The retreat was chaos.
Corrin watched the human forces crumble around him, their lines breaking, their spirits shattered. The Demon King had done what no army had been able to do—he had broken them. Not with strategy, not with numbers. With sheer, overwhelming power.
Soldiers ran. Hunters fell. The wounded were left behind, their screams echoing across the battlefield.
Corrin grabbed a fleeing soldier by the arm. "Where do you think you're going?"
The soldier's eyes were wide with terror. "We can't hold! He's unstoppable! He killed the commander! He killed everyone!"
Corrin shook him. "We're not dead yet!"
The soldier stared at him. Then he pulled free and ran.
Corrin let him go.
He couldn't blame them. He had seen what the Demon King had done. Had watched Reyes die. Had watched the Apaches fall from the sky like burning leaves. Had watched the Demon King incinerate an entire platoon with a single swing of his sword.
He was terrified too.
But he couldn't run.
He had to hold the line. He had to buy time. For Aurelion. For Ami. For everyone who was still fighting.
Kael appeared beside him, his pistols raised, his face streaked with blood. "We need to regroup. The eastern flank is collapsing."
"Then we hold the center."
"With what?"
Corrin looked at the soldiers around him. They were battered, broken, terrified. But some of them were still standing. Still fighting.
"With them," he said.
He raised his spear.
"To me!" he shouted. "To me!"
A few soldiers turned. Then a few more. Then a dozen. They formed up around him, their weapons raised, their faces grim.
"We can't win," one of them said. "You saw what he did."
Corrin met his eyes. "We don't need to win. We just need to hold."
Ami walked to the edge of the rooftop.
The wind howled around her, tugging at her armor, her hair, her very breath. She looked down—and immediately regretted it. The fortress dropped away beneath her, a sheer vertical wall of dark stone that plunged into the chaos below. The battlefield was a distant blur of movement and fire, the soldiers and demons reduced to specks.
Well, she thought. How do I get down now?
She looked at the Blackstone in her hand. The fragments orbited slowly, their runes pulsing with faint light. It had been a spear, a greatsword, a whip, a scythe. It had been everything she needed in battle.
She remembered the scythe.
The ancient demon had formed it from the fragments, the obsidian blade curving around like a crescent moon. It had been deadly, beautiful, almost elegant.
Could she do the same?
She focused on the Blackstone, willing it to change. The fragments detached from the staff, flowing like liquid obsidian. They swirled around her hand, reforming into a shape she recognized.
A scythe.
The blade curved around, its edge gleaming with dark light. The handle was long, extending past her grip. It was perfect.
She tested the weight. It was balanced, responsive, alive in her hands.
She looked at the edge of the rooftop. At the sheer wall of stone that dropped away into the chaos below.
She could do this.
She hooked the scythe's blade over the edge of the rooftop, the curved metal catching on the stone. She gripped the handle tightly, took a breath, and stepped off.
She descended slowly, using the scythe as an anchor. The blade scraped against the stone, carving a shallow trench as she lowered herself. The wind howled around her, the chaos of battle growing louder as she neared the ground.
She moved carefully, methodically, her arms burning with the effort. The Blackstone pulsed in her hands, the runes blazing with ancient light.
She reached the bottom.
Her boots hit the ground. She released the scythe, and the fragments flowed back to the staff, reforming into their original shape.
The scene before her was devastation.
Bodies lay scattered across the battlefield—soldiers, hunters, demons. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burning flesh. The demonic forces were pushing forward, their claws gleaming, their eyes burning.
And at the center of it all, the Demon King.
He was moving through the chaos like a god of war, his sword carving through everything in his path. Soldiers fell before him like wheat before a scythe. Hunters scattered, their weapons useless.
Ami searched the battlefield.
She saw Corrin and Kael holding the center, their weapons flashing, their voices raised. She saw the remnants of the human forces forming up around them.
She saw Reyes's helmet.
It was lying in the dirt, crushed and discarded. The visor was cracked, the metal buckled. It was empty.
Ami's breath caught.
She walked toward it, her legs heavy, her heart pounding. She knelt and picked it up. The metal was cold against her fingers.
Reyes was dead.
The commander who had crossed oceans to fight. The woman who had faced Malagar and won. The leader who had given everything to protect her people.
She was gone.
Ami clutched the helmet to her chest.
She thought about Reyes's face. The determination in her eyes. The way she had looked before the final battle—fully determined and unrelenting.
I'll finish what you started, Ami thought. I promise.
She set the helmet down gently.
Then she rose to her feet and walked toward the center of the battlefield.
Aurelion walked.
The medic camp was behind him now, the white tents fading into the smoke and chaos. His body was still screaming, still healing, the shards beneath his skin pulsing weakly. But he couldn't wait anymore. He couldn't stay back while others died.
He had seen Reyes fall.
He had watched the Demon King incinerate her like she was nothing. He had seen the Apaches crash from the sky, their pilots' screams cut short. He had seen the human forces break, their hope shattered, their courage gone.
He had done nothing.
He had been too weak, too wounded, too broken to move. The medics had told him to rest, had told him he couldn't fight. And he had listened.
He would never listen again.
He walked through the chaos, his blade in his hand, his eyes fixed on the battlefield ahead. The shards beneath his skin pulsed brighter, feeding him strength, accelerating his healing.
He passed groups of soldiers, their faces pale, their eyes hollow. They were retreating, their lines broken, their spirits shattered. He passed wounded hunters, their bodies broken, their weapons discarded. He passed the bodies of the dead—soldiers, hunters, demons, all of them tangled together in the mud and blood.
He didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He had to find the others. Corrin. Kael. Ami. They were still fighting. He could feel them, their presence at the edge of his consciousness, a faint warmth in the cold chaos of battle.
He walked faster.
The battlefield was a nightmare. Demons and soldiers clashed in a frenzy of violence, their screams filling the air. The ground was slick with blood, littered with bodies and debris. The sky was black with smoke, the sun reduced to a pale disc behind the clouds.
He saw them.
Corrin and Kael were at the center of the battlefield, their weapons flashing, their voices raised. They were surrounded—demons pressing in from all sides, their claws gleaming, their eyes burning. The soldiers around them were falling, their lines collapsing.
They were about to be overwhelmed.
Aurelion stopped walking.
He looked at the scene before him—the demons closing in, the soldiers falling, the hope dying. He looked at his friends, fighting with everything they had, refusing to give up.
Corrin and Kael held the line, their weapons flashing, their voices raised. But they were losing. The demonic forces were pushing forward, their numbers endless, their hunger unquenchable.
Corrin drove his spear through a demon's chest. It crumbled. He spun, cutting down another. His arm was bleeding. His vision was swimming.
"We can't hold much longer!" Kael shouted.
"Then we hold until we can't!"
A demon lunged at Corrin. He blocked—barely. The impact sent him stumbling back.
And then—
A wave of pressure swept across the battlefield.
The demons stopped. Their eyes flickered. Their bodies went rigid.
A figure stepped through the chaos.
Aurelion.
He was battered, broken, his body covered in bandages. But he was walking. His eyes were blazing with pale blue light. The shards beneath his skin pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He crossed the distance between them in seconds, his blade carving through the demon ranks like they were made of paper. He was faster than he had ever been, stronger than he had ever been. The shards fed him power, accelerating his movements, sharpening his senses.
Demons fell before him.
He cut down the first one, then the second, then the third. He moved through them like a force of nature, his blade a blur of silver and crimson. They tried to stop him—they couldn't.
He reached Corrin and Kael.
The demons around them had been scattered, their formation broken. Corrin stared at him, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. Kael was behind him, his pistols raised, his face streaked with blood.
"Aurelion," Corrin breathed. "You came."
Aurelion raised his blade.
"Didn't have a choice, you guys would've been overrun soon."
The demons regrouped, their eyes burning, their claws extended. They were still pressing forward, still hungry, still relentless.
Aurelion stepped forward.
"Get behind me," he said.
Corrin and Kael didn't argue.
Aurelion raised his blade.
The shards beneath his skin blazed with light. He swung—and the wave of energy that erupted from his sword carved through the demon ranks like they were nothing. They died, their bodies dissolving into ash, their screams cut short.
The battlefield fell silent.
Aurelion stood in the center of the destruction, his chest heaving, his blade dripping with ichor. The demons that remained had scattered, their courage broken, their will shattered.
Corrin stepped forward.
"How did you—"
Aurelion shook his head. "No time. Where's Ami?"
Corrin pointed. "She's coming. She killed the ancient demon. She's—"
A figure appeared at the edge of the battlefield.
Ami.
She walked through the chaos, her blade raised, the Blackstone pulsing in her hand. Her face was streaked with blood. Her eyes were blazing. The Blackstone turning into a second blade as she killed demons trying to attack her.
She met Aurelion's gaze.
Their eyes locked.
For a moment, the battlefield seemed to fade. The noise, the chaos, the destruction—it all receded.
They had been through so much. Separated, reunited, separated again. They had fought across oceans, through fortresses, against impossible odds.
And now, they were together.
Aurelion nodded.
Ami nodded back.
They turned to face the Demon King.
The Demon King stood at the center of the battlefield, his sword raised, his eyes blazing. He watched them approach—Aurelion and Ami, battered but unbroken. Corrin and Kael, holding the line behind them. The remnants of the human forces, regrouping, refusing to die.
"Impressive," he said. "You're still standing."
Aurelion raised his blade.
"We're still fighting."
The Demon King laughed—a cold, hollow sound.
"Then fight."