The stone landing was dangerous even where I stood. A fist-sized chunk from the wall slammed into my arm—it felt like I'd been struck with a mace. I held back a wince and spread my wings, shielding Kushim's head and my own from the falling debris.
For a moment, it was as if the world around me had stopped—blacked out and distant. My eyes stayed shut as I tried to breathe, my lips moving on their own, silently mouthing "I promise" over and over without my consent.
It wasn't lost on me… if I had waited just a moment longer, I could have saved him. His death was my fault, and that truth burrowed deep into my chest, festering. The only path left for redemption was to punish those responsible for putting him here—and I was among them.
My fingers reached out and found my blade. I ran my open palm along the edge, parting my skin—letting the pain anchor me. Then I wrapped my hand around the grip and, with the other, gently placed Kushim's head in his lap.
I rose slowly, my gaze sharpening, and looked around. First, I assessed the situation. With the upper walls of the arena collapsing and crushing those below, it was safe to say something had gone wrong—but what exactly was the important part.
"EMBERLAND INVASION!"
Between the ringing bells and the shouts of guards and soldiers, I had my answer.
I felt my face twist with a snarl. I hadn't been able to save my friend… but I could still do the next best thing.
Only one other concern lingered: Heather.
I looked down at the lock of hair again. The color matched, but the texture—it felt rougher, less soft. I knew it was dumb to believe a feeling, but… it didn't feel like hers. Maybe it was a bluff. A sick trick by the princess.
I looked up at the royal box, jaw tightening.
Once I finished my business here, I would be paying her a visit.
Once more, I looked down—this time fixing my eyes on my prey: the guards who'd brought Kushim out.
I started walking toward them.
They hadn't noticed me at first, too focused on the chaos unfolding around them. But with the heavy rubble still crashing down from above, the wind shifted, scattering the ash from my wings into their line of sight.
All at once, their heads turned to me.
One of the steel-plated guards began barking an order—but I didn't bother listening.
I kept walking, my stride brisk. Then I jogged. Then, with a burst of power from my wings, I launched into a full sprint.
They must have realized what I intended, because they scrambled into formation—shields raised, spears leveled, the two steel-clad commanders shouting directions to the bronze-ranked soldiers.
Without thinking—driven more by instinct than strategy—I pushed power into my legs to leap over a body blocking my path. But as I jumped, my wings flared with the upward motion, catching the air and launching me forward with explosive speed.
I barely had time to adjust, angling my body midair just enough to clear the shields.
I crashed into the ground behind them, tumbling hard—but I was upright again in seconds.
A new idea bloomed in my mind.
They were already scrambling, turning their shields to face me again. But I was behind them now.
Moving with the same idea, I repeated the motion—launching myself forward again. But this time, while airborne, I dragged my blade into position, angling it toward the leftmost guard.
As I streaked past him, the blade smashed into his upper bicep, splitting skin and muscle.
It wasn't a proper swing, but with the sheer speed behind it—and the gaps in their bronze armor—it didn't need to be.
With a bloodcurdling cry and a thunderous clatter of wood, the guard dropped his gear—his spear and shield falling uselessly as he used his free hand to clutch at the ruined muscle now hanging from his upper arm. He wasn't dead, but it was better that way. Now his comrades were forced to hear his screams, to listen as he begged for help—right as I moved in for another strike.
I surged forward, repeating the same motion they'd just seen, wings shifting like I was about to launch into the air again. They moved to guard against the aerial attack they thought was coming.
But I stayed low.
My blade came in fast and low, slamming into the ankle of the next soldier. There was a sickening crack—a noise that echoed louder than his scream—as the leg crumpled beneath him. He collapsed, thrashing in the dirt, his foot twisted at an unnatural angle.
I let out a short, breathless giggle—something bitter and cathartic. Watching them reel, watching them falter… it made me feel strong. No—more than that. I felt like I might burst. I twirled my blade with a sharp, deliberate flourish, the tip striking the sand as I stood tall, shoulders square, chest rising with power.
"Your deaths won't grant you release," I said, voice low and cold. "I'll burn your souls from the cycle itself. There will be no rebirth. No afterlife. Only oblivion."
It didn't last much longer after that. The younger, lower-ranked guards broke first—already pushed past their limits, their nerve shattered. The steel-clad elites followed soon after, unable to mount a defense without the reach and formation their spearline once offered.
When it was over, I stepped away from the heap of mangled bodies. The ground behind me was slick with blood, the air heavy with the stink of iron and death.
I stood still for a moment, breathing deep—then looked up at the royal box.
Now only one goal remained.
Bending my knees, I gathered strength in my legs.
My skin felt tight—drawn taut like a stretched canvas—and as I pushed up with my legs, I felt two things: the sharp rip of something tearing across my body, and the sudden rush of air as my wings caught the motion and hurled me upward. I wasn't flying, not really—but for one brief, weightless moment, it felt like I was. That fleeting sensation ended the instant my boots struck the smooth stone of the nobles' viewing box. Cold reality rushed in to greet me… well that and the populace of the room.