A Premonition of the End
A transparent film, the unmistakable hallmark of spatial magic, rose to obscure his vision. Arcel screamed instantly. "Commander-in-Chief! No!"
His voice cracked, a desperate, ragged sound he had never heard himself make. Under normal circumstances, Arcel Libern would never have lost his composure like this.
The moment the spatial barrier manifested, all sense of order within Arcel collapsed. Analyze the spell formula. Read the coordinates. Verify the trajectory of the teleportation. Determine who cast it, what mana overrode it, and whether it can be dispelled. These analytical processes, usually second nature, half-formed in his mind before instantly shattering into pieces.
Only one stark reality remained: Ena was trying to stay behind alone. That single truth burned with terrifying clarity. So he screamed again. "Commander-in-Chief!"
His throat burned, the sensation akin to scraping raw a voice that had already been torn to shreds. Yet he couldn't stop.
The spatial barrier shimmered right before his eyes. It was thin, transparent, looking fragile enough to puncture with a mere fingertip. But Arcel knew better. This was a barrier that folded space itself—a spell that severed the coordinates of the inside from the outside. Though she seemed close enough to touch, the moment the spell was complete, the distance between them would become an impassable chasm.
Ena was right there. Just a few steps—literally a few paces away. Her silver-white hair. Her white Eastern-style robes. Cheonram gripped in her hand, surrounded by a turbulent, dark grey wind. The black scabbard of Ilryun resting silently at her waist, its sun-aligned power still asleep.
He could see every detail with agonizing clarity. That was the cruelest part. She was within arm's reach, yet space was already wrenching her away from him. The near became distant, and the distant was pushed into entirely different coordinates. The battlefield was transforming into a painting trapped behind a pane of glass.
"Deactivate the barrier!" Arcel roared over his shoulder. The mages of the 5th Squad's barrier unit shook their heads, their faces pale with terror. "Captain, this isn't our spell!"
"I know that!" Arcel spat, gritting his teeth.
He knew. Of course he knew. The core framework of this recall spell belonged to the 5th Squad. It was a mobile teleportation array designed to evacuate the observation and recovery units back to headquarters if the danger level spiked. Arcel had personally structured and verified the formula.
But now, another source of mana had completely overwritten it—a power far deeper, vaster, and infinitely more resolute than anything the 5th Squad could muster. The mana of Ena, Commander-in-Chief of the Sword Order. Ena's absolute command.
Arcel understood the intent behind that command all too well. He knew exactly what she was doing. She was saving the 5th Squad. She was saving the observation unit, the barrier unit, the recovery unit, and Arcel himself. She was forcing them back to headquarters alive so they could report the horrors they had witnessed.
He knew it was the correct tactical decision. Rationality dictated that the 5th Squad's sole duty now was to retreat. They had to survive. They had to report to headquarters, inform Roen, mobilize the other Captains, and warn the entire Sword Order that multiple Zodiacs had ambushed them in the Eastern Outskirts.
Every single point was logical. It was the correct choice. And that was precisely why he felt like he was losing his mind. The right decision is not always the easiest to bear. Sometimes, its absolute correctness only makes it more cruel.
Faced with that agonizing reality, Arcel lunged forward. His adjutant lunged with him, grabbing his arm.
"Captain!"
"Let go of me!"
"You can't, sir! It's a spatial barrier!"
"I told you to let go!"
"If you touch it, you'll be torn to pieces!"
"I don't care!"
"We do!"
It was the first time his adjutant had ever raised his voice like that. A choked sob strained his words. It wasn't terror of the battlefield, but sheer dread that Arcel would actually throw himself into the spatial rift.
Arcel thrashed, trying to wrench his arm free, but the adjutant held fast. Other squad members rushed over, pinning his shoulders and waist.
"Captain!"
"You have to step back!"
"This is the Commander-in-Chief's order!"
Those words froze Arcel in his tracks. The Commander-in-Chief's order. On the battlefield, her word was law. It was a single beam of light piercing the darkness, a line dividing life from death. The swordsmen of the Sword Order had survived by obeying those commands.
Ena was the one who halted reckless charges. She was the one who redefined retreat not as a disgrace, but as a vital skill for survival. She had told them never to mask death with the hollow word 'glory.' She had told them to record the names of the fallen. She had told them to return alive. And she was doing it again. Ena was saving them all—except for herself. The realization tore Arcel's heart to shreds.
"Why..." He didn't even know who he was asking. Was it Ena? Himself? The Sword Order? Or the concept of war itself? "Why is it that you are always the one standing alone in the most dangerous places, Commander-in-Chief?"
He knew the answer. It was because she was the strongest. When Ena stood, the front line held. When Ena arrived, despair ceased. When Ena drew her sword, the battle was won. That was the absolute truth the Sword Order lived by. Arcel had believed it blindly. But now, for the first time, he saw the agonizing flip side of that faith. Everyone believing in Ena meant, in the end, everyone pushed her to the very front. The fact that Ena was peerless meant she was always the last to retreat. And today, she didn't intend to retreat at all.
Arcel stared through the shimmering barrier. Ena did not look back. She stood dead center in the chaotic battlefield, the dark grey gale of Cheonram howling violently around her blade.
"You can't stay there alone!" Arcel screamed, his voice cracking once more. "Please, Commander-in-Chief, you can't!"
This time, his subordinates tightened their grip, pulling him back with all their might. His body lurched forward, his fingertips brushing against the spatial barrier. Instantly, his senses warped. It felt as though his fingers were stretching into infinity, his flesh and bone being dragged into entirely different coordinates. Had he tried to force his way through, he would have been shredded from the fingertips up. Yet Arcel refused to pull back. The adjutant grabbed his wrist and yanked him backward.
"Captain!"
"Let go!"
"Your hand will be destroyed!"
"But the Commander-in-Chief is right there!"
Asklepios chuckled. The sound was soft, so sickeningly gentle that it made the skin crawl. "Original," he murmured. "You certainly are diligent."
Ena did not deign to reply. Cheonram swept in a tight, efficient arc. Rushing black serpents were severed; pale, fleshy roots were sliced through; grotesque flowers studded with eyes were split flat. Yet, from the severed ends, fresh sprouts immediately burgeoned. The sprouts rapidly matured into small snakes. One became two, two became five, and five tangled together once more, forming a writhing mass of vines.
Asklepios tilted his head in mock sympathy. "Not a very satisfying opponent to cut, is it?" He slowly splayed his fingers, revealing a tiny, writhing serpent coiled around each fingertip. "Slice me, and I regrow. Burn me, and I bloom from the remaining roots. Atop dead flesh, amidst poison, or buried under ash, life will always find a crack to crawl through." His gaze locked onto Ena. "Just as it did from the blood you spilled."
Arcel's stomach churned at the words. Ena's blood. Ena's flesh. The discarded remnants she had shed on the battlefield, which the Demon King had gathered to forge this creature. Asklepios. He was powerful, undeniably so. But to Arcel, disgust preceded fear. The very nature of that creature's existence was repulsive. He mocked Ena with a face identical to hers.
He claimed to be born of her essence, preening as if they shared some sacred, familial bond. He dared to call her "Mother." The moment that word soiled the battlefield, Arcel felt an emotion he would never, under any circumstances, record on his ledger. Pure, unadulterated loathing. A feeling far too raw for an official report, yet burning with absolute clarity.
Suddenly, the forest split wide open with a deafening roar. CRASH!Leo glared at Ena, his eyes immediately locking onto the black scabbard at her waist. Ilryun. He grinned wildly. "Still haven't drawn the sun, I see."
Ena remained silent, her grip steady on Cheonram as the dark grey wind hummed a low, ominous note. Leo rolled his shoulders, his grin widening with sadistic delight. "Fine. Let's see how much longer you can hold out." He kicked off the ground. BOOM!
Leo charged in a straight line. It was a simple, direct assault, which made it all the more terrifying. There was no complex trajectory like an arrow, no insidious spread like poison, no multi-directional entanglement like vines. Just a frontal charge, a fist, and raw physical might. Yet that sheer simplicity carried a weight far heavier than any intricate spell.
Cheonram flashed. Ena flicked her wrist, stacking layers of dark grey wind into a dense shield. Leo's fist collided with Cheonram's gale. CRASH! The shockwave rippled through the spatial barrier, rattling the 5th Squad's teleportation array. Several mages stumbled. Arcel grit his teeth, fighting to maintain his footing.
Cheonram's wind sought to disperse the force of Leo's blow—redirecting it to the sides, into the earth, up into the sky. But Leo absorbed the deflected kinetic energy back into his own body. His muscles swelled, and the black markings on his skin pulsed with dark light. He was feeding on the impact. He devoured the force Cheonram deflected and used it to fuel his next push. The matchup is terrible, Arcel realized with dread.
Cheonram was designed to sever flows. Leo, however, absorbed flows to generate raw kinetic force. Cheonram generated air currents, and Leo swallowed the impact of colliding with those currents, converting it into momentum for his next strike. In a clash between this sword and that flesh, Cheonram would be forced to deflect more and more, while Leo only grew stronger with every exchange.
Yet, Ena wasn't just fighting Leo. Any other Captain would have perished in the opening exchange. Had Arcel been in her place, his barriers would have shattered under the first rain of arrows from the sky; his footing would have been stolen by Taurus's earth-shattering stomps; and his senses would have failed the moment Scorpio's poison mist drifted in. Had Leo charged him head-on, Arcel doubted he could have survived for more than three breaths.
Yet Ena held her ground. With nothing but Cheonram. Without ever drawing Ilryun. That was the true horror of it. Despite her peerless defense, the pressure of the battlefield never waned. Blocked attacks returned; severed limbs regenerated; deflected kinetic energy accumulated; and even when one threat was halted, new rifts tore open from the flanks.
This was no longer a question of strength. Ena was still overwhelmingly superior. And that was what terrified Arcel. He wasn't afraid because his Commander-in-Chief was losing. He was terrified because, despite her god-like power, she was still entirely alone.
"Please..." Arcel whispered. "Please, don't do this." He didn't even know what he was begging for anymore. Was he begging her not to stay behind alone? Not to draw Ilryun? Not to die? It was all of those things. Because none of those desperate pleas could fit into a single sentence, only a broken "please" escaped his lips.
The light of the spatial barrier intensified, signaling that the teleportation was nearly complete. His vision swam. The colors of the battlefield began to bleed away. The crimson light of the arrows blurred, the toxic dark green of the poison mist dissolved, and the white of Ena's robes drifted further and further away.
Ena turned her head to look back at Arcel. And she smiled. In that instant, Arcel felt all the sound in the world drain away. The thunder of explosions, Leo's manic laughter, Asklepios's mocking voice, the desperate screams of the 5th Squad, the low hum of the spatial rift—all of it vanished into a vacuum. The only thing left in his universe was Ena's face.
Her smile was neither wide nor bright. It wasn't the forced grin of a commander trying to reassure her subordinates, nor was it the arrogant smirk of a warrior certain of victory. It was small, faint, and strangely serene. It was the smile of someone who had made a solitary decision a long time ago, and was only now, at the very end, sharing it with another.
Looking at that smile, Arcel felt something inside him shatter. Why are you smiling? Why now? Why there? Why, as you stay behind alone to face death while sending us to safety, do you wear such an expression? It made no sense. His mouth fell open, but his voice was trapped in his throat.
Ena's lips parted. The spatial distortion muffled all sound, rendering her voice virtually inaudible. Yet, miraculously, her final words reached him with absolute clarity—as if, before space folded completely, the universe had permitted this one final phrase to carve itself into Arcel's soul.
Fate, it seemed, had chosen to show Arcel its most merciless face.