The Last Step-Chapter 74: Swarm Tyrant’s Arrival

Lucas's Perspective:

I finally reached the west.

Yeah, great. storm, blood, and a pile of grotesques lining up like it's some deadbody cosplay. Oh, and there he was—Azrael. Of course, cold as ever, dead eyes locked onto a single figure at the center of the chaos.

A masked man. Was he the one somehow keeping the grotesques from entering the town?

"Yo—" I didn't even get to finish my sentence.

Azrael vanished from my peripheral.

A blink later, he was already there, blitzing in with those twin daggers like a goddamn ghost. No warning. No hesitation. Just pure lethal motion. But the masked man?

He turned.

No panic, no magic. Just a wrist flick—and he caught the blade's arc with the edge of a broken plank, then spun and redirected the second dagger using nothing but a handful of sand.

Sand. Bro.

「 You might wanna focus, hero boy. Your side's starting to stink of grotesques. 」

Oh right.

I raised my palm, the air fracturing into shimmering mirrors of hard light. One pulse, one shot—ping. A beam fired, bounced through the mirrors like a pinball of divine death, burning through grotesques left and right.

I gotta use minimal mana. Gotta optimize.

「 Tactical ricochet: Efficient and Fast. Almost like you planned it. 」

I smirked. "Almost."

Behind me, Azrael's daggers danced like whispers. He slashed low, flipped into a kick, then darted back in from the side, blades curving like silver crescents. Each movement was calculated, flawless.

But the masked guy? Man fought like the ground itself was part of him. He spun dirt into dust clouds, kicked a dislodged crate for cover, and somehow—somehow—turned a broken bottle into a deflection tool mid-air. No spells. Just skill.

「 He's using different martial styles... minor acrobatics... and trash. That's finesse. 」

"Who the hell fights like that with trash?"

「 We've seen it before. Two years ago. 」

I stopped mid-aim. "...You mean him?"

「 The original. His was better...final. 」

I didn't answer. My hands were glowing, but my blood was ice. There was only one guy who fought like the world had insulted him personally.

And this guy... he wasn't him. But he was trying.

The fight kept going. No injuries. Just momentum and skill and sheer lunacy. Azrael's movements—predictive. He fought like he already knew what would happen. And the masked man? He adapted, frame by frame, move by move.

A genius versus another genius. Two monsters fighting on the edge of perfection.

No Victory.

「 You seeing this, Lucas? Even if they're flawless... his was still more. 」

"...Yeah."

The light around my fingers pulsed hotter.

The west was crawling.

Grotesques were pouring through the forest line like a plague with wings, screeching and scraping through the mud. My first beam missed—bounced wrong off the mirror.

Second one hit a tree. Clean shot... if my target had bark.

Third grazed one grotesque's shoulder. Burned it, sure, but not enough.

I drew in a breath and flicked my fingers. A horizontal wave of water magic surged from my side, arcing behind me in a semi-transparent curtain. It hummed as my light magic filled it from within—glowing veins of pure white pulsing inside the blue wall like living lightning.

A grotesque flapped too close.

「 Light travels differently in water, genius. Refraction. Look it up sometime. 」

"...Right." I exhaled through clenched teeth. "Physics. Forgot you cared."

「 I don't. But your aim sucks. Calculating new trajectory. 」

The moment its wing grazed the veil, a single pulse of light zipped through the water and pierced straight through its chest. Clean. Dead. Gone.

"Now we're cooking."

「 Adjusting angle of incidence... optimizing bounce. Congratulations, you've got a lethal converging sniper. 」

My boots slid across the wet ground as I pivoted, firing another condensed beam into a mirror. It hit one grotesque in the chest, ricocheted through the water, and snapped through three more in a blink. Each one dropped with a hiss and a hole in their body.

Behind me—Azrael and the masked man fought through death.

Azrael's daggers came down like a guillotine.

The masked man leaned, barely, and raised a rock. Blade skimmed past. Missed.

He spun low, kicked sand up into Azrael's eyes.

Azrael turned his head mid-motion, unreadable, letting the sand pass like air.

Their limbs were a blur. A dagger whistled past the masked man's throat—he bent backward, caught himself on one palm, and spun a wild haymaker with his other. Azrael slid under it, eyes cold, and tried to gut him.

Blocked with a cracked board.

So far in their fight, both managed to defend each other's strikes flawlessly. Almost as if they were of the same being; just fighting each other... was this a concidence they were so alike?

Then the masked man broke form. Turned, fast—ran.

Azrael didn't even blink. He was already after him, silent as death, daggers gleaming in the stormlight.

And me?

I had a job.

I raised my hand, more light surging through my barrier, beams slicing through grotesques trying to breach the town. Their shrieks echoed through the wet air, mixing with the roar of the storm now crashing down around us. Wind howled. Trees bent. Lightning stabbed the sky.

The storm was here now. Not just near.

Everything was soaked in black and blue. Thunder cracking so loud it rattled my ribs.

I gritted my teeth and pushed forward, keeping my barrier between them and the town, every step burning mana—but I couldn't let up. Not with people behind me.

I just hoped the others were okay.

Then—

My beam hit something that didn't fall.

I blinked.

What stood there wasn't a grotesque.

It was... thicker. Taller. Breathing heavier. Black chitin armor strapped across its limbs, chest, back, and neck like it had learned. Like it had adapted.

Its eyes were the same though.

Hollow. Hungry.

And now... smarter.

"...Oh, hell no."

My fingers lit up again.

「 Good news. You're going to need a lot more mirrors. 」

------------------------------------

From all sides, they came.

The evolved grotesques, no longer mindless beasts, flooded in with terrifying order. Their bodies were larger, stronger—black armored plates shielding their vital spots, their movements sharper, more disciplined.

It was clear now.

Something... or someone... was controlling them.

South Rinascita

"Sylvia!" Alina shouted over the chaos, slashing through one grotesque—but another leapt straight past her and tackled a Requiem mage to the ground.

"I think we'll have to head back to the rear!" Sylvia yelled, panting, almost tripping as she saved another member with a flash of her celestial magic. "There's too many!"

Alina turned—and froze.

One of her comrades, someone she'd fought beside for years, was screaming... before being dragged into a pile of grotesques and torn apart. Her hands trembled. Her eyes darkened with helpless rage.

"Everyone!" Alina shouted. "Retreat to the rear of Rinascita! Now!"

But not all made it. Some were already too far ahead. Screams echoed behind her—men and women begging for help that would never come.

She turned back, ready to run to them—but Sylvia grabbed her arm.

"Alina—please!"

Her jaw clenched. She didn't want to. But she turned. Protected those she could. And they ran.

Moments later, silence fell on the southern battlefield.

The Swarm Tyrant stepped through the storm.

Towering, vile, and slow, it marched over the remains. One wounded man tried to crawl away, whispering prayers.

Crunch.

The Tyrant's foot crushed his skull as if stepping on a pebble.

And then it kept marching—straight toward Rinascita.

----- West and East -----

The situation wasn't any better there.

Xander had already pulled his guild members back, sweat dripping down his face, his sword arm heavy. His attacks weren't working. The grotesques just didn't die easily anymore. Their armor deflected steel, and they brushed off magic like it was dust.

But Navina...

She was still at the front.

The thunder cracked loud above her, and her hands were shaking—not from the cold, but from something deeper.

The rain struck her face like needles. Her body felt numb.

Her thoughts were somewhere else—somewhere long ago.

A stormy forest. A small, frail girl slowly walking, coughing, barely breathing. Cold, always cold. She couldn't breathe back then either.

She couldn't breathe now.

Navina collapsed to her knees, gasping. Her vision swam. Her guild screamed around her. Fire, blood, mud—everything blended together.

"Miss, Navina!!" someone shouted, rushing toward her.

One of her elite members caught her before she could hit the ground.

But the Crimson Eclipse was crumbling. Dozens dead. Knights crushed. Mages shredded. The evolved grotesques tore through their formation without pause.

Navina's eyes were wide, her lips trembling. She tried to speak. Failed.

Then again.

"I... I'm... s-sor..." she tried, choking on her breath, "...s-sorry..."

And then she closed her eyes.

----- Lucas -----

Slowly, even Lucas had to fall back.

He moved between his conjured mirrors, light bending and slicing through grotesques with precision—but they just kept coming. The evolved ones didn't fall so easily. They were coordinating his mirrors and moving individually to waste more of his mana.

「 Warning. Mana levels critically low. Divine protections on cooldown. You're not immune to poison anymore, genius. Unless you wanna die frothing, I suggest moving. 」

"Tch... Yeah, yeah, I got it," Lucas muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the battlefield. His breathing was ragged, body worn.

He clenched his fists as another grotesque lunged. He barely dodged, light flashing from a mirror to strike it down.

Retreat. It wasn't the word he wanted to accept—but he wasn't stupid.

He turned and ran, covering the path behind him with a cascading wall of water and light.

I won't give up, he thought, gaze hardening as he looked back at the storm-covered battlefield

----- North -----

North of Rinascita, the sky roared above as Levi and Celia stood before a new threat—armored grotesques, larger, heavier, and far more dangerous than anything they'd faced before.

Levi struck first, his blade cutting with Godspeed, vanishing and reappearing in flashes of silver. But when his sword hit the creature's neck, the clang of steel against armor echoed louder than thunder. His hand trembled. The blade hadn't pierced.

"...What...?" Levi muttered, stunned.

He slashed again—shoulders, joints, chest—but each strike met dense plating. The back was even thicker. He didn't risk it.

Backing away, he snapped his fingers and shadows rose around the grotesques, aiming to blind and bind. But they didn't falter. One turned, eyes glowing through the black fog, and lunged—right through his spell.

Its claw was inches from Levi's face when chains shot out and crushed its jaw sideways.

"Fall back if you're too weak," Celia said, her voice sharp and cold.

Levi didn't respond. He couldn't.

Celia stormed ahead, her chains whipping out and wrapping around the grotesques. She tried slicing—but something was off. The usual snap and tear didn't come. Her chains were catching, but not cutting cleanly.

She shifted tactics, eyes sharp. Instead of going for vitals, she focused on unarmored gaps. A few went down—but then twitched, moved, started regenerating.

"Tch..." she clicked her tongue, planting her hand into the ground. A cursed aura spread beneath them, dense and violent, halting the grotesques mid-charge.

Levi's focus returned. He moved beside her, breath steadying.

"They weren't here before. These things... they're too coordinated."

"Something changed. Someone made them this way," Celia replied, her chains rattling.

Her spell held for now, keeping the grotesques from swarming, but it wouldn't last.

Then—screams behind them. Levi turned.

His guild. They were under attack.

"We have to return," he said quickly. "This is too much."

"I'm not leaving. I'm fighting until I kill each one of them," Celia snapped back, voice breaking.

Levi reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"I want to fight and win too," he said quietly. "But this isn't the time to get lost in emotions. We regroup. We find a weakness. Or none of us make it out."

Celia's jaw clenched. She looked at the grotesques with burning fury, then turned her head away, sighing.

"...Only for now."

Levi didn't let go. As Celia vaulted upward with her chains, he vanished in a flash of lightning and shadow.

They arrived just in time to witness the horror.

Zain, barely standing, slashed with desperation against grotesques crawling from all sides. It looked like the end.

Three Celestial Apex members were cornered, screaming. Then—ice burst around them, freezing the grotesques solid. Sophia appeared behind them, casting a healing circle over the injured.

"Get up—we're leaving, now!" she yelled, dragging one to their feet.

Zain's voice boomed across the chaos. "Fall back! Everyone, now!"

Levi stood there, frozen, watching his people collapse and cry and bleed.

Even with him here... it was useless.

Just like last time...

Beside him, Celia's expression darkened, angry, neutral.

And together, they all retreated to the rear... where the rest of the guilds gathered, waiting, shaken, for what came next.

------------------------------------

The rear defenses of Rinascita were thin—too thin. A single semicircle of exhausted fighters now stood between the grotesque horde and the heart of the town. The storm still raged above, casting a dark veil over the broken banners and bloodied ground. All of the guilds had fallen back, forming loose lines. Some collapsed against the walls. Others clutched their weapons with trembling hands, eyes wide and hollow.

Nothing was working.

Swords had dulled. Magic fizzled. Hope bled out like the wounded at their feet.

Levi walked through the mess, passing Requiem, Crimson Eclipse, and scattered remnants of once-proud squads. His eyes scanned the faces—burnt, bloodied, barely breathing. When he reached Navina, he stopped briefly.

She was sitting against the stone, her knees pulled close to her chest, hair soaked and tangled from the storm. Her gaze was blank, fixed on the mud. She was barely conscious, lips parted, breathing shallow. Her sword lay beside her, untouched.

He didn't say anything. She looked... far away.

He turned and continued on, approaching Alina, Xander, and Sylvia as they regrouped near a scorched wagon turned barricade.

Alina's armor was cracked and her blade chipped, but she stood tall.

Sylvia sat on the ground, arms wrapped around her legs, blood on her robes—not her own.

Xander leaned back lazily against the barricade, arms crossed, eyes staring up into the rain. Even he looked tired.

Levi exhaled sharply. "What the hell happened out there?"

Alina shook her head, wiping blood from her cheek. "They came out of nowhere. We thought we were pushing them back... but those armored ones, they—"

"They were waiting," Sylvia muttered, eyes unfocused. "They let the weaker grotesques die first. They hid behind them."

"We walked into it." Levi clenched his jaw. "We didn't even know we were being baited."

Xander laughed weakly. "First time I've seen monsters use tactics. Even when I got serious, my sword barely scrapped one. Guess I'm retiring."

Alina gave him a sharp look. "This isn't the time."

Levi leaned closer. "They're pushing through fast. Once they reach the inner-circle..."

Sylvia swallowed. "We'll have to fight again. There's no one else."

No one replied for a moment. The silence hit harder than the thunder above.

Then, footsteps approached.

Celia walked into the circle, her chains rattling quietly behind her. Her expression was cold—red eyes burning softly beneath soaked snowy white hair.

At the opposite end, Lucas arrived, his coat torn and water dripping from his bangs. His light green eyes took note of everyone around him.

For a moment, their gazes met across the dying light of the rear defense.

Celia's crimson glare. Lucas's serene green.

They didn't speak. Just watched each other. Then looked away.

More footsteps.

Lord Avelric approached, a nobleman's cloak dragging through the mud, his face grave. He looked around the circle—at the wounded, the dying, the broken sword saints.

"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his head slightly. "You weren't meant to bear the full weight. I didn't know the grotesques had... evolved that much and were hiding."

"It's not your fault," Levi replied firmly, shaking his head. "None of us saw it coming. They hid them well. We thought the worst was over."

"They planned this," Lucas added quietly. "They let us waste our energy on the weak ones."

Avelric's expression darkened. He turned slightly, noticing Navina's state. Her eyes were shut now, barely moving.

"She doesn't look well," he said grimly. "None of you do. If they reach us here... what then?"

Silence again. Heavy. Suffocating.

No one had an answer.

And the storm howled louder, as if laughing at their hesitation.

Avelric's voice was low, almost drowned out by the wind. "For now... we've managed to erect a temporary barrier around the town using the remaining town mages. But it won't last. It's thin... unstable. There's only one way in now. One entrance. We'll have to defend it. Together."

The sword saints didn't answer. Some were too tired to raise their heads. Others stared off into the distance—blank eyes, hollowed breath. No one had a plan. Not even Avelric, whose shoulders slumped like a cracked statue.

Then, a voice cut through the air like steel.

"We'll have to start teleporting civilians out," Lucas said.

Everyone looked at him. His green eyes locked onto Avelric's. Cold.

"You should've done it earlier before the war began."

Avelric said nothing. Lucas stepped forward.

"If we fight while they're still here, we'll be shielding bodies. Screams. Blood everywhere. The moment we fall, they die. That's unacceptable."

"A pathetic waste of time," Celia's voice snapped across the space.

She stood still, red eyes locked onto Lucas, her chains silent at her side.

"If we waste time moving ants, we'll lose the chance to strike them when they're still gathered. I can kill them. We can end this. Right now."

"And what if you don't?" Lucas asked, his tone sharper than before. "What if we fail? You're willing to gamble hundreds of lives for your pride?"

"They're strangers," Celia replied. "I don't care if they live or die. They mean nothing to me."

Lucas was caught offguard... realizing what she was like.

Lucas's eyes narrowed. "You really are heartless."

"Say that like it's new," she said with a tilt of her head. "I was called that long before today."

"I thought you were different," he said, voice flat. "But I understand now. Why they call you a monster. It's not just your magic or your appearance—it's what's inside."

Celia smiled faintly. Not hurt. Not offended.

"I am a monster. A heartless killer. That's what they all said, didn't they? I'm just proving them right."

She smiled deeper.

"You're being delusional—risking everyone's lives because you want blood."

"I'll risk whoever I want," Celia said, her voice low and steady, "if it kills my enemies."

Lucas's brows tightened. "You think this is some kind of game? These people aren't numbers! There are families. Children."

"They're too weak to defend themselves," she said flatly. "And I couldn't careless."

"You don't care for anyone, do you? You're really willing to let everyone die just to prove you're not weak?" Lucas stepped closer, his voice now stripped of patience.

Celia didn't answer at first. The silence between them dragged sharp like a blade.

Then, without a blink, she said,

"I don't have to answer a nobody like you."

Lucas chuckled—cold, slow, and razor-thin.

"Nobody, huh? Seems like lowly curses have been dreaming big these days. Begging to die early."

"Hm~ Well now, that's it, huh? At that level, you won't even be a snack for my lowly curses." Celia tilted her head, her lips twitching into a twisted smile.

"Clown boy."

Lucas's smile dropped.

"Oh? Then let's see how your little show ends when the chains are ripped apart."

"Gladly," Celia said, her eyes glowing, red and mad. "I'll bury your mirrors with your broken bones."

Lucas raised a hand, mirrors forming around him—glimmering shards spiraling like predators.

Each one shone with a pulse of light magic and refracted stormlight, the storm howling louder behind them as if the world knew what was coming.

Celia's chains slithered out, wrapped in cursed energy that hissed and cracked against the rain. Her aura darkened, the shadows curling around her feet like a dying scream.

They stood, locked in each other's gaze.

One, a heartless curse.

The other, a heaven's gift.

Then, both at once, their voices overlapped—quiet, final.

"Then die."

As Celia's chains slithered through the air and Lucas's mirrors shimmered with killing intent, the battlefield between them burned with unspoken rage.

Just before they clashed—Levi stepped in, hand stretched, not to fight but to stop her.

"Celia," he said, quiet but firm.

She didn't even look at him. "Don't get in my way, Levi."

But Levi didn't move. His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear.

"The more you fight the people by your side... the further you'll be from saving Kaiser."

Celia froze.

For a moment, her expression twisted—conflict tearing through her red eyes. Then slowly... the chains fell, clattering against the stone with a hiss.

Across from her, Lucas narrowed his eyes.

He noticed.

His mirrors—still swirling, still bright—flickered once... then vanished into the wind.

Avelric exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders.

And beside him, barely standing on trembling legs, was Navina.

She limped forward, bruised and breathless, but still standing. "L-Lucas..."

He turned to her instantly. "Navina?"

"I-It's not the t-time... to fight... Don't... g-get distracted."

Lucas's brows knit with worry. "You're hurt."

"N-Nothing serious," she whispered. "I... I can still fight..."

But her knees buckled. She wavered, falling forward—and Lucas caught her before she hit the ground. His arms tightened around her, steadying her gently.

He glanced down. Her lips were pale, her skin cold, and her eyes unfocused.

Then—System in his mind:

「 Based on her symptoms—shortness of breath, tremors, cold sweating—she may have a phobia of thunderstorms. Diagnosis: PTSD trigger. 」

Lucas's throat tightened.

The storm.

He left her in it.

He looked down at her, guilt heavy in his chest. "Navina... I'm sorry."

She didn't answer—just clutched his coat tighter, as if trying to breathe through the fear.

On the other side, Celia's fingers trembled at her side. Her eyes were dull now, no longer blood-hungry but deeply haunted. She whispered under her breath, voice like a fragile thread:

"...Kaiser..."

That name grounded her.

Brought her back.

Stopped the obsession from devouring what was left of her sanity.

Everyone was quiet again.

Hurt. Broken. Breathing.

But the peace didn't last.

From the main gate....

A sound.

A roar.

Then a crack—The barrier shattered like glass. And from the wreckage, it emerged.

The Swarm Tyrant.

It was taller, with a twisted insectoid frame—black carapace gleaming like wet stone. Its legs were jagged like spears, each step carving into the earth. Its body was fused with armor, bone, and rotting flesh. Wings buzzed on its back, twitching with unnatural rhythm, and its many eyes glowed a sickly violet, each one staring in a different direction like it could see the past, present, and future all at once.

Its mouth opened—not to roar, but to hiss a language older than nightmares.

And grotesques—evolved ones—followed behind it in a stampede.

This was their true test.

To see if Rinascita would exist.

To see if any of them would live—

To see another day.