That was when reality hit me like a hammer blow:
Mana wasn't just the source of their power — it was what separated them from a helpless peasant. Without mana, they were nothing but ordinary humans, unable to do more than scream and bleed.
And by that point, they were drained dry.
My mind was racing, trying to find a way out of a problem that spread like weeds, spiraling chaotically.
When the mages still had mana, the fight was almost one-sided: the White Knight did nothing but take hit after hit, absorbing spell after spell. But once the mana ran out and our weakness was exposed, the monster seemed to awaken a cruel intelligence, fighting with even more malice to break free from the trap we'd set.
— Cris, are you breaking through this damn thing yet?! We need this done FAST!
Malaca snarled, body arched, muscles vibrating under skin slick with sweat and blood.
— Damn it, that's easier said than done! I don't have the stamina those two brutes do. One hit from this bastard and I'm paste on the ground!
He kept hammering the same spot on the centaur Knight's armor over and over, his spear scraping the steel in a frantic rhythm. The sound was metallic, dry, almost musical — clang, clang, clang — until finally small cracks began to appear.
But that was exactly when the Knight seemed to understand.
Its head snapped around with a mechanical jerk, dead eyes locking onto Cris with predatory fury.
And then, out of nowhere, a giant sword swept past the cheetah's face by mere inches, slicing through the air with a hiss that froze my spine.
— BERNARD, YOU SON OF A BITCH, KEEP THAT AGGRO! — Cris roared, jumping back.
— HE'S NOT RESPECTING THIS SHIT! WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?! — Bernard bellowed back, his shield already splintered, arm trembling under the insane strain.
To make the nightmare worse, it was clear the Knight had an abnormal resistance to control and taunt abilities. Not enough to completely ignore the aggro, but enough to slip the tank's focus for one or two attacks — which was all it needed to create chaos.
And it was draining Bernard.
A tank's mana pool was small compared to a mage's, but his skills relied on constant activation. While they stayed active, the cost was low, but each time the Knight broke control and he had to reestablish aggro, it drained more and more.
I could see the fear taking hold of him — the faint blue glow in his chest flickering like a candle in the wind, a clear sign mana was running out. And Bernard knew: when that light finally died, there would be nothing left standing between the Knight and the rest of the group.
That's when Cris gripped his spear so hard his knuckles went white, chest heaving with pure adrenaline.
— Fuck it! If I'm gonna die, let it be SHOVING THIS DAMN THING IN DEEPER!
He charged again, the spear tip glowing with the last scraps of magical energy, aiming for the crack already formed in the armor.
The sound when the blade found the gap was different — not a clang, but a wet, rasping KRRRK, followed by a hoarse shriek that made even the surrounding trees shudder.
The White Knight staggered back half a step. Just half a step… but it was the first time it had actually yielded ground.
Finally, things seemed to start turning in our favor.
The White Knight's retreat rekindled something in the warriors' chests — that primal flame that makes even weary men rise again. Bernard and Malaca exchanged almost hungry looks, and even the mages at the back, panting and pale, raised vials of that shimmering blue liquid.
I'd seen them drink it at least three times already in this battle. It was a rare elixir, single-use, absurdly expensive — but no one seemed willing to hold back. Everyone knew the truth:
If the front line fell, we would all die.
Running back to the cave wouldn't help. It would only delay the inevitable.
— MAGES! Focus on its weak spot! We need to KILL this thing, and fast! — Malaca roared, never taking her eyes off the opponent.
She was a born leader. She could see the whole picture, even while dodging blows that could literally cut her in half.
And that's when the entire tide turned.
That creature, which had once seemed so lofty and arrogant — as if it were merely one inevitable step toward our extinction — now wavered. Its body trembled, armor groaned, and for the first time I saw FEAR in its movements.
That alone made everyone's blood run hot.
Even Isbel, almost entirely invisible, risked quick strikes with a poisoned dagger, aiming for the cracks along the monster's flank.
After a few more minutes that felt like hours, we did it.
The steel gave way, and then we saw — inside — the creature's putrid innards, full of a black slime that seemed to pulse in sync with a giant heart, almost dangling from dead veins. Each beat sounded like the slow, wet, horrible thump of a war drum.
— THAT'S IT! WE'RE CLOSE! NOW, EVERYONE TOGETHER! — Malaca shouted, her voice so firm it could have torn the very air.
Bernard looked radiant. He was finally able to trade short blows with the monster, advancing an inch at a time, growling from effort and a kind of ecstatic triumph.
But then…
Something flashed.
It was too fast. Almost beautiful, like moonlight reflected on clear water.
It took my brain a moment to process what I was seeing.
A blade burst through Bernard's chest, tearing through armor and heart, pushing pieces of him outward.
And behind him stood Marcoriel.
— Damn… I don't want to die… no… — Bernard sobbed.
The sound. The sound of the sword sliding even deeper, slicing flesh and bone, is something I'll never forget. His face was split along with his body, eyes wide in such raw terror it made me nauseous.
Tears still streamed down both halves of his face.
When his body came apart, a hot, red rain splashed over us.
— FUCKKKK! SOMEONE STOP HIM! — Malaca screamed, her voice cracking, more pain than command.
But then a cruel realization fell over us all:
Time had run out.
No one had the Time Clock anymore.
Varnak and his son hadn't told anyone their charges were gone.
Marcoriel had entered the fight — and we had NOTHING to stop him.
That's when I saw it.
What looked like a smile.
The creature slightly parted the slit in its mask, as if savoring our ruin.
It knew we weren't prepared for this.
And worse… it was pleased.
— Not you son of a bitch. I won't let this happen.
I was afraid but there was nothing else to do — I had to help them. I had a song, and I needed to use it. It was our only chance.
— Where do you think you're going, boy? Are you insane?
Siman, who stood beside me, tried to hold me back.
— I won't lose the others again. Not if I can stop it.
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew Siman wouldn't understand them. But the truth was, they weren't for him.
I was speaking to her.
I felt her presence, circling, watching, whispering at the edges of my thoughts.
If she wanted my death, she wouldn't let me rot of hunger in a cave. She wanted me here, giving everything to protect those I cared about — even if it consumed me completely.
My life was important, I couldn't deny that. But if I had to die, at least it would be fighting, not drunk in some filthy tub, drowning in my own mistakes.
In my mind, only one question hammered over and over:
— Would my daughter be proud of me?
Before I could take my first step toward the battlefield, Siman approached.
The old mage seemed smaller than ever, bony hands clutching something to his chest as if it were an amulet against his own shame.
— I… I apologize for what I did — he murmured, not meeting my eyes. — But if I can help you… even if it's only with this… I will. I can't read it, but you will.
He stretched out his arm, trembling.
In his palm was a crumpled scroll, stained with sweat and maybe dried blood, which he'd kept hidden near his heart.
I took the parchment and opened it.
At first, the letters were a jumble, swirling as if dancing to mock me. But then they began to move, to form words that fixed themselves in my vision like fire.
Glove of the King of Hearts (Unique Mystic) — Bound
1 - Card Soldiers:
Unleashes the Dark March of the Card Soldiers, who advance relentlessly and claim the heads of all who dare resist.
2 – Locked
3 – Locked
— It's… it's an item bound to you. So, as long as you're alive, only you can understand the text — Siman murmured, shame dripping from every syllable.
I just nodded, without resentment.
I knew he had most likely been forced by Varnak to hide it from me.
But at that moment, it didn't matter anymore.
— Fine, I'll settle things with Varnak later. — I muttered, putting the scroll away and flexing my hand inside the glove, which seemed to pulse, alive and eager. — What I need now… is to use this skill.
And then I stepped forward.
Each step echoed on the damp earth like an execution drum.
Death was everywhere — in the smell, the sound, the bitter taste in my mouth — but for the first time, I felt it watching me not as a whim, but as a wager.
Maybe that's what I'd always been looking for.
A way to prove that, even in the eyes of such ancient and cruel entities, my existence could mean something.
I clenched my hand, feeling the glove's fabric contract around my fingers like it was made of living muscle.
Honestly, I had no idea how to activate that ability, but in my mind I heard the voice I imagined was my daughter's, laughing at how clumsy I was and telling me to just do it.
So I pointed my arm at the White Knight and screamed with every fragment of air and courage I had:
— TAKE HIS HEAD!
Instantly, I felt my body empty, like I'd turned into a torn sack.
My blood poured from my mouth like a broken faucet, staining the ground bright red, as an impossible pain tore through me.
It was as if every cell had been ripped out and passed through fire, and all I could do was collapse, face hitting the cold ground.
If there'd been a knife beside me in that moment, I would've ended it myself just to escape the torture.
I heard distant, distorted voices, like they were coming from underwater.
Siman was shouting something to Vrigs:
— VRIGS! The boy drained all his mana, if you don't give him the potion he'll die!
Vrigs, who was still firing spells at Marcoriel, turned, shocked, but wasted no time.
He tossed a potion in an arc to Siman, who caught it midair with a nearly impossible reflex.
— Damn it, drink this! QUICK!
The liquid burned down my throat like pure alcohol, but was soon replaced by a faint relief — thin, fragile, like a drop of water in a desert.
It dried up before even reaching the bottom.
My vision darkened.
— Damn it, Vrigs, another one! — I heard Siman roar, almost in tears.
Another potion was thrown.
The world crawled by in seconds that felt like hours, until I finally felt that infernal emptiness begin to fill.
My consciousness returned — and then I saw Siman's face, twisted in horrified fascination.
Beside me on the ground, a crimson staircase was forming, adorned with heart symbols, rising from nothing.
From deep within, drums and trumpets began to echo — a courtly music, only macabre, slowed, full of warped echoes that made my soul bristle.
And then they appeared.
The Giant Cards began to march, climbing the steps, emerging from nowhere.
Card Soldiers — exactly as I'd imagined them: slender bodies, elegant armor stained with red, heads formed by giant bloody heart cards. Their spears ended in twisted metal hearts, dripping something dark that evaporated before touching the ground.
They marched with supernatural synchronicity, voiceless, soulless. Only the sound of spears hitting the ground and the distant drums.
— What the hell is happening back there?! — Malaca shouted, still locked in combat with the White Knight.
She didn't have time to turn fully.
Her attention was fixed on the enemy — and on Marcoriel, who had appeared like a murderous demon when he killed Bernard. Now, Malaca had to fight on even ground, her body and fear screaming to retreat.
In her thoughts there was guilt. She blamed herself for dragging the bard — into her problems. She'd saved her granddaughters, but if it all ended with her death there,
had it been worth it?
But then something exploded beside the White Knight's face — a colossal fireball — forcing it to stagger back and giving Malaca a breath of space.
She turned, ready to thank whoever had done it, but what she saw made her blood run cold.
— Giant… cards?
I was still on the ground, trembling, mouth full of iron, watching it all.
The Card Soldiers marched around me like a bloody river, not even sparing me a glance.
They had only one goal: my command.
Marcoriel, realizing the risk, lunged instantly to protect the White Knight.
But it was too late.
The Cards hurled themselves at him like a living avalanche. Spears pierced his body, ripping through armor, flesh, bone.
He spun his sword, cutting many in half — but for each one that fell, four more appeared, endless.
Soon his body was covered in spears shaped like hearts and blades, driven in like stakes.
Marcoriel fell to his knees.
His wings rose in one last act of defiance only to be skewered by more spears.
The weight of the Cards continued, crushing him to the ground, turning the legendary Marcoriel into an unrecognizable heap of mangled steel, torn flesh, and darkness.
The White Knight's desperation was clear now.
That once lofty creature, which had seemed impossible to defeat, was retreating in short, staggering movements, as if already looking for a way to flee. But there was nowhere to run.
The attacks were relentless — Isbel and Cris slashed at its flanks, quick and merciless.
The mages had returned to casting spells, their faces twisted in exhaustion and fury.
Malaca advanced like a demon with a living blade, each strike driving deeper into the monster's steel, opening breaches where death poured in.
And then came the Cards, the final nail in the coffin.
They marched over it without emotion, piercing, tearing, holding its limbs so others could cut.
Within seconds, the indestructible White Knight fell to its knees.
It tried to lift its head in one last refusal to die — only for the Cards to grab it, pull, twist… until, with a wet, grotesque sound, the neck snapped.
The head was lifted to the sky as a macabre trophy.
Then, as if obeying some cruel ritual, the Cards walked in procession, bringing the blood-soaked skull to me.
I held it without really knowing why.
Felt its weight, the lingering heat, and the rotten smell that nearly made me vomit.
— Well… I guess we won.
But not for long.
The head began to tremble, disintegrating into dark particles that scattered into the air — leaving behind only three items, which glowed faintly as they hit the ground.
That was enough for Varnak and his son, who until then had cowardly hidden behind the mages, to come running like starving vultures.
— Finally, a victory! Siman, come help me identify these items!
He didn't even pretend to offer debate.
Didn't look at us once.
Clearly there was no chance any item would be shared — the loot was his, period.
And no one had the strength to protest.
Everyone seemed dead inside, too exhausted to argue. Even I, still feeling my body throb as if I'd run a marathon without ever training for it.
All I wanted was to collapse and not wake up for about three days.
In the end, the creature left behind three items.
Varnak and Siman hunched over them like vultures on carrion, speaking in low voices, exchanging conspiratorial looks.
We, on the other hand, simply returned to the cave.
Varnak and his elders even tried to celebrate, forcing smiles, hollow laughs that died quickly.
But not Malaca.
She sat in a corner, blade resting on her knees, her gaze lost in something only she seemed to see.
— Malaca… did something happen?
She slowly lifted her eyes, still staring toward the cave entrance, thoughtful.
— How did Isbel manage to escape the Knight, and Marcoriel didn't?
There's something very wrong with this story.
Marcoriel was far too strong to be caught so easily.
I feel… I feel like we're missing something important, something we're not seeing.
Malaca's eyes began darting nervously around the cave, as if afraid someone might hear us.
Then, finally, she locked her gaze on me — and in it was something I'd never seen in her before: pure terror.
— We need to get out of here, Fly, as fast as possible.
If we stay with Varnak…
— She swallowed hard, her throat visibly shifting. — I think we're going to die.
Malaca sensed something I couldn't yet understand, but my stomach was already twisting with a horrible premonition.
And I realized that maybe our victory was nothing more than a prologue to something much worse.