The Alpha was wounded—but not beaten. Its one good eye blazed with fury, the crimson glow burning hotter than ever. Its breath came in ragged snarls, lips curled back over jagged fangs, drool mixing with its own blood.
It wasn't just fighting anymore. It was enraged.
Rowen, still standing, grinned despite the pain.
"Tch… should've aimed better."
His fingers tightened around his sword hilt, his arms aching from the relentless battle.
The beast moved. Not recklessly. Not like a wounded animal. But with purpose.
It fainted left—a deceptive blur—then struck right.
Rowen barely reacted in time.
The claws found him. Agony ripped through his side.
Warmth. He felt the blood before he saw it.
It splattered across the battlefield—a crimson arc against the darkened sky.
He staggered. His vision wavered.
Another strike. Faster this time.
Claws raked across his chest. His armor tore apart like paper.
Pain. Deep. Raw. Searing.
His knees buckled. But he didn't drop his sword. He drove it into the earth, forcing himself to stay upright.
The Alpha loomed over him. Breathing heavy. Savoring its victory. It didn't rush. It wanted this moment. It wanted him to see it. To know. To understand. That he had lost.
The beast raised its claws—A final, killing blow.
Lena screamed his name. Darin tried to move—but his body refused. Garron's fingers clenched around his sword—but even he knew the truth that he wouldn't make it in time.
But Rowen—Rowen wasn't done.
The Alpha's claws came down. Rowen moved. Not to dodge. Not to strike back. But to grab it.
He lunged, his body screaming in protest, arms snapping tight around the Alpha's thick, corded neck.
The beast froze. Not out of pain. Not out of fear. But out of sheer disbelief. It had never expected its prey to fight back in its final moments. Not like this.
Rowen's grip tightened. His fingers dug into the beast's fur, slick with blood—his, its, he couldn't even tell anymore.
His wounds throbbed. His vision darkened. His legs shook. But he held on.
The Alpha snarled, thrashing violently, trying to shake him off.
But Rowen didn't let go. His body screamed. His bones ached. His will did not break.
The Alpha whipped around, slamming him against the ground.
It clawed at him, trying to pry him free—but he did not break.
Rowen gritted his teeth, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, and with the last of his breath, he growled—
"NOW!"
For a single, stretched-out second—The world stood still.
Then—Garron moved first. A thunderous roar tore from his lungs as he surged forward, his broadsword lifted high. His boots tore into the dirt, the ground cracking beneath his charge.
The moment he was in range—he swung his broadsword.
Steel met flesh. The blade bit deep. A sickening crunch. Garron's strike tore through the Alpha's back, shattering bone, carving deep, splitting muscle.
The beast screamed. It twisted in agony—but Rowen refused to let go.
Darin was next.
With a snarl, he threw both hands forward. Flames erupted from his palms, twisting, roaring, a storm of fire consuming them both.
Heat scorched the battlefield.
The Alpha shrieked. But Rowen held on tighter.
Lena was already chanting. A sigil flared beneath the Alpha's feet.
Then—the ice struck.
Spears of frost erupted from the ground, razor-sharp, piercing through the Alpha's legs—its chest—its stomach.
Pinning it. Trapping it. Ending it.
The Alpha's last breath shuddered from its lungs. Its body tensed. A final, choked growl was let out.
Then—it collapsed.
And Rowen collapsed with it.
Silence. Nothing but the crackling of dying flames, the faint hiss of smoldering embers fading into the cold night air. The battlefield, once alive with fury and chaos, now lay still.
The distant howls of retreating monsters echoed into the void.
The battle was over. But at what cost?
"ROWEN!"
Lena's voice shattered the silence, raw with desperation.
She ran. Her boots barely touched the ground as she fell to her knees beside him, trembling hands reaching, her magic flaring to life.
An icy blue light, warm and flickering—her healing spell was casted.
She pressed her hands against his wounds, the warmth of magic sinking into his torn flesh, willing it to mend, willing him to stay.
He had to stay.
Rowen's chest barely rose. His breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. Blood stained his lips. His fingers twitched, weakly grasping at the dirt beneath him.
But when he looked up at her—he still smiled.
That damn smile.
"…It's… fine," he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.
His body shuddered, pain etched into every inch of his face. But he still forced that small, crooked grin.
"…Took one down with me… right?"
Lena choked back a sob. "Don't talk like that! I can still—"
Her magic surged, desperation making it burn brighter. More. Faster.
But the light flickered. It wasn't working fast enough.
She could see it—feel it—his life slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
"No. No, no, no!" Tears blurred her vision as she poured everything she had into him.
But he was still slipping away.
Rowen's hand weakly reached up, trembling. He touched her cheek. His fingers were so cold.
Lena froze, her breath hitching.
"…Lena." His voice was so soft. So… tired. "…It's okay."
It's not okay. She shook her head furiously, her tears spilling onto his hand.
"No! No, it's not! You idiot, we—we still have missions! We still have fights! You still—"
Her voice cracked. And Rowen smiled. A real, warm smile. Despite the pain. Despite the cold creeping into his limbs. Despite everything.
"…I'm glad we met."
Lena sucked in a breath.
Rowen's fingers loosened. His arm fell. The light in his eyes dimmed. His chest rose one last time. It didn't fall after that.
The icy blue glow in Lena's hands vanished.
The battlefield, once filled with fire and fury—Fell into silence once more.
And Rowen—their friend, their comrade—was gone.
The battle was over. The caravan survived. But Trinity Blade was broken.
The weight of the moment pressed down on them, heavier than any wound, deeper than any scar.
The victory felt hollow.
The enemy lay dead, its monstrous form still smoldering from the fire that had consumed it. And yet… none of them could celebrate.
Because Rowen was gone. Because the battlefield felt empty without his voice. Because the wind carried nothing but silence.
Darin sat in stunned stillness. For once, he had nothing to say. No witty remark, no teasing jab, no cocky grin.
Just clenched fists, his nails digging into his palms so hard they threatened to draw blood. His flames had always burned bright—unwavering, untamed. But now?
They felt cold. Useless.
He had thrown everything at that monster, had burned it down with all he had—and it still wasn't enough.
He bit his lip, hard enough to hurt.
Rowen was always there. The first to back him up in a fight. The first to call him out when he got reckless. The first to—He squeezed his eyes shut.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Lena knelt beside Rowen's still form, staring blankly at her hands. They trembled. Her fingers, usually so steady, so full of warmth, were now stiff and numb. Rowen's blood coated her gloves, staining the golden embroidery deep crimson.
Her healing wasn't enough. Her hands, which had saved so many lives before—had failed when it mattered most.
A choked sob wracked through her, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
She had tried. Gods, she had tried.
She replayed those last moments over and over. His hand on her cheek. His voice, so soft. That smile—why was he smiling?
She should have saved him.
But no matter how much magic she had poured into him, no matter how desperately she had begged the gods, he still—she gasped, curling forward, hands clutching at her chest as if trying to hold herself together. Because everything inside her was falling apart.
Garron stood over Rowen's body, staring down at his fallen comrade. His face was unreadable. But his hands… His hands shook. Not from battle. Not from exhaustion. But from rage.
Garron had always been the unshakable wall, the unwavering shield, the one who held the line when no one else could.
Yet now—he had let someone slip through. He had promised to protect them. He had sworn that he would keep them alive. And he failed.
His grip tightened on his broadsword. The same sword that had cut down the Alpha, that had avenged Rowen—but what did it matter?
Rowen was still dead.
And for the first time in his life, Garron felt helpless.
They had fought together for years. Laughed together. Bled together. Survived together.
And now… One of them was gone.
Just like that.
It didn't feel real. It felt wrong.
Like something had been ripped from them, leaving behind an open wound that would never truly heal.
They were Trinity Blade. They had never lost before.
But now? For the first time—They were defeated. And it was unforgivable.
Rowen's death changed everything. It shattered them.
The journey back to Dawnstead was a haze.
The road stretched endlessly beneath their feet, yet none of them truly felt like they were moving forward. Every step was heavier than the last.
The merchants they had risked their lives to protect tried to thank them, offering gold, gratitude—hollow words meant to ease a grief that could not be eased.
They took the payment without a word. Because none of it mattered. Their friend was dead.
The town gates came into view, but it didn't feel like home anymore.
The streets bustled with life, merchants calling out their wares, children laughing as they darted between carts, adventurers swapping stories over drinks.
It felt wrong. How could the world still be moving when Rowen wasn't in it?
They carried his body through the city, past familiar faces who once greeted them with admiration.
But now? They only received solemn nods, lowered gazes, whispers that followed in their wake.
Word traveled fast. By the time they reached the guild hall, everyone already knew. Trinity Blade had returned. One member short.
Garrick met them at the entrance, his usual stern expression tinged with something softer—something that almost looked like sorrow.
"You did everything you could," he said.
But none of them responded. Because it wasn't enough. They turned in their quest, left the gold on the counter, and walked away.
That night, they buried Rowen on the outskirts of Dawnstead, beneath the old oak tree overlooking the valley.
No grand ceremony. No speeches. Just the three of them standing in silence, staring at the grave of their comrade—their brother.
Then, one by one, they left. And nothing was ever the same again.
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
Lena stopped speaking. She spent her days inside the church, surrounded by healers, but never truly with them. She never laughed. Never smiled.
She just sat in the pews, staring at her hands—the same hands that had failed to save Rowen—until the sun set, until someone forced her to eat, until exhaustion dragged her into a restless sleep.
When she did talk, her voice was quiet, emptied of the warmth it once held. She was still there, still breathing, still moving… But the light in her eyes had long since faded.
Darin drowned himself in magic. If he wasn't sleeping, he was training. Fire erupted from his hands, scorching the training dummies, the ground, his own skin. Again. And again. And again. Until his arms shook. Until his mana reserves ran dry. Until his legs gave out beneath him, leaving him gasping for air on the cold, hard ground.
But the pain wasn't enough. So he trained harder. Because if he had been stronger—Rowen wouldn't have died.
Garron changed the most. The once steadfast leader of Trinity Blade, the unshakable tank who fought with honor, became someone else entirely.
He stopped speaking unless it was necessary. The warmth in his voice, the camaraderie that once defined him—it was gone. Replaced by something colder. Sharper. More dangerous. He no longer hesitated to kill. No longer gave enemies the chance to surrender.
He used to fight to protect. Now? He fought to destroy.
They stopped taking escort missions. Anything that involved protecting someone? They refused. The next job they accepted was a monster subjugation quest. Hunt. Kill. Earn gold. Move on.
It became a cycle.
At first, the guild thought they were just grieving. That they needed time. That, eventually, they'd heal.
But as the months stretched on, it became clear—Trinity Blade wasn't just mourning. They had changed. They became ruthless. They stopped looking out for others.
If another party was struggling in a fight? They ignored it. If a weaker adventurer was barely surviving against a monster? They walked past. Strength was all that mattered now. If you couldn't stand on your own, you weren't worth saving.
One day, a rookie adventurer—barely more than a kid—approached them at the guild.
"Um, excuse me! Trinity Blade? I was wondering if—if you had any advice for new adventurers…?"
A year ago, Garron might have smiled. Might have offered guidance, words of encouragement, a push in the right direction.
Now? He didn't even look at the kid.
"Don't be weak."
Lena stood beside him, expression unreadable. She said nothing.
Darin scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "If you need advice, you're already dead," he muttered, taking a swig from his flask. "Figure it out yourself."
The rookie paled and backed away.
And just like that, another bridge was burned.
The name Trinity Blade still carried weight in Dawnstead.
But not as heroes. Not as the team that once inspired others. Not as the rising stars they were meant to be.
They were something else now. A legend of strength and survival. Adventurers still spoke of them in hushed tones, still admired their power, their efficiency—but never approached them.
Because Trinity Blade was no longer the kind of team you looked up to. They were the kind of team you feared. And they didn't care. Because if they cared, they would have to face the pain again. And none of them were ready for that.
End of Chapter 40