Chapter Seventy-Three: The Heart of a Warrior

The port near Dunkirk remained brightly lit, yet squads of soldiers and militiamen, torches in hand, began to spread out in all directions, searching for any fugitives who might have slipped through their net. Inspired by the heroic deeds of Lin Qi and Enzo, these soldiers and militiamen were filled with fervor, eager for a few orcs or Darklings to suddenly appear so they could prove their mettle.

But the streets of Dunkirk were a labyrinth, the twisting alleys and avenues as tangled as a spider’s web; the deployed troops could not possibly seal every passage, always leaving small lanes where someone might slip through. Especially when those attempting escape possessed strength above the ordinary, the common soldiers were rendered all but useless.

Five towering Darklings had already departed the city. They stood atop a small hill outside Dunkirk, overlooking the flickering lights of the town below. Bare-chested, facing the cold wind and swirling snow, they stood motionless, as if five ancient trees had firmly taken root in the earth.

No one knew how much time had passed when a troop of dragon cavalry, torches ablaze, thundered toward them from the distance. With several miles yet between them and the hill, the five Darklings suddenly knelt in unison. Stretching their arms skyward, they sang a song both mournful and magnificent, filled with a wild, primal spirit. Tears streamed down their faces, instantly freezing into crystalline layers as the bitter wind lashed them.

The wind howled, its savage voice like the roar of demons on the Northern Sea, shredding the men’s song before it could travel far. When the lament ended, they rose slowly. The Darkling with a sword wound to his chest muttered, “Howl, and the others, your spirits are with us in the sky—we will bring you home!”

Another, also wounded, replied quietly, “Home. Back to our homeland, back to the place where our ancestors were born and raised. There, your spirits will slumber with those of our forebears. When we call upon you, we will fight together again!”

Together, the five men sliced open their left palms, dipped their right hands in their own blood, and traced a beast-headed sigil in the air before them. The bloody rune glowed faintly, and a strange power radiated outward.

Suddenly, eight slender beams of blood-red light shot into the sky near the port, their flickering radiance resonating with the rune's glow. An ancient aura rippled from the warriors, as if some primordial will had descended into their bodies.

The eight beams of bloodlight quivered, then vanished. Tiny, sparkling motes of light gathered around the five men, spiraling about them before melting into their flesh. The five erupted into three great sobs, then three peals of laughter, after which they turned and strode boldly into the night.

The dragon cavalry, nearly a hundred strong and ordered to blockade the main roadways, arrived at the foot of the hill. They found no trace of the fugitives and casually set up a checkpoint in a sheltered spot.

But the five Darklings were long gone, moving southward with great strides, making haste toward their homeland.

Across the breadth of the western continent, to the southernmost seaport, then by ship two thousand miles across the ocean—that was their home. That miraculous, enchanting black land that haunted every soul; though beset by countless evils, it was also home to countless bold, loyal, hot-blooded, and honest Darkling warriors.

They left Dunkirk, left Arthur, with easy consciences and upright hearts, as boldly as they had arrived. Along the way, they sang the ancient songs passed down by their ancestors. Though time had blurred their meanings—even the eldest elders could no longer decipher them—the melodies lived on, just as their favorite instrument, the wooden drum crafted from the roots of ancient trees, continued to echo its pure and resonant sound in their souls.

Two years ago, summoned by their tribal elders, they had pursued a band of despicable slavers to the western continent, chasing them all the way to Dunkirk. The slavers had kidnapped the granddaughter of the Grand Elder of the Darkling Tribal Alliance—an alliance of seventy-three thousand indigenous clans—a girl born with speech and a supreme gift for spirit magic.

Twenty-three ancestral warriors, nearest the alliance headquarters, were summoned and sent to hunt them down. Yet the slavers were formidable, and even upon reaching Dunkirk, the warriors could not prevail. As the slavers prepared to ship their prize to the Odin Icefields, all hope seemed lost. A warrior’s honor permitted no failure; if they could not rescue the revered Saintess, they would all die fighting.

Then fate intervened. Arthur, meeting these mighty and sincere warriors, used the Black Tiger family’s influence to secure the Saintess from the slavers with ease.

Some warriors escorted the Saintess home, while the rest, swearing by their ancestors’ spirits, pledged their allegiance to Arthur.

But today, their oath had been fulfilled. Eight of their companions had perished, choosing to die in a blaze of soul and life. Their vow complete, they could leave with clear consciences. Now, their duty was to carry their fallen comrades’ spirits home, to let those souls rest in their ancestral tombs.

Their brothers had chosen a glorious death; it was their sacred duty to escort their spirits home.

Bare-chested, with their backs to the wind and snow, they journeyed south. As when they first arrived, they would cross the continent and the sea; thousands of miles away awaited their homeland. There, the earth was so rich that a handful would yield oil, teeming with wild beasts and towering trees—and, above all, their beloved women.

The people there were simple and honest, their hearts as boundless as the sky. There, no one schemed and plotted as Arthur and his ilk did.

“Brothers, we’re going home! Stay together—follow us, and don’t lose your way before we get there!” the wounded man cried out with laughter.

The others joined in, amused—lose their way? Impossible! Sons of that black land would never forget the road home, not even in death.

As their laughter rang out, a ruby at the wounded man’s belt suddenly grew unbearably hot. A blinding red glare burned through the leather.

Before he could react, twelve complex runes surfaced on the gemstone, and a beam of red light shot into the sky.

A catastrophic explosion followed, flattening and incinerating the hill and forest within two hundred meters. The five men’s laughter froze on their faces; their bodies were utterly obliterated in the terrible heat.