The battlefield was a hushed chaos now, the deafening roars and clashes of steel had fallen into an eerie lull. Most of the gang members lay sprawled on the ground—some wounded, others paralyzed by fear, their will to fight extinguished. A few still clung to their savagery, snarling and held their weapons, determined to fight despite the odds. Among them, others had shifted to tending to their comrades, their resolve broken by fear or injury.

Scuttle lay motionless, his body sprawled on the dirt like a discarded puppet. Zuri moved like a tigress among prey, her rings slicing through the air with deadly precision. She evaded every strike aimed at her, leaping and spinning in a mesmerizing dance of death, her focus sharp as she hunted down the remaining gang members with unrelenting ferocity.

Nobu and Fallow were locked in a brutal exchange, their weapons clashing with bone-jarring force. Nobu’s twin swords bore the weight of his exhaustion, his movements slightly slower after felling more than two dozen gang members yet he was determined. Fallow grinned with bloodied lips, his blade a blur as he pressed on, unrelenting. Nobu’s muscles strained, his polar-bear fur matted with sweat and blood, but he didn’t falter. This was no ordinary fight; it was a test of will, and Nobu refused to yield.

The villagers watched in tense silence from the edges of the battlefield. The stakes still stood tall in the distance, where their kin and the guild members were tied, beaten, and bloodied. The cries of children—whimpering, groaning in pain—carried through the air like ghostly echoes, each sound a dagger to the hearts of those who heard it. Yet, the villagers stood frozen, rooted in place as though their feet had become part of the earth itself.

Fear gripped them—the kind of fear that robbed a person of their strength, their resolve. It was a suffocating force, heavy as a shroud, binding their limbs and silencing their voices. Even as they saw their saviors fighting valiantly, even as the tide of the battle seemed to shift, the villagers couldn’t bring themselves to act. The stakes, with their horrifying display of human suffering, were not just physical objects but symbols of their submission. Each bloodied figure tied to those wooden stakes served as a grim reminder of the gang’s cruelty, a warning etched into their minds that resistance meant death—or worse.

Fear, that insidious force, was a poison. It turned conviction into paralysis, twisting the mind to accept injustice as an unchangeable truth. It whispered lies into their ears: You are too weak. You cannot win. Fighting will only bring more suffering. The villagers had internalized those lies so deeply that even their most primal instincts—to protect their children, to save their own—had been buried under the weight of terror.

Yet fear was not the absence of courage but its proving ground. Courage wasn’t ordinary—it was a spark that ignited revolutions, a gift bestowed upon the few who dared to stand against tyranny. It was what separated those who acted from those who only watched. Courage was not the lack of fear but the ability to rise in spite of it, to refuse to let the iron fist of terror crush the flicker of hope. Without it, humanity would remain enslaved to its own dread, a prisoner in chains forged by its own mind.

The villagers' hearts ached as they watched the stakes, their breaths shallow and their hands trembling. They could hear the faint cries of their loved ones, but their bodies refused to move. Mothers clenched their fists, fathers grit their teeth, and children hid behind them, peering out with wide, tearful eyes. Their fear wasn’t just of the gang or the stakes—it was of the memories of those who had tried to fight back before and paid with their lives.

In front of the villagers stood Clergyman Winfreth. Blood dripped from the head of his staff, but his hands remained clasped in prayer. His eyes were closed, his face serene, a portrait of unwavering faith in the divine even in the face of despair. He whispered prayers, his lips moving silently as though summoning strength from a higher power for the fighters on the field.

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Meanwhile, at the heart of the battlefield, Ivo staggered, his legs barely supporting him. Blood dripped from his mouth, and his breaths came shallow and ragged. Each step felt like dragging a mountain and every breath was a struggle. Before him, Boko Salerno charged with the force of a storm, his enormous fists clenched and ready to crush everything in his path, his smirk a cruel reminder of his dominance.

Ivo’s mind went blank. His purpose, his resolve all of it dissolved into the haze of exhaustion and despair, his vision blurring. He felt nothing but resignation, his battered body no longer responding to his will. Boko’s massive shadow engulfed him, the final blow imminent. His colossal fist, ready to bring it down on Ivo in a crushing blow. Time seemed to slow. The air thickened with the inevitability of defeat.

Then, a gust of wind tore through the stillness, sharp and sudden. With it came a radiant, serpentine form—a golden Pneuma dragon streaking toward Boko. Its scales shimmered like sunlight on water, and its roar was a thunderclap. The dragon slammed into Boko with a ferocious roar, halting his advance and forcing him to skid backward.

Fuma landed between Ivo and Boko, his stance firm, his fists crackling with golden pneuma (energy). He turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes fixed on Boko. “You think you can hurt him?” Fuma’s voice was steady, a quiet storm. “Not on my watch.”

Boko growled, wiping the corner of his mouth where the dragon had grazed him. His eyes burned with rage as Fuma released another Pneuma dragon, this one roaring louder and faster. Boko leapt back, his massive frame moving with agility, but the dragon’s tail caught him mid-air, sending him crashing into the ground with a grunt.

Ivo’s eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry. He blinked, and through the haze, he saw Fuma standing tall, his back to him, unyielding like a shield. Ivo’s breath hitched. For a moment, he felt small, weak, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, his head hanging low. Fuma glanced back at him, his gaze softening.

“Captain,” Fuma said, crouching to his level, “get up.”

“It's over, Fuma,” Ivo muttered, his voice hollow. “We don’t stand a chance. We can’t… we can’t win. They’re too strong. It's hopeless.”

Fuma placed his hand on Ivo’s shoulder firmly, forcing him to look up. “Is that why we created this guild? Is that why we’re here—to give up when it gets tough?” He gestured toward the stakes scattered around them. “Look around you, Captain.”

With effort, Ivo turned his head. His gaze fell on the stakes where women, children, and men were bound, their bodies battered, their faces obscured by white cloth. Their muffled cries carried through the battlefield a haunting reminder of their suffering. Even though their faces were hidden, their struggles to breathe, their faint groans of pain, and the subtle movements of their bodies spoke volumes. They hadn’t given up. They clung to life, enduring the agony as though holding onto a fragile thread of hope, unseen but still burning within.

“They’re still fighting, Captain,” Fuma said, his voice unwavering. “Even now, with nothing left, they’re fighting to survive, hoping that someone will save them. And that someone is us. We’re their last hope—we can’t fail them.”

Ivo’s chest tightened. He clenched his fists, his breathing deepening as Fuma’s words ignited something within him. Purpose. Determination. He pushed himself to his feet, steadying his trembling legs. He looked Fuma in the eye and nodded, his expression hardened with resolve.

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“You’re right,” Ivo said, his voice stronger now. “We have to do this. No matter what.”

Fuma grinned, stepping back. “Then let’s get to work. You handle that oversized bastard and I am going to free the people.”

“Thanks, Fuma. Now go. Get those people down safely”, Ivo said his tone calm.

Fuma nodded and darted off toward the stakes, his movements swift and purposeful. Ivo turned back to Boko, who was already on his feet, his expression dark with fury.

Ivo took a step forward, his voice a battle cry that rang across the battlefield. “I’m going to take down you, one way or another. Scarhead!”

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Nobu and Fallow stood a few paces apart, their breaths visible in the frigid air as they sized each other up. The ground beneath them was slick with blood and mud, the remnants of earlier clashes. Nobu’s twin long swords gleamed under the morning light, while Fallow’s single blade rested easily in his hand, its edge sharp.

The tension between them snapped like a taut string, and they charged. Nobu’s twin swords clashed against Fallow’s blade in a burst of sparks. Their movements were swift, calculated, and ferocious. Fallow moved with the precision of a seasoned fighter, using the weight and length of his blade to his advantage, while Nobu’s strikes were powerful yet controlled, each swing threatening to split the air itself.

As Fallow pressed forward, he noticed Nobu’s uncanny ability to evade at the last possible moment. A sharp vertical slash came down toward Nobu’s shoulder, but his form shimmered briefly—glitching—and the blade passed harmlessly through him. Nobu countered instantly, his own sword slashing upward and forcing Fallow to leap back.

“What the—” Fallow muttered, regaining his footing. He lunged again, testing, this time aiming low at Nobu’s legs. Again, Nobu’s form shimmered, phasing out of reality as Fallow’s blade sliced through empty air. The Zoanthrope sidestepped, his crimson eyes calm and unyielding.

“Interesting trick,” Fallow said. His muddy brown hair was matted to his forehead, but his eyes gleamed with confidence. “For a mutt.”

Nobu didn’t respond immediately. His eyes locked onto Fallow, steady and calculating. His towering frame, clad in his blue-and-red samurai outfit, radiated raw power. His grip on his swords tightened.

Fallow smirked, feigning a loose grip on his weapon as he circled. “Strong, fast, and tricky—guess you’re not just thick fur after all. I might even say you’re wasted on that guild of yours.”

Nobu remained silent, his muscles coiled like a spring. Fallow lunged once more, his blade aiming for Nobu’s chest, but Nobu glitched again, his form shimmering just as the blade came close. Fallow’s swing carried him slightly off balance, and Nobu seized the opportunity, delivering a punishing kick to his side that sent him skidding across the ground.

Coughing, Fallow staggered to his feet, his smirk faltering only slightly. “Impressive,” he said, spitting blood onto the ground. “Looks like you’re more than just a beast swinging swords. But you’re still just a mutt trying to play samurai.”

The Nobu's expression didn’t change, but his grip on his swords tightened.

Fallow straightened, spinning his blade in a slow arc. “I’ll admit, your guild has talent. First an enhancer, now a lowly animal who can glitch—an Evoker. Impressive. But tell me, why waste your strength serving a kid pretending to be a leader?”

Nobu’s lips pulled back in a slight snarl, exposing his sharp teeth. “I made a promise,” he said simply, his voice deep and resonant. “To be the sword of Ivo ‘The Magnificent’ Gadall. That’s all you need to know.”

Fallow snorted, raising his blade. “A mutt like you, clinging to petty promises to a kid? Pathetic. Join us, and I promise you’ll get the respect you deserve. We could use someone with your... tricks.”

Nobu’s stance didn’t falter. “Respect?” he echoed, his voice steady but cold. “You mean the kind you show when you hang children and women on stakes? Or the kind where you treat Zoanthropes as less than human? No thanks.”

Fallow’s smirk twisted into a sneer. “Suit yourself, beast. But don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

Without warning, Fallow lunged, his blade flashing in a deadly arc. Nobu didn’t move until the last possible moment. His form shimmered, glitching as Fallow’s blade passed through him harmlessly, as if slicing air.

Fallow stumbled slightly, his eyes widening. “Oh, so that’s how it is,” he muttered, regaining his footing. “No wonder you’ve lasted this long.”

Nobu didn’t reply. He struck with one of his long swords, the blade coming down like a guillotine. Fallow parried, their weapons clashing with a deafening clang. Sparks flew as they traded blows, their movements blurring together. Nobu’s strength was evident in every swing, each strike forcing Fallow to dig his heels into the bloodied ground.

As the fight intensified, Fallow’s frustration grew. Every time he aimed for a decisive strike, Nobu’s body glitched, his attacks passing through without so much as a scratch. When Fallow adjusted his timing to try to exploit a moment after Nobu glitched, the Zoanthrope was already a step ahead, countering with brutal efficiency.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Fallow snarled, his teeth clenched as he parried another strike. “All these tricks, yet you’re nothing more than a freak playing warrior.”

Nobu’s crimson eyes narrowed. He twisted his body, glitching through another swing of Fallow’s blade before landing a solid kick to the man’s chest. Fallow staggered back, spitting blood onto the ground.

“You think your words mean anything to me?” Nobu growled. His voice carried the weight of conviction. “I fight for my comrades. For the weak. For those who can’t defend themselves. That’s something you’ll never understand.”

Fallow wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression darkening. “You’d die for them, wouldn’t you? Throw your life away for that weakling of a captain and his pathetic ideals.”

Nobu’s grip on his swords tightened, his muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand loyalty,” he said, his tone like ice. “You only know power through fear. But strength isn’t about crushing others. It’s about protecting what matters.”

With a roar, Nobu surged forward. His swords became blurs of motion, one aimed high and the other low. Fallow blocked the first and twisted to dodge the second, but Nobu glitched mid-strike, reappearing just behind him.

Fallow barely managed to duck in time to avoid a blow that would have taken his head. He spun around, his blade slashing wildly. “Stop disappearing, damn it!” he shouted, his voice laced with frustration.

Nobu’s voice was calm and deliberate. “Disappearing? No. I’m here to remind you that you will never win—not as long as people like us stand against you.”

Their blades clashed once more, the sound of metal against metal ringing out across the battlefield. Flecks of fire burst from their blades as they pressed against each other, neither willing to give an inch. Fallow’s grin twisted into a scowl as he growled, forcing Nobu back a step.

“Weak. Strong,” Fallow muttered, his voice laced with a mix of anger and conviction. “It’s all about power. If you’re strong, you crush me. If I’m strong, I crush you. It’s as simple as that!” With a roar, he pushed Nobu back, their swords disengaging violently.

Nobu regained his footing, his eyes narrowing. Fallow, however, lowered his weapon slightly, closing his eyes. His breathing steadied, his earlier desperation fading into a calm focus.

Nobu tilted his head slightly, his ears twitching as he observed the sudden change in his opponent. Fallow wasn’t retreating—he was thinking. Strategizing. The tension in the air thickened as the human warrior began recalling every clash, every movement, every instance where Nobu’s glitching ability had given him an advantage.

Nobu’s instincts screamed at him not to let Fallow gain the upper hand. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, both swords aimed for Fallow’s arms in a decisive strike. The twin blades cut through the air with deadly precision.

At the last possible moment, Fallow’s eyes snapped open, a smirk playing on his lips. Nobu’s ears perked up, the fur bristling as a sudden sense of danger washed over him.

Something wasn’t right.