War may strip a person of their humanity, but at the same time, it reveals the hidden truths deep within souls.
A man stood calmly in the midst of the fallen monsters, wearing a nearly damaged black armor, holding his sword with empty eyes.
The remaining guardians were overwhelmed by waves of monsters. It was unclear how many of them were still alive.
And of course, they had no idea what was happening with Mark. They were only sure that he was dead.
Woooooo... Woooooo... Wooooo...
At that moment, the smoke cloud began to thicken, covering their backs, adding a sense of tension and anxiety among them. The sounds from afar echoed in their minds like eerie whispers.
One of them shouted, "Is this another group of monsters?" But the reply came swiftly from another, "Damn, my cursed luck!"
At that moment, a laughing voice erupted from among the group, casting a mocking glance at what was happening. "Hahaha, at least I'll die with honor."
But Barbon, who was standing atop a pile of monsters, raised his sword high with enthusiasm, announcing in a firm voice, "No! We will not die today!"
"They are allies!" He seemed determined that there was still hope.
Allies!
That one word sparked several actions.
As the battle reached its peak, the guardians hurried to slay the monsters in front of them. With every strike, they threw burning glances to see through the thick smoke.
Little by little, white flags began to appear in the sky, revealing sharp, armed horses close by, carrying with them the hope and promise of survival.
The white flags fluttered in the sky, as if witnessing the end.
The rows of warriors advanced, their horses pounding the earth with heavy steps, drawing their swords from their sheaths as they gleamed on the horizon. Then, in an instant, the blades fell on the Kreetor's skin, tearing through flesh and spilling blood everywhere, while the warriors' screams filled the air.
Kill!
Kill!
Kill!
The earth trembled under the force of the attack, and bodies fell mercilessly. The screams of pain merged with the sound of swords meeting flesh. The slaughter was brutal, and everything was lost except for the bodies scattered around.
"Our mission is not annihilation; the most important thing is to save the men of the Remil family and retreat," raised a man's spear into the air, giving orders.
"Leave the battlefield, men. Help whoever you can and retreat to the city!"
The city of Redm separated the Remil and Sevrin clans. This city had been built by the two clans since their founding for trade and resource exchange, and it was completely neutral to both sides.
But it had one task: to help any men from either family who were in danger and near its region.
The remaining guardians moved through a sea of bodies, as if alive in an open graveyard. The ground beneath their feet was slippery from the blood that had yet to dry.
They stood before the bodies, stunned by the scene.
Broken swords, some fallen beside their wielders, others embedded in the bodies before them.
Next to their owners, bearing their names like gravestones, they paused for a moment, their breaths trembling as they read the names engraved on their comrades' swords.
These silent gravestones told a story that had ended. They bowed in reverence, aware that carrying the bodies in this moment was dangerous. They settled for carrying only their swords, which bore their names.
In the chaos of battle, one of the guardians found the body of a fallen comrade among the debris, blood, and dirt. He knelt beside the body.
His hands trembled as he tried to clean it slightly, his face covered in blood, his dim eyes staring into an empty space unseen by anyone.
Among the blood and dirt, the sword was embedded beside him.
He reached out with his trembling hand to remove it. But suddenly, he froze in silence.
The guardian's eyes, weighed down with sorrow, were fixed on his comrade's face in shock at what he saw.
His jaw muscles tightened, and he could taste the blood in his mouth from the pressure on his lips. He whispered in a voice thick with grief and frustration, "Why… are you smiling like this?"
The face of the dead guardian was stiff, shaped into a smile.
He continued in a broken tone, as if speaking to himself more than to the corpse:
"Was… was honor worth more than your life? Is that what you wanted?"
"Didn't you say you'd form your own group?"
"Didn't you say we'd travel the world together?" The guardian gripped his comrade's sword with his bare hands, squeezing so tightly that drops of blood flowed.
"Why didn't you stay by my side, brother… Why?"
It was shameful to cry for heroes…
The remaining guardians gathered near the leader of Redm City's forces. As they got closer, the figure appeared to be an old man with a prominent black beard and a rough face, but his body seemed in good health.
He was known in the region among warriors as the "Lame Barco."
He dismounted his horse gracefully, leaping on one leg while the other was made of wood.
He said nothing, slowly drew his sword, and raised it vertically with both hands in front of his face. The warriors followed him, raising their swords in a straight line.
The warriors formed an honor corridor with their swords.
This was a ceremonial tribute to the fallen heroes. It wasn't an exaggeration to greet them this way.
Hats are raised to the dead heroes,
While swords are raised to the living heroes.
Warriors bow to kings and tyrants.
The heaps of fallen monsters and rivers of blood everywhere, and their survival through all of this, were enough for any warrior to respect them.
Even the knights had to respect them!
The guardians walked silently between the path opened by the warriors.
Thirty-two guardians had entered the plains, but only six remained now, and even more, they had lost a knight.
It was a devastating blow to the Remil family.
"Form up and retreat," Barco mounted his horse and shouted deeply.
The guardians entered the carriage, and the warriors formed a defensive formation around them.
"Urgent report!
Urgent report!"
A white warrior hurried to the leader and spoke quickly. "Sir, there's an unknown person fighting the Kreetor alone," the warrior spoke rapidly.
Barco furrowed his brow. "What, alone? Who is it? Is he crazy?" the leader spoke in a rough voice.
He paused for a moment, then continued, "Try to save him if you can, and then return." The old man wasn't about to sacrifice his soldiers for one person, especially since it was unclear who he was.
He was sure that all the remaining guardians were in the carriage before him.
At that moment, the warrior wanted to speak more but stammered.
The leader raised his eyebrows slightly. "What else?"
"Sir, it doesn't seem like he needs saving. He... he's... he's destroying them all with one arm!" the warrior spoke slowly, shocked by what he heard.
"What!"
The leader and all the warriors were stunned, but one loud reaction stood out, and it came from one of the guardians. "Did you say with one arm…"
---
Drops!
Drops!
He stood alone amidst the dust and the loud screams, crimson drops falling from his entire body, blending with the rivers of blood around him.
Every sound that came near him was met with a single swing of his sword, tearing through his black armor, leaving only small fragments on his body.
Several black lines appeared on his left arm holding the sword, and if one looked closely, high parts of his body also showed other black lines resembling veins more than anything.
Behind him, Mark lay on a blood-soaked corpse, his eyes wide in stunned disbelief as he watched Syron's actions.
"Is this the true power of a knight?" That was the only thought in his mind.
Syron stood motionless, saying nothing, every monster that approached him or Mark was sliced in half by a single swing of his sword.
"Is he protecting me?" The feeling of being protected was wonderful, but he felt like more of a burden at this point.