The plaza had become a ruin of stone and shattered roots.

  What was once Albion’s outer square—meant for festivals and assemblies—was now scarred by trenches, broken pillars, and scorched earth. The labyrinth had done its work. Too well, perhaps.

  Of the hundred elite soldiers who had once ridden beside Lord Malrik Veynar, fewer than twenty remained.

  And Malrik knew it.

  His warhorse stamped the ground, snorting, steam rising from its flanks. Malrik sat tall in the saddle, lance resting against his shoulder, shield angled forward—not out of fear, but discipline.

  His mustache twitched.

  Not in rage.

  In calculation.

  “Idiots,” he muttered, not to the enemy—but to his own troops.

  “You followed momentum instead of terrain.”

  None dared answer.

  Ahead of them, across the broken plaza, three figures stood their ground.

  Not soldiers.

  Children, by battlefield standards.

  Yet they had not retreated.

  Kael tightened his grip on the reins of the borrowed mount beneath him—a broad-shouldered elk bred in Albion’s forests, antlers bound in leather wraps.

  “They’re regrouping,” he said quietly.

  Eryn adjusted the Solar Rifle in his hands, the crystalline core pulsing faintly. Sweat ran down his temple.

  “Of course they are. He’s not stupid.”

  Borgas rolled his shoulders. His breathing was heavy—but steady.

  “We don’t win,” Borgas said simply.

  “We wait.”

  Kael nodded.

  Their condition was clear.

  They could not defeat Malrik alone.

  They could not survive a prolonged engagement.

  Their only victory condition was time.

  “Master Dael,” Kael muttered. “Please hurry.”

  Malrik raised his lance.

  “No theatrics,” he commanded coldly.

  “Advance.”

  The remaining cavalry surged forward.

  Eryn didn’t hesitate.

  “Now!”

  The Solar Rifle hummed—then screamed.

  BLAST MODE — 60% OUTPUT

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  A column of golden light tore across the plaza and struck Malrik’s mount square in the chest.

  The explosion did not kill it instantly.

  But it shattered bone.

  The warhorse collapsed mid-charge, throwing Malrik forward. He rolled once, twice—then came up on his feet, shield raised, boots sliding across broken stone.

  Silence followed.

  Malrik stared at the fallen beast.

  Slowly… he exhaled.

  “So,” he said calmly, “you chose escalation.”

  His mustache stiffened.

  Silver threads extended from his face—no longer decorative, no longer refined. They sharpened, lengthened, unraveling into thin, gleaming filaments.

  Piercing stance.

  “Kael!” Borgas shouted.

  Kael didn’t ask.

  He charged.

  The elk leapt forward, hooves cracking stone as Kael lowered his sword, blade flashing in a low arc meant to draw attention—not blood.

  Malrik responded instantly.

  A filament shot forward like a rapier thrust.

  Borgas moved.

  His arms expanded violently—muscle swelling, bone thickening, skin darkening under strain.

  Titan Force — Level 1.

  The mustache filament struck Borgas’s forearm.

  It pierced.

  Then stopped.

  The impact drove Borgas back three full steps, stone shattering beneath his feet—but the filament snapped, dissolving into silver motes.

  Borgas grunted in pain.

  “…That hurt.”

  Malrik’s eyes narrowed.

  He saw it now.

  The trade-off.

  “Length weakens you,” Borgas said, flexing his massive hand. “Thickness matters.”

  Malrik clicked his tongue.

  “How vulgar.”

  Kael swept in from the flank.

  Sword and fist moved together.

  Borgas slammed the ground, using his enlarged arms not only to block—but to launch himself forward, body weight converting into momentum.

  Kael struck at the same instant.

  Steel rang against Malrik’s shield.

  Malrik countered with a slashing filament—wide, horizontal, elegant.

  Kael barely ducked.

  The cut shaved air where his head had been.

  “Too slow,” Kael spat.

  Malrik’s mustache thinned further.

  Eryn fired again—not a blast this time, but gun mode, controlled pulses meant to distract, blind, disorient.

  One shot grazed Malrik’s shoulder.

  Not deep.

  But enough.

  Malrik stepped back.

  For the first time.

  His mustache retracted slightly—shorter now, thicker.

  Durable.

  Controlled.

  “You coordinate,” he admitted.

  “Poorly—but intentionally.”

  He lifted his rapier.

  “Then let us end this properly.”

  The mustache surged again—piercing only, thrust after thrust, precise and lethal.

  Borgas took the front.

  Titan Force strained.

  His balance wavered—arms too large, legs too small. Every block pushed him closer to collapse.

  Kael intercepted where he could—steel meeting silver, sparks flying.

  Eryn’s hands shook.

  The Solar Rifle’s core flickered.

  “Guys,” he said, voice tight, “I’ve got maybe one more good shot.”

  Malrik smiled thinly.

  “I wondered which of you would break first.”

  They did not break.

  They endured.

  Borgas roared—not in rage, but effort—slamming both massive arms down, sending shockwaves across the plaza.

  Kael followed, blade flashing in a brutal, inelegant cut that finally drew blood—across Malrik’s thigh.

  Malrik hissed.

  His mustache lashed wildly—longer now, thinner, faster.

  Too thin.

  Kael caught one filament on his blade.

  It snapped.

  Malrik staggered.

  For a heartbeat—

  He looked… uncertain.

  Then—

  A voice echoed from the far end of the plaza.

  “Move.”

  The air changed.

  Wind pressure collapsed inward.

  Malrik straightened.

  His smile returned.

  “…Good,” he said. “You’ve done well.”

  The trio felt it.

  That presence.

  Kael swallowed.

  “…That’s not you, is it?”

  Malrik laughed softly.

  “No.”

  Malrik staggered back a step.

  Blood soaked into the plaza stones beneath his boot.

  He looked down at it, then laughed softly.

  “So this is what remains of my vanguard…”

  His once-proud formation—reduced to fewer than two dozen—stood scattered, wounded, shaken.

  Malrik’s mustache twitched.

  Shorter now.

  Thicker.

  The silver strands drew tight against his face, no longer reaching, no longer grand—reforged into something dense and lethal.

  He lifted his rapier, point steady despite the blood.

  “You should be proud,” he said.

  “I can do this all day.”

  Kael shifted his stance.

  Borgas’s Titan Force trembled at its limit.

  Eryn steadied his breathing, fingers tight around the solar rifle.

  They all knew the truth.

  This was not a battle they were meant to win.

  Only one they were meant to endure.

  Malrik smiled thinly.

  “Now let us see how long heroes last… when there is no one left to save them.”

  End of Chapter 15