A new day dawned, and the commoners woke to the Cavalry's shouts.
They were driven onto the battlefield. In the distance, the Wheat Field was still green.
Loran saw a cemetery standing at the edge of the battlefield. Were the people who had died yesterday buried there?
Its gravestones faced the battlefield, as though watching those still alive.
Lord Loran ordered the attack and rode over. Loran saw him look directly at him. He steeled himself, lowered his head, and charged.
Loran could not remember whether anyone had followed him. His mind went blank. It was as though he had become a cold gravestone, watching numbly as a crowd of commoners ran forward.
When his senses returned, he found himself standing with a group of commoners around the elf-like, black-haired boy he had seen in the night sky.
Annan seemed wrapped in a hazy glow, a gentle smile on his face.
"Welcome home."
All sound seemed to vanish. Loran looked down at the Dagger in his hand and pushed through the people ahead of him. A beautiful fragrance washed over him. He raised his trembling hand and drove the filthy Dagger, stained with a companion's blood, into Annan's chest.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
Loran apologized through his tears. The shock on Annan's face softened, and his voice remained gentle. "If my death can give you a better life..."
"Die... Die! Die!"
Loran suddenly went berserk and stabbed him several more times. Annan collapsed, helpless, like a spotless white petal stained with filth.
The commoners scattered. The warriors still had no idea what had happened. Amid the chaos, Loran closed his eyes, cut off Annan's head, and fled toward the other side of the battlefield.
He spotted Lord Loran and shouted, holding up Annan's head, "I... I did it! My lord!