CHAPTER 260: CHAPTER 262: DESTROY EACH OTHER

Above the city, she hovers with lazy confidence, tail swaying in slow arcs, her clothes barely torn despite the hours of battle. In her hands—held as casually as a merchant displaying goods—are the severed heads of Bulad and Caizie. Their blood drips in languid trails, scattering in the wind before reaching the ground.

Gasps and screams ripple through the soldiers below. A few stumble back. Others drop their weapons entirely. Even the captains on the wall falter, the sight punching the breath from their lungs.

Virela doesn’t shout. She doesn’t need to. Her voice carries as if the wind itself bends to her will.

"Humans," she begins, her tone almost conversational, almost gentle—yet the weight of it presses into every chest like an invisible blade. "I will give you... a chance."

A low murmur spreads through the troops. Some look at each other. Others look only at the dirt beneath their boots.

"Before I order my soldiers to finish what we started," she continues, raising the heads a fraction higher, "you may surrender." Her golden eyes narrow, glinting with something that isn’t quite kindness. "But there is a price."

She points one clawed finger lazily toward the city streets.

"Kill those who will not surrender. Help us kill them. Prove your loyalty, and I promise you..." She lets the words hang like the moment before lightning strikes. "...my soldiers will not touch you."

The humans look at each other, the silence stretching thin. The air stinks of sweat, blood, and fear.

Then Hadrik’s voice cuts through it.

"Listen, everyone! Don’t be tempted. Are you really going to kill your comrades just to survive?"

His words hit like a thrown stone, making several soldiers stiffen. A few glance toward him, uncertain, desperate.

But Tresa, her jaw tight, takes one step forward. Her blade is already in her hand.

"I’m sorry, Hadrik," she says, her voice trembling, "but I don’t want to die here."

Hadrik’s eyes widen. "Tresa—"

She lunges. Steel screams against steel as their weapons clash. The shock of their Tier 6 auras colliding sends dust swirling across the wall.

"Are you crazy?!" Hadrik snarls, forcing her back a step. "You’re going to be a slave of the monsters!"

Tresa grits her teeth, sparks flashing where their swords lock. "Better their pet than dead in this gutter!"

High above, Virela tilts her head, eyes narrowing in faint amusement.

"Don’t worry," she calls down, her tone like a lullaby wrapped in venom. "You won’t be a slave if you surrender. Your status will be lower than our pets though..." Her smile curves just enough to chill the blood. "...but it’s still better than a slave. Right?"

The hesitation shatters.

Some humans shout surrender. Others shout defiance. And then the first blade sinks into a man’s back, and everything breaks.

The wall becomes a frenzy—steel clashing against steel, screams ringing in the open air. Friends turn on friends, Tier 5s cutting down Tier 4s, arrows meant for monsters finding human throats instead.

Virela watches the chaos spread, the corner of her mouth curling in satisfaction.

Her voice slices through the din.

"Kill anyone who didn’t surrender."

The monsters surge forward, pouring into the city like a tide of teeth and claws, cutting down those still resisting.

Above it all, Hadrik and Tresa’s blades spark again and again, their duel now just one heartbeat in a storm of betrayal.

----

Virela drifts back through the blood-hazed air, leaving the chaos to devour itself. The screams below fade into background music as she touches down on a jagged rooftop where Mhazul waits.

"I guess we’re almost done here," she says, letting the two severed heads drop unceremoniously onto the tiles with a wet thud.

Mhazul glances at them, then at her. "You really take your sweet time with those two humans."

Her lips curl, slow and deliberate. "You should have seen the fear in their faces." She runs a claw along her cheek, as if savoring the memory.

A sudden shift in the air makes the rooftop tremble—two crushing auras slam into the battlefield. Virela turns her head, eyes narrowing as Grathum and Zurrak descend from above, their presence bending the wind.

"Oh, you two are here already," she says lightly. "What about the two humans?"

"They managed to flee," Grathum rumbles, his massive frame casting half the rooftop in shadow.

Mhazul clicks his tongue. "Tssk. You let them go."

Zurrak crosses his arms, the jagged plates along his forearms still steaming. "It would’ve taken us far too long to hunt them down and finish them"

Grathum gives a low grunt, then tilts his head toward his right shoulder. A broad gash mars his armor, and in his hand, he holds a blood-slicked human arm, the flesh still warm. "I did manage to take the arm of the one I was fighting," he says, tossing it aside like refuse.

Virela’s gaze flickers to it briefly before she smirks. "Good enough."

The four of them step to the edge of the rooftop, the city below writhing with fire, smoke, and dying screams—predators ready to sink their claws into what’s left.

The next day, the news spreads like wildfire.

From the merchant districts to the farmlands, from noble manors to military barracks, whispers of the fall of the Imlan Kingdom are on every tongue.

But it isn’t just the destruction of another border kingdom that chills the empire’s people—it’s the names carried on that wind.

Bulad. Caizie. The Eighteenth and Nineteenth Spear of the empire. Gone.

By noon, the capital is restless. Crowds gather at every notice board, reading the official proclamation nailed there by trembling scribes. The empire’s black-and-gold banners hang heavy over the streets, but they do little to disguise the unease that coils like smoke through the air.

Inside the Grand War Hall, the leaders of the nineteen remaining affiliated forces stand in a half-circle around the Emperor’s dais.

Emperor Varnen’s voice is low at first, almost calm, but it carries like steel dragged over stone.

"The monsters have crossed the final line. They have slaughtered two of my Spears—heroes of the empire. They have sent a message of fear."

His gaze sweeps over them, sharp as a blade.

"We will answer with fire."

A leader of a clan, an older man with a deep scar across his cheek, steps forward. "Your Majesty... if they could defeat Bulad and Caizie, then—"

"—then we will drown them in the strength of all our forces," the Emperor cuts in, his voice rising, echoing against the marble pillars.

"From this day forward, the monsters are not an inconvenience. They are not a border problem anymore. They are a threat to the empire’s heart."

A murmur ripples through the chamber.

The murmur fades when the Emperor’s gaze hardens.

"I order every one of the nineteen affiliated forces to mobilize. No half measures. Empty your treasuries if you must. You will go all out in this war."

Velkain, leader of the Ashedge Clan, stands near the edge of the circle, his arms folded behind his back. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are not. He sees it clearly—every man and woman here sees it. It’s a command to bleed for the empire while the Imperial Core watches from behind their walls.

The Emperor continues, voice like a whip crack.

"Do not mistake my words for a request. Each of you will lead your own forces into the field. You will hold the lines. You will strike their nests. You will die before you retreat. Am I understood?"

The room answers as one, though the harmony is forced.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Velkain’s eyes move, just enough to catch the other leaders. The King of Dorthale shifts his jaw, as though grinding teeth. The silver-haired Matron of House Serev keeps her expression flat, but her hands are clenched around her cane. They understand as well as he does—none of them can refuse.

The Emperor’s shadow stretches long across the polished floor.

"The Spears are not mere soldiers. They are the empire’s teeth. Even those at the bottom of the ranking are worth more than a hundreds of thousand ordinary soldiers. And yet..." His voice tightens, like stone under pressure. "Two are gone."

A hush blankets the hall.

The Emperor’s knuckles whiten on the armrest of his throne.

"Even our highest Spears, peak Tier Six, have returned with wounds they may never recover from. This is no longer about victory—it is about survival."

Silence again. Nobody dares break it.

Velkain says nothing, his expression carved from stone. But in the stillness, his thoughts are sharp as a drawn blade.

The Emperor is in no mood for challenge. And the Ashedge Clan, like every kingdom and clan here, is bound in chains of loyalty and subordination.

Chains that grow heavier when the Emperor’s mood is black.

The order has been given. They will march without any choice.

----

Ashedge Clan Territory

Velkain’s boots strike the cobblestone with measured steps as he crosses the gate into the Ashedge stronghold. The air here is different—thicker, quieter, without the constant drumbeat of the Imperial Capital. It smells faintly of iron and pine, a scent that has always meant home.

Past the outer walls, the guards bow as he passes. His face remains unreadable, though his shoulders carry the weight of the Emperor’s command like a second set of armor.

Near the central courtyard, Velira is already there, pacing. The moment she sees him, she doesn’t wait—she runs forward, her braid whipping behind her.

"Dad!" she says, her voice tight. "We need to help Uncle Hadrik!"

Velkain slows but doesn’t stop until they’re standing face-to-face.

"Let’s talk inside, Velira."

The calm in his voice makes her chest ache. She expected urgency, anger—anything but this cool stillness. But she says nothing. She knows this look.