The blades straightened in the air, their movents seamless, unnervingly synchronized- like soldiers standing at attention before delivering an execution. Then, as if possessed by so unseen will, they tilted forward, their razor edges aligning with deadly precision, all pointed at Northern.
The tips of their gleaming edges shimred with a murderous luster, catching the light in a way that sent a chill through the mountain air.
It was just steel-just cold, unfeeling tal. And yet, in that mont, it felt alive.
As if the blades themselves were savoring the sight before them-the once-unshaken warrior, now hunched over, his body writhing beneath the lingering agony that had stripped his hands of their strength.
Then they struck.
The blades plumted, turning into blurs of sheer velocity, tearing through the wind like falling teors.
The sound of their descent was a whisper of death-too swift, too rciless, an execution etched in steel.
The blade, gleaming with murderous intent, was re milliseconds from cleaving into Northern's skull...
Then, in a blur of defiance, sothing impossible happened.
With a speed that defied his limits, Gareon materialized between them, with a force of desperation and steel.
Northern's breath hitched, his eyes widening as he watched the leader surge forward, his entire form transmuting into ashen tal, every inch of him gleaming like a living fortress.
"...Fool!"
The word erupted from his throat, raw and thunderous, laced with agony. But it was too late. The mont steel t steel, a brutal force sent Gareon hurtling through the air like a broken cot. He twisted violently, his armored body smashing into a distant rockface, shattering it into a cascade of rubble and dust.
Northern's face darkened with despair.
'Why?! Would he even....'
But there was no ti to dwell on the thought.
The blade was already slicing toward him again, a silver streak of death. Northern's gaze flicked back, catching the girl in his peripheral vision-closer than she should have been. Too close.
Instinct took over.
With a powerful burst, he propelled himself into the air, the sudden movent sending the blade crashing into the ground beneath him. The impact detonated like a thunderclap, a shockwave ripping outward in a violent explosion. Shattered stone and fractured debris howled in all directions, the force slamming into Northern mid-flight, flinging him even farther.
But it was exactly what he needed.
Mid-air, he twisted, seizing the girl by the waist, his grip firm but controlled. With fluid precision, he adjusted his trajectory, his body slicing effortlessly through the air. The wind howled past, and three seconds later, he landed in a crouch near Gareon, whose crumpled form lay amidst the wreckage.
The leader's body was in ruins-battered beyond reason. His nose and mouth were streaked in crimson, fresh blood painting his face like a grotesque mask.
A deep, webbed crack spread across the center of his tallic chest where the blade had struck, the impact still rippling through as the tal peeled off bit by bit.
But that wasn't the worst of it. His entire body lay drenched in a shallow river of blood, pooling beneath him in dark, glistening streams.
Northern stared down at him, a heat rising in his chest, burning, searing, unbearable. His fists clenched involuntarily. Anger.
Not just anger-rage.
He was viciously angry at Gareon and the sheer, reckless stupidity of his actions. Why had he done it? Why throw himself into the path of the blade like that? What kind of foolish, useless sacrifice was this?! Just why?!
And more importantly... why was he so furious about it?
A storm of thoughts churned inside him, twisting, colliding, impossible to navigate.
They had barely known each other for a day. A single damn day! So why did this feel like sothing was breaking inside him?
"Don't... look at ... tha... that way..."
A wet, gurgling cough followed Gareon's words, thick with blood.
"Hey, hey, don't talk!"
The girl's voice was frantic, strained with desperation. She turned sharply to Northern, her eyes pleading.
"You should do sothing! Don't just stand there-help him!"
Northern didn't respond. He couldn't.
But Gareon did, his broken form shifting ever so slightly. His somber, pain-clouded gaze
locked onto Northern, peering through the thin veil of his white mask.
Gareon rasped, "Even... with that mask hiding your face... I can tell."
His breath was shallow, each word a struggle.
"I can see it. The way you loathe ... in this mont."
His bloodied lips curled weakly, a ghost of a smile.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I had to do sothing... My body reacted on its own."
Gareon coughed again, more blood spilling from his lips in thick, wet rivulets. Then, slowly, the shallow rise and fall of his chest stilled.
His shoulders, once trembling with effort, eased into a terrible, dark stillness-a peace that was more sorrowful than serene.
A sudden, agonized wail tore through the air.
The girl collapsed, her hands slamming against her thighs in a desperate, self-inflicted blow. Pain must have lanced through her, but she didn't seem to care. Her body trembled, teeth clenched so hard they might crack. She bowed her head, her knees sinking into the blood- soaked ground, the crimson seeping into her clothes as though staining her soul.
Northern, however, remained standing.
His eyes darkened, the weight in his chest felt sharp and unfamiliar. It wasn't grief, not quite -not yet. It was sothing worse. Sothing piercing. A strange, unwelco ache unlike
anything he had felt before.
Because no one had ever done this for him before.
No one had ever thrown themselves between him and death, willingly offering their life for
his. Not once.
Gareon—when they first t, he had thought of him as arrogant, as domineering, as just
another authoritative fool barking orders.
But now, looking at the man's still body, Northern realized sothing else. That arrogance had been a mask. A mantle worn by a leader shouldering the weight of his people. It hadn't
been hollow posturing.
The rcenary had been a good man.
A man who still had years ahead of him-perhaps decades. He was likely in his early forties. If
he chose to retire early, he could have had another fifty years. He could have lived.
But now it had all co to a brutal, aningless end.
And the worst part-the part that made Northern taste the bitter edge of his own fury-was that it had been unnecessary. He would have been fine. If Gareon had not intervened, Northern
would have survived.
The thought curled like acid in his gut.
So irrational part of him almost wished he had truly been in danger. That he would have
died had Gareon not been there-just so the man's sacrifice would carry more weight. Just so his death wouldn't feel so... pointless.
Slowly, Northern crouched beside the fallen leader. His fingers reached out, brushing over Gareon's lifeless face. With quiet reverence, he slid the man's eyelids shut, shielding the
vacant, glassy stare.
Then, with careful precision, he reached upward, untying the red scarf wrapped around Gareon's head. The fabric was damp, soaked with blood and sweat.
He stood, his grip tightening around the scarf.
His gaze flickered to the girl, who had yet to raise her head. Her shoulders shook, her teeth worrying her lower lip to keep herself from breaking further.
'So much for no one dying, huh?'
The words sat heavy on his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say them. Gareon's death
was a sting. A sharp, rciless sting-one that burrowed deep, leaving a raw and bitter ache.
Then Northern turned.
In the distance, he saw it-the creature.
Its elongated blades glead under the clear light, hovering in the air, scything through the wind, searching. Searching for sothing to cleave.
The rift guardian's body moved with slow, deliberate precision, guided toward the direction
its blades had last flown.
His eyes glead, cold and sharp, laced with a dread that coiled deep within.
He needed sothing to take out this boiling anger on. And what better outlet than the
creature that had caused this in the first place?
His fingers tightened around the bloodstained scarf. With a swift motion, he wrapped it
around his wrist, knotting it in place-a silent promise.
Then he moved.
He flew.
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