Chapter 421
Xavier, drenched in blood and sweat, his arm wounded by a sword slash yet still able to move, his breath ragged but his eyes still burning, felt the tremor of victory for the first time.
He saw his commander wave a hand, signaling them to keep advancing, to keep pressing forward, to keep reclaiming what was theirs.
And at that moment—when they were all certain victory was already within reach, when their spirits burned as high as the sky, when no one held even the slightest suspicion—the betrayal came from the direction they least expected.
Several soldiers who had fought beside them all this time, who had laughed together during the pauses between battles, who had shared food and water beneath that massive wall, suddenly turned around.
They were no longer soldiers defending the village, but executioners cutting down anyone they had once called a friend.
The spears that had once been aimed at the enemy now stabbed into the backs of their own brothers, the shields that had once protected the formation became barriers for those trying to flee, and the shouts that had once ignited courage now turned into cries of triumph for the opposing side.
Those traitors ran toward the main gate of the colossal wall, opening the iron bars that had long been the only barrier preventing the forces of the Obrim Dynasty from entering, granting access to the thousands of black-armored soldiers who had been waiting outside with terrifying patience.
And when the gate swung wide open, when thousands of soldiers clad in black armor and carrying red banners began pouring into the wall's territory without resistance, when the shouts of victory from the village turned into ear-splitting screams of death, Xavier could only watch with eyes that could scarcely believe what he saw.
He saw the commander who had waved so enthusiastically just minutes ago now lying on the ground with ten stab wounds in his body.
He saw the comrades who had laughed with him moments earlier now scattered lifeless in pools of blood that were beginning to congeal.
He saw those traitors standing beside the enemy with satisfied smiles, accepting a pouch of gold coins from a high-ranking officer of the Obrim Dynasty.
And when the remaining troops began shouting for retreat, when the trumpet from the village side sounded the signal to withdraw toward the east, when his own legs began moving without command and carried him away from the great wall that had just fallen, Xavier felt something far more bitter than defeat.
"I haven't done anything yet. I'm not strong enough. I haven't protected anyone."
Sshhh!
"Don't let them take everything. If I survive, I swear I will become strong enough to never lie helpless like this again."
That night, amid the chaotic uproar of the retreating army, among the shouts and the pounding footsteps scattering toward the east, someone saw him.
Xavier lay beneath the rubble of a section of wall that had collapsed from an explosion, his body barely moving, blood pooling around him in a circle that continued to widen.
His face was pale, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that grew weaker by the moment.
When they lifted him, when rough yet panicked hands tried to stop the blood that kept pouring from the wound in his stomach, when they realized that the small body had already lost far too much blood, for a moment everything felt utterly futile.
Yet in the midst of that despair, in the midst of the realization that the great wall had fallen and betrayal had poisoned everything, Xavier was still breathing.
There was still a faint pulse beneath the skin of his cold wrist.
There was still a glimmer of hope, even if it was only as thin as the morning mist.
The group of children who had loyally followed the defense forces, who from the very beginning had refused to be evacuated to a safe place, who had spent the entire time hiding behind the rear lines while helping manage logistics and treating the wounded, instantly rushed forward when they saw Xavier's powerless body.
They cried silently. They held Xavier's trembling hand. They called his name again and again, even though silence was the only answer they received.
One among them—the oldest and the calmest—immediately tore a strip of cloth from his own shirt to wrap the worst wound, pressing it firmly with palms still far too small for a task that heavy.
Another ran to gather materials for an emergency stretcher made of branches and woven leaves.
Others cleared the path of rubble so the evacuation could move faster.
In the midst of the dark night, under the looming threat that the pursuing forces of the Obrim Dynasty might arrive at any moment, those children moved with a determination that could only be born from bonds forged over a lifetime.
The remaining Village Defense Forces—now reduced to barely one-fifth of their original strength, their spirits nearly extinguished by betrayal and defeat, their wounds still open and untreated—took positions surrounding the small group carrying Xavier.
They moved quickly, sometimes running, sometimes stopping briefly to ensure no one was left behind.
The strongest soldier offered to carry Xavier on his back, even though his own shoulders were still soaked in blood.
Another walked beside him, constantly watching every shadow moving in the darkness.
And when they finally reached the safe boundary, when the thunder of battle began to fade behind them, when the great wall that had once been their pride was now nothing more than a bitter memory, they paused for a moment to catch their breath.
"In the midst of darkness, something always finds me. Not a form I recognize, nor a shadow. Only a glimmer of golden light—without shape, without name, yet its presence is undeniable."
Shuuuuh!
"Every day, five times, it comes. Like a cycle that never breaks. And always, it advises me: 'Rise. Return to your path. Do not sink.'"
Five days.
That was the time it took for Xavier's small body to decide whether it still wished to live or surrender to the death that had nearly claimed him.
Inside a narrow room covered with dry straw, beneath a worn blanket given by a compassionate old grandmother, between drops of water that were continuously moistened onto his dry lips by the group of children who took turns watching over him, Xavier lay unconscious.
His breathing, which had once been almost imperceptible, had begun to steady, though it remained weak.
His wound, which had once gaped open, had begun to close, though it still left a deep scar. However, his eyes remained shut, his body unmoving, and time continued to pass without any certainty of when he would awaken.
The loyal children who waited began to run out of tears. The defense soldiers who occasionally came to visit began to lose hope.
And the village, busy preparing for the next possible attack, slowly began to forget that there was a young boy fighting between life and death in the corner of that damp room.
Inside his dream, Xavier did not find the darkness he had always imagined would greet those who were close to death.
Instead, he found a golden-yellow light covering every direction, a color warm yet unfamiliar, calming yet unsettling, a color that seemed to come from a world entirely different from the one he had always known.
And from within that color, something appeared.
Not a clear figure, not a form that could be identified, but a presence that felt like a whisper between the ears and consciousness, like a vibration between the heart and lungs, like a memory suspended between dream and reality.
To be continued…