In the Three Stones Palace of Oosa, chaos reigned as the news of Goan's assassination spread like wildfire. The corpse of the mighty general lay where it had fallen, his decapitated form a testament to Kho’s wrath. Kho had not bothered to conceal his actions; he left the scene as if the act held no weight. Goan’s warriors, filled with grief and anger, rushed to inform Emperor Rogg.

Rogg, upon hearing the news, felt a twisted sense of relief. Goan, his ambitious and scheming elder brother, had always been a threat to his throne. Rogg had feared that his dwindling resources and the loss of warriors in the endless wars would make him vulnerable to a coup. Now, with Goan eliminated, Rogg saw an opportunity to seize Goan's warriors for himself.

Ironically, Kho, who despised the giants and everything they stood for, had unintentionally strengthened Rogg’s position.

Far away in Tian, close to the borders of the Dwarf Kingdom, Kho’s army waited. Days had passed without a word from their general. The Demi-Giants, restless and disillusioned, began to question their mission. For many, the idea of marching to the Dwarf Kingdom—a land overrun by demons—was a death sentence. Quiet dissent simmered among the ranks.

As the soldiers relaxed, sharing food and whispered grievances, Niga and Niger sat apart, their expressions heavy with worry. Kho had been gone too long, and his absence gnawed at them.

Then, at last, Kho appeared.

He walked into the camp like a shadow, his face set in an expression that was both distant and resolute. His eyes seemed fixed on the horizon, as if he were searching for something beyond the reach of the mortal world.

The soldiers stood, murmuring among themselves, unsure of what to expect.

Kho gathered them, his voice steady but devoid of the commanding tone they had grown accustomed to. He began by thanking them. His words were simple yet sincere, acknowledging their strength, loyalty, and sacrifices. Then, he dropped the weight of his revelation.

“I am no longer your general,” he said. “Do as you will. Our mission is over.”

The Demi-Giants exchanged confused glances. At first, many thought Kho had been stripped of his rank by the Emperor. But Niga and Niger, watching closely, understood the truth: Kho had severed his ties with Oosa.

He turned away, his steps purposeful, heading toward the Dwarf Kingdom. Niga, ever the blunt one, called after him. “Where are you going, Kho?”

Kho didn’t stop. “To fight the Demon King,” he said simply. “And to die.”

The declaration struck like a thunderclap. For a moment, the camp was silent.

Kho’s thoughts, however, were far from his soldiers. His mind was set on the dwarfs—the race that had shown him kindness and respect when his own kind had offered only disdain. He remembered Rakioho, his dwarf friend who had stood by him when others wouldn’t. The dwarfs had given him the magister ring, a gesture of trust and camaraderie.

If he were to die, it would be for them.

As Kho walked away, the Demi-Giants stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Most stayed behind, unwilling to follow him on what they saw as a suicide mission. But two figures slipped away from the camp: Niga and Niger.

They moved in silence, keeping their distance but ensuring Kho was never out of sight. They didn’t care about his orders to stay back; their loyalty was unwavering. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

Kho’s path was clear. He was no longer a soldier of Oosa, a tool of the Emperor. He was a warrior of his own will, and his final battle awaited.

In the Moon Palace of Oosa, Rogg sat on his throne, a thin smile playing on his lips as he contemplated the chaos Goan's death had unleashed. With his older brother gone, Rogg saw an opportunity to secure his reign and remove any remaining threats to his power.

The soldiers of Goan were furious and demanded justice, but Rogg had no intention of letting their anger destabilize his rule. Summoning Nigus, his loyal general, he laid out his plan with calculated precision.

“Nigus,” Rogg began, his voice calm but commanding, “the death of my brother has left a void—not just in the army but in the hearts of his warriors. They are restless, searching for someone to blame. If we let this rage linger, it could tear Oosa apart. We must give them a culprit.”

Nigus nodded, listening closely as Rogg continued.

“The right hand of Goan,” Rogg said, his tone growing colder, “was loyal to my brother’s ambitions. He knew too much—about Goan’s plans to usurp my throne, about his schemes. And if he knew, there’s no telling what he might do next. He must be eliminated.”

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Rogg leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto Nigus. “But we cannot simply accuse him of loyalty to Goan’s ambitions. That would not rally the warriors. Instead, you will say you overheard him plotting to kill Goan himself. Frame him as a traitor who sought to seize power. That will redirect their anger and ensure their loyalty shifts to you.”

Nigus hesitated only briefly, his loyalty to Rogg overriding any personal misgivings. “As you command, my Emperor,” he said, bowing deeply.

The plan was set into motion. Nigus, now healed enough to stand before the warriors, addressed them with conviction.

“Brothers!” Nigus called out, his voice echoing through the halls of the palace. “The assassin of General Goan has been found. It was his own right hand, the very man who was closest to him, who betrayed him in a bid for power. I heard him myself, speaking of his plan to murder Goan and seize control of his forces.”

The soldiers, hungry for vengeance, accepted the accusation without question. The right hand of Goan was dragged before them and executed in a brutal display of justice. His screams were drowned out by the roars of the soldiers, who found catharsis in the spectacle.

With the right hand eliminated, the soldiers’ anger was quelled. Rogg’s next move was to cement his power further. Standing before the assembled forces, he declared:

“Nigus, for your loyalty and dedication to Oosa, I name you the new Great General. You have proven yourself time and time again. Lead these warriors and ensure the glory of our empire.”

The soldiers, seeing Nigus as the man who had avenged Goan, roared in approval. Nigus, now the Great General, bowed before Rogg and accepted his new role.

In the Moon Palace, Rogg observed the events with satisfaction. His gambit had paid off. The army was united, and the last remnants of Goan’s ambitions were erased.

Rogg leaned back on his throne, a smirk curling his lips. Oosa was stable—for now. But in his mind, the emperor was already planning his next move. The survival of his empire demanded it.

In the ruins of the Dwarf Kingdom, Kho’s journey came to an unceremonious halt, his steps heavy as though they carried the weight of his failures. The silence of the once-bustling kingdom now resembled a graveyard. He trudged forward, eyes scanning the devastation, the hollow remains of what had once been a land of ingenuity and warmth. His hope of finding Rakioho or any dwarf alive was waning with each step. Deep inside, Kho knew it was wishful thinking. They were likely gone, victims of the demons’ wrath.

Still, Kho pressed on. Even if it was only to find Rakioho’s body, to pay his respects to a friend he had failed.

Behind him, unnoticed, Niga and Niger trailed at a safe distance. Though Kho had dismissed them, the twin brothers couldn’t abandon him. To them, Kho wasn’t just a leader; he was family. They refused to let him walk into death alone, even if they had to remain shadows in his path.

As Kho reached the heart of the ruined kingdom, his eyes fell upon the broken remains of the Dwarf Palace. There, amidst the devastation, lay the headless body of a monstrous figure and the lifeless form of a great white dragon. Kho's breath caught as he surveyed the scene.

It wasn’t hard to piece it together. The demon king, Stolas, had been defeated—but at the cost of Drasko, the mighty white dragon.

For a moment, Kho simply stood there, staring at the grim tableau. He had come for a final stand, to give his life in a fight he knew he couldn’t win. Instead, the battle had already been fought without him. His sword had no purpose here. His resolve faltered as he gazed at the carnage.

But then, movement caught his eye.

A finger on the demon's severed hand twitched.

With a roar, Kho raised his claymore and hacked the remains into smaller and smaller pieces, gripped by fury and the fear that the demon might still cling to life. Sweat poured down his face as he struck again and again until nothing recognizable remained.

Still, Kho’s thoughts turned bitter. Even in death, this thing mocks me. I came too late, again.

The weight of his failures bore down on him. His comrades—Kai, Yholm, Dule—dead. The dwarfs who had once welcomed him, gone. The dream of a world where Demi-Giants could stand as equals? A lie.

Kho stumbled, his claymore slipping from his grasp. He sank to his knees in the sand, the taste of defeat and despair thick in his throat. The will to continue drained from him, and for a fleeting moment, he thought of simply ending it all.

But then, his weary eyes caught a faint glimmer in the dragon's remains. Something shone within Drasko’s scorched body.

Dragging himself closer, Kho peered into the dragon’s open wounds and saw it—a strange, indescribable object nestled in the flesh. It pulsed faintly, as though alive. Kho’s hand moved on its own, reaching out to touch it.

The moment his fingers brushed its surface, an overwhelming sense of calm flooded him, a quiet voice in his mind promising release from his pain. Without hesitation, Kho yanked the object free from Drasko’s body.

As he did, the white dragon’s body crumbled into ashes, scattering into the winds of the ruined kingdom. Kho barely noticed. Entranced, he stared at the object in his hands. His instincts took over, and before reason could intervene, he consumed it.

The effects were immediate.

A strange warmth coursed through him, soothing every ache and quieting the storm of despair in his mind. For a fleeting moment, Kho felt whole again, as though all the wrongs in his life could be undone.

But then the pain began.

Kho staggered, his body convulsing. A sickly white liquid spewed from his mouth as something inside him began to shift and churn.

The warmth turned to fire.

It wasn’t a normal pain; it was as if every part of him—his blood, his bones, his very essence—was being unraveled and remade. His vision blurred, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he collapsed to the ground.

Kho clawed at the dirt, fighting against the unbearable agony, but it was too much. His body writhed uncontrollably, his mind slipping away into the blinding torment.

And then, nothing.

Kho’s form went still, the agony fading into a numb, quiet void. His story, for now, had ended in the ruins of the Dwarf Kingdom.

Behind him, Niga and Niger watched from the shadows, their faces etched with a mix of horror and sorrow. They did not approach. They only watched as their brother lay motionless, the white dust of Drasko’s remains drifting gently in the air around him.