“He’s too strong!” Jason shouted, his voice trembling with both exhaustion and frustration. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his body was drenched in sweat, the result of pushing his SSS-Skill far beyond its usual limits. His hands tightened around his weapon, muscles trembling from the strain, but he refused to back down.
Mynes, standing amidst the chaos, remained unfazed. Since receiving Aphrodite’s divine blessing, he had been holding off their combined assault. His movements were both fierce and smart, as if the goddess herself guided his hand. Around him, the Myrmidons, loyal warriors of Lyrnessus, fought valiantly at his side, though many had already fallen.
Despite their efforts, a number of enemies had slipped past Mynes and were now ravaging the city beyond. Fires rose in the distance, and the screams of fleeing citizens echoed through the air. Mynes, however, remained resolute, his focus unbroken. He was buying precious time, sacrificing his strength so that his people—his innocent people—could escape the doom that had befallen them.
“Sixth-rank water magic!” Siara shouted, raising her staff high. Her voice rang with urgency and desperation as torrents of water manifested, swirling around Mynes like serpents made of liquid force. The water coiled tighter and tighter, seeking to imprison him in a crushing grip.
For a brief moment, hope flickered in Siara’s eyes.
But Mynes, undeterred, swung his sword in a blinding arc. The blade cut through the enchanted waters as though they were mere vapor, scattering droplets into the air.
Siara’s face paled as her energy dwindled. She had poured everything into that spell. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees, utterly spent.
“Siara!” Jason cried, his heart sinking. He saw her fall and rushed forward, abandoning caution as he hurled himself at Mynes in reckless fury. “You’re annoying! Just die!!” Jason’s sword came down in a heavy swing aimed at Mynes’ chest.
But Mynes barely flinched. His movements were swift, almost effortless. As Jason lunged, Mynes deflected the blow and retaliated with a fierce punch to Jason’s stomach. The force of the hit sent Jason flying several feet, his body crashing into the dirt with a dull thud. Jason groaned in pain, clutching his abdomen.
The sky above them was stained with the hues of sunset, a fitting backdrop to the carnage below. The day was nearing its end, but their battle raged on, seemingly without conclusion.
They had known from the start this would be no easy victory, but they had assumed that with their numbers—great and powerful—they would have quickly overwhelmed the city of Lyrnessus, especially after the walls were breached. Yet here they were, hours later, still fighting against this lone man.
“I won’t let you destroy my city… my people…” Mynes roared, his voice cracking with emotion. His body was shaking, not from fear but from the weight of the responsibility that pressed upon him. He couldn’t let Lyrnessus fall. Not like this. With a savage cry, he turned his gaze to Patroclus, who stood apart from the others, his expression calm, even amused.
“You’re next,” Mynes growled, pointing his bloodied sword at Patroclus.
Patroclus, however, merely smiled—a thin, knowing smile. Unlike Jason, he wasn’t rushing into battle, his impatience kept in check. He had seen enough. He knew how this would end. Achilles, his companion and leader, had already disappeared into the heart of the city, and by now, Patroclus was certain Achilles had already slain the King of Lyrnessus. It was only a matter of time before the news spread.
The citizens would lose all hope, and Lyrnessus would fall, crumbling under the weight of their despair.
The battle was, to Patroclus, nothing more than a formality at this point.
Suddenly, a figure came rushing toward them, his face pale, streaked with dust and tears. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide with horror.
“P-Prince Mynes!” the soldier gasped, his voice thick with emotion.
Mynes turned toward the man, dread filling his heart. He already knew what was coming. The soldier’s face said it all.
“The young Prince Epistrophus and our King Euenus… have been killed!” the soldier choked, barely able to speak through his sobs.
The words hit like a physical blow. For a moment, the world around them seemed to still. Mynes stood frozen, his mind struggling to process the news. The other warriors of Lyrnessus faltered, their weapons slackening in their grips as the reality of their loss sank in.
Mynes’ mouth opened and closed as if to say something, but no words came. His throat felt dry, and he bit down hard on his tongue to keep the surge of grief at bay. Now was not the time. He couldn’t afford to fall apart, not when his people still looked to him for guidance. Not now.
“What about Briseis?” Mynes asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he feared the answer.
“We… we didn’t see her, my prince. But it seems… it seems she’s been taken.” The soldier’s voice broke again.
Mynes’ heart clenched painfully in his chest. His fists tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
“I’m sorry, Briseis,” he whispered to himself, feeling the sharp sting of guilt wash over him. She had been caught in the storm of his battle, dragged into a fate she did not deserve.
“Are you ready, Gwen?” Iphlea asked.
“Yes,” Gwen replied.
Mynes frowned, his brow creasing as he turned his attention to the woman who had, until now, remained unusually silent. For some time, Gwen had not engaged in the battle, her gaze fixed on him but her intentions unreadable. The air around her seemed to shift, growing heavy with an ominous energy. Mynes could sense something was wrong.
Very wrong.
His instincts screamed at him to move, to prepare for what was coming, but his body felt frozen in place as he raised his gaze toward the sky. That’s when he saw it.
Hovering above Gwen was a gigantic, swirling sword of pure energy, its blade shimmering with an almost blinding light. It was massive, far larger than any weapon he had ever seen, and its edges seemed to pulsate with raw mana, thick and almost suffocating in its intensity. The sword hummed in the air, vibrating with untold power as if it were alive, waiting for Gwen’s command.
Mynes felt a chill crawl down his spine, his heart skipping a beat.
“Eighth-Rank Magic,” Gwen murmured, her voice carrying a chilling order. Her hand lowered, and with it, the sword of mana descended, as if obeying her silent will.
There was no warning. No time to react.
BADOOOM!
The ground beneath them quaked violently as the sword vanished from view, moving faster than the eye could follow. Mynes didn’t even have a chance to defend himself. The next thing he felt was an unbearable, searing pain ripping through his abdomen. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down, his breath catching in his throat.
The blade had struck him directly, embedding itself in his stomach.
The force of the blow was catastrophic, sending Mynes hurtling through the air as if he were no more than a ragdoll. His body was flung hundreds of meters away, smashing through buildings, homes crumbling like brittle paper under the sheer impact of his passage. Debris flew everywhere as stone and wood alike were obliterated in his wake, his form leaving a trail of destruction behind him.
When his body finally skidded to a halt, a deep, gaping wound replaced his stomach, the flesh torn away by the magic sword’s devastating strike. Blood poured from the massive hole, an unrelenting torrent of red that stained the earth beneath him.
Mynes coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth as his body trembled uncontrollably. His hearing dulled, the chaotic sounds of battle fading into a distant murmur, and soon, even the sensation in his limbs disappeared.
He was dying.
He should have already been dead. His heart had been obliterated in the attack, destroyed along with most of his torso. And yet, here he was, clinging to life, if only for a few more agonizing moments.
Perhaps it was Aphrodite’s blessing that allowed him these final seconds. The goddess had gifted him with strength, and perhaps in her mercy, she was allowing him this small fragment of time before the end.
In those fleeting moments, Mynes could hear them—the cries of his people. The children screaming in terror as they were pulled from their homes, the women assaulted and taken by force, the men butchered in cold blood. His once beautiful city, the proud jewel of Lyrnessus, now lay in ruins, sacked by invaders with no mercy or restraint.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he could not stop them as they rolled down his blood-streaked face. The pain of his wounds was nothing compared to the anguish that gripped his heart.
He had failed them. He had failed his father, his people, and even Briseis, who was now likely in the hands of their enemies.
“I’m sorry… Father. Everyone…” His voice was weak, barely more than a whisper, each word heavy with sorrow and regret.
But as his life ebbed away, a new sound broke through the haze of his dying mind—a voice, soft and gentle, like the soothing wind after a storm.
“You did enough, Mynes. Rest.”
It was a voice he barely recognized, yet it filled him with a strange sense of peace. His eyes, heavy with the weight of death, struggled to stay open, but in the distance, he saw a figure standing over him. The figure was blurred, their features indistinguishable, but Mynes didn’t need to see them clearly to know who it was.
He knew.
A faint smile touched his lips, a final gesture of acceptance and gratitude, as the last of his strength faded. His eyes closed for the last time, and with that, Mynes, Prince of Lyrnessus, took his final breath.
I leave you the rest Hector.