The entrance to the tomb was a battlefield.
Don stood at the threshold, his back to the massive stone doors, standing tall with not a single drop of mana to support him. His eyes scanned the army that had gathered before him—soldiers, knights, adventurers. Dozens of them, weapons drawn, faces set with grim determination.
They had him surrounded.
They had him outnumbered.
They had him beaten.
Or so they thought.
---
Don smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile. It wasn’t even a particularly human smile. It was the smile of a man who had nothing left to lose and everything to prove.
"You know," he said, his voice carrying across the clearing, "I’ve been running my whole life. Running from my family. Running from the law. Running from the consequences of my own actions."
He stepped forward, and the army tensed.
"But I’m done running."
He spread his arms wide, a gesture of mock surrender.
"Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got."
---
The first wave came at him like a tide.
Knights on horseback, their lances lowered, their armor gleaming in the pale light. They charged with a thunder of hooves, a roar of battle cries, the full weight of their momentum behind them. Magic crackled around their weapons—fire, ice, lightning—enhanced attacks meant to tear through any defense.
Don didn’t move.
He waited until the first lance was inches from his chest—
Then he moved.
His hand shot out, grabbing the lance and using its own momentum to yank the knight from his saddle. He swung the man like a weapon, sending him crashing into the next rider. The horses reared, the formation shattered, and Don was already moving.
His fist connected with the next knight’s helmet, and the metal crumpled like paper.
The man went down.
The next went down.
The next went down.
---
"Don’t let him get close!" someone shouted.
But it was too late.
Don was already among them, his movements a blur of brutal efficiency. He wasn’t using tricks. He wasn’t using illusions. He wasn’t using magic at all.
He was using his hands.
His fists.
His feet.
The sheer, raw strength of a body that had been honed by centuries of survival.
"It’s not possible!" a soldier shouted, stumbling backward. "He’s just one man!"
"I’m not a man," Don said, his voice carrying a note of dark amusement. "I’ve never been a man. I’ve always been something else."
He drove his fist into the soldier’s chest, and the man went flying.
"I’m a monster."
---
The second wave was smarter.
They came at him from all sides, arrows and swords and magic all at once. They didn’t give him room to move, didn’t give him space to breathe.
But Don didn’t need room.
He didn’t need space.
He just needed to keep moving.
He ducked under a sword swing, rolled past a blast of fire, and came up with a knife in his hand. He drove it into the nearest archer’s leg, and the man screamed.
The arrows stopped.
The fire stopped.
The swords kept coming.
---
Aria watched from the edge of the forest, her heart pounding in her chest.
She’d never seen anyone fight like this. She stepped back, thinking she would be more of a liability than help.
Don was wounded. She could see it in the way he moved, the way he favored his left side. He was tired. She could see it in the way his breath came in ragged gasps. He was out of mana. She could see it in the way his form flickered, struggling to maintain its shape.
But he was still fighting.
Fighting like a man possessed.
Fighting like a man who had nothing to lose.
"He’s going to die," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
"Yes," Kelly said, appearing beside her. "But he’s going to take a lot of them with him."
"Isn’t there anything we can do?"
"We could leave him to his fate. Let the army finish him off."
"That’s not—"
"Or we could join the army. Help them put him down for good."
"That’s not what I meant!"
"Then what do you want?"
Aria looked at Don, at the monster who had terrorized them, who had hurt them, who had killed Bunny and tried to kill them all.
"I want to understand," she said. "I want to know what kind of will makes something move like that."
---
Don was slowing down.
He could feel it in his bones, in his muscles, in the way his body refused to respond the way it used to. He was out of stamina too. Completely, utterly out. The reserves he’d spent centuries building were gone, drained by the endless fighting, the endless illusions, the endless need to survive.
He was running on nothing but stubbornness and spite.
And it wasn’t going to be enough.
"You can’t win," a knight shouted, his sword raised. "You’re outnumbered. Outmatched. Out—"
Don lunged.
The knight didn’t finish his sentence.
---
The forest echoed with the sounds of battle.
Metal on metal. Flesh on flesh. Screams and shouts and the wet, terrible sound of bodies hitting the ground. The army was thinning, but Don was thinning too.
He was bleeding from a dozen wounds.
His left arm was hanging at an unnatural angle.
His vision was starting to blur.
But he kept fighting.
He kept swinging.
He kept killing.
"I’m not going to die here," he muttered, driving his fist into another soldier’s face. "I’m not going to die in this forest. Not like this."
"Then how?" a voice asked.
Don turned. A young woman was standing before him, her eyes carrying a mixture of fear and something else. Something that might have been pity.
"How are you going to die?"
Don stared at her.
"On my own terms," he said. "When I’m ready. Not when they’re ready."
"That’s not how death works."
"I know. That’s why I’m going to make it work."
---
The final charge came.
The remaining soldiers formed a line, their weapons raised, their faces set with determination. They were going to end this. Together.
Don looked at them, and for the first time, he felt something that might have been respect.
"Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."
He raised his fists, his body aching, his vision swimming.
"Let’s finish this."
They charged.
Don charged too.
---
The impact was devastating.
Don crashed into the line like a battering ram, sending bodies flying in all directions. His fists were a blur of motion, his feet moving with a speed that seemed impossible for someone so injured.
But he wasn’t invincible.
He never had been.
A sword found its mark, driving into his side. A spear pierced his shoulder. A blast of magic sent him stumbling backward.
He fell to his knees.
The army surrounded him.
"It’s over," a soldier said, his voice carrying a note of triumph. "You’re done."
Don looked up at him, blood dripping from his lips.
"Maybe," he said. "But I’m not dead yet."
He surged to his feet, his fist connecting with the soldier’s jaw. The man crumpled.
The others moved in.
---
Kelly watched as the army swarmed Don.
It was brutal. Unrelenting. The kind of violence that left nothing behind but bodies and blood and the lingering smell of death.
"Should we help them?" Kelme asked, his voice flat.
"No," Kelly said. "He’s done. There’s nothing left to fight for."
"But he’s still fighting."
"Because he doesn’t know how to stop."
---
Don fell.
He’d been fighting for hours. Fighting with everything he had. Fighting with nothing left to give.
But now it was over.
He lay on the ground, his body broken, his vision fading, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The army surrounded him, their weapons raised, their faces a mixture of triumph and exhaustion.
"You fought well," one of them said. "I’ll give you that."
Don laughed—a weak, rasping sound.
"I wasn’t fighting for victory," he said. "I was fighting for time."
"Time for what?"
Don’s smile was faint, flickering.
"Time for someone else to do what I couldn’t."
---
The army hesitated.
Don’s body was beginning to dissolve, his form breaking apart into fragments of shadow and ash. He was dying. There was no doubt about that.
But his eyes were still open. Still watching. Still waiting.
"What are you looking at?" the leader asked.
Don’s smile widened.
"At the future," he said.
The army turned.
Aria was standing at the edge of the forest, her hands raised, light gathering in her palms.
"Don’t," Kelly said, reaching for her arm.
"No," she said. "I have to. I have to end this."
"How? He’s already dying!"
"I don’t care. I just want to end this quickly. It’s pathetic. I feel like he was lying to himself, acting like he had something to stay alive for. He kept fighting to live because he didn’t want to admit he truly had nothing."
"What are you talking about?"
Aria didn’t answer. She raised her hands higher, and the light burst forth—a wave of pure, blinding radiance that washed over the battlefield.
Don’s body dissolved completely, his form scattering into the wind.
And in his place, lying on the ground, was an artifact.
A simple mask.
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