Clang.
Steel screamed as sword met spear, the sound tearing through the shattered training ground like a dying beast.
Gris and Saru staggered apart, both barely standing.
Blood soaked the stone beneath their feet—dark, slick pools reflecting firelight and moonshine alike. Gris's breath came in broken gasps, every inhale tasting like iron. His shield was splintered, cracked almost in half. His sword arm trembled, muscles screaming in revolt.
Saru rolled his shoulder once, calm even now. Blood ran down his ribs, staining his side, yet his eyes burned bright—sharp, focused, alive.
"You're still standing," Saru said, lips curling faintly. "Impressive."
"Gris offered no reply—he surged forward."
Saru met him head-on.
The spear whipped around with terrifying speed, its shaft slamming into Gris's shield. CRACK. The upper half of the shield exploded apart, wooden shards flying. The impact threw Gris off balance, and in that instant—
Saru's foot came up.
A brutal kick slammed into Gris's chest, knocking the air from his lungs. His sword flew from his grasp, skidding across blood-slick stone.
Before Gris could recover, the spear came down.
It plunged into his shoulder from above, punching through flesh with a wet, sickening sound.
Gris roared—not in pain, but in fury.
With what strength he had left, he smashed forward, ramming the broken shield edge-first into Saru's ribs. Bone cracked. Saru staggered, breath hitching, and Gris followed through, tackling him hard.
They crashed to the ground.
Gris mounted him, pinning him down, the jagged edge of the shattered shield pressed against Saru's throat. Blood seeped out, slow at first, then faster, running down Saru's neck.
Both of them grunted, muscles shaking, teeth clenched.
"End it," Saru whispered, eyes gleaming.
Gris pushed harder.
Then—
THWMP.
Something punched through his gut.
Gris froze.
Warmth flooded his mouth. He gagged, then vomited blood all over Saru's chest.
Slowly, disbelief flooding his eyes, Gris turned his head.
Above them, near the broken balcony overlooking the corridor, stood a figure cloaked in moonlight.
A long bow, taller than a man.
A hawk mask.
Leo.
The arrow had passed clean through Gris's abdomen, the shaft still protruding, slick with blood. His fingers trembled as they touched it.
Saru shoved him off violently.
Gris hit the ground hard, vision spinning, the world narrowing to sound and pain. Saru rose, breathing heavily, then looked down at him.
"That's quite the scene," Saru said calmly.
He leaned on his spear, watching Gris bleed.
"I've never fought someone like you," he continued. "So I won't kill you."
Gris tried to speak. Blood bubbled at his lips.
"I'll be back," Saru said with a smile. "Next time… finish this."
He turned away.
Leo remained on the balcony, trembling. Tears slipped down beneath the mask, dripping onto the stone.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Saru walked through the castle like a ghost.
Bodies littered the halls—soldiers torn apart, walls stained red, fire still crackling along shattered beams. He didn't flinch. Didn't pause.
When he entered the throne room, the devastation was complete.
The throne lay broken, its legs smashed, stone cracked beneath it.
Ed—the Tank—lay slumped against a pillar, chest barely rising, dozens of dart shafts buried in his thick flesh.
Adam—the Berserker—lay sprawled near the steps, blood pouring from a gaping wound, lips still curled in a mad grin even in unconsciousness.
Buckshot emerged from the smoke, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Took everything I had," he said shakily. "Twelve sedatives in the giant… and that laughing bastard just wouldn't stay down."
He swallowed. "Where's the king?"
Saru's eyes narrowed.
"He fled," Buckshot said quickly. "With the Shadow."
Buckshot's voice cracked. "If this gets out—if they find out—we're finished."
Saru chuckled.
"Relax," he said. "We'll say the king is dead. That the Hawk betrayed his own. That the Demon escaped in the chaos."
Buckshot stared. "And the Demon?"
Saru smiled wider.
"The future will be fun."
"But right now, it's the after party."
And he laughed, the sound echoing through the burning throne room.
On the outskirts of the kingdom, far from the burning towers and screaming streets, Mira and Julies stumbled through knee-high grass toward what barely passed for shelter.
The house had once been a cabin—long ago.
Now it lay half-swallowed by nature. Thick vines crawled up its warped wooden walls, moss blanketed the roof, and tall grass bent around it like a grave marker forgotten by time. One window was shattered, the door hanging crooked on its hinges. Frost clung to everything, turning the place pale and ghostly under the moon.
They forced their way inside.
The interior smelled of damp wood and rot. Old furniture lay collapsed in corners, and the floor creaked under even the lightest step. Mira barred the door with a fallen beam while Julies peered through the broken window, breath fogging the glassless frame.
They didn't speak.
They listened.
Footsteps crunched outside.
Voices—low, tense, hunting.
Mira's breath hitched. Julies clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. The soldiers were close now, silhouettes passing through the grass, steel catching faint moonlight.
Then—
Screams split the night.
The door slammed open with violent force, wood splintering inward—
—and there he stood.
Gris.
He was barely recognizable.
Blood soaked him from shoulder to thigh, dried black in places, fresh and shining in others. His armor hung broken and twisted, and his face was pale beneath the grime, eyes sunken yet burning with stubborn fury. In his right hand, he held the iron tip of an arrow, its edges jagged, slick with blood.
Soldiers lay behind him outside, unmoving.
Another screamed somewhere in the dark.
Gris staggered inside and kicked the door shut with what little strength he had left.
"It's dangerous here," he rasped, voice torn and hoarse. "We have to get out."
Mira rushed to him, catching him as his knees nearly buckled. "Are you alright, what happened to you?"
"I'm fine. But we need to get Julies out of here."
"Where?" she cried. "Soldiers are everywhere!"
Gris swallowed, blood slipping from the corner of his mouth. "My village," he said. "The one Julies's father gave us… when we first came to this land."
Julies's eyes widened. "That far…?"
Gris nodded faintly. "It's the only place they won't look."
There was no time to argue.
They moved in the starry night with the moon helping them to navigate.
The road was barely a road—just a frozen path cutting through fields and forest, snow crunching beneath their boots. The cold gnawed at their bones, seeping through soaked clothes and open wounds. Gris leaned heavily on Julies, each step leaving a dark stain behind them. Mira walked on his other side, one arm wrapped around his waist, whispering his name every few steps to keep him awake.
Blood froze on fabric. Breath came in painful clouds.
Gris stumbled often, sometimes collapsing to one knee, sometimes vomiting blood into the snow. Each time, they lifted him again. No one complained. No one cried out.
They walked like that for hours.
Hunger clawed at them. Sleep came only in brief, shaking moments beneath trees or in ditches, always listening for pursuit. Frostbitten fingers went numb, then burned. Mira's lips cracked and bled. Julies's legs trembled constantly, but he never let go.
When the village finally appeared—small, quiet, wrapped in rising smoke from hearths—it felt unreal.
A few villagers stood on the road.
They stared.
Then someone whispered, "That's… Gris."
Everything moved at once after that.
Hands reached out. Voices called for help. Someone ran ahead shouting for healers. Gris barely remembered being carried—only the warmth, the murmurs, the way the world faded in and out.
He woke up two weeks later.
Sunlight spilled softly through a papered window, warm and gentle against his face. The room smelled of herbs and clean cloth. His lips were cracked, throat dry, vision swimming as he blinked slowly.
A futon.
He was alive.
Pain followed the realization, blooming through his body like fire, but it was distant—dulled, managed. Bandages wrapped his torso thickly. His arm felt heavy, unmoving.
The door slid open.
Mira stepped inside.
For a heartbeat, she froze.
Then she dropped to her knees.
"Gris—!"
She crossed the room in seconds, tears pouring freely as she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. Gris tried to speak, but the pain made him gasp instead, and that only made her sob harder.
"I thought— I thought—" she choked, words dissolving into cries.
The sound drew others.
The room filled quickly—villagers, elders, healers. His parents pushed through them, his mother collapsing beside the futon, hands trembling as she touched his face like she couldn't believe he was real. His father stood stiffly at the back, jaw tight, eyes red, shoulders shaking in silent relief.
They knew everything.
The attack.
The king's fall.
The betrayal.
Whispers rippled through the room—anger, grief, disbelief. Some looked at Gris with awe, others with sorrow.
Gris swallowed, chest tightening.
"…Julies?" he asked hoarsely. "Where is Julies?"
The room fell quiet.
Mira pulled back slightly, wiping her tears, eyes glistening as she looked at him.
"He's safe," she said softly. "He's outside."
Relief washed through Gris so hard it made his vision blur again.
Outside, the village went on quietly—alive, untouched by the fire that had devoured the kingdom.
But nothing was the same anymore.
It was evening.
The sky above the village had softened into hues of amber and fading blue, the sun dipping low behind distant hills. On a small rise just beyond the last houses, a lone tree stood—old, crooked, its branches thin but stubborn. Beneath it, Julies sat on the grass, knees drawn up, quietly watching the village below.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. Children's laughter drifted faintly in the wind. Life, somehow, was continuing.
Gris approached slowly, his steps careful. Every movement still sent sharp reminders through his body. When he reached Julies, he stopped for a moment, then spoke softly.
"How are your injuries?"
Julies didn't look away from the village.
"Fine," he said simply. Then, after a pause, he added, "Yours were far worse."
Gris snorted. "Yeah… guess I got the better deal, huh?"
Julies finally smiled.
Gris lowered himself beside him—and immediately hissed.
"Ow. Ow—damn it—"
Julies burst out laughing. "You look pathetic."
"Shut up," Gris groaned, shifting again. "I fought a monster. I'm allowed to be pathetic."
That only made Julies laugh harder, and soon Gris joined in, the sound rough but genuine. For a few precious moments, the weight of crowns, blood, and betrayal felt distant.
They sat in silence after that, the kind that didn't need filling.
"You remember," Julies said quietly, "how we used to play here?"
Gris nodded. "All three of us."
Leo. Gris. Julies.
They used to race through the fields, wooden sticks for swords, arguing over who was the hero and who had to be the villain. Leo always insisted on being the smartest one, planning ambushes that never worked. Julies would complain it wasn't fair. Gris would just charge in any way.
After the accident—after Julies lost his parents—everything had changed.
"He barely spoke for months," Gris said. "Just sat there, holding his sister's hand like if he let go, she'd disappear too."
Julies lowered his gaze. "If it wasn't for you two… I don't know what would've happened."
"We were kids," Gris replied softly. "But we stayed."
Julies nodded. "You did."
The wind rustled the lone tree above them.
After a long moment, Julies looked out over the village again.
"What a nice country this is," he said. "Peaceful. Simple. People just… living."
Gris followed his gaze.
"I want to protect it," Julies continued. "Even if I'm not the king of it anymore. I don't want my people to struggle. I don't want them to bleed because of crowns and thrones."
He turned to Gris then, eyes steady despite everything they had endured.
"Are you with me?"
Gris didn't hesitate.
"I've always been," he said.
They sat there until the sky darkened, two figures beneath a single tree, bound not by titles—but by years of shared pain and loyalty.