There's an old saying—infamous for its brutal simplicity and recurring relevance:
Two birds with one stone.
Most people would quote a philosopher or spin it into a metaphor. I won't.
One effort. Two results.
No poetry. No fluff. Just cold, tactical efficiency.
And that's exactly what the Empire's been playing at all along.
Assigning Strike Groups to Saints wasn't just about battlefield optimisation or protective logistics. It was about bonding—intense, deliberate, engineered bonding. Living together. Bleeding together. Becoming more than comrades. Closer than blood.
Because when the ambush comes—when something ancient and wrong lunges from the shadows—you don't want soldiers. You want a pack.
A unit that won't run.
A Saint who doesn't hide.
A group that fights—not for orders, not for flags, but for each other.
They don't fight because it's smart.
They fight because they love.
That's what no enemy calculation can account for.
That's what makes them dangerous.
So if this was truly the Empire's strategy all along, then I'll say it:
It's a masterpiece. Ruthless. Elegant. Cruel.
Effective.
"Every year," Lav said softly, his voice thinning like stretched cloth, "around a hundred thousand people vanish from Verdun. Not just the Nmanas. Mages. Scholars. Knights. Bloodlines like Raigarth—Lady Jhansi's house—just... gone."
He glanced to the side, instinctively, toward the far corner of the guildhall.
The same spot we used to sit.
The same wall always flooded in sunlight, where a hundred desperate flyers curled under heat and dust. Missing persons. Bounties. Begging eyes printed on parchment, offering fortunes in eons for any word.
And yet no one looked.
No one ever looked.
When I turned back to Lav, his complexion had drained. Not in exhaustion, but in revelation.
That kind of pallor only comes when you finally understand how wrong the world truly is—and that there's no one coming to fix it.
"You okay?" I asked, even though I already knew.
He gave a slow nod. Automatic. Hollow.
Something inside him had cracked.
"First, it was the demons," he said. "We used to think the stories were exaggerated. Creatures of fire and hunger. Devouring cities. Dragging people into the void. But those tales... they were warnings."
He paused, swallowing.
"And now these 'Shadow Demons'—the Wraiths... They're not even creatures. They're like... designs. Weapons made to unmake us. Like someone reached into the core of our worst nightmares and gave them form."
I didn't speak. I let him go on.
Let it bleed out.
"Lucius... when Acronis crossed the border with his continent of beasts, Verdun nearly collapsed. And then came Zero Dawn. The Godly One. Crowned himself Emperor. Led the world back from extinction. Said to be born of mana itself. Divine, Godlike."
He exhaled slowly. Shoulders trembling.
"And even then... even with all that power, with Saints and Asuras rising behind him... we barely survived."
He wasn't being dramatic.
Verdun's population before the war? Nearly two billion.
Two decades later?
Maybe a hundred million. Possibly less.
Entire provinces erased. Cities turned to ash.
Bloodlines that had stood for a thousand years—gone in months.
Embers in the snow.
And Lav? He was nineteen.
Just nineteen—and already trying to shoulder truths that would destroy older, stronger men.
So, no.
I didn't blame him for breaking.
I didn't expect him to carry this weight.
But the cruel truth?
No one else would.
"…But," Lav whispered again, his palms pressed hard against his temples, "if this new enemy… if they're really that strong… why haven't they attacked yet? Why show their hand now, after hiding for decades? Why challenge mages in the open? Why not just wipe us out?"
The question lingered like ash in the air.
The kind you don't answer.
The kind you just feel.
I'd asked it myself—more times than I'd like to admit.
Turned it over in my head until the edges dulled and the silence around it felt louder than any truth.
Whatever's holding them back…
It's the only thing keeping us breathing.
Maybe the Empire knew more than they ever let on. Maybe our so-called golden age wasn't peace—it was a pause. A stalemate.
Two sides are counting down.
One is sharpening the blade.
The other is bracing for the strike.
And speaking of time...
I glanced at the wall clock.
Shit. I had less than fifteen minutes left.
This conversation had stretched longer than I'd planned, too long.
Not sure if that was good or bad.
Maybe both.
"Listen," I said, voice tightening. "What we talked about—every word—take it to Mercy, Edward, and Dargan. All three. The Triumvirate has to hear this. Tell the Mage Wardens. The Border Knights. The Guild Coalition. Let them prepare. Especially Mercy and Edward. This might be the push they need."
Lav nodded—just once. Sharp. Silent.
"I've got a mission. Leaving soon. Take Sara and stay with Sia until I return. You and Sara—you've got something real. Watch each other's backs. And these truths we uncovered... who and when you tell, that's your call. I trust your judgment."
I half-expected him to protest. To argue. To beg me not to go.
The Beast Rims aren't safe anymore.
Not with the final assault raging between Rartar and Avraham's Alliance.
Not with the last corrupted factions fighting like cornered wolves.
But Lav didn't say a word.
His face shifted, but his mouth stayed shut.
His eyes… they spoke all the grief, the rage, the helplessness.
And in that moment, I understood:
It's not just me.
He's maturing too fast, too.
I'd heard from the others how Lav had been training nonstop. Fixing his weakest link: close combat.
Pushing past his limits.
Fighting like he's got something to prove.
Then, without warning, he bowed.
A full, respectful bow. Not casual. Not performative. Earnest.
"Thank you," he said. "For trusting me."
It hit me harder than I expected.
I stood up, gave him a few more insights—quick tips, nothing fancy. Just what he'd need if things turned bad fast. When I finished, Lav handed me a tall, chilled cup of coffee.
My mix.
Sharp caffeine. Smooth milk. A dash of sweetleaf powder. Just a bit of honey.
I took a sip.
Smooth. Cold.
Hit just right.
And then my eye twitched so hard it felt like it rolled into the back of my skull.
"Gods," I muttered, exhaling. "I needed this. Thanks."
Lav didn't say anything. Just raised his own cup in a quiet cheers gesture and took a small sip of his black coffee—the one drink I'd never dare put near my lips.
Bitter. Smoky. Awful.
Not even demons deserved that.
I tried not to gag just thinking about it.
"And thanks," I added, "for not trying to stop me. I mean it. I appreciate the trust."
Lav tilted his head slowly, not a nod. Something… smaller. A weight shifting.
"Trust? Understanding?" he muttered, almost under his breath. "My ass."
He smiled—but there was no warmth in it.
It was the kind of smile people wear when the truth is too raw to say out loud.
"I'm not stopping you because I can't," he said. "Because I know I'm not strong enough. Not yet. Because I know… whatever this mission is—it might be bigger than all of us right now."
He stepped back, voice cracking just slightly. Just enough to make it real.
"It's hell," he whispered. "Watching your brother walk into danger...
and knowing you're too weak to follow."
"..."
"I have a dream," Lav continued, voice low, head bowed, fists clenched—like he wasn't talking to me, but to himself. A confession meant for silence, not witness.
I knew the dream.
We both shared it.
"Me too," I replied when the silence threatened to consume the room again.
Lav looked up.
He didn't need to ask what my dream was. He knew. Exactly.
A dream that could barely be called one, because I knew it would become reality.
Not a matter of if, but when.
No matter the time.
No matter the cost.
It will happen.
"Goodbye, Lav."
I turned before his face cracked, before I had to witness the weight buckle his voice, his hands, his heart. I knew what this revelation did to him. To anyone.
Even the strongest minds would falter beneath that kind of despair.
"Promise me."
His voice caught me just before the hall's edge, faint, threaded between sobs he was trying—and failing—to swallow.
I stopped, but didn't turn.
Didn't want to embarrass him.
Didn't want to see it break.
"That I won't be the last person you talk to before leaving," he said.
…
The words hung heavier than I expected.
He wasn't just asking for reassurance.
He was begging.
Begging fate.
Begging me.
To live.
That this conversation wouldn't be my last. That I'd come back. That we'd talk again—laugh again.
My throat tightened.
My mind wanted to shout it. Loud and certain.
"I promise."
But I didn't.
Edward's voice echoed instead, with that lazy, dangerous smirk of his:
"Promises are meant to be broken."
He said it often. Too often.
But it stuck because somewhere deep down, we both knew… he was right.
Not always. Not every time.
But when you're dancing this close to death, some promises are out of your hands.
Still…
Not all promises deserve that fate.
Not the sensitive ones. Not this one.
So I held my tongue.
And left.
No words.
Only footsteps.
Outside, the air was cold. Sharper than expected.
The golden gates shimmered faintly in the distance—Forza would be waiting there. I had to hurry.
Despite it being early afternoon, the sky looked like dusk.
Thick, coiled storm clouds veiled the sun, rolling in with lightning strikes that stitched the heavens with pale veins. The whole city was cast in that grey tone—so familiar, so damn nostalgic.
It reminded me of that encounter.
The Wraith.
The mist that had saved me. Whatever it was.
I still had no idea what helped me that day.
But help is help.
Appreciate it. Move forward.
My mind, however, refused to let go of Lav's voice, his face, his fear. Like clouds obscuring the sun, his words kept drifting into view, casting long shadows over my thoughts.
Annoying.
But maybe... necessary.
No use suppressing it.
At least not yet.
Not until I met with Forza.
So I let it in.
All of it.
Lav's insights. His doubts. His fear of the Wraiths.
The hundred thousand missing. The buried bloodlines.
All of it.
Exhausting? Yes.
But sometimes the mature thing, the only useful thing, is to face what your instincts tell you to ignore.
If it yields even the smallest clarity, the smallest advantage…
Then the toll is worth it.
I quickened my pace.
There was still work to do.
Still truths to uncover.
Still promises—spoken or not—to honour.