Outside the dome, the battlefield steamed.
Crimson fog drifted from every ruin. Craters smoked. Buildings collapsed in the distance like wounded giants.
Twenty feet in the air, Anele looked down on Rhesa.
The sight of her struggling to stand—still burning the last of her Vira when she knew it wouldn't change anything—it disgusted him.
Who gave her the right to stand in the same space as him and call herself a Kyrios?
"Give up, Rhesa!" he roared, his voice echoing like thunder.
"You're bleeding out. I can feel it. Your body's cracking. End this farce."
Rhesa wavered—but rose.
Blood ran down her chin. Her eyes burned with something feral. She was strong enough to keep her blood from seeping into his domain. As long as Anele didn't injure her directly, she could resist its pull.
"You'll pay for what you've done," she rasped.
"You'll answer for every scream."
Anele's smile died.
Virans born of water didn't feel certain emotions. Rage was one of them. But if he could feel rage—truly feel it—this would be the moment.
Because why the hell is she still wasting time? Why in the world is she still standing?
"Tsk." His voice went flat. Cold.
"I'm tired of this."
He turned his gaze toward the Veil. Then the horizon.
'I've already used sixty percent of my Vira.
The others have probably sensed it by now...
I can't trust they'll stay out of it—especially Sael. That idealistic brat.'
He clenched his jaw.
In truth, he was being cautious.
Ending this now would require one of his strongest summoning arts—devastating, but costly. It would burn through all of his Vira.
Too loud. Too final.
And worst of all, it would leave him spent.
Exposed.
He couldn't afford that. Not here. Not now.
If another Kyrios showed up—
It wouldn't be a skirmish. It would be another war.
And he wasn't prepared to face more than one Kyrios today.
But he had no other choice.
He didn't have time for theatrics.
He couldn't drag this out and risk another one showing up.
Anele raised both arms, his eyes lit with cold, endless blue, and screamed into the blood-stained sky:
"Come, Malahk of the Vein!"
The sky screamed back.
Above, the Veil convulsed. It twisted in on itself like a gut being wrung out—pulsing, distorting, alive. The clouds curled inward, as if afraid. The horizon darkened, swallowing the light.
And then—
Silence.
Not a single sound. Not even the wind.
The fog stopped moving. Flames no longer crackled. The dying stopped moaning. Even time seemed to hold its breath.
Then came the pressure.
It pressed down on the world like a divine punishment—vast, ancient, merciless.
Not heat. Not cold. Something deeper. Something cellular.
Like the body knew, before the mind could understand.
The ground groaned beneath it, fracturing in long, moaning lines.
Inside the shattered dome, Ren dropped to his knees and vomited violently. His whole body trembled.
'What… what the hell is that?'
Simon held Anya tighter. She had gone limp in his arms, her small body unable to bear the weight.
His own blood felt hot—too hot. Like it wanted to escape his veins. Like it was screaming.
And on the battlefield, Rhesa raised her eyes to the sky.
And saw them.
Hooves.
Glistening. Wet. Descending slowly from the torn veil above.
The air cracked.
Something massive pulled itself through the tear—sixty feet tall and crowned in horns like crescent moons rotted black. Its body was forged from steaming, coagulated blood, sculpted into wet, pulsing muscle. Veins squirmed just beneath the surface like serpents in a jar.
Its head resembled a goat's—but stretched, distorted. Like a skull sculpted by something that had only heard of mammals.
The angles were too sharp. The jaw too long. And the eyes—
The eyes were ancient pits of pressure.
Not wrath. Not malice.
Something worse.
Something that did not see the world the way mortals did.
It didn't roar. It didn't scream.
It simply… arrived.
Rhesa's lips parted. Her breath caught in her throat.
'Shit... shit... shit. I'm out of Vira.'
She swallowed.
The creature descended like the answer to an ancient curse.
Its hooved feet slammed into the ground with a sound like thunder cracking bone. Each step fractured the earth. A ribcage of exposed vessels stretched down its torso like chains, pulsing wetly beneath glistening blood-soaked muscle.
It looked at her.
And moved.
The metal knight golem surged forward, massive arms raised. Rhesa triggered a pulse of Vira, willing it to charge faster—
But Malahk didn't even flinch.
It raised one hand.
The sky answered.
Blood fell.
Pillars of it—towering, divine hammers of pressurized liquid. The first slammed into the knight's side, flinging it away. The second came faster—crushing it into the earth with a wet explosion.
Malahk waved again.
The pillar lifted—and smashed down again.
And again.
Until nothing remained but twisted limbs and molten gears.
The archer golem had just raised its bow, swirling metal into a piercing javelin—
But a pillar slammed into it, collapsing its frame into a shrieking mess of warped steel.
Malahk shifted.
Its swollen form convulsed—and from its hunched back burst wings, ragged and jagged, made not of feathers, but of sinew and pulsing veins.
It rose with a shriek, soaring above the ruin, blotting out what little sky remained—until it could see Rhesa behind her fortress, small and still beneath the shattered sky.
Only the tank golem remained—her final defense—its plated arms spreading as it stepped forward with a seismic clang.
Rhesa looked up. Her mouth went dry.
Malahk pointed.
A pillar dropped like a falling star.
"Warden's Carapace!" she screamed, desperation sharp in her voice, eyes wide with fear.
The tank golem shattered into plates—folding around her body, sealing her in a dome of metal and light.
The impact came a heartbeat later.
A shockwave tore outward, flattening what little still stood.
The dome held—but barely. Metal groaned. Plates screamed.
And Rhesa—already spent—felt her Vira burning away just to keep it intact.
'Please…'
Then came Malahk.
It fell from the sky like judgment.
The dome cracked on impact. Bent inward. Shrieking.
One final blow—
—and it shattered.
Maybe it would've held if she'd had more Vira to give.
But that was the cruel truth: the strength of an art is measured by how much Vira you pour into it.
And she had nothing left.
The shards of her domain scattered like ashes.
The knight.
The fortress.
The archer.
The carapace that had protected her family—her legacy—
All of it lay broken. Crushed. Gone.
Rhesa collapsed.
She hit the earth hard, gasping. Her body shook, drenched in sweat, blood, and tears. Every breath was a battle. Her limbs wouldn't respond. Her heart thundered, her Vira flickering like a dying candle.
She couldn't lift her hand.
Couldn't lift her head.
All around her—silence.
Except for the slow, heavy steps of something ancient. Something that didn't belong to this world.
And in her chest, a whisper:
Death.
The ground pulsed beneath her cheek—a low, steady tremor. Each footstep echoed like the heartbeat of a world she no longer belonged to.
Her body was done.
Spent. Empty.
Vira—gone. Strength—gone. Even pain was fading, replaced by a cold that crept beneath her skin like rising water.
Her fingertips twitched against the dirt. Her legs felt distant. Hollow.
Her lungs rasped.
'So this is what it feels like to die.'
Regret began to flicker in, soft and sharp.
'If I had known he'd come… I'd have taken them far away.
I said I'd protect them…'
Her throat tightened. The thought hit like a dagger between her ribs.
'I said they'd be safe.
Will he let them live?'
Her heart clenched. A breath stuttered out of her.
'Ahhh… what do I do now?'
Her mind spun.
'He won't let them live…
Anya…'
Tears slid down her cheeks, carving lines through the blood and dust. Her body wouldn't move. Her lips barely did. But the ache in her chest… it screamed.
'Please… not Anya. Not her.
She's just a child.
She doesn't understand what I am. What I was. What this war is.'
Now, broken beneath the shadow of that repulsive being, Rhesa wanted nothing more than to hold her children—just once. To gather them close. To breathe them in.
'Ahh… Ren… I wish you'd never have to touch this world of Virans.
I wish I could've kept you small a little longer…
I wish I could stay with you both. Just a little longer.'
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye—and vanished into the ash.
Then, the shadow deepened.
Rhesa forced her eyes upward.
Malahk stood over her—colossal, steaming, alive. Its chest rose and fell with inhuman calm, like the breathing of some ancient, sleeping demigod.
It tilted its head. Curious.
She hated how it looked at her—like she was already gone.
Just part of the dirt beneath its hooves.
Her lip trembled.
She tried to move her fingers. Nothing. Tried to sit up. Her spine screamed.
The creature took another step. Deliberate. Mocking.
A sound escaped her—a sob, strangled and raw.
Blood, thick and metallic, slithered beneath her. It touched her skin. Sank in like oil.
Her vision swam. The world became red and lightless.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Controlled.
Anele had landed nearby, boots crunching on shattered stone.
Above, the veil of blood unraveled in slow, bleeding strands. Droplets fell like crimson tears.
The sky—ashen and bruised—peeked through once more, pale as a dying eye.
"You can go, Malahk," he said quietly.
The blood-fiend dissolved into red mist. No scream. No farewell.
Just the collapse of something ancient—like a cathedral caving inward, silent and absolute.
And with it—
A silence colder than death.
Anele approached.
Then she heard his voice again.
Low. Cruel. Like poisoned silk.
"Look at you," he murmured.
"The Iron Will… reduced to a whimpering insect."
Her breath stuttered.
But somehow—she moved.
Fingers scraped through ash and blood. Her body dragged inch by inch. Muscles screamed. Bones cried.
Until she reached him.
His feet.
Her hand—bloodied, shaking—closed around his ankle.
"Please…" she whispered. "I don't want to die…"
The words didn't echo. They fell like feathers on stone.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving lines through grime and ash.
She had forged cities. Commanded legions.
Now she could barely breathe.
She was hollow. Crushed.
And still—she begged.
Anele looked down at her. His expression twisted—not with pity. With something colder.
Disgust.
"You were a Kyrios," he said. "And now you beg?"
He knelt. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then seized a fistful of her hair—and yanked her head up.
She whimpered.
"A Kyrios who grovels forfeits more than their life.
You forfeited your legacy," he hissed.
Her lips quivered. Her eyes—wide, red, broken—found his.
"Spare them," she whispered. Barely audible.
"Please…"