I reign supreme in the Western fantasy world for eternity.

The candlelight in the cathedral flickered in the night wind, casting an inconspicuous glow on the mural of the Triad on the dome.

The Patriarch stood before the icon, his silver hair gleaming coldly in the candlelight, his robes still stained with the ashes of the demon vanguard.

Behind me came the sound of weary, heavy footsteps, typical of the defeated.

"Sir, the officers from the Third Legion have arrived," a Templar officer reported in a low voice.

The Patriarch turned around.

Three people stood before me, their uniforms charred black, their armor tattered, and their faces stained with gunpowder and blood.

Standing at the very front was a captain, his left arm in a sling across his chest, the sling soaked with blood, dark red drops of blood dripping from his fingertips, his eyes bloodshot, his lips chapped and peeling.

The other two were second lieutenants, also seriously injured, and their eyes still held the fear of death.

"Soldiers, tell me, how did you lose?" The Patriarch's voice wasn't loud, but it echoed in the empty chapel, carrying an undeniable aura. "Even tens of thousands of pigs, let alone an army of tens of thousands, wouldn't be routed like this overnight."

The captain's body trembled slightly with anger and humiliation, but he still managed to speak, "Sir, we...we were not defeated on the battlefield."

His voice was hoarse, as if it were scraped from the depths of his throat. "The news of the assassination of the mage corps had spread throughout the entire army before the war even began. From generals to soldiers, no one was unaware of it. The soldiers began to talk about it, the officers began to feel anxious, and even the generals... fell silent."

The Patriarch frowned slightly.

That shouldn't be the case, right? Aren't mage orders always protected by guards?

Moreover, even if they were all assassinated, the news should have been suppressed by General Mac, so how did it spread throughout the entire army in such a short time?

"and then?"

"Then the demon horns sounded." The captain closed his eyes, as if recalling a nightmare. "The vanguard of the army rushed out of the darkness, orcs, fire demons, and mounted archers, overwhelming us. Before our ballistae could even be calibrated, the first line of defense was torn apart."

"You didn't organize any resistance?" The Patriarch's tone carried a barely perceptible hint of disappointment.

"We've organized them." The captain opened his eyes, his eyes red-rimmed. "But it's no use. The soldiers can't hear the officers' orders. The bugle calls, the screams, the clashing of weapons... it's too noisy. Some are charging forward, some are running backward, some are kneeling on the ground praying, and some are just standing there, waiting to die."

He paused, then lowered his voice.

"I heard the soldiers behind me shouting—'The mage corps is gone, how are we supposed to fight?' 'This is suicide!' 'I don't want to die!' And then... they scattered. Finally, General Mike led his personal guards in a final charge against the Demon King's army, buying us some last bit of time. Now, their fate is unknown."

The cathedral remained quiet for a long time.

The Patriarch turned around and looked at the icon.

The compassionate face has half-closed eyelids, the merciful face has slightly parted lips, and the dignified face has a slightly furrowed brow, as if the strange changes in the sacred mountain statue have also affected this place.

He closed his eyes and whispered, "So you weren't defeated, you were terrified."

"Yes, sir." The captain lowered his head. "We...we have let you down."

The Patriarch did not turn around; he simply raised his right hand and drew a symbol of holy light on his chest.

"The Holy Light never abandons those who repent." His voice was soft, revealing little emotion. "You have done your best. Go and rest."

The captain opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end he said nothing. He simply responded heavily, turned around, and led the two lieutenants out of the chapel.

The footsteps gradually faded into the distance.

The Patriarch stood before the icon, silent for a long time.

Finally, he turned to the Templar officer who had been standing by his side: "Pass down the order that the city gates not be fully opened for the time being. Except for the seriously wounded soldiers, the remnants of the Third Legion should camp outside the city and are not allowed to enter... those who have already entered can be spared."

"My lord, do you believe there are spies among them—" The Templar Knight wanted to ask something, but the Patriarch's cold gaze made him swallow his words.

"Be careful what you say," the Grand Patriarch said earnestly. "You've been by my side for so long, you should understand that those people in the capital are capable of anything for power... But this is a matter for those nobles, and we shouldn't interfere. Let them investigate on their own when reinforcements arrive."

"Yes."

The officer quickly left.

The cathedral returned to silence.

The Patriarch stood alone before the icon, looking up at the three stone faces: merciful, majestic, and compassionate.

The night wind blew in through the gaps in the dome, making the candlelight flicker and threaten to extinguish it. His lips moved slightly, but in the end, he only let out a long sigh.

"It's a pity that yet another hero will fall because of this... May he enter the kingdom of my lord."

……

At this moment, the "fallen" hero was walking breathlessly, having just run back to Kolde City.

Fortunately, the storage ring was not damaged in the battle, which can reduce the burden on myself; otherwise, who knows how long it would have taken to run dozens of kilometers wearing the standard silver armor of a knight.

Alex ripped off his tattered cloak, revealing a shirt soaked with sweat and ash. The broken sword was hidden inside the cloak roll, tucked under his arm.

The streets were sparsely populated, with only the occasional patrolling soldier staggering by. No one noticed the disheveled, blond-haired youth.

He pushed open the side door of the Adventurers' Guild; the stairwell was dark.

Only one candle remained lit in the second-floor hall, its dim light illuminating the empty tables and chairs.

Legolas, the elven archer, stood by the window, his back to the stairs, the bowstring in his hand but not drawn.

He had been awake for some time.

The moment the Holy Sword was unleashed, the divine energy that swept across the entire city jolted him out of his slumber.

He rushed downstairs, only to see a golden pillar of light shooting into the sky from the city wall, and then—everything fell silent.

He didn't know where to go.

Mason had fainted, Anna was taking care of her, Bruno was still fast asleep, and he could only stand there, staring at the scorched wasteland outside the window, recalling the meaning of that light over and over again.

The Holy Sword is unleashed, and the hero burns out.

He had read this in an ancient book from the Elf Kingdom. The fate of every hero who failed to kill the Demon King was the same.

Footsteps came from behind, very light, but they did not escape the elf's ears.

Legolas didn't turn around, but said coldly, "If you're here to bring hot water, just put it on the table."

"I'm not a water deliveryman."

That voice—

Without a doubt!

Legolas's body stiffened abruptly, his eyes widened suddenly, and he slowly turned his head.

With blond hair and blue eyes, wearing a white shirt, and a broken sword hanging at his waist (the scabbard was nowhere to be seen), he was smiling and greeting you.

It's Alex.

He is still alive!