Ryn looked toward the sky.
"Are you enjoying this?"
His voice was low, but rage trembled beneath it.
The battlefield slowed. Knights and elves turned toward him in confusion.
Only he heard the reply.
{It is for your protection… and for my entertainment.}
His eyes darkened.
"Seems more like entertainment."
The moment he said it—
Something crushed his chest.
Not devil blood.
Not the fruit.
Authority.
Ancient. Absolute.
Blood spilled from his mouth.
Lysandria reacted instantly.
"Everyone—be vigilant! Something far stronger is present!"
The elven units tightened formation. A healer rushed forward.
"Boss, you're bleeding—"
"It isn't from anyone here," Ryn said calmly, wiping the blood away. "It's punishment… for speaking truth."
He stepped ahead of the defensive line.
The elves split into two units. The great barrier shattered into twin shields protecting both sides.
And Ryn stood alone outside.
A general.
A shield.
A wall.
The enemy charged.
Four knights attacked at once. Steel collided violently. Wind blades tore across his armor. Enhancement magic forced his muscles beyond limit while healing spells struggled to close wounds.
They weren't amateurs.
His fighting style was unfamiliar—no old rhythm, no mana arrow combinations. Only sharp, efficient spellwork and brutal close combat.
Mana surged through his legs.
He vanished.
Reappeared behind the slowest knight.
His blade struck the neck—
Clang.
The armor held.
Not ordinary.
Shadow fire wrapped around his sword.
Before he could swing again—
Roots erupted from the ground, binding his legs.
He tried to sever them—
A hand pierced through his stomach from behind.
Blood poured.
It was Aeldir.
His grip was steady.
His voice cold.
"Any last words?"
Ryn felt it immediately.
Soul-burning magic gathering in Aeldir's veins.
If ignited at full power, nothing would remain.
He did not struggle.
He did not resist.
Instead—
He looked at the sky.
Through blood.
Through pain.
"Are you satisfied now?"
Silence.
His voice trembled slightly.
"At least… tell me…"
"…Am I allowed?"
No one understood what he meant.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Farewell… all of you."
Aeldir's eyes hardened.
Shadow fire erupted from his hand.
Black flames surged into Ryn's body.
They burned mercilessly—organs, nerves, veins.
The air distorted with heat.
Ryn's body trembled—but he did not scream.
Instead, with fading breath, he whispered—
"At least… Aeldir…"
"Protect Mira… in my place."
The words hit like thunder.
Aeldir froze.
The shadow fire faltered.
"What…?"
The body in his grasp grew heavier.
The stone mask cracked.
A thin fracture spread across its surface.
Then—
It shattered.
Fragments fell to the ground.
And beneath it—
Not a monster.
Not a slave.
A young warrior.
Blonde hair.
Scars lining his neck.
An innocent face that had endured too much.
And even now—
He was smiling.
Silence swallowed the battlefield.
Eron's sword slipped from his hand.
Mira staggered backward before collapsing to her knees.
Aeldir's grip loosened.
The body fell into his arms.
"Brother…?"
His voice broke.
"You always survive… You have to…"
Mira crawled closer, tears blurring her vision.
"You promised… you said we'd meet again… Why do you always walk away from us?"
Eron stood frozen.
"If you had to join this war… why not from our side? We would have protected you…"
The knights who had been attacking the elves stopped.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
They had not slain an enemy.
They had killed their own blood.
Ryn van Asterin.
And all for what?
Relics.
Rank.
Preparation for a future war against giants.
In chasing strength—
They destroyed what mattered most.