The towering gates of Royal HQ groaned as they slid open, the heavy steel grinding against the concrete. Outside, the citizens of the Boston settlement—those who had found safety under Ethan’s banner—lined the streets. At first, there was a wave of cheering. The common folk, seeing the familiar blue and silver emblems of the Royal army, began to wave and shout in celebration.

They didn’t understand the atmosphere. They only knew their protectors were back.

But as the convoy rolled deeper into the city, the cheers began to die down, replaced by a suffocating, hollow silence. Those who remembered the departure—the thousands of polished armored vehicles, the endless lines of proud soldiers, and the sheer opulence of a superpower on the move—now lowered their heads in bewilderment.

The caravan that had once seemed interminable had shrunk to a ghost of its former self. Barely a handful of trucks remained, their reinforced hulls riddled with holes, scorched by black magic, and caked in the dried blood of both men and monsters.

The situation was so dire that the chain of command had physically collapsed. Ethan himself sat behind the wheel of the lead transport, his face a mask of stone and soot, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, Crul remotely operating the remaining automated trucks because there simply weren’t enough healthy drivers left to steer them.

The crowd watched in horror as the trucks came to a halt in the central plaza. When the rear hatches opened, it wasn’t a triumphant march of heroes. It was a parade of the broken.

Soldiers stumbled out, leaning on each other, their uniforms shredded. Some were missing ears, others had their eyes bandaged with filthy rags. The number of people who had returned without a single scratch could be counted on two hands—and you’d still have fingers left over.

Jason was among the last to descend, his face pale from blood loss, his arm in a makeshift sling. He looked at the silent crowd, then at the empty spaces where his friends and squad mates should have been.

"Is... is that all of them?" a woman whispered from the crowd, her voice trembling as she searched for a face that wasn’t there.

Ethan stepped out of the driver’s cabin. He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t offer a speech of victory. He stood in the middle of the battered convoy, the weight of thousands of souls resting on his shoulders. The "King" had returned, but his crown was stained with the dust of a massacre.

"Medics," Ethan said, his voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the plaza. "Everyone with a healing ability, report to the trucks. Now. We don’t lose anyone else today."

The silence of Royal HQ was broken only by the frantic sound of boots hitting the pavement as the medical teams rushed forward. The expedition to the West was over, and the true cost of survival had finally been tallied.

A medic approached Ethan with hesitant steps, holding out a health vial that glowed with an crimosn hue. The medic’s face was pale, aware he was standing before the man who had just stared death in the face.

"Sir, please... your wounds," the medic whispered.

Ethan pushed the hand away gently but firmly. His amethyst eyes, though exhausted, maintained a glacial intensity.

"I’m fine. Give it to my men. They need it more than I do," Ethan said, his voice sounding like an echo in a tomb.

Throughout the entire journey and the battle, Ethan had been frantically purchasing healing potions from the System, emptying his point reserves to keep his soldiers on their feet. But the level of carnage had been so devastating that the inventory had run dry. The Royal warehouse was empty. The few remaining potions were strictly reserved for those who had lost limbs; those with only open wounds would have to settle for traditional bandages and a scar that would remind them of hell for the rest of their lives.

The mourning was palpable in the air, weighing heavier than lead. Of the brave logistics team members who had stepped out to defend the convoy, nine out of ten were dead. Only Ryan Mitchell, the man who had taken the initiative, remained; he sat on the ground, covered in soot and someone else’s blood, staring at his trembling hands. The super-soldiers, those who were meant to be the invincible elite, had been decimated; fewer than twenty remained.

Ethan stopped in front of Crul, who hovered beside him with an expression of digital sorrow in her sensors.

"How much Worm Nectar do we have left?" Ethan asked without looking up.

[[ We only have one and a half pipes left, Master. It is enough to transform about 15,000 new soldiers, ]] Crul replied.

"Distribute it immediately," Ethan ordered in a tone that allowed no argument. "Let every survivor of this battle take a dose. They fought well, they stood firm at the gates of death, and they did not flee. I cannot afford to disappoint them again. Furthermore, ensure that a massive bonus is delivered to the families of the fallen. Make sure every coin and every resource of Royal Base moves so they know the sacrifice of their relatives was not in vain."

With that, Ethan began to walk toward the interior of the headquarters. His figure, which usually radiated imposing power, looked hunched under the weight of failure and loss. In the distance, his women watched the scene with heavy hearts. Although they longed to run to him, to hold him and comfort him, they stayed in their place. They perfectly understood the code of respect: showing excessive affection or joy for his return in front of a crowd mourning their dead would be an unforgivable lack of respect for the pain of their people.

Ethan disappeared through the corridors of the Royal Headquarters, leaving behind a base that, while victorious on paper, felt defeated in its soul... leaving a body standing but a bleeding heart.