"Nathy?!!!"
Azraüs had shouted, raising his arm toward his lost friend. From the start, he had felt it—Nathanaël was struggling with this world, with this country. The boy had seemed calm and composed, yet this excess of madness was rising too quickly in his head. Azraüs had shown him the calm and quiet side of Nozras, the side where fights were easy and already predetermined. Where all determination was destined to fade in the face of brute strength.
And despite having crossed the battlefield in front of the wall, Azraüs knew something was missing for Nathanaël to resist this madness.
Nathanaël was about to break; he was sure of it. How exactly, he didn't know. He regretted bringing his friend here, but he himself knew that Nozras wasn't a country for people with calm minds. Even being strong wasn't enough. One had to be mad to enter the nation of war.
As a warrior advanced toward him, Azraüs ran to his companion. But even he was too far.
The warrior closed the distance in the blink of an eye and found himself, blade in hand, in front of Nathanaël's impassive face.
But as Azraüs's face fell, Nathanaël slowly lifted his head.
His aura first covered his entire body quickly like a thin protective layer, then in an instant, it unleashed completely in all directions. An intense golden light pierced everyone around him.
Yet, while no one around could see the splendid light, Azraüs could. He saw Nathanaël shining with a thousand flames. Seeing this, his own body froze. He, who only believed in strength, was witnessing something muscles alone could never understand…
The warrior who had approached recoiled violently as if some unknown force had stopped him. His face twisted, not understanding what was happening. But even if they couldn't see it, they all felt it. Something about this boy had changed.
Nathanaël rose slowly. The warrior couldn't see the light but began to tremble slightly. He could feel it. His trembling reached his arm, causing him to drop his weapon unconsciously.
"Huh?"
The light spread in all directions and only Azraüs could see it. His eyes reflected him like a celestial being from the heavens. He remained there, frozen by this spectacular vision of Nathanaël. His companion had become part of his most beautiful moments.
Nathanaël then slowly approached the warrior. At first, he didn't move, but when he regained his senses, he tried to land a hook on Nathanaël's face. However…
"Is all this foolishness really necessary?"
Nathanaël struck him violently in the face, though no one could see it.
The warrior flew a hundred meters before crashing into a ruined building, which collapsed on impact.
Nathanaël then looked over the battlefield around him. The warriors fought as if nothing had happened. They couldn't see Nathanaël's light; they only sensed the arrival of a powerful man in the area. But that alone couldn't stop the Nordes. Their instincts didn't teach them to flee but to give everything in their last stand. They were chained by their own hearts, no longer caring for life.
Death was no longer a rest or a reward but a punishment for not being the strongest.
And seeing the frenzy and madness on their stupid, ignorant faces, Nathanaël felt compelled to teach them a lesson…
Another warrior approached from behind, wielding a huge curved blade.
This warrior, named Lumian, had massacred the Gubits clan in the east of the country, then, wanting to sit alone on the throne, had slaughtered his own clan. No one could stop him. A monster whose name was feared in the east. He terrified children in horror stories and didn't hesitate to approach the throne area without anyone to aid him.
This warrior, so recognized, so feared and admired throughout the country, had his mouth caught by Nathanaël's fist.
Nathanaël violently opened his mouth without breaking it, then grabbed his face and twisted it.
But even as these actions were pure violence, his expression was sad. He felt pity. Pity for such a closed mind and a beastly mentality. Their country did not evolve, and their children lived in fear of the future, yet they were blinded by war.
"Why do you fight endlessly?"
Nathanaël then grabbed Lumian's face and threw him onto another warrior. Yet another man arrived—Borne the Mad, Harto the Tyrant, Gob, the Mountain of Ceres, Noa the Fearsome, Rojan the Unvanquished, …
"Why? …do you want to fight so badly?"
But what did their names matter? It no longer mattered…
"Why?"
The warriors fell one by one. What looked like a swarm of bees then fell like a bombardment. Nathanaël defeated them one by one. Yet he still took hits, sometimes even deadly ones, including precise blows to the neck and throat. But nothing pierced his aura. Like a true shield, his body resembled a fortress of steel for the warriors facing him.
But as the rain of weapons bearing down on him intensified, Nathanaël could see nothing. He could no longer see the madness on their faces, no longer see the weapons striking or the blood on them, no longer see the corpses piled atop one another, no longer see the capital, no longer see the massacre. His soul had chosen to ignore the spectacle.
He could only see a white place.
Endlessly white.
A place where black spots began to mar the view.
The place was no longer white.
It had become dirty as the spots multiplied.
He had seen this kind of spot and place before. A place where he lived alone, a world apart. Sometimes someone entered. His mother often entered. Then a small light appeared and illuminated the entirely white place.
Recently, Elie had been coming to light it up as well. Jin passed by, though his smile scared him. And yet, the boy who only sought combat was also a light in this white place.
It was a new life for Nathanaël; he loved the lights that appeared in this place.
But the one who was always in his sight did not shine. The one he valued above all made this white place dark.
Marc always turned his back to him, looking toward an unknown direction. His darkness raged, and his shadow reached Nathanaël.
Yet, he couldn't help but want to help him.
"Marc, you're not like them, are you?"
In this white world, warriors appeared with their weapons. But even if their darkness invaded Nathanaël's small world, he could recognize Marc among them.
For he was even darker.
"You're not like them…"
Suddenly, another light appeared in this world. Nathanaël looked up and saw Azraüs delivering a violent kick to a warrior's backside. Not very elegant, but nothing surprising coming from him.
"Hey Nathy, save me a few."
Always with a smile. Azraüs reminded him of Jin. He had always found it strange that this kind of person could be a light in his world, yet it didn't stop him from smiling in response.
"That's it. Let's finish this and move forward."
**
Chris still had his arm extended. An arm that was supposed to reach someone.
Something?
Did it even have meaning anymore? He no longer knew…
His eyes were wide open, his mouth just as open, as if a sound wanted to escape from this desperate body—yet nothing came out. The reason? His soldiers, his companions on the road, those under his responsibility, had all fallen to the ground, dead as if their lives had been drained away.
No one moved anymore.
No one had the strength to smile at their captain, no one had the energy to carry his belongings, no one had the strength to sing some stupid song while they all walked toward their final destination, no one was there to admire him and tell him how amazing he was, no one was there to give him a good-natured pat on the back whenever he was tired, no one was there to walk forward with him…
In an instant, the only true friends he had ever had had left for a world he did not know, beyond death.
The being in white walked calmly toward the wounded division captain.
"I…"
The being in white kept advancing. Chris's back grew closer and closer. Bent, defenseless. But in the end, he stood up. He leaned over the body of his second-in-command to close his eyes, then did the same for all the others, without saying a word.
And suddenly....
"Chris Leon. We have something to tell you."
Chris rose again after finishing closing his soldiers' eyes. With a dark gaze, he gripped the sword at his waist.
"Oh? Marc didn't tell me you could talk."
"Our abilities have improved partly thanks to the inventor. We can now maintain a stable conversation. We hope to—"
Before he finished his sentence, his head was already flying through the air.
"Good to know."
Chris was sad. Far too sad for a man who only wished to surpass another.
As a division captain, he had the duty to avenge his men.
"How many of you are there, exactly?"
"Chris Leon, please, the situation is urgent—you must listen to us."
Chris held his sword upright before his enemies. A tear fell from his cheek and landed upon the blade. That day, the captain of the Fifth Division, the conqueror of Garid—not the man who once sought to surpass the Death of War—stood there in tears.
"I will listen to you once you've suffered the same fate as my men."