They stepped through the haze in perfect formation. Their boots struck the earth in unison, a rhythm that seemed to make the very air vibrate. Each shield was raised at identical angles, spear points catching what little light filtered through the smoke.
Behind them, more shapes emerged—gray-clad figures whose armor bore no decoration, no mark of rank or achievement.
They needed none. Their competence spoke for itself.
Leo watched them advance from behind the crude barricade they’d built from fallen logs and corpses. His sword arm ached under the blade’s weight, muscles trembling with exhaustion he’d ignored for far too long.
Now it was all catching up to him—weeks of suppressed fatigue demanding to be felt.
Not yet.
The Chimeroi formed a ragged line beside him: Ripper at his right, her claws dripping gore; Raze at his left, blood seeping through makeshift bandages wrapped around his torso; Hook and Fang positioned at the flanks, their breathing labored but eyes sharp; Slash crouched low, ready to strike.
A volley of arrows came from behind. The half-elves had shot early. It was both due to lack of training and sheer desperation. Most shafts bounced off shields or embedded themselves in wood and earth. A few found gaps in armor, drawing grunts of pain but no screams. The Legion absorbed casualties without flinching, closing ranks over fallen comrades as if they'd never existed.
"Hold!" Leo commanded, though the word came out as a rasp. His throat was raw from smoke and shouting orders no one would follow.
There were no clever tactics left, no flanking maneuvers or strategic retreats. Just this. A wall of exhausted flesh against an unstoppable machine.
The Legion halted thirty paces away. Silence fell over the battlefield, save for the crackling of distant flames. Then, as one, they lowered their spears and charged.
Hook met them first.
The lizard-blood moved with unexpected grace, scales shifting color as he darted between spear thrusts. His tail swept low, taking a soldier's legs out from under him. Before the man hit the ground, Hook's claws had already torn through his throat. He spun, deflecting a blade with hardened scales along his forearm, then drove his other hand through the attacker's eye slit.
The half-elves continued their barrage, arrows whistling overhead. One soldier stumbled as a shaft punched through his knee joint.
Fang capitalized on the opening, her powerful frame barreling through the gap. Her claws, longer and thicker than even Ripper's, carved through plate armor as if it were parchment. Blood sprayed across her fur, matting it against her skin.
Leo stepped forward, and Ripper moved beside him, her breathing steady despite the blood—not all of it others'—that coated her from head to foot. They fell into a rhythm born from countless fights, covering each other's weaknesses, striking where the other defended. Her claws opened throats; his blade found joints and gaps. They moved as one creature with two bodies, death given form.
Raze fought three paces to their left, his massive frame absorbing punishment that would have killed anyone else. An arrow already protruded from his shoulder. A sword had laid open his arm to the bone. Still, he fought, tiger-blood strength allowing him to tear through armor with his bare hands when his weapons were knocked away.
Slash darted between opponents, too quick to pin down, his youth lending him speed that experience hadn't yet tempered with caution.
Legion bodies dropped like falling leaves, and for a few precious moments, it seemed they might actually hold.
A foolish assumption.
Hook had just finished cutting down his third opponent when he overextended on the follow-through—just a fraction too far, his weight shifted a tad too much. Any other enemy might have missed it.
…But not the Legion.
Three spears thrust forward in perfect synchronization. The first pierced Hook's shoulder, spinning him sideways. The second caught him in the ribs, punching through scales that had turned countless blades. The third went through his chest, the point emerging from his back in a spray of crimson.
Hook's eyes widened, more in surprise than pain. His mouth opened, perhaps to speak, perhaps to scream, but only blood emerged. The soldiers withdrew their weapons with practiced efficiency, and Hook crumpled to the mud.
"NO!!"
Fang's roar shook leaves from burning branches. Her eyes, already feral from the heat of battle, went completely wild. The careful control she'd maintained, the discipline that kept her beast-blood in check, shattered like glass.
She charged.
Not toward her brother’s killers—toward all of them. Her claws extended to their full length, curved talons that could gut a bear.
She moved without thought or strategy, pure rage given form. A soldier raised his shield; she tore through it and the arm behind it. Another thrust his spear at her exposed flank; she ignored it, the point sliding off her thick hide as she ripped his head from his shoulders.
Blood painted the ground in wide arcs as Fang carved a path through the Legion's ranks. She fought without defense, taking wounds that would have dropped a normal fighter—a sword through her thigh, a dagger in her back, an arrow in her shoulder. None of it slowed her. She was beyond pain, beyond anything but the need to kill.
Leo tried to call out to her, to order her back, but his voice was lost in the chaos. He could only watch as she pressed deeper into enemy lines, each kill taking her farther from any hope of support.
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The end came suddenly. A Flamecaller stepped forward, hands wreathed in fire. Fang turned toward this new threat, but her wounds had finally taken their toll. Her charge faltered, legs buckling. The Flamecaller's spell took her in the chest, the heat so intense it turned her fur to ash in an instant. She fell forward, momentum carrying her another step before she collapsed beside a soldier she'd been reaching for.
Two dead in as many minutes.
Leo's jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. No time for grief. No time for anything but survival. The Legion pressed forward, stepping over their own dead with the same indifference they'd shown to everything else.
"Close ranks!" Leo shouted, though there were precious few ranks left to close.
The half-elves had run out of arrows and now fought with whatever weapons they had scavenged from the dead: Legion swords, broken spear shafts, rocks when nothing else remained.
They were little more than cannon fodder against the Legion’s battle-hardened drones. He knew it, and so did they. Yet whatever pride they still possessed refused to let them stand aside while he died in their place.
It didn’t matter. Death would find them all today—the only choice left was the order in which it came. Every exchange cost them more than it cost the Legion. Every mistake was punished, while enemy errors offered nothing to exploit. The machine pressed forward, relentless.
Until it didn’t.
Without warning, the Legion stopped.
Soldiers who'd been mid-strike froze. Those pressing forward halted as if they'd hit an invisible wall. In perfect unison, they stepped back, weapons lowering, forming neat ranks on either side of a corridor that hadn't existed moments before.
Leo's lungs burned as he gasped for air. Beside him, Ripper tensed, claws still extended, ready for whatever came next. Blood dripped from a gash on her cheek, and her left arm hung at an odd angle, but her eyes remained focused.
Through the corridor of soldiers walked a single figure.
He wore robes of deep purple, untouched by soot or blood despite the carnage around him. His face was neither old nor young, neither harsh nor kind, as if emotion were a language he’d never learned. His footsteps made no sound on the blood-soaked earth.
Leo knew what this was. Who this was. The perfect coordination, the synchronized movements, the soldiers reacting to deaths across the field—all of it pointed to a single source.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. The puppeteer pulling the Ehrenlegion’s strings.
Geistreich.
Leo shifted his weight, preparing to charge. If he could just kill this one man, the network would collapse. The soldiers would lose their perfect coordination, maybe even their will to fight. One strike could—
His body went rigid.
It wasn't like being held or restrained. It was as if his muscles had simply forgotten how to move. His lungs still drew breath, his heart still beat, but everything else had become stone. He tried to lift his sword, to take a step, to even turn his head. Nothing responded. The same seemed to be true for his allies.
The Mind Mage approached with measured steps. His expression never changed, even as he surveyed the destruction around him with the detached interest of a scholar examining specimens.
"Leonidas of House Hohenheim." His voice was neither warm nor cold, simply factual. "You should know better than to leave your mind so unguarded. Did your brother not teach you anything?"
Leo strained against the mental bonds, willing his body to move through sheer desperation. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but nothing more. The Mind Mage noticed even that small defiance, his head tilting a fraction of a degree.
"Your will is stronger than most. A result of conditioning, perhaps… or accumulated trauma." He stepped closer, close enough for Leo to see the dull, stone-flat color of his eyes. "Useless, either way."
The Mind Mage held his gaze a moment longer, and Leo felt a sharp ache bloom behind his eyes. Then it vanished, as the man’s attention shifted to the Chimeroi.
“Slaves…” he murmured. “They’ve exceeded their projected survival parameters by a considerable margin. How unpleasant. High time this deviation be remedied…”
With a flick of his fingers, two daggers lifted from his belt—long, narrow blades rounded like awls, their handles bare of guards. Tools, not weapons. Never meant for human hands.
They hovered over the man’s shoulders, held in place by [Telekinesis]. Leo had seen Zeke do it often enough to recognize the spell. The awls’ tips began to turn, and Leo’s heart dropped. He couldn’t turn his head to confirm his fears—until the awls vanished, whistling through the air like crossbow bolts.
Two muffled grunts. Then the awls returned to the man’s shoulders, slick with blood.
Leo heard two bodies collapse—one to his far right, one to his left. The positions told him who’d been struck: Raze and Slash.
He breathed a sigh of relief and immediately hated himself for it. In that moment, all he could think was how glad he was it hadn’t been Ripper. If he could have one more wish in this life, it would be that she not die before him—that he not have to watch her go.
“…Not her?”
Leo’s mind ground to a halt. Words that could have only stemmed from his worst nightmare had just been spoken aloud.
The Mind Mage paused, the awls spinning lazily as his gaze shifted between Leo and Ripper, who stood half-shielded behind him.
“I see,” he said. “Get her.”
At his command, two soldiers strode past Leo and returned moments later, dragging a paralyzed Ripper between them. Each held one of her arms, forcing her to her knees before Leo—her face turned toward him, her back to the Mind Mage.
Leo tried to scream, to fight, to do anything. But his body remained frozen, trapped within his own flesh. He could only watch as the Mind Mage lifted a hand, a gesture so casual it might have been to brush away dust.
The awls angled themselves once more, their trajectory leading to the back of Ripper’s head.
"The Empire's mercy is finite," the Mind Mage said, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "Every choice to resist is a choice to suffer. Not for glory or honor or any other delusion you've wrapped around your defiance. Simply to suffer, and… to watch others suffer for your choices."
He lowered his hand slightly, and Ripper gasped—the first sound she'd been allowed to make. Her eyes found Leo's, and in them he saw not fear but fury. Even now, even trapped and facing death, she was unbroken.
"…Consider this your first lesson," the Mind Mage said. "There will be others, Leonidas. Each one will cost you, until you have nothing left but the understanding that submission would have spared you everything."
The forest had gone silent around them. No wind stirred the smoke. No flames crackled in the distance. Even the wounded had stopped moaning. Everything waited on the Mind Mage's will, the world itself holding its breath.
Leo's mind raced through possibilities, options, desperate plans that died before they could form. He had thought himself strong, trained, experienced—none of it mattered. He was an insect pinned to a board, watching as the collector reached for another specimen.
The Mage's fingers began to close, and Leo felt something in his chest tear—not physically, but deeper, in places that had no name.
This was how it ended. Not in battle or glory or even meaningful defeat. Just standing helpless while everything that mattered was taken away, one cruelty at a time.
He found Ripper’s eyes.
It would be the last time he saw them, and he burned the sight into his memory—every fleck, every glint, every trace of life. He would not forget.
Then came the whistle—the sharp split of air. It didn’t matter. He would not look away.
Time stretched thin, every heartbeat drawn out into eternity. The world was silent, holding its breath with him.
The moment passed like that. And then a few more.
Something was wrong. This stillness wasn’t just in his mind.
Leo realized, with a start, that his body was no longer bound. His eyes lifted, moving past Ripper’s bowed head… and froze.
A figure stood where there had been nothing a moment before, one hand clenched around two suspended awls, the blades hovering an inch from Ripper’s skull.
Leo’s gaze climbed higher, taking in the broad shoulders, the dark coat lined with gold thread—
and the long crimson hair that brushed the man’s shoulders.