Gaul was in chaos. Smoke coiled like black serpents into the sky, and the sound of shattering wood and screaming civilians reached the three even from the distant edge of Anglesey.
They wasted no time.
Alaric surged forward first, his gauntlet glowing faintly as he sprinted across the waves. The sea froze solid beneath his feet, every stride creating a path of thick ice that spread far and wide. Spray turned to frost around him, the wake of his charge leaving a frozen highway toward the burning city.
Celestria followed, snapping her cloak wide. With a hiss, it unfurled into dark wings streaked with red fire. She leapt into the air, the force scattering sparks into the wind, and every beat of her wings left curling trails of flame across the twilight sky.
Sylas remained behind for only a breath, watching the two streak forward. He drew his hood tight, clenched his bow, and his Converter flashed with violent energy. Lightning erupted from his body, swallowing him whole until he became a jagged bolt that split the air. With a thunderclap, he shot forward, crackling across the heavens.
The people of Gaul looked up through the smoke and ruin. For the first time since the attack began, their eyes lit with hope.
Three lights carved across the sky—ice, fire, and storm.
And the Hollowed Ones would soon learn that Gaul was not defenseless.
The three landed at the heart of the chaos, Gaul's once-peaceful streets now torn apart by collapsing stone, flames, and panicked citizens running in every direction. But amidst the smoke stood two figures, still and silent.
Both were clad in armor blacker than midnight, darker even than the void between stars. It clung to them like living shadow, writhing faintly with each breath they took. Twin blades gleamed at their sides, edges shimmering with an otherworldly hunger. Their visors revealed no light—only hollow darkness, empty and soulless.
Celestria's wings flared, her staff raised. "What… are they?" she whispered, unease in her voice.
Before an answer could come, one of the Hollowed stepped back and then bolted with inhuman speed. Shadows pooled beneath his feet, stretching and surging outward. From that abyss rose monstrous tendrils—colossal shadow-tentacles that writhed through the streets, curling around buildings and crushing them to rubble.
The earth trembled as screams filled the air. Gaul was being ripped apart.
The second Hollowed remained. Silent. Still. He tilted his head as though studying the three. Then, without a word, he began to walk toward them. Each step was measured, deliberate, his blades dragging faintly against the ground with a ringing metallic scrape.
Alaric stepped forward, ice forming across his gauntlet. "You won't go any further."
The Hollowed said nothing.
Then, like a whisper of death, he suddenly lunged—faster than the eye could follow.
The Hollowed's blades came down like lightning, each strike carrying a crushing weight that seemed impossible for a single man. But Alaric met him head-on, gauntlet raised high. Steel clashed with enchanted ice, the impact blasting shards outward like frozen shrapnel. The force rattled through Alaric's bones, but he did not yield.
The second blade hissed toward his ribs, quick and precise, but Alaric snarled and thrust out his free hand. Ice surged from his gauntlet, shaping in an instant into a jagged blade of frozen crystal. He caught the strike with a resounding crack, the air between them shimmering with frost and shadow.
For a heartbeat, the two locked together—dragon-helmed knight against the Hollowed's abyssal armor. Neither spoke. Only the grinding of their weapons echoed through the broken streets.
Sylas's eyes darted past them, catching sight of the other Hollowed. Shadow-tentacles ripped through Gaul's walls, dragging screaming villagers into the darkness while buildings crumbled like sand. His fists tightened on his bow, rage sparking in his veins.
He turned to Celestria, voice sharp. "We go together."
Her fiery wings spread with a roar, and she gave him a curt nod before soaring skyward. Sylas blurred into a streak of lightning, vanishing beside her in a storm of sparks. The two cut through the smoke and fire as one—Celestria leaving blazing trails across the night sky while Sylas arced like a thunderbolt beside her, their combined light slicing through the terror below.
Behind them, Alaric roared and drove the Hollowed back another step, ice cracking underfoot as the duel escalated.
The Hollowed one moved like a nightmare given flesh, blades sweeping with inhuman precision. A sudden kick slammed into Alaric's chestplate with the force of a battering ram. The knight skidded backward across the shattered stone street, boots carving deep grooves into the ground. His lungs seized for air, and a sharp jolt rattled through his ribs, but he forced himself upright, breath fogging in the cold air he emanated.
The Hollowed raised a hand. From the cracks of the cobblestones and the shadows of broken walls, thick tendrils of darkness uncoiled—writhing, massive, and tipped with jagged ends like spears. They lunged for Alaric, hungry to tear him limb from limb.
But Alaric's gauntlet pulsed, runes glowing with icy fury. He spread his arms wide, and behind him hundreds of jagged blades of ice took form, sharp and glistening in the dim light. With a sweep of his hand, they screamed forward. Each sword impaled the shadow tentacles, freezing them solid mid-thrash. Cracks webbed across the blackened limbs before they shattered into splinters, fragments spraying across the battlefield.
Even as the shards flew, Alaric was already moving. His boots pounded against the ice-coated street, and he dashed low, blade of frozen crystal forming in his hand. He swung with crushing intent, his strike colliding against the Hollowed's twin blades. Sparks erupted, mixing with frost and shadow as their weapons screeched in defiance.
The Hollowed snarled soundlessly, shadows rippling around him like a storm. But Alaric wasn't done. Above them, another ice sword materialized—massive, like a spear of winter forged in the heavens. With a snap of his fingers, it plunged downward.
The Hollowed twisted away just in time, the blade slamming into the ground with an explosive crack, sending shards of stone and ice flying. The air shook, and for a moment, frost blanketed the battlefield. The Hollowed retreated a step—just a step—but it was enough.
Alaric lunged, his blade finding flesh. The ice edge tore across the Hollowed's stomach, cleaving through the blackened armor as though it were cloth. Dark blood gushed forth in a violent spray, spattering Alaric's chest and staining the frozen ground beneath them. The Hollowed staggered back, clutching the wound, his silence broken by a distorted, guttural groan that echoed like a dying beast.
Enraged, he hurled both blades with a flick of his arms. They spun through the air like hunting falcons, black steel aimed straight at Alaric's throat and heart.
Alaric snarled and raised his gauntlet high. Ice surged upward in an instant, forming a thick wall that caught the weapons with a resounding clang. The shadow-forged blades buried deep into the frost, vibrating violently before dissolving into smoke.
The Hollowed raised his hands again, reforming his weapons from pure shadow—longer this time, jagged, dripping with inky darkness. His steps quickened into a sprint, ready to carve Alaric apart.
But Alaric smirked beneath his helm. He clenched his gauntlet. The ice wall shattered—not into dust, but into a storm of blades, hundreds of jagged shards that shot outward like arrows.
The Hollowed's eyes widened as the frozen storm pierced through him. Ice swords punched through his armor, skewering arms, thighs, chest, and neck. Blood—black, thick, and steaming—spurted in every direction as the blades drove him to the ground. His bones cracked audibly, ribs crushed beneath the barrage, legs twisted at impossible angles.
The Hollowed staggered, still standing for one horrifying moment, bristling with blades like a grotesque pincushion. Then he collapsed to his knees. One final ice sword drove itself into his chest, bursting through his back in a spray of gore. He convulsed once, blood bubbling from his mouth, then slumped forward.
Alaric stood over the corpse, his armor dripping with blood both red and black. His gauntlet hissed with cold, steam rising from the crimson-stained ice. His breathing was ragged, chest heaving, but his eyes burned with the fury of victory.
The Hollowed one lay in pieces—bleeding, broken, and frozen to death.
Celestria and Sylas sprinted through the chaos, fire and lightning crackling in their wake as they closed the distance. The Hollowed one loomed ahead, blades gleaming blacker than night, his entire form a shifting mass of living shadow. With a flick of his hand, a wall of darkness erupted before him, thick and impenetrable. Their projectiles—arrows of lightning and torrents of flame—slammed into it, only to fizzle into sparks and embers.
The wall rippled like liquid, then twisted, birthing a forest of writhing tentacles. They shot forward with blinding speed, whipping toward the two with enough force to shatter stone. Sylas rolled to the side, arrows already drawn, while Celestria braced her hands together and conjured a roaring vortex of fire. The flames surged outward, spiraling into a cyclone that ripped through the wall, tearing and burning until its black mass cracked open. For a heartbeat, the Hollowed one was exposed.
But the monster was quick. His body blurred, melting into the darkness and reforming yards away. He raised both hands, and a black dome exploded outward, swallowing the entire city square in suffocating darkness. The world was gone—no sound but their breaths, no light but the faint glow of fire licking from Celestria's palms. Then came the spikes. From every direction, jagged spears of shadow tore free from the void, screaming through the air.
Celestria's arms flared. A blazing barrier of fire ignited around her and Sylas, spikes clanging against it like steel on steel. Sparks hissed as flames met shadow, each impact rattling the mage's bones. "I can't hold this forever!" she shouted through gritted teeth.
Sylas dropped to one knee, bowstring pulled taut. Electricity coursed down the shaft, his eyes narrowing as he tracked movement through the swirling black. He loosed the arrow—a streak of lightning that screamed across the void and struck true. The Hollowed one's form staggered, sizzling with light.
But then the body melted, collapsing into smoke. A clone.
The real Hollowed one emerged behind them, faster than their eyes could follow, a storm of spears erupting from his arms. The blades were already descending—death inevitable—when a storm of ice rained from above.
"Not while I still draw breath!" Alaric's voice boomed through the dark. His swords of frozen steel shattered the spears mid-flight, the air filling with shards of frost and broken shadow.
Alaric charged, his gauntlet glowing brighter than before, and slammed his hand into the ground. The earth ruptured as an iceberg rose violently from beneath, jagged spikes jutting upward toward the Hollowed one. The impact shook the dome itself, forcing the shadow-clad foe to retreat a step.
But the Hollowed one answered with a roar like tearing metal, his shadow coiling into the shape of a massive saw. With brutal strength, he swung, cleaving through the iceberg and scattering its fragments across the battlefield. The ice shattered into hundreds of shards, some embedding in the walls, others slicing across Alaric's own armor and spilling streaks of crimson onto the snow.
The Hollowed one pressed his advantage, summoning more spikes from above, jagged and countless.
Sylas reacted first. His bow thrummed with power, another lightning arrow released into the fray. The streak of electricity forced the Hollowed to deflect, just enough for Celestria to act. She raised her staff high, her cloak igniting like wings of flame. The air heated until it screamed, and with a surge of her will, a towering flame tornado erupted around their enemy.
The vortex roared, a cyclone of fire so fierce it melted stone as it circled. The Hollowed's form vanished within, sight and sound drowned by the inferno.
"Shatter!" Alaric roared. His hand moved, and from the storm above, a massive ice blade speared down, crashing into the heart of the tornado. The Hollowed one's body froze where he stood, entombed in glacial chains, his shadow struggling in vain to break free.
"To ash!" Celestria cried, pushing her staff forward. The vortex imploded, folding in on itself, flames compressing until the air detonated. The Hollowed shrieked in silence, his form burned and torn as the flames devoured the ice prison from within.
The dome trembled violently.
Sylas stepped forward, bow raised, electricity coursing wildly across his body. His entire frame crackled like a storm given flesh. He drew the arrow slowly, the energy gathering so bright it blinded even through the gloom. Sparks tore gouges into the ground as his voice thundered:
"Strike!"
The arrow screamed forward. It pierced the flaming vortex, igniting it in a colossal explosion. Lightning ripped downward from the heavens themselves, splitting the black dome open as if the sky had been torn apart.
For a blinding moment, fire, ice, and lightning merged into one storm of destruction.
The dome shattered like glass, fragments of darkness scattering into nothingness. And when the smoke cleared, the Hollowed one was gone—obliterated, nothing but ashes and shadows scattered across the wind.
The three stood together amidst the ruin, their armor cracked, bloodied, and steaming from exertion. Gaul was safe, for now, but their hearts knew this was only the beginning.
The three collapsed onto the cobblestone floor as the last fragments of shadow dissolved into the night. Their Armourbound shimmered and broke apart, retreating into their Converters with a fading glow. What remained were their battered, weary bodies, drenched in sweat and streaked with blood.
Alaric lay on his back, chest heaving, his fists still trembling from the strain. Every breath sounded like it could be his last, yet his eyes burned with stubborn fire. Beside him, Celestria rolled onto her side, a shaky giggle slipping out between her panting. "Hah… we actually did it…" she whispered, the sound half-delirious but filled with triumph.
Sylas pushed himself onto his elbows, bow still clutched in one hand. He exhaled long and slow, the relief flooding from him in a visible shiver. For a brief moment, silence reigned—only the sound of their breaths and the faint crackle of fire from ruined buildings.
Then came footsteps. Dozens of them.
From the edge of the broken streets, citizens emerged—men, women, even children. Their faces carried awe, fear turned into admiration. And then, without hesitation, they rushed forward. Strong arms lifted the three from the ground, raising them high into the air despite their exhaustion.
A roar erupted through the square. Shouts of joy, tears of relief, voices praising their names without even knowing them. The citizens cheered as if gods had descended among them, their saviors carried above the crowd.
For the first time since stepping into Gaul, the three felt it—the weight of their struggle, now transformed into hope for an entire people.
The people, still roaring with joy, carried the three battered heroes through the streets until they reached a grand temple at the heart of Gaul. The structure loomed high, its pillars glowing under torchlight, its presence commanding reverence. Carefully, the citizens set them down at the base of the steps. The three dusted themselves off, still weary but regaining composure.
From within, a figure emerged. Draped in a crimson cloak, crowned with laurels, and radiating authority—Julius Caesar himself stepped forward. His piercing gaze studied the trio, weighing their worth in silence before speaking.
"You three… what do you desire in return for saving this home?" His voice echoed with command, as though every word was a decree.
Celestria perked up immediately, her lips curling into a smile. "Ooh! I would like—" she began, only for Sylas to interrupt, his voice firm and practical.
"We need to go to Rome. That is the true reward we seek."
Alaric crossed his arms, nodding in agreement. "He's right. To grow stronger, to become better—we must head to Rome. That is our path."
Celestria huffed, crossing her arms with a pout. "You two never let me finish," she muttered under her breath. Both Sylas and Alaric glanced at her in confusion, clearly expecting something more serious.
Julius Caesar chuckled, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "In the meantime," he said with regal assurance, "you may stay in the Private Residence for the Elite. It will serve as your home until you are ready to depart for Rome. And as for rewards…" He gestured grandly. "Claim whatever you desire."
Celestria's eyes lit up like a child in a candy shop. "I want fancy clothes, accessories, jewelry—oh, maybe a silver circlet, and silk dresses, and—" She kept going, her excitement spilling endlessly. Caesar merely nodded, humored but patient, promising her requests would be fulfilled.
He then turned to the other two. "And you?"
Sylas adjusted his mask slightly. "A sound-proof pair of hunter's boots. Stealth is my edge. I want it sharper."
Alaric looked down at his old, rusted blade, its edge dull and scarred from countless battles. "A new sword. One worthy of the battles ahead."
Julius Caesar inclined his head in approval. "So it shall be."
Dismissed with honor, the three departed, each carrying their rewards. Celestria twirled with joy in her new clothes and sparkling accessories, beaming at her reflection in every passing window. Sylas inspected his boots, tapping the ground only to hear near silence, a satisfied nod hidden under his hood. Alaric held a gleaming metal blade, perfectly balanced, its polished steel reflecting the firelight as though it were brand new life in his hands.
As they made their way through the streets, people showered them with roses and clapped, their cheers carrying the trio all the way to the towering residence Caesar promised.
Inside, the three approached the counter where a refined woman greeted them. "Your room numbers," she said softly, handing them each a key.
They separated, entering their individual chambers. Alaric laid his sword gently upon the stand, removing his gauntlet to rest his weary hand. Sylas inspected every corner of his quarters—his hunter's instincts demanding familiarity with the bed, toilet, and exits. Celestria squealed with delight, already trying on outfits and adorning herself with rings and necklaces before twirling before a mirror.
Time passed, and soon the three emerged from their rooms, meeting in the grand hallway. Together, they walked toward the bathhouse, carrying lighter clothes for the evening.
One by one, they entered the changing rooms. Alaric was first to emerge, wearing only loose trousers. His muscular frame bore scars of countless fights, his black hair damp from the steam. Soon after, Sylas stepped out—his body leaner, more defined, his strength evident though less bulky. His mask remained on, as always, concealing the lower half of his face. Finally, Celestria appeared, her bikini accentuating her slim frame and beauty, her eyepatch only adding to her charm.
The onlookers around the bathhouse froze. Women whispered and blushed at the sight of Alaric and Sylas, their physiques sculpted by war and hardship. Men gawked openly at Celestria, her appearance radiating both elegance and cuteness.
Unbothered, the three walked together and stepped into the warm pool, sinking into the hot water that embraced their sore muscles. Leaning back against the edges, the tension began to melt away.
"Ahh…" Alaric sighed. "Finally… peace."
Celestria closed her eyes, a small smile forming. "After everything, I'd say we deserve this much."
Sylas let out a quiet chuckle behind his mask, stretching his arms along the edge. "Yeah… though if every fight's gonna be like that one, I'll need a bathhouse wherever we go."
The three laughed together softly, their voices echoing through the steam. For the first time since their journey began, they allowed themselves to feel truly human again.
The steam rose thicker as the three sank deeper into the warmth of the bath, shoulders finally loosening. For a brief moment, it seemed like they could enjoy the pool in peace. But then, the sliding doors creaked open again, and a group of men and women entered, laughter echoing as they spotted the three heroes.
Almost immediately, the men gravitated toward Celestria. They waded closer, forming a small circle around her. One leaned forward with a confident smirk.
"Such beauty—and a warrior, too. Surely, you don't belong sitting alone in a bath. Allow me to keep you company."
Another chuckled, "That eyepatch only makes you mysterious… and I love a mystery."
Celestria's cheeks flushed red—not from flattery, but from irritation. Crossing her arms beneath the water, she fixed them with a sharp glare.
"Honestly, is this what you think works? Keep your lines to yourselves. I'm here to relax, not to entertain your arrogance."
The men exchanged awkward glances, their smirks faltering, but still they lingered, unwilling to admit defeat.
On the other side, Alaric found himself surrounded by women, their eyes sparkling with admiration.
"Such scars… you must have so many stories to tell."
"You're so strong-looking. How many battles have you fought?"
"Surely you have a lover already…?"
Alaric sighed softly. His tired eyes looked away as he leaned back against the pool's edge, determined to remain polite.
"I've fought more battles than I'd like to count," he said evenly. "But right now, I'd prefer silence over stories. Please… just enjoy the bath."
He didn't raise his voice, nor did he look at them, his gentlemanly nature unwilling to push them away harshly. But his lack of engagement slowly drained the women's enthusiasm, though they still hovered nearby, admiring from a distance.
Meanwhile, Sylas sat in the middle of it all, utterly unbothered. The moment the women drifted toward him, his entire demeanor shifted. Leaning casually against the edge, his soft blue-black hair damp and clinging to his face, he gave them that confident half-smile beneath his mask.
"Well, well… looks like fate was kind to me today."
The women giggled, fanning themselves with their hands, asking him endless questions.
"Is it true you're an archer?"
"Your eyes are so sharp… do you always look at people like that?"
"You're so mysterious under that hood… tell us, what's hiding behind that mask?"
Sylas chuckled, lowering his voice into a smooth, teasing tone. "Some secrets are better discovered slowly." His words dripped with confidence, his posture relaxed as though he'd been born for this attention.
Celestria pinched the bridge of her nose, groaning audibly. "Unbelievable…"
Alaric gave a helpless chuckle, shaking his head. "Of course he's enjoying this."
The two shared a sigh at their companion, while Sylas basked in the attention, clearly in his element.
Sylas leaned back, arms stretched lazily along the bath's edge, his grin lingering even as the women began to drift away after their fill of teasing and chatter. He let out a smooth chuckle.
Alaric snorted. "You looked like it happens every day."
Celestria flicked a bit of water at Sylas, rolling her eye. "Honestly. You act like a fox among hens."
Sylas only laughed, unbothered. Once the women finally moved on, the three of them finally had the pool to themselves again. A calm silence fell, broken only by the soft trickle of water.
But it didn't last long.
Alaric smirked suddenly, scooping a handful of water and splashing it toward Celestria. She gasped, hair dripping down her face.
"Oh, you dare?!" she snapped with mock fury, before sending a fiery wave of splashes back.
Sylas, caught in the middle, raised his arms in defense. "Wait, wait—!" He got drenched anyway, and for the first time in weeks, his deep laughter echoed as he retaliated, flicking water with a hunter's precision.
The three splashed and played until their chests heaved with laughter, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
Eventually, they climbed out, wrapping themselves in soft towels. Warm, lighthearted chatter followed them as they walked the halls back to their chambers. Celestria teased Alaric about being too serious, Alaric teased Sylas about his "fan club," and Sylas only grinned slyly at both of them, saying nothing to fuel their amusement further.
At last, they reached their rooms.
Alaric dressed in simple casual clothes, setting his sword within arm's reach before lying down. He closed his eyes, the weight of battle and relief finally letting him drift into a heavy rest.
Celestria slipped into a cute pink pajama, humming softly as she tended to herself. She brushed her long hair, applied oils to her skin, and neatly folded her accessories before bed, indulging in the simple luxuries she rarely allowed herself. Finally, she curled up beneath her blanket, her lips forming a soft smile as sleep took her.
Sylas, meanwhile, changed into lighter clothes, replacing his damp mask with a fresh, dry one. He pulled his hood over his head even in the privacy of his room, lying back with a satisfied sigh. His lips curved into a grin as memories of the women surrounding him earlier replayed in his mind. With that thought lingering, he slipped into sleep, his dreams filled with warmth, laughter—and the alluring smiles of the women who had fawned over him.