The battle raged on, Kseradyn unfazed by the bullet lodged deep within him. Even as blood dripped from the wound, painting a cruel contrast against his pristine armor, he did not falter. He did not slow. His strikes came with the same maddening force, each swing of his fists a breath away from severing Sylvain's lifeline.
Sylvain barely managed to dodge, his mind racing against the rhythm of death. His muscles burned, his breathing ragged, but his mind—his mind was clear. Sharp. Ruthless. His surroundings blurred as his consciousness expanded beyond the battlefield.
The city. The entire structure of it. He had memorized every street, every alley, every window. He could see it, perfect in his mind—a flawless three-dimensional map, as if he were hovering above it like a god looking down upon a chessboard.
"Two thousand meters far, northwest… a window with an open shot."
Kseradyn lunged. Sylvain barely twisted away, the prince's fists carving a deep gash into the stone behind him. If his bet was wrong, if he miscalculated even a fraction, there would be nowhere left to dodge. He would die here. But if he was right…
Sylvain's voice rang out, cutting through the chaos.
"Raven! Shoot!"
Far beyond the battlefield, perched in the outskirts, Raven had been watching. She had been watching for days, waiting, unmoving. The wind barely kissed her skin as she exhaled, steadying her aim. Her fingers curled around the trigger with a grace that bordered on the divine.
"Flames out! cap "
The moment Sylvain's words left his lips, the shot was already fired.
A single bullet, energized, screaming through the air. It tore through the distance, a perfect arc through the heavens. It found its mark—piercing through the narrow window, striking true.
Kseradyn's neck.
The prince staggered. His body trembled, his balance lost. His knees buckled, the weight of his own form crashing against the earth. The ground quaked beneath him as he fell, an unnatural silence momentarily swallowing the battlefield.
Sylvain stood over him, chest rising and falling, his eyes locked onto the fallen monster. Was it over?
Sylvain took a step back, catching his breath, his body still tense. It was over. He had won.
But then—Kseradyn moved.
Before Sylvain could react, the prince's trembling hand shot out and grasped his wrist. But it wasn't an attack. Kseradyn pulled him close, his grip weak yet unrelenting. And then—he embraced him.
A shiver ran through Sylvain's body. It wasn't the touch itself that unsettled him—it was what came with it. He felt something, something faint, like the whisper of an unseen presence brushing against his mind. Kseradyn's consciousness... it was reaching out. But Sylvain saw nothing. No visions, no fragments of memory.
Yet Kseradyn did.
The prince's copper eyes widened, as if he had just glimpsed something far beyond comprehension. A truth that left him breathless, not with fear, but with understanding.
"I see…" Kseradyn murmured, his voice quieter now, yet steady. His lips curled into a small, warm smile—one so unlike the twisted grins of pleasure he wore in battle. This smile had no malice, no desperation. Only peace. "So your goal isn't like mine after all… You're beyond special…" His hand trembled against Sylvain's back. "See you in the next loop… my only friend."
Sylvain froze. His heart clenched in his chest at those words. His only friend?
Kseradyn—the butcher, the prince of Ilisar, the monster who had reveled in suffering—was smiling as he faced death. And for the first time, Sylvain saw something human in him. Something real.
"What do you mean, 'next loop'?" Sylvain's voice cracked, his mind racing. "I intend to make this the last! What did you see, Kseradyn? Don't die on me now—tell me!"
But it was too late.
Kseradyn exhaled a final, shallow breath. His grip loosened. His body slumped against Sylvain before slipping away entirely, collapsing onto the bloodstained ground.
The warmth of his presence faded. And the city, once filled with the echoes of battle, now felt unbearably silent.
Sylvain stood there, staring at the lifeless body before him. He should have felt relief. Victory. But instead, all he felt was an unfamiliar hollowness gnawing at his chest.
For all the madness, all the cruelty, Kseradyn had been the only one who truly understood him. The only one who had offered him something beyond the chains of expectation—freedom. A partner in rebellion, and now he was gone. Sylvain clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.
Sylvain remained on his knees, his breath shallow, his hands still clutching the lifeless form of Kseradyn. The once-proud prince of Ilisar lay motionless in a pool of blood, his expression frozen in that final, eerily serene smile. The battle had ended. And yet, victory tasted like ash in Sylvain's mouth.
He barely registered the sound of footsteps approaching from behind—until a sudden, brutal force struck the side of his head.
The back of a gun.
The impact sent a sharp wave of pain crashing through his skull. His vision blurred, colors bleeding into each other as his body crumpled to the ground. The cold, slick blood beneath him seeped into his clothes, but even that sensation was quickly fading. The world was slipping away.
Through the haze of his fading consciousness, he heard voices.
"Very good," came Pierre Welter's voice . "I need to reclaim the body of the prince for inspection. His… peculiar condition warrants further study."
One of the soldiers hesitated before speaking. "And what about Master Sylvain, sir?"
Pierre scoffed. "Throw him to an Ilisarian trader. He'll fetch a fine price as a slave." His tone was dismissive, as if discussing the fate of livestock. "Him being in Steelgate will only make it more difficult for me to burn it the Flamesworth to the ground."
Pierre planned to betray Sylvain ?
Sylvain wanted to react—to move, to fight back—but his body was betraying him. His limbs felt distant, his thoughts slow and muddled.
The soldier gave a curt nod. "Yessir, as you wish."
Sylvain's vision darkened. The last thing he saw was Kseradyn's body being hoisted away, his copper eyes still staring blankly into nothing.
Then—nothing.
A long, suffocating silence.
And then—cold.
When Sylvain's eyes finally cracked open, the first thing he felt was the bite of metal against his skin. Heavy iron chains clamped around his wrists, his ankles, and worst of all—his neck. His body swayed, the unmistakable creak of wood beneath him telling him where he was before he even had to look.
A ship.
The air was thick with salt, sweat, and despair. Around him, dozens of other figures sat in the same wretched condition—shackled, silent, their gazes empty.
Slaves.
The realization hit him like a blade to the gut.
He had been discarded. Sold. Reduced to property, his name stripped away, his identity reduced to nothing more than a commodity.
A member of the houses, a prodigy, a Flamesworth—none of it mattered anymore.
Sylvain exhaled, his jaw tightening.
Pierre thought he had thrown him away like garbage. But he had made a mistake.
Sylvain Flamesworth was still alive, and no cage—no chain—would hold him forever.