John’s wild eyes darted to the Patriarch’s forehead beside him.

  And the realization hit him harder than fear.

  Rajendra’s forehead was clean.

  No ash. No three ritual lines.

  The ritual... the ash of the Kala-Ra Tushka offering currently itching on John’s forehead... was merely a pathetic visual aid for ordinary humans like himself. Crutches for the blind. So their mortal eyes could peek into that horrific other dimension.

  But Rajendra? He saw it with the naked eye. He lived in two worlds. He was the bridge itself.

  Pat.

  A light tap landed on John’s left shoulder.

  The touch was soft, almost weightless. But the effect was devastating.

  John’s eyes widened. Rajendra’s palm wasn't just warm. It felt like morning sun touching frozen skin after a long blizzard. It wasn't burning fire heat, but the pure warmth of life—like a mother's embrace, the safety of home walls, the absolute certainty that tomorrow would come.

  The warmth was alive. It crawled in, penetrating thick uniform fabric, piercing his tactical vest. Like liquid golden honey, that energy flowed from John’s shoulder, down to his chest, enveloping his wildly racing heart, fighting the icy cold gripping his vital organs.

  Ch-ch... ch...

  His chattering teeth slowed. Then stopped completely.

  The cold in his lungs receded, replaced by relieving warm air. That warmth continued to flow to his spine, straightening his previously fear-hunched posture. Down to his legs, firming his thigh muscles, giving him a solid foothold on earth again.

  John felt his soul lifted. He was no longer drowning. He was pulled back to the surface by a strong hand.

  His identity returned.

  He wasn't frightened prey. He wasn't a farmer's son lost in a lion's den.

  He was John Foster. Young Sergeant. The Ghost of the Fog from Fort Rivermarsh.

  The trembling in his hands stopped completely. The long-barreled Bolt-Action rifle was now still, solid in his grip, becoming once again a lethal extension of his body. His jaw hardened. Breath regular.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  He could think again.

  Rajendra didn't release his hand from John’s shoulder. The old man still stared at the monster with his gentle smile, channeling courage through that touch, grounding John’s nearly drifting soul.

  "Do it, Young Man," Rajendra whispered.

  His voice was soft, yet to John’s ears, it sounded like an undeniable king's command. A divine mandate.

  John didn't hesitate for a second.

  He broke eye contact with Rajendra. He turned his body facing the darkness. He raised the long rifle to his shoulder with a smooth motion practiced thousands of times in foggy swamps.

  Cheek pressed against the cold stock. Comfortable. Familiar.

  Click. Crystal lens optics active.

  Through that lens, the world changed. John no longer saw confusing and terrifying black fog. He saw a target.

  He saw the core. Amidst the storm of twisting smoke and twig hands, John saw a small dark purple heart beating weakly yet maliciously. The weak point.

  John took a deep breath. Held it in his lungs.

  Heartbeat slowed. The world around him slowed. Only him, the rifle, and that purple dot.

  Between two heartbeats...

  Index finger pressed the trigger.

  THUMP!

  Not the sound of an ordinary gunpowder explosion. It was a deep, heavy THUMP echoing spiritually. Like the sound of a giant bronze temple bell struck inside a vacuum.

  John felt dense recoil on his shoulder.

  A bullet—not lead, but a blob of swirling liquid bronze light—shot through the temple courtyard darkness. Leaving a trail of thin golden smoke in its path.

  Zzzzt!

  The bullet struck right at that purple core. Surgical accuracy.

  SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECH!!!

  The scream shattered the glass of several flashlights of soldiers behind. A pure shriek of existential suffering. John saw flashes of light in the corner of his eye, heard the thud of his comrades' bodies falling to their knees covering their ears.

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  But John didn't cover his ears. His eyes remained glued to the lens, witnessing the result.

  The bronze light from his bullet now shone bright from within the shadow body. Burning it from the inside out, like holy fire devouring sin. Veins of light crawled all over the creature's fog body.

  The creature writhed blindly, whipping the air until the wind hissed wildly. Its fog robe exploded. Its twig hands clawed its own chest, trying to pull out the holy light eating it alive.

  But the bullet didn't explode. The bullet sucked.

  John saw the bronze light begin to spin, creating a dazzling mini vortex in the monster's chest.

  Vwooop...

  The shadow body was sucked in. Black fog pulled forcibly, elongated, distorted like melting rubber, twisted into a small coin-sized hole in the air.

  The scream cut off.

  Clink.

  Gone.

  Total silence. Absolute.

  John lowered his rifle, thin smoke curling from its barrel.

  One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

  Pop.

  At the point where the creature vanished, a small pop occurred. Golden sparks danced in empty air like divine fireflies.

  Pop! Pop! Fssst!

  And finally... cleansing.

  FWOOOOOOSSSSHHHH!

  A pillar of fire, clean, pure, and majestic gold, exploded vertically from the temple stone floor. The fire soared high, piercing the night sky, as if connecting the depths of the earth with heaven.

  John stared at the fire unblinkingly.

  The fire wasn't painful. The fire was warm. Brightly lit, illuminating the entire dark battle area with blinding yet soothing divine light.

  The golden light washed over John’s face wet with sweat and ash residue on his nose, erasing the remnants of terror in his eyes. He could feel extraordinary relief flooding his chest.

  He turned slightly back. Under the golden pillar light, he saw the faces of elite soldiers—his comrades—gaping in awe with open mouths, their helmets and weapons glistening beautifully.

  The fire burned majestically for a second—cleaning evil residue, burning residual fear—then evaporated upward, carrying the remnants of darkness, and vanished without a trace.

  Leaving John Foster standing tall, breath regular, and soul whole again.

  The post-fire pillar explosion silence lasted only three seconds.

  Then, the sound came.

  Initially just one slow clap. Clap... clap...

  Then followed by another clap. Then cheers. And in an instant, a roar of human voices exploded, destroying the remnants of that night's tension.

  John blinked, still half-conscious, lowering his rifle slowly.

  He saw everything.

  Hundreds of Black Keep and Fort Rivermarsh Knights—those who survived, those who bled, those who had just seen hell—now raised their weapons into the air. Faces previously pale from terror, now flushed red with victory euphoria.

  And their eyes... all eyes were on him.

  Not on Arka Sagara who had slaughtered hundreds of monsters alone. Not on Rajendra who sealed it.

  But on him. On the skinny sniper standing trembling beside the old man.

  John swallowed, confused. "Wait... I just pulled the trigger. Just once," he denied internally. "Arka did the heavy lifting. Lord Rajendra gave me strength."

  He wasn't the hero tonight. He was just the final executioner.

  However, for the soldiers whose lives were just saved from that soul-slicing scream, John was a savior god. They poured all that gratitude and victory onto his small shoulders.

  He saw Lenn Dyora.

  His commander, usually cold and stiff as an ice block, now smiled. Truly smiled wide until her white teeth showed. Lenn clapped high above her head, eyes glassy with pride.

  He saw Wang Leiyin.

  The Northern Serpent planted his greatsword into the ground, then clapped with powerful force, nodding appreciatively at John.

  And then, the praises began to sound clear in John’s ears, calling out amidst the applause.

  "THAT'S HIM! THAT WAS THE SHOT!" shouted a Black Keep knight pointing at John with his dented gauntlet. "Did you see that?! Right in the heart! That distance, pitch dark, and he didn't miss a single millimeter!"

  "SERGEANT FOSTER!!"

  A Fort Rivermarsh soldier—his platoon mate—jumped in joy. "THAT'S OUR SERGEANT! THAT'S THE GHOST OF THE FOG! DON'T UNDERESTIMATE FORT RIVERMARSH EYES!"

  "Crazy..." muttered another captain bandaging a wound on his arm, staring at John in awe. "I thought we were all gonna die when that monster screamed. But that kid... he silenced it. He silenced it forever!"

  Lenn Dyora stepped forward slightly, her voice loud overcoming the noise: "Sharp eyes, John! You do the uniform proud! You saved the lives of this battalion!"

  Even Wang Leiyin, with his heavy baritone voice, joined in: "Well done, Son! Your guts are bigger than your rifle! Black Keep owes you a life tonight!"

  "LONG LIVE JOHN FOSTER! LONG LIVE FORT RIVERMARSH!"

  "SERGEANT! SERGEANT! SERGEANT!"

  The name was chanted repeatedly.

  John stood frozen there. His face heated, blushing red to his ears. His heart swelled with mixed feelings—shame, pride, relief, and disbelief.

  He glanced at Rajendra beside him.

  The old man just chuckled softly, stepping back into the shadows, letting John enjoy the bath of glory light alone.

  "Just accept it, Son," Rajendra’s gaze seemed to say.

  Awkwardly, John finally raised his hand still holding the rifle. Waved stiffly.

  And the cheers exploded even more rapturously.

  Amidst the still echoing cheers, John felt that warm touch again on his shoulder.

  He turned. Rajendra Sagara looked at him. The old man's peaceful smile was still there, but this time there was a nod of sincere acknowledgment.

  "Good shot, Son," Rajendra’s voice was soft, yet sounded very clear in John’s ears, defeating the noise around. "It wasn't your rifle that killed it. But your calmness."

  Those old eyes sparkled with pride.

  "Your eyes see what others fear. You possess a rare talent, Sergeant Foster."

  John felt his throat choke. Praise from a living legend felt more valuable than any gold medal.

  "Thank you... Thank you, Sir," John whispered, voice trembling with emotion.

  "Come," Rajendra invited, gesturing toward the temple gate. "We need warm tea after this."

  They walked side by side. A legendary patriarch and a young sergeant with an ash-smudged nose.

  And as they stepped, the sight before them was truly extraordinary.

  The sea of armor parted.

  Without command, hundreds of fierce Black Keep knights and disciplined Fort Rivermarsh elite troops, simultaneously stepped one step aside. Left and right. Creating a wide aisle toward the temple door.

  They didn't just make way. They lowered their weapons—sword tips touching the ground, heads bowing slightly—a gesture of highest respect for a fellow warrior.

  John walked through that human aisle.

  He heard the clink of armor rubbing as they saluted. He smelled the sweat, blood, and iron of his comrades.

  His footsteps felt light, as if walking on clouds. His chest swelled with a feeling so big his ribs felt like bursting.

  It was Pride.

  Pure and hot pride.

  He looked at Rajendra’s back beside him.

  To House Sagara, he felt indebtedness and admiration. They were spiritual gatekeepers, teachers who gave him "eyes," and protectors who patted his shoulder when he nearly crumbled.

  He glanced at the line of pitch-black clad knights.

  To Black Keep, he felt deep respect. They were steel walls, living shields willing to be torn to hold back enemy waves so a small person like him could aim safely.

  He looked at the blue-silver uniforms of his comrades.

  To Fort Rivermarsh, his home. He was proud to be part of this unit. Proud that "The Ghost of the Fog" was no longer just a swamp nickname, but a name shouted with respect on the battlefield of gods.

  And deep in his heart, he remembered the kingdom symbol.

  To Ironseat. Though he didn't see his king here, he knew one thing: tonight, he had defended his kingdom's banner perfectly. He had done his duty.

  John Foster held his head high. He tightened his grip on his rifle strap.

  Tonight, he wasn't a farmer's son. He was a hero walking among legends.