Almost a year had passed.
The blood-soaked soil of the Barbarian Plains had long dried. Where crude totems and burnt camps once stood, new structures of stone and steel rose. Fortresses crowned the ridges, wide roads cut through the wild, and smoke billowed not from fire and death—but from forges and workshops. The land, once cursed and feared, was now reborn under a new name: Sancara.
A name meaning "that which is reclaimed."
Sancara had become a symbol of imperial will—its conquest proof of what strength, strategy, and sacrifice could achieve. But the scars of war still lingered, visible not only in the land, but in the hearts of those who survived it.
Commander Herald, once the iron fist that led the charge into barbarian territory, stood at the gates of the city he had helped create. Time had worn heavy on his shoulders. The ghost of Claire's death still lingered in his quiet moments, and the weight of his decisions pressed deep into his bones.
Now, with peace secured and the frontier settled, Herald resigned his command.
His soldiers—those who bled beside him—saluted one last time as they were transferred to Sancara's standing garrison..
And Arman himself, having proven his worth through tenacity and vision, was named Count of Sancara.
He stood proudly on the newly built balcony of the central fortress as the Empire's banners unfurled beside him. The cheers of the people echoed through the valley, but his eyes remained sharp, gazing beyond the horizon—toward the next battle, the next storm.
Far away in the Capital, the streets were abuzz with preparation.
Tales whispered of a new campaign—grander than the eastern conquest, deeper than any previous war. Rumors stirred in the taverns and military halls: The Flame Emperor himself would lead it.
Lucas De Kustoria, the crimson-cloaked inferno of the Empire, had returned from the borders. His sword—once shattered in the last war—had been reforged. His aura, now refined through fire and grief, burned brighter than ever.
And behind him marched the elite forces of the capital, including one battalion whose snowy insignia struck both awe and fear.
The Snow Knight had returned. Her silver armor glistened under the imperial banners, her gaze cold as winter storms. Whispers followed her march—of monsters slain, of dark mages defeated, of a lone survivor from the border war who rose to stand among legends.
They said the next war wouldn't just shift the balance of the continent—it would change the course of history itself.
Back in Sancara, as Herald mounted his horse one last time, he looked back at the growing city—once a field of death, now a place of life.
Claire's name was etched into a marble stone inside the Hall of Valor, beside other royal knight captains who had given their lives.
"I did what I could," Herald whispered.
Then, without fanfare, he rode back toward the capital—not as a commander, but as a man who had seen too much, lost too much, and still chose to serve.
The wind carried with it the scent of ash, steel, and distant fire.
The world would burn again soon—and this time, Lucas himself would be the match.