Back at the canteen, Ruok had already finished his meal—if it could even be called that. Thirty minutes of fighting, and another thirty just to chew through bread that felt like it fought back.
He rubbed his cheeks with both hands, wincing.
"Damn that bread… if I wasn't starving, I wouldn't even touch that stone-hard, rubber-like thing they called bread. Feels like I just fought another enemy."
Around him, the tent had quieted. The earlier noise was gone, replaced by low murmurs and the occasional clink of bowls. Outside, the sky was dim—dusk creeping in, smoke still hanging like a dirty curtain over the battlefield.
Ruok leaned back on the bench, folding his arms behind his head.
"So… where do I even sleep?"
He thought of Alan. Then remembered that cold look.
"…Yeah. Not a chance."
He glanced at the muddy ground, then back at the wooden bench.
"This will do."
He stretched out slightly, boots still on, armor creaking. The wood was hard, but compared to everything else, it felt almost luxurious.
His eyes slowly closed.
And memories came.
—
A clean room. Too clean.
Walls lined with medals, weapons, framed certificates. The smell of polish and old leather filled the air.
Three cadets stood in front of a pacing officer.
The Tactical Officer pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked back and forth, muttering like a man regretting his life choices.
"Four brawls. In one month. That's not a record I wanted in this academy."
Harry opened his mouth.
"Sir, it wasn't—"
"Talk when I ask you, cadet."
"Yes, sir."
Silence.
The officer stopped and turned sharply.
"Names. From the left."
"Harrison Smith."
"Richard Hitcher."
Tom stepped forward confidently.
"Chukwuebukaolisa Adeyemi Kwadwo Mhlabeni Zubairu."
The officer froze.
Then slowly massaged his temples.
"…Tom. Your name is Tom now."
He pointed one by one.
"You're Harry."
"You're Dick."
"And you… thank the gods… are Tom."
A pause.
"Fifty laps."
Tom raised a hand slightly.
"But sir—"
"One hundred."
"Sir, yes sir!"
Outside—
Harry glared.
"You just made it worse!"
Tom started jogging.
"I was going to say it used to be one hundred twenty last week!"
"You idiot! Get back here!"
Richard just laughed softly, jogging behind them.
—
Ruok's lips curled into a faint smile while sleeping.
Then—
A horn.
He jerked awake.
"—Huh?!"
For a second, he didn't know where he was. Then the smell hit him. Mud. Blood. Smoke.
"…Right. War."
He stood up quickly and stepped out of the tent.
It was already dawn.
Soldiers were already moving. Lines forming. Armor clanking. Orders shouted.
Ruok followed, slipping into formation near the front without thinking.
Ahead—six figures stood before the army.
The leaders of six armies.
Mephyst stood relaxed, hands behind his back, a faint smile playing on his lips like he knew something no one else did.
Jawhead stood like a wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Axe hung in his hand like it was nothing.
The Goblin King crouched slightly, eyes sharp, scanning everything.
Olga rolled her shoulders, clearly impatient.
Aeltharion stood tall with his lance, calm, eyes calculating.
Then there was Minerva.
Still. Composed.
At Aeltharion's slight nod, she stepped forward.
Her voice carried clearly across the field.
"Warriors of the unified army… for years, we have endured what should have broken us."
She paused, letting the weight settle.
"We have bled on this soil, buried our comrades beneath it, and stood again where others would have fallen."
Her eyes moved across the crowd.
"Today, for the first time in years, the enemy has retreated."
A ripple moved through the soldiers.
"Not because they are merciful," she continued calmly, "but because they are preparing."
Her tone sharpened.
"And so must we."
She placed a hand lightly on her sword.
"This war will not end by waiting. It will end because we choose to end it."
A faint fire lit in her eyes.
"We push forward. We take back what was lost. Expel those otherworldly beings called Trods. And we do not stop—until there is nothing left to threaten this world."
Her voice rose, strong and clear.
"Stand with me. Fight with me. With us. And we will see the end of this war—together."
For a moment—
Silence.
Then—
A SHRIEK.
High. Sharp. Tearing through the air like something alive.
Ruok flinched.
"…Yeah. That's not good."
The line wavered slightly. Heads turned.
"The trods…" he muttered. "They're coming back."
Attention shifted.
Just for a second.
That was enough.
Mephyst stepped in behind Minerva.
No warning.
No hesitation.
A blade flashed—
And drove straight through her chest.
A wet, sharp sound cut through everything.
For a moment—
The battlefield went silent.
Minerva's body jerked slightly. Blood spread across her armor, dark and fast.
Ruok froze.
"…What…?"
Mephyst stood behind her, one hand still gripping the weapon buried in her chest.
His expression—
Not rushed. Not tense.
Satisfied.
He leaned slightly closer to her ear, voice smooth, almost amused.
"Too naive, Princess."
Minerva didn't scream. Didn't panic.
Her fingers tightened slightly on her sword hilt. Her eyes lowered—not in fear, but in quiet realization.
"…I see," she murmured faintly.
Then her knees gave.
Olga's eyes widened, then burned with fury.
"You—!"
She moved—fast, direct, no hesitation—
A thin arc of light passed her neck.
Clean.
Olga blinked once."…Huh?"
Her body stood for a second longer.
Then her head dropped, rolling into the mud with a dull, wet thud.
Her body followed a heartbeat later.
Ruok stared.
"…Okay… this day just got worse."
Aeltharion moved.
No wasted motion—his lance shot forward, precise and fast, aimed straight for Mephyst's throat.
Clang.
Mephyst caught it with a dagger. One hand.
The force cracked the ground under their feet, but the demon barely shifted.
Aeltharion's eyes narrowed, calculating, adjusting.
Jawhead roared—
—but his blade didn't go for Mephyst.
It turned sideways.
Toward the Goblin King.
Steel crashed against steel, sparks bursting. Olga's blood still stained the Goblin King's blade as he blocked, snarling low.
That was the moment everything broke.
Chaos didn't start on the battlefield.
It started here.
In the camp, they called home for three years.
Allies turned foes in a single breath. Blades rose. Magic flared. Years of trust shattered like thin glass.
Above, Jurbert shot into the sky, black wings spreading wide as dozens of floating swords formed around him like a storm. He surged upward, meeting the descending demons head-on, blades flashing in controlled arcs.
Ruok patted his sides.
No daggers.
"…Right. I threw those away," he muttered. "Smart. Very smart of me."
He crouched slightly, scanning for anything—fallen weapons, broken spears—
Something punched into his chest.
Hard and sharp.
He froze.
Looked down.
A blade buried deep into him.
"…Ah."
He followed the sword upward.
Alan stood there, grip firm, eyes cold.
Ruok blinked slowly."…I thought we were friends."
Alan's lips curled slightly. Not anger.
Disgust.
"Friends?" he said flatly. "You got it wrong, Ruok. I never looked at you as one."
Ruok studied his eyes.
No hesitation. No doubt.
Just hate.
He gave a weak smile."…So you really hated me."
"Of course," Alan replied. "Who would want to stand beside a devil like you? I should've killed you sooner."
Ruok coughed lightly, blood slipping from his lips.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Sounds about right."
His vision dimmed.
"…Maybe Ruok just has bad taste in people."
Darkness closed in.
Then—
Cold.
Not pain.
Water.
Ruok frowned, even as his body sank.
"…Wait… I got stabbed. Why can't I breathe?"
He opened his eyes.
Dark water surrounded him. The surface above shimmered faintly, distant and unreachable.
"…Ah," he thought. "This again."
Something moved below.
A massive hand. Big. Familiar.
This time, Ruok didn't wait.
He reached first and grabbed it.
The grip tightened—and pulled him upward.
Water burst around him as he broke the surface, coughing hard, lungs burning.
He hung there, dripping, barely alive, staring up.
At the orc holding him like a wet sack.
Ruok blinked once. Then smiled weakly.
"…I never thought I'd be this happy to see you again… Bignum."