Slowly… the sky shed its crimson veil and donned the black cloak of night, marking the end of yet another hellish day—
here, in Londor.
As darkness settled, the only source of light for the three battered warriors came from the three colossal moons overhead.
Exhausted, they dragged their broken bodies away from the lake of blood and corpses .. now a feast for the circling crows.
The elegant armor that once covered their bodies had been torn to shreds, along with their flesh, leaving behind deep wounds and grotesque bruises.
They were drenched in filth, as if they'd been rolling through mud for hours.
In that miserable state, Frey and his companions climbed a hill—slightly higher than the surrounding terrain.
The moment they reached the top, they collapsed.
No longer able to move.
They sat in silence, staring at one another.
The only sounds were their heavy breathing, and the harsh caws of the crow-like creatures devouring the nightmare beasts below.
Looking at each other now, Frey couldn't help but remember their first day in Londor—how they had arrived with excitement, in full strength, clad in vibrant armor…
Now, they looked worse than beggars.
"Hehehe…"
Frey was the first to break the silence, laughing under his breath.
"Pfft."
Snow followed, sharing the same thoughts.
"They really got us, huh?"
"You said it."
Both of them burst into tired, bitter laughter ... a kind of mournful amusement at their pitiful state.
"Where's your usual charm now? That signature white hair and those golden eyes of yours… You look like a street rat. I bet the girls would run away the moment they see you."
Frey mocked Snow, whose hair had turned reddish from all the blood that had soaked him.
"Oh, look who's talking," Snow smirked. "One glance is enough to see you're the most pitiful one here."
He lightly tapped Frey's leg, earning a groan in response.
"You can't even walk properly! How do you plan to keep going in that condition?"
Laughing despite the pain, Frey bent his legs with effort, looking at Snow.
"Even when I can't walk… I'm still faster than you."
"Bullshit. Look at yourself, oh mighty Champion of the Victoriad. If I were you, I'd bury my head in a hole."
"You're no better, promised Hero of the Church. That so-called divine light of yours was pretty dim back there."
They exchanged jabs, mocking each other, while Ghost sat silently between them, eyes closed, not saying a word.
The laughter lingered a while longer… before fading into quiet.
Their loud voices slowly diminished as they sat in stillness, eyes fixed on the ground.
"We were completely defeated," Snow finally said.
"…Yes," Frey replied.
"We overestimated our strength."
"…Yes."
"We're just insects crawling in the dirt, beneath monsters that soar across realms and dimensions."
Frey stared at the ground for a few seconds before answering.
"…Yes."
Truth had a bitter taste.
A very bitter one.
To be weak in a world ruled by power .. was a curse.
Frey and the others now understood just how painful it was to be powerless—so powerless that their lives meant nothing, mere toys in the hands of others.
The Lord of Graves had decided their lives would end. And there was nothing they could do to stop him.
It was luck and that blind old man who had saved them.
And once again, it wasn't their will… it wasn't their choice.
Frey slowly raised his head, fully grasping that cruel truth.
"…So what now?"
What do you do when you finally realize your own insignificance?
Do you turn back? Tail between your legs, burdened by shame and defeat?
Do you accept the dark fate that awaits, and bow before those titans looming above?
Frey and Snow looked at each other—then smiled at the same time.
A weary smile.
No words were needed.
Snow rose to his feet, gripping Vermithor, and walked with heavy steps toward the center of their small camp.
There, at that precise spot, he drove the blade into the ground.
Vermethor immediately released a wave of holy energy, enveloping the three of them in a circular dome that glowed with a soft green light—gently beginning to heal their wounds.
Despite their shattered bodies, despite the blood, the pain, and the filth—
Their eyes still burned sharper than ever.
After all… if there was one thing they had grown used to, it was despair.
No matter how many times it crushed them—slamming them into the dirt—as long as life still clung to their bodies,
they would rise again.
Again and again… until the bitter end.
The three of them sat there as their bodies slowly healed.
None of them slept.
Fueled by fury, they turned that seething emotion into the fire that kept their broken bodies moving.
None of them looked back.
Retreat was never an option.
Even if they chose to run… the Lord of Graves still waited beyond the barrier.
And even if they somehow made it past him ..
There was no road leading home.
Their path had remained the same from the beginning: the one the strange old man had pointed them toward.
Time passed.
The sky turned red… then black… then red again, three full cycles.
None of them knew how time worked on this wretched planet.
But they waited.
Patiently.
Until the soft green glow emitted by Vermithor faded—its light disappearing when there was nothing left to heal.
That pure light had mended torn flesh and broken bone, restoring Frey and the others to a state where they could at least fight again.
Once healed, the three of them cleaned themselves up one last time before changing their armor and gear.
As he pulled his new armor from the dimensional ring, Frey realized something.
Looking inside, he saw food and water—just enough to keep them alive.
But what caught his attention was the piece of armor in his hand.
It was the last one.
How long had it been since they arrived in this land?
He'd stopped counting after they passed the one-month mark…
But it was far more than that for sure.
In that moment, Frey realized ..
They were approaching their limits.
Whatever awaited them at the end of that dark path, they had to reach it—soon.
"Let's move," Frey said quietly, before surging forward with the others.
Their bodies, now vessels of aura, surged across the land at speeds that left nothing behind but afterimages—blurs like bullets cutting through the wind.
The terrain ahead was wide open.
A vast plain with nothing on it.
It stretched out before them like a ceremonial carpet, as if welcoming them toward the main event.
From the look of the land .. and the strange barrier they had passed .. Frey guessed this was Crownlands, the one spoken of by those whipped corpses.
And despite their incredible speed, the scenery ahead never changed…
A testament to how immense this land truly was.
They ran.
And ran.