The victors are calm,

  Making their war partners run,

  Hearts are pierced,

  Not by love but by the sword.

  Red is the only color

  To tint this macabre spectacle of a new era.

  Like a disorder of flesh,

  A painting of fear.

  The sand turns red,

  As he walks on it,

  Habib encourages his friends.

  "Truly, Archal has disappointed us!

  He sent that messenger for fear of being killed!

  Look now at the Walkers feasting on your city!"

  Shouts of Joy!

  Shouts of Joy!

  Shouts of Joy!

  The gates of Archal will open!

  No rejoicing for Tarshkila!

  Its defeat has been sealed here below!

  By this strong and cunning man, Habib!

  Habib!

  Habib!

  Such is the name chanted by the winners!

  Laetitia embraces him tenderly!

  This is a Victory!

  This is how they mark their territory!

  However, in the sky, a winged creature seems to be dropping something.

  A free fall, creative, healing for the martyrs,

  And which would be indescribable through any prose,

  A grace, beauty and indomitable sweetness,

  Like a sweet foam that one eats like a cloud.

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  His body under the pressure of the wind,

  Twirling in all directions,

  The sound of rubbing against clothes,

  Like a pleasant trance,

  During his fall, he fixes his eyes on the sky far and wide

  It is with this that the page will be turned.

  He crashes to the ground.

  Smoke rises.

  That blue and white cape that rises.

  Accompanied by a blue M on the back down to the collar.

  His long white hair like snow,

  Eyes of an oceanic depth.

  He unfolds a huge bluish steel disc in a mischievous way,

  Which is connected to a spiked and atypical chain.

  "I, Archal, 7th Grand Marquis,

  Declare The Great Massacre of the Pathetic Walkers,

  Your journey ends here."

  He is quickly surrounded.

  But... A cold seizes the combatants,

  Grasping their legs,

  Like an army of spectral hands constraining,

  Terror suspends them

  From any movement.

  These are the effects of Dread.

  Then suddenly, one shouts;

  "We are the Walkers! Invincible and Indivisible!

  We will never lose to a single guy!"

  Energized, like tigers,

  They all pounce on him.

  A quick gesture,

  Only one gesture, not even desperate.

  The movement of a chain,

  Is enough to cut more than a hundred men into slices,

  The discs and spikes unleashing their rage without effort.

  Rain of blood in torrents.

  Archal grabs his weapon like a shield.

  Laetitia, bruised and enraged, jumps off her horse to charge him.

  The Marquis spreads his arms to welcome the enraged duelist,

  Perhaps she would be able to surprise him more than during their last eventful encounter?