It wasn't long after the mysterious, red-eyed boy vanished in a way no one could comprehend that only Pierre and the strange golden knights remained.
One of the knights, carrying a shield and sword, stepped forward with a low, firm voice.
"Pierre de Corvalin. Surrender now, or die."
Pierre glanced at him with a cold face and a flash of disgust in his eyes.
"Surrender? What gave you the right to even speak to me, Sir Eryk? You wish to die so badly? Leave, while I am still feeling merciful, you royal dogs."
Sir Eryk, the vice-captain of the royal army, narrowed his dark blue eyes through the slit of his helmet.
"This entire village has been decimated. Too many have died too suddenly. If I leave now, you and your revolutionaries will only turn this place into another den of death. For the sake of the Kingdom of Ismyr, and for Margrave Alaric Breval who gave his life, I won't let you win, High Commander."
Yet Pierre only looked at him with the same cold disdain.
"Is that so? Well, you are a Grade 3 expert, but even that is meaningless. They call me the Immortal Eyepatch for a reason... but dogs have foolish brains, able only to wag their tails for their masters."
"The hell did you just say, you traitor!?"
"Bastard! I'll rip that remaining eye from your skull and make soup out of it!"
"Vice-Captain, let's kill him now!"
The golden knights glared and shouted at Pierre, but he didn't even blink.
Sir Eryk, however, remained eerily calm—Pierre's words only sharpening the clarity in his gaze.
"I would like to ask you something."
Pierre tilted his head slightly.
"I did not witness the full battle between you and that strange boy," Eryk said.
"But I saw enough. You were trembling in fear moments ago. And yet you don't even flinch at me—even though, by all accounts, I'm stronger than he is. Why?"
Pierre clicked his tongue loudly, the sound breaking the tense silence.
"Despite only having one eye, I see more than any of you. I know which battles lead to victory... and which lead to death."
Sir Eryk blinked slowly, his expression darkening.
"And yet... aren't you supposed to be immortal?"
"Of course I am," Pierre said smoothly.
"I am perfect. I am immortal."
"Then how can a battle lead to your demise?"
Pierre only shook his head, stepping forward.
"Nothing is forever. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is immortal..." He smiled, a cruel, hollow thing.
"But then again—I exist. I am the flaw of this world itself. And by being the flaw, I am eternal. I am perfect. I am immortal."
Sir Eryk's gaze hardened further, his scowl deepening beneath his helmet.
"...We will see about that, traitor."
And then—battle erupted once more.
In the end, Keft Village was reduced to nothing but dust. The number of casualties was never confirmed, but the rumors spoke of over two hundred dead.
Whispers spread quickly throughout the Kingdom of Ismyr and beyond. They called it a battle so fast, so brutal, that most did not even realize it had happened until it was already over.
The Massacre of Keft.
It was said that the battle involved Margrave Alaric Breval—one of the strongest fighters in the kingdom—who fell during the conflict; one of the Nine High Commanders of the Revolutionary Army, Pierre de Corvalin; twenty-four royal knights, including the famed Vice-Captain Sir Eryk; and a mysterious royal from a fallen kingdom.
Some rumors spoke of a princess seeking revenge for her shattered homeland. Others whispered it was a prince. All agreed on one thing: the royal had crimson eyes and brought the Immortal Eyepatch to his knees. Some claimed that same figure was responsible for the death of Margrave Alaric Breval and for the slaughter of fourteen royal knights.
But in the end, no one truly knew who had won. Only that, ultimately, all sides retreated.
And so, the Massacre of Keft became one of the hottest, most whispered-about events in the Kingdom of Ismyr.
Azriel's chest heaved with every breath, his body staggering forward through the silent forest. Each step crushed the dry leaves beneath him with the same crisp, brittle sound. He swayed, brushing against the rough trunks of trees, his limbs too sluggish to respond properly.
He no longer knew why he was walking. He simply did. Each time his knees buckled, his body resisted collapse by instinct alone, burning more stamina than he could afford just to remain upright.
Azriel stumbled, falling hard onto his knees.
Dust and dirt clung to his torn, filthy clothes—he had long since dismissed his Soul Armor. Grimacing, he clutched his chest with a trembling hand, teeth gritted against the pain.
Still, he forced himself back to his feet... and kept walking.
An unbearable heat twisted inside his chest.
The heat grew hotter, almost suffocating.
'Even though it was the smartest thing to do... I... I simply lost.'
It spread through him like wildfire, devouring every corner of his being.
Something inside him was screaming.
It felt as if his very soul were burning... crying out.
The mere fact that he had lost was unforgivable.
Blood dripped from his mouth, trailing down his chin and staining the forest floor.
Still, he pressed forward, biting back the overwhelming urge to turn around.
Maybe it was because he'd never truly lost before.
Even when he fought the Black Antlered King, he hadn't been forced to feel it.
But now... now he could tell.
His mana core was burning.
Whether it was from shame, from the toll of [Soul's Crucible] consuming mana to keep him conscious, or from [Eidolon Flesh] desperately trying to mend his shredded body, Azriel couldn't tell.
Maybe it was all three.
Too afraid to check his wounds—too afraid to see what had become of his face—he kept dragging one foot after another.
The scenery never changed: endless trees, endless leaves, endless silence.
A beautiful, living graveyard.
Azriel wasn't even sure how he had gotten here.
In the madness of retreat, he'd unleashed one of his most reckless spells—a fusion of ice and lightning he barely understood—and fled the ruined Keft Village.
And somehow, it had brought him to this forest.
He didn't know how long he walked.
Eventually, the burning in his core dulled into a faint, maddening itch.
And then—finally—something changed.
Azriel's steps halted.
Ahead, the trees stretched on as always... but from one branch to another, a thin line of twine was strung, sagging under the weight of clothes left out to dry.
The sudden sound snapped Azriel's attention to the left.
On reflex, he summoned Atropos' Elegy, raising the gleaming gun toward the noise.
A figure emerged—cloaked in a black robe, their face hidden beneath a deep hood.
Azriel tightened his grip on the weapon—or at least, he hoped he did.
He couldn't even feel his own fingers anymore.
The stranger froze, gripping a simple wooden cane.
From their body language, they were clearly startled.
Azriel narrowed his one remaining eye, trying to steady his aim.
But just as he opened his mouth to speak—
The sound of a body collapsing echoed through the trees.
The ground rushed up to meet him, leaves and dirt blurring together in his dimming vision.
A distant, distorted shout barely reached his ears.
Darkness flooded the edges of his sight, his mana core flaring violently one last time.
Azriel lost consciousness.