"There's something ahead," Allison warned, raising her blade.

As they drew closer, torchlight began to cut through the haze. Flames shivered against the cold wind, scattered like embers stubbornly resisting the storm. Ahead, between shadow and snow, a line of soldiers emerged, exhausted, crusted in ice, but still standing.

Arrows whipped through the air, skimming past them.

"We're friends!" Quinn shouted, brandishing a torch and waving it so the archers could see them.

The volleys stopped. As the torches approached, silhouettes on the tower grew clearer. There was no one else around, only them, the cold, and the drifting snow.

"Commander Ronan?" one of the guards called down, voice uncertain.

"Status, quickly. We don't have time," Ronan answered, his tone clipped, the wind swallowing much of it.

The guard dropped from the tower, landing hard in the snow. His face was pale, eyes hollow. "Visibility's awful. People don't even know which way the castle is. We're marking the route." He pointed to lines of burning wood laid out on the ground, arranged like a giant arrow. The fires fought to stay lit, dwindling under the icy gusts.

Other soldiers climbed down, some carrying torches, others scanning the darkness with fearful eyes.

"Just follow the wind," Luke said. "It's blowing straight toward the castle."

They exchanged information in quick, clipped bursts. With each sentence, the situation revealed itself as worse than they'd feared. The biggest threat were the Guardian Generals, but Luke knew the invisible Captains could be nearby as well, unpredictable and deadly.

Danger hummed in the air, as if the atmosphere itself might snap.

They ran on, boots sinking into the drifts, their footfalls lost beneath the keening wind. They passed rows of abandoned cannons, laced with a fine crust of ice. Flags hung limp from their masts, shredded and colorless.

When they finally reached the main line, the scene opened into a panorama of frozen hell. Undead swarmed in every direction, tearing into soldiers who fought in tight circles, backs pressed together, trying to hold any semblance of formation. Screams, the clash of metal, and the crackle of failing bonfires blended into a chaotic chorus. As the group arrived, several undead pivoted and surged toward them.

Princess Charlie wasted no time. Sword in hand, she lunged forward, cleaving a path through the onrushing bodies. Soldiers rallied behind her, spears and shields raised. Wardens roared and struck with brute force, while Ronan bellowed orders, steering men through the chaos as best he could.

A short distance away, a Guardian General hammered into a cluster of archers attempting to encircle him. Arrows glanced off his armor, scattering harmlessly.

Luke's gaze drifted toward the third fortress. Even through the blizzard it was visible: torches burned along the ramparts, and a fire was gaining ground inside the walls, throwing an eerie light across the night. Another General battered the wall with massive fists, widening a breach. All around them, the battlefield unraveled. Fireballs streaked across the sky and shattered against the ice, each impact making the ground tremble.

"Go!" Ronan shouted. "I'll deal with this General. Help the people in the fortress, I'll make a way!"

Ronan charged forward like a wall of iron. His gauntlets flared as he activated Iron Skin, and his first punch shattered a corpse's skull with a sound like splitting stone. He shoved what was left of the body aside and kept moving, plowing through the horde with crushing blows.

"It's Ronan!" one of the soldiers shouted, loosing arrows to cover him.

Jack knelt beside a wounded man who was still holding formation, the tip of his wand glowing green.

"Save it for someone else…" the soldier rasped.

"If I heal you, you can still fight," Jack said, his tone steady, unshaken.

More undead closed in. Luke spun the kukris in his hands and hurled one into the nearest creature. The blade punched through its skull.

[You have slain a…]

Another lunged. Luke ducked, pivoted, and slit its throat.

[You have slain a…] [You have slain a…] [You have slain a…]

Everywhere he looked, the horde stretched endlessly—a sea of death and screaming steel. And in the middle of it all, one thought cut through his focus like a blade: how the hell were they supposed to get the civilians through this and into the castle?

"Luke!" Allison's voice snapped through the noise. She was already beside him. "We have to take out the Generals! We're running out of time!"

He nodded, falling into stride beside her.

Charlie ran with them. The fortress wall loomed ahead, its rear section blown open—proof that a General had already come through. They slipped through the wreckage and entered the inner courtyard. The sight froze their blood. Wardens everywhere. Dozens of them, scattered among mangled corpses. No civilians in sight. Arrows rained down from the towers above, the defenders firing in desperation.

"Where is everyone?" Allison shouted up to one of the archers.

"They're inside the building! Locked themselves in!" came the answer.

Charlie didn't hesitate. She tore through the enemy line, each punch igniting with a burst of fire. Every hit from her Flaming Fist lit the courtyard in flashes of orange and gold. At the center stood the Guardian General, hammering against the main doors where the civilians hid. Each strike made the gate quake, splintering wood and shaking the ground. Soldiers tried to intervene but were swatted aside like insects.

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Charlie sprinted forward, leaping high. She focused every ounce of stamina into her fist. The air cracked as she triggered Steel Fist. The impact landed clean across the monster's head, a sharp, thunderous blow that echoed across the courtyard. The General was sent flying, crashing into a cluster of Wardens and undead. From the walls, archers seized the chance. Arrows poured down in a storm, thudding into the creature's black armor.

Allison followed up, katana drawn. She leapt with a double jump, sliding through the air, and shouted, "Target the undead and the Wardens! Thin their numbers!"

The General rose with a roar, blue fire leaking from fractures in its armor. Charlie and Allison moved in tandem, striking from both sides—fast, ruthless, relentless. Then came a sound that made every fighter freeze. The courtyard's main gates blew open with a detonation that rattled stone and bone alike. A second General stepped through, dragging massive chains coiled around its arms.

[Midnight Warden General — Lvl 80]

Behind him, the horde poured in. Undead of every kind—soldiers, beasts, grotesque abominations—shoved and clawed their way through the breach, desperate to flood the courtyard.

"There are too many!" Luke shouted, stumbling back a few steps.

No time to think. He sprinted straight toward the newly arrived General, twin kukris drawn. A fireball slammed into the General's chest, staggering the monster. Luke didn't hesitate. He leapt, channeling what stamina into his legs, and came down with both boots smashing into the creature's helmet. The impact sent it crashing backward, tumbling until it hit the massive frozen warhorn at the far end of the yard.

He hit the ground running. The kukris glinted as he raised them to strike, but the General's counter came faster than expected—a wide swing that nearly split him in half. Luke ducked aside at the last second and hurled one of his blades, aiming for the crack in the creature's helm.

The kukri sank deep. Sliding across the snow, he closed the distance, seized the weapon's hilt, and drove it in further with a roar. He poured every drop of stamina into his arms, forcing the steel through bone.

The General bellowed, one massive hand reaching to crush Luke's head. The pressure was overwhelming. Pain flared white-hot, but he refused to let go. Throwing his weight forward, he pressed down harder, body trembling with effort—until the sound came. A sharp, splitting crack, like ice giving way.

The creature spasmed and fell still.

[You have slain a…]

Luke stumbled back, the world tilting. Pain pulsed behind his eyes, pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat. He caught himself against the frozen warhorn, drawing in a breath that felt like shards of glass.

The battlefield was chaos—smoke, snow, fire. Ahead, Charlie and Allison finished off the first General. For a fleeting second, silence fell. A thin thread of calm between waves of madness. Luke looked up. The flames reflected in his eyes, and somewhere inside, something broke.

"That was insane," he muttered.

He knew he shouldn't be there. Every second wasted was a death sentence. If he stayed, he'd die—and everyone he was trying to protect would die with him. His gaze drifted toward the fortress. Figures moved along the balconies of the main hall—faces in the dark, arms waving, children clinging to their parents. He froze. The memory hit hard and fast. His mother's face. Both of them. Their voices. Everything he'd left behind.

"Damn it," he whispered, tightening his grip on the kukris.

He couldn't stop now. Not here. But there was no clear path forward either. Arrows began to shift direction, archers turning their aim toward the undead pressing closer. Orders echoed from the walls—short, desperate, strained. Luke fell into rhythm with them, cutting down what he could. Time lost all shape, reduced to flashes of movement and ragged breathing.

Then, suddenly, the world grew quieter.

"Luke." Allison's voice pulled him back.

He turned. Only a handful of undead remained upright. The ground was littered with corpses, the air thick with smoke.

"We have to get these people out," she said.

The great doors groaned open. Civilians began pouring out, some carrying the wounded, others just running, eyes wide with fear. But something was different this time. There was a spark in them. Hope. It took Luke a moment to realize why. Then he saw the shimmering notifications floating before him. The Midnight Lord was dead. For those people, that meant the nightmare was over, that the worst had passed. But Luke knew better.

He watched a woman clutching a baby, a man supporting an old soldier as they stumbled through the snow. More soldiers climbed down from the ramparts, rushing to organize the evacuation. Luke didn't move. He just stood there, staring into nothing.

Allison approached quietly and rested a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright," she whispered. "They need to believe it's alright. If we take their hope now, the crossing will end before it even begins."

He met her gaze in silence. She was right, cruel but right. Most of those people would die, maybe before reaching the castle, maybe minutes after leaving the fortress. But they would die.

He looked down at his hands. "No… not like this."

The words slipped out before he realized it. He started moving, fast, eyes darting between paths, trying to think. Every route he imagined ended in a dead end, blood and snow.

"Luke, this isn't your fault. Or mine," Allison said. "Saving a few is better than watching everyone die."

But he didn't seem to hear her. He slid the kukris back into his inventory, thoughts spinning in circles, memories, choices, regrets. The Beast Lord. Bartholomew. The King of Bastion. And then it hit him, sharp and deep. Maybe the king had been right. Maybe they never should have activated the third mechanism.

"There you are!" Ronan's voice cut through the wind. He emerged from the fortress, covered in blood and soot. "Move! We have to go!"

"Did you gather the soldiers you needed?" Allison asked.

"What I have will have to do," he replied, catching his breath. "And I'm grateful for your help."

He turned to lead the evacuation. Allison lingered for a heartbeat, her eyes on Luke, then followed. She didn't need to say anything; she knew he still needed that moment to breathe.

Charlie stayed behind, just beside him.

Luke drew in a deep breath, his exhale rising in white mist. "I hate being weak," he said quietly. "I hate this feeling."

Charlie placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't even know if I can kill whatever's in that castle," he went on. "Feels like I'm leading everyone straight to their deaths. And maybe I am."

He turned to her, eyes burning. "If we make it out of this world, I swear, one day I'll be my own army. I'll never again be too weak to protect the people I care about."

He took a step forward, then another. The storm thickened, swallowing the horizon in white. Something fell in front of him. Luke stopped. Lying in the snow was a white mask, the angel's mask.

"My lord, the time has come," whispered a voice from within it.

He crouched and picked it up. The mask's eyes glowed gold, the same light he remembered from the statue, from that first encounter.

"Time for what?" he asked, voice rough. "What are you talking about?"

"The time for you to activate the Warhorn," the mask replied.

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