❖ Westfield – Outer Barricade Ridge, Twilight
The road had narrowed long before the sun dipped below the rooftops. Westfield was the kind of place you were either buried in—or forgot existed.
Lio walked alone.
Not in silence.
Because silence had a rhythm.
This was something else.
Expectation.
Even the dust moved cautiously ahead of him.
The cloak he wore wasn't for disguise—just for warmth. His blade wasn't hidden, because hiding a blade like his only made people want to see it more.
The sky behind him was the kind of orange you saw before funerals.
And in the distance—blocking the long hill to the Mausoleum gate—stood a wall of flesh.
At first, it looked like shadow.
Then it became people.
Then it became 500 soldiers in mixed uniform: Red Sigil armor, Temple firecloth, and rogue militia paint. A few carried relic-staffs. Others bore curved sabers soaked in too many prayers.
Lio stopped walking.
No fear.
Just a breath.
He whispered aloud, mostly to himself:
"I suppose this is the price of walking alone."
❖ The Ambush Begins
The crowd didn't shout.
Didn't charge.
They closed in—like a fog of metal.
A speaker stepped forward, robed in crimson.
"Lio, of the Archive," he called. "You're outnumbered. Return to your dome. This isn't your ground."
Lio didn't blink.
"Neither is it yours."
The speaker gave a signal.
The first wave surged.
❖ The First Clash: 50 Blades
They came fast—swords drawn, polearms sweeping in arcs meant to break legs and ribs.
Lio didn't draw his sword at first.
He dodged.
Moved through them like wind in a wheat field, every step exact. Their strikes missed not because he was fast—but because he knew where they would land before they did.
The tenth one clipped his shoulder.
That was the mistake.
He unsheathed his blade.
[Skill: Intent Sever – Rank C]
He swung once.
The blade didn't cut skin.
It cut intention.
The lead soldier's eyes went blank.
He dropped his weapon mid-swing—and the next man behind him tripped over his unresponsive body.
Lio finished three more with a follow-through spin—arms and torsos split mid-motion.
One blade. Five bodies. Four heartbeats.
But numbers matter.
One blade can stall.
A hundred can press.
The second wave joined the first.
And Lio began to bleed.
❖ The Push
Axes slammed against his ribs. Two arrows punched through his side. A dagger scraped his thigh deep enough to stick.
Still, he danced.
Still, he struck.
The System pulsed.
[Vital Drop: 22%]
[Counter Efficiency: 87% – Pride Aura Stabilizing]
He didn't scream.
He breathed through the pain, and exhaled through steel.
He rolled low beneath a flanged mace, twisted the attacker's ankle until it snapped, and used his falling body as a springboard to reach higher ground.
A Temple firethrower raised his hand.
Lio carved it off mid-spell.
Flame sprayed sideways, igniting two Red Sigil scouts.
They didn't scream.
Their lungs were too cooked to try.
He landed between two archers.
[Blade Sweep – Diagonal Crescent]
He didn't need power.
Just angles.
Heads rolled.
Blood sprayed in arcs so clean they looked painted on stone.
But his breathing was louder now.
One eye bloodshot.
Ribs cracked on the right.
❖ The Wall Breaks
The fourth wave came with polearms, nets, and heavy units.
They weren't trying to kill.
They wanted to capture.
Lio's vision blurred.
His legs almost gave out.
A net dropped over him—threaded with nullifying glyphs.
He fell to one knee.
Hands bound.
One man stepped forward.
A captain.
He smirked.
"Still breathing. I'll give you that."
"Let's take his head off slow."
That's when Lio whispered:
"You assumed… I needed my hands."
And then—
[Passive: Edge of Principle – Activated]
His aura surged.
Not fire.
Not light.
Just direction.
The captain blinked—and saw his own reflection in Lio's eyes.
Not as he was.
As he would die.
The next moment, the man's jaw separated from his face.
Without a blade.
Just pressure.
The aura followed.
Ten meters around Lio became a cutting storm.
Blood.Tendons.Eyes.Spines.
Nothing fell clean.
Everything fell wrong.
When he stood again, 20 more corpses knelt with him.
❖ The Final Clash – Flesh & Devotion
The last 300 moved together.
Desperate. Mad.
Some weren't even soldiers.
Some were fanatics.
Wearing Kairon's name painted on their bare skin—ready to die just to be closer to his shadow.
Lio saw them.
He wept.
Not for them.
For what he'd become to require it.
He fought again.
Blades singing.Hands splitting skulls.Feet sweeping knees into open throats.
He stepped on chests to launch over their lines.
He landed with his sword through someone's spine—and rolled to avoid the teeth of a frenzied zealot.
He broke two fingers on his left hand.
He cracked his mask.
His coat was half-burned, his aura leaking like pressure from a cracked pipe.
Still, he stood.
Still, he carved a path.
Until only one remained.
A girl.
Fifteen. Maybe.
Crouched behind the rubble, dagger shaking in both hands.
Lio didn't raise his sword.
He walked to her.
Kneeled.
And touched her shoulder.
She flinched.
But didn't run.
"You're still human," he whispered.
"Go home."
She dropped the dagger.
And wept.
And ran.
❖ The Mausoleum Gate
Blood caked Lio's boots.
His hand trembled on the hilt.
His body ached.
But his eyes were clear.
The Mausoleum gates loomed ahead—silent stone giants etched with ancient glyphs.
He took one step forward—
And the gate opened.
Alone.
No guards.
No fanfare.
Just an old whisper of air that said:
"You survived the living…"
"Now meet the one who refuses to wake."