The camp's chaos seemed to swirl around Micheal, but his focus was singular: finding Magda. His breath came in ragged gasps as he searched frantically through the smoldering remains of the battlefield. His armor, dented and smeared with grime, weighed heavy on his body, but the guilt pressing on his chest was far heavier.
"Magda!" he shouted, his voice cracking against the tumult. His heart pounded as his eyes darted over the debris, over bloodstained ground and the crumpled forms of soldiers, desperate for any sign of her.
"Where is she?" he called again, his voice rising, his chest tight with fear.
His mind clung stubbornly to hope. She had to be safe. Raphael had taken her—he wouldn't let anything happen to her. Right? The Emperor from the novel in Micheal's dream repository was ferociously protective of Magda, even when he was cold to everyone else. That thought gave him strength, but the weight of uncertainty gnawed at his resolve.
The Duke and Count Drifter found him near the central glyphs, his disheveled figure silhouetted against the dim light of the remaining formations. Micheal was on his hands and knees, desperately digging through broken rune stones as though clawing at the remnants of her presence. His voice had dropped to a mutter, soft words tumbling from his lips like a prayer.
"Micheal!" the Duke barked, his commanding tone cutting through his son's haze. "Compose yourself!"
Micheal whirled around, his pale face twisted with a mixture of despair and fury. His platinum hair, usually neat, clung to his sweat-drenched brow, and his eyes were red-rimmed and wild. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice trembling. "Did you see her? Is she safe?"
The Duke hesitated, his expression troubled. Before he could respond, Edran appeared, limping toward them. The mage looked gaunt, his robes torn, and his staff trembled in his grip.
"She's gone," Edran said softly, his voice laden with exhaustion and sorrow.
Micheal froze. The world seemed to narrow to that single, horrible sentence. "What do you mean, gone?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "She can't be gone. She—she's with Raphael, isn't she?" His eyes searched Edran's face, begging for reassurance.
Edran sighed, his shoulders slumping. "The last formation—the one protecting the camp—it was powered by Magda. She poured everything she had into it. She was ready to give her life to save us. Had the Emperor not come in time…" He trailed off, his voice breaking.
"No…" Micheal shook his head, stumbling backward as his legs buckled. "No, she wouldn't… she wouldn't do that."
"She would," Edran replied gently, though his tone was firm. "She is a mage of the Imperial Mage Tower. Every one of us swears an oath to protect the empire. To fall in battle is our greatest honor."
Micheal's mind reeled. He thought of her unwavering resolve, her strength even when the world seemed against her. He thought of the life he had dreamed of, the one they could rewrite together, and the thought of her throwing that away shattered him. His vision blurred, his breath hitched.
"She shouldn't have been here," he said suddenly, his voice raw. He turned to his father, his eyes burning with a hollow anger. "She wouldn't have been here if it weren't for me."
The Duke frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I came to Armond because of our challenge," Micheal spat, his voice rising in frustration. "She followed me because of that. If I hadn't been here, she wouldn't have been here either. She wouldn't have been in danger."
"That's enough, Micheal," the Duke said sharply.
"No, it's not enough!" Micheal shouted, his composure shattering. "You knew how dangerous this place was. You knew what a beast tide could do. But you let her stay here even when you could have sent her away. You let her stay so she could die and leave room for your precious Flora. Too bad, Father—the Emperor is a better father than you."
The Duke's face darkened, but Micheal continued, his voice cracking. "You've never cared about me. Why would you care about her? I've always been the useless son. The one who couldn't carry on the family legacy. You arranged our marriage to tie her down, didn't you? To trap her with someone who wouldn't outshine Flora. I bet you told the Emperor I was the perfect, unambitious noble son who wouldn't get in anyone's way."
"That's not true," the Duke said, his voice tight but measured.
"Isn't it?" Micheal demanded, tears streaming down his face. "You've never seen me as anything more than a disappointment. And now, because of me, Magda nearly—" He choked on the words, unable to say them aloud.
The Duke's hands clenched, but before he could respond, Drifter stepped forward, his massive frame a barrier between father and son. "Your Grace," he said quietly, his tone low but firm. "Don't. Not now."
Drifter's sharp gaze flicked between them. For a fleeting moment, he saw himself and his own son—Reuben's defiant face as they argued, the wounds they had inflicted on each other with words they could never take back. He wouldn't let the Duke make the same mistake.
Micheal sank to his knees, his anger giving way to despair. His voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse and broken. "She was ready to die. And I didn't even see it."
"Micheal—" the Duke began, his voice softer now.
"She's stronger than me," Micheal said bitterly, his tears falling freely. "She's strong enough to face beasts that terrify even the best of us. But she's also scared of the smallest things. Did you know that, Father? She's afraid of dogs. She freezes up at the sight of them. And I… I let her face something like this. Alone."
The words hung heavy in the air, a crushing weight neither the Duke nor Drifter could lift. Micheal buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as sobs wracked his body.
Edran stood silently to the side, his expression pained. The Duke opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it again, the words unspoken. Drifter placed a hand on his shoulder, a silent reminder that now was not the time for arguments.
The battlefield was quieter now, but only in the sense that the roar of beasts had been replaced by the heavy silence of loss and despair. Garrick and Claude stumbled into the scene, their faces etched with worry. Garrick's hulking form, usually so steady, now seemed weighed down by the brutal wounds he'd sustained in the fight with the Chimera. Claude's sharp hazel eyes darted between Micheal, the Duke, and Edran, his usual confident posture diminished by the grim atmosphere.
Micheal's platoon, once a ragtag band of twenty-five soldiers ranging from green recruits to battle-hardened veterans, had been decimated. Only three remained: Micheal, Claude, and Garrick. Breeze was nowhere in sight, though Micheal, drowning in his own turmoil, didn't notice. His injuries were numerous, his armor dented and smeared with blood, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the storm inside him.
"Micheal!" Claude called, his ears twitching nervously. "What's going on? Are you—"
"She's gone," Micheal interrupted, his voice hollow and lifeless. His vacant gaze bore through Claude as though the other man weren't even there. "She was going to die. And I couldn't stop her."
Garrick stepped forward, his arms folded but his brow furrowed deeply. "What are you talking about, Prince?"
Micheal let out a bitter laugh, tinged with hysteria. His bloodshot eyes turned to them, the sheer weight of his despair radiating from every pore. "Do you know who my father-in-law is?" His voice cracked, swinging wildly between bitterness and disbelief. "The Emperor. That's right—the Emperor himself. And me? I'm just the famed useless son-in-law of the Emperor."
Claude blinked, his jaw dropping. "The Emperor?" he echoed, the shock evident in his voice. "Micheal, maybe you've taken one too many blows to the head. This… this doesn't sound right."
"Yeah, go lie down or something," Garrick muttered, his bear-like features creasing in confusion as he glanced toward the Duke and Count Drifter, hoping for some kind of explanation. But Micheal wasn't done.
"She's my wife!" Micheal breathed, his voice breaking. "Magda! She's the strongest, most precious person I've ever known—and she was ready to die! She was ready to throw her life away, and I—" His knees buckled, and Garrick instinctively steadied him.
"Hey, hey," Garrick said, his deep voice softening, though his own mind reeled with the implications. As Micheal's words sunk in, pieces of the puzzle clicked into place: Magda, the Imperial Mage who had treated their ragtag Rowdy Barracks with surprising kindness and camaraderie, wasn't just anyone. She was Micheal's wife.
Garrick's eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Micheal continued, his tone frantic and broken. "I don't even know if she's alive. Edran says she was ready to sacrifice herself. My father says I should just be understanding, that the Emperor took her. But why? Why would she leave with him? Is she hurt? Is she angry? Or did she just leave because I was too blind to see what she was planning?"
Claude stepped closer, his ears drooping. "Micheal…" he began hesitantly. His gaze softened, memories flooding back of the countless nights in their tent. Micheal would sit with his com-tab, typing with fervent determination, only to grow silent and despondent moments later. Claude was certain Micheal had never sent any of those messages, yet his longing for the recipient was painfully clear. "Did something happen to Magda?"Micheal's shoulders trembled as he buried his face in his hands. "I don't know, Claude," he whispered. "I don't know anything anymore."
Claude, overwhelmed by the weight of Micheal's grief, pulled him into an embrace. "It's not your fault," he murmured. "None of this is your fault."
"It is!" Micheal cried, his voice muffled against Claude's shoulder. "She wouldn't have been here if it weren't for me. And our comrades…" He pulled away, his tear-streaked face twisted with guilt. "I failed them too. I promised them armor, the best protection I could make. But they're all gone. I couldn't save them."
He sank to his knees, his sobs wracking his body. Claude crouched beside him, his own expression heavy with sorrow. Garrick stood nearby, his arms crossed tightly, his features grim. Neither knew what to say—how could they? The weight of loss was something each soldier carried differently, but Micheal's pain was too raw and unrelenting for someone so new to the battlefield.
The Duke approached, his expression conflicted. "Ethan," he said quietly, his gaze never leaving Micheal's trembling form. "Take him home."
Ethan, who had been standing silently nearby, nodded. His usual confident demeanor was gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier. He knelt beside Micheal, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Micheal," he said gently. "Let's get you out of here."
Micheal didn't resist as Ethan helped him to his feet. His body moved on autopilot, his mind too clouded to register much of anything. As they walked away, Garrick and Claude watched in silence, the shock and sadness etched on their faces.
The Duke and Count Drifter exchanged a glance, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on them. Drifter, his gaze thoughtful, placed a hand on the Duke's shoulder. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "it's better to let the storm pass before trying to fix the damage."
The Duke nodded, though his expression was one of deep regret. For now, they could only hope that time and family would help Micheal find his footing again.
As Ethan guided Micheal toward the carriage waiting at the camp's edge, Micheal glanced back, his tear-filled eyes scanning the horizon. Ethan helped him into the carriage, where Barnaby, as if on cue, appeared and carefully assisted him inside. At the sight of Barnaby, Micheal, who had been semi-conscious until now, finally let go of his worries and slipped into unconsciousness.
The battlefield had grown eerily quiet, the remnants of the beast tide scattered and defeated. Count Drifter stood near the battered glyphs, his sharp eyes scanning the aftermath. Soldiers moved with weary determination, tending to the wounded and beginning the laborious task of repairing the camp. The air was thick with exhaustion, but there was also a sense of grim accomplishment.
Drifter glanced toward the rows of broken armor and scattered weapons, his gaze lingering on the strange, patchwork creations Micheal had brought to the battlefield. The reinforced aura-threaded leather joints and the now-famous man-bra had saved more lives than anyone could have imagined. Though unconventional, these innovations had made the Armond battalion uniquely resilient.
"Not bad for a merchant prince," Drifter muttered under his breath, a rare note of admiration in his voice. Deep down, he knew the toll could have been much worse. In the chaos of a combined red sky and red fog, the loss was far less devastating than he had feared.
Outside the camp, four Imperial mages arrived to repair the shattered formations. Their synchronized movements and glowing mana threads began knitting the barriers back together. Drifter watched them work, a silent testament to the Emperor's intervention. Without Micheal, Drifter knew the Shelb troops and Imperial mage tower's assistance might never have been secured.
Location: Imperial Palace
Far from the battlefield, Raphael Valoria entered the Imperial Palace with Magda cradled in his arms. His normally imposing presence was softened by the tenderness in his crimson eyes as he carried his daughter into a private sanctuary. The room was bathed in soft golden light, its air rich with the scent of mana-soaked incense. It was a haven he had created years ago, a space untouched by the world's chaos.
Placing Magda's comatose body gently onto a plush bed, Raphael sat beside her, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. Her physical form was pale and still, but within their shared domain—a shimmering realm of crimson and gold—Magda's soul was vibrant and alive. He had decided to leave her physical body outside the shared domain, as he believed that it would be better for her physical injuries to be taken care of professionally.
In the domain, Magda's spiritual form lay reclined on a floating cushion of light, her posture relaxed as if she were soaking in the warmth of her father's presence. The crimson hues of the space pulsed gently around her, echoing the steady rhythm of Raphael's mana.
"Father," she said, her voice soft and content. She stretched lazily, her crimson eyes shimmering with a childlike glow. "This is nice."
Raphael's lips curved into a rare, genuine smile as he knelt beside her. "You need to rest," he said, his tone warm but firm. "Your physical body has been through too much. Let me take care of you, as I should have done from the beginning."
Magda tilted her head, her expression curious yet teasing. "You sound so serious, Father. Aren't you supposed to be ruling an empire?"
Raphael chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the domain. "The empire can wait. Right now, my only concern is you."
Magda leaned back further, a faint pout on her lips. "You're only saying that because I scared you."
"You did scare me," Raphael admitted, his crimson eyes darkening with the memory. "But you've always scared me, Magda. From the moment I lost your mother, I've been terrified of losing you too."
Her teasing smile faltered, replaced by a quiet vulnerability. "I… I didn't think you cared this much."
Raphael reached out, his hand brushing lightly against hers. "I should have shown you sooner. But now, you're here. You're safe. And you're going to stay that way."
Magda's soul seemed to brighten within the domain, her spirit basking in the warmth of his unwavering attention. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to relax completely, to let her father's love envelop her like a protective shield.
"You always make everything sound so simple," she said, her voice laced with affection.
Raphael's smile softened. "Because some things are. You are my daughter, Magda. That alone makes you my most precious treasure."
As the domain pulsed gently around them, Magda closed her eyes, a soft smile on her lips. For now, she would rest, trusting her father to watch over her.