Chapter 20: The End of the Midnight Sun

Pesche, the Dragonian, felt his heart seize. His comrades, his brothers in arms, were being beheaded right before his eyes. It was an impossible sight. Their scales—the pride of their species—were being torn apart by a simple iron sword. The blade should have shattered, but it didn't.

Splurt.

His brother’s head rolled to a stop, his eyes wide with shock. A creaking sound filled the air as Pesche looked up at the man responsible. A human. A short-lived species. The man wore a robe that clung to his body, revealing pale skin and lethargic-looking eyes. But a closer look revealed a vicious, ferocious energy simmering within them.

Pesche immediately understood who this was. The divinity that filled the space, the golden laws etched into the air, the overwhelming compulsion to obey them. It wasn’t a spell, or magic, or any mystical power he knew. The dragon blood in his veins, a blessing from their parent dragon, helped him realize what it was.

Divinity.

And that meant one thing.

“An Apostle.” The most honored servants of the gods, the ones who had sustained the Holy Kingdom for over a thousand years. An Apostle was standing before them.

This meant the Saint was here. The chieftain wasn't wrong. A new, terrifying thought immediately followed.

I’m going to die here.

He and his brothers, every one of them, would die. It wasn't just a thought; it was a primal instinct. His body trembled, his vision blurred. He took a natural step back. He clenched his teeth, trying to control himself, but he couldn't. Thoughts of avenging his brothers and fulfilling his kin’s desire vanished. All that remained was a single emotion he hadn't felt in a long time.

Fear.

The moment he saw the Apostle’s ferocious eyes, fear consumed him. No matter how he tried to assess the situation, the conclusion was the same. His body was more powerful than ever, overflowing with energy, but he couldn’t cast a single spell. There was no magic to stop the Apostle’s sword from piercing his heart. He knew that without the dragon’s blessing, Dragonians were nothing but beasts.

Flight was impossible, too. They might be faster, but he was convinced a sword would find him even if he tried to fly away. The Apostle’s relaxed posture confirmed his fear. His logical reasoning only fueled his despair.

He gnashed his teeth, his muscles tensing. His eyes darted to his remaining brothers, and he saw the same anxious, trembling conclusion in their eyes. The air grew tense. Then, the Apostle’s voice cut through the silence.

“Aren’t you coming?” It was the growl of a beast.

Pesche shuddered. He saw a subtle smile on the Apostle’s face and anger flared in his heart. The goal of his life, the salvation of his kin, was just behind this man. And this was the hell he had to face. After the anger came anxiety, then self-hatred.

“...My brothers,” his voice trembled, more than it had when he first saw the shadow of the parent dragon. His brothers looked at him, and he screamed. “For our long-cherished wish!”

Stomp! Pesche charged. His brothers followed.

The smile on the Apostle’s lips widened. Despair renewed, Pesche pushed his fear aside and reached for the Apostle’s neck. It was a frantic, pathetic attempt. A move that would never connect. The Apostle simply raised his sword, and with a swift, silent motion, it sliced through Pesche’s wrist.

Schwiing.

The sound wasn’t in his ears; it was in his head. Time seemed to stretch. His eyes widened, watching his own severed wrist fall. When reality returned, his body was writhing in pain.

“Aaaaaaarghhhh!”

---

His heart pounded. His senses were razor sharp. An electric current ran through his head. Vera smiled, a wild, wide grin.

An attack aimed at his chest. Another at his ankle. He dodged them with minimal movement, then swung his sword, decapitating a Dragonian crawling on the ground. The sensation of slicing flesh and bone thrilled him, a familiar feeling that spread from his arm, up his spine, and into his head.

Splash. A cold sound, and a fountain of blood erupted from the severed neck.

“Aaaaarghhhh!” a scream echoed. The Dragonian who had just tried to strike his heart. Vera turned to face him, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and despair. The sight brought Vera a twisted joy. He laughed, a mocking tone in his voice.

“Don’t be sad. I’ll send you along soon.”

The Dragonian’s fury intensified. He charged again, but this time Vera didn't evade. He tightened his muscles, bent his torso, and gripped his sword with both hands. As the Dragonian reached him, Vera swung with all his might.

Crack.

The sound of his sword mixed with the sound of cracking bone. As the blade arced through the air, the Dragonian was cleaved in half and fell to the ground.

Thud.

The sound of meat hitting the dirt was followed by footsteps trampling it. A surprise attack from behind. Vera spun, his sword meeting the neck of the charging Dragonian.

Swoosh.

Another body fell, its head spinning in the air. Vera looked at the falling head and thought, Just one left.

He let out a deep sigh and turned to the last remaining Dragonian, crawling on the ground with his severed wrists. The creature was desperately trying to escape. Vera chuckled, a smirk on his face.

“That’s not right. All your brothers are fighting and dying, and you think you can just run away?” he sneered.

The Dragonian slowly turned, his eyes wide. “Ah... Ahhh...” Tears streamed down his dirt-stained face, leaving crooked lines. It was an expression of pure fear.

Vera froze. A sudden vertigo washed over him. The burning feeling in his head vanished instantly. The Dragonian's terrified eyes were too familiar. In his past life, he had seen that same expression countless times. He saw his old self reflected in them.

Reason returned, snuffing out his joy. What am I doing? he asked himself. He had seen blood and, like a beast, had gotten excited, wielding his sword with a chilling fervor. His empty left hand wiped across his face, and he felt blood dripping onto his hand—a sticky, unpleasant sensation.

“Spa-Spare me!” the Dragonian begged.

Vera swung his sword and decapitated him. The feeling of the blade cutting through flesh was the same, but this time, there was no pleasure. He looked around at the scattered flesh, the puddles of blood, the silence. He was the only one standing.

He felt like he was back in his previous life.

I haven't changed at all.

He had convinced himself he was different, that he had grown. But when he entered the battle and drew his sword, he became the same bloodthirsty fool he used to be. He looked at his left hand, at the reddish palm still warm with blood. The heat was fervent, unpleasant.

The sword I wielded... was it really a sword that could protect those under its shadow? He clenched his fists. No, it wasn't.

The sword he had just wielded was meant to kill. It was a sword meant to tear opponents apart, a sword that brought him joy from tearing and ripping flesh. Renee's face flashed in his mind. He had been so happy that their gap had narrowed. That their footsteps were in sync.

I’m not worthy. I’m still lacking. He wasn't enough to stand by her side and protect her. He had been deluding himself. A sensation like drowning overwhelmed him, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

Still...

He was wielding the sword of a beast. It was only after raising his sword and facing the enemy that he truly understood. He still hadn't changed.