Ruok lay still for a moment longer, as though his body required permission before it could move. His eyes remained fixed on the tent ceiling, following the faint stitching lines that crossed above him. They led nowhere, yet he traced them anyway—something to delay the inevitable.
He exhaled.
The breath left him heavier than it should have.
With a small push, he sat up. His joints resisted at first, stiff from rest that did not feel like rest at all. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders slightly hunched.
His hand slipped into his pocket.
The vial was still there.
His fingers closed around it, lingering. Cold glass pressed against his skin—real, steady, reassuring in a way nothing else was.
"…Good," he muttered quietly.
His other hand moved to his waist. He checked the daggers—one, two. Straps tight. Exactly where they should be.
"…All good," he stood up and stepped out of the canteen.
**
The camp had already awakened.
Armor clinked in uneven rhythms as soldiers moved in clusters. Low voices murmured across the space—too controlled, too measured. No one spoke loudly. No one laughed. The tension pressed down on everything, thick and suffocating, like the air itself knew what was coming.
Ruok walked through them without drawing attention.
Not too fast. Not too slow.
Just blending.
His gaze drifted as he walked—humans adjusting their grips, orcs rolling their shoulders, dwarves tightening shield straps, elves whispering quiet incantations, demons standing unnaturally still.
A unified army.
He almost scoffed.
Full of lies, he thought.
It always was.
The open field stretched ahead, and at its front stood the ones who mattered.
The six leaders.
They stood like pillars, holding up something that was already beginning to crack.
Ruok slowed as he approached, slipping into the front line.
His eyes moved, one by one.
Mephyst.
Of course, he looked relaxed.
Hands clasped behind his back, posture loose, a faint smile resting on his lips as though this were no more than a performance. There was something deeply irritating about that calm—something that suggested he already knew how everything would unfold.
Ruok's jaw tightened.
You bastard…
Jawhead stood not far from him. His axe rested in his hand as if it were weightless, but the subtle tension in his grip betrayed readiness. His eyes scanned the field without hurry, without panic—a man who had seen too many battles to waste energy on reaction.
Beside him, Ozbull shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders with a quiet snort.
"Feels off," Ozbull muttered. "Too quiet."
Jawhead did not look at him.
"War's never quiet," he replied evenly. "It's just waiting."
There was no emotion in his voice. Only certainty.
The Goblin King crouched slightly, posture low and prepared. His gaze moved constantly—never settling, always measuring. He wasted nothing. Not even a glance.
Olga cracked her neck with a sharp tilt, then rolled her shoulders.
"About time," she said, her tone casual. "I was getting bored waiting."
But her fists were clenched tight at her sides.
Aeltharion stood tall among them, composed to an almost unnatural degree. His presence alone seemed to steady the air, imposing order where there was none. His gaze swept across the army—not idly, but with intent. Every movement he saw, he measured. Every soldier, he assessed.
Minerva stepped forward.
At the smallest nod from Aeltharion, she took command without hesitation.
"Warriors of the unified army…"
Her voice carried across the field, clear and unwavering.
Ruok looked at her.
She stood calm, composed, every inch the image of control.
But beneath it—
There was tension.
A quiet strain, tightly held.
He recognized it.
The kind of calm that breaks.
He stopped listening.
Not because her words lacked meaning, but because he had heard them before. Same voice. Same message. Same end.
His hand slipped into his pocket again, gripping the vial tighter this time.
His other hand rested lightly against the hilt of his dagger.
His chest tightened.
Not fear.
He knew fear well enough to recognize it.
This was something else.
Pressure.
As though something inside him was waiting to burst.
Don't mess it up, he told himself.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Minerva's voice continued in the distance.
"Stand with me. Fight with me. Let this day mark the end of—"
"…It's about time," Ruok whispered.
His thumb pushed the cork free.
A soft pop.
He raised the vial and drank.
No hesitation.
The liquid burned down his throat, spreading warmth through his chest and into his limbs. His muscles tightened sharply, then loosened all at once. His senses sharpened—too sharp. The world stretched, slowed, every motion dragging just enough to be seen.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"…Okay."
When he opened them—
The green was gone.
Replaced by something darker.
Something empty like a starless night.
A shriek tore across the battlefield.
High-pitched. Warped. Inhuman.
The Trods had begun their advance.
The sound alone made soldiers flinch. Lines wavered. Hands tightened on weapons.
Ruok did not react.
"…Now."
His gaze locked onto one figure.
Mephyst.
Already moving.
Already behind Minerva.
A short blade glinted in his hand as it moved toward her—precise, efficient, practiced.
Ruok did not think.
His arm moved.
The dagger left his hand in a clean, sharp throw.
At the same time, his body followed—low, controlled, cutting forward.
Towards Olga.
His second dagger left his hand without him even looking.
It flew towards his far left.
Striking a high demon closing in on Bignum.
The creature staggered.
Bignum did not hesitate.
With a roar, his axe came down in a brutal arc, splitting the demon cleanly.
"HAH!" he barked. "Nice one—!"
He did not know who to thank.
It did not matter.
Jawhead's head turned sharply.
"Demons really can't be trusted."
"Contact," he said.
Ozbull grinned, something eager flashing across his face.
"Finally."
They turned together to meet the oncoming demons.
The Goblin King's eyes narrowed further as his sword rose—slow, deliberate.
Aeltharion's gaze sharpened.
Then—
It widened.
Only slightly.
Enough.
"Mephyst—!"
His arm shot forward.
Too late.
Minerva stood unmoving, her eyes fixed on the incoming dagger.
She did not flinch.
"…It wasn't for me," she murmured.
Then she shifted.
Just enough.
The blade passed her—
And behind—
Mephyst tilted his head, narrowly avoiding it.
He was already mid-strike.
Minerva turned, her blade rising just in time.
Steel met steel with a sharp clang.
The impact rang through her arm, but she held firm. Her expression did not break—but something darker surfaced beneath it.
Her gaze locked onto his.
"What is the meaning of this?" she asked, her voice controlled, edged with something dangerous.
Mephyst smiled.
Faint. Amused.
As though nothing here surprised him.
"It is what it is, Princess."