The swarm of figures was an illusion—only a few were real. Freya scanned the scene, spotting the truth. “There!” she shouted, deflecting another projectile. Bradley engaged the shadow, while Freya directed Ye Lu An’s troops. “Northwest 40°, now!”

The enemy’s leader snarled, enraged by Freya’s ability to see through the illusions. As they fought, Freya’s vision blurred from dizziness. Though she pushed herself, a projectile grazed her hand.

Bradley subdued his attacker and rushed to her aid. With his help, the remaining enemies fell—except the leader, who fought viciously. Just as they cornered him, the leader released a high-pitched shriek that pierced the night.

Freya collapsed, her ears ringing, vomiting violently. Bradley shielded her, shouting for her acupuncture needles to block her hearing. But it was too late. The leader escaped over the wall, laughing. “This isn’t over, Leonard.”

The soundwaves left guards vomiting and disoriented. Bradley carried Freya to the infirmary, ignoring his own injuries. Her body was cold, her breathing shallow. Doctors scrambled, but her symptoms—severe nausea, alternating chills and fever—baffled them.

“Save her!” Bradley roared, his eyes bloodshot. “If she dies, you all die with her.” The doctors worked frantically, but Freya slipped in and out of consciousness, her condition worsening by the minute. Bradley clutched her hand, his voice breaking. “Stay with me, Freya. Please.”

In the chaos, the palace’s fragile calm shattered. The enemy’s retreat left a trail of bodies—and a silent promise of more bloodshed to come.