King Gurdan stood still for a moment, his hand hovering over the glowing war map. His eyes, once filled with burning rage, now narrowed into sharp, calculating slits.
"Gather all of our strongest fighters," he said firmly, turning to his war advisor.
"Warriors, mages, swordmasters, veterans—anyone who's still standing and has faced death more than once."
He clenched his jaw.
"I want them formed into a single strike force. A team… whose sole purpose is to face the Wicked Hero directly."
The advisor bowed quickly.
"As you command, Your Majesty."
He turned to relay the orders—but Gurdan's eyes lingered on the map… and on the glowing red indicator showing the fallen town.
In the silence that followed, his thoughts churned darkly.
"That man… that thing… Kenjirou…"
A drop of sweat formed on his brow—not from fear, but from the weight of what he knew.
"He is no mere mortal anymore."
