A sudden knock shattered the silence, drawing both the Prince and Alaric to attention. Tension started to fill the air.
Without a word, the Prince grasped his sword, approaching the door with measured steps. Behind him, Alaric followed closely with a dagger glinting in his hand. They were ready for anything.
The door creaked open.
A man stood there—neatly dressed, calm, even smiling.
"The boss is looking for you,your highness," he said respectfully.
The Prince's eyes narrowed. Recognition struck. It was the bartender from the tavern. He sensed no hostility, no killing intent. Still cautious, the two followed him through winding alleys until they reached a rundown inn. From the outside, it was nothing more than a decaying ruin.
But inside?
It was a different world—lavish, warm, inviting. Rich carpets lined the floor, soft golden light spilled from lanterns, and the scent of wine and burning wood filled the air.
At the far end of the room, sitting like a dying lion, was Rayleigh.
His body was a monument of war—bandaged, battered, and covered in old scars that told stories of countless battles. His face, once sharp, was now weathered and tired. He looked older than he was. Children surrounded him, fussing over his wounds, their worried eyes clashing with the violence he once wielded.
The Prince took a seat, his voice cold.
"Why did you call for me?"
Rayleigh leaned forward, his voice a gravelly whisper, calm but filled with weight.
"There's a gang. Cerberus Mercenaries. They're trying to take the slums. I don't care if you kill me later—but make sure those bastards die first."
The Prince tilted his head. "You want my help? What do I get?"
Rayleigh fell silent. He had nothing the Prince didn't already possess—wealth, power, reputation. Nothing… except for one thing.
With a grunt, he stood, despite the pain in his body. He raised his hand, and in a shimmer of light—
Weapon Art: Balmung.
The sword materialized—simple yet magnificent. A medium-length blade, forged from dragon remains and meteorite steel. The legendary Balmung. The blade shimmered with a faint bluish hue, whispering of ancient battles and untold power. A sword that once felled dragons.
No words were needed. The Prince nodded.
Two birds with one stone, he thought.
The Plan was simple.
The Prince would create distraction, big enough to draw the Cerberus mercenaries into chaos.
"How exactly am I supposed to do that?" he asked, arms crossed.
The bartender pointed at the map—the tavern. Their favorite place. A few flames, a little destruction—and the hounds would come running. In the confusion, Rayleigh would infiltrate their base and kill the gang boss.
Meanwhile, the Prince would return here—to defend the children, should the gang retaliate.
"If we had gunpowder, we wouldn't need you," Rayleigh muttered. "But your brother's ban has cut off our supplies."
The Prince knew it well. He was the enforcer of that very ban. The thought of explosives in the hands of cutthroat mercenaries was too dangerous to allow. Yet, here he was—being used to replace a barrel of gunpowder.
Rayleigh could handle Cerberus' boss. But Cerberus didn't fight clean. They'd go for the weak, the helpless. They'd go for the children.
That's why they needed him.
Not just a sword—but a wall.
As he stood to leave, Rayleigh spoke once more, voice like steel.
"When this is over... we'll finish what we started. A true deathmatch."
The Prince didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
.........…
Thus, the plan began.
The Prince walked alone through the slums, heading straight for the tavern. The streets were quiet, almost indifferent. Barely any guards. After all, who would ever expect an enemy to walk straight into enemy territory alone?
He stood at the entrance, unbothered, almost arrogant in his poise. A guard approached, barking at him to leave.
The Prince said nothing.
The air shifted.
Heat rose. The temperature climbed rapidly as if the very air rejected peace. The Prince slowly raised his hand, aura flickering around his fingertips like lightning begging to be released.
Heavenly Flame Art – Third Form: Blazing Tempest.
A whirlwind of fire erupted from the sky.
In a flash, a flaming typhoon engulfed the tavern, devouring its wooden walls and pillars. Flames danced and screamed, swallowing everything. The guards barely had time to react before they were consumed. Some tried to attack—but were quickly cut down, their blades melting from the heat.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Cerberus mercenaries flooded the streets, rushing to save their comrades and smother the flames—but this was no ordinary fire. This was Heavenly Flame. It would burn until the sun rose, maybe longer.
From a rooftop nearby, Rayleigh watched the inferno with quiet awe.
"Majestic," he murmured.
Then he moved.
Unlike the tavern, the Cerberus headquarters was heavily fortified. But it meant nothing to Rayleigh who was once Captain of the Royal Guard.It didn't slow him down even one bit. He cut through mercenaries like paper, his sword singing its death song. Heads rolled. Blood painted the walls. There was no mercy in his blade. Only purpose.
At last, he reached the top floor.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, the Cerberus boss lay asleep, surrounded by four women. The moment he saw Rayleigh, something ancient and instinctual gripped his heart.
"Leave," Rayleigh said flatly.
The women scrambled out in silence. The boss sat up, still groggy but quickly understanding the situation. There was no escape. He didn't even try.
Instead, he smirked.
He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew.
"In five minutes, my men will be at your little orphanage. They'll kill every single child," he sneered.
Rayleigh's expression didn't change, but his fists tightened. This man wasn't stupid—he had planned for failure, planned to die, as long as he could take others with him.
"You want a deal? Trade your life for theirs. Think carefully, old man."
Rayleigh walked to the window, gazing out at the horizon.
A flicker of light.
Far in the distance, flames danced—not from destruction, but from defense. From power.
The Prince was fighting.
Protecting.
Rayleigh smiled.
"Your mercenaries are already dead."
And the boss it wasn't a bluff.He also knew that no one will save him.And he also knew that his mercenary is done.All in less than a minute of thought.
His arrogance vanished. Desperation set in. He reached into his drawer, trembling hands pulling out a small, metal object. A bomb.
Tears welled in his eyes—not from sorrow, but rage and pride.
"If I'm going to hell," he said, "I'm dragging you with me."
Boom.
The explosion ripped through the building. Smoke and fire surged into the sky. The tower collapsed, raining debris like divine punishment. From the streets, the bartender screamed Rayleigh's name and ran into the ruins, digging frantically.
Nothing.
Then—a silhouette.
Through the smoke, a figure emerged.
Carrying Rayleigh on his shoulder was The One-Eyed Paladin—a living legend. He laid Rayleigh down and began healing him, his single eye glowing faintly as his hands worked gently over burned flesh and broken bone.
Elsewhere, the Prince fought through the last of Cerberus' forces alongside Alaric. The battle was brutal, but swift. The fire from earlier still burned in his veins. They were done.
The slums were safe—for now.
The Prince and Alaric walked slowly toward the inn. Toward Rayleigh.
All three stood again, face to face.
This time, not as allies.
But as warriors—ready for the final showdown.