The next morning crept in with a pale, grey sky and the scent of cold dew clinging to ash and blood.
Lucy awoke groggy but relatively intact—only woken twice during the night by Gindu's earth-shaking snores, which, at one point, had sounded suspiciously like a dying whale. Even that somehow felt like a luxury compared to the day before.
But any sense of peace was shattered when Darfin barged into the tent just as the sun peeked over the battlefield horizon.
The elf didn't speak—he didn't have to. His expression, carved in stone and annoyance, said everything.
Lucy grumbled half-asleep as Darfin grabbed him by the arm and practically dragged him out of the tent.
"I'm walking, damn it," Lucy hissed. Not that it mattered. Darfin's grip was like iron wrapped in snobbery.
By the time they reached the meeting tent, Lucy's mood had soured completely. But that was nothing compared to the atmosphere inside.
As he stepped through the flap, he stopped cold.
The room was small, square, and strange. Three rectangular tables were lined up in neat rows, all facing a single desk at the front—like some war-camp parody of a classroom from Earth.
A memory flickered behind his eyes: chalkboards, fluorescent lights, the buzz of bored students. Except this wasn't school, and the people seated at those desks were monsters of myth.
At table one, Tara sat with perfect posture beside the crimson-scaled Dragonkin general, whose presence radiated silent fury and command.
Table two belonged to the ogre general. His desk was comically elevated, clearly custom-made to accommodate his towering, twenty-foot frame. The wood creaked under his massive weight.
The third desk was where Darfin sat—graceful as always—next to the only human in the room: Lucy.
But it was the figure standing at the front of the room that made his stomach twist.
Seraphine.
Silver hair that shimmered like moonlight. Eyes that seemed to know too much. A beauty that could make the stars jealous, and a presence that pressed down on Lucy like cold pressure against a bruise.
She hadn't changed.
But he had.
Their conversation from the night before seared through his mind like a brand, dragging with it a tangle of guilt, betrayal, and confusion. Rage. Gratitude. Pain.
He didn't dare let any of it show—not with Darfin watching. Not here, surrounded by generals who could crush him like a bug.
So he said nothing.
He slid into the seat beside Darfin, back straight, face blank, every muscle tense. His eyes never left her as she began to speak, her voice soft, beautiful, and cruelly familiar.
And behind that calm stare, Lucy's thoughts churned like a storm.
'Doesn't she know I want nothing to do with her? I'll fight your stupid war, just leave me out of these meetings and plans that involve killing billions!' He thought before Seraphine's voice ripped him away from his thoughts.
"Xutag the Ashborn," she began, her voice low, steady. "My sentinel. My hammer. My devoted."
Every word struck with the weight of centuries.
"He did not die a hero of tactics or victory. He did not shield the retreat. He fell, and with his fall, we were forced to withdraw."
She let the words settle like ash.
"But listen closely—because none of that diminishes him."
Her eyes moved across each general, each soldier.
"For over three thousand years, Xutag stood at my side. He knelt before no god but me. Not once did he ask for a reward or rest. Not once did he falter."
She placed a hand over her chest.
"He fought not for glory. Not for power. But because he believed in my cause. He believed in a better world—even if he'd never live to see it."
A faint breeze stirred through the tent, carrying the scent of smoldered Earth—his scent.
"I could not reach him in time," she said softly. "But one day I will receive him. He is not lost, not truly."
She raised her hand and let divine light shimmer in her palm—a flickering silhouette of a towering Giant standing tall with head bowed in reverence.
"He served with honor and died with loyalty. When the gates of rebirth open, I will be there to welcome him home."
She lowered her hand. The light faded, but the presence lingered.
"Let no one question the soul of the Ashborn."
Across the tent, the general's head lowered—not in mourning but reverence.
Lucy didn't know how to feel.
He had never spoken a word to the Giant general. In truth, he wasn't even sure if giants or ogres could speak. But still, his head was bowed like the rest.
His fists clenched beneath the table.
'Another life gone for this madness,' he thought bitterly.
Heavy and sacred silence lingered until Seraphine gently wiped a single tear from the corner of her eye.
"Darfin, would you take over?" she asked softly.
The golden-haired elf rose from his seat with effortless grace. "Yes, my lady," he said with a respectful bow, his voice smooth as ice over steel.
He turned to face the generals. "While the loss of Xutag wounds us emotionally, it also leaves us tactically vulnerable. We are now outnumbered—five generals on Ithriel's side, and only four on ours."
He let the math hang in the air like a blade before continuing.
"That is why our goddess has made the decision…" His gaze turned sharply, coldly, to Lucy. "To name Lucy as a temporary General."
Lucy's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he nearly jumped to his feet. "What?!"
Every pair of eyes locked onto him—sharp, unkind, ancient.
The ogre narrowed his eyes.
The Dragonkin's scaled jaw clenched.
Even Darfin looked like he wanted to kill him where he stood.
Only Tara remained unmoved, her expression unreadable, like she'd expected it.
Lucy's chest tightened, heat rising to his face as fury and disbelief swirled through him.
He stood fully now, voice firm. "I reject."
His thoughts roared like thunder behind his eyes. 'Seraphine, what the hell are you thinking? Did you believe I'd become one of your loyal little puppets after everything you've done?'
Darfin's head snapped toward him with a sharpness that made Lucy freeze.
"There is no room for discussion," the elf said coldly. "Sit back down, human."
There was no magic in his voice, but there didn't need to be. The command, authority, and sheer pressure of his gaze were enough. Lucy's legs moved before his brain caught up, and he found himself seated again, jaw tight, words caught behind his teeth.
Darfin continued, unfazed.
"We currently lack a proper matchup for the Giant general among Ithriel's ranks. After extensive evaluation, I've determined that I am the most suitable choice to face him."
His gaze swept the room, daring anyone to disagree.
No one did.
"But," he added, his voice tightening, "that leaves one final problem…"
He paused.
"Vorn Cain."
The name dropped like a stone into still water.
The ogre shifted uncomfortably, thick fingers tapping at the edge of his desk.
Tara looked down, her fingers curling in her lap.
Even the Dragonkin general, unflinching until now, leaned back slightly in his chair.
'Vorn Cain?' Lucy thought. 'Who the hell is that, and why does everyone look like they've seen a ghost?'
Darfin didn't wait for questions.
"For those of you unaware," he said, eyes briefly flicking to Lucy, "Vorn is the elven general of Ithriel's army. He is the only living being who has served a god longer than I have. His strength is legendary. Unmatched among the Children."
Lucy's heartbeat quickened. There was that sinking feeling again—the one that came before something terrible.
Darfin smiled.
It wasn't kind.
"But do not be afraid. Our goddess has already devised a plan for him."
He turned to Lucy, and this time, his words came laced with something that sounded dangerously close to satisfaction.
"The human will face him."
Lucy's face went pale.
He jolted in his seat, ready to stand and reject this insane decision, but the look Darfin shot him stopped him cold.
So he stayed seated. Frozen. Spiraling.
A silent panic clawed at his insides like a cage of thorns.
'Why me? Why would I fight the strongest general in the universe?
Is this Seraphine's twisted way of telling me I'll never escape her control?
Is this punishment—for being angry, for daring to doubt her?'
His thoughts raged louder than any battlefield.
Darfin, meanwhile, continued speaking as if he hadn't just sentenced a boy to death.
"We believe we now understand what Ithriel hoped to gain by ordering the retreat," the elf said, folding his hands calmly. "Time benefits his army. The longer Ithriel remains on a planet, the more its natural order bends to his will. Eventually, the planet becomes his."
He paused, eyes sharp.
"But that wasn't his only goal."
Darfin's voice lowered, and it chilled Lucy to the core.
"His true intent was to create a scenario where the human dies."
'Fantastic.'
'So not only does every elf, beastkin, ogre, dragonkin, and giant want me dead, but now a god does too.'
Lucy's panic became suffocating.
Darfin didn't blink. "So, we're going to give him what he wants."
'What?'
"A situation where Lucy has no chance of survival."
'WHAT?!'
"But he will survive," Darfin added quickly, his tone strangely reverent. "Our goddess believes it to be true so that it will be."
'Uh-huh,' Lucy thought bitterly. 'Because faith always stops swords from slicing you in half.'
Darfin raised his voice slightly, addressing the room. "Any minute now, we expect a messenger from Ithriel's army to arrive with an offer. A deal."
He cleared his throat dramatically, then mimicked a low, diplomatic tone.
"Instead of continuing this endless bloodshed, let our five strongest champions fight for the planet. No armies. Just five against five. Winner takes all."
He turned toward Lucy again, a cruel glint in his eye.
"And of course… We'll give them what they want."
Lucy's stomach dropped.
"We'll give them Lucy."
Before he could speak—before he could even breathe-the tent flap rustled.
A gust of wind curled in from outside.
And through it stepped a figure cloaked in darkness and red.
The messenger had arrived.