The fog lifted with the dawn.
For the first time in what felt like eternity, light touched the ruins of The Lost Ones' stronghold. The blood-streaked stones drank it greedily. The once-twisted fog retreated to the distant spires, leaving only silence behind.
No System announcement.
No enemies.
Only the dead.
Eryndor stood motionless at the edge of the broken courtyard, crimson eyes sweeping over the battlefield. His cloak hung in tatters. The blade at his side was stained black with corrupted blood.
The ground was littered with ruined bodies: shattered remains of System beasts, fallen enemies, and Lost Ones alike. The stench of mana-burnt flesh clung to the air.
Behind him, The Unborn worked without orders. Massive hands quietly dug grave after grave, chains dragging through the dirt with dull, heavy clinks. No words. No complaints. Only the repetitive rhythm of survival.
The Flickering Aura Boy sat slumped near a cracked wall, binding his own wounds with shaking fingers and torn cloth. His blade lay across his knees, still slick with dried blood.
The Mana-Cursed Girl lay unconscious beneath the remains of a collapsed pillar. Flickers of unstable mana pulsed faintly from her fingers even in sleep.
Eryndor's gaze never softened.
They had survived. Barely.
The Academy itself had gone still. The sky above remained a jagged tapestry of fractures and crimson light. From far off, deep beneath the ground, something rumbled—a low, distant pulse like a slumbering beast shifting in its lair.
Eryndor's voice broke the silence, cold and measured.
"Perimeter. Supplies. Recover."
The Lost Ones obeyed.
Eryndor turned his gaze back to the ruined horizon.
This was not peace.
Only the eye of the storm.
The wind whispered softly across the ruins.
The Lost Ones moved slowly through the wreckage, not as soldiers but as survivors. Each motion held the weight of exhaustion, grief, and the faint, stubborn spark of refusal to die.
The Unborn finished the last grave.
His towering frame stood in the shifting light. Chains hung slack from his massive wrists as he stared down at the small pile of dirt and broken stones. He said nothing. Simply turned and waited.
Eryndor approached with quiet steps.
"Orders?" The voice came low, guttural, unnatural. It was the first word the Unborn had ever spoken.
Eryndor paused. His expression remained unreadable, but something behind his crimson gaze shifted ever so slightly.
"Guard the perimeter," he answered.
The Unborn nodded once and moved without question, fading back into the shadows of the crumbled walls.
Near the center of the courtyard, the Flickering Aura Boy struggled with a torn makeshift bandage. His breath came in shallow bursts as he stared at the pale rising sun cutting through the clouds of ash.
Eryndor stood over him.
"You're alive," Eryndor said flatly.
The boy coughed weakly. "Barely."
"You did what was needed."
The boy hesitated. Then, in a rare flash of defiance, he looked up, meeting Eryndor's gaze.
"You could have left us. Escaped the siege. Why didn't you?"
Eryndor didn't answer at first. He stared at the broken Academy spires silhouetted against the bleeding sky.
"Because I don't discard weapons I've sharpened," he said at last, voice cold but quieter than usual. "You're useful. Keep improving."
The boy gave a shaky grin despite the pain.
"Yes, sir."
The silence stretched.
On the far side, the Mana-Cursed Girl stirred. She gasped sharply as consciousness returned, eyes wide with panic. The faint crackle of unstable energy surged around her fingertips.
Eryndor was there before she could spiral out of control.
"Breathe."
The girl's eyes locked on his. The energy flickered wildly, then slowly calmed. Her shoulders sagged.
"I… I thought I lost control again…"
"You didn't," Eryndor said simply. "You survived."
Her eyes watered, and she quickly looked away to hide it.
The Lost Ones gathered slowly as the sun rose. Wounded, bruised, but alive. No words passed between them. No cheers of victory. They simply sat among the ruins and breathed, as if afraid the Academy would remember they existed.
Eryndor's gaze swept them all.
The System had sent its worst. They had endured.
The Academy had become something broken, twisted, unpredictable.
It would only get worse.
Far off, the Oracle of Shattered Threads watched from the distant shadows. A shifting silhouette at the edge of reality.
The earth trembled faintly beneath the ruins.
Once.
Then again.
A pulse like a heartbeat. Deep. Slow. Wrong.
Eryndor clenched his fists behind his back.
The Lost Ones had earned one breath of survival. No more.
His inner voice was calm, razor-sharp as ever.
"The System shattered its rules. Something older comes now to reclaim them. So be it."
The bells of Vaelith Academy remained silent.
The siege had ended.
The next storm gathered unseen.