The dust settled over the battlefield in slow, drifting sheets.

  Broken weapons jutted from the ground like grave markers. The air stank of iron and scorched stone. Somewhere in the distance, embers still crawled across the ruins, refusing to die.

  Two men stood facing each other in the aftermath—both swaying, both bleeding, both refusing to fall.

  One had crimson hair matted to his forehead, amber eyes dulled by exhaustion and rage. His breath came hard, each inhale scraping like it hurt to exist.

  The other had black hair and red eyes. Blood trailed down the side of his face, cutting dark lines through the dust. He looked calm only because he’d run out of energy to show anything else.

  The crimson-haired man raised his blade—barely.

  “Why?” his voice rasped. “Why did you trick us for so many years?”

  The black-haired man lifted his gaze.

  “What trick?” he asked quietly. “All I did was help you achieve your goal.”

  A humorless laugh escaped the crimson-haired man.

  “You’re a demon,” he said, like the word itself was poison. “How dare you speak of goals beyond your own?”

  The black-haired man’s eyes sharpened.

  “That may be true,” he said. “My existence may be that of a demon.”

  His voice didn’t rise. That made it worse.

  “But you killed our trusted friends over a matter they thought was trivial.”

  Silence fell.

  Not peaceful—heavy. Like the world was holding its breath to see which one would break first.

  The black-haired man swallowed, his throat working around blood.

  “…Talos,” he tried to say.

  The crimson-haired man flinched at the name like it burned.

  “Don’t you dare say my name, demon.”

  The black-haired man stared at him, something fractured in his expression.

  “So even my name,” he said, “the one you used all the time as my companion and friend… means nothing now?”

  Talos tightened his grip on his sword.

  “Sarog,” he said, voice sharp with certainty he didn’t feel, “you are no longer just a simple companion. The Lucien Church has designated you as a future Demon King.”

  Sarog’s eyes widened, just a fraction.

  “I never wanted to hurt anyone,” he said. “The only thing I wanted was to protect the people of this land.”

  Talos’s jaw clenched.

  “Either way,” he said, “you being left alive will only cause disturbance.”

  Sarog’s laugh came out rough—almost broken.

  “What disturbance? I had to reveal my true power to stop the arch demon who wanted to destroy the kingdom.”

  Talos’s amber eyes narrowed.

  “That was just a dispute between demons.”

  For a moment, Sarog looked like he might scream.

  Then he exhaled, slow and bitter.

  “Well,” Sarog said, lifting his sword again, “either way… even if this is the last time we clash blades… I’m glad I can trade blows with an old friend.”

  Talos didn’t answer.

  He moved.

  In an instant, both men dashed forward with swords raised.

  Sarog’s mana erupted first—crimson and white flames blooming outward like a flower made of war. The ground blackened under the heat, and the air shimmered with distortion.

  Talos leapt.

  He jumped into the air, twisting, and brought his blade down as his aura flared—pure force wrapped in disciplined intent.

  Sarog met him with fire.

  He focused the flames upward, compressing them into a wall of burning pressure that caught Talos’s downward strike head-on.

  The impact detonated.

  Debris exploded outward. Dust swallowed the battlefield again. Stones cracked, and the shockwave rolled like thunder.

  Then—through the smoke—they collided in a melee.

  Talos swung his long sword toward Sarog’s torso.

  Sarog deflected with a short sword, metal screeching as the blades met. Sparks flew and died in the dust.

  Talos followed up immediately—gold lightning bursting from his right hand.

  It slammed into Sarog’s shoulder.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The smell of burnt flesh hit the air.

  Sarog jerked from the pain—but he didn’t lose momentum. He stepped in anyway, forcing his body forward, forcing his blade to keep moving even as his shoulder blistered and smoked.

  He attacked from the right—one strike, two, three.

  Talos blocked with his shield, bracing his stance. The hits rang like bells of execution.

  Sarog attacked again.

  Talos parried.

  The impact threw Sarog’s short sword free.

  It spun through the air and vanished into the rubble with a dull clatter.

  Sarog’s eyes widened.

  In that fraction of time—Talos stepped in.

  His blade drove into Sarog’s right arm.

  A clean stab.

  A precise disable.

  Sarog’s arm went numb instantly, his last functioning limb failing him.

  He stumbled back, choking on pain.

  Talos didn’t hesitate.

  He slashed across Sarog’s chest.

  Blood sprayed dark into the dust.

  Sarog fell hard, then crawled—dragging himself backward until his spine hit the broken wall behind him. He propped himself up, breathing like every breath was a battle he was losing.

  Talos approached, sword lowered slightly.

  “It’s finally over,” he said.

  Sarog gave a weak, broken smile.

  “So this is how our tale ends,” he whispered. “Or at least mine.”

  “It seems so,” Talos replied.

  Sarog’s gaze lifted—tired, desperate.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Did our friendship mean nothing? Did any of us really matter to you?”

  Talos’s expression cracked.

  “Yes,” he said immediately. “You meant everything to me.”

  Then his hand went to his head.

  He staggered like he’d been struck.

  “Why…” Talos whispered, teeth clenched. “Why did I do such a thing?”

  Sarog blinked, confused through the pain.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Talos’s eyes widened as if he could finally see his own actions.

  Why would I do this to my friends? his mind screamed.

  And before he could grasp the answer—

  A spear of light tore through his back.

  Talos froze.

  His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Then he collapsed.

  Sarog stared, breath caught in his throat.

  He looked at Talos’s body—then screamed.

  “NO!”

  His voice tore raw as he tried to crawl forward.

  But his body wouldn’t obey.

  He lifted his head, shaking, and saw who had done it.

  Two figures stood at the edge of the battlefield, untouched by dust, untouched by blood—like the war refused to stain them.

  The Lucien Church’s saint and saintess.

  Falkor Higgans.

  Runa Stoneheart.

  Falkor lowered his spear slowly, almost bored.

  “Who knew,” he said, “the mind-control spell would wear off.”

  Sarog’s throat tightened.

  “…What?”

  Runa smiled.

  “I would’ve guessed a demon would save the kingdom eventually,” she said lightly, as if discussing weather. “So we had to make up something. Can’t look bad.”

  Sarog’s vision blurred.

  “But…” he rasped. “You could’ve just manipulated the people and said otherwise.”

  Runa tilted her head.

  “Good point,” she said. “But we couldn’t do that with our goody-two-shoes high priestess around.”

  Her smile widened.

  “So we got rid of her to frame you. You know… simple.”

  A sense of dread dropped into Sarog’s chest like a stone.

  Runa’s tone stayed caracal—cruelty dressed as conversation.

  “She tried telling everyone you were a good demon,” Runa said. “So we labeled her a heretic and burned her.”

  Sarog’s breath stopped.

  “Camellia,” Runa added, almost fondly. “Even though she was a commoner at birth, she hid herself well among the nobles who wanted her safe.”

  Falkor snorted.

  “We probably wouldn’t have found her if the king hadn’t helped,” he said. “Inspecting every noble house… sniffing out anyone disloyal.”

  Runa nodded as if it was all amusing.

  “She almost got out of Hasten,” she said. “If only she hadn’t been caught at the border by that noble who betrayed her.”

  Runa’s eyes gleamed.

  “Kidnapping his daughter worked wonderfully.”

  Sarog’s mind cracked.

  Camellia burned.

  Talos is dead.

  The king was involved.

  His hands trembled—what remained of him trembling.

  Before he could move—

  Falkor stepped forward.

  Steel flashed.

  Pain exploded.

  Sarog didn’t even understand what was happening until he saw it.

  His arms—gone.

  His legs—gone.

  He screamed, and the sound was ugly.

  Falkor leaned down, voice flat.

  “Are you mad?” he asked.

  Then, as if Sarog disgusted him, Falkor grabbed Sarog by the head and slammed his face into the ground.

  Stone cracked.

  Sarog’s head lay sideways in the dust, his eyes wide with hatred and shock.

  Falkor clicked his tongue and raised his spear.

  He aimed for Sarog’s skull.

  Then—

  “Wait,” Runa said.

  Falkor paused, annoyed.

  Runa stepped closer, smiling down at Sarog like he was a wounded animal.

  “You want revenge?” she asked softly.

  She laughed.

  “Revenge is only for the strong.”

  Sarog’s breathing turned ragged.

  Runa crouched and tapped his forehead gently, mockingly.

  “If you want to kill us,” she whispered, “you’ll need to come for us. Forget who you are. Only come to destroy us.”

  Her voice softened into something almost sad.

  “This is true vengeance.”

  Sarog’s eyes shook.

  Runa sighed.

  “You won’t get that,” she said, pity in her tone that made it worse.

  She placed a hand on Sarog’s head.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You poor thing.”

  Holy energy condensed.

  A pressure built inside Sarog’s skull.

  For a fraction of time, Sarog understood what was about to happen—

  Then his head exploded.

  Blood, bone, and light vanished into dust and smoke.

  Falkor recoiled, grimacing.

  “Runa,” he muttered. “You’re sick.”

  Runa stood and wiped her hand on Falkor’s shoulder like he was cloth.

  Then she punched him hard enough to stagger him.

  “Don’t get soft,” she said.

  And together, saint and saintess walked away from the battlefield—leaving only ash behind.