Later that evening, as Vincent was resting within his newly-erected tent, Blake rushed inside, face grim, urging Vincent to follow him. Scrambling to put on his armour, Vincent strapped his sheath to his waist, dreading that the enemy had sprung an attack.

Instead of the chaos and bedlam that he expected, the temporary camp had been completely silent, as if someone had muted all the sounds within.

Lined up along the path that the camp had been established along, soldiers had paused whatever they had been doing, helmets off and heads bowed as a procession made its way along the path.

Illuminated by the firelight of the various torches and campfires within the camp, a singular carriage, surrounded by 4 solemn men, slowly rolled its way down the path. Laid on the open carriage, three corpses, still clad in the armour they had died in, rested peacefully, eyes closed in death.

As Vincent took in the atmosphere of silence hanging around the camp, he bowed his head in solidarity with the rest of his men, feeling the sense of guilt over having sent these men to their deaths reemerge, rising from the depths of his mind where he had buried it with alcohol.

When the carriage finished its journey, vanishing into a white tent set up at the back of the camp, the heavy stillness lifted, with every man reverting to what they had been doing before, some polishing their gear, some cooking stew for the rest and some even playing cards, much to Vincent's surprise.

Realising the abrupt grieving session had ended, Vincent felt the urge to return to his tent, to pick up that bottle and re-bury his guilt. Looking at Blake with a pointed gaze, eyes loaded with a silent question, Why? Why show me this?

Maintaining his silence, Blake simply gestured with his gauntleted hand, returning Vincent's question with a silent question of his own, Why don't you come and find out?

After confirming that Vincents had followed him, Blake broke out into a fast trot, weaving his way through the crowd of soldiers like a fish in the sea. Having a slightly harder time cutting through the mass of bodies, Vincent pushed his spiritforce into his legs and shoulders, using his enhanced strength to bulldoze his way through the crowd.

Catching up to Blake after expending almost a quarter of his spiritforce, Vincent realised their destination. The Knight Commander had led Vincent to the morgue tent, the snow white tent that the carriage containing the bodies of the dead cavalrymen had disappeared into, where the bodies of dead soldiers were brought to confirm their deaths and carry out the procedures to declare them dead before they were tidied up and cremated.

Stepping into the tent, Vincent felt the atmosphere around him turn dark and grim as the tent flap closed behind him, extinguishing any budding curiosity he might have had over the Knight Commander's intentions.

Behind Vincent, Blake likewise entered the tent, giving a silent nod to the battlefield medic, who in turn stepped up to the wooden tables set in the middle of the tent, and with a strong pull, yanked the coverings off of the irregular shapes in the centre of the table.

Vincent, who barely had time to register the medic's actions, visibly blanched as he laid eyes upon the contents on the table.

Stripped of their armour, which Vincent had just then realised were stacked up at the side of the table, the four corpses of the dead cavalrymen rested on the table.

Feeling vomit surge up his throat, Vincent audibly gulped, wanting to turn away from the corpses but eyes somehow transfixed on the grisly sight.

Caked with dried blood, the bodies of the dead men were filled with puncture wounds, weeping fresh blood from the wounds reopened when the medic had extracted the projectiles, staining the originally brown table a crimson red.

No…

The other occupants of the tent silently observed Vincent as he inched ever so slightly closer, inch by inch, towards the centre of the room. Hands trembling, he observed the faces of the men.

The dead men.

The men he had sent to die.

The men he killed.

Unable to tear his eyes away, Vincent watched in horror as the corpses he presumed dead moved, blood seeping from their wounds as their hollow eyes stared fixedly at Vincent.

You killed us.... You sent us to die… You otherworldly scum… YOU KILLED US!

“NO!”

Drawing his blade, Vincent pushed all his spiritforce into his arms, raising the blade high.

With a mighty roar, Vincent struck down with strength that seemed like it would sever the heavens and the earth, splitting seas and toppling mountains, cleaving his blade with every fiber of his being, blade swooping toward the neck of the first rising corpse.

Shick!

“ArrGHHHHH-”

Screaming in pain, Vincent stared in shock at the dusky golden blade piercing through his chest. Moments before his strike had connected, the sharp spearhead had stabbed into his back, spoiling his aim, causing him to miss his mark, even as it tore deeper, cutting bones, severing tendons and piercing organs as the tip of the blade burst out of his chest with a misty spray of blood, accompanied with a glob of bloody spittle that dribbled down his chin.

Turning his head in disbelief, Vincent’s eyes tracked the shaft of the spear, following it back to its origin. Standing just slightly more than a metre away from him, Blake stared back at Vincent with a steely gaze, the sheer amount of pressure emitting off his body reminding Vincent why Gold-rank fighters were addressed by the title of Venerable, as well as painfully revealing how much Blake had held back in their spars.

“You killed them…”

Hearing the same words come out from Blakes mouth, the subordinate that Vincent had felt was the most trustworthy, Vincent lost his mind. Kicking and screaming, he trashed about while impaled on the top of the spear, using the last of his strength to grip his sword.

If… only I had the strength…

Staring in Blakes abyssal black eyes, Vincent watched as the darkness of the pupils stained the white surrounding it, turning them as dark as the hair on the head they resided in. Turning to the medic, Vincent saw that his eyes had turned glassy black as well, reflecting Vincent's terrified expression back to him as the medic jerkily raised his hand, grasping a scalpel.

Abruptly, Vincent's body jerked upwards, sliding further down the spear shaft. Roaring a battle cry, Blake raised the spear, holding it overhead with his elbow bent. Easily supporting Vincent's weight, he set one foot before the other, sending even more spiritforce into his spear.

Eyes widening as he realised what Blake was doing, Vincent felt his life flash before his eyes, feeling fear overtake him.

“No… I don't wanna die…, I’m sorry… I didn't mean to kill anyone! I’m… I’m just a worthless bratty kid with some memories of my past life. I don't wanna die…”

Whimpering pathetically, Vincent confessed all his inner feelings, having been weighed down by them ever since he had heard of the deaths of the men, shouting them out as he was hoisted well off the ground.

“HI-YARGH”

Arm and shoulder muscles bulging, veins emerging from beneath the skin, Blake hurled his spear, throwing the considerable weight of Vincent and his spear clean through the air, tearing through the fabric of the tent.

“NOOooo…”

With great accuracy, the spear arced in the air, drawing a beautiful golden rainbow in the sky.

Thunk

Slamming into the ground in the centre of the camp, Vincent felt the spear bury itself deeper into his chest, at least half of the shaft stained blood-red by his blood. Lying on the ground, Vincent tried to muster up the strength to lift himself out of the dirt, failing miserably.

Staring at the cold night sky above him, crescent moon gleaming coldly down on him, as if it was relishing in his suffering. Then, his world went red, tinting everything he saw a blood-red colour as blood dripped into his eyes, causing them to sting.

Heh…, why does this seem… so familiar…

As his eyelids slowly closed, Vincent sensed the presence of figures in his peripheral vision.

Forcing his eyes open through sheer force of will, Vincent opened his mouth, managing to release a soft cry for help, before his blood ran stale. The soldier surrounding him stared coldly down at him, eyes a glassy black as they stood unmoving.

“You killed them…”

“You killed… them”

Breaking the silence, the figures began shambling forwards, closing in on him as they raised their weapons.

Seeing the remaining Knights among the aggressors, silver blade auras standing out like lighthouses in the dark, as well as the distant figure of Blake, stepping out of the morgue tent, Vincent closed his eyes, waiting for his end.

As the first soldier reached Vincent's side, axe raised, Vincent felt his doom approach.

With a swing, the axe descended, reminiscent of the ceremonial blade during Vincent's succession ceremony, cleaving down, except this time, Vincent would die.

Shwick!

With a clean strike, a flower of blood blooms, spreading all over th-

“NO!”