THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

Two days had passed since the chaos that engulfed Lysora County. Though the streets were no longer painted with the blood of battle, the scars left behind were undeniable. Families mourned loved ones, their homes and livelihoods shattered in the wake of the monstrous assault. While the sun shone warmly on the land, a heaviness lingered in the air, a shared grief that connected the people.

Yet, amidst the despair, there was hope. When the darkness had seemed insurmountable, a beacon of light had pierced the suffocating veil. The Archon, Elara va Ironblade, had answered the people's prayers. Her blazing radiance had driven away the shadows, her power a testament to her unwavering resolve. Word spread quickly among the survivors: their savior had not faltered, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

The local government wasted no time rallying the community. In collaboration with Valhalla, the Adventurers Guild, they established a committee to aid in the county's recovery. Reparations were promised to businesses affected by the calamity and to families grieving the loss of their loved ones.

Adventurers and skilled craftsmen from neighboring regions poured into Lysora, armed not with weapons but with tools of restoration. Together, they began the arduous process of rebuilding what had been lost.

The streets bustled with organized chaos. Wagons laden with supplies trundled through the avenues. Men and women worked shoulder to shoulder, clearing debris, hauling timber, and carving stones to repair homes and public structures. The sound of hammers striking nails and saws slicing through wood filled the air—a melody of resilience.

From his vantage point in the infirmary section of Castrum Belli et Ignis, David watched the scene unfold. Standing by a small window, he rested a hand on the sill as his eyes scanned the bustling courtyard below. Workers moved with purpose, their determination to restore Lysora palpable.

Inside the infirmary, the atmosphere was quieter, solemn. Rows of cots lined the walls, occupied by those injured during the attack. Healers bustled about, administering salves, stitching wounds, and soothing the cries of the afflicted.

David turned his gaze to a figure resting on the nearest cot. Luna lay motionless, her pale face softened in sleep. The gaping wound she had suffered during her confrontation with Number 1 was healing slowly, thanks to the infusion of David's blood and Elara's intervention. Her breathing was steady now, but the sight of her vulnerable form stirred a deep guilt within him.

The chair beside Luna's bed creaked softly as a healer rose, nodding at David before stepping away to tend to another patient. For a moment, he stood there, gripping the windowsill tightly. The image of Luna's battered form in the aftermath of her valiant stand against Number 1 lingered in his mind. He had been powerless to stop her pain.

His eyes returned to the courtyard, where workers hauled a massive beam toward the fractured walls of the castle. He observed a group of artisans sketching out plans on parchment, their gestures animated as they debated the best approach to reconstructing the destroyed eastern wing.

A pang of resolve welled in David's chest. Lysora was rising from its ashes, and its people were not alone in their struggle. He wasn't sure what lay ahead for him, but one thing was clear: he was weak, a fish in a pond facing begins that wielded power beyond him.

As the light outside began to soften with the setting sun, David glanced back at Luna. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, a small reassurance amidst the turmoil.

"Rest, Luna," he murmured softly. "You've earned it."

With one last glance at the determined faces below, David turned away from the window. There was much to do, and the fight for a better tomorrow was far from over.

David pulled up a chair and sat beside Luna, his gaze lingering on her peaceful, albeit pale, face. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest was a quiet comfort amidst the chaos of his thoughts. He reached out, brushing her hair away from her forehead, and then summoned his system window with a flick of his hand.

A glowing message illuminated the space before him:

[Congratulations! You have broken through to the King-ranked Swordsman level.]

David tilted his head back, exhaling deeply. The words felt surreal. He wasn't sure he deserved the recognition, especially after everything that had transpired. His hand rose to his chin, his fingers tapping against his jaw as his mind drifted back to the fateful battle against Number 4.

"That wasn't skill," he muttered under his breath. "That was sheer luck."

Number 4 had been a ferocious opponent, stronger and more experienced than David. The memory of the clash was still fresh—the precision of his strikes, the overwhelming pressure of his aura, and the narrow margin by which David had emerged victorious. If anything, it had been the unpredictable nature of Frostfangs, his twin daggers, that tipped the scales in his favor.

With a thought, the daggers materialized in motes of light, their silvery-blue edges glinting faintly. David turned them over in his hands, examining the intricate runes etched into the blades. Frostfangs were more than just weapons; they were lifelines. The spell Death Reversal, imbued within the daggers, had saved him more times than he could count. Yet, it wasn't a guarantee—it required quick thinking and no small amount of luck to exploit properly.

His grip on the daggers tightened as his thoughts shifted to Number 3. That battle had been a stark reminder of his limitations. Number 3 had maintained his distance, wary of David's capabilities after leaving Number 4's domain. The man was calculating, cold, and terrifyingly efficient, a contrast to the raw aggression of Number 4.

David sighed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. His mind replayed the harrowing confrontation with the First Disciple of Chaos—Number 1. Her presence was a storm of terror and power, her very form aligning perfectly with the description in the novel he had once read. She had been every bit the nightmare he expected.

"But why did she flee?" he murmured.

It didn't add up. Number 1 had been stronger than Elara va Ironblade, and yet, she had retreated. Was it caution? A larger plan? Or something else entirely? The unanswered question gnawed at him.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted when a familiar voice cut through the haze of his musings.

"Deep in thought, aren't we?"

David startled slightly as a warm hand patted the top of his head. He turned to find Mariana standing behind him, a soft smile on her face, her crimson hair catching the light.

"Mariana," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of surprise and relief.

She arched a brow, tilting her head. "You okay? You look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders."

David chuckled weakly, setting Frostfangs aside in his subspace. "Maybe I am."

"Well," Mariana said, pulling up a chair beside him, "then it's a good thing you've got people to share the load."

****

A/N: Wow! It's been a while, everyone, since I last did shout-outs. Without further ado...

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Thank you all so much for your incredible support! A special shout-out to my ghost readers—your encouragement has helped me come this far. 🙏

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