The ambush ended more quickly than anyone had expected.
Not because the attackers were weak.
Because they were careless.
Sacrifice's raised hand dropped.
That was the signal.
[Sacrifice]: Move. Now. Strike.
Her voice was level—neither rushed nor loud. It didn't need to be.
The Sarkaz who could still walk moved immediately.
They didn't charge. They didn't shout.
They spread.
Wounded figures slipped sideways through rubble, vanishing behind broken armor plating and collapsed stone. The ravine widened, angles fractured, firing lines dissolved. The attackers above lost sight of where the danger was coming from—and that was all it took.
The first enemy exposed himself to regain control.
A crossbow bolt punched through his throat.
He collapsed without a sound.
The second raised his hand to cast Arts—too slow, too obvious. A blade came up from below and opened his abdomen in one brutal, practiced motion. He folded over himself, choking on a scream that never finished.
The third tried to retreat.
Hands dragged him down.
His shield was torn away. His neck struck stone with a dull, final crack.
Three bodies hit the ravine floor.
Sacrifice watched them fall the same way she watched heart rates.
Detached.
Exact.
Complete.
No more.
She raised her hand again.
[Sacrifice]: Withdraw pressure.
The Sarkaz hesitated—only for a breath.
[Sacrifice]: Advance the illusion.
Reth Blinked.
[Reth]: …What illusion?
A mercenary hurled a smoke charge scavenged from old munitions. Another slammed metal against stone, deliberately loud, deliberately wrong—making it sound like reinforcements were arriving from the far side instead of retreating into shadow.
The attackers hesitated.
Hesitation was death in Kazdel.
They broke.
Not all at once. Not cleanly. But enough.
Boots scraped stone. Someone cursed. Another fired blindly, wasting ammunition at echoes and smoke.
Then they were gone—fleeing north, leaving their dead behind like punctuation marks.
Silence returned to the ravine.
It was heavier this time.
Reth stood there, shield lowered, breathing hard—not from exertion, but from realization.
That should not have worked.
But it had.
He turned slowly toward Sacrifice.
She was kneeling beside a wounded mercenary already, fingers slick with blood, checking a reopened stitch as if the fight had never happened.
[Reth]: …You didn't order a chase.
She didn't look up.
[Sacrifice]: Chasing increases casualties.
[Reth]: But you let them go.
She tied off the suture with calm precision.
[Sacrifice]: They are no longer a threat.
Reth stared at the three corpses lying twisted at the ravine's edge.
[Reth]: We killed three, why not continue?
[Sacrifice]: They died because they attacked, and we replied to them, but even a cornered rat can still bite.
That answer was too clean. Too sharp.
He took a step closer.
[Reth]: You didn't hesitate.
Finally, she looked at him.
Not defensively. Not proudly.
Just… honestly.
[Sacrifice]: I only care for my patients.
The words landed heavier than any scream.
[Sacrifice]: I am a doctor. Not a saint with a head full of dreams.
She rose, wiping her hands on a cloth already dark with layered stains.
[Sacrifice]: I have seen war. I know reality.
Reth opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Around them, the mercenaries were staring.
Not cheering. Not celebrating.
Watching.
As if they had just realized something fundamental had shifted.
One of them spoke quietly.
[Mercenary #1]: …She didn't even look at them.
Another answered, just as quietly.
[Mercenary #2]: She looked at us.
That realization rippled.
Several Sarkaz took half a step back—not in fear, but reassessment. Heads tilted. Postures adjusted. Weapons lowered, not away from her, but with respect.
This wasn't a warlord.
This wasn't a commander drunk on control.
This was someone who would spend lives—but only after calculating whose were worth keeping.
A skilled medic.
A sharp strategist.
A heart like cut stone.
And that made them… excited.
Under such a leader, they might live.
Under such a leader, they might matter.
And if they lived long enough?
They might even make a name for themselves.
The tension broke the only way mercenaries knew how.
They turned on the dead.
Three bodies lay where they fell, armor cracked, weapons still warm.
There was no ceremony.
No hesitation.
They descended like carrion birds.
[Mercenary #1]: I killed him—his sword is mine!
[Mercenary #2]: The boots are for me—HEY! Who bit me?!
[Mercenary #3]: Hey, knight-lookin' bastard, that blade's got my name on it!
Laughter erupted—raw, ugly, alive.
Even the wounded joined in, shouting insults from where they sat.
[Mercenary #4]: Reth you [Sarkaz profanity]! I see you hidin' behind the boss after you took that bag!
Reth snorted, lifting the looted satchel just enough to be seen.
[Reth]: Should've moved faster.
Sacrifice watched the chaos unfold without comment.
She knelt beside one of the injured, already checking bandages loosened during the fight. Fingers moved with practiced ease, adjusting, reinforcing, correcting.
The sounds of scavenging faded into the background noise.
Weapons changed hands. Armor was stripped. Blood was wiped away not with reverence, but practicality.
This was survival.
Afterward, she gave them time.
Not much.
Just enough.
When the noise settled and the sun dipped lower, Sacrifice stood and closed her kit.
[Sacrifice]: We move in ten minutes.
Groans followed. Complaints. A few curses.
But no one argued.
They rose.
And they followed her into the night.
When the camp finally fell silent, Sacrifice allowed herself to rest.
She closed her eyes—
—and opened them somewhere else.
There was no sky.
No ground.
Only darkness, thick and endless, broken by heat and light.
She stood in a vast chamber of shadow, illuminated solely by burning figures—giant Sarkaz, wounded beyond mortal limits, their bodies aflame with different hues of power and agony. Crimson, violet, ash-white, abyssal black. Each flame told a different story. Each burned without consuming.
They were enormous. Ancient.
Dead.
Yet not at rest.
Closest to her stood the largest of them all.
His horn was broken at the base, jagged like a snapped crown. His armor—once magnificent—had been torn and crushed inward, its edges digging deep into his flesh. Heat radiated from him in waves, so intense that the metal had begun to melt, fusing with muscle and bone. Every breath he took worsened his suffering.
Still, he stood tall.
[Broken Horn]: Burn them. Kill them. Avenge us.
His voice was molten fury.
[Broken Horn]: Claim the Crown.
The chamber erupted.
Other Sarkaz joined him—shouting, screaming, clawing at one another, their flames flaring wildly as old loyalties and older hatreds resurfaced.
[One-Eyed Armor]: Burn them! Kill the King!
The speaker lunged forward—a Sarkaz clad in shattered armor, one eye gouged out, the socket burning with unstable flame. He charged another figure clad in dark, unblemished plate, blade raised high.
Steel rang.
The black-armored Sarkaz met the attack head-on, parrying with practiced precision.
[Dark Armor]: Protect the King. Save them.
Their clash sent sparks through the darkness, fire against fire, ideology against ideology.
Then—
The ground shook.
A presence overwhelmed the chamber.
A massive Sarkaz rose from the darkness, his flame so intense it eclipsed all others, washing the chamber in blinding white-gold heat. Four great horns crowned his head—each broken at the stem, symbols of both authority and ruin. One arm was missing entirely. His eyes were gone, hollow sockets burning with controlled, ancient fire.
He carried a sword.
When it struck the ground, the sound was absolute.
The shockwave tore through the chamber, forcing every Sarkaz back to their side—no resistance, no defiance. Flames recoiled. Screams died mid-breath.
Silence fell.
The Elder turned his hollow gaze toward Sacrifice.
[Elder]: Let the child decide.
His voice was heavy with age, with grief, with restraint earned through centuries of blood.
[Elder]: She has the right.
He paused.
[Elder]: And she deserves to walk her path.
The Broken Horn snarled, flames flaring violently.
[Broken Horn]: Elder—she is the last of us!
He stepped forward, defiance blazing.
[Broken Horn]: She must avenge us for the betrayal of the Royal Court! They slaughtered my descendants. They abandoned us to extinction. They murdered our King!
From the opposite side, the black-armored Sarkaz spoke, voice sharp as tempered steel.
[Dark Armor]: You betrayed the King we swore to protect.
He raised his blade—not in threat, but accusation.
[Dark Armor]: You sought the Crown for yourself. You fractured our order. You poisoned our kin with fanaticism. Because of you, we lost their trust.
His flame flared cold and steady.
[Dark Armor]: Because of you, we were banished.
The tension became unbearable.
The Elder raised his sword again.
This time, when it struck the ground, the impact nearly annihilated the Broken Horn Sarkaz—his flame buckling, his body cracking under the force, held back from oblivion only by the Elder's restraint.
The word echoed like a verdict.
[Elder]: This argument has already cost us everything.
He turned once more toward Sacrifice.
[Elder]: The past will not be decided by the dead.
The Elder's blade remained buried in the stone.
Its fire dimmed—not extinguished, but restrained, like a star forced to kneel.
[Elder]: Only the living may choose what comes next.
Silence followed.
Not peace. Not calm.
Waiting.
The chamber—vast, lightless, forged of memory and pain—held its breath. The wounded giants of Sarkaz stood or knelt where they had been forced apart, their flames guttering, their hatred unresolved.
And so did they.
All of them waited for her.
Sacrifice had not spoken once.
She did not raise her voice.
She did not argue.
She did not look afraid.
Instead, she moved.
Her boots made no sound as she crossed the dark stone floor. The light radiating from the wounded Sarkaz painted her in shifting colors—red, violet, ash-white—yet she remained unchanged by it.
She knelt before the nearest giant.
Its armor had fused to its flesh, molten edges biting into muscle, heat eating it from the inside. It trembled as she approached.
She did not hesitate.
Her hands moved with the same precision she used on the battlefield. Bandages appeared from nowhere—clean, impossibly intact. She cut away fused metal where she could, cooled what burned too hot, and stabilized what could still be saved.
The giant stared down at her.
Confused.
Then another.
Then another.
One by one, she moved among them—not choosing sides, not listening to curses or pleas. She did not look at crowns or blades or broken banners.
She looked at the wounds.
The Broken Horn snarled when she passed him, flame flaring brighter.
[Broken Horn]: You dare touch us without judgment? Without rage?
She did not answer.
She bound the gash in his side anyway.
When she reached the Elder, the chamber seemed to tense.
He stood taller than the rest, even wounded. Four shattered horns. One arm missing. Empty eyes that still burned with authority older than Kazdel itself. His armor was cracked, ancient sigils half-erased by time and betrayal.
She knelt before him.
For the first time, she paused.
Not from fear.
From care.
She cleaned the wound where the sword's recoil had split old scars open again. Her touch was firm, professional, and unyielding.
Only then did she speak.
[Sacrifice]: I am a doctor.
Her voice was quiet.
But it carried.
[Sacrifice]: My oath is to preserve life.
The flames around the chamber flickered.
[Sacrifice]: I do not need a crown.
The Broken Horn snarled again, but weaker this time.
[Sacrifice]: I do not seek to rule.
She tied off the final bandage, steady hands never shaking.
[Sacrifice]: And I will not carry your vengeance.
The Elder said nothing.
She looked up at him—not defiantly, not submissively.
Honestly.
[Sacrifice]: You are wounded. All of you.
Her gaze swept the chamber—over the betrayed, the loyal, the enraged, the broken.
[Sacrifice]: And as long as you bleed, you are my patients.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: That is my duty.
Another pause.
[Sacrifice]: That is my oath.
The chamber did not erupt.
It did not cheer.
It did not argue.
For the first time since betrayal, since exile, since death—
The flames steadied.
And somewhere between hatred and silence, something ancient loosened its grip.
The Elder lowered his head—just enough.
Instead, she moved.
Her boots made no sound as she crossed the dark stone floor. The light radiating from the wounded Sarkaz painted her in shifting colors—red, violet, ash-white—yet she remained unchanged by it.
She knelt before the nearest giant.
Its armor had fused to its flesh, molten edges biting into muscle, heat eating it from the inside. It trembled as she approached.
She did not hesitate.
Her hands moved with the same precision she used on the battlefield. Bandages appeared from nowhere—clean, impossibly intact. She cut away fused metal where she could, cooled what burned too hot, and stabilized what could still be saved.
The giant stared down at her.
Confused.
Then another.
Then another.
One by one, she moved among them—not choosing sides, not listening to curses or pleas. She did not look at crowns or blades or broken banners.
She looked at the wounds.
The Broken Horn snarled when she passed him, flame flaring brighter.
[Broken Horn]: You dare touch us without judgment? Without rage?
She did not answer.
She bound the gash in his side anyway.
When she reached the Elder, the chamber seemed to tense.
He stood taller than the rest, even wounded. Four shattered horns. One arm missing. Empty eyes that still burned with authority older than Kazdel itself. His armor was cracked, ancient sigils half-erased by time and betrayal.
She knelt before him.
For the first time, she paused.
Not from fear.
From care.
She cleaned the wound where the sword's recoil had split old scars open again. Her touch was firm, professional, and unyielding.
Only then did she speak.
[Sacrifice]: I am a doctor.
Her voice was quiet.
But it carried.
[Sacrifice]: My oath is to preserve life.
The flames around the chamber flickered.
[Sacrifice]: I do not need a crown.
The Broken Horn snarled again, but weaker this time.
[Sacrifice]: I do not seek to rule.
She tied off the final bandage, steady hands never shaking.
[Sacrifice]: And I will not carry your vengeance.
The Elder said nothing.
She looked up at him—not defiantly, not submissively.
Honestly.
[Sacrifice]: You are wounded. All of you.
Her gaze swept the chamber—over the betrayed, the loyal, the enraged, the broken.
[Sacrifice]: And as long as you bleed, you are my patients.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: That is my duty.
Another pause.
[Sacrifice]: That is my oath.
The chamber did not erupt.
It did not cheer.
It did not argue.
For the first time since betrayal, since exile, since death—
The flames steadied.
And somewhere between hatred and silence, something ancient loosened its grip.
The Elder lowered his head—just slightly.
Then he laughed.
A deep, weathered sound.
[Elder]: By the Farchaser… I haven't laughed since fighting the first Wendigo.
He smiled.
[Elder]: May you escape our faith.
He straightened, raising his voice.
[Elder]: Children of the Diablos—ready your blades. She is here.
The chamber shifted.
Sacrifice turned.
A woman stood where none had been before.
Brown hair. Research attire. A smile too calm to be human.
Her eyes were wrong—diamond-shaped, refracting the chamber's light like cut glass.
Every Diablos shuddered.
Including Sacrifice.
[???]: Interesting. A creature without Originium… entering the ███████.
She stepped closer, smile never fading.
[???]: It seems there is more to you than meets the eye.
In an instant—
A hand closed around Sacrifice's throat.
Steel screamed.
Giant blades descended.
The Diablos roared as one.
Sacrifice's eyes snapped open.
She was breathing.
The night was quiet.
She lay where she had slept.
On her lap rested a strange device—smooth, dark, unfamiliar. It vibrated once.
The screen lit blue.
A face appeared.
[Chapter End]
[Hope you like this chapter. If I missed something important, tell me.]