Chapter 7: The Great Ruler Descends

A heavy silence hung over Crimson Fortress, broken only by the distant roar of the monsters beyond its walls.

The wind carried the stench of blood and rotting flesh across the ramparts. Far below, an endless horde writhed across the crimson wasteland, its countless twisted bodies surging toward the fortress like a living ocean. The creatures moved in a chaotic, ceaseless tide, their grotesque silhouettes overlapping until it became impossible to distinguish where one ended and another began. Beyond that sea of corruption lay the Mist Rift, an ever-present wound in the world from which the nightmare continued to pour.

Alexander Marilz stood motionless atop the fortress wall, his crimson cloak shifting in the wind. He had spent decades on the front lines of humanity, facing battles that would have broken ordinary men long before they reached his age. He had watched soldiers die, cities fall, and entire generations disappear into the endless struggle against the monsters. Yet even after all those years, the sight before him had not become any easier to bear.

For the first time in a long while, the old warrior looked genuinely tired.

His gaze drifted from the distant horde toward the courtyard below, where the remnants of his army were scattered among the wounded and the dead.

Seven thousand soldiers from the Marilz Clan and its affiliated clans had once stood proudly within these walls. Now, the fortress was filled with men who had paid for their duty in blood, while thousands of others would never return to their families.

“Of those thousands…” Alexander began, his voice quiet but heavy with the weight of the losses. “Thirty percent are no longer fit to fight. Some of them will never fight again. Two thousand are already dead.”

He paused, allowing his eyes to travel across the courtyard.

“As for the rest, they're fighting for their lives.”

Rows of medical tents occupied one side of the courtyard, their once-white canvas stained crimson. Wounded soldiers lay shoulder to shoulder beneath them, their bodies wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Some had lost arms or legs; others bore wounds that even the exhausted healers tending them could barely hope to treat. Near one of the walls, a young soldier sat with his back against the stone, a rough bandage covering the empty socket where his left eye had once been. A short distance away, several healers struggled desperately to save a man whose abdomen had been torn open.

The fortress had become a place of suffering. Every groan, every ragged breath, and every cry of pain carried the same cruel reminder: no one was guaranteed a tomorrow.

Then a trembling voice rose from one of the tents.

“No…”

The words were faint, almost lost beneath the noise of the courtyard, but the fear behind them was unmistakable.

“No…”

The wounded soldier's breathing grew increasingly ragged. His fingers trembled beneath the bloodied sheets as he struggled to draw another breath.

“I don't want to die…”

His voice broke, and for a moment, he seemed unable to continue. Then, gathering what little strength remained in him, he forced out the words that had been haunting him.

“There is still so much I haven't done.”

He swallowed painfully.

“So… I still want to live.”

The nearby soldiers turned toward the tent. Some lowered their eyes; others stared in silence, their expressions tightening as the wounded man's words gave voice to thoughts they had spent the entire battle trying to suppress.

Alexander watched them without speaking.

An outsider might have mistaken what he saw for a simple fear of death, but the old commander knew better. Death was not always the thing that frightened a person most. Sometimes, what awaited beyond it was less terrifying than the knowledge of everything that would be left unfinished.

Regret.

That was what haunted these men, and, in a cruel twist of fate, it was also what made life so precious.

Death itself was simple. Once it came, the struggle ended. There would be no more desires to pursue, no more paths to walk, and no more opportunities to change the course of one's life. The real suffering came beforehand, when a person finally understood how much remained beyond their reach: things they had wanted to do but never attempted, people they had hoped to meet but never found, and dreams they had abandoned before discovering whether they could ever become reality.

Even those who accepted their circumstances, who understood how little they had achieved and how little they might leave behind, could still find themselves tormented by regret.

In a world governed by power, who could honestly claim to be free of it?

Everyone wanted something. Happiness, strength, freedom—each person carried their own desires, yet the road toward them was rarely as simple as they imagined. Some lacked the strength to overcome their circumstances. Others never received the opportunity they needed. And there were those who possessed both but eventually lost the courage to continue.

That was where regret was born.

When it accumulated for long enough, it could become despair, growing so deep that even the fear of death seemed insignificant beside it.

And that, Alexander thought, was why these soldiers continued to fight.

They were not all heroes, nor did they necessarily dream of a glorious death. Most simply refused to surrender while there was still something left to protect, something left to accomplish, or even the smallest possibility of returning home. They wanted to reach the end of their lives knowing that they had tried, that they had not abandoned everything before the final moment had forced their hand.

Only then could they face death without being haunted by the thought that they might have lived differently.

In the end, people rarely understood the true value of life until they found themselves standing on its threshold.

Alexander slowly closed his eyes, folding his hands behind his back. Memories stirred within him, too numerous and too distant for a young officer like Ethan to understand. He had walked a road far longer and bloodier than most men could imagine, and the lessons he had learned along the way had never come cheaply.

“The fear of death never disappears,” he said at last. “It simply changes.”

He opened his eyes and looked once more toward the wounded soldiers.

“That is why they keep fighting.”

His expression remained solemn. To Alexander, a difficult road was still a road worth walking. Those who abandoned their path too easily cannot expect to achieve their dreams or reach the happy ending that awaits them at its end. Perhaps the world was unfair. Perhaps circumstances would deny them the ending they deserved. But none of that could change what it meant to keep moving forward.

Let them go to hell.

For a brief moment, the severity in his expression softened.

“A life lived to its fullest gives meaning to everything that comes after.”

Silence returned to the ramparts. Beyond the walls, the monsters continued their relentless advance, their distant cries rolling across the wasteland like waves crashing against a cliff.

Ethan, who had been listening quietly, finally broke the silence.

“But, sir… doesn't the Alliance fear what will happen if this continues?”

Alexander glanced toward him.

Ethan's gaze had shifted to the distant Mist Rift, hidden behind its vast curtain of fog. He did not need to finish his question. The longer the Rift remained unchecked, the more monsters would emerge, and the more soldiers would be sacrificed to keep them from reaching the cities.

Alexander followed his gaze for several seconds before a faint smile appeared on his weathered face.

“Boy, you still don't understand how ridiculous that question is.”

“I…” Ethan hesitated.

“Listen carefully.”

Alexander turned toward the horizon. There was no arrogance in his voice, only the absolute certainty of a man whose convictions had been forged over a lifetime.

“Even if half the continent perishes. Even if every city is reduced to ash…”

He paused, letting the magnitude of those words sink in.

“As long as the Great Ruler is alive, people may change…”

His eyes remained fixed on the distant horizon.

“But the system will endure.”

He reached out and placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder. The young officer looked up at him, finding a faint trace of admiration in the old commander's eyes.

“You're still young. One day, you'll understand why loyalty to the Great Ruler knows no limits.”

Ethan had no immediate answer. He could understand the strength of a warrior, the authority of a powerful clan, and even the influence of the Continental Alliance. But the faith Alexander placed in the Great Ruler seemed to exist on an entirely different level, beyond the calculations and doubts that governed ordinary people.

Before he could ask anything more, the wind stopped.

It happened so suddenly that Alexander fell silent in the middle of his thoughts. The movement of his cloak ceased, and the loose strands of his red hair settled against his face. His expression changed almost imperceptibly, but the hand resting on Ethan's shoulder went still.

Then he slowly raised his head.

“…Old man?”

Ethan followed his commander's gaze, confused by the sudden change.

Alexander did not answer. He stood perfectly motionless, staring into the sky as though something had entered his perception that lay beyond the reach of ordinary senses.

Ethan frowned. He might have been weaker than a Martial Master, but he was still a Fifth-Level warrior. His instincts had been honed through countless battles, and he had learned to recognize danger long before it became visible. Yet now, an inexplicable chill crept down his spine, raising the hairs at the back of his neck.

Then he felt it.

Pressure.

An immense pressure descended from the heavens, enveloping Crimson Fortress like an invisible ocean. It pressed against the ramparts, the courtyard, and every living thing within reach, so overwhelming that the very act of standing beneath it seemed to require conscious effort.

High above the battlefield, between scattered clouds, a lone figure floated in the sky.

He was a man dressed in a loose black robe, his solitary silhouette suspended against the pale heavens.

Ethan narrowed his eyes, instinctively trying to discern the stranger's face. The moment he focused on it, however, his vision seemed to shatter.

The image fractured into countless distorted pieces, like a mosaic assembled from broken glass. His eyes could see the figure, yet his mind refused to accept what it was seeing. No matter how desperately he tried to bring the man's features into focus, his perception slipped away from them, unable to grasp even the simplest details.

It was as though his mind itself had rejected the attempt.

Time seemed to slow.

One second passed, followed by another, yet Ethan could no longer tell whether he had been staring upward for a moment or for an eternity.

Across Crimson Fortress, the same strange stillness spread.

The groans of the wounded faded. The clatter of armor ceased. Conversations died in the middle of unfinished sentences as thousands of soldiers and warriors gradually lifted their heads toward the sky. Some were still holding their weapons; others had been in the middle of tending to their injuries. None of them seemed to remember what they had been doing.

They simply stared.

No one understood why they had stopped, and yet every instinct within them recognized that someone had arrived—someone they had never expected to meet, someone whose presence alone had brought the entire fortress to a standstill.

Then Alexander's roar shattered the silence.

“Wake up, you idiot!”

Before Ethan could react, the old commander seized him by the collar and pulled him forward, bringing their foreheads together with a sharp crack.

Pain exploded through Ethan's skull.

His vision cleared, and the strange numbness that had seized his mind vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. He staggered back, clutching his forehead, and stared at Alexander in disbelief.

“Everyone! Prepare yourselves!”

The commander's voice thundered across the ramparts.

Ethan blinked, still struggling to understand what had happened. But when he looked at Alexander again, the exhaustion that had weighed upon the old warrior moments earlier was gone. His eyes burned with unwavering determination, and his posture had become as rigid as iron.

“We survived,” Alexander said.

“…Sir?”

“There's no time to explain.”

He released Ethan and turned toward the fortress, his voice rising until it carried across the entire courtyard.

“Move! Anyone who can still stand, get back on your feet!”

The order struck the fortress like artillery.

Ethan reacted at once, abandoning his confusion and turning toward the soldiers below.

“Did you hear the Fortress Commander?!”

His voice joined Alexander's, carrying the command through the courtyard. Officers immediately began shouting orders, their voices overlapping as they drove the exhausted soldiers back into formation.

“Everyone, stand!”

“Move, you lazy bastards!”

“Get up! Now!”

The response spread with startling speed. Men who had been leaning against walls forced themselves upright. Wounded soldiers pushed away their supports and reached for their weapons, while those who could no longer stand helped one another rise. Pain twisted their faces, and exhaustion dragged at their limbs, but no one questioned the order. Whatever had arrived above the fortress, Alexander had recognized it, and that alone was enough for his soldiers to obey.

Within twenty seconds, more than four thousand exhausted warriors had returned to their assigned positions.

They were pale, wounded, and barely able to conceal their fatigue. Some stood with bandaged arms pressed against their bodies; others struggled to keep their legs steady beneath them. Yet they formed their ranks, raised their heads, and waited for their commander.

Alexander surveyed them, drawing a deep breath. His chest expanded beneath his black armor, and the faint sunlight glinted across its polished surface.

“Attention!”

His roar shook the fortress walls.

“All units! Prepare yourselves!”

Thousands of boots struck the stone at once.

BOOM!

The sound thundered through every corner of Crimson Fortress, a single, overwhelming impact that seemed to travel through the very foundations of the stronghold. Even the beasts beyond the walls faltered, their endless movement momentarily disrupted by the sudden roar of thousands of soldiers.

Alexander turned toward the sky.

Every movement was deliberate. He took one final step, brought his heels together, and straightened his back. Then, with flawless military discipline, he raised his right hand in salute.

His voice rang across the battlefield.

“Commander Alexander Marilz!”

He held the salute firmly.

“Martial Master!”

His gaze never wavered from the figure suspended above them.

“Second Elder of the Marilz Clan!”

Then he delivered his final declaration with the solemnity of a warrior presenting himself before the highest authority in the world.

“I am fully prepared to receive your orders, my lord!”

Silence answered him.

Not a single soldier moved. Beyond the fortress walls, even the endless tide of monsters had come to a halt. Thousands upon thousands of grotesque creatures stood motionless across the crimson wasteland, their twisted heads turned toward the heavens.

For one strange moment, the battlefield seemed to have forgotten how to breathe.

Then the black-robed figure slowly raised a hand.

His voice was calm, almost casual, yet every soldier heard it clearly, as though he were standing directly beside them.

“Everyone…”

A brief pause followed.

“Relax.”

The suffocating tension vanished.

It was so sudden that several soldiers nearly stumbled as the pressure that had weighed upon them disappeared. Rigid shoulders loosened, clenched hands relaxed around weapon hilts, and the instinctive fear that had seized their minds receded as though it had never existed. Even those who had struggled to breathe beneath the figure's presence found themselves drawing full breaths again.

The man in the sky continued speaking.

“Your mission here…”

He paused once more.

“…is over.”

The words passed across the fortress, leaving thousands of exhausted soldiers staring upward in disbelief. For years, they had remained on the front lines, sacrificing their strength and watching their comrades die one after another. They had endured the endless pressure of the Mist Rift, the relentless attacks of the monsters, and the uncertainty of whether they would ever return home.

Now, the person whose authority stood above the entire system had appeared before them and declared their duty finished.

“I'll discuss your rewards later,” the Great Ruler added.

No one dared respond. No one even thought to ask what would happen next. They could only watch as the black-robed figure stepped forward.

Although he remained suspended high above the fortress, he walked through the sky as naturally as a man crossing an ordinary road. There was no visible platform beneath his feet, no apparent effort in his movements. With each step, faint ripples spread through the heavens and the earth, as though the world itself were responding to his presence.

He passed over the fortress and the assembled soldiers, continuing toward the endless sea of monsters beyond the walls.

Alexander remained in salute until the Great Ruler had passed directly above him. Only then did he slowly lower his hand and turn toward the officers standing behind him.

“Watch carefully,” he said.

His voice was quieter now, but the solemnity within it left no room for misunderstanding.

“You may live another hundred years. You may even be fortunate enough to receive another lifetime…”

He looked back toward the figure moving across the sky.

“But you will never witness a sight like this again.”

None of the officers answered. Their eyes remained fixed on the black-robed figure, following his every step as he moved toward the horde that had threatened to overwhelm them.

“Don't blink,” Alexander murmured. “Etch every moment into your memory.”

For a moment, the old commander said nothing more. He simply watched, his expression carrying the reverence of a man who had spent decades serving an authority he had never doubted, yet whose presence still exceeded even his expectations.

Then, almost in a whisper, he spoke the words that every soldier within earshot would remember for the rest of his life.

“The Great Ruler…”

His gaze followed the lone figure beyond the fortress walls.

“…has descended in person.”