The battlefield did not fall silent.
It emptied.
The wind still moved, tugging at scorched grass and shattered stone, but the presence that had filled the land—the pressure of Gluttony's existence, the oppressive certainty of a blade that could drink blood and grow stronger from it—was gone. Not dispersed. Not erased.
Gone.
The boy stood where it had ended, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His right hand trembled uncontrollably, fingers still half-curled as if gripping a sword that no longer existed. Blood ran freely down his arm, soaking into the torn fabric at his side, dripping from his fingertips to darken the ground beneath him.
He did not collapse.
Not yet.
The black bow dissolved first, fading into motes of dull light. Then the last traced sword followed, breaking apart into fragments that scattered like ash before vanishing entirely. When nothing remained in his hands, the weight finally reached him.
His knees buckled.
He caught himself on one hand, palm slamming into cracked stone, teeth clenched hard enough that his jaw ached. His vision swam, the world tilting sideways as delayed pain surged through him all at once—cuts reopening, muscles tearing, bones protesting movements they had been forced to endure far beyond reason.
So this is what it costs, he thought dimly.
Not victory.
Survival.
He forced himself upright again, step by step, breath by breath. The box lay a short distance away, half-buried beneath debris where it had been thrown during the fight. Its surface was unmarred, untouched by the chaos around it, as if the world itself refused to damage it.
He reached it slowly.
Each step felt like wading through deep water. His legs threatened to give out more than once, but he did not stop. When he finally knelt before the box, he rested both hands on its lid and allowed himself one moment—just one—to close his eyes.
The silence pressed in.
No whispers.
No pressure.
No judgment.
Only exhaustion.
He opened the box.
Inside, the cards lay neatly arranged, each resting in its own place as if guided there by an unseen order. Rider. Caster. Assassin. Lancer. Berserker. Saber.
Six.
He did not count them.
He only knew the weight had changed.
He placed the newly claimed card inside without ceremony. No words. No triumph. Just the quiet acknowledgment of something finished. The lid closed with a soft, final sound that echoed far louder than it should have in the empty land.
Only then did he sit back.
His body finally gave him what it had been threatening since the end of the fight. His shoulders slumped. His head bowed. Breath came in ragged pulls as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
The sky above had shifted.
Clouds moved slowly, heavy and low, as though the world itself were holding its breath. Light filtered through in pale streaks, washing the ruined battlefield in muted gold and grey. It felt like a pause.
Not peace.
An intermission.
He reached up and pressed his fingers against his chest, feeling the faint, unstable pulse beneath his skin. The Archer card—his card—was still there, dormant and cracked, held together by something that felt thinner now.
More fragile.
"You're still alive," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The card did not answer.
He laughed quietly, a short, humorless sound. "Figures."
He leaned back against a broken slab of stone and let his head rest against it, eyes half-lidded. For the first time since this hunt had begun, there was nothing immediately trying to kill him.
His mind rebelled against the quiet.
Images rose unbidden—flashes of battles, of steel clashing against steel, of enemies who had worn human faces and monstrous resolve in equal measure. Lust's whispers. Envy's comparisons. Wrath's crushing force. Gluttony's relentless hunger.
And beneath all of it—
A presence.
Not here.
Not yet.
But close enough that he could feel the edge of it pressing against the horizon of his awareness. Like standing beneath a mountain you couldn't yet see, only knowing it was there because the air felt heavier the closer you walked.
He exhaled slowly.
"So you're waiting," he said to no one.
The wind stirred in response, lifting strands of his hair and tugging at his torn cloak. Grey strands were more visible now, threaded through brown that had once been untouched by age or strain. His reflection shimmered faintly in a shard of metal nearby—older than he should have been, eyes carrying something far too calm for someone who had just survived what he had.
He pushed himself upright again, this time more carefully.
Movement hurt, but it was manageable now. The kind of pain you could live with, if you had to. He rolled his shoulder experimentally, winced, then nodded to himself as if acknowledging an expected answer.
Before leaving, he did something he hadn't allowed himself to do since the beginning.
He rested.
Not sleep—his body wouldn't allow that yet—but stillness. He sat cross-legged amid the ruins, box placed carefully beside him, and closed his eyes. He slowed his breathing deliberately, forcing rhythm back into a body that had been driven entirely by instinct for too long.
With each breath, the world sharpened.
Not outward.
Inward.
Steel answered him—not forming, not manifesting, but remembering. Countless shapes brushed the edges of his awareness, waiting patiently for permission that did not come. He did not call them.
Instead, he reached deeper.
Past borrowed memories.
Past traced paths.
To the core that had always been there, buried beneath imitation and survival.
A weight settled over him.
Not hostile.
Authoritative.
The Archer card stirred.
For the first time since it had been damaged, it responded not with instability—but alignment. Not power flooding his body, but something quieter. A framework. A structure. As if it were preparing him rather than empowering him.
An installation without manifestation.
He felt it then—clearly.
Whatever awaited him next would not be fought the same way.
No improvisation.
No desperate adaptation.
This would be final.
His eyes opened slowly.
In the distance, far beyond the ruined highlands, something gleamed.
Gold.
Not bright.
Not radiant.
Simply absolute.
He stood.
The rest was over.
The last battle was not yet begun—but the world had already started to lean toward it.