The Level 4 creature dropped to its knees—its head still in the air as the body collapsed like a fallen mountain.
And then we saw him.
Rodrigo.
My father.
He was the one who had crossed the battlefield like a storm.It was his blade that had cut through the impossible.And now he stood before us...his eyes burning with fury.
But not the fury of war.It was the rage of a man who had arrived too late.
—Forgive me, my children… —he said, his voice rough but steady—. Forgive me for not being here sooner.Now that I am…you can rest.
Matías dropped to his knees.The light around him faded like a candle burning out.He collapsed, unconscious, his breath shallow, his face pale with exhaustion.
I trembled.My body wouldn't respond.My vision blurred.
But I refused to close my eyes.
Not yet.Not without seeing how my father would face the Lich.
Rodrigo didn't wait.He walked through the field of corpses with unshakable resolve.In his hand, the blade pulsed with power.
The Sword of Roland.
A legendary weapon forged for generals of old.It could only be wielded by those who fought for others, not for themselves.Its edge could cut not only flesh, but the lies of the soul.It was immune to dark magic of the first and second order.More than a sword, it was a manifested oath.
And Rodrigo wielded it as if it were part of him.
Ahead, Lyr'Thal descended slowly from the air.
The mist coiled around him.His green eyes blazed like fire in a bottomless cave.
And for the first time… he moved.
The battle was brutal.
Not a duel of elegance—It was a war of will.
Rodrigo charged with everything.Every slash, every strike, carried the weight of spilled blood and broken promises.The Sword of Roland lit up with each blow, purging corruption from the very air.
But Lyr'Thal wasn't just a summoner.
His dark magic was versatile and wild.
He conjured spears of shadow, cursed chains, eruptions of liquid darkness.Every spell seemed pulled from another plane.
Rodrigo was cut.Burned.Poisoned.
But he never backed down.
He traded wounds without fear—Driven by a single thought:
"None of you will ever touch my children again."
He struck Lyr'Thal through the shoulder once.The Lich retaliated with a barrage of black spikes, shredding Rodrigo's side.
He was bleeding.The ground was soaked in ash and steel.The sky seemed farther with every second.
Then—
Lyr'Thal thrust his staff into Rodrigo's abdomen.
Rodrigo cried out in pain—but did not fall.
He clenched his jaw,grabbed the staff with both hands…
And held it there.
—NOW! —he roared.
A cry that tore through the fog.
And from the shadows...
Milena appeared.
No one saw her coming.
Only the wind shifted.And the Lich turned—too late.
Milena moved like a wraith.
In her hands—two black daggers.Ancient.Holy.
The Templar Daggers.
Forged by crusaders, blessed by sacred rites.They didn't just cut flesh—they severed corruption.Any wound caused by them stopped all spiritual regeneration.
Milena danced around the Lich.
A blur of cuts—One to the neck.Another to the arm.A third at the base of the spine.
And as Lyr'Thal raised his staff one last time—
She drove both daggers into his chest.
—This is for my sons.
The Lich's body trembled.The mist evaporated.And his skull fell…
Lyr'Thal was dead.
Rodrigo dropped to his knees, coughing blood.Milena caught him before he fell.
Still kneeling, I watched as the darkness began to fade.The undead stopped moving.The battlefield… fell still.
—They did it —I whispered, just before my vision went black.
Finally…we could rest.