​The Dullahan spurred its horse, slicing through the mist with a cold, silent fury.

​The ground beneath Dayat's boots trembled violently. The undead steed—clad in rusted black armor with eyes burning a pale, ghostly blue—neighed shrilly. The sound was unnatural, originating not from vocal cords but from the screech of metal grinding within its throat. Krit... kreet... Its greatsword was raised high, catching a lethal, dim light.

​Dayat did not wait for death to come for him. His silver-blue armor flared instantly, purple and green circuits pulsing rapidly across the surface of his protective plating. He lunged forward, his movements swifter than the horse's gallop. The purple-green energy blade in his right hand left an elegant arc of light in the air. Swish!

​The Dullahan swung. The massive blade slammed into the earth exactly where Dayat had stood a second before. BOOM! The stone floor shattered, sharp fragments flying in every direction. But Dayat was already beside it. He spun nimbly, his blade targeting the narrow gap between the headless knight's neck guard and shoulder. The energy edge slipped in seamlessly. Thrust.

​The Dullahan could not scream, but its body jerked rigid. Its horse neighed louder, front hooves striking the air. The greatsword swung wildly to the side in a final, desperate effort—Dayat leaped back just in time, landing with a light tap several meters away.

​"Tsk, you're fast," Dayat muttered, wiping sweat from his eyes. "But not enough to bring me down."

​The Dullahan turned its horse stiffly. The ground shook again as the knight charged for a second strike. Dayat did not dodge this time. He waited, his breathing measured. Just as the gargantuan blade descended toward his head, he took a tiny step to the side—a micro-movement that meant the difference between life and death—then drove his sword into the Dullahan's chest. The purple-green blade pierced through armor, bone, and the black essence within the undead form.

​The Dullahan froze. Its greatsword slipped, hitting the ground with a deafening clang. Slowly, its body split into two halves before finally collapsing alongside its horse, which dissolved into black dust.

​Dayat took a long breath, trying to steady his pounding heart. Gulp. He swallowed hard, realizing this was only the beginning.

​Behind him, the castle gate remained a slaughterhouse. Zombies and Ghouls continued to press on relentlessly. Dola stood amidst the chaos, both hands raised to the sky. Transparent telekinetic waves surged from her palms, hurling dozens of Plagueborne backward. However, Dola's face appeared deathly pale, nearly the same shade as her cloak. Every time she exerted her power, the Seal of the Six Goddesses on her body pulsed painfully. Dayat could see his wife's trembling fingers and the sweat drenching her temples.

​"Hold on a little longer, Dola!" Dayat shouted as he plunged back into the enemy throng.

​In the backyard, the rhythmic bang... bang... bang... continued. Kancil, Loy, and Riri were still holding their posts. That meant the rear path was still secure.

​However, none of them realized what was currently crawling through the darkness of the castle's interior.

​The eastern wing corridor felt oppressive. The binary lights on the walls flickered unstable—lingering damage from Morbis's handiwork that had yet to be repaired. Here, the sounds of battle outside were only heard as faint, distant whispers.

​A Wight led four Ghouls past the dark storage room. The smell of old engine oil and dust filled the chamber. They moved silently among piles of cables and unused spare parts. These creatures had no interest in technology. They sought the remaining scent of life.

​Their steps halted in the long corridor leading to the control room. The Wight raised a skeletal hand. Shh. The silent signal was immediately obeyed by the Ghouls behind it. Ahead, there was a dim glow from a room. And there was someone inside.

​Dalgor was unaware of their presence.

​The control panel before him was covered in red dots moving erratically. The energy shield was entirely dead; the main defense system was paralyzed. All that remained were passive sensors that continued to blink, reporting a destruction he could not prevent.

​"Master Dayat," Dalgor murmured softly to himself as he adjusted his slipping goggles. "The shield is gone. They just keep coming... the second wave might be even larger..."

​Suddenly, a small warning popped up in the corner of his panel. The lights in the eastern wing corridor flashed red. Not a large cluster like the army outside, but unidentified activity very close by.

​Dalgor's heart beat twice as fast. Thump, thump. He knew exactly what it meant. The Plagueborne had successfully infiltrated the castle, and they were heading for this control room.

​Dalgor stared at the panel for three seconds. Three seconds that felt like an eternity. Then, he rose slowly.

​His massive wrench—as long as an arm, heavy, and made of high-quality Dwarven steel—lay beside his workbench. He gripped the iron handle with both hands. It wasn't a bladed weapon, but its weight was enough to crush steel.

​"Hmm... it seems you'll have to work harder than usual today," Dalgor whispered to his wrench.

​He stepped out of the room, heading toward the dark corridor of the eastern wing. Toward the growls that were growing ever clearer.

​The first Ghoul emerged from the corner with a disgusting, hunched movement. Its yellow eyes glinted hungrily upon catching sight of Dalgor. Without warning, it leaped with black claws bared.

​Dalgor was not a warrior, but he was a mechanic who knew exactly where a structure's weak points were. He did not dodge. Instead, he swung his wrench with all the strength and adrenaline pumping through his old veins.

​Crack!

​The heavy iron met the Ghoul's skull. The sound of splintering bone echoed vividly in the silent corridor. The Ghoul staggered, black fluid beginning to leak from its dented head.

​"Not enough, eh?!" Dalgor shouted hoarsely. He swung his wrench again—once, twice, three times—until the creature's head was completely crushed and its body fell lifeless.

​Dalgor panted heavily. His hands shook violently, and his wrench was now stained with black slime. "One..." he whispered with ragged breath.

​However, the second and third Ghouls appeared almost simultaneously from the darkness.

​They lunged from two different directions. Dalgor managed to strike the shoulder of the Ghoul in front of him, sending it crashing into the wall, but the other one was too fast. The creature's sharp claws lashed out at Dalgor's arm, tearing through fabric and the flesh beneath. Slash!

​"Agh!" Dalgor cried out, suppressed. Not from fear, but from rage. He spun his body, slamming the wrench into the Ghoul's jaw with the last of his strength until the creature lay sprawled.

​"Two..." Dalgor's breath grew shorter. His arm began to feel cold from the blood that kept flowing.

​The third Ghoul rose again, followed by the fourth which had just arrived. They surrounded the old Dwarf from two sides. Dalgor charged the third Ghoul blindly, shattering its jaw and head until the creature no longer moved. "Three..."

​Unfortunately, the fourth Ghoul was already behind him. Its claws sank deep into Dalgor's back. The old Dwarf collapsed onto the cold marble floor. His prized wrench slipped away, rolling into the distance. Clang...

​Dalgor tried to crawl, his fingers nearly touching the iron handle. However, the fourth Ghoul's foot stepped heavily on his hand. Crunch... The sound of his finger bones breaking made Dalgor bite his lip until it bled.

​"This... isn't... over..." he hissed amidst the excruciating pain.

​With his remaining free left hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small screwdriver—the last tool he had. He drove it into the Ghoul's leg with all his might. It was only a minor distraction, but enough to make the creature's grip loosen.

​Dalgor immediately snatched his wrench back. With one sweeping under-swing, he slammed the iron into the Ghoul's chin until it flipped over. Dalgor rose with great difficulty. One hand broken, one hand holding a weapon. His back was already soaked with red blood that continued to flow.

​"Four..."

​He didn't have time to continue his count.

​A Wight emerged from the shadows. Its body was sturdier, clad in rusted armor remnants with a sword in hand. This creature did not attack wildly; it walked slowly, savoring the scent of its victim's death.

​Dalgor raised his wrench with trembling hands. His vision began to blur, black spots dancing before his eyes. "Come on... you... your turn..."

​The Wight swung its sword. Ting! Dalgor parried with all his might, but his old arm was already numb.

​The second swing came faster. Dalgor parried again, but the wrench nearly slipped from his grasp.

​The third swing... the rusted blade pierced his defense. It tore through his chest with a direct hit.

​Fresh blood sprayed, soaking the control room floor. Dalgor fell to his knees, his breath sounding like boiling water in his throat. His wrench slipped away, coming to a halt right beside his body.

​He stared at the Wight, which now stood before him with its sword raised high.

​"You... will not... win..." Dalgor whispered with his final breath. He did not close his eyes. He stared straight at the control panel in the distance—at the castle he loved—and at the faces of the people he had come to consider his own family.

​The sword descended.

​The battle outside only truly subsided an hour later. The remaining Plagueborne were picked off one by one.

​Dayat stepped into the castle with a body that felt crushed. He had deactivated his armor, leaving behind tattered clothes drenched in the blood of his enemies. Beside him, Dola walked with dragging steps, her face still appearing so weary.

​In the backyard, Kancil was busy bandaging a wound on Loy's arm. Riri sat silently beside them, clutching a water bottle with hands that still shook slightly. They had all survived.

​However, one voice had failed to respond on the earpiece.

​"Dalgor? Dalgor, are you there? The operation is finished," Dayat called. Silence. Only static hissed in his ear.

​A dark foreboding began to crawl into Dayat's chest. He quickened his pace past the eastern wing corridor, followed by Dola who began to sense the aura of death in the air. Upon arriving at the control room, they found Loy already standing there. The boy was frozen, his shoulders shaking violently.

​"Loy? What's wrong?" Dayat called.

​Loy couldn't bear to turn around. He only pointed a trembling hand into the room.

​Dayat stepped inside.

​The room was a shambles. Panels were destroyed, monitor screens cracked, and fresh red blood pooled everywhere—on the floor, on the tables, and on Dalgor's work chair. In the center of the room, Dalgor's lifeless body lay in a gruesome condition.

​Dayat's footsteps stopped. His eyes stared blankly at the old Dwarf's body. His arm was broken, his chest torn open. Around him, the corpses of four Ghouls were scattered. One with a crushed head, and another still had a wrench embedded in its throat. Dalgor had fought alone until his very last breath.

​"I... I didn't hear anything in the back earlier..." Loy's voice broke into sobs. "If only I had known... if only I had helped..."

​"It wasn't your fault, Loy," Dola whispered, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulders. Her own eyes began to well with tears.

​Dayat didn't make a sound. He walked slowly, kneeling beside his old friend's body. His trembling hand reached out to touch the handle of the wrench still embedded in the Ghoul's head. The wrench Dalgor usually used to fix steam pipes, tighten bolts, and maintain this castle to keep it warm. Now, that tool became a monument to his final devotion.

​Dayat didn't cry, but his jaw tightened until the muscles in his neck strained. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails pierced the skin of his palms. His blood dripped, merging with Dalgor's on the floor.

​"Dayat..." Dola called softly.

​Dayat did not turn. He only stared at the blood-stained wrench with a terrifying gaze. A gaze that no longer belonged to an ordinary human, but the gaze of a wounded predator.

​Then, he whispered. So softly, yet laden with a lethal curse.

​"I will finish them... all of them. Down to the very roots."