When the sounds returned, they weren’t just voices. They were grinding metal, clashing armor, the echo of hurried footsteps, and the distant beat of drums that seemed to pulse in the air. Veron felt the weight of chaos around him, as if the world itself were groaning. He stumbled backward, his spine colliding with the cold feet of a skeleton who seemed just as lost as he was. For a moment, he remained still, trying to understand what was happening.

  Bony hands grabbed him, lifting him with surprising strength. Veron was placed on his feet, his body unsteady but held firm by the creatures surrounding him. He looked around and saw they were all the same—skeletons, empty faces, eyes fixed ahead as if hypnotized by the immense sea of flames and embers consuming the horizon. The field around them reeked of raw mana, the same energy he had felt before, when he was still… alive.

  His gaze was drawn to the other side of the battlefield. There stood the humans, organized in formation, pointing weapons and spinning staffs with precise movements. Fire and water spells were cast, creating a spectacle of color and destruction.

  "Don’t worry," Amin’s voice echoed beside him, calm, almost reassuring. "The Lich is a great Master. He uses mana inhibitors."

  Veron turned to look at Amin, his skeletal face seeming almost expressive.

  "What… are we doing here?" he asked, his voice hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used for centuries.

  Before Amin could respond, a drum sounded in the distance, deep and resonant, like a call to war. Veron looked back and saw a massive Skeleton rising behind the lines of hundreds, maybe thousands, of others like him. The Skeleton lifted a bony finger, pointing forward.

  And then, they all began to run.

  "Have you fought before?" Amin asked, running beside Veron.

  The two advanced together, without weapons, without shields—just bones and determination. The landscape around them was a white blur, as if the world had been erased, leaving only the humans on the other side, clad in gleaming armor, wielding weapons and staffs that spat powerful magic.

  Yet none of it seemed to affect the skeleton army. An invisible barrier, raised above them, blocked any mana from reaching them. Veron remembered the mana inhibitor Resh used—a technology he knew well.

  No, Resh wasn’t his friend. He was just another one of those who smiled as they threw him into the abyss. False smiles, full of envy and fear. The entire rise of the Human Empire had been built on Veron’s shoulders. He had fought against the Orcs, marched against the Witches, negotiated with the Carcamansus and the Desert Lords.

  The Human Empire was what it was because Veron had done everything he could. And he should have taken the throne.

  As they descended the hill, the humans began advancing toward them, led by war cries that Veron recognized — only now, they carried a new ferocity. These were the men who had chosen to serve those bastards, those cursed traitors.

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  "They deserve to die for what they did," Veron raised his voice, pointing forward, his bony hand trembling with rage. "Even if I die again. I swear I’ll kill those bastards. I swear on my life."

  Amin’s laughter echoed beside him, light, almost ironic.

  "Hey, buddy. You’re already dead."

  That was it. When his heart beat, he had been alive. Now, after hitting the bottom of the abyss, the only thing left was to reach the true murderers.

  The first clash erupted. Skeletons and humans collided with an impact that shook the ground. A rain of bones flew in all directions—arms and legs detached, scattering all around. But the march continued, relentless.

  The humans were well-equipped, with sharp weapons, sturdy shields, and magical barriers glowing behind them, sustained by Mages and Sorcerers. Their frontline was an imposing cavalry, charging forward with brutal force, trampling everything in its path.

  The second explosion roared like thunder, making the ground quake beneath Veron’s feet. Debris flew in all directions, swallowed by the momentary blaze of flames. Amid the chaos, something caught his attention—a gray sword, flung into the air, spinning like a silver lightning bolt. Its shape was unmistakable—a thin, long blade, reflecting light with a cold and lethal gleam. There was a deadly precision in its movement, as if it were not just an object, but a fragment of history brought back to the present.

  His chest tightened. A spark of recognition burned inside him, as vivid as the fire devouring the ruins around him.

  That sword… he knew it.

  "Is that Strifer’s sword?" he murmured, almost unaware he had spoken aloud.

  Shock coursed through his body. How had those bastards gotten it? How…?

  If Strifer was here, then everything he had truly built was crumbling. What remained of his legacy would turn to ash, just like the promises he had made to the world.

  The screams around him pulled Veron back to reality. A burly man, his face sweaty and twisted in fury, bellowed orders as he fought against his own Knights. His voice was a mix of rage and desperation.

  "Get that sword now!" he roared, knocking down allies and enemies alike with his wild strikes. His eyes were fixed on the airborne blade, as if his very soul depended on it.

  "I want that sword!" he demanded, his voice rising above the battle’s roar.

  Adrenaline surged through Veron’s body. Without a second thought, he lunged forward, breaking from the marching ranks and sprinting toward the sword. Shoulders crashed against him, hands tried to push him back, but Veron held his ground. He had to reach it first. He had to seize it before anyone else.

  Strifer…

  The name echoed in his mind, heavy with old memories. A comrade. A friend. A man who, even in the worst storms, had never betrayed him. He had sworn to protect the entire world when he turned eighteen. His name was synonymous with honor, with strength. His oath—a promise that he would never retreat from danger.

  But all of that… everything he stood for… was now dead.

  The respect he had earned, the glory he had achieved, the alliances and friendships, the trust-sealed agreements, the conflicts he had resolved with sheer determination—it had all dissipated, like smoke in the wind. Even the families that had sworn loyalty to House Homun had been left behind, forgotten by time and the desperation of war.

  And now, all that remained was that sword, spinning in the air like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost.

  When it finally fell into the chaos, its blade sinking into the ground, a human rushed toward it, ignoring the skeletons around him. His determination was impressive, but Veron Homun would never be merciful again.

  He bent down, grabbed a handful of stones, and before the man could get any closer, he threw them at him.

  "Not today."

  The stone struck the opponent’s neck. He stumbled, clutching the wound and staggering backward. A pained grunt escaped his lips, his eyes filled with shock and suffering.

  Veron wasted no time. Amid the chaos, he advanced without hesitation, his steps firm on the scorched ground. He reached the sword, wrapping his fingers around the cold hilt, feeling the familiar weight of the blade in his hand. A shiver ran down his spine.

  This was not just a weapon—it was a symbol of the past, a fragment of something he could never recover.