NOVPUBLeonhardt watched the chaos unravel. Yet, his eyes lacked the emotion of someone excited; rather, with each fallen soul, his pupils became dull. The goblins attacked like well-trained feral beasts, tearing, cutting and ambushing the human guards.
[Leon?]
Ifrit's voice of concern caused him to snap out of his trance.
'It's nothing...'
(Is this the kind of chaos you wanted, little chimaera?)
He couldn't deny that it satisfied him to see the beautiful flames and the joy in his goblins as they finally managed to get revenge.
But Leonhardt couldn't help but feel a little empty.
His gaze flicked back to Dia, the poor woman fastened to a wooden shield, a few wounds from arrows that pierced beside her thighs and exposed breasts. 'Strange...'
Some things made him feel irritated, like someone kept poking him, calling his name then running away.
However, Leonhardt didn't know why he felt this way.
It was enough to dull the glee at seeing the fall of the arrogant humans who tried to hunt him and his goblins down like a dog.
The smoke thinned as they entered the lower slums.
Not because the fires died down, but because the wind carried the scent elsewhere. But Leonhardt smelled it all the same. Burning fat. Charred wood. The stench of mana-burst spells detonated too close to flesh.
The goblins moved ahead of him in tight units. Griv flanked the southern road with twin sabres drawn, barking commands in polished sarcasm.
Mossi's herbalists spread along the alleys, laying down spores that disoriented every armoured boot that dared cross them. Snaggle stayed near the supply flank, counting corpses like coins.
But the slums hadn't fallen yet.
From behind barricades of shattered carts and brick rubble, angry voices still rose.
Not knights.
Not soldiers.
Citizens.
Drunken tradesmen with butcher knives. Mothers with broken broom handles. Ex-guards who'd lost everything and were now killing anyone not wearing a holy crest.
The last of them.
The desperate.
And they were holding the line—barely—against the human knights who had started this slaughter in the name of order.
Leonhardt stepped past two corpses twitching in the gutter.
One wore stolen armour. The other was ten, maybe eleven, fingers curled around a rock.
[Leon...?]
Ifrit's voice resounded in his mind again, much softer this time.
Uneasy.
He blinked.
Realised he'd been staring at nothing... and made Ifrit worry again.
(They're dying for nothing. Isn't that beautiful?)
Dravanna's whisper was velvet and cruel.
(So human. So stupid. You should walk right through them.)
Leonhardt's lips trembled, almost becoming a wide grin at Dravanna's cheeky and lovely voice speaking so horribly. He didn't feel the strange emotion anymore... but maybe it was because other things were distracting him.
He looked toward the main alley.
A few dozen people were fighting on both sides—knights striking wildly, villagers screaming as they swung kitchen blades and claw hammers.
A woman cried out as a sword took her shoulder.
A man dove onto the knight and bit his ear off.
Madness.
"Endo's people," Griv said behind him, calmly wiping blood from his gloves. "The ones who didn't run."
Leonhardt tilted his head.
Still watching.
He could feel the goblins tightening around him, waiting for his signal.
And still, that faint itch in his chest. That dull ache behind the eyes.
'Why do I care if they die fighting or screaming?'
His gaze drifted back to Dia, chained and silent, nailed to a shield like bait.
And that same thought returned—
Strange.
"Am I feeling this way… because I feel possessive of Dia?"
The thought slid into his mind like a blade pushed just under the skin. It was ridiculous. Arrogant. Sentimental.
And he hated that it didn't feel false.
Leonhardt's grip shifted on his sword. The hilt was warm now—blood or body heat, it didn't matter.
A man staggered toward his goblins, swinging a length of bent iron with both hands. His face was painted in soot and grief, teeth bared. "Filthy freaks! Get out of our city!"
The goblins hesitated—not in fear, but in confusion.
Leonhardt didn't.
He moved with one clean step and one cleaner arc of steel. The blade sliced across the man's throat in a perfect curve. No roar. No scream. Just the sudden spurt and the soft gurgle of disbelief.
The body dropped in a tangle of limbs, and the goblins moved again, reassured.
Leonhardt didn't spare it a glance.
He walked straight to Dia.
She was still there, fastened to the thick wooden shield they had displayed her on. Arrows peppered the edges—one just beside her hip, another near the delicate skin between her breast and collarbone. A bruise bloomed along her ribs. Her body shook with effort. Her eyes were half-lidded, empty.
She lifted her gaze when he stepped close.
Her breath hitched.
"Master…?"
He didn't answer.
Just unclasped the cloak from his shoulders with one motion and stepped in close, wrapping it around her exposed chest, her hips, the jagged wounds that hadn't bled enough to kill—only to humiliate.
Dia trembled.
Her lips parted, eyes wide with confusion and something dangerously close to hope.
Then came the blade again.
A flash of steel.
A single, brutal downward strike cleaved the bindings at her wrists. Another severed the rope tying her ankles to the shield base.
The wood split behind her and fell apart with a loud crack.
Dia crumpled forward—but he caught her elbow with one hand and steadied her.
"I thought…" she whispered, her voice tight with something raw, "I thought you left me. I thought I failed you."
Leonhardt looked at her, impassive.
"You're not allowed to break before I'm finished with you."
She trembled while grabbing the corners of the cloak, it was heavy, and warm... but most of all smelt like him.
"I... I didn't mean to scream. I didn't want to—"
"You wanted to live," he said simply.
A shriek pierced the air.
A knight was dragging a civilian by the hair, shouting scripture, blade raised.
Leonhardt turned, lifted his sword, and threw it.
The blade spun once, then twice, and impaled the knight through the back, pinning him to a wall with a wet crunch.
The woman collapsed, sobbing.
Leonhardt retrieved the sword without a word.
[You didn't have to touch her, you know.]
Ifrit's voice flowed around his mind, causing his anger to rise.
[She's already broken. You didn't need to be gentle.]
Leonhardt retrieved the sword without a word.
The goblins surged past him now, screaming, cackling, fighting like demons reborn. One rode a wolf-beast, charging into a formation of squires and splitting them apart. Another leapt from a rooftop and landed teeth-first on a paladin's throat.
The air turned hot, thick with smoke and the copper stink of blood.
From behind, Dia staggered after him—barefoot, chained, covered in sweat and shame.
But she followed.
Every step.
Her voice reached him again—soft, cracked.
"I'm still yours... aren't I?"
Leonhardt didn't answer.
He stepped forward, slashing down another man mid-lunge.
And the slaughter continued around him.
(But he wanted to be gentle, didn't he~?) Dravanna's laugh was slow, deliberate.
(Oh, little Leo. Are you starting to like your toys a little too much?)
He cut down another knight—this one already limping—and whispered, almost absently:
"Maybe."
The Last Call hadn't burned.
Not yet.
Somehow, the building still stood while the rest of the slums lay in ash and bodies. Its windows were cracked, the stone scorched, but the doors hadn't fallen. The flags still hung. The smell of fire and blood hadn't reached the interior.
Not fully.
Leonhardt approached in silence.
No goblins flanked him now. They were still carving paths through the back alleys, pushing deeper into the broken city.
Only Dia remained at his side.
She walked like her legs didn't belong to her—barefoot, bruised, bound in chains, his cloak wrapped around her like a brand. Her face was flushed. Her breath uneven.
But she didn't fall behind.
Leonhardt's boots scraped over the broken cobblestone as they reached the entrance.
The front door was barred.
A few thugs stood guard—half-armoured, twitchy, armed with old crossbows and curved knives. They didn't look like soldiers. They looked like men paid enough to die slowly.
One of them saw the fire-tree emblem on Leonhardt's chest and raised his voice.
"Back off!"
Leonhardt didn't stop.
Another one shouted. "This is neutral—!"
Dia stepped out from behind him, her chains clinking.
The man's voice caught in his throat.
His eyes widened.
Then he turned and ran.
"Boss!" he screamed. "It's her! She's alive—she's with him!"
The door slammed open before Leonhardt could reach it.
Endo stood on the threshold.
His jacket was bloodstained. One eye red with blood, the other calm. A longsword hung at his hip. His hand didn't reach for it, but it hovered close.
His gaze swept over Leonhardt first, slow, calculating.
Then dropped to Dia.
She flinched.
And that was enough.
"...So it was you," Endo said. His voice wasn't surprised. Just tired. Bitter.
Leonhardt tilted his head. "That depends. What exactly do you think I did?"
Endo exhaled once. "You made me a traitor. You used my people. You framed me for a noble's murder. And you took her."
His voice cracked on that last word.
He looked at Dia, not with rage.
With betrayal.
"Was it even a fight?" he asked her quietly. "Did he make you scream?"
Dia's lips trembled.
She opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
Leonhardt raised an eyebrow. "Careful, Endo. If you keep asking questions, you might get an answer."
Endo's fingers twitched near his sword. "You think I won't kill you?"
Leonhardt's tone never changed.
"I think you know it won't matter."
A long pause followed.
Then Dia said it.
"Father…"
Endo flinched.
She took one step forward, then another—chains dragging, cloak brushing the dirt.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "But… I can't stop."
Leonhardt smirked. Not cruel. Not kind.
Just certain.
And Endo reached for his sword.
