Just before they reached the gates, a new explosion tore through the air — sharper, closer. Some of the younger recruits faltered, stopping mid-march. But the officers barked orders, shoving the hesitant forward. There was no room for fear.

  As they approached, the scene that greeted them made more than a few stomachs turn.

  Debris.

  Splintered stone and wood.

  Bodies strewn across the ground.

  Screams echoing through the stone corridors, tangled with the slow creep of fog that still crawled along the floor. Torch flames flickered with the wind of destruction, as if afraid to go out.

  Beric froze.

  “There...” he murmured, eyes wide, pointing.

  A woman in dark armor, eyes wild and distant, held an officer by the throat like he weighed nothing at all. Before Beric could fully grasp what he was seeing, a figure cloaked in a blue aura launched toward her, slamming her into the side of a building — which collapsed under the impact with a dull crunch and a cloud of dust.

  Someone shouted:

  “Captain!”

  The Captain of Bryngal's guard had arrived.

  The battle was truly underway.

  Ortrus soldiers were everywhere — emerging from the fog like wraiths. Many wore leather armor plated with scales. War-trained reptilians. Some were already locked in hand-to-hand combat with the defenders — blade against blade, scream upon scream.

  Then, from the south, something exploded.

  A pillar of white flame split the horizon, so bright that everyone instinctively turned away.

  Gunnar was in the thick of it.

  Sounds reached him as if from underwater. His heart pounded. Sweat made his grip slippery on the sword. His eyes locked onto those of an enemy — a scarred man wielding a short sickle, charging with a beast’s roar.

  Gunnar raised his sword on reflex and blocked the first strike.

  Then another. And another.

  “Swings worse than Ada when she’s mad,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  It was all brute force. No technique. No rhythm. But still deadly. Gunnar stayed on the defensive, shifting his weight, turning his shoulders, adjusting his footing.

  He saw an opening.

  He stepped forward, tripping his opponent. The man stumbled. Gunnar grabbed the sickle arm, twisted hard, and punched him in the chest. The breath left his enemy as he staggered. With a quick yank, Gunnar disarmed and shoved him to the ground.

  The man tried to rise. Gunnar pinned him, knee to the back, blade poised.

  But he hesitated.

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  Now what?

  No one seemed to be taking prisoners. He looked around for help — no chains, no reinforcements. He thought about dragging the man into a building... but what if he captured another?

  In that moment of hesitation, he didn’t see the second attacker.

  A sharp blow struck his back.

  Gunnar grunted, stumbling, releasing his grip.

  Before the final strike could land, Tolvad appeared — sword bloodied, eyes wide.

  “Don’t hesitate, boy! This is war! You kill or you die — choose!”

  The voice was harsh, but trembling.

  “You let your guard down here... it'll cost you your life!”

  Gunnar looked at him. The old man was pale, shoulders sagging. The battle had just begun, but the weight on their bodies was already showing.

  Blood slid down Gunnar’s back, soaking into his shirt beneath the light armor. Only now did the pain register.

  Tolvad let out a tired breath.

  “Fall back a little! Keep bleeding like that, you’ll hit the dirt before you even notice.”

  He could barely stay upright. But one look around was enough to see no one was whole.

  Not the veterans.

  Not the rookies.

  This was war.

  And everyone bled the same.

  Combat consumed the streets like fire through dry straw.

  Gunnar clutched his side, where blood flowed heavier. His shirt clung to his skin — hot, sticky.

  Tolvad limped. A young officer approached, sword still raised.

  “You need backup?” he shouted, slashing at an incoming enemy.

  Tolvad nodded sharply. Instead of answering, he pivoted and struck an opponent across the face with the hilt of his blade, dropping him.

  Gunnar leaned against a wall. Took a deep breath. Trembling hands searched the wound, trying to press cloth against it. He needed a moment. Just one.

  But the city gave no such gift.

  In the inner courtyard, before what remained of the shattered gates, Bryngal’s Captain stood firm. His ceremonial armor — now scratched, stained with blood and soot — still gleamed beneath the unsteady torchlight. His sword dripped dark red, its shine long gone.

  Beside him stood a gray-haired man in the colors of the guild. A silver badge, dulled by dust, gleamed faintly. His face was tired, the kind of weariness born of too many battles. But his eyes were sharp.

  A silver-ranked adventurer.

  A survivor.

  Both stared at the woman ahead — the same one who had torn open the gates as if peeling parchment. Her hair was wild, eyes dilated, posture unsteady. Her presence seemed larger than her body.

  Three adepts, face to face.

  All rank-three.

  And still... she smiled like she was at a dance.

  “Where are the others?” the captain muttered, never looking away.

  “No idea,” the adventurer replied, spitting to the side. “A real Silver doesn’t die from stubbornness. Maybe they fell back. Maybe they ran.”

  Silence.

  Then movement — a sudden blur in the shadows.

  Another adventurer — also Silver — lunged from the side, fast as a thrown dagger. He struck at the woman’s flank with precise aim.

  She caught him with one hand.

  With a brutal twist, she slammed him into the ground.

  The impact cracked the stone floor. He lay still.

  Without hesitation, the first adventurer moved. Twin blades in hand, aiming for her neck.

  She spun, laughing low.

  “You really think you're the only ones with hidden allies?”

  At that moment, an arrow sliced the air.

  The dry snap came just before the impact — straight into the adventurer’s eye. His head snapped back. Dead before surprise could even register.

  Another arrow followed.

  The captain tried to intercept. He only managed to deflect its angle. The shaft buried itself deep into his shoulder, ripping a grunt from his throat and staggering him.

  In the distance, the archer revealed himself. Light armor. Blank expression. Fingers already readying another shot. An adept — and a skilled one.

  Meanwhile, the last adventurer rushed her. He landed a clean cut along her neck. Shallow, but accurate.

  At first, she ignored it.

  Seconds later, green veins spread across her face and shoulders, darkening her skin like poisonous roots.

  “What...?” she whispered, startled.

  Rage twisted her features.

  With a roar, she grabbed the man and flung him into the nearest wall. His body bounced off it like a rag doll, landing crumpled.

  She coughed.

  Once.

  Then again.

  The captain didn’t wait.

  He charged.

  Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder. Dodged the next arrow by instinct and struck.

  With everything he had left.