The central district of Reflynne looked nothing like a city anymore. Smoke clung to the rafters of half-broken houses. A toppled bell tower leaned like a drunk giant, its cracked bronze tongue buried in rubble. Fires still licked at shattered roofs, their glow reflecting in the pools of water spreading across the fractured streets.
Masaboru's division stood at the heart of the destruction, a dark blot of purpose moving through a landscape that had forgotten what peace looked like. When the order was given to march, they did so without hesitation. Their boots sank into ash and powdered brick as they made their way south.
Zentake and Nogare took the role of rearguard without being told. Any surviving Reflynne pursuit team—scouts, frantic militia, or desperate loyalists—barely got close enough to shout before being erased. Zentake cleaved through barricades with casual swings of his cleaver. Nogare moved like a blur between alleys, and bodies simply stopped existing after he passed.
Behind them, Gaikotsu drifted forward at a snail's pace, his bones clicking softly. Several skeletal warriors carried him like a revered priest on a macabre palanquin. His risen dead marched in eerie formation, pushing aside rubble, rolling broken carts, and dragging collapsed beams from the road. They worked with the silent efficiency of laborers who no longer tired, bled, or cared.
Reflynne's defenders watched from doorways and broken windows, clutching children, holding each other, or trembling with weapons they no longer had the courage to raise. Hope flickered and died in their eyes as the army of the dead cleared the ruins.
Far behind, two figures scrambled through the collapsing district, trying to salvage what they could from the disaster.
"Careful! The wall's unstable—Omina, wait—" Yoshiya shouted, just as Omina leapt onto a fallen beam to haul up a screaming boy.
Her breath shook. The ground trembled from distant explosions, each quaking beat feeding the violent fury boiling in her chest. The carnage around her—bodies, burning homes, choking smoke—pulled her to the brink of berserk rage.
Yoshiya grabbed her wrist and pulled her back as the wall gave way. "Not here. Not now. If you lose control, you'll just add to this."
Her jaw clenched, eyes shimmering red under tears she refused to shed. "They… they killed so many."
"And more will die if you explode in the middle of civilians," he answered. His voice trembled only slightly. "We save who we can. That has to be enough today."
Together they dragged survivors free until the last possible moment, until Masaboru's division vanished beyond the southern gate and the screams faded into distance.
Reflynne lay wounded behind them, its heart still beating but barely.
Masaboru's group advanced through shadowed woodland roads and into the rolling outskirts leading toward Orleaf. The transition was abrupt—burnt ruins giving way to green farmland, panicked refugees replaced by quiet fields and morning mist.
At the northern gate of Orleaf, a lone figure waited.
Mako stood without armor, hands visible, expression sharp but not aggressive. The dust of Reflynne still clung to Masaboru's cloak when the two met halfway.
"If your business isn't with Orleaf," Mako said, "then pass peacefully. We won't interfere."
Masaboru shrugged. "I've no interest in your politics. We're leaving Ostoria behind us."
The tension drained instantly. Mako nodded and stepped aside.
But Masaboru's eyes drifted toward a townhouse near the gate—specifically, toward the polished wooden door of a particularly fine washroom he spotted through the window. His stomach rumbled with grim intent.
"I need a moment," See muttered.
Zentake barked a laugh. "Nature's darkest spell strikes again."
Gaikotsu's skeletons paused patiently, still carrying their master as Masaboru vanished into the house to commit what could only be described as another crime against porcelain.
By the time he returned—lighter, smirking, and thoroughly unrepentant—the group was already moving. They passed through Orleaf without drawing blades, without spilling blood, without leaving more ruin in their wake.
The road widened. The forests thinned. South stretched before them like a promise or a threat.
Masaboru adjusted his coat, glanced once at the horizon, and resumed walking.
The first movement of the storm was over.
What waited further south would decide how violently the rest of it would fall.