Varkas wipes the blood from his jaw, his eyes still sharp but calmer. "Those humans… they were more troublesome than expected."
Sorin's gaze flicks to the retreating army. Soldiers are scattered, stumbling over debris, their faces painted with terror. "Sir, should we go after the fleeing enemy?"
Varkas snorts, rolling his shoulders. "There's no need. The shadows will take care of them."
Elaine leads the retreat, her legs heavy, her mind numb. The image of her fallen companions—Selian, Jupus, Orin, and Walric—flashes over and over. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, but she forces herself to keep running, leading the survivors. Five thousand soldiers—just a fraction of what they were—trailing behind her.
Then, shadows move. Figures emerge—swift, ruthless, silent. One by one, the fleeing soldiers fall. Blood splatters, cries of desperation pierce the chaos.
Elaine's heart pounds. She grits her teeth, forcing her eyes forward—until a presence materializes before her.
His cold, impassive gaze meets hers. His twin daggers gleam, still wet with blood.
Elaine's heart tightens. Her grip on her sword trembles. "Why?!" she screams, her voice strained and desperate. "We're already retreating! Why do you have to go this far?!"
Vaelith's eyes narrow, his expression unyielding. "Why?" he repeats, his voice a chilling calm. "We are at war. This is what happens when you make an enemy of His Majesty."
Elaine's breath catches, her heart sinking as she stares into Vaelith's unyielding eyes. There is no remorse—no hesitation. Only cold, calculated duty.
News of the devastating defeat at Varestand City spreads swiftly across the Raltheon Kingdom, carried by messengers whose faces are etched with dread. Rumors of Marshal Walric's fall and the annihilation of fifty thousand soldiers ripple like a shockwave.
Panic grips the city closest to Varestand. Families abandon their homes, carts overflowing with hastily packed belongings. Streets once bustling with merchants and traders now echo with the clamor of fearful footsteps. Mothers clutch their children tightly, men hurriedly secure what little valuables they can carry, and guards struggle to maintain some semblance of order.
"They're coming… The monsters will come here next!" a man shouts, his voice thick with fear.
"Varestand fell! Not a single one of them made it back!" a woman wails.
Inside the royal palace, in the grandeur of the royal chamber, King Edric slumps on his throne. His face is ashen, his fingers digging into the gilded armrests. He stares blankly at the ground, his mind grappling with disbelief.
"No… How did this happen?" Edric's voice trembles, hollow and strained. "We poured everything into Varestand—resources, soldiers, our greatest mages. And still… we lost? Not a single soldier survived?"
Beside him, Queen Nefia stands silently. Her hand rests gently on his shoulder, a steady presence amidst the storm of despair. Though her expression remains composed, her grip on Edric tightens, grounding him.
"Edric…" she begins softly, but there is no continuation—no assurance she can offer. What words could mend the shattering truth before them?
Edric's gaze hardens, frustration bubbling beneath his grief. His fists clench, knuckles whitening. "Our kingdom... Our people... If fifty thousand soldiers could not hold them back, then what chance do we have?"
Queen Nefia moves to face him, her eyes searching his. "We still stand," she whispers firmly. "Raltheon still stands. As long as we do, there is a chance."
Edric's expression falters, the weight of his doubt bearing down on him. For a moment, silence fills the chamber, heavy and suffocating.
Then, Nefia's voice breaks through gently, yet resolute. "Husband, what if we try to speak with them? What if we invite the king of the monsters and seek a truce? Perhaps there is a way to end this peacefully."
Edric's eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "A truce? With them? After all we've done to the monsters over the years—slaughtering their kind, pushing them back, making them our slaves—I don't think they would consider peace now, when they have every reason to seek revenge?"
Nefia meets his gaze firmly. "And yet, if we do nothing, what future is left for Raltheon? If there is even the slightest chance that a dialogue could save our people, shouldn't we take it? Isn't it worth trying?"
He sighs heavily. "Even if we wanted to… even if we reached out, would they listen? What reason would they have to trust us now? To forgive us, when they hold every advantage?"
Nefia's grip on his arm strengthens. "I don't know," she admits quietly. "But I know that if we do nothing, we condemn our people to death. If there is a chance—however small—we owe it to them to try."
Edric closes his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. The thought of kneeling before the monsters, seeking peace, goes against every instinct he has as a king. But the faces of his people—their fear, their desperation, press on his heart.
"Send out a messenger," he finally says, his voice strained. "Extend the offer. If the king of monsters refuses… then we prepare for the worst."
Nefia's shoulders ease slightly, a glimmer of hope softening her gaze. "Thank you, Edric. For considering it."
Inside his work chamber, Alix leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the transparent floating screen before him. The golden numbers, 1,500,000 gold coins, gleam brightly. The spoils from Varestand City's fall have added a significant boost to his resources.
"Who should I revive...?" Alix mutters to himself, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. Names and faces of powerful figures flash through his mind, warriors of immense strength, mages capable of calling forth disaster with their spells, strategists who had aided him greatly. The power to bring any of them back is in his grasp.
"No... I should use this money to build something," he muses, his gaze narrowing. "To strengthen the cities, to give them purpose."
He has four cities now under his banner. The system can build upon them, as long as he has blueprints and gold coins. In his system inventory, countless building blueprints sit untouched.
Standing, Alix pulls up the map of his growing kingdom on the screen. Each city marked, his capital, Misorn, Varestand, Delon, Cras. Each unique, but undefined. They need identity, a reason to thrive beyond just serving as territories.