The sky above Thirtos remains dark without stars, only occasionally illuminated by distant flashes of lightning, revealing the ruins of a city that has mostly been swallowed by the sea. The air is thick with the salty scent of the ocean, mingled with the metallic odor of blood and debris soaked in brine. The once magnificent city now lies in fragments, like a never-ending nightmare.

  Fitran stands atop the stone wall built by the golems, his gaze sweeping over the city, which now appears as a faint shadow of its glorious past. Each detail of the devastation, every face filled with despair, sends a deep wound to his heart. He feels the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, like an invisible burden slowly trying to crush his spirit. Yet, deep within, a sharp and analytical logic sparks a question: Could all of this have been avoided? With a tense posture, he observes the scattered ruins, realizing every shard of wood and concrete cloaked in saltwater, assessing how much hope still lingers amidst this debris.

  Amidst the wreckage, people wandered in confusion and profound sorrow, desperately searching for missing family members among the chaos caused by the colossal waves that had just struck the city. The sound of their wails filled the air, mingling with the cries of children who lost their parents in the blink of an eye. Fitran heard a long sigh as the distant waves continued to roar, a terrifying sound that seemed to demand justice from those who remained. He observed a group of individuals struggling to lift debris, their movements appearing aimless—as if driven by panic and haste. There was no strategy in this chaos, he thought coldly, only the emptiness of repeated loss. With patience, he began to formulate a plan in his mind, analyzing every corner of the shattered city: there needed to be an aggregation of information to identify who was still alive and who was not.

  Fitran looked at the scene with a shattered heart. A young woman, her hair soaked and her clothes in tatters, knelt before the ruins of her collapsed home, her trembling hands desperately digging through the debris as she called out for her missing child. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the foul odor of the crumbled wreckage, enveloping the air like a heavy blanket. The crashing waves in the distance added to the atmosphere of despair, their sounds echoing like a testament to nature's fury. All around her, scattered ruins of buildings lay in disarray, the sharp edges of debris glinting dangerously under the dim light of the sun obscured by dark clouds.

  Fitran assessed the situation, his mind working sharply like a knife. Why did the woman look so desperate? He could feel the tension in the air, the panic lurking amidst the ruins. Carefully, he descended from the stone wall, his steps slow yet cautious as he observed every movement of the woman. If they weren’t careful, they could become part of this tragic statistic. The woman looked up, her tear-filled eyes meeting Fitran's gaze, which was filled with compassion, yet deep down, he harbored a chilling sense of urgency.

  “Lord Fitran… I beg you, my child…” the woman sobbed, pointing at the ruins before her with muddy hands. Her voice soared above the chaos, as if trying to break through the walls of despair. At the same time, Fitran felt a deep discomfort, a urge to turn away, but that was not his choice. He was an observer, a player in this drama of life.

  Without saying a word, Fitran knelt down and began to lift the heavy stones with his own hands. Those strong hands carefully removed the debris, the wet and sharp texture of the bricks grazing his palms. However, the deeper they dug, the slimmer the hope of finding life became. He rationalized every second spent digging, each fleeting moment calculating the dwindling possibilities.

  Before long, his hands found a small, lifeless body hidden beneath the rubble. Fitran's heart felt like it stopped for a moment, as the silence of the entire world seemed to crash over him. An emotional turmoil crept into his mind, yet there was no room for hope in the mathematical logic that analyzed the odds. With utmost care, he slowly lifted the small body, feeling the horrifying chill of its skin.

  The woman gazed at her lifeless child, embracing the small body as she screamed hysterically, tears streaming down her face. The sound of her cries struck Fitran like a piercing arrow, reaching into his cold heart. He stood motionless beside her, his body tense and rigid, unable to utter a single word to comfort the deep sorrow enveloping her. In his frozen heart, he observed the expression of grief on her face, reflecting on every lost moment and every wrong choice—all of it a culmination of a larger systematic failure.

  Slowly, he took a step back, allowing the woman to drown in her personal sorrow. His sorrowful eyes scanned the surroundings, witnessing more tragedies unfolding in every corner of the city. Even beneath the heavy blanket of grief, his analytical mind whirred, assessing every potential trigger for further loss. He let out a long sigh, attempting to strengthen a heart that was nearly shattered by the guilt that relentlessly haunted him. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the acrid smoke of the fire, creating an atmosphere thick with tension.

  Near the altar where Joanna still lay resting, Rinoa was busy organizing the rescue team, striving to save as many injured people as possible. Her face looked pale and exhausted, yet she continued to move tirelessly, giving directions in a soft but firm voice. In Fitran's mind, he coldly weighed his options: Should he release Rinoa to manage others, or approach her to offer insights on more efficient crisis management? Ultimately, he chose to observe, waiting for the right moment to make his own decision.

  “You all, help carry the injured onto the altar! We must save as many as we can!” she exclaimed loudly, pointing to several young men who immediately sprang into action. Amidst the commotion, Fitran felt the vibrations of their feet trembling on the wet debris, sensing it beneath his soles. Amidst the thundering steps, his determination intensified, as if he were systematically reviewing each action taken.

  Joanna, now conscious but still very weak, tried to rise slowly, her body trembling. “I… must help,” she said softly, her eyes glistening with guilt that weighed heavily on her. Fitran gazed at her intently, his eyes radiating an analytical aura. In his mind, he contemplated the possibility: wouldn't Joanna's presence here only hinder their efforts? Should he allow emotions to cloud his judgment?

  Rinoa immediately approached her, gently touching her shoulder. “Not now, Joanna. You have done more than enough. Please, take a break.” As Rinoa urged Joanna, Fitran observed her movements; he noted how Rinoa was trying to contain the tension that could jeopardize their performance. Yet, he felt an unconscious urge to take over the situation.

  Joanna looked at Rinoa with a pleading gaze, tears slowly streaming down her cheeks. “But… all of this happened because I failed…” In Fitran's mind, those words echoed clearly, reinforcing an existing premise: the crowd would easily be swayed by such weak words. Every emotion that emerged now posed a potential threat that needed to be managed carefully.

  Rinoa shook her head slightly, her expression soft yet firm. “No, Joanna. You did not fail. You saved many lives, more than you can imagine.” Fitran could feel the pressure rising in the air, condensing everything into a single point of tension; he found that irony unsettling. Amidst the devastation that plagued the city, he was one of the few who remained standing with cold logic, even as hope seemed to vanish around them.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Joanna finally sank back into her seat, her gaze vacant as she stared far beyond the altar, witnessing the city engulfed in devastation. Deep down, she felt that her mistakes were too great to be forgiven. Outside the altar, the thunderous roar of the waves served as a haunting reminder of the chaos around her. Each crash seemed to sing a dirge of sorrow, adding weight to her heavy heart.

  Meanwhile, Fitran returned to the front lines, where the golems continued to form a defensive wall against the increasingly brutal and aggressive sea monsters. With the Voidlight sword in hand, he fought valiantly, clashing against wave after wave of terrifying creatures that besieged them without pause. His face was impassive, revealing no trace of fear—only a cold, calculated determination. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of seawater that assailed his nostrils. He felt the texture of damp debris beneath his feet; each step was taken with caution, careful not to stumble among the strewn wreckage.

  The sea monsters were becoming increasingly numerous and vicious, their bodies adorned with sharp spines and powerful long tentacles. Each time one fell, dozens more surged forth, gnawing at the strength of the golems, which were starting to show signs of weakness due to the relentless assault. Fitran quickly assessed the situation; he compared the dwindling number of golems against the relentless tide of monsters. He realized that for every creature they managed to defeat, even more took its place, a loss that was not worth the effort they were investing.

  “Hold the line!” Fitran shouted loudly to the stone golems, fully aware that they couldn't comprehend his words. He continued to yell as a form of moral support for the citizens courageously fighting alongside the golems. Though his voice was flat and devoid of emotion, the weight of his words ignited hope, sparking a fire of determination in the hearts of the fighters. His movements were sharp and decisive, with no motion wasted; every dodge and turn executed with a hungry focus on logic, while remaining vigilant of potential threats around him. Fitran's gaze flicked to the scattered rubble, observing how the city’s structure lay in ruins, calculating each possibility to leverage the chaos for his own advantage.

  In the midst of the intensifying battle, a teenage boy suddenly emerged from behind, sprinting towards Fitran with a mix of excitement and fear on his face. He tightly gripped a short sword that was oversized for his small frame. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, mingling with the pungent aroma of seawater as the waves crashed against the ruins of the city behind them, heightening the tension of the atmosphere.

  “Lord Fitran! I want to fight too!” he shouted, his voice ringing out as he struggled to mask his evident fear, the tremors in his body betraying his bravery. Both felt the tension rise as Fitran scrutinized every movement of the boy, who was filled with enthusiasm yet lacked experience.

  Fitran swiftly blocked the boy's path, grasping his shoulder firmly but gently. Within his heart, he weighed every possibility, observing the enemy's advancing attacks. “No, my boy. Your place is not here. Return to the altar with the others.” His tone was cold, yet beneath it lay a depth of calculation; he understood that the loss of even one soul in this battle was far from trivial.

  “But I want to help!” the girl protested fiercely, her eyes brimming with determination. Fitran could see a reflection of himself in her gaze—an intense hope, yet also an undeniable certainty of her helplessness.

  “You can help by staying alive,” Fitran replied gently but firmly, attempting to calm the tumult of emotions within him. “You are the future of this world. It is our duty to fight now, so that you can live and carry on after all of this is over.” He felt the heat of sweat on his forehead, triggered by the tension of the battlefield that was testing not only his physical strength but also his cold, analytical mind.

  The girl stared at Fitran, her eyes welling with tears, but she nodded slowly and then ran back toward the altar with a heavy heart. Fitran glanced toward the raging battlefield; the roar of waves crashing against the cliffs combined with the shouts of the soldiers created a terrifying symphony. Taking a deep breath, he felt the heavy burden on his shoulders grow even more, but he had no choice but to press on.

  In the next moment, Fitran stepped forward into the front line, ensuring his steps were firm among the damp rubble. He swung his Voidlight with swift and powerful motions. Each strike was calculated; the blade's light continuously illuminated the battlefield, sweeping away the approaching sea monsters. His calmness in battle was a stark contrast to the devastation of the city surrounding him—the crumbling walls and streets flooded with seawater mixed with blood.

  The battle raged on without pause as wave after wave of attacks crashed against their defenses. The clang of metal and cries of fear echoed in the air, mingling with the pungent smell of blood. Fitran felt his body beginning to weaken, yet he forced himself to endure, aware that he could not fall in the midst of this conflict. In his mind, rapid calculations raced; every enemy movement was scrutinized, every angle estimated. In that chaotic atmosphere, he felt an odd sense of tranquility, as if he were the only one in control.

  Far behind, Rinoa was still diligently working to save the injured victims, reaching out to bodies stained with blood. Joanna sat silently, her gaze vacant as she stared at the relentless black sea crashing against their city, fear creeping among the ruins of cracked buildings and wet debris. In the midst of this despair, a terrifying roar echoed from a distance, shaking the ground beneath them. The rumbling waves drew closer, as if the ocean itself was preparing for battle. Fitran quickly turned his attention to the sea, witnessing a sight that momentarily stopped his heart, yet his analytical mind immediately responded; he had to strategize.

  From behind the towering waves, a massive figure emerged, its glistening black body covered in scales that emanated a pale blue light. Every detail awakened a mix of fear and fascination within him. Its eyes glowed a bright red, and from its open mouth, razor-sharp teeth glistened like spears. In an instant, he assessed the creature's power and the potential threat it posed. "Avatar Tiamat..." Fitran whispered softly, expressing a blend of respect and indifference. His hands trembled momentarily before he strengthened his grip on Voidlight. "So, you finally came here to face me..." This declaration was more than just a challenge; it was an analysis of the intentions of this protagonist and the cruel foe.

  With a gaze filled with hatred yet courage, Fitran's body tensed with vigilance as he lifted his sword high, the runes upon it glowing brightly. His form arched, poised to strike, while a sharp mind honed the purpose behind every action. “Then come forth, monster!” he shouted defiantly, challenging the great creature before him without a hint of fear, his voice piercing the heavy air thick with despair and hope. He understood that every decision he made now would determine everything.

  The greatest battle he had ever faced was about to begin, and Fitran knew that this moment would dictate the fate of the world. Amid the sharp scent of blood filling the air, he felt his heart racing, even as his expression remained flat and devoid of emotion. Meanwhile, the dim light from the darkening sky reflected the shattered shadows of the city ruins, a symbol of the painful emptiness surrounding him. He stood resolutely, sword in hand, feeling its weight like the burden of the world. The rumbling waves in the distance served as a thrilling backdrop, blending with the pounding footsteps approaching and the occasional panicked cries from the few who remained.

  As the sky grew darker, a life-and-death battle was just beginning. When her opponent appeared, Fitran closely observed every movement of the creature, scrutinizing its weak points and visible strengths. Ignoring the chaos around him, he focused his mind, analyzing the situation with precision. His body remained tense, yet his mind raced, calculating every possibility—attentively noting each detail, from the debris obstructing his path to the menacing whispers of the wind. The tension in his shoulders began to escalate, his reflexes sharpened, and with every passing moment, the weight of the decisions he had to make intensified.