Lucan's group never re-entered the main battlefield.
When the pressure first descended—when **that presence** awakened—protective barriers layered over the forces locked down automatically. Wards stacked upon wards. Priestly arrays flared to full output without a single command being issued.
Lucan was still on his feet.
Barely.
He stood at the center of his unit, one hand braced against a shattered stone pillar, the other gripping his weapon so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Blood ran from his nose, his ears ringing as pressure crushed inward, as if his organs were being forced toward his spine.
Around him, his group still lived.
Shaken.
Terrified.
But alive.
Several knights were on their knees, retching or gasping for breath. One had collapsed entirely. Another cried openly, repeating the same prayer under his breath as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
The barrier held.
It **never broke**.
They felt everything—
the roar,
the shockwaves,
the killing intent that made even trained knights forget how to breathe—
—but nothing crossed the boundary.
When the recall signal finally came, it felt less like an order and more like **permission to survive**.
Lucan didn't argue.
He didn't look back.
He simply got his people moving—onto the transports, into the airships—his eyes empty, jaw locked tight.
Whatever had happened at the center of that battlefield…
They all understood one thing with absolute certainty:
If the barrier had failed, **none of them would have lived long enough to understand why**.
---
The recall signal echoed across the ruined forest.
Golden flares rose into the sky.
One by one, **all remaining knights disengaged**, pulling back from scorched ground. The injured were carried. The shaken were dragged if necessary. No one was left behind.
Airship hatches opened wide.
Knights boarded in silence—boots heavy, armor dented, weapons stained dark. Formations were loose now, discipline held together by habit rather than confidence. Priests followed close behind, their expressions grim.
Across the devastated forest, golden flares pierced the lingering haze of dust and mana. Knights who had been frozen in place—by fear, shock, or sheer exhaustion—finally moved.
Lucan felt it before he saw it.
The pressure that had been crushing his chest for what felt like an eternity… **eased**.
Not gone—but distant.
The layered barriers around his unit dimmed, their glow softening as the worst of that presence receded. Several knights collapsed the instant the strain lifted. Others dropped to their knees, gasping, shaking, retching into the dirt.
But they were alive.
All of them.
Lucan remained standing, even as his legs trembled. Blood still trickled from his nose. His ears rang. His grip on his weapon was so tight his fingers barely obeyed him anymore.
He didn't ask questions.
Didn't look toward the battlefield's center.
He didn't need answers.
The boarding order spread quickly.
Transport arrays activated. Hatches opened along the bellies of the airships overhead. Knights were helped up—half-dragged when necessary—and herded inside in uneven lines. Medics moved fast, faces grim, speaking little.
No one stayed behind.
Not the wounded.
Not the broken.
Not the terrified.
Lucan made sure of it.
When the last of his unit crossed into the ship and the ramp sealed shut, only then did he let himself slide down against the cold metal wall, staring at nothing.
Above them, engines roared to life.
Three airships—only three—rose together and turned away from the forest.
Below, the land they abandoned was unrecognizable. Miles of earth erased. Trees reduced to ash. Scars of something far beyond war carved permanently into the world.
No one spoke as the distance grew.
No one celebrated.
The barriers remained raised as they flew, overlapping layers of gold shielding the ships—as though the Empire itself feared looking back.
The forest vanished beyond the horizon.
The fleet continued toward the Empire.
And the world moved on—
uneasy, intact, and unaware of how close it had come to ending.
---
### Days Later — The Capital
The skies above the capital darkened as the fleet arrived.
The return was nothing like the departure.
When the **Empire's fleet** finally crossed back into sovereign airspace, only **three airships** remained in formation.
The **Lux Invicta** flew at the center—its once-pristine hull scarred, its forward observation glass entirely replaced by hastily reforged crystal panes. The other two ships bore deeper wounds: fractured plating, scorched sigils, entire decks sealed off where crews would never return.
Two ships were gone.
Not damaged.
Not disabled.
**Gone.**
No wreckage.
No falling debris.
No final signal.
Just… absence.
On the command deck, silence ruled.
No victory chants.
No prayers of triumph.
No celebration for a "successful extermination."
Officers stood rigid at their stations, eyes hollow, movements mechanical. Knights who had once laughed at the thought of hunting a *demon child* now avoided one another's gazes.
Fear had done what battle could not.
Theron stood at the forward observation ring, golden cloak unmoving, hands clasped behind his back. His reflection stared back at him through the new crystal—
older somehow.