The French emperor had invoked his second star with tears blinding his eyes, while the turquoise mountain of death stalked him step by step. The emperor did not fear. He did not hesitate. Two of his men had died to give him this moment, to grant him this opportunity. And so, he did not merely invoke his star: he burned every last trace of NEX he had saved for this instant. Alongside his first star, "For France," he braced himself for the impact.
From behind him, rising from the earth itself like radiant iron vines glowing with pure white light, a monumental structure emerged. A stone arch adorned with golden reliefs depicting the great achievement his brother had failed to preserve.
From its walls sprouted dozens of radiant cannons, seemingly loaded by small golden angels, which immediately opened fire in unison against Taurus.
The ground trembled, the grass ignited, and even the air itself seemed to fracture with every discharge from the emperor, to the point where it was impossible to tell whether the destruction was caused by the turquoise heat or Napoleon's relentless barrage. Each shot was a mixture of light and electricity, dispersing the moment it collided with the creature, like a blazing machine gun.
With a sharp click of his tongue, Napoleon lowered his hand, redirecting the fire toward the creature's legs. At last, the bull was halted—not because the cannons pierced its armor, but because the ground beneath its hooves crumbled under the angels' unstoppable bombardment.
The invincible beast staggered forward, furious. Its metallic roar shook the valley as it finally tripped, crashing down and planting one of its front legs into the ground.
—Fall, you damned beast! —Napoleon roared, venom in every word.
The monster only bellowed louder. The sparks from the shots, which had seemed useless, now dissipated even faster—not because the emperor was weakening, but because they were being stopped by the infamous turquoise heat that decomposed light itself.
With immense effort, the colossal animal shoved its body forward with its hind legs, launching itself in a brutal, devastating collapse that swallowed the valley in its wake. It also drew close enough for the emperor to shut his eyes. He had fought long. He had come far. But he knew his limits. He had faced monsters he never thought he would see, and now, he was afraid.
Afraid of his own incompetence.
Awaiting the beast's scorching heat, he felt a shot.
One fired from his own Gate.
For a brief moment, the former emperor swore he saw Drouot among the angels. Not just him—every angel carved into the great structure gazed upon him with compassion and resolve, as if whispering, "Live, Emperor."
And so, Napoleon Bonaparte fell from the cliff, tumbling endlessly…
I knew my speed would never match Rachel's, so from the start, using [Search V], I marked the shortest and safest path toward the hill where the emperor had been firing so gloriously. Who could have imagined I would arrive just as the massive beast collapsed onto the hill, several meters away from me?
That place—along with the great gate of light—was swallowed by searing white flames that faded into a sinister turquoise.
A strange sense of satisfaction passed through me.
"If Napoleon died with that last attack…"
But fortunately, that wasn't the case. The system map showed the black marker falling rapidly in my direction, a scene that, witnessed in person, could only be described as comical.
Many jokes have been told about Napoleon. Among the most widespread myths are those regarding his height—but interestingly, they are false. He was actually an average-height Frenchman, and since the French were generally tall, calling him short placed him well within the norm. Even then, he stood a healthy one meter and sixty-eight centimeters.
Still, humanity has parodied him into something barely a meter tall, and that was exactly what I saw before me…
The emperor who once shook Europe, reduced to a rodent running in circles.
To make matters worse, the image clashed violently with reality: he looked like a caricature, no taller than fifty centimeters, with legs so short he could nearly touch the ground with his arms.
Thus, his fall could be summed up in a single word.
Comical.
I kept my distance as the little man struggled back to his feet, lifting his gaze just in time to watch his luminous monument dissolve into particles upon colliding with the creature. Lowering his eyes again, he surprised me with a scream of raw anguish.
—Damn it! General Drouot! Damned sick system! —he cried, his voice breaking.
Drouot was not the most famous name in war. He was a French general of modest renown, remembered more for his loyalty than for personal glory.
I could empathize with those words—with that bottled rage at losing a friend in these stupid games. I still couldn't fully grasp what it felt like for those who had seen their comrades die in life, only to watch them fall again here. So I merely clenched my hands and stayed back.
Unexpectedly, Rachel appeared behind us. Her skin was flushed, sweat pouring down her body. Her expression had completely changed from exhaustion and dehydration. Still trying to maintain her dignified image, she brushed a damp lock of hair from her face, then looked at Napoleon—so pitiful—that she could only scoff:
—Are you really crying over a pawn? Weren't you his emperor?
Napoleon lifted his head, furious. His voice exploded like a cannon toward the girl, and despite his ridiculous stature, it forced the princess to step back, lowering her head to meet his gaze.
—Do not insult me, woman! A soldier is a friend willing to die for his leader. And no friend is less important than his leader.
Rachel blinked. For the first time, she had no retort ready. Her lips closed in awkward silence.
I stepped forward and cleared my throat, trying to ease the tension.
—Well… at least someone here understands the value of loyalty.
The emperor gave me a sad look, his eyes still red, but nodded.
—You are… that boy. I know it means nothing coming from a rival in these games, but I am sorry for your losses, lad.
—Thank you, Emperor.
Napoleon formed a peculiar smile. He looked pitiful: setting aside the obvious issue of his size, his clothes were in tatters, and he had lost his hat during the fall. As he began to walk, he waddled like a penguin, arms swaying like flippers. It was clear he couldn't fight hand-to-hand and that, surrounded as he was, he had no escape.
He snorted and sat down before us.
—I surrender. There is no point in trying to fight. Without my Puerta de Alcalá, allies, or distance, I cannot prevent being killed —he said bitterly—. That idiot… "The one who loves mocking history." He played a filthy trick on me: "In exchange for paying for your resurrections, you will take a form unworthy of your greatness." Ha.
—Then if we kill you, there's no risk for us, right, Emperor?
—Does that truly matter? —Rachel declared, raising her sword toward the diminished man, who replied without lifting his head:
—No. If I die before reaching Cancer, he will take my credits… and I will die.
I couldn't help but frown. It was becoming increasingly clear that "Those Who Watch" were not to be trusted—and that they had their own agendas.
Rachel, wasting no more time, interrupted:
—Fine. Then let's put an end to this.