The night was suffocatingly deep.
A frigid wind swept through the forest clearing, carrying fine needles of snow. The moon remained interred behind a shroud of dark clouds, casting only dim, ghostly shadows upon the frozen earth. Lunethia's raven hair whipped in the gale, dancing against the darkness. She stood firm in the center of the clearing, her gaze locked onto the towering Lycan before her.
The creature stood with impeccable posture, his etiquette still flawlessly preserved. Yet, beneath that veneer of respect, a sharp, suffocating killing intent bled through the air.
Lunethia remained silent for a long moment. She slowly tilted her head up, a trace of irrepressible sorrow flickering in her eyes.
"My mother..." she began, her voice barely a whisper as she stared at Number Seven. "Did she send you to bring me home... or—"
She hesitated, the word catching in her throat. "—to kill me?"
Number Seven said nothing at first. Snowflakes settled softly upon his broad shoulders. Finally, he gave a low, measured reply.
"Her Majesty's command is to escort Princess Lunethia back to the Royal Palace." His tone remained deferential and steady. "I must ask the Princess to accompany me."
Lunethia's sorrow instantly ignited into fury.
"She is not Her Majesty!" her voice rose to a sudden, piercing cry. "She is nothing but an imposter—a monster!"
Her fists clenched at her sides, trembling. "She is absolutely not my mother!"
The blizzard swirled violently between them. Number Seven let out a soft, weary sigh, and then his gaze turned stone-cold.
"There is only one Queen," he stated, his voice devoid of any emotional resonance. "If the Princess refuses to cooperate..."
Number Seven tilted his head slightly, his eyes drifting to the figure slumped behind her.
"Then I shall have no choice but to execute the guardian at your back first." He spoke with such clinical calm, it was as if he were merely announcing a trivial chore. "Afterward, I will bind you and carry you back."
Lunethia's brow furrowed in defiance. "I will not let you touch him!"
Number Seven simply shook his head slowly.
"Princess," he said, his voice deep and chillingly pragmatic. "You are merely squandering your opportunities."
He looked up, his attention shifting toward the distant echoes of the ongoing battle.
The distant, muffled ring of clashing steel still drifted through the blizzard.
"Once the others finish slaughtering your companions, they will inevitably converge here," Number Seven said, his focus returning to Lunethia. "When that happens—" His gaze shifted to the figure leaning against the rock. "—that sleeping man behind you will meet a certain death."
He continued in a detached drawl, "Come with me now. At the very least, you can ensure one of them remains alive."
Lunethia fell silent. She turned her head slowly, looking at the slumped, unconscious form of Gerald. After a long, heavy moment, she offered a slight, subtle nod.
She looked back at Number Seven. "Fine," she said with a chilling calm. "But first, prove it to me."
She raised a finger, pointing directly at Gerald. Her eyes locked onto Seven's. "If you can kill him... then I will go with you without resistance."
Number Seven knit his brows. His gaze fell upon the sleeping man—a man who looked to be in his early thirties, appearing utterly defenseless. Despite the apparent vulnerability, Seven did not lower his guard.
He slowly drew a throwing knife.
A streak of cold silver flashed, and in the next heartbeat, the blade tore through the air!
Whiz!
In the micro-second before the knife could find its mark, Gerald suddenly let out a loud, wet snore.
"Hrr-phh—!"
He rolled over in a hazy, drunken stupor. The throwing knife whistled past his cheek by a fraction of an inch, burying itself into the snow with a dull thud.
Number Seven blinked, momentarily stunned.
"Whether you are faking this slumber or truly lost to the drink..." A lethal light flickered in his lupine eyes. "I shall make sure you never wake again."
As the words left his lips, he unsheathed his blade. In a blur of motion, he lunged forward, his steel carving a lethal arc through the frozen air as it descended toward Gerald's neck!
Yet, at the exact moment the blade should have bit into flesh—the "sleeping" Gerald's body reacted.
His eyes remained tightly shut, but his leg snapped upward with the raw precision of an animal's instinct.
CRACK!
The kick landed perfectly against Number Seven's wrist. The momentum of the lethal strike was instantly shunted aside, the blade whistling harmlessly into the empty air!
In the next instant, Gerald's body rolled with the momentum, his eyes still tightly shut.
BOOM—!
A vicious back-kick snapped outward! Number Seven, caught completely off guard, was sent hurtling backward, skidding dozens of feet across the frozen expanse.
And Gerald? He simply rolled over once more, slumped back against the rock, and resumed his slumber. To any onlooker, it appeared as though the entire exchange had been nothing more than a series of involuntary, restless movements in a dream.
Number Seven spat out a mouthful of crimson blood, his heart hammering in his chest. He's definitely faking it! "Enough!" he roared. His frame suddenly expanded, muscles bulging until they threatened to tear through his skin. Like a frenzied direwolf, he pounced!
Every strike he unleashed carried lethal intent, yet with every passing second, a cold terror began to consume him. The man before him remained blind to the world, meeting every lethal blow with a nonchalant grace—even while continuing to snore.
The more frantic Seven became, the faster Gerald's reactions grew. It was as if the drunkard were pre-emptively reading every line of attack, neutralizing the Lycan's overwhelming strength and speed with effortless ease.
CRACK!
A final, decisive kick landed. Number Seven collapsed, his heavy blade clattering into the snow several yards away. Coughing up more blood, he grit his teeth and snarled, "Damn you... just kill me and be done with it!"
But the killing intent that had briefly flared from Gerald vanished instantly. His body went limp, and he slid back into a deep, peaceful sleep on the ground.
Lunethia stepped forward, looking down at the defeated Number Seven. "Go back and tell the Queen... I will return on my own terms."
Number Seven let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "You don't understand... the moment we fused with the wolves, a magical seed was planted within us. If we fail to complete our mission within the allotted time, a suicide command is automatically triggered."
He gasped for air, his voice trembling. "The others might not have realized it yet... but I can feel it. The moment the thought of 'surrender' enters my mind, a violent, overwhelming impulse to die floods my brain."
Lunethia's expression shattered. "That's... go back and report to the Queen! Surely she can lift the curse!"
Number Seven shook his head weakly. "Impossible. Number One—Hunter—has already betrayed her. If the rest of us fail, the Queen will no longer tolerate the existence of the Shadow Unit. Our only end is to vanish quietly into the night."
"Is there... no way to break the magic?" Lunethia's voice shook with a sudden, desperate empathy.
Number Seven gazed toward the distant snow-covered woods, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Who knows? But... it doesn't matter. I'll be dead in a few days anyway."
Lunethia threw herself beside him, clutching his arm. "I'm sorry... I am so sorry. You gave everything for the Royal Family, only to be discarded like this..."
Seven gently pushed her back, his voice surprisingly warm. "It is not your fault, Princess. This is my destiny. Just let me find a quiet place... to end it all."
Lunethia's eyes shimmered with tears, but she suddenly reached out and gripped his shoulders with unexpected strength.
"No, Seven... By my name as a Princess of the Kingdom of Lunaris, I command you: You are free. You are no longer bound to the Shadow Unit, and you carry no further mission."
Number Seven froze, staring into her eyes for what felt like an eternity, captivated by their newfound resolve. Finally, he stood up, turned away, and began to walk.
As he ventured deeper into the white forest, he realized something—the crushing, suicidal impulse that had been gnawing at his mind had vanished. It was as if that "Command" had truly overwritten the Queen's dark sorcery.
A relaxed smile finally graced his face. Behind him, he left a trail of footprints in the snow—the prints of a free man.
The cold wind continued to whisper as snowflakes drifted down to cover the blood-stained earth.
Number Six sat slumped in the drifts, his eyes burning with resentment and fury. He was an elite of the Shadow Unit, yet he had been driven to the brink by a girl who appeared too timid to even look him in the eye.
But was she truly timid?
He had lost count of the small wounds covering his body. Each one had come from an unseen angle—swift, precise, and lethal. With his Achilles tendon severed, his movement was crippled. Worse still, her daggers seemed to be coated in a paralytic agent; his body was growing numb, and even the sensation of pain was fading into nothingness.
The white snow turned crimson as the warmth of his life bled into the frost. He knew, with a dawning horror, that he was being methodically bled dry.
Milia stood a short distance away, her eyes averted and her cheeks flushed pink. The daggers in her hands were still trembling slightly—as if she were the one who was afraid.
"Please... just give up..." Milia's voice was soft and fragile. There was no trace of irony in her tone; it sounded like a genuine, heartfelt plea. "If you leave now, you might still make it."
Number Six grit his teeth in a mixture of agony and disbelief. "You clearly have the strength to kill me! Is it fun, pretending to be weak while you systematically dismantle me? I can't even move, yet you still persist with this hypocrisy?"
Milia bowed her head, her expression a confusing blur of self-reproach and bashfulness. "I... I really am very weak... Oh, and about my daggers... they were coated in a paralytic agent Gareth gave me..."
Number Six stared at her, his face a complex mask of realization. He finally understood: this girl wasn't being hypocritical; she was simply born this way. She wasn't "acting" timid or "pretending" to be shy—she was those things. It just so happened that within that genuine fragility lay a terrifying, clinical lethality.
He let out a long, weary sigh. "Fine. As an assassin, I have no complaints about being slain in the field." He straightened his back as much as his paralyzed body would allow, thrusting out his chest. "But... if you possess a shred of mercy, tell me the name of the one who took my life."
Milia hesitated for a heartbeat, then replied with solemn gravity: "I am Milia Vincent. Please... do not hate me."
Before the echo of her name could fade, a flash of silver cut through the air. The dagger buried itself with surgical precision into the center of Number Six's brow. There was no pain, no struggle—only the absolute silence of the falling snow.
Gareth's silhouette emerged from the swirling white mist. "Milia! Are you hurt?"
Milia turned, offering a small, shy smile. "I'm fine. What about you?"
Gareth gave a wry laugh, brushing the thick powder from his shoulders. "I took a few nasty hits. Think you could give me a massage later to rub out the bruises?"
Milia's cheeks flushed a deep pink. "You... you're a liar. I've never seen anyone actually manage to land a hit on you..."
"I'm serious! That wolf was incredibly strong!" Gareth looked at her with a mock-sorrowful pout.
Milia turned away, hiding her face. "I don't believe you. Come on, we need to check on Rena. I'm worried she might be in danger."
"Rena? In danger?" Gareth shrugged, though he began to trot after her. "She's a monster in her own right."
On the other side of the ridge, spear-shadows danced like phantoms, and the intent to kill crackled through the air like electricity.
Rena moved like a battle-valyrie dancing amidst the blizzard. Her spear spun in a blur of silver light, a relentless tide of steel that forced the lupine assassin back with every calculated step.
"What's wrong? You were so talkative a moment ago," she mocked, her voice light. "Lost your voice now that things are getting interesting?"
The veins in Number Three's temples throbbed with fury. "You madwoman!" he roared. "How is this possible?! How can a human surpass the strength and speed of a Lycan?!"
"I told you already—it's the application of Chakra~" Rena chirped. Her smile remained, but it was now laced with a cold, sharpening lethality.
Number Three grit his teeth and whipped out a handful of throwing knives, desperate to break her rhythm with ranged strikes. But no matter how he tested her, that spear—moving like a living spirit in her hands—deflected every blade and countered every opening with surgical precision.
As the first seeds of retreat took root in his mind, a sudden, bone-chilling sensation seized his heart. An irresistible impulse surged from the depths of his consciousness: Kill yourself.
"Wh-what is this?!" Number Three's face twisted in abject terror. "My body... is this the Queen's final contingency?!"
His pace faltered; his silhouette swayed.
Rena also came to a halt, her expression teasing. "Stopping already? Giving up?"
Number Three whispered under his breath, "Give up... yes, I admit defeat."
In the next heartbeat, he lunged forward, his arms thrown wide in a suicidal embrace!
The silver spear pierced through his chest like a bolt of lightning, but he didn't falter. He slammed into Rena, pinning her arms down with a frantic, dying strength. A grotesque, triumphant grin split his face.
"I am Number Three—not because I am the strongest, but because I am the most ruthless," he hissed. "Since I'm destined to die anyway, you're coming with me!"
He yanked the detonator cord strapped to his waist.
BOOM—!!!
A violent explosion rocked the valley, its roar echoing through the crags.
"Rena!!" Milia screamed from the distance.
Gareth's pupils shrank to pinpricks. "He self-destructed?! That bastard!!"
As the acrid smoke cleared and the wind tore through the remnants of the blast, a silhouette began to emerge. Standing at the center of the blackened snow, her cloak scorched and her armor cracked, yet still standing tall with unyielding pride—was Rena.
There was nothing left of Number Three but scorched earth and fading embers.
"Told you," Gareth said, shrugging his shoulders as he approached. "Rena is a total monster. Not even a bomb can take her down."
Rena whipped her head around, her face flushed with fury. "Monster your sister! That hurt like hell!!!"
Milia sprinted toward her, her eyes wide with worry. "Are you okay?! Thank goodness... I was so scared..."
Rena clutched her midsection, her expression contorting in pain. "Burns... and some internal damage. If my Chakra control hadn't improved lately, I'd be dead for real. That was too close."
Milia nodded frantically. "Let's go find Rhine and Owen. We need to make sure they're safe."
The blizzard cut like a blade, but the flames roared like a dragon.
Rhine's fury had reached its boiling point. Every swing of his blade trailed a wake of searing fire, as if he intended to cleave the very sky and earth in two.
Across from him, Number Two moved like a phantom through the snow. His blade flashed with ruthless, predatory strikes, resembling the frenzied tearing of a beast. Every blow carried a lethal intent, yet none could breach the domineering barrier of Rhine's flame-wreathed defense.
"Dammit! How are you still standing, Number Two?!"
Rhine unleashed a massive horizontal slash, forcing Number Two back against a half-melted cedar tree. The flaming edge left a charred, smoking gash in the trunk.
"You're only second place! Why are you trying so hard?!"
With a guttural roar, Rhine kicked off the ground. The snow beneath him exploded as he shot forward like an arrow. His greatsword whipped up a scorching cyclone of fire, descending toward Number Two's head like a falling star.
Number Two flipped backward, narrowly avoiding the lethal edge, though the flames still licked and scorched half of his cloak. He rolled to his feet with a cold, resentful sneer.
"Hmph! My strength is the true number one!" he spat. "If Hunter hadn't gotten lucky with those high-profile assassinations during the war, I would be the one with a Title!"
Before the words had fully left his lips, he closed the distance like a shadow. His blade flicked upward, aiming for Rhine's abdomen. Rhine jerked his sword down to parry; sparks flew in a violent spray, the vibration numbing his wrists.
"If you're not good enough, leave the missions to someone else!" Rhine barked, throwing a heavy kick that sent Number Two staggering back several paces. "Small fry should just hurry up and die like small fry!"
Number Two swayed for a heartbeat, regaining his footing. He wasn't discouraged; instead, a cold, serpentine light flickered in his eyes. He began to circle Rhine, the tip of his blade dragging across the snow to carve a lethal, frozen arc.
"Don't think you can provoke me..." he hissed. "I've seen through you from your very first strike—you're a remnant of the Great Solaria Empire, aren't you?"
He suddenly lunged, a curved slash tearing toward Rhine's left shoulder, his killing intent surging to a peak.
"Your Empire is dead! Why are you still breathing? Let me send you to the grave for a family reunion!!"
"The Great Solaria Empire—will never perish!!" Rhine's roar was like a thunderclap.
He batted away the incoming blade with a palm wreathed in heat. In his right hand, the flame-blade erupted, the fire condensing into a blinding, incandescent white. The entire sword looked as if it had been forged from molten iron, the heat so intense that the very air warped around it.
At that exact moment—the deafening roar of Number Three's self-destruction echoed from across the valley.
Number Two's brow furrowed. He knew the tide of battle had turned against them. He grit his teeth and snarled, "I'm ending this now!!"
He launched a desperate offensive. His swordsmanship shifted instantly—as fast as lightning and as vicious as a viper. A streak of steel slashed diagonally, aiming straight for Rhine's throat!
Rhine let out an agonizing roar of fury. Fire surged from his pores as he swung his greatsword in a backhand parry!
CLANG—!!!
The blades collided, sending a shockwave through the air that scattered the blizzard. But in the midst of their power struggle, Rhine's rage took physical form. The concentrated fire crept up the enemy's blade, devouring the steel.
Creeeak—
Number Two's sword began to liquefy under the intense heat, turning into glowing, molten iron that dripped into the snow with a violent hiss of steam.
"What—!?"
Before he could process the horror, Rhine's blazing blade descended like a divine thunderbolt.
"DIE!!!!"
Squelch—!
Blood sprayed, and fire tore through bone and sinew. Number Two's eyes had only enough time to flash with a final shock and resentment before he was cleaved clean in two.
Rhine stood in the center of the smoldering snow, his breath coming in ragged, heavy gasps. He plunged the dying embers of his blade into the Lycan's chest and let out a low, guttural growl:
"As long as I stand—the Flame of the Sun will never go out!"
Rena, Milia, and Gareth stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the solitary, proud silhouette of Rhine set against the flaming remains of his enemy. A strange sense of moved emotion and hope stirred within them. It was the scent of victory—and the flickering promise of a kingdom reborn.
"Boss!" Rena waved, a smirk playing on her lips. "Since you're finished here, let's head over to Owen. He's still tangled up with Number Five!"
"That guy still isn't done?" Rhine grumbled, extinguishing his flames. He followed the group as they trekked toward the next section of the snowy plateau.
Owen's battlefield.
The snow here remained eerily pristine, almost entirely devoid of the chaotic scars of battle. Instead, two hulking silhouettes stood locked together like ancient statues. Their hands were clamped in a crushing grip, arms trembling as they engaged in a pure contest of strength. It seemed they hadn't moved a single inch since the fight began.
Rena stared in disbelief. "They're... they're still arm-wrestling?"
Gareth looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "Owen, you complete idiot! We've been fighting for our lives, and you're over here playing games?! Are you a pig?!"
Owen didn't even turn his head. He just gave a low, throaty chuckle. "Keep your hair on... I'm just focusing on the competition. Hey, Five—is that the last of your strength?"
Hearing the approaching footsteps of the others, Number Five's heart sank. Reinforcements had arrived—but not for him.
"Damn it..." he hissed, his eyes fixed on Owen, the veins in his temples throbbing violently. He had pushed his strength to the absolute limit. If this continued, he wouldn't even have the energy left to flee.
"I will win!!!" Five roared, channeling every last scrap of his remaining power into a final, desperate shove.
Owen's lips curled into a faint, dismissive smile. "This? This is your all?"
As the words left his mouth, his arms surged with a sudden, explosive force. With a violent heave, he lifted the massive Lycan high into the air!
"What—!?"
"Stay down!!!"
In the next heartbeat, Number Five was slammed into the snow with bone-shattering force. The ground shuddered as ice and powder erupted around them. A spray of crimson blood erupted from the Lycan's mouth as he slipped toward unconsciousness.
Owen stepped forward and sat directly onto the fallen Lycan's chest. He stared down at the tattered wolf-head with a wide, beaming grin. "Hey, this mask is incredibly realistic! Come on, give it to me—it'll make a great souvenir!"
Without waiting for an answer, he clamped his massive hands onto Number Five's "head" and began to pull with bone-crushing force!
Number Five's legs kicked frantically, his hands feebly beating against Owen's iron-like forearms. His face contorted in sheer agony as he let out a frenzied, desperate howl. "This isn't a mask!! You bastard!! STOP IT!!!"
The rest of the group, just arriving from the distance, finally realized what was happening. Their expressions shifted from relief to pure horror.
"Owen! Don't pull!!" Rena screamed.
"That's not a mask!!" Gareth roared, his voice cracking. "That's his actual head, you lunatic!!"
"Stop it right now!!" Rhine added his own thunderous shout.
But Owen seemed stone-deaf to their cries. He just braced his feet and gave one final, Herculean yank!
CRACK—!
A sickening, wet snap echoed across the silent plateau, a sound that made everyone's skin crawl.
Number Five's head was torn clean off. Trailing shredded veins and shattered vertebrae, it left a spray of hot crimson across the white snow.
Owen blinked, looking down at the dripping, bloody wolf-head in his hands. He muttered blankly, "This... this wasn't a mask?"
The group stood frozen, mouths agape. The snow continued to fall, and the wind whistled over the ice, but only a hollow silence resonated between them.
"Owen..." Rena covered her face with her hands, her voice a fragile murmur. She was beyond words.
Gareth clutched his forehead and let out a long, weary groan.
It was only then that the realization finally dawned on Owen. He held up his "souvenir," his face a mask of genuine confusion. "Ah... so it really was his head?"
Milia spoke in a small, trembling voice. "I... I think I want to cry..."
The blizzard raged on as it had before, the blood still warm against the frost. They had won—and though the process had been bizarre beyond belief, victory, at long last, belonged to them.