The cold air shifted as the portal hummed with power, its swirling glow casting long, wavering shadows on the worn stone beneath their feet.


    One by one, the survivors stepped through, their bodies heavy with exhaustion, their hearts weighed down by the horrors they had endured.


    And as the last of them emerged—


    The portal vanished.


    They had arrived.


    Marquis Hector’s castle.


    Once, it had stood as an unshakable bastion of power, its banners rippling proudly in the wind.


    Now, under Sam’s command, it had become something else—a sanctuary.


    A place where hope still flickered, fragile but refusing to die.


    The stationed guards, a mix of humans, orcs, and elves, turned at the sudden arrival.


    Their eyes widened as recognition dawned.


    The soldiers parted, allowing them to pass, but as the newly freed orc prisoners hesitated at the threshold—


    A single, choked gasp broke the silence.


    Then, a roar of joy.


    The orcs surged forward, their deep voices trembling with emotion as they recognized their lost kin.


    Brothers embraced, gripping each other’s arms so tightly it seemed they feared letting go would make this moment vanish.


    Sisters wept into each other’s shoulders, their sobs filled with both grief and overwhelming relief.


    Fathers and sons, once convinced they would never meet again, held each other close, their massive arms shaking.


    And it wasn’t just the orcs.


    The elves, usually composed, broke down as well. Soft cries of relief filled the air as family members touched each other’s faces, whispering prayers of thanks.


    But amidst the flood of joyous reunions—


    One figure stood apart.


    Prince Magnum.


    The moment the elves saw him, the breath was stolen from their lungs.


    Then, one by one, they knelt.


    It was not forced.


    It was instinctual.


    Their prince, long thought lost to the void of time, had returned.


    And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, their kingdom had hope.


    The dwarves, never ones for excessive sentiment, clasped arms with other species, their expressions gruff yet proud.


    But even they could not fully conceal the relief in their eyes.


    And the humans—


    They had no crowns, no noble bloodlines to bind them—


    But they cheered.


    They shouted their joy.


    Because in the face of death, they had survived.


    Because even in the depths of darkness, they had found the light again.


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    Yet, amid the celebration, the greatest shock was yet to come.


    The guards, still reeling from the sight of the returning warriors, turned their gaze toward two figures standing at the back.


    Hemel.


    The Chief of the Magic Tower.


    And—


    Sirius.


    The Crown Prince.


    A stunned hush fell over the soldiers. Some gasped, their hands flying to their mouths in disbelief.


    A warrior, his face lined with old scars, let his weapon slip from his grasp.


    His voice, hoarse with emotion, trembled. “Your Highness…”


    The moment of silence shattered like glass.


    A cry of triumph erupted from the gathered soldiers.


    “The Crown Prince lives!”


    “Our kingdom still stands!”


    The castle shook with renewed hope.


    But not everyone smiled.


    Sam, the one who had held this stronghold together through sheer will, watched the scene unfold with careful eyes.


    And in his gaze—


    Doubt.


    Because among the returning heroes, there was one missing.


    Kenta.


    His chest tightened as he swept his gaze across the weary survivors, searching for the child who should have been there.


    Then—


    His eyes fell upon Asael.


    The golden sphere hovered in silence, enclosing the once-righteous hero in its divine embrace.


    The glow of holy power pulsed faintly, as if struggling to contain something monstrous within.


    For the first time in a long while, Sam felt fear.


    They were given a day to rest.


    Warm food was placed in their hands, though few had the appetite to eat.


    Wounds were treated, yet the pain lingered in their hearts.


    Laughter was heard in the halls, but the weight of loss never lifted.


    And when the time finally came to speak, the mood had shifted.


    The grand hall was eerily quiet as the survivors gathered around the long table in the war room.


    Candles flickered against the cold stone walls, casting restless shadows over faces marked by exhaustion and grief.


    Sam’s gaze was cold, piercing.


    “Now… tell me everything.”


    And so, they did.


    They spoke of Beastwell.


    The endless horrors.


    The prison of blood and chains.


    They spoke of Kenta.


    A child.


    Too small.


    Too young.


    But still, a warrior.


    Still, braver than men twice his age.


    His sacrifice wrapped around them like a suffocating shroud.


    Some turned away, unable to meet Sam’s eyes.


    Others clenched their fists, silent in their grief.


    And then—


    They spoke of Asael.


    What he had become.


    The righteous hero turned executioner.


    The man who once swore to protect, now standing amidst the corpses of the innocent.


    Sam’s face darkened.


    His fingers curled into fists, the leather of his gloves groaning under the pressure.


    ---


    The air in the war room was heavy, thick with tension, as though the weight of their impending decision threatened to crush them.


    The torches lining the cold stone walls flickered, casting long, restless shadows that danced with the uncertainty in their hearts.


    The scent of melted wax mingled with the iron tang of armor and the faint musk of sweat, remnants of weary bodies that had long abandoned rest.


    Sam leaned forward, his fingers interlocked, his eyes sharp, calculating.


    The light barely reached his face, leaving half of it swallowed by darkness.


    "So, we''ve finally reached the final battle?" His voice was quiet, but beneath the calm, there was an undeniable edge—a simmering resolve honed by the countless battles that had led them here.


    Sirius exhaled slowly, a breath that carried the weight of command.


    "Yeah. But we can’t just charge in recklessly." His words were measured, but his fists were clenched, knuckles taut and white.


    They all knew what was at stake.


    The Demon King’s reign of terror had to end.


    But one misstep—


    And they would be the ones buried beneath the ruins of failure.


    Steven, still wrapped in bandages, shifted where he stood, wincing slightly at the movement.


    His gaze met Sirius’s, unwavering.


    "You’re right, Crown Prince. But the longer we wait, the stronger he grows." His voice was hoarse, yet firm, carrying the echoes of pain and resolve.


    The Demon King fed on sacrifices.


    Every second they delayed—


    More innocent lives were lost.


    Sirius’s expression hardened. "Then what do you all propose?" His question cut through the silence like a blade.


    Steven didn’t hesitate. "We will launch an attack as soon as Asael wakes up."


    The room fell into a tense stillness.


    Then—


    "I agree," Giren said, arms crossed over his broad chest. His voice was low, solid as stone.


    "Me too," the Dwarf King added, his deep voice carrying an unwavering certainty.


    Sam studied them all, his gaze lingering before he finally gave a single nod.


    "With Korran gone, the path is open. We have an army. His two generals are dead. This is our best chance."


    Lily and Magnum exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.


    Then, as if on cue, they both nodded.


    "It’s time."


    Sirius slowly stood, the movement drawing every eye in the room.


    He raised his head, and for a heartbeat, the chamber was silent, as though the very walls held their breath.


    "Then it’s decided. We will march the moment Asael is ready."


    The decision was made.


    And just like that—


    The preparations for the final battle began.


    ---


    The days blurred together, a relentless march of steel, strategy, and bloodstained resolve.


    The clang of weapons filled the air as soldiers trained tirelessly, their movements honed to perfection, their bodies weary but their spirits burning with purpose.


    The scent of freshly sharpened blades, sweat, and the damp earth mixed in the wind, a silent reminder of what was to come.


    Yet amidst all the preparation—


    One man lay still.


    Asael.


    His body, once divine and untouchable, now lay weak, his golden aura dimmed to nothing but the faintest glimmer.


    The war had drained him, but worse still—the burden of his own sins.


    He was no longer the shining hero of legend.


    He was a man—


    Broken by the weight of his own actions.


    And then—


    One morning, his eyes opened.


    A sharp gasp tore from his lips as reality came crashing down on him.


    The memories—


    The blood—


    The echoes of screams he could never silence.


    His hands trembled as they clutched the fabric of his blanket, his fingers curling into the worn cloth as if to ground himself.


    "What have I done?" The words left him in a whisper, barely audible, but the pain behind them was heavier than steel.


    Images surged in his mind, relentless and cruel.


    The innocent beastmen, their cries ringing through the air—


    The children, hiding behind their fallen mothers—


    Their terror. Their desperation.


    He had been their protector.


    Instead—


    He had been their executioner.


    A rustle of fabric broke the silence.


    Anne, who had been keeping watch by his side, hesitated before reaching out.


    Her fingers barely brushed his wrist before she stopped, as if afraid he might shatter beneath her touch.


    "Hero… It wasn’t you."


    He let out a bitter chuckle, one void of warmth.


    "Wasn’t it?" His golden eyes, once filled with light, were now dull, haunted.


    Anne clenched her fists, her voice steady despite the sadness in her gaze.


    "Listen to me. We can’t change the past. But the Demon King is still out there. He is the one behind all of this. We have one last battle, Hero."


    A shadow loomed in the doorway.


    Giren stepped forward, his presence as solid as a mountain.


    His tone was gruff, but there was no cruelty in it.


    "You don’t get to collapse here, Asael. You owe it to those you killed—to make this right."


    The words struck deep.


    For a moment, Asael did not move.


    Then—


    He breathed in.


    A slow, steady inhale, drawing in all the pain, all the guilt, all the unbearable weight pressing down on him.


    When he exhaled, his shoulders straightened.


    His sins would never be erased.


    But he could still fight for the living.


    And so, with a heavy heart, Asael made his choice.


    They would march in one week.


    For the final battle.


    For the future of the world.