In the cemetery—
A newly constructed grave stood quietly.
A freshly carved tombstone bore a single name—John!
Though the engraving of his likeness was minimal, the few strokes carried a chiseled intensity, sharp as if carved with blades and axes.
John's face seemed to emanate a biting edge, like a drawn sword ready to strike.
"John, I've prepared this grave for you ahead of time. If you survive, so be it. But if you perish… this will be your final resting place."
Before the tombstone stood Old Jaque, his expression somber.
Originally, he had prepared this grave for himself, but given recent events, he chose instead to dedicate it to John.
Facing an army of a hundred thousand, even he couldn't say for sure he could survive.
Let alone John, a greenhorn in war.
"John, you've grown up. You have your own thoughts now—that's good. I respect that. I trust you've made your choice for a reason… and that you're prepared."
Old Jaque's gaze grew distant, lost in memory.
He remembered the first time he laid eyes on John—just a child back then.
But not an ordinary child. Sharp and mischievous, clever from the moment they met.
The years they spent together after that gave Jaque a rare taste of familial warmth, like a son bringing joy to his old age.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the cemetery—
John stood before the gravestones of his parents, a mix of emotions in his eyes.
"This might be the last time I visit you for a long while."
"Next time you travel through worlds, make sure to choose a better one."
After tending to their graves with his tools, John slowly turned his gaze toward the city walls in the distance.
A glint of cold light flickered in his eyes.
———
Time flew by.
At dawn the next day, the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, casting a golden hue upon the walls of Winterhold.
The once-bustling city now lay uncharacteristically quiet.
John stepped out from his room, a long black cloak now draped over his shoulders.
The cloak shimmered with strange patterns—resembling a black tiger.
These patterns pulsed with violent elemental energy, emitting a powerful aura that seemed to ripple through space itself.
As John fastened the cloak, his entire presence changed. His aura suddenly condensed and restrained itself—only to explode outward like a tidal wave of oppressive force.
It was terrifying—like a primordial beast awakening from slumber.
[Dark Cloak – A garment favored by legendary figures of myth and shadow, exuding an aura of domination. A single glance can evoke fear from those who behold it. Its greatest power is amplifying the terror already present within others.]
It was a special item John had acquired long ago.
Because it had no direct offensive power, he had refrained from using it—until now.
Now was the perfect moment.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the longsword in his hand began to shift and transform—
Its shape changed until it resembled a drone, a personal aerial vehicle.
As the blades within its four rotors spun rapidly, a powerful lift force generated beneath it.
John mounted the drone and launched into the air, heading straight toward the city gate.
———
At this moment—
Everyone within Winterhold had already heard the news.
The ten thousand-strong army of the Nascent Duchy was heading directly for them. Winterhold was next on their list!
With this terrifying news came rumors—
Cities ahead of them had already fallen, descending into hellish chaos.
Wherever the Nascent Duchy marched, ruin followed.
In cities taken by the Duchy, women were captured and abused, reduced to slaves.
The men and elderly were not spared either—they became food and rations for the invaders.
Those cities became nothing more than scorched ruins.
This horrifying truth sent shockwaves through the hearts of Winterhold's citizens.
Though they'd long known that the Nascent Duchy, a nomadic kingdom, was barbaric and ruthless—believing in survival of the fittest—
Hearing that their friends and family had been reduced to such fates was something else entirely.
Panic erupted.
Mass evacuations swept through the city as entire families packed up and rushed toward the gates.
The city's entrances became chaotic marketplaces of shouting and crying.
On the city walls, the remaining soldiers had all gathered.
Their faces were cold and filled with killing intent.
They had chosen to stay and fight under Captain Celt's command, prepared to face the coming onslaught.
As soldiers, they understood the reality—
The Nascent Duchy's cavalry was known for its brutality.
Even if they surrendered, mercy would not be shown.
In fact, captured soldiers suffered fates worse than death.
Horrific experiments, mutilations, and diseases awaited them.
They wouldn't be treated as humans at all.
So if those were the choices—
Better to die fighting than to live as meat.
There were no cowards in this kingdom!
Yet, even though their hearts were resolved, the dread of waiting for the enemy still made their nerves taut.
———
Then—under the tense gaze of the city's defenders—
On the horizon, as the sun rose higher into the sky, came the thunder of hooves.
A tide of cavalry charged forth like a dam burst open, galloping at terrifying speed.
In an instant, they entered the soldiers' line of sight.
The earth shook beneath their approach.
Their overwhelming momentum created tremors that rippled across the land, almost like an earthquake.
Even the mighty city walls began to tremble.
Dust billowed, and in weaker sections, fine cracks started to appear.
"The army of the Nascent Duchy is here!"
At that moment—
As the enemy emerged on the horizon like a tidal wave of steel and flesh—
Every soldier on Winterhold's wall froze, their faces pale, throats dry.
Even though they had mentally prepared themselves—
Actually witnessing tens of thousands of cavalry charging toward them still left them utterly shaken.
At the front of Winterhold's defenders stood Captain Celt,
His face pale as he stood beside the remaining officials who had chosen to stay.
Together, they looked on from the ramparts.
A hundred thousand troops.
It was a terrifying sight.
Celt had once hoped that the invading army would be scattered,
That perhaps the city's walls could help them hold out.
But now, that hope was gone.
Just as he was about to issue commands to raise the alert—
The enemy cavalry suddenly split, and a small group advanced from the front ranks.
As they came closer, Celt and the others stared in disbelief.
Their eyes widened.
"Lord Kili?!"
They all recognized the man at the front.
Though disheveled and wounded by lashings, it was unmistakably him.
Behind him were many officials who had fled the city with him the day before.
All of them now bound tightly in chains,
Tossed onto horseback like cargo—
And then dumped unceremoniously onto the ground, bruised and humiliated,
Unable to even meet anyone's eyes.