Tharionson and Zion halted mid-step as the scene fully came into view before them.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Leaning weakly against the base of a tree was a figure—barely recognizable as human at first glance.

A woman.

What remained of her body was in a state that should not have allowed life to persist.

Her left leg was gone from the knee down, the wound crudely torn rather than cleanly severed. Her right thigh bore a deep, open gash, the flesh split wide. Her abdomen had been ripped open, her intestines partially spilling out and clinging against her torso. Her left arm hung in ruin, the forearm mangled to the point where bone was nearly visible through torn flesh. Her right shoulder had been cleaved deeply, blood still seeping steadily from the wound.

Her face… was worse.

Covered in dried and fresh blood, barely distinguishable beneath the mess. Her eyes—gone. Plucked out, leaving hollow, darkened sockets. Strands of her dark hair clung to her face, matted and tangled as she struggled to breathe—each inhale shallow, each exhale uneven.

And yet…

She still held onto her sword.

Her hand trembled violently around the hilt as she kept it raised, the blade wavering unsteadily in front of her as if she were still trying—still forcing herself—to defend against whatever she believed was coming.

Tharionson, Zion, and the others stood there for a moment, taking it all in.

The woman was clearly on the brink of death.

And yet… she refused to fall.

"How is she even still alive…?" the female knight whispered, her voice filled with disbelief.

"Who's there?!" the wounded woman suddenly shouted, her voice raw and strained as she swung her sword weakly through the air. "Stay back!! I'll kill you!! You hear me?! I'll kill you!!"

Her movements were frantic, desperate—blind strikes fueled by instinct rather than awareness.

Seeing her struggle, the knight who had found her stepped forward instinctively.

"Hey, wait—"

"Hold on," Tharionson said calmly, stopping him with those words as he moved forward. "Let me handle this."

The knight hesitated for a brief second before stepping back, allowing Tharionson to pass.

As he approached, Tharionson reached into his pocket and withdrew a necklace. Suspended from it was a small, translucent orb that caught the fading light.

He crouched a short distance away from the woman, holding the necklace out slightly as he watched for any reaction.

This was the artifact Serah Magna had crafted, a blood demon detection orb, originally given to her by Marcus Hunter during the time they had begun to trust one another.

Tharionson remained still, eyes focused on the orb.

There was no reaction, no glow, or even a hint of disturbance.

After a moment, he let out a quiet breath and slipped the necklace back into his pocket.

"Lady Olian," he said at last, his voice steady and calm. "You can stand down. There is no threat here."

At the sound of his voice, the woman froze.

The tension in her body shifted—subtly, but noticeably.

"…Prince… Tharionson…?" she whispered, her voice barely holding together.

"Yes," Tharionson replied, his tone softening just slightly. "It's me."

The sword slipped from her grasp.

And then she broke.

A weak, broken sound escaped her as what remained of her composure collapsed, her body trembling as she tried—desperately—to cry, even without eyes.

"My prince… we… I don't… I…" she struggled, her words falling apart before they could fully form.

"Don't speak," Tharionson said gently, stepping closer and offering his hand for her to hold. "You've endured enough. You're in too much pain to force words now."

His voice remained calm, reassuring—steady enough to anchor her in that moment.

"You can tell me everything once we get you back to the capital," he added.

Carefully, he rose back to his feet.

"Handle her with extreme care," he ordered firmly, his tone shifting back to command. "We're returning to the capital immediately."

At once, the two male knights moved forward, lifting Lady Olian with as much caution as possible, mindful of her injuries. The female knight stepped aside and raised her hand, forming a controlled surge of myst.

A portal opened before them—its surface shimmering faintly.

Without delay, the group moved through it together, carrying the last survivor of the massacre back toward the capital of Zone Fifteen.

***

After returning to Ilis, Tharionson had Lady Olian immediately handed over to the royal healers. Given the severity of her injuries—and the possibility that she might hold crucial information about what had happened to her squad—he wanted her to receive the best care the kingdom could provide.

While Olian was being treated, Tharionson chose to wait outside the infirmary. He remained there in silence, intent on hearing her condition the moment a healer stepped out. Commander Ardent stayed as well, his presence steady, equally invested in learning what Olian might be able to reveal.

Nearly four hours passed.

By then, the moon had risen high into the night sky, its pale light casting a quiet glow over the city of Ilis. The corridor outside the infirmary was still, the earlier tension now settled into a long, drawn-out silence.

Tharionson sat on a stone bench, leaning forward slightly with his forearms resting on his knees. His eyes remained fixed on the double doors ahead, unwavering. Beside him, Zion stood upright, his posture firm, his gaze equally focused.

The silence stretched on for several more seconds—until it was finally broken.

A faint creak echoed through the corridor as one of the infirmary doors slowly opened.

A middle-aged woman stepped out, dressed in a white coat layered over a dark uniform patterned with red designs—marking her as one of the senior healers.

The moment she appeared, Tharionson rose to his feet and stepped forward.

"How is she?" he asked calmly.

The healer studied both him and Zion for a brief moment before turning back toward the door.

"It would be better if I explained while you see her, my prince," she said evenly. "Please, follow me."

Without hesitation, Tharionson and Zion followed her inside.

They were led through the infirmary and brought to a quiet section where Olian lay resting on a bed. As they approached, the healer slowed, prompting both men to stop as they took in her condition.

"I must say… she is remarkably resilient," the healer began. "Considering the amount of blood she lost and the state she was in when she was brought here, it's clear she had been in that condition for hours. The fact that she was still alive when you found her… is nothing short of a miracle."

She paused briefly before continuing.

"We've managed to close most of her wounds," she said. "However… I must apologize. We were unable to restore her eyes or her leg."

Tharionson's expression tightened slightly, though he remained silent.

"For reasons we cannot fully determine," the healer continued, "those injuries appear to resist mystic healing entirely. It's as though something was done to disrupt any attempt to regenerate them. As a result… Lady Olian will remain blind, and she will not recover her leg."

The words settled heavily in the air.

Tharionson clenched his jaw slightly, his gaze fixed on Olian's still form as he absorbed the reality of her condition.

"Thank you," he said at last, lowering his head slightly in acknowledgment. "You've done more than enough. The fact that she's alive… is already something I'm grateful for."

"There's no need for thanks, my prince," the healer replied. "I am only fulfilling my duty."

Tharionson lifted his head again, his eyes resting on Olian for a moment before he spoke.

"How long do you believe she will remain in this state?" he asked.

"She'll likely remain unconscious for a couple of days," the healer answered. "Her body needs time to recover before she can even begin to move properly."

"I understand," Tharionson murmured.

He lingered for a moment longer before turning slightly.

"Very well. I'll return each day to check on her. Please inform me the moment she regains consciousness."

"I will, my prince," the healer said with a nod.

"Then I'll take my—"

"Ma… Marshal…"

The weak, strained voice cut through his words.

Tharionson froze.

Immediately, he turned back toward the bed.

Olian's lips were moving.

"…Ma… Marshal…" she whispered again, her voice barely audible.

Without hesitation, Tharionson stepped to her side, gently taking hold of her forearm to let her feel his presence.

"Yes, Olian," he said quietly. "I'm here. What is it?"

Her breathing was uneven, each word a struggle.

"We… weren't…" she murmured.

"What?" Tharionson leaned closer. "What did you say?"

He lowered his head slightly, bringing his ear nearer to her lips.

"We… weren't attacked…" she whispered faintly, her voice trembling.

Tharionson frowned slightly.

"…by a… demon…"

A brief pause.

Then, with the last of her strength—

"It… was… a… human."