The tide of armored rats had finally been quelled.
Their tallic screeches, like the grinding of rusted gears, no longer echoed through the battered streets. The city stood firm, its walls splattered with blood and scorched by battle, yet unbroken. Another calamity had co knocking, and once again, Valthorn endured.
Under Crown Prince Damien Harrier’s command, all the rat corpses were gathered beyond the northern gate, forming a grotesque monunt of death. The mound, thick with blood, fur, and gleaming black armor, towered so high it could be seen even from the farthest alleys of the inner districts.
To the untrained eye, this might have seed unnecessary—perhaps even wasteful. Why not burn the bodies where they fell? Why risk gathering them in such numbers? But Damien had his reasons.
Cold. Calculated. Historical.
Though there had been no verified accounts of plagues arising from the aftermath of beast tides, but Damien couldn’t shake a word that clawed at the edge of his mind like a banshee’s wail.
Black Death.
The mory of that ancient plague from Earth—when the bubonic horror swept through Europe between 1346 and 1353, reaping fifty million lives—was very clear to him.
And this was no ordinary world.
Here, where magic and monsters reigned, a plague could evolve into sothing far deadlier—sothing arcane. Just because it hadn’t happened yet didn’t an it never would.
"Only fools leave such important matters to luck..." he muttered under his breath, a glint of steel flickering in his eyes.
He wouldn’t burn the mountain just yet, though. Not imdiately.
No, first the city needed to see it. To witness the silent testant to their survival. To realize the scale of the battle and the blood spilled for their peace.
He wasn’t doing this to bask in glory.
This was to root belief deep in their hearts: As long as the Harrier family stood, no storm could shake the city.
General Clayn hadn’t questioned Damien’s thods—not after watching him take the battlefield by storm. Whatever doubts the old general once harbored were now buried under admiration and a grudging respect.
anwhile, Selene and Akira had been escorted to the Harrier Castle. Their expressions were pale but composed. They needed rest—and more importantly, distance from the battlefield that had nearly devoured them.
Soon enough, the rumors started to swirl through the streets like leaves caught in a storm.
Tales of a miraculous victory, of monstrous rats falling in droves, and a prince wielding a thunderous weapon that tore the air with fire.
Word spread fast.
All across the city, windows creaked open and doors cautiously unlatched. Curiosity overca fear. And then, people saw it—the towering pile just beyond the northern gate.
A scene unfolded in the outer district:
An old woman squinted into the distance, her hunched back trembling as she leaned on her cane. "Oh, my... since when did we have mountains near the city...?"
From behind her, a youthful, teasing voice piped up. "Grandma, are your eyes going bad again? There aren’t any—"
The boy—barely older than thirteen—trailed off as his gaze locked on the distant mound. His mouth fell open in disbelief, as if he’d seen a ghost.
"What is that...?" he whispered.
The mountain had appeared overnight, casting a long shadow over their disbelief. Before his grandmother could respond, the boy bolted down the street.
"Little Arom, wait! Where are you going—?!"
But he didn’t stop.
Like many others that morning, little Arom was drawn to the strange new peak like a moth to a fla.
Soon, a tide of citizens began flowing toward the northern gate. Their voices buzzed with awe and excitent. By the ti Arom arrived, a sizable crowd had gathered—so murmuring in wonder, others wide-eyed in stunned silence.
The soldiers, anticipating the rush, had ford a periter. Their armor glinted beneath the rising sun as they maintained a careful distance between the people and the mountain of death.
Arom weaved through the forest of legs, slipping between robes and trousers until he reached the front line. His breath caught in his throat.
Armored rats—hundreds of them. Their bodies twisted and mangled. So were cleaved clean in two, others bore the unmistakable signs of blunt-force trauma. Broken jaws. Smashed skulls. Their lifeless eyes stared into nothingness.
Voices around him buzzed.
"I heard it was the prince who led the army himself."
"Doesn’t matter who led—just look at this. It’s like they were all slain by the sa damn person!"
"Pfft. You drunk already? There are thousands of these rats. You think one person did all this?"
The man who’d spoken fell silent, unable to rebut. Even he had to admit—it looked like the work of sothing... inhuman.
Arom’s eyes glowed with awe. His heart raced as dreams took root. Dreams of strength. Of power.
He’d heard tales of Awakeners before. Of mighty warriors who could shatter mountains or reverse rivers with a snort.
Though, in truth, not even the king Roosevelt could accomplish such feats.
Still... Arom believed.
But belief collided with reality in the cruelest way. He rembered his grandmother’s tired eyes. Their leaky roof. The stale bread they ate twice a day.
Awakening cost money.
Even if he was born with the greatest talent the world had ever seen, it would never bloom. Not without coin.
Hope flickered.
Then died.
While Arom drowned in that quiet despair, the murmurs around him faded. The crowd had grown eerily still.
All eyes had shifted toward a lone figure walking steadily toward the mountain.
The Soldiers parted.
The silence deepened.
There, striding forward with asured calm, was Damien Harrier.
His black coat fluttered in the breeze. Dust clung to his boots. His eyes were cold as glaciers.
People whispered his na as if invoking a legend.
"Crown Prince Damien... what is he doing here...?"
"Is he not afraid of being attacked again?"
Many still didn’t know he had awakened. Doubt curled around their words. And yet, sothing inside them knew—today was not like any other day.
Sothing was about to change.
As Damien passed, the soldiers saluted, their expressions reverent. He gave them no acknowledgnt, his gaze fixed forward.
At the foot of the mountain, he stopped.
A hundred plus eyes watched.
Damien turned slowly, scanning the crowd.
He had intended to give a speech. Sothing stirring. Sothing to ignite patriotism and pride.
But now... he realized he didn’t need to.
No words could match the story these corpses told.
No speech could rival the legend taking shape in the hearts of those watching.
So he remained silent.
And let the people write their own story.
Let imagination craft myth. Let awe turn fact into legend.
Today wasn’t just about victory.
It was the day Valthorn City rembered what it ant to stand behind a Harrier.
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