Rena knew that without taking any damage, there was no way she was going to be part of the battle. Using Phantom Shift or any other Assassin Profession skills might not just be able to take down the monster.

That’s why it was always said that the Talents are needed at moments like this.

Moments when you have to face an Epic Monster that was on the verge of becoming an Alpha Monster.

[Monster Name: Four-headed Iron Godzilla.]

[Rank: Level 98 Epic.]

[Traits: Tail Swipe, Iron Durability, Terror Devour, Triple Extra Life.]

Getting to face a Godzilla with three extra lives was not what any of one had wanted, but anyway, they were getting to face one at that moment.

"We don’t need to destroy every head when we can just target its heart at once, right?" Roman said as he turned to North.

He had rushed to grab Rena from the shrub, while North had been the focus of the Iron Godzilla for the meantime. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

"Interesting part. You would never be able to get to the heart. It’s the most protected part of its body. Not just guarded by its ironed skin, but a certain diamond caged behind it," North said.

"So you mean it’s impossible to attack the heart?" Rena asked her.

"Yep. That’s why if we want to take down this thing. We would have to go for the heads. One at a time. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy either. Might be as difficult as getting to the heart..."

"But it’s where you know you can stand a chance to take it down," North explained.

Roman and Rena nodded, as they both faced the Iron Godzilla.

"Are you sure you are okay?" Roman turned and faced Rena again.

"Yes, I’m fine," Rena responded.

He was still stunned how she looked so strong and hadn’t sustained any injury after that hit. He was trying to believe that she hadn’t landed badly, but then, he still couldn’t believe it.

North gave her a stare and only smiled before turning back to the Godzilla that was still observing them.

"You should tell us your Talent, Young Mistress," North said softly.

"Roman, you too..."

"After we take down this thing."

Just at that moment when she had stopped talking, the Four-headed Iron Godzilla instantly charged at her and threw all its arms against them.

BOOOOOM!

There was a massive bang on that spot, however, the trio had already shoot up, all aiming at a head each the moment the monster had bent to deliver a strike.

It was a big opportunity.

But to Roman, it was a trial, having two heads to take at a time.

******

The graves were dug at first light.

The Head, Sylvester had made sure of that. He hadn’t slept anyway, so when the sky began to shift from black to a deep, bruised grey, he was already outside with a shovel in his hand and his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

A few of the Entrants had come out to help without being asked, and he hadn’t turned them away.

They dug four graves.

Side by side, just outside the eastern wall of Blood Trial Outpost, where the ground was flat and the soil was soft enough to work without breaking your back. Far enough from the gate that it felt like its own place. Close enough that anyone leaving or entering the outpost would always pass by it.

Sylvester wanted that. He wanted them to be seen.

By the time the sun had fully risen and the air had warmed enough to chase away the early chill, the graves were ready. Word had spread through the outpost quietly, the way important things always did, not through announcement, but through the kind of silence that tells people something serious is happening and they ought to show up.

They came.

Not just the Old Entrants. The New Entrants as well. The old man who ran the small food stall near the inner wall and had known two of the four by name because they stopped there every morning before heading out.

They all gathered outside the eastern wall, standing in loose groups, their faces carrying the particular heaviness of people who had not been warned that grief was coming but had arrived at it anyway.

Norman stood beside Sylvester at the head of the four graves.

He hadn’t said much since the night before. Norman was not the kind of man who filled silence with words, and Sylvester had always respected that about him. But his presence carried weight, and right now, that was enough.

He needed it.

The four bodies had been wrapped in grey cloth, the best they had at the outpost. Sylvester had seen to that personally as well. He hadn’t allowed anyone else to do the wrapping. It wasn’t protocol. It wasn’t required. But these were his men, and he was going to be the one who made sure they were laid out with dignity.

He stood at the edge of the first grave and looked out at the people gathered.

He wasn’t a man of grand speeches. He had never been. Words had always felt clumsy to him, too slow to carry the things he actually meant. But today he owed them something, and he was going to give it.

He cleared his throat.

"Deron Ash."

He spoke the first name clearly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Twenty-two years old. Joined Blood Trial Outpost thirteen months ago with nothing but a battered sword and a letter of recommendation from a village elder who probably barely knew him. He trained every morning before the sun came up. He never complained about the cold. He annoyed every senior Entrant he ever sparred with because he refused to go down easy."

A few quiet sounds moved through the crowd. Someone near the back exhaled slowly.

"He was going to be good," Sylvester said simply. "He already was."

He moved to the second grave.

"Cassidy Vont. Twenty-five. The best tracker we had at this outpost. He could read a trail three days old and tell you not just where it went but what mood the creature was in when it left it. He trained two junior Entrants herself, on her own time, without being asked." He paused. "He asked me once if he could be considered for a senior position at the end of the year. I told him it was already being considered."

He hadn’t told her that yet. He had been planning to.

He stood there for a moment longer than he intended before moving on.

"Brant Holloway. Twenty-eight. The oldest of the four. He had been at the outpost longer than anyone here except Norman and myself, and the old fellow as well. He was not flashy. He was not the kind of fighter that made people stop and watch. But in three years, I never once saw him abandon a teammate. Not once. In this line of work, that is rarer than any talent."

The crowd was very still now.

"And Yare Moss. Nineteen years old."

Sylvester stopped for a moment.

Nineteen.

"He had been with us for a year. A year. He was still learning the perimeter routes. He still asked questions that more experienced Entrants had stopped thinking to ask, and half the time, those questions were better than the answers we gave him." He looked down at the wrapped figure in the grave. "He deserved more time. That is the truth of it. He deserved a great deal more time."

He stepped back so that he could see all four graves at once.

The crowd waited.

"These four went on a mission they were assigned. They followed orders because that is what Entrants do. They trusted that the people who gave those orders understood the weight of them." His voice was flat and controlled, but the control was doing a lot of work. "They died in the service of this outpost, and they died in the service of people who did not deserve their sacrifice."

Norman glanced at him sideways but said nothing, however, his face could tell.

Sylvester crouched down and picked up a small handful of the dark earth from beside the nearest grave. He held it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, then let it fall slowly from his fingers.

"Blood Trial Outpost will remember your names. I will remember your names. Every person standing here today will remember your names. And if the day comes when I have the means and the authority to make sure that the ones responsible for this answer for it, they will."

He straightened up.

He looked at all four graves one last time.

"You don’t have to fight anymore. You don’t have to prove anything. You carried yourselves with honour, and that honour stays here with us."

He drew in a slow breath.

"Let them rest free."

The words settled over the gathered crowd like something heavy and final.

For a long moment, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The wind pushed through the grass outside the outpost wall and moved on, and the four graves sat quiet in the morning light.

Norman bowed his head.

Others did the same.

Sylvester stood straight, his jaw tight, his eyes dry in the way that had nothing to do with not feeling anything and everything to do with holding it somewhere deep and still where it wouldn’t spill out in front of everyone who needed him to be steady.

He stayed like that for what felt like a long time.

And then...

"Monsters! Monsters!"

The shout came from the north watchtower, sharp and cracking, the kind of voice that hadn’t been trained to stay calm under pressure.

"Monsters approaching! North side! A lot of them!"

The crowd broke immediately. Not in panic, but in the way people moved when they had been trained to move, fast and purposeful, heads turning toward the walls, hands reaching for weapons that most of them hadn’t thought to bring to a burial.

Sylvester turned.

He was already moving toward the gate when the second voice came from the wall above.

"They’re coming from the valley edge! It’s... it’s a lot of them, sir! A LOT!"

Sylvester reached the gate and grabbed the arm of the nearest guard.

"How many?"

The guard’s face was pale. "Too many to count, sir. They’re still coming out of the treeline."

Sylvester looked past him, up at the wall, and then climbed the ladder to the watchtower walkway in five fast steps. He reached the top and looked north.

His stomach dropped.

The valley edge was alive with movement. Not a handful of wandering creatures, not the kind of small pack that one would expect. This was a tide. Dark shapes pouring out from between the trees and across the open ground, some moving low and fast, some larger and slower but no less relentless.

The sound reached him a moment after the sight, a deep, grinding noise like stone being dragged across stone, layered underneath something that was almost like breathing but wrong in every way.

He had never seen this many at once.

Not here. Not this close.

"Sir."

Norman had appeared beside him without a sound, which was something Norman had always been able to do and which had startled Sylvester more times than he would admit.

He didn’t look at Norman. He kept his eyes on the valley.

"How long do we have?" Sylvester asked.

"Minutes." Norman said. "Maybe less."

Below them, the crowd from the burial had dissolved into controlled chaos. Entrants were running for their posts, and were being ushered inside the inner walls by the handful of guards stationed at the eastern gate.

Someone was ringing the outpost bell now, three short strikes, pause, three more... The signal for a threat response.

"Get everyone inside!" Sylvester shouted down from the wall. "Everyone who not an experienced fighter, get inside the inner wall now! Seal the storage quarters and get the secondary gate locked!"

His voice carried, and people moved. The New Entrants especially.

Norman was already descending the ladder, redirecting Entrants, his voice low and precise, pointing each one to their assigned section of the wall like a man placing pieces on a board.

Sylvester looked back at the valley.

The monsters were closer now. He could make out shapes, things with too many limbs, things that moved in ways that made the eye want to look away, things that were simply enormous and moved like the ground didn’t slow them at all.

And behind those, more.

And behind those, more still.

He gripped the top of the wall.

He thought about the four graves outside the eastern wall, freshly dug, still open to the morning air. He thought about Deron and Cassidy and Brant and Yare, who had deserved more time.

He thought about General Warden’s smile.

’He still took them.’

And now the outpost that had sent its best people out to die on someone else’s mission was standing with whatever was left, looking at a wave of monsters that had chosen the worst possible morning to come calling.

Sylvester descended the ladder.

He pulled his spare from his back, felt the familiar weight of it settle into his grip, and turned to face the gate.

Around him, the Old Entrants of Blood Trial Outpost took their positions.

They were not many.

But they were here.

Ready to defend what was theirs.