Nao’s bloodcurling screams hollered through the field, confusion, fear, and pain coursing through her entire body. Unable to see anything, yet aware of the beast approaching her, she felt her body shuddering, as her arms pointlessly flailed, trying to inch back.

Yet she knew it was pointless. She was going to die here.

Why?

She wondered, tears dropping to her face, the pain unbearable, her blindness, hopelessness even more so.

Why?

Ever since the beginning, she was favored. Of a significant family, educated and given the method to succeed. She worked hard, yet she knew she was privilaged, that she was supposed to be better than anyone else.

Then… why?

It only took a moment as the beast was upon her, Nao could smell death approaching her, as her wordless sobs got stuck in her throat. So… that’s it, huh…

Finally hopeless, Nao stopped flailing and inching back. She froze, waiting for her end. A moment later, a scraping sound, reminiscent of a jagged claw rending flesh ringed in her ears.

Yet, she felt no more pain. It took her a moment as another voice ringed in her ears.

“Nao! Are you alright?!”

It didn’t take much for her to recognize that voice, the voice of capral Sayaka. No, she is a second officer now. Almost being the opposite of Nao, Sayaka was someone who had nothing in life, yet clawed through everything, tooth or nail.

Nao never hated her or her squad, yet she would be lying if she didn’t have any contempt, some things were scalped into her, things she couldn’t forget or ignore. Yet here she lay, hopeless, crying, pathetic.

Nao forced herself up, ignoring the pain, and forcing her sobbing to stop. She nodded, still hiccuping from her cries. She couldn’t see, yet she felt Sayaka’s expression, pitying her, as she spoke.

“Fall back, you have done enough.”

I have done enough?

Nao knew that answer more than anyone. Did she do enough?

No.

Anger, hatred, and fury rose inside her.

She was angry, angry at her uselessness. Angry at her failure, and at her pain.

She hatred herself, standing uselessly, she didn’t deserve the respect she had, she didn’t deserve the care she had gotten. She could only imagine, if someone like Sayaka had what she had, what height would she have reached?

She was furious, upon everything, within that minute, she no longer held fear, she deserved to die, for her failures.

Her body still quivering, she lifted her rifle, yet she couldn’t see, nor could she fire blindly, her teammates all around her.

She could hear, yet she couldn’t make out anything, her arm shook, she felt even more useless.

I cannot fail them… not anymore.

Suddenly, a random thought flashed in her mind. She could control objects with her Energy and body, drifting bullets and forcing them through impossible paths and targets. She could complement her vision with her Energy.

But… why couldn’t she simply… see.

She never used her ability to see, she always depended on her eyes, boosted with Energy, she could see everything, and anything.

But she no longer had that luxury.

She forced a wave of Energy, leaving her body to move. She waited, feeling every vibration of her Energy, as it hit every object. She almost saw nothing, an image of static and chaos.

Thus, she tried again, and again.

And again.

Moment by moment, the image got clearer. It was not the same as her yes, what she saw was merely a layer. It was less, yet more. She felt her soul quiver, watching as certain spots felt different. She didn’t know why, what or how. She felt as those spots kept shifting, moving within the mess that those creatures were.

Mindlessly, she lifted her rifle, as she squeezed the trigger.

- - - - -

Jorish stood, or to be more exact, limbed. He used his staff as a support. He didn’t know how he survived the last few seconds, barely forcing his body beyond its limits as he hacked through the Witchborne, one after another.

Jorish remembered the weapon’s awakening, the image of power when the Sovereign awakened his weapon still in his mind. He knew he had extracted power from his own weapon, yet it was merely a normal glaive. It had indeed accompanied him through months of battle, soaking in his will, yet it was still a spear of wood and steel.

Jorish felt sadness, looking at the cracking spear he held in his hands. The steel was cracked, wood broken. He didn’t even try to suspect the spear wouldn’t last a few more exchanges, the fact it lasted so long was a miracle itself.

Finally, he watched as the spear finally gave way, breaking apart. It didn’t simply break in half, instead electing to go into many pieces, truly exhausted and broken. Just like he is.

What do you do when the odds turn on you, when you face death?

That same question has haunted him. He didn’t know his answer, he never did, even when he thought he did.

You improvise?

Jorish didn’t lack imagination, trying to find ways to grasp victory. Yet, it wasn’t his strength. It wasn’t what made him strong. Now he lay, no more cards to play, nothing remaining to improvise.

You dominate?

To dominate. It was a sweet thought, almost a dream. Perhaps Jorish might’ve thought that when he stands, blessed by the endless sun’s waves as they bless him. But now, he stood, powerless. He stood… weak.

Why do we get stronger?

The question irked Jorish even more, watching Malik, at the peak of power, fail to even save himself. Jorish understood a simple fact, the stronger you get, the more the world forces you into conflicts. Not even by reaching the peak, will you be free. That was simply the cycle of life.

Then… what is the secret to being happy… What is the secret to being… alive?

Spark.

Jorish felt a spark within him, each question, getting him closer to his answer. The world almost froze, Jorish’s mind going through every thought, every emotion of his.

Grind.

Jorish knew, no matter how much stronger he got, he will face even bigger hurdles. In a sense there was no point to climbing the mountain.

Spark.

Yet, did there need to be a point? Perhaps, if he stayed in the cities earlier, never spoke out, he would be still living there. Miserable as he was, yet still alike, and perhaps he would live far longer than this path.

Smoke. Sparks.

Perhaps, the moment the Traveler beat the Sovereign, he could’ve stayed in the cities, lived as a king and never worried in his life again.

Sparks, sparks, and grinding.

Jorish felt his smile widen unconsciously. What a silly line of thought. He knew, even with his entire being trying to convince him, that it didn’t matter.

He didn’t want a good life.

He didn’t want to survive.

His fingers traced a leather cover in his pocket, miraculously in one piece, while his body stood, riddled with cuts and holes.

He wanted but one thing.

To become a legend.

SPARK

Jorish had but little Energy, he felt it collide over and over, hide foundations grinding up, sparks flying. He only had one thought in his mind, remembering the name his master gave him.

“Once you were Jorish, and you may remain so. Yet, today I bless you with your new name, for you were reborn. You are finally a warrior, Son of the Sun.”

Son of the Sun.

Indeed, I am the Son of the Sun.

Not its slave.

IGNITE.

Spark after spark flew inside Jorish, he felt his heart ignite, his eyes stuck forward, as a Witchborne rushed towards him. He felt the embers of a flame within him, yet it wasn’t enough.

GRIND.

He suddenly relaxed, as he spoke loudly, noting as Anise and Dyce, exhausted as he was, turned towards him.

“When the odds turn impossible, when facing death…”

Jorish stepped forward, his eyes carrying a faint golden glow, his golden markings on his skin barely moving. As he grabbed the Witchborne.

SPARK.

A moment passed, as the glow in his eyes brightened for a moment, before he ripped the monster apart, breaking through its body.

“I shall… overcome!”

Indeed.

If life will forever throw the impossible towards you… then it is simple.

You must overcome everything!

If the sun in the skies sets.

I will burn my heart, becoming the sun.

If darkness rules, I will break through and be the light.

If the sun threatens to burn the world.

I shall pierce the very sun myself.

As Jorish ripped the beast apart, he felt the flame die out, as he ground his Energy and soul even further.

Grind.

He stood, a smile of insanity on his face as more and more Witchborne rushed towards him.

- - - - -

Traves pressed against the hard ground, crimson leaking through his mask as he stared forward. His jet black sword reflecting the rays of flames and ice, as the world’s end glow turned pitch black, absorbing everything.

He noticed the state of everyone else, Cail stood in the back draining his Energy to support everyone, and waiting for a chance. Next to him, the Sword Saint stood, slight exhaustion on his face, contrasting with Reinold who stood, countless injuries and cracks to his armor visible.

Traves grunted, knowing they didn’t have many choices, Reinold’s strength against elements was perhaps the only reason they had a chance, leaving the Witch’s strongest attacks ineffective.

Yet, that didn’t matter. Traves watched as more nails started floating in the sky, a dark flaming burning through them. Damn it, he knew, while Reinold could block the darkness aura, the force in the nail was enough to kill him, and the rest couldn’t handle the darkness aura.

As they prepared to fire, Cail started to move, preparing to use something, Traves signaled him mentally, telling him to stop. This is not the time yet, I got this.

Traves stepped forward, the trace of crimson turning into an ocean, flooding the floor on which they stood. Traves unleashing fifth and last technique, as countless blades of blood flew with each swing of his sword, one after another, he hit the nails one by one, yet it wasn’t enough.

The glow deepened, as blood left his wounds, turning into blades that flew towards th nails. Over and over, the wave of attacks stopped, as the storm of nails stopped.

Traves jumped backward, feeling his blood churn, tasting it in his mouth. He felt drained more than ever, yet he couldn’t afford to let Cail use their trump card, for the moment he did, their hopes of winning would be truly null.

The Witch screeched, slight exhaustion in her voice as different magics appeared in the space around them. Traves strengthened his grip, the waning flame in his eyes turning into an inferno of blood, as he stepped forward once more.

- - - - -

Tyran grunted, powerless and empty. He never doubted his own strength, being one of the strongest practitioners alive. Yet, here he lay, barely able to move. His Energy empty, his control over friction was almost non-existent now.

Feeling his weakness, and looking around him, he knew their time was about up, no, no just out time, he thought, spying a group of Witchborne rushing toward him, as he forced his body to move. He looked to his side, his men split, some were hesitant, scared and witless, Others were similar, scared and terrified, yet their duty pushed them to fight until the end.

Tyran understood, yet couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness and shame invade him. Is that what the pride of the people of the free cities is? Is this all we are?

Tyran punched, exhausting the last of his Energy as the beast was forced back. Tyran watched the wave of Witchborne approached them. So, this is how it ends. He could see it, the few who stood brave, falling. Then everyone behind them dying, an unless slaughter, blood and darkness.

Convinced to face his fate, Tyran stepped forward, intending to buy even a moment for his troops. As their leader, he must do at least that much, he knew.

Suddenly, from behind him he heard a shout.

“Reinforce the front! For the free cities!”

He felt his eyes widen, as he watched Sayaka and her squad rush forward. He knew that she also knew, the best they could do is buy time, to save his men at the price of her own.

Why?

Tyran couldn’t understand, they were always persecuted, being from the slums, the number of times Sayaka was refused promotion when she had deserved it, the way they were pushed in battles, it was all insane.

Tyran didn’t approve of it completely, yet he held that tinge in his heart, they weren’t the ones who held the pride of the free cities, we were supposed to be the ones.

Why?

He watched, those men and women fighting, no hesitation. They held fear, yet they rushed in, fighting against the odds. For the free cities.

Yet, it all didn’t matter much. As he watched, Sayaka’s twisted blade ripping one monstrosity after another, he saw her getting drained, slower and weaker. She bought them a few minutes, but that was it.

He watched, tens of Witchborne moments away from ripping them apart, as suddenly a wall of ice rose, impaling the Witchborne.

Ice?! Tyran felt his breath freeze. There is almost none who uses ice abilities in the south, none famous enough… except…

A moment later, a figure landed from the skies, as the frozen spikes imploded, shattering the impaled Witchborne. A man stood, his face pale with rough features. Tyran never met the person, yet looking at his face, there was only one person it could be.

That must be Hjorn… Right hand of the Tyrant!

Hjorn lifted his sword, moving towards the Witchborne which approached him. He moved effortlessly, his blade moving in wide movements, each swing cutting a Witchborne, before it exploded into bits.

Suddenly, seven Witchbornes popped at once, ambushing Hjorn. He lifted his hand, a blazing inferno erupting, burning them to ash within moments.

Hjorn turned towards Tyran, his face expressionless, carrying a hint of disdain as he spoke.

“Behold… The might of the sun-touched cities!”

Tyran felt his blood stop, as he looked at the dark skies. A few objects floated in the skies, almost indistinguishable, as the darkness was expelled from their spots. A view that Tyran once saw and would not forget popped into his mind, as he unconsciously spoke.

“An Eye of the cities?!”

In the sky, a single grand eye stood, surrounded by many smaller irises as they floated. They broke the barrier of darkness, as sunlight was forced toward them. In moments, lines of light swam towards the Eye and the Irises, as countless beams of light descended, cleansing the darkness of the Witch.

- - - - -

Dyce coughed, noting the flash of red that lay on the ground, adding color to the lifeless land on which he stood. He felt his body quivering, as he gritted his teeth.

He had the Energy, he could still fight. Or so he tried to convince himself, as his body seemed to collapse into pieces, informing him of a reality.

No, my body cannot stand this anymore.

He knew, more than anyone, what his weakness was. Jorish had his body, while Anise had her bloodline. He was an Energy practitioner, he was indeed strong, but endurance wasn’t his strength, he was still limited by his mortal body.

He saw Jorish standing, like a flickering candle, each time he almost falls, he would spark back into life, standing to fight yet again. He did it because he knew, he was the one who could hold off the most, because he had to.

He looked at Anise, a wild beast as she ripped one monster after another apart, yet her limitations slowed her, kept her unable to truly kill them quick enough.

He forced his body, stepping forward into the fight once more. He stabbed his spear, unleashing his Energy as it shredded the Witchborne, yet at the moment, shredded whatever remains from his strength.

He felt himself losing consciousness, feeling as the world turned around him and he began to fall.

Stand.

He slammed his foot on the ground, pain spiking through his whole body, yet keeping him awake. Keeping him standing.

He sliced another Witchborne, as he fell back a few steps, another cut upon him, as more and more blood fell, coloring the ground red, he felt confused. What am I doing here? Where am I? As he began to fall yet again, not enough blood in his frail body.

Stand.

He leaned upon his spear, muddled and confused, tired and broken. He looked forward, not even Jorish’s flame keeping up, as it got fainter and fainter. His steel soft, his flint broken.

Dyce stepped forward yet again, finding strength in the depths of his soul, his spear moved true as it impaled his enemies, yet almost impaled himself as his body kept breaking out. His mind was clearer than ever before, he knew it was more of a sign that his body had truly hit its limits, that burst of clarity before it all fell apart.

Finally, he felt it. He held nothing more, he was truly broken, his flesh ignoring him, his Energy flowing through his body pointlessly, burning as it found nowhere to go, nothing to push. He was as done as he could be. He had hit the limits of his mortal body.

So, you are finally done, Dyce?

Stand…

Is this the limit of your justice, Dyce!?

Stand…

Was this the extent of your promise? Are you letting it all go, just like that time?

STAND.

He couldn’t understand, as his body stood once more, each moment he felt different. His body wasn’t simply being remade or revived, he didn’t get any elixirs to rebuild his broken blood and bones. His soul willed it, commanding his body to stand, no matter the cost. And it did.

Over and over, he kept getting up. His body was different, he didn’t know how or why, but that didn’t matter.

As long I can keep standing, and keep fighting.

Minutes went by, with even Dyce’s will power waining, his second wind gone. He finally fell, unable to move. Jorish and Anise grouped closer to Dyce, as they protected each others. It took a few moments as the embers in Jorish were no more, as he fell powerless as well.

- - - - -

The dragon stood, equally broken, yet it was a dragon. She would fight longer than anyone, harder than anyone. She fought, yet she knew it was vain, not much remained in her. It would only be moments as she followed her companions… her friends. As they would all leave Regalia, leave life.

Yet she forced her self to stand, her claws dull, her scales battered and flayed. She ripped Witchborne, one after another. Until it was finally time.

It was only a moment, for now, she was but a moment away. As suddenly a blow hit the earth, breaking stone and shattering bones of Witchborne. Anise fell, her eyes stuck forward as she looked at the figure which stood in front of them, hidden by ashes and dust, almost as if his held a hammer, yet his hands were empty. The figure inched closer as he spoke.

“You’ve done well kids, you’ve done really well.”

“Now show me where the Traveler fights.”

- - - - -

Cail kept his focus, making sure nothing near them escapes him. He depended on him, and he must not fail. Every single particle of dirt, every single ash or sand was in his eyes, and it would not pass him without his permission.

He understood the traveler more than anyone else would, perhaps at times more than he himself thought he understood himself. Afterall, that is what it means to be someone’s shadow. He knew, looking at him now. He had pushed himself to his limits, and he won’t be able to block everything once agian.

Yet he looked at the Witch, she was exhausted, perhaps not deathly so, but they were wearing her down. Alas, at this rate, we will be worn down first.

Suddenly, the Witch’s cries shook the entire cave, louder than ever before. As extreme exhaustion could be heard from the shivering roar. Hundreds of spikes flew in the sky, he didn’t need to wait for Traves’ thought to reach him as he knew. He can’t block this one.

The moment he was finally intent on using thier one trump card, the Sword Saint stepped forward wordlessly, unsheathing his sword as muttered.

“Slither, Elsith.”

Cail watched, as the silver blade turned wavy, dancing like a snake, before a determined look burned on the Sword Saint’s face as his thoughts echoed to everyone, he had one shot for this only.

“And slice!”

Suddenly, his blade started shining brighter as countless silver lines slithered, cutting every nail in the air in a fury of silver. It lasted but for a moment, but as the Sword Saint stumpled coughing blood, he knew it was enough as the nails were all dealt with.

The Witch growled speaking.

“One Monarch… and puny Candidates, dare face me?!”

A huge wall of flame approached the Sword Saint who stood unable to defend himself. Yet, there was not worry in anyone’s face, as Cail’s eyes widened at that moment.

A blow came from nowhere, as if a giant hammer slammed the puny flare, extinguishing it from existence. Calm steps followed, as a man walked, skin red and black, almost burned. He gave a single feeling, the feeling of steel and iron, flames and sparks.

The Volcanosmith of Helmguard stood, speaking calmly.

“How about two then?”

Cails thoughts ran quickly. As his thoughts moved directly to Traves.

Five.

The Witch sent countless projectiles of flames, ice, and shadows. Reinold stepped forward, blocking them as he was pushed back.

Four.

The Witch sent more nails and bolders towards Reinold, as the Sword Saint stepped forward, his blade almost a whip, blocking the most dangerous of the bolders before he was sent back.

Three.

Completely enraged, endless streams of destruction, stone, flames, and ice prepared to fire in every direction as the Volcanosmith’s hands moved, the illusion of a gigantic hammer forming in the void as it interrupted the Witch, sending her into a daze for a moment as dust covered the world.

Two.

Traves rushed, a shadow, a specter. He moved between the stones and flames, ice and darkness. As he stood in front of the Witch, her barrier still standing.

And where a man treads, you find his shadow.

He stepped to the side, as Cail held his trump card. He held a shotgun, filled with as much Energy any artifact could hold, one of a kind, and they had a single use for it, until he went back the islands to get another one produced…

He squeezed the trigger. As eight pillars of light extended, turning the world white as it dwarfed all Energy used ever before.

One.

In the midst of light, Cail felt a single hole, a tiny opening in the Witch’s barrier. Almost invisible, unnoticeable. All this, was for this one point.

But it was enough.

Inside the barrier, the grim reaper lifted his scythe, as he reaped the Witch’s head.

The Traveler stood, the scythe of blood extending from the world’s end on the tip of the Voyage. It slowly dispersed into nothingness. As time froze. Cail watched as the Witch’s body tried to remerge and regenerate, yet kept burning, refusing to become whole again.

Her screeches shock the world over and over. As the Traveler turned, speaking. “The Dragon Monarch sends his regards.”

A shout of pain, anger, and frustration sounded, as the Qotru, the Grand Witch of the Akase was no more.

As they watched the end of an era.