The messenger did exactly what Darfin said he would do.
A young beastkin boy, barely more than a teenager, stepped into the tent, his fur damp with sweat and nerves. His wide eyes darted from face to face, terrified by the weight of divine and monstrous power gathered before him: a god, four generals, and Lucy, who felt like an out-of-place ghost among titans.
The boy swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he began to speak. "A-a proposal… from General Vorn Cain… on behalf of Lord Ithriel…"
He stumbled through the words, hands shaking as he unrolled the parchment. Lucy watched in a strange, detached daze. Even with everything hanging in the balance, he felt a flicker of pity for the poor kid. How he fumbled and flinched made Lucy want to reach out and help, but he couldn't.
And then came the terms.
First, the duel would take place tomorrow morning, giving everyone enough time to heal, prepare, and strategize.
Second: Just as Darfin predicted, it would be a five-on-five match. Their strongest versus ours.
And third…
The beastkin boy's voice shook harder. His gaze dipped to the parchment like it might bite him. "At no point may Goddess Seraphine or Lord Ithriel interfere. No participants may be teleported or withdrawn until the match is decided."
A deathmatch.
Lucy's heart didn't just sink—it crashed into the floor, shattered, and kept falling.
His matchup… was death itself.
'Vorn Cain.'
The name echoed like a curse through his thoughts as he slumped deeper into his seat, watching the messenger scramble out of the tent like prey fleeing a predator.
Then, silence.
It was heavy, suffocating, sacred.
Until the Crimson-scaled Dragonkin general shattered it.
"Just like you said, Darfin," he muttered, voice oddly rushed and slightly shrill, like even he didn't want to hear himself say it. "But… forgive me—I have my doubts."
Lucy blinked. 'Wait, is Darfin letting someone disagree with him?'
He turned to watch Darfin's reaction, surprised to see the elf nod. "Go on, Adgrun."
'He must really respect him,' Lucy thought. 'Or maybe even Darfin knows how insane this all sounds.'
Adgrun continued, the words flying out of his mouth as if afraid they'd explode if held in. "First off, there's no way the human can beat Vorn Cain. And second, I don't buy this five-on-five crap. They're planning something."
Lucy's jaw clenched. 'Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.' But deep down, a bitter voice whispered: 'He's not wrong.'
Two weeks. That was all Lucy had since discovering his powers. Sure, his mythic ability let him grow at an impossible rate—fast enough to hold his own against someone like Fenara, barely, but Vorn Cain?
A being said to have served a god longer than Darfin himself?
No amount of growth could bridge that gap.
'He's right. I can't do this. Why me? What kind of lunacy is this?'
His fists trembled beneath the table. Words bubbled up like boiling water.
"I agree with Adgrun," Lucy said quietly at first, then louder. "I don't know why Seraphine thinks I can beat someone like him."
He turned, eyes locking onto her where she sat at the front of the room. Her expression hadn't changed—still calm, confident, and unreadable.
Still believing in him.
Darfin's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
"Are the two of you doubting our goddess?!"
His fury was immediate—veins bulging from his forehead, eyes glowing with cold rage.
Adgrun panicked, flailing his hands as if swatting guilt away. "N-no! I would never doubt her!"
But Lucy didn't flinch.
He stood.
Rage swelled in his chest.
Rage for how they looked at him, like he didn't belong.
Rage from Seraphine.
Rage from the war, the blood, the endless death.
"I am doubting her." He said coldly.
The tent fell into stunned silence.
Every head snapped toward him. Every pair of ancient, battle-hardened eyes now bore into his soul.
Even Darfin looked like he'd been slapped across the face with a gauntlet. His face contorted into something grotesque, like rage wearing the skin of nobility. He opened his mouth, probably to mock or scold or spit fire—
But Lucy beat him to it.
"I've had enough," he growled, voice echoing across the canvas walls. "Enough of your stares. Your whispers. Enough of this entire twisted war."
He turned to the generals, gaze cutting like broken glass.
"All of you—every single one of you—are annoying, arrogant bastards. You sit here, acting like you're the voice of justice, while killing billions without a second thought. Then you dress it up with words like 'cause' and 'faith.'"
He pointed to Seraphine, voice shaking with fury. "So forgive me if I don't bow and thank the goddess for throwing me into this madness."
The reactions varied.
Darfin was a volcano, barely restrained.
Adgrun looked between Darfin and Lucy like a child caught between two fighting parents—nervous, anxious, and unsure who would erupt first.
The ogre, whose name Lucy still didn't know, stared at him with something between disgust and amusement, like watching a rabbit bark at a lion.
But then there was Tara.
She smiled.
A small, proud smile that cut through the chaos like a soft wind in a storm.
She gave him a nod—silent, subtle, but unmistakably approving.
Lucy breathed in sharply. The rage cooled, but his spine remained straight.
"I'll fight in your damned duel," he said, voice steady now. "But don't you dare call me a general."
He looked at Darfin one last time. "I don't want to be associated with you."
Then his gaze shifted to Seraphine. She met it without flinching. Her expression was the same one she wore the night they last spoke—gentle, sorrowful, like she already knew what he would say.
He held it for a moment.
Then turned and walked out, the tent flap billowing behind him like the curtain falling on a stage soaked in blood and prophecy.
…
"Vorn Cain?" Llarm's voice broke the silence, echoing across the obsidian wasteland below.
The battlefield, once filled with screams and steel, was now quiet. The corpses had been moved thanks to Llarm and the other utility mages. Yet nothing could erase the violence—the scent of iron still hung thick in the air, and the ground beneath the cliff was stained in a thousand shades of dried blood, a permanent scar where life had once writhed and ended.
Lucy stood with his friends atop the jagged cliffside, the cold wind brushing against his face, tugging at his clothes. It howled through the desolate plains like a lingering cry from the dead. Even the silence had weight here.
Llarm, Eri, and Gindu sat beside him, their legs dangling over the edge. They didn't speak much—they didn't have to—but fear had a way of making the quiet deafening.
Lucy recounted the meeting—the terms, the duel, the name—Vorn Cain. As the name left his mouth again, he saw it reflected in their eyes: dread.
He tilted his head upward, trying to escape the heaviness. The sky was painfully beautiful tonight. Countless stars blinked back at him, scattered across the vast black canvas. It was a strange coincidence, maybe, but it felt too perfect, too reverent.
A sky mourning the dead.
One star shimmered brighter than the rest—larger, closer somehow.
'That one's probably Xutag,' Lucy thought, a small smile touching his lips as he remembered the fallen giant.
He had never really known what Xutag thought of him. The Ashborn had kept his face hidden, his thoughts veiled, his emotions unreadable. But there was no hatred. No scorn. So Lucy hoped—no, believed—the giant rested peacefully now, beyond all of this.
He turned back to the others, his voice light, almost joking.
"I know, right? Just my luck."
But there was no real laughter in it. Just resignation. They all knew.
And Lucy saw it written in their faces—the quiet despair behind Gindu's eyes, the tension in Eri's posture, the way Llarm kept fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.
He didn't blame them. His death felt certain. The match was a death sentence in all but name.
Llarm, usually so full of bravado, touched Lucy's shoulder. His palm was trembling.
"The amazing Llarm will protect you," he said with a forced grin.
The words rang hollow, like a prayer uttered by someone who no longer believed.
Gindu tried next. His voice boomed, trying to fill the space with hope.
"Do not worry, wyrmling. You are not weak. I know you will survive."
But even the flames behind his words flickered faintly.
Silence returned, lingering awkwardly like a guest who had overstayed.
And then, unexpectedly, Eri spoke. Her voice wasn't shaking. It wasn't fearful.
It was soft and honest.
"If you don't make it through tomorrow..." She paused, eyes fixed on the bloodstained field below, searching for the right words.
"I just wanted to say thank you. For saving me. I don't think you're all bad."
She didn't look at him, not even once. But Lucy didn't need her gaze to feel the sincerity.
Her words sank into his chest, warm and heavy.
He smiled, truly smiled this time.
"Thank you."
And for the first time in this war-torn world, he felt accepted in this cruel chapter of gods and monsters, maybe not by all of them, but by enough.
He looked up once more, the cold wind washing over him, cutting through the warmth in his chest.
'But I'm not dying tomorrow.'
The stars above didn't blink in reply, but something in Lucy's eyes—burning now, not with fear but with resolve—made the night feel just a little less dark.