A final turn of the corner and there they found it.

  After a week of relentless combat, sleepless nights where nightmares bled into waking horrors, and blood flooded up to the ears. They suffered an arduous trek through territories unknown, rushed by endless battles of unrecognizable allegiances, foot after foot, breath after breath, day after merciless day, until they finally arrived.

  It had been a disorienting week—a spontaneous convergence of every improbable coincidence culminating in a single miraculous opportunity. Somehow, against all odds, this arduous war of thirty long years would conclude in all but a single climactic week.

  Now, at the end of that week, they found themselves at the final door. Hiding behind that door was the final obstacle to end this eternal war.

  The fight to end all fights.

  They were the Saviors—a name once mocked for its arrogance, now spoken with reverence. Five of humanity's greatest warriors each found themselves fully armed and unharmed before those final mighty doors.

  At the rear of the group, Ken Ream—The Preeminent Sage—reclaimed his breath, resting weathered hands upon equally weary knees. He was by far the eldest member of the troupe at the ancient age of ninety-six.

  Once a child prodigy, he had graduated from Ersatz University at the impossible age of eight—the youngest wizard in its long and storied history. In the decades that followed, he reshaped the academic world, publishing treatises that revolutionized humanity's understanding of magic and aether alike.

  He was a legend, invited to the Fifth Centennial Tournament at just twelve years old, and progressed all the way to the third round. His raw magical strength was so vast it went unmatched by even the mokoi.

  And yet, even legends bend to time. His only true weakness now was the stamina of a man whose body had begun to betray the strength of his spirit—a stamina sorely tested by the endless stairwells and winding corridors of this alien castle.

  Supporting Ken at his side stood Forgo Miff—The Ballista. A compact, steel-nerved woman who bore a crossbow large enough to be mistaken for siegecraft. Her bolts could fell even the mightiest of opponents, and her aim was always true. Among all living marksmen, only Schlemiel the Savage Archer could outshoot her—but where Schlemiel was an uncultured peasant with brute instinct, Forgo had been rigorously trained in both the art of sword and strategy.

  Her noble skills were far-reaching, and her abilities as a ranger were limitless. Together, she and Ken formed the perfect rearguard. Ken carried with him, single-handedly, the most powerful offensive capabilities humanity could muster on par with that of siege weapons, while Forgo could pinpoint and neutralize high-value threats with surgical precision, all while shielding the fragile frame of the aging sage.

  In front of the rearguard standing as a mobile wall, stood Jocund—encased head to toe in a personal fortress of steel. His tower shield was thicker than a man's and heavier to boot. Dubbed Jocund, The Wall, he was an insurmountable force. Throughout all the eleven years he had spent with the Saviors, not once had a single attack managed to make its way past his impenetrable defences.

  At the very front of the group stood the final two.

  The first of which was none other than Iatric Eminence, sole princess of Bemean. The royal bloodline had been blessed by the devadoots, who had granted the Eminence name with the very same divine powers that they possessed. Iatric herself was an unparalleled prodigy by birth; her devadootian blood had awakened with a never-before-seen potency, gifting her superhuman healing capabilities. Her powers, irreplicable by mortal magic, were what allowed the Saviors to escape every battle thus far unscathed.

  This noble woman, demigod by birth, hero by occupation, gleaming bastion of humanity: crumpled with defeat.

  Tears welled at the corners of her eyes as she clutched the arm of her commander with trembling hands, desperation squeezing through her death grip. "You don't have to do this." she pleaded. "We've made it this far without using it. We can finish this without using it." She tried to retain a modicum of her Noblesse Oblige, but the sorrowful begging bled through her quivering voice.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The rest of the team was silent, melancholy choking their hearts, but they all knew as well as she what needed to be done.

  Their leader remained unwavering—the leader of the Saviors: a man who was once but a commoner. What was once just a young boy known by little more than his own family wound up becoming the legend who forged the most formidable band of fighters history had ever seen.

  He single-handedly shifted the tide of the world's greatest conflict. He was part of the first group of humans to ever land on the Mokoi Badlands and pushed his way through, across the entire continent in one week. He started with nothing but the clothes on his back and a rusted sword chipped at the edges, unbalanced for proper combat; now, he wore only the firmest armour and carried only the sharpest sword. He was humanity's greatest warrior; he was The Savior, The Mokoi Slayer, The Blessing of the Battlefield, The Hero of New Heirisson Conquest: he was Doyen.

  Doyen sheathed his sword and turned to face his team with a resolved look. In silent acknowledgment, each member returned his look with a mix of remorse and steadfast commitment. Then he fixed his gaze on Iatric, locking eyes with her.

  Doyen, for presumably the last time in his life, took in her face. The beautiful depth of her hazel eyes, her short rotund nose that pointed ever so slightly to the left, her full soft cheeks always flushed with a warm red, her silken cascade of auburn hair that shined brighter than starlight.

  In that moment he felt an almost irresistible urge to agree with her, to throw away his responsibility, to tell his team that they had done enough. He wanted to tell them that they could wait for the Pangean Entente to catch up with their group. He wanted to run away and form a family with Iatric and spend his long, quiet days with this beautiful royal, whom he had no right as a lowly commoner to be with. They'd have two children, a boy and a girl, and together they'd all be content.

  But Doyen was a leader—and above all, a hero. He had to do what heroes do. With a hardened heart, he offered Iatric the bravest smile he could muster. Doyen projected his voice with a put-upon confidence, one so great that he hoped those on the other side of the door could hear, too.

  "Today, the Mokoi Khan will die. The stars had aligned, and a path opened before us; across our entire journey through this accursed continent, everything went perfectly smoothly; all obstacles shifted from our way. Fate itself wanted us here before these doors. For years, we have trained. For years we have fought and dreamt and prepared. It was this moment that brought us together. It was this moment that we had planned for since the day we met. It was this moment for which I named us the Saviors."

  His heart ached, yet he masked the pain behind a stoic mask. Doyen nodded firmly to Iatric. At first, she hesitated, rooted to the spot in silent defiance. It took Ken placing a gentle hand on her shoulder to finally give her the courage to move forth.

  From a small pouch at her hip, Iatric drew out a dark cloth wrapped around a long, thin object. The object itself seemed larger than the pouch it came from, yet somehow, the action of removing it appeared completely natural.

  Iatric held the object gingerly, still wrapped in its unassuming cloth, both hands trembling ever so slightly. She, too, like the rest of them, was a hardened warrior—trained to silence her emotions, to act decisively in the name of humanity. And yet, at this moment, she had to summon every ounce of will just to hold back her tears.

  She was too lost in her grief to notice that the same struggle lived behind every other pair of eyes in the room.

  Doyen stepped forward and placed his hands gently over hers, stilling the tremor in her grip. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and kissed her. The two's lips locked, and without a word, they shared each other's love, sorrow, desires. That imaginary family, that impossible future, they lived it all in that single kiss.

  Eyes closed, lips still touching, Doyen reached down and began to unwind the cloth. Bit by bit, the subdued red of the dagger was revealed beneath the folds.

  The two finally separated, and Doyen looked back at Iatric, not as a leader but as a lover. "I love you with all my heart. But this must be done."

  Iatric, her throat too tight to form words, simply gave a solemn nod. And with that, Doyen took the dagger from her trembling hands.

  The dagger itself didn't appear as an effective weapon by any means; its rounded edges made it incapable of cutting, and its blunt tip meant that its utility as a thrusting weapon was also non-existent. At a glance, it was hard to tell if the weapon was even coloured red or if it was simply rusted from age. The only noteworthy matter of the dagger was its pommel, which was where a large glass container resided.

  It hardly looked like a weapon at all. Its edges were smooth, incapable of slicing, and the tip was too dull to pierce. At a glance, it was impossible to tell whether the blade had been forged in red metal or if centuries of rust had painted it so. The only remarkable feature was its pommel cradled at the hilt—a glass vessel, large and oddly pristine.

  Doyen stepped back from the group, gripping the hilt with his left hand. "We don't know what state I'll be in for the fight," He said, voice steady. "So Forgo will take command."

  Forgo silently nodded, accepting her responsibilities.

  "And remember," Doyen continued, his gaze sweeping over them, "no matter what happens, you all are the greatest family I have ever known."

  He turned the blade inward and let out a deep breath. After a brief pause, he stabbed down. The blunt weapon easily pierced through armour and flesh alike, and it lodged deep into his heart.