Ayato – Northern Battlefield
The snow no longer fell.
It burned.
Ash blanketed the ridges. Trees had splintered from shockwaves. Stone was cracked, melted in places. Where once wyverns soared, now only corpses lay—charred, frozen, or split in half.
Ayato stood at the center of it all, barely breathing.
His once-royal robe was shredded, drenched in blood that steamed off his skin. One sword was broken, the other half-buried in the chest of Karakken, the octopus demon lord who still twitched beneath him.
Qua'sar had been reduced to charred bones, caught in the crossfire of wind and lightning. Levithan's bloated corpse smoked across the ridge, frozen in jagged spikes of ice.
Only one demon remained.
Prince Xalthon.
He stood just beyond the smoke, brushing off his shoulder like he'd merely tripped through a mild inconvenience. A deep cut traced down his cheek, but he wore it like a badge of honor.
Ayato's chest heaved.
Xalthon stifled a yawn. "This was entertaining. I'd say you've earned a place above livestock. Maybe a lapdog."
Ayato gritted his teeth. Lightning crackled down his forearms, but his knees buckled. His mana reserves were drained. He was running on instinct.
Xalthon's grin widened. "You're wondering why I didn't kill you. Here's your answer: I didn't have to."
He turned his back casually, walking through the field of ruined demons.
"I was just here to keep you busy. We already got what we came for."
Ayato lunged, roaring.
Xalthon stopped. Didn't turn. "You won't catch me. Not now. But maybe next time, Azure Blade."
With a pulse of Chaos mana, he vanished.
Ayato collapsed to one knee. Snow hissed beneath his weight.
His hand clenched the hilt of his broken sword.
"I'll kill you next time," he whispered. "No distractions. No mercy."
Kaido had fought like a storm—his axe cleaving through ranks of chaos beasts, his roars shaking the mountaintops. But Qua'sar's last spell, a spiraling sphere of Order and Chaos, caught him full force in the back. The blast shattered his shoulder and sent him tumbling through trees and snow, his form buried under splintered stone.
Rin had stood her ground till the end, arrows never missing, her final shot driving clean through Kirichin's collarbone. But she never saw the tail—Levithan's dying whip cracked across her back, sending her crashing against a frozen boulder. Her bow snapped in half beside her.
Now they lay still—Kaido unconscious beneath rubble, Rin limp and frost-covered at the cliff's edge.
The bodies of Ayato's companions lay still around him.
But he had held the line.
Samara – The Capital Breached
The wind howled through the capital's crumbling spires. Fires licked the rooftops, casting shadows over stone walls now stained with blood and ash.
Then the temperature dropped.
A ripple in the air like a void tearing.
He appeared not with noise, but with absence—like sound itself refused to exist around him.
Prince Xelvar descended from the clouds in a slow, hovering spiral, his black wings folding elegantly behind him. His boots touched the cracked stones with the softness of silk, and yet the moment he landed, the entire courtyard buckled beneath the weight of his mana.
He was tall, statuesque, beautiful in the way venomous things could be. His hair shimmered like freshly bled silver; his eyes burned a deep crimson. He wore no armor—only a dark, regal tunic with runes that flickered faintly across the chest, alive with dark power.
Soldiers who saw him fell to their knees—not out of respect, but suffocating terror.
He smiled.
"Which one of you is the prized little human?" he drawled, voice silk laced with razors. "The one blessed with revival. I must say… your kingdom has terrible defenses."
Then he walked forward, uncaring as a soldier rushed him.
Xelvar waved a hand.
The man exploded.
"Now," he said, wiping away invisible dust from his sleeve. "Let's begin."
Sumire moved before anyone else. She stepped between Xelvar and Samara with silent resolve, twin daggers already in her hands. Her movements were graceful, precise—too fast for most eyes to follow.
But Xelvar didn't move. He simply blinked, watching her come like one might observe a butterfly in the wind.
Sumire struck, aiming for pressure points, for joints, for the throat. Her blades danced with perfect, lethal intent.
Xelvar caught one wrist mid-air. Then the other.
"You're fast," he said, amused. "But you're still human."
Then he began.
He didn't kill her quickly. He punched. Tore. Kicked. Not to end her—but to break her.
Ribs cracked. Her legs folded. She coughed blood as he slammed her into the cobblestones, again and again. All while she struggled to stab him, eyes fierce through the pain.
Only when she could no longer lift her arms did he let her drop.
What followed was a blur of brutality.
Sumire fell hard.
Blood splattered the cracked marble floor of the temple steps. Her limbs twitched, one arm bent the wrong way, lips bruised and bleeding. Samara's scream tore through the night.
He turned from her broken body without pause, only now setting his sights on the trembling figure that still stood—Samara.
His presence shifted, his bloodlust crawling toward her like a hungry shadow.
Then he stepped forward.
Samara tightened her grip around her katana, teeth clenched, every muscle trembling not just from pain—but from anticipation.
Xelvar stood over her, unbothered, flexing the fingers of the same hand that had turned Sumire into a bloodied heap. His knuckles steamed with Chaos mana. He tilted his head, red eyes glinting with satisfaction. And hit Samara five times in a quick succession.
"You should be honored," he said. "Most humans die before the third hit."
Samara raised her blade again, trembling.
"Still standing?" he asked. "How charming."
She charged.
Her katana gleamed in the moonlight, her swing perfectly aimed for the soft gap under his ribs.
It connected.
But Xelvar didn't even flinch.
His skin didn't cut. Not even a scratch.
With one motion, he backhanded her across the courtyard.
Samara slammed into a pillar. Cracked it.
Her ribs screamed. Her vision doubled.
"I was told you'd be pretty," Xelvar said, strolling toward her. "But this? This is divine."
She spit blood. "Back off."
He crouched beside her, tilting her chin up.
"You won't die, don't worry. You'll make strong offspring. That's why I came."
Samara's hand twitched. She summoned another weapon—shorter this time. A dagger.
She drove it toward his neck.
He caught her wrist.
And squeezed.
She shrieked.
Xelvar's grin sharpened. "Such fire. No wonder they revived you."
He slammed her into the ground.
She gasped, choking on air. Her body begged her to collapse, to surrender to the pain—but her mind flared, resisting.
You promised him, a voice echoed in her head. You promised Ayato you wouldn't die.
She remembered his warmth. The tea. His lopsided grin. His embrace.
Her fingers curled into the stone.
"I'm not done," she breathed. "I won't be done."
"Now," he whispered. "It's your turn."
He raised his hand, Chaos mana coiling around his palm.
She reached—trembling, teeth clenched. Another blade. One more try.
Then—
Clang.
A blade intercepted the blow.
Longer than her katana. Sleek. Black with a silver edge. Runes along the fuller glowed like stars.
Xelvar's palm halted inches above her face.
His expression shifted—surprise.
Behind the blade, a figure.
Unseen.
Unnamed.
But very real.
Samara gasped, blinking up through the blood.
The shadow said nothing.
Only raised the blade again.
Xelvar straightened. His smile returned.
"Well. This just got interesting."
TO BE CONTINUED