Chapter 353: The Night of Confessions

Night lay heavy over the battlefield. Eleanor stood alone atop a wooden watchtower, the cold wind slipping through its gaps and tugging at the torn flags above her. Even with hundreds of soldiers spread across the green plain below, an unnatural silence clung to the air, a silence no sound of movement or clatter of armor could break. It was the kind of silence that comes before the inevitable.

Behind her, the capital and the third fortress glimmered faintly under the moonlight, like dying embers in the dark. Ahead stretched an endless field of tall grass swaying in the wind, and at its farthest edge loomed a colossal, translucent barrier, so vast it seemed to cleave the world in two. Beyond it, still and immense, waited the castle.

That castle…

The way home was there. So close she could almost feel it, yet so far that hope itself felt heavy as iron.

These past days, she’d often found herself staring toward that dark fortress on the horizon. Its jagged silhouette seemed alive, watching them in silence, as though whatever monster lurked inside was studying their every move through the windows. Sometimes Eleanor wondered if that gaze was real or just the shape of fear born from exhaustion.

And then came the cruel doubt: what if it was all an illusion? What if the barrier projected a mirage, and the real castle lay somewhere else, closer perhaps, or infinitely farther away? Uncertainty was a slow poison. And time, its executioner. They had six hours. Six hours to fight, survive, and reach the target. If they failed, death would be their only reward.

Eleanor descended from the archer’s tower. The wooden planks creaked beneath her boots. The air was thick with smoke, frost, and tension. Around her, the camp stirred quietly, soldiers tightening straps, engineers checking ammunition, healers arranging herbs. Makeshift cannons dotted the terrain, crude but vital symbols of hope. Ballista towers rose like silent guardians, ready to tear apart anything that dared breach the barrier.

She walked slowly through it all, her eyes tracing every detail. Each placement, each adjustment was the product of sleepless nights, plans redrawn, defenses rebuilt with what little strength and faith remained. When she reached the archers’ division, they stood as one, their faces drawn but resolute.

“Thank you for everything, Professor Eleanor.”

She paused for a breath before answering. “I only gave you a few pointers. The effort was yours.”

The words were modest, but her voice carried something deeper. For weeks she had trained these young soldiers, shaped their discipline, sharpened their instincts. Now they stood before her, archers, students, comrades, ready to die beside her if it came to that. One by one, they approached, offering gratitude not in grand speeches but in nods, faint smiles, quiet gestures.

Eugene came running, his spear strapped to his back, his face slick with sweat and urgency.

“We’ve only got a few minutes left.”

“Alright, I’ll take my position.”

A woman strode forward through the rows of archers, her steps confident, her silhouette traced by the pale torchlight. It was Layla. one of the most promising archers Eleanor had trained.

“Professor Eleanor, I owe you my deepest thanks for teaching me to become a better archer.”

Eleanor regarded her calmly. She knew the girl well. Layla was one of the few people Luke actually interacted with, and for that reason, Eleanor had given her special attention during training.

“As I’ve told all of you before, I only give advice. You’re the ones who draw the bow and hit the target.”

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Before Layla could respond, a young archer came stumbling up, face flushed and clutching a crumpled flower in his hands.

“P-Professor Eleanor, I wanted to—”

The words died halfway out of his mouth. It was a scene she’d already lived through several times over the past few days. She knew exactly how it went.

“I-I wanted to—”

Eleanor sighed and arched a brow. “I’m not dead yet, so don’t go throwing flowers on my coffin.”

“N-no, professor, I actually wanted to—”

“I know. It was a joke.” She gave him a faint smile, though her gaze stayed sharp. “Unfortunately, I can’t accept, but thank you for your feelings.”

The young man bowed his head, face burning. “R-right… I understand.”

Eleanor tilted her head with a tired half-smile. “Still, you get points for effort. If you’d shown up with a necklace instead, you’d be marching into battle with a black eye.”

He blinked, confused.

“Forget it. It’s an inside joke,” she muttered, already stepping away with brisk purpose, as if that small escape could ease the weight pressing on her chest.

“You seem pretty popular,” Layla commented, walking beside her.

“That was the eighth one today. I guess the promise of certain death gives people courage.”

They walked side by side while Eugene followed a few paces behind, keeping an eye on the field as the last preparations took shape.