The fallen devil's corpse still smoldered where it lay, the acrid stench of burnt flesh mingling with the metallic tang of blood in the air. Faint heat still rose from the charred ground, curling into thin spirals of smoke that twisted in the fading light. Around it, the battlefield stretched in chaos—broken weapons scattered in the dirt, patches of scorched earth marking where magic had torn through the soil, and the faint shimmer of lingering mana hanging in the air like an invisible mist.
The fight had been hard. Brutal. Every breath of victory felt heavy in their chests, not because the threat was gone, but because they knew how close it had come. Still, as the last echo of the war horn faded into silence, a new sound rose—quieter, steadier. The sound of the outpost breathing again.
