The Chrysos Heir stood tall and proud, his whole presence and aura felt like a beacon of strength. The way he wielded his claymore, the scars and bloodshed endured — it was a testament to countless battles fought and won. With every slash and swing of his sword, the pile of bodies stacked higher and higher. Carving through the enemies with ease, the chaos of war felt nothing more than a familiar dance, as their boss — the Flame Reaver — quickly succumbed to its knees.

"..It's over. Reveal yourself." Phainon panted. There he was, right in front of the man who killed his hometown. The man who brought so much suffering and pain to his friends. The man, fallen onto its knees, whom Phainon desperately need to know the identity of.

All eyes turned to Phainon — Castorice's grip on her scythe loosened, Aglaea's golden threads still restraining the man on his knees, and Mydei, crossing his arms, his ferocious eyes staring daggers at the restrained man.

Yet, the Flame Reaver didn't move. All that could be heard was the shallow and ragged breathing, his chest desperately rising and falling, trying to breath. Phainon took two steps closer, as his grip on his weapon tightened, pointing his sharp claymore right at the Flame Reaver's chest. As he pressed the sharp blade against his chest, getting ready to do the final strike-

Phainon's body froze.

His eyes widened, as he saw the man's abdomen. Blood. Golden blood tainted black. There was no other explanation: It was done by the corruption of the Black Tide.

Imagery.. of death.. of blood.. of that damn pungent metallic scent of blood. It felt.. so inhumane. So raw. So.. deranged and twisted.

His vision blurred. His heart was racing. His legs felt weak. The echoes of the screams of his people, now painfully aggravated, as he stood there, frozen.