The Wanderer stumbled back, his boots dragging through the dirt as the world began to tilt and blur. He clutched his side, the hilt of the dagger still buried in his ribs.
Rohan rose, grabbing his blade from the earth and unleashed a flurry of slashes. The Wanderer moved to dodge, but he was losing control over his body. Unable to balance, he tripped over a rock, hitting the ground hard.
"You... poisoned me!" the Wanderer wheezed, the venom already spreading.
Rohan leaped, bringing his sword down in a final, vertical execution aimed at the Wanderer's skull.
The Wanderer tried to spring away, but his legs failed him. He managed only a desperate pivot; the steel missed his head but bit deep into his shoulder. The blade cut through flesh and bone, severing his arm completely.
The Wanderer collapsed to his knees, his remaining hand clamping over the wound in a futile attempt to stop the crimson torrent.
"Send my regards to Tharos," Rohan said, his voice a cold whisper. He raised his sword for the killing blow.
The world slowed to a crawl. The sound of the wind and the distant war died away, replaced by rumbling from deep within his chest. The Spiral was awakening, its gears grinding against the limits of his soul. His mana circles spun with such violence they began to spark, screaming as they fused together.
The fourth circle manifested.
Just as Rohan’s blade was about to connect, the Wanderer’s hand shot up, catching the steel with his bare palm. His body erupted in a surge of magic. The anti-magic armor glowed brighter, trying to swallow the endless flood of mana pouring out of him.
The Wanderer stood, the sheer heat of his aura cauterizing the ruin of his shoulder in a hiss.
"Why won't you just die!" Rohan screamed, pulling his sword back and swinging with everything he had left.
Moved, reappearing inches from Rohan’s chest. The sword shattered against the Wanderer’s reinforced skin. Before Rohan could even gasp, the Wanderer drove his hand into the center of Rohan's abdomen. The Valorian armor cracked, the Wanderer’s fingers tearing through the gut and locking onto the spine.
Rohan’s eyes bulged. He clawed at the Wanderer’s face, a choked scream dying in his throat as the pain overwhelmed his senses.
With a roar, the Wanderer wrenched his hand back. He tore a section of the spine free, pulling it clean from the body. Rohan slumped, his life extinguished before his head hit the ground.
The Wanderer straddled the corpse, his vision swimming in a sea of red. He gripped the shard of spine and drove it into Rohan’s throat. He stabbed again and again, a mindless shriek tearing from his lungs until the bone fragment shattered into white dust in his hand.
He fell silent, his chest heaving as he looked up at the pale Lythran sun. His strength vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The fourth circle flickered and died, and the Wanderer’s body gave out, collapsing heavily onto the cooling remains of his enemy.
The world moved up and down in a nauseating motion. As the Wanderer drifted in and out of consciousness, he saw the jade streets of Lythra passing beneath him, now streaked with blood. He caught Skida’s boots stepping over the dead with indifference.
"You missed the fun part, maggot," her voice drifted down.
The world slipped into darkness again.
When he finally woke, he was staring at the cracked ceiling of a military infirmary. He jolted upright, his eyes darting around the room. The ward was a cramped corridor of misery. He was surrounded by the true cost of the conquest: soldiers with scorched skin and men staring at the empty spaces where their limbs used to be.
Past the grunts and screams, he began to search. He dragged himself from the cot, his movements stiff and agonizing, looking for a familiar face among the rows of wounded. He checked every bed, every shadowed corner, looking for Kuma. Though deep in his chest, he knew the truth.
He left the ward, his feet leading him toward the military graveyard on the outskirts. The air was thick with the scent of fresh earth and the muffled sobbing of families. He moved through the rows, his gaze scanning the fresh carvings on the stone markers until he found it.
Kuma.
He sank to the ground, his knees hitting the dirt hard. He stared at the name, the reality finally breaking through the numbness. Tears blurred his vision, dripping onto the fresh soil.
"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m so sorry, my friend. If I hadn’t split up... if I hadn't been so focused on my own ghosts, you’d be here." He looked at the horizon. "Damn this city. Damn this world."
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder.
"He was a good kid," Valak’s voice rumbled behind him.
The Wanderer looked up, his face a mask of agony. "I killed him, Sarge. He’s dead because I walked away."
Valak looked down at the Wanderer’s amputated arm. "You did your best. War has a cost, even for those who walk away with the win." He gripped the Wanderer’s good arm, pulling him upward. "Come on. Let’s get out of this place."
They walked in silence to a nearby tavern. Inside, the atmosphere was a contrast to the graveyard. Soldiers were shouting, clashing mugs, and singing songs of victory. The Wanderer sat across from Valak, staring blankly into a cup of untouched ale.
"You’ve been out for three days," Valak said. "Skida brought you back with the rest of the wounded, but Draemir doesn't have much use for the dead. She left the bodies back in Lythra."
The Wanderer looked up. "So even that grave... was empty."
Valak nodded, avoiding his gaze."Conquest leaves a trail of bodies too long to follow. We’d run out of land if we buried every soldier. Those tombstones out there. They’re recycled. They’ll carve new names over the old ones after the next campaign."
"What about the city?" the Wanderer asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Any survivors?"
"I don't know if you had someone there," Valak said, looking into his own drink. "But the survivors were executed on the spot. Skida doesn't risk uprisings from Qi users. They aren't like the Crescentians. They aren't seen as useful enough to keep as shadows."
The image of Kaelen’s face smeared with soot, her eyes full of a curse flashed through the Wanderer’s mind. He leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, the weight of the last few days finally settling on him, as the ghost pain of his lost arm started to sting.
"You’re exhausted," Valak said, standing up and reaching for the Wanderer's arm. "How about you stay at my place for a while? Stay until you figure out what comes next."
Valak pulled him from the chair and led him out of the tavern. They walked through the city streets toward the Sergeant's home, leaving the ghosts of Lythra behind in the dark.
They stepped into the modest warmth of Valak’s home. A young woman stood near the door; as they entered, she hugged Valak as he entered.
"This is the Wanderer," Valak said, his voice softening. "The man who saved your life."
The girl offered a bright smile and bowed deeply. "Thank you, sir. I owe you everything."
Despite the hollow ache of his grief, the Wanderer was surprised. She looked so young, barely more than a child. He managed a silent bow in return, the words catching in his throat.
Valak led him down a narrow hallway to a small guest room. "You stay here as long as you need," he said, gesturing to the bed.
The Wanderer leaned against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on the floor. "Skida really intended to send her to Luna?"
Valak’s face clouded, the lines of age and weariness deepening into a mask of grief. "That woman is cruel, even by Draemiran standards," he sighed, the weight of his years in service heavy in his voice. He paused, then cleared his throat. "In two days, there is a ceremony to mark the victory. Your presence is required. You’re to receive a medal of honor."
The Wanderer sat on the edge of the bed, his lone hand resting uselessly on his lap. "I have no use for a piece of metal."
"Skida won't let you skip it," Valak warned, leaning against the wall. "She wants her heroes on display. It’s about the image of the army, not the man."
The Wanderer kept staring at the floor, his eyes tracing the uneven patterns in the stone floor. The silence stretched between them.
"Don’t decide now," Valak said gently. "Just get some rest. That’s an order from a retired Sergeant."
The Wanderer gave a slow nod and laid back on the bed. As Valak quietly pulled the door shut, the Wanderer stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.