."
Rocky stiffened. "You don't have to—"
Sylvia squeezed his hand.
"Let them," she said quietly.
The banners were raised again—tattered, but proud. Trumpets sounded, not for war, but for survival.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting gold over broken stone and standing soldiers alike, Rocky felt the weight of what had happened finally settle into his chest.
Carbrarra was gone.
Balance had been challenged.
The empire still breathed.
And Sylvia was here—alive, leaning against him, her presence grounding him more than any system or summon ever had.
"This isn't the end, is it?" Rocky asked softly.
Sylvia looked out over the battlefield, then back at him, her grip firm.
"No," she said. "But it's a beginning."
The wind carried the sound of rebuilding already starting—voices, orders, life moving forward.
And for the first time since destiny had found him—
Rocky didn't feel alone facing what came next.