CHAPTER 38: A HUMBLED RIVAL, VALERIA’S SUBMISSION

The descent from the Frost Sanctum was a silent march of victors who felt like survivors.

The blizzard that had plagued Silverwood for weeks had vanished instantly upon the Avatar’s death. The sky was a piercing, unnatural blue, the sun reflecting off the melting snow with blinding intensity. It should have been beautiful.

Instead, it felt like a spotlight on their wounds.

Valeria carried the unconscious form of Professor George on her back, her enhanced strength making the old man light, but the burden of leadership weighed tons. Elara walked beside her, casting minor healing spells on George every few minutes. Arin trailed behind, his eyes darting at every shadow, the arrogance completely beaten out of him.

And ahead of them, always ahead, walked Alvian.

He moved with the predator’s grace granted by his new [Robes of the Void Walker]. He didn’t look back. He didn’t offer to help carry the Professor. He simply cleared the path.

Every few hundred meters, a remnant of the Cult—a stray Ice Golem or a maddened Acolyte—would lunge from the melting snow.

Zip.

Alvian wouldn’t even break stride. A flicker of shadow, the flash of the [Frost Lance], and the enemy would shatter.

[You have slain Corrupted Acolyte. +12,000 XP.]

He was farming. Even now.

Valeria watched him. The resentment she had felt during the Exam, the competitiveness she had harbored during the mission... it was all gone. It had been incinerated in the light of Rogge’s sacrifice and Alvian’s god-slaying strike.

She realized now that she had been comparing a candle to a forest fire.

"We’re almost at the city," Alvian announced, stopping at a ridge overlooking Silverwood.

The city was no longer a ghost town. Even from this distance, they could see movement. Smoke from chimneys. People in the streets. The magical barrier over the Governor’s mansion was down.

Life was returning.

Valeria gently lowered George onto a flat rock to rest for a moment. She rolled her shoulders, wincing as her bruised muscles protested. She looked at Alvian, who was scanning the perimeter.

"Alvian," she said.

He didn’t turn. "Hostiles clear. We move in five."

"Stop," Valeria said, her voice firm.

Alvian turned, raising an eyebrow. "We don’t have time for—"

"Thank you."

The words hung in the crisp mountain air.

Alvian blinked. It was a micro-expression, gone in an instant, but it was there.

Valeria took off her helmet. Her hair was matted with sweat and blood, but her eyes were clear. She stood tall, the Knight of the Vanguard.

And then, she bowed.

It wasn’t a nod. It wasn’t a wave. It was a formal, ninety-degree bow of the Vanguard faction—a gesture reserved for superiors and saviors.

"You saved my squad," Valeria said, her head lowered. "You saved the city. You struck the blow I was too weak to make."

Elara gasped. Arin looked away, ashamed. For the proud Valeria to bow to a freshman... it was unthinkable.

"You were right," Valeria continued, straightening up. "In the Battle Grid... on the mission... you were right. I played by the rules. You played to win."

She extended her hand. Not as a rival, but as a subordinate.

"I won’t get in your way again. If you need a shield... Squad Alpha-9 answers to you."

Alvian looked at her hand. He looked at the bruised, battered, but unbroken girl standing before him.

In his past life, Valeria had been a tragic hero. She had died holding the line against a horde of demons, refusing to retreat because the rules said a Knight never turns their back. She died bravely, and stupidly.

But this Valeria... she had seen the rules broken. She had seen a God die. She was evolving.

Alvian didn’t smile. He reached out and gripped her forearm, the warrior’s clasp.

"I don’t need a shield, Valeria," Alvian said calmly. "I have [Runic Aegis]."

Valeria flinched, a flash of hurt in her eyes.

"But," Alvian continued, tightening his grip. "I need someone to hold the line while I break the enemy. You didn’t break today. That’s... adequate."

Valeria let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. From Alvian, "adequate" was high praise.

"Let’s go," Alvian released her arm. "George is waking up. And I want my reward."

Down in the city, the gates opened before they even arrived.

Governor Thorne stood at the entrance, surrounded by guards and cheering citizens. Alice, pale but alive, stood beside him.

When the squad emerged from the treeline, a roar went up from the crowd.

"The Heroes of Silverwood!"

"They did it! The winter is gone!"

Flowers—magically preserved—were thrown. People wept.

Alvian walked through the cheering crowd, his expression bored. He saw the numbers above their heads. Level 3. Level 5. NPCs. Fodder.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was George. The old professor was awake, leaning on Elara, looking weak and frail.

"They cheer for you, boy," George whispered, his voice trembling with grief. "They don’t know the price."

"They don’t need to know," Alvian replied, keeping his voice low so the crowd wouldn’t hear. "They just need to survive."

George looked at him, his eyes wet. "Rogge... he knew. He knew you were the only one who could finish it."

"He was crazy," Alvian said. "But he was effective."

They reached the Governor. Thorne looked ready to fall to his knees and kiss their boots.

"You saved us," Thorne wept. "Everything I have is yours."

Alvian stepped forward, cutting through the pleasantries.

"I don’t want everything," Alvian said. "I want the data logs from the SnowMage Lord’s tower. And I want private transport back to the Academy. Now."

The Governor blinked, confused by the coldness. "Of... of course. But the celebration..."

"There is no celebration," Alvian said, his voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the Governor more than the blizzard ever had. "The war isn’t over, Governor. It just got louder."

A/N: Creation is wild, exhausting, and sometimes my brain wants to run away. Power stones are my only bargaining chip to drag it back. If you liked this Chapter, toss me one or a few, it helps more than you think.