Something moved within the cloud of smoke.
Fast. Precise. Unstoppable.
A curved shadow whipped across the ground like a snapping lash, tracing a lethal arc straight toward a group of celebrating warriors. Grung had his fist raised high, cheering alongside Alya and Gerard—unaware that death had already marked them.
The last thing they heard… was a whistle.
And then—the cut.
Mortem's tail sliced across the battlefield like a cursed scythe.
It didn't pause.
It didn't hesitate.
It simply severed flesh and life in a perfect line.
All three bodies were cleaved in half.
Blood flew in utter silence.
"PARASITES." Mortem spat, without even turning around.
From atop the wall, Harlem screamed, eyes wide with horror.
"GRUUUUNG!"
His staff trembled in his grip—not from magic, but from sheer helplessness.
The blood of his old comrade was still falling to the ground when the elf clenched his teeth, swallowing his pain with a fury that made him seem younger. More alive. More human.
In the distance, Yamato—still disguised as Junya—lowered his bow slowly.
"Damn it…" he muttered darkly. "That was my best move… and it did nothing."
Harlem looked over.
His gaze burned with quiet rage.
It's true. The heroes aren't ready...
Not even that attack was enough to bring him down...
And then he remembered.
Sacred Arrow.
That wasn't Junya's power.
That was Judith's holy blessing… not a Hero's strength.
Holy power…
A chilling suspicion crept across his mind like a frozen whisper.
"…No… wait…"
He reached for his chest and ripped the pendant from around his neck. The chain snapped with a metallic twang, and the gemstone at its center shattered instantly. A tiny shard of pure light fell into his palm.
A white star.
Small.
Alive.
Harlem swallowed hard.
"Five centuries gone…" he murmured, voice rough with memory. "And you're still teaching me things… Kirena."
The white star pulsed gently in his palm.
"Star Wish…" he whispered, pressing it to his chest where the broken pendant still dangled, vibrating.
"Adventurers! Junya! I need cover—just for a moment!" he shouted, not even turning around.
"Everyone, defensive line—now!" barked the archer beside him.
The few surviving adventurers rallied immediately, forming up without hesitation. They didn't know what the guildmaster was planning… but they trusted him.
Harlem closed his eyes.
Raised his staff.
The star dissolved into his chest.
Silence fell.
The kind that comes just before thunder.
And then—
"NO MATTER HOW MANY CHEAP TRICKS YOU THROW AT ME—"
Mortem's voice thundered with rage.
"YOU'RE JUST MAKING ME ANGRIER!"
DEATH CLAW.
Three black blades shot from Mortem's claws, ripping through the air like the slashes of a broken god. Matter shattered in their path. Even mana fled before them.
Two paladins—the last remaining SSS-rank fighters—leapt to the front.
"We won't let you harm Master Harlem!"
The two paladins slammed their shields into the ground, pouring every last drop of mana into their defense. The black blades struck them head-on.
Their shields held.
For one second.
Two.
And then… they gave out.
But they did so with smiles on their faces.
They died standing.
"Now!" Harlem shouted, just as the sky began to glow.
A white circle formed above Mortem. As if the heavens were opening—not through divine mercy, but divine justice.
"Take all of my power…" Harlem whispered. "Combine it with the sacred light that still lingers… and purge this evil from our land…"
The air trembled.
Sacred Judgment!
A ray of light fell—not as an explosion, but as an unavoidable sentence.
A contained sun.
A star turned spear.
It crashed into Mortem with all the fury the world could muster.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHA…!"
The dragon laughed.
A hollow laugh.
Dry.
Piercing.
A laugh that clung to the soul like tar.
"YOU WON THIS ROUND…" Mortem growled, as his body began to unravel into ash. "ENJOY WHAT LITTLE TIME YOU HAVE LEFT."
The impact left a crater glowing with divine light. Around it… grass. Flowers.
Artificial beauty, born from a power too great to sustain.
The dragon fell.
And did not rise.
The silence that followed hurt more than any wound.
"…It's over," Harlem murmured as he stepped down through the rubble and corpses.
His voice sounded a thousand years older.
"Holy power… is exhausting."
—
From the command tower, the battlefield looked like a glorious painting.
And like all glorious paintings… no one knew the price behind it.
Balliard sipped from his glass on the balcony, surrounded by officers clapping and cheering as if they had fought.
"That dragon wasn't so 'apocalyptic' after all," the general scoffed, flashing a smug smile of satisfaction.
"Well done," he added, as if he didn't know—or didn't care—how many lives had been lost.
—
On the field, those still standing watched as Mortem's body slowly turned to ash.
Too slowly.
"Great work, Master," said a young elven girl as she approached Harlem, still trembling.
"Don't lower your guard…" he replied, not even raising his eyes. "That dragon isn't dead."
"What do you mean, Master?"
"He's… spent. But his essence hasn't faded."
At that moment, Junya approached the guildmaster.
"…It's true. According to the old records, he'll return someday," Junya murmured, watching the ashes drift skyward like dust from a cosmic bonfire. "But that won't be my problem."
He said it with a tired smile.
No fear.
No anger.
Only exhaustion.
Far off in the distance, the bow-wielding hero descended the hill with his two companions.
They made their way back toward the city.
Directly to the tower…
…where Balliard would greet them as heroes.
"You arrogant brat…" Harlem scoffed under his breath.
He turned to the young elf who had fought by his side.
"Bah, not my problem anymore…"
"Hey, Iris, how about you take me to soak in a hot bath? I think I've earned it after all this," he said with a chuckle.
No response.
Only the whisper of the wind.
"…Iris?"
He turned.
And the world stopped.
Iris lay motionless on the ground, face down. A pool of blood spread beneath her like spilled ink. Still. Silent.
"…What's going on…? Melus? Valiet? Estella? Anyone?!"
Nothing.
Absolute silence.
All the adventurers who had survived the battle… were now lying lifeless.
Only Harlem remained standing.
"Why…?" His words collapsed into a strangled gasp.
A dagger pierced through his back, bursting from his chest with cruel precision. Blood spilled violently from his mouth, staining his robes crimson.
"Gkh…! Wh…who…?"
"Mortem already said it…" came a voice—calm, venomous, mocking.
"No one's making it out alive today."
Harlem turned slowly. His vision blurred.
But he recognized the figure.
"…Melus?" he croaked. But what stood before him wasn't his comrade.
Not anymore.
The illusion shattered.
And what emerged was something else entirely.
Crimson skin.
Slit eyes.
Theatrical robes.
And a smile full of lies—more lies than teeth.
"No… not you… Who… are you…?"
"Forgive my lack of manners, Master Harlem," said the demon with a graceful bow.
"My name is Satirus. A pleasure."
Harlem's staff slipped from his hand. Blood pooled beneath his boots.
His breaths were labored. Shallow.
"Coward…" cough cough "…Stabbing me in the back…"
"I'll admit it," Satirus said with a smirk. "But I got what I came for."
He knelt without hurry and delicately pried the white star from Harlem's trembling hand.
The Star Wish.
Satirus held it as one would cradle a forgotten relic.
"The power of a primarch star… in the palm of my hand. Who would've thought?"
Then he looked back down at the guildmaster—at the legendary adventurer who had once inspired so many.
"Nothing personal, elf. Just… following orders."
And with no emotion, he pulled the dagger from Harlem's chest.
The elf fell.
No scream.
No fury.
Just the weight of a death without honor.
—
The demon tapped the comm device in his ear.
"Seraphina. I have the target. Get me and Mortem out of here."
"Oki-doki, Sati~!" chirped the cheerful voice of Seraphina, slicing through the tension like a sick joke.
A dark portal—black as the void—opened before him.
Another appeared beside the crater, collecting the last remnants of Mortem.
Satirus glanced back one final time at the guildmaster's body.
"Thanks for the show."
"We really enjoyed it."
And with that, he stepped through the portal.
—
On the ground, Harlem was barely breathing.
His trembling fingers reached for a small reliquary hidden in his pocket.
He opened it.
Inside, an old photograph.
An elf with a gentle smile.
White hair.
Soft eyes.
"…We'll… meet again… Kirena…"
And with that, he closed his eyes for the last time.
Like someone who had finally found rest… after a long, painful life.
With the quiet hope that he might see his beloved again —in the long— promised Realm of Yoru.