Teclos was barely conscious.
He was slumped against the tree the ghoul had pinned him to moments earlier, his breath coming in wet, shallow gasps. Blood stained his lips, dripping down his chin as he coughed weakly.
'I barely made it…' He thought dimly.
Pain radiated through his body—broken ribs, shredded arms, muscles screaming in protest. He couldn't lift his hands anymore. Every breath felt like it might be his last.
The villagers gathered nearby, their faces tight with worry.
Even those who had cursed him earlier avoided his gaze now, shame written clearly across their features.
An old man stepped forward—the same grizzled, foul-mouthed elder who had spat insults at Teclos only minutes before. He frowned deeply as he approached.
Kartall tensed, opening his mouth to warn him—
—but the old man surprised everyone.
He crouched down in front of Teclos and pulled a small flask from the inner pocket of his jacket.
"I'm sorry, boy," he said gruffly, avoiding Teclos's eyes. "For my harsh words earlier."
He hesitated, then continued, voice quieter. "This is a potion. It's not much, but it should help with regeneration… stop the bleeding inside."
A murmur rippled through the group.
Everyone knew Old Pete. Stubborn. Mean-tempered. Proud to a fault. An apology from him was rarer than gold.
Kartall barked out a laugh. "Didn't think you had it in you, Old Pete. Thought you were made of rusted nails and bad mood."
Pete snorted. "And I thought you were made of greed, soft cotton, and cowardice. Yet here we are."
Kartall frowned. "No need to get grumpy again, old man."
Teclos tried to lift his arm—but it trembled uselessly and fell back to his side. He didn't have the strength.
Pete noticed and uncorked the flask. Carefully, he tipped it to Teclos's lips.
The potion burned slightly as it slid down his throat.
The effect was immediate—but modest.
Warmth spread through his chest, dulling the pain just enough for him to breathe easier. The internal bleeding slowed. Some of the smaller cuts sealed themselves shut.
But the deeper damage remained.
The broken ribs still screamed with every movement.
Pete sighed. "Sorry, boy. It's just a lesser potion—about all this old man can afford. But it should keep you alive long enough to get proper treatment."
Teclos managed a weak nod in thanks.
The villagers worked quickly after that, fashioning extra stretchers from cloaks, branches, and rope. Teclos was carefully laid onto one, his body jolting painfully with every movement.
They began the march back toward Kolma.
Teclos tried to protest.
He wanted to bring herbs to his father. Wanted to go to Ragla. Irationally still wanted to help.
But he was in no condition to argue—and even if he tried, they wouldn't have let him go. He couldn't even stand on his own.
When they reached the main road, relief washed over the group. The worst was over. They were alive.
All except Teclos felt that relief.
Dread coiled tightly in his chest.
He'd failed to reach Talmir.
And worse—he knew exactly what awaited him back in Kolma.
A certain herbalist named Saldia.
A very angry one.
As they walked toward Kolma, he was strapped to a man's back, the stretcher swaying beneath him as the man helped carry his weight.
Teclos replayed the fight over and over in his mind.
What he'd done right.
What he'd done wrong.
The difference between the two moments was painfully clear—when he'd hunted and ambushed the first two ghouls… and when arrogance had nearly gotten him killed by the last.
He let out a weak, humorless chuckle.
That was stupid.
Kartall had called him talented—but talent alone meant nothing.
He wasn't some invincible protagonist cleaving mountains apart.
He was still weak.
And today, he had come terrifyingly close to dying because he forgot that.
Meanwhile, away from humanity's first small victory, Ragla still burned.
Only thirteen warriors were still left standing.
The rest—friends, hunters, guards—had fallen, and now their corpses turned back toward the living with hollow eyes and broken limbs, answering a darker call.
Those thirteen would not have survived this long without two men.
Talmir.
And Thomas.
Talmir was everywhere at once—his blade a silver blur as he carved through flesh and bone, cleaving zombies apart before they could even reach the line. He moved like the wind itself, appearing wherever the formation buckled, wherever fear threatened to freeze the last men alive. Every strike was lethal. Every step deliberate.
Thomas stood beside him, a pillar of fire and stubborn resolve.
His twin swords were long shattered, replaced now by a heavy mace ripped from a fallen guard. With one hand, he crushed skulls and shattered spines. With the other, he unleashed continuous torrents of flame, burning the undead to ash before they could rise again.
The others were barely holding on.
Mana reserves were nearly empty. Arms shook with exhaustion. The occasional earth spike or water slash still flew—but those were rare now. Most of the work fell to the two cornerstones holding the line together.
And still, it wasn't enough.
The zombies had mostly been dealt with—but ghouls were emerging now. Faster than before. The banshee had committed fully to summoning.
More of them poured in by the second.
It was clear she wanted to overwhelm them with a final push.
And then there was Joe.
His screams tore through the battlefield—disruptive wails that rattled the mind. Bone arrows. Skeletal hands clawing up from the ground. He hovered above the chaos like a curse given form.
Thomas felt hope slipping away.
"Talmir!" he shouted, crushing a ghoul's skull with his mace. Flames poured from his free hand like a living inferno, engulfing another undead mid-leap.
"What?!" Talmir roared back, spinning to bisect two ghouls at once while kicking a third away from a wounded hunter.
"Take the uninjured and run!" Thomas yelled. "I'll hold them off!"
"No, Chief! You can't!" a young hunter shouted—Bert, somehow still alive despite the carnage.
"He's right," Talmir growled. "I'm not leaving."
"Shut up, Bert!" Thomas snapped. "Listen to me, damn it! I'll hold them!"
Voices rose in protest—hunters, guards, desperate refusals shouted over the clash of steel and shrieks of the undead.
Thomas's voice broke through them all.
"I'm old, you stubborn fools," he said hoarsely. "And my wife died in the first attack."
Silence.
There wasn't a single person there who didn't understand that pain.
"Let me die a glorious death," Thomas continued. "So I can join her proudly—knowing I saved at least some of you."
Bert tilted his head. "But sir… you won't join her, though? The banshee will just raise you as one of them."
Thomas froze.
"…I didn't think of that."
A few strained chuckles escaped the group—thin, desperate laughter in the face of death.
"Just hold on," Talmir said. "I sent messengers to Kolma and Lupos."
"Like they'll make it in time," Irven muttered grimly.
"Way to ruin the mood, Irven," a guard snapped.
They fought on.
Together.
But Joe had other plans.
Bone needles—hundreds of them—tore free from the air above, raining down like death itself.
Irven looked up.
"ABOVE US!" he screamed, his voice cracking in terror.
If the spell landed, they were finished.
And Talmir knowing that, sprung to action without a second thought.
He pulled mana into his blade—everything he had left. There wasn't time for a wind barrier.
So he created something else.
He slashed diagonally through the ghouls in front of him, ripping them apart—and continued the motion, leaping into the air so he wouldn't decapitate his allies by mistake.
Then he spun.
Faster.
Faster still.
The wind followed.
A roaring vortex formed above the group.
A tornado.
And its name was Talmir.
Mana surged into the storm as he pulled the surrounding air with him. At the center, where the hunters stood, the winds were manageable—but beyond that?
Ghouls were ripped from the ground, shredded midair. Even thirty meters out, undead clawed desperately at the earth to keep from being dragged in.
Nearby houses collapsed.
Bone needles shattered, deflected, or were hurled harmlessly aside.
Joe stared in disbelief.
He had thought this spell would wipe them out—or at least cripple them.
He had been wrong.
Some bone needles slipped through, wounding a few hunters—but most survived.
What he had been right about was one thing:
He did not want to face Talmir.
The tornado didn't stop. It continued to rise, surging toward Joe and devouring the ground beneath it.
Joe retreated, spiraling downward in a wide arc, fleeing toward the ground as the storm chased him.
A bit later, Talmir descended back into the center of the formation, boots skidding across broken stone as the tornado unraveled above him. He bent forward slightly, hands on his knees, breath coming in heavy, ragged pulls.
The wraith escaped.
Too slippery to catch.
For a brief moment, the battlefield fell strangely quiet.
The surviving ghouls hesitated, circling at a distance, wary after witnessing the storm that had torn their kin apart. The banshee would correct that soon—Talmir knew it—but for now, they had a handful of precious seconds.
Maybe even a minute.
Thomas stepped closer, mace resting against his shoulder. "You alright there, chap?" he asked, eyeing Talmir's labored breathing.
Talmir huffed. "I'll admit… I've had better days."
Thomas let out a rough chuckle. "Oh? So you can still joke around, can ya?"
Around them, the hunters and guards stared in awe.
They had respected Talmir before—but now? Now they looked at him like a living legend. A man who had turned the battlefield into his playground.
—
Beneath the ground, far from their eyes, something answered the banshee's call.
Another presence arrived.
Another wraith.
One of her oldest servants.
With the summoning complete, the banshee extended her control outward—and the ghouls responded.
They surged forward once more.
The brief respite shattered.
Steel rang. Flames roared. Screams echoed.
Twenty minutes passed in a blur of blood and exhaustion.
Cracks began to show.
Even with perfect coordination, they were losing ground. Step by step, the formation was forced back. Arms grew heavy. Spells weakened. Every movement cost more energy than it should have.
Thomas burned through the last of his mana, fire sputtering instead of roaring.
Talmir pushed himself past his limits, vision blurring at the edges.
Finally, Thomas spoke again, his voice calm despite the carnage.
"Well," he said, swinging his mace one last time, "it was nice knowing you lads. And it's been an honor slaughtering these pests with you."
"Oh, come on, Chief!" Bert shouted. "Not the pessimism again—can't you maybe be optimistic for once?"
"Oh, for the love of the gods, shut up, Bert," Thomas snapped. "I'm having a moment here."
A few smirks appeared—strained and tired smirks.
No more words followed.
They tightened their grips.
Adjusted their stances.
Prepared for one final push.
Prepared to die.
…Well.
Everyone except Irven, who was very clearly panicking more than ever.
They pushed back.
With everything their battered bodies had left, they pushed forward one final time.
It wasn't much.
A few desperate steps. A handful of strikes that barely dented the tide of undead pressing against them. Still, for a brief moment, they weren't losing ground anymore.
But that pace came at a terrible cost.
Every swing burned. Every breath felt like it was their last. Muscles trembled violently, wrung dry of stamina they didn't truly have anymore.
Then the line broke.
They were forced back-to-back, surrounded on all sides. Ghouls lunged from every direction—claws tearing at armor, teeth sinking into exposed flesh. Blood sprayed across broken cobblestone. Screams of pain echoed through the ruined village.
Despair settled like a heavy weight on their chests.
And as if to put the final na8l in to their coffin, the ground trembled.
From the shattered earth behind the undead ranks, something rose.
Irven saw it first.
"Oh gods…" he whispered, voice cracking. "I—I don't want to die!"
The new wraith emerged—larger, darker, its form more defined than Joe's was. The air itself recoiled around it, mana warping unnaturally.
This thing didn't posture.
It didn't gloat.
The moment it revealed itself, the wraith screamed.
The sound tore through the battlefield like a blade—raw and hateful. A shockwave of corrupted mana surged outward, far stronger than Joe's, bordering on the banshee's initial cry.
Some warriors closed their eyes, prepared to die.
Others froze, wide-eyed with terror.
Irven screamed like a girl.
Talmir roared and forced himself forward, gathering wind mana into his blade. He slashed upward, trying to carve through the approaching wave—but—
Pain exploded in his chest.
Blood burst from his mouth as his body finally gave in, no more mana left to spend. The gathered wind slipped from his grasp and scattered uselessly into the air.
He staggered.
Fell to one knee.
'This is it,' he thought.
Faces flashed through his mind.
Saldia's smile.
Teclos's stubborn eyes.
'I'm sorry…'
Then—
Light.
From beyond the village, the night split apart.
A radiant beam of mana—green and gold, vast and overwhelming—crashed down like divine judgment. It tore through the earth, annihilating everything in its path.
Ghouls disintegrated instantly.
Stone shattered.
Houses collapsed into dust.
Trees were uprooted and vaporized.
The wraith's scream was erased mid-note.
Only silence remained.
For the first time since the attack on Ragla began, the banshee turned her head away from the ritual.
Her expression twisted—anger, disbelief, and something dangerously close to madness.
Joe shrieked and recoiled, sensing the power behind the strike. This was no hunter.
This was a force that directly countered them.
The newly summoned wraith hesitated—then plunged back into the ground, fleeing.
The battlefield fell quiet.
Those still standing stared in stunned silence.
Only Talmir smiled.
"Took you long enough, Pops," he muttered.
Then he collapsed.
Before his body hit the ground, a figure appeared beside him—moving faster than the eye could see.
White-silver armor gleamed faintly, etched with ancient runes. A single hand caught Talmir effortlessly.
Warmth surged.
Bones knit.
Wounds sealed.
Blood vanished.
Father Pella stood there, eyes blazing with fury as he looked toward the undead forces.
"You shouldn't be so reckless anymore, boy," he said coldly. "I won't be in this world much longer to pull your head out of the mess you insist on making."
Talmir laughed weakly.
And the undead—finally—began to retreat.