As the warriors of Ragla returned.
Brahm looked them over carefully as they passed through the gates—dust-covered, exhausted, but standing. Strangest of all, no visible wounds. No blood. That alone told him something was amiss—but in a good way, as he had expected them to be half dead.
Thomas noticed his expression and gave a tired chuckle.
"You can thank Father Pella for that," he said. "If not for him, we'd be corpses walking."
Brahm raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"So the old man still has some spunk left in him," he muttered. Then his brow furrowed. "Still… a banshee isn't something you brush aside so easily. Not at his age, at least."
His gaze drifted eastward for a moment.
He could only hope reinforcements had arrived in time.
He gathered the warriors and motioned them toward the guild hall. "Rest first. Food and shelter are ready. Some of your people are waiting already."
At the mention of the villagers, something broke.
Several of the hardened warriors faltered, shoulders trembling as the weight they had been carrying finally fell away and hopeful faces reignited among many of them. Tears flowed freely when Brahm confirmed that the people of Ragla had survived.
"They made it?" one of them whispered, disbelief thick in his voice.
"They fought their way here," Brahm replied honestly. "They're safe—but shaken, and some heavily injured."
That urgency snapped the warriors back into motion. Whatever strength they had left, they poured it into reaching the guild hall as quickly as possible.
Before parting ways, Brahm placed a hand on Talmir's shoulder.
"Brace yourself," he said quietly. "Saldia's been… waiting."
Talmir winced.
With a heavy heart—and the sinking certainty of what awaited him—he turned toward the church. Brahm walked alongside him, both men heading back inside. One to help where he could, and the other to get yelled at.
The moment Talmir stepped through the church doors, he saw her.
Saldia.
Her flowing hair, her luscious body, her beautiful eyes… her very, very angry eyes.
She froze for half a heartbeat—then crossed the distance between them in a flash.
Talmir managed a faint smile, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. "I'm sorry," he began. "I couldn't avoid getting hurt again—"
Then a slap echoed through the church.
His head snapped to the side.
Before he could even react, her voice came crashing down on him.
"Do you have any idea what you did?!" she screamed. "Do you ever think before you act?!"
Her words poured out, raw and unfiltered.
She spoke of Teclos—how worried he had been, how he had blamed himself, how he had run from Kolma believing his father was in danger. How leaving a child like that, burdened with guilt and fear, was cruelty no blade could match. How he had broken his promise again.
"You jump headfirst into death every time," she yelled, fists clenched, voice breaking. "Do you ever think about me? About coming home whole—just once?!"
Talmir stood there, silent.
Like a scolded child cornered by a furious parent.
When she finally paused to breathe, he seized the moment. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her despite the ache in his body.
"I'm sorry," he said again, voice hoarse. "I had to. I had to help them."
Her anger shattered.
She pressed her face into his chest, tears soaking into his armor. "I don't care why," she whispered. "I just want you to come back. Not broken or in pieces for once."
He held her tighter.
"I know," he said softly. "I'll try to be better."
After a moment, he added, almost helplessly, "But you know I can't stop myself from helping others."
She didn't answer.
She just held on to this stupid fool of hers.
—
Back on the battlefield, away from the "peaceful" reunion—
As Regulus stepped fully through the portal, the battlefield seemed to recoil.
Golden light mana surged around him—not gentle, nor healing, but scorching like the sun and absolute. It bent the air, warped perception, and made undeath instinctively recoil. Behind him, the army of the Dawn assembled in perfect formation, but Regulus' attention never left the battlefield ahead.
He smelled it immediately.
Undeath.
And besides it—he sensed strong life mana.
Father Pella, the living legend of the Dawn Order, he realized.
The banshee felt his presence as well.
The arrival of Regulus was hope—for the humans, and despair for her.
She screamed—not in panic, but in incandescent rage.
Escape was no longer possible.
So she chose to burn everything she had left.
With a shriek that cracked stone and shattered the remaining windows, she abandoned restraint entirely. Death and sound mana erupted from her form, no longer refined, no longer controlled—raw, violent and overwhelming.
She lunged for Pella, trying to kill him before that other paladin intervened.
Pella reacted quickly, dropping the life-mana sphere that held the banshee inside and braced himself.
He lifted his axe, lowered his stance, and aligned his body toward the ball of fury crashing down on him.
The impact was catastrophic.
Their clash obliterated what little remained of the street, shockwaves tearing outward in all directions. Pella slid backward, boots carving deep trenches through stone as he absorbed the brunt of her assault.
She pressed him as hard and fast as she could.
Her shrieks came in rapid succession now, layered attacks that tore through space itself. Pella blocked, redirected, endured with his body—but the damage was mounting. His armor rang like a bell under each strike.
Then—
She knocked his axe upward with a perfectly timed uppercut of condensed death mana and claws.
His guard opened.
She didn't miss this chance and struck in rapid succession with a descending strike, aimed to sever his arm completely—
At that moment light exploded from afar.
Regulus crossed the distance in an instant.
His form vanished from the portal and reappeared in front of the banshee.
His greatsword crashed into her with the flat of the blade, light mana detonating outward on impact. The blow struck like divine judgment itself, hurling her into the ground with enough force to crater the earth beneath her.
She did not phase in time.
She couldn't, and cracks appeared all over her body.
Pella exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulder.
"Thank you for the consideration, young lad," he muttered. "But I can heal an arm. You should've just finished her off."
Regulus planted his blade and bowed briefly.
"It's an honor to fight beside a legend of the Church."
Pella snorted.
"Save it for later, we have a duty to fulfill."
The banshee rose again.
Broken.
Burning from the lingering light mana.
She screamed again—but pure hatred given sound. Death mana surged wildly as she formed a layered barrier around herself, death and sound interwoven into a shrieking shell.
Regulus vanished in a flash of light again.
His sword came crashing down, enveloped in radiant brilliance, aimed to destroy the unclean one entirely.
The banshee barely raised her barrier in time.
Light collided with death.
And the barrier shattered like glass.
The banshee was flung backward, tearing through rubble, her form destabilizing. She managed to phase through some of the rubble, softening the blow somewhat.
The banshee rose back up, dust falling off of her.
Then she counterattacked right after, unleashing a storm of shrieking blades that tore through the air. Regulus deflected them easily, at blinding speed, each parry was precise. He didn't even move from his spot, his movements almost unreal.
Pella joined the assault.
Life mana flared as he struck low, then high, chaining brutal, experienced blows meant not to overwhelm—but to corner her. He forced her movement, dictated her angles, closed every escape. Making it easy for Regulus to follow up.
The banshee howled as she lashed out wildly, striking at both paladins—but Regulus was faster.
Light flashed.
He appeared at her flank, then behind, then above—each strike hammering her defenses, each blow shaking her form apart.
Together, they were merciless.
She attempted one final shriek—compressing all remaining power she had left—into a single, annihilating scream.
Pella stepped forward and took it head-on, axe raised, life mana flared into the shape of a shield, he absorbed the blast entirely.
Regulus didn't miss his opportunity.
He drove his greatsword straight through her core from behind, radiant sigils igniting along the blade as holy light pinned her in place.
The banshee convulsed, and her form was beginning to unravel, death mana tearing itself apart under the assault of life and light.
Pella raised his axe one final time.
"Disappear from this world, filth," he said calmly.
Then the axe fell.
Life mana detonated outward, erasing the banshee completely—nothing remained, not even ash.
Only silence.
Across the battlefield, the tide turned instantly with her death.
The army surged forward.
The elder wraith attempted to intercept, shrieking as it dove toward the priests—but it barely lasted seconds. A light-mana barrier snapped shut around it, trapping it in place, and coordinated bombardment reduced it to nothing more than scattered remnants.
Ghouls were cut down.
Zombies purified.
Undeath burned away beneath steel and prayers.
Only one lone wraith managed to flee.
Joe.
He felt his master fall—and terror seized him.
He hurled a desperate storm of bone spikes toward the hunters, buying himself precious seconds, then plunged into the earth, fleeing north toward the mountains.
Coward until the end.
After he left, the battlefield soon fell silent.
The undead were gone.
"Clean up the filth, and purify the corpses!"
Regulus raised his hand once, and the army moved.
Paladins and clerics advanced in disciplined lines, boots crunching over broken stone and blackened earth. Light mana flared in controlled pulses as purification teams swept the ruins—they were methodical, and thorough. Any corpse that twitched was reduced to ash. Any lingering miasma was burned away until the air itself felt lighter.
Orders rang out, crisp and practiced.
"Third cohort, sweep the eastern quarter! Clerics seal the corruption!"
"Leave no remnants behind!"
Regulus stood at the center of it all, blade grounded before him, helm tucked beneath his arm. One by one, captains approached and knelt.
"Sir. All ghouls neutralized. No undead activity remaining within the village perimeter."
"Sir. The elder wraith has been fully purified. No chance of reconstitution."
"Sir. Casualties minimal. No losses among the Dawn Knights. Injuries treated and stabilized."
Regulus nodded at each report, expression unreadable.
"Well done," he said calmly. "Begin withdrawal. Secure the perimeter until all units are accounted for, then return back through the portal."
"Yes, sir!"
He turned slightly, voice carrying across the ranks.
"Maintain formation. Remain alert. We depart in five."
The soldiers obeyed without question.
As they moved to regroup, Regulus' gaze drifted back to the ruined center of the village—where Father Pella stood amid the hunters of Kolma and Ragla.
There was no formation there.
No rigid discipline.
But there was respect.
Pella leaned on his axe as the hunters gathered around him—tired, battered, soot-stained, but standing. He looked over them slowly.
"All right," he said gruffly. "Report."
Ulmak stepped forward first.
"No dead among us," he said. "Several wounded—mostly minor injuries. Nothing serious, sir."
Another hunter followed.
"Undead fully destroyed in our sector. Ghouls didn't coordinate once their master fell."
A third and a fourth hunter spoke up, giving their own report.
Pella nodded at each one of them, listening carefully.
"And?" he prompted.
Ulmak hesitated, then exhaled.
"One wraith escaped."
The air seemed to tighten.
"Toward the northern mountains," Ulmak continued quickly. "It used bone-spike rain as cover—forced us to take shelter. We had no way to pursue without exposing the wounded."
Silence fell.
Pella's grip tightened on his axe.
Not at Ulmak but at the thought that one got away.
"That shit stain," he growled. "Persistent as rot."
Ulmak straightened.
"We did everything by the plan. Exactly as you laid it out, Father."
"I know," Pella said, his anger slowly cooling down. Then he looked at everyone. "You did well, boys. Better than I expected."
A few of them exchanged glances, surprised.
"You held the undead here, and kept this plague from spreading" Pella continued. "You adapted. You trusted each other."
One of the younger hunters spoke up, voice earnest.
"I've learned more in this battle than in years of training."
Tolk nodded.
"Your foresight saved us. Every step of the way, sir."
Pella snorted.
"It's just experience," he muttered. "And a healthy dislike of dying."
Then Regulus approached.
The hunters instinctively straightened—but Pella waved them off.
Regulus stopped a few paces away and bowed deeply.
"It was an honor," he said sincerely, "to fight beside the war hero of the Dawn Church."
Pella grimaced.
"Don't start."
Regulus smiled faintly but continued.
"Your control of the battlefield… your prowess… I've read the accounts. They don't do you justice."
Pella stepped forward and clapped a heavy hand onto Regulus' shoulder.
"Well," he said gruffly, "if you're the future High Paladin, then the Church might just survive its own arrogance."
Regulus blinked—then laughed quietly.
"I'll take that as praise."
"Please do," Pella replied.
They stood there for a moment longer—two eras of the Dawn side by side—while the last traces of undeath were erased from the world.