Tyrant emerged from the tree line. Her form was a paradox of solid muscle and predatory grace, her eyes scanning the area with cold recognition.

  She had felt it, the sudden, mass cessation of the undead horde she commanded. It was not natural, it was an attack. And it led here. Where The Sinclair carriage stood imposingly.

  Her gaze locked onto the carriage. Intruders.

  She didn't announce herself. One moment she was at the tree line, the next she was a golden blur, her great sword cleaving the air as she charged, intent on turning the carriage into a fireball of splinters.

  A wall of water, hard as forged steel, erupted from the earth. The impact was colossal, a shockwave that rattled her bones and halted her charge dead. The water held for an impossible second, defying physics, before collapsing into a placid puddle.

  From the roof of the carriage, a figure stretched with infuriating laziness.

  "Come on," a young man sighed, hopping down. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Seriously? Just when I thought I was done being a donkey, another chore shows up! You guys must love endless toil and tedious garbage work, but count me out. I’m not interested in wasting any more time on this boring act.”

  Rage, cold and sharp, cut through her. Her aura flared, a visible corona of golden energy that pressed down on the clearing, making the air thick and heavy. She answered by leveling her great sword. A searing beam of condensed aura, capable of vaporizing stone, lanced toward him.

  He didn't block. He simply leaned to the side, the beam passing harmlessly by his head to scorch the trees behind him.

  "Hey, Finn!" he called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off her. "Take this one, come on!"

  A voice, flat and irritated, filtered from inside the carriage. "Shut up, Max. Finish her off. If I have to come out, I will beat you first before her."

  Another voice, female: "Should I assist?"

  A second, more analytical: "I would not advise it. Brother Max is more than capable of handling this, not to forget brother Lucien have assigned this duty to him."

  Max, effortlessly sidestepping another blistering beam, cupped a hand to his ear. "Can you guys speak louder? I can't actually hear you! Hey, what did you say?"

  A sliver of cold dread pierced Tyrant's fury. They are… bickering. "What is up with you?" she snarled, her voice rough. "What is your affiliation? Why are you disturbing us?"

  Max's eyes lit up with mock surprise. "Oh, you got a tongue! I thought you were undead for a moment."

  The fight began in earnest. Tyrant was a whirlwind of golden light and destruction. Her sword moved faster than sight, each swing releasing crescent waves of cutting force.

  Her beams scorched the surrounding earth. She was a force that had leveled battalions singlehandedly, her attacks were hardened by her aura, making them tougher and more dangerous than cannons.

  And it was not working.

  He was water. He flowed around her strikes, his body dissolving into spray at the moment of impact, only to reform an instant later. He wasn't even fighting back, just… evading. A terrifying performance of absolute leisure.

  "What. You want to dance?" he said, his voice losing its playful edge.

  He flicked his wrist. The surrounding puddles, the moisture in the air, coalesced into a sphere of water that encased her in an instant.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t.”

  The pressure was immense, crushing. With a guttural scream, she poured her aura outwards, shattering the sphere in a blast of steam and power.

  She surged forward, fist cocked, putting all her superhuman strength into a blow that could pulverize a castle gate. His hand came up and caught her fist. The impact was silent. The force simply… vanished.

  Her eyes widened in horror. How?

  His expression was blank. "My turn."

  He yanked her forward and drove his other fist into her face. The world exploded in white light and the sound of shattering bone. She was airborne, flying backward before crashing into the earth.

  Before she could even process the pain, a pencil-thin jet of water, moving faster than sound, pierced clean through her left arm. She screamed as the limb went limp, her great sword clattering to the ground.

  "How tedious," he muttered, walking away.

  No. This couldn't be. I am Tyrant! No. I could not… I could not… fail like this.

  Desperate, she channeled everything, burning her own life force, a final, suicidal detonation. Her body glowed like a miniature sun. She was ready to unleash a final, all-or-nothing blast, a wave of pure annihilation meant to erase him and the carriage and the very clearing from existence.

  But she never completed.

  An alien sensation bloomed in her stomach. A sharp, piercing pain. She looked down. A green shoot, vibrant and obscene, was pushing its way out through her golden armor, through her skin and muscle.

  More followed. Vines, thick and strong, erupted from within her, weaving around her limbs, her torso, her neck. They constricted, pulling tight, sapping her strength, her aura, her very life. She was being consumed, turned into a planter for some horrific flora. The world faded to a silent, green-tinted nightmare.

  From the carriage, the flat voice spoke again. "What's taking you more than two minutes for this?"

  "Couldn't you do that earlier?" Max complained, his voice already returning to its lazy drawl.

  "Couldn't you have killed her at first sight?" Finn retorted.

  Max just shrugged, shoving his hands back in his pockets. "Where's the fun in that?

  [ At ritual site ]

  Shaman, floating near the roaring pillar of soul-fire, felt a familiar mana disturbance. "Huh," he muttered. "So Tyrant is also dead now. This is bad. At this rate…"

  His words died as he sensed the presence behind him. He turned, and his eyes widened at the creature in the firelight.

  It was a walking blasphemy. The pristine white robes were shredded, fused with a body of jagged, blood-blackened limbs and vacant, glowing eyes. It was White's power, twisted into something feral and mindless.

  "White? Is that you?" Shaman breathed, his voice a mix of shock and clinical curiosity. "I thought you were dead. What have they done to you?"

  White lunged. It was fast, a blur of claws and darkness aimed at Shaman's heart.

  Shaman was faster. Simply chanting a single, sharp syllable. A cage of spectral, binding energy snapped into existence around the creature.

  It roared, thrashing against the bars. Shaman sent a bolt of lightning through its body, but the entity shrugged it off.

  "Possession by a devil of some kind? It's as if his body has become a host for evil spirit," Shaman mused, floating closer. "Fascinating." He raised a hand, his fingers curling into a claw. He looked at the acolytes and the remaining normal sacrifices. "This will hurt you, White, but let's see if it works. Even if it does, you will most definitely die."

  He made a complex sign with his hand and chanted, "Lord of Shadow, grace us with your presence! I offer what is before me in return for his freedom!"

  He gestured at the group of acolytes and sacrifices. Screams were cut short as Their bodies contorted, life force ripped from them in a violent torrent by something invisible.

  A wave of pure shadow erupted from Shaman, slamming into the cage. The demonic energy holding the entity together violently shredded. The monstrous form unraveled, shadow and blood dissolving into mist, leaving only the broken, bleeding core of the man who had been White.

  White collapsed onto the scorched stone, his body wracked with pain, the demonic influence burned away. His own consciousness returned, a drowning man gasping for air. He was himself again, for the last few moments he had left.

  His vision, blurred with tears of pain and shame, fixed on the only thing that mattered, the colossal bonfire. The pillar of screaming souls. And the figure submerged within it.

  I could be of no use in this life. At the very least, let my body feed this fire and help you, Father.

  He began to crawl. Each movement was agony, a trail of blood smearing behind him. He didn't look at Shaman. His entire world had narrowed to the fire and the man within it.

  "F-Father...?" The word was a bloody gurgle, torn from a ruined throat.

  Within the vortex of unholy flame, the old man, Noburu, stirred. The ritual was at its zenith, power flooding his aging body, repairing the decay of years.

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

  But a familiar, broken voice cut through the chorus of screaming souls. His eyes, now burning with nascent power, opened and looked down.

  He saw his son. Not the powerful, masked mage he had sent out. He saw the broken, bleeding boy now crawling toward him, dying, reaching out with a final, desperate hope.

  The majestic, terrifying aura around Noburu flickered. The serene mask of a reborn immortal shattered, replaced by a raw, mortal grief so profound it was physically painful to witness.

  He broke.

  A raw, guttural cry tore from his throat, incredibly loud, drowning out the ritual's hum. Tears streamed down his face in a relentless torrent.

  He stumbled out of the flames, his new power forgotten, and ran to his son. He fell to his knees, gathering White's broken form into his lap, cradling him.

  "White! My son! White, my son, my son!" he sobbed, his body shaking. "Who did this to you? Tell your father! Who is behind this? Tell me! Please, tell me!"

  White looked up, his vision fading. "I am sorry, Father. I am sorry I could not do anything for you. I could not make you proud. I am sorry…"

  "No! Son, don't talk like this! White, don't leave! White! My son! My son! My son!" He cried, rocking back and forth, but White had already gone still, his body consumed by its final wounds.

  Noburu held the lifeless body, his cries echoing through the cavern, a storm of grief in the heart of his crumbling ambition.

  He did not look up as Shaman strode calmly into the raging soul-fire, untouched by the flames.

  “So you do have such emotions,” Shaman said, his voice cutting through Noburu’s sobs. “Hearing your story, I thought you were without them.” He let out a short, mocking laugh.

  Noburu’s head snapped up, tears streaking through the soot on his face, his eyes burning with a grief-stricken fury. “Shaman! Tell me who was behind this! Who did this to my son?! I don’t care about the failure! Fasten everything! Give me whatever is possible, I will kill them myself!”

  Shaman laughed again, a sound of pure derision. “Are you an idiot? Behaving like a sentimental old man? Is the pain of losing someone so much that you will throw away your life’s goal?”

  “JUST DO WHAT I SAY!” Noburu roared, his voice cracking. “I will give you anything! Just give me the power to kill them!”

  Shaman’s face went serious for a moment, then he broke into a wide, manic grin. “Well,” he said, his tone shifting to one of finality. “What I wanted has already been done.”

  Noburu stared, confusion cutting through his rage. “What? What has been done?”

  Shaman didn’t answer with words. He raised his hands, and complex magic circles flared to life on his palms. The very earth shook as he thrust his hands forward.

  The colossal pillar of soul-fire convulsed, then collapsed in on itself, all the spirits, all the energy, all the stolen lives were violently compressed into a single, screaming point of light. The mist suddenly heaved, expelling the lingering spirits of every creature that had died within it, all funneling into that nexus of power.

  “Master!” Shaman called out. “It is time!”

  From the shadows, a figure emerged. Zero. Who, Noburu had sent to retrieve the special sacrifices. He had returned empty-handed, a deadly, serene smile on his face. He walked calmly into the ritual fire.

  “Zero?” Noburu stammered, hope and dread warring in his heart. “What are you doing here? What is going on?”

  Zero’s response was to backhand the old man with casual, brutal force, sending him sprawling from the central platform. “Shut up, old man,” Zero said, his voice cold. He looked at Shaman. “Mike. Is everything done?”

  “Yes,” Shaman replied with deep respect. “It is perfectly done, Master.”

  Zero nodded and turned to the point of condensed energy. He embraced it. The power surged into his body, burning him away—flesh, bone, and the very memory of the demon named Zero.

  From the incandescent core, a new body formed from pure energy. A male hominid with a peak physique, yellow hair that seemed to radiate fire, and eyes that opened to reveal ancient, calculating consciousness.

  In a moment, it absorbed everything, leaving only the perfect new vessel. The being flexed its hands, a smile of ultimate satisfaction on its face.

  “Wonderful. This is amazing. This is definitively the perfect body I was needing,” the being laughed, its voice resonant and powerful. “And as a bonus, I have gained the power and abilities of all who have died in this mist. Wonderful. Amazing.”

  Noburu could only stare, shattered. “What have you done? Have you betrayed me?! What is this, Zero?!”

  The new figure looked down at him, as tribal markings were forming and glowing on his chest and arms. “Huh. Do not call me by such a senseless name anymore.” It took a step forward. “Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? My name is Salkas. Or Shalkas, whatever is easy for you to say.”

  Noburu crumpled to the ground, the last of his hope extinguished, lost in a void of despair.

  Salkas looked at Shaman. “Let me get some clothes. After that, we will leave this place.” He vanished instantly.

  Shaman, looked down at the broken old man. “You told me your story, your deepest secrets. As a final moment, let me tell you this: I definitely had the intention of helping you. I was completely on board. I had no reason to betray you.” He paused, his tone almost conversational. “But then one day, my master came to me. After a long discussion, he told me he needed a powerful new body to accomplish his new goals. So, I sided with him. After all, I am his disciple. My master has the power to possess someone else's body after they die, or in some cases, while they are alive, if certain conditions are met.”

  He gestured to the spot where Zero had been consumed. “Don’t worry. Zero did not betray you. He has been long dead, from the moment my master possessed him. In fact, none of those demon children you hated betrayed you. They all died for your foolish dream. Now, you are all alone.”

  The words were a final nail in the coffin of Noburu’s spirit. The void in his heart consumed him.

  “Now, don’t be sad,” Mike said with a false cheer. “As an apology gift… you see that bonfire? It is still burning. It will remain until someone finds its source and puts it out, or it runs out of fuel. The final sacrifice was never given. If you sacrifice yourself to it now, you might make the devil happy. He might grant you your wish. You are, after all, of demon blood.” His smile turned cruel. “But beware. A deal with the devil always comes at a cost. And knowing how capable our adversaries are, I wouldn’t be shocked if they find this place soon. So be quick.”

  Mike waved a hand. “Now, I have to go. Bye-bye.”

  He vanished, leaving Noburu alone in the silent, ruined cavern. After a few moments, the old man felt a faint, distant magical sensation signaling that his betrayers had truly left this place, and him, behind.

  The small, persistent flame called to him. Shaman’s words echoed in the hollows of his mind. A deal with the devil… your wish…

  He had no grand wish left. No dreams of empires or awakened power. There was only the image of White’s broken form, the sound of his final apology. There was only the crushing weight of a father’s failure.

  He did not want power. He wanted oblivion, or revenge, or perhaps for the pain to simply stop. The flame promised an end.

  —--------

  [ watchtower]

  So White is gone. Doesn't matter. I got the location that alone is more than enough, now let's just get this done be on our way

  Ultimare scanned them with a detached, analytical gaze, as if taking inventory.

  The scene inside the tower was a stark contrast to the carnage outside. Huddled together in the dim light were fourteen figures of children and young adults, none older than twenty-five.

  Their clothes were torn, faces smudged with dirt and fear. Most were shaking, their eyes wide with a trauma that seemed bone-deep.

  He took a calm step forward.

  "Oh?" he began, his voice smooth and deliberately non-threatening. "Did my brother just leave you here like this?"

  The oldest of the group, a young man with a cut on his cheek, swallowed hard and found his voice. "We were told by the guy who... who killed all the undead... to stay here and not move. He said someone would come for us. He said if we followed his instructions, he would guarantee our safety."

  A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Ultimare's lips. It was not a warm expression, but one of cold satisfaction.

  Of course. So like him. Keeping them in one, known location is far more efficient than trying to evacuate a traumatized group through this mist. It makes them easy for me to find and collect. Not to forget, the immediate threats have already been dealt with by him and Max. A calculated risk. But where is he now? Off killing the big ones, I suppose. Grabbing all the fun for himself. How selfish.

  "Well," Ultimare replied, his tone light, almost playful. "He is a man of his word. So, Your safety is, for the moment, a priority."

  Behind him, Maeve, Tobias, and Lena immediately rushed forward, their focus shifting to aid. They checked the group, looking for more survivors, a burgeoning hope on their faces.

  "Are you all that's left?" Maeve asked.

  "Yes," one of them whispered.

  The word hung in the air, a heavy reminder of their failure and weakness, draining the brief hope from the three heroes.

  Lena stepped forward, her voice desperate. "Have you seen an older man named Rowan?"

  They all shook their heads, but one girl spoke up, timid. "I... I did see some guards taking a girl somewhere. There was someone with her, beaten badly. I don't know where, though."

  Lena's eyes widened. "Could it be Rowan, one of them?"

  Tobias did a quick count, his face hardening. "You mentioned fifteen. There are only fourteen here."

  Maeve's mind raced, clinging to logic. "There's a high chance. We need to find where they could have taken him from here."

  Ultimare cut in, his voice a flat statement. "The ritual site. Obviously. Where else?"

  The reality of it hit the three like a physical blow. Their anxiety spiked. Tobias began breathing heavily, his composure cracking. "Do you think he's okay? Is he safe right now?"

  Even Maeve was faltering, the weight of consecutive failures threatening to crush her resolve.

  Ultimare observed their crumbling states with clinical detachment. "The only way to find out is to go there."

  Maeve seized on the directive, a lifeline in her panic. "You know where it is?"

  Ultimare smiled. "I don't know."

  Maeve's eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring through her distress. Tobias, meanwhile, turned back to the captives. "Do any of you know where the ritual site is?" They shook their heads, too scared to speak.

  Suddenly, Maeve staggered, a hand going to her temple. "What is it? Why am I feeling this heaviness?" She looked at Lena and Tobias, who were also swaying, their faces paling. The captives whimpered, similarly affected. Only Ultimare remained unaffected.

  Maeve glared at him, her voice strained. "What are you doing?"

  "Me?" Ultimare replied, looking mildly offended. "I'm not behind this. It seems someone slipped through the massacre and is using their chance now. Though part of the fault is your own, losing your composure. There is a place and time to dive into sorrow, you know."

  His gaze swept the room, his senses pinpointing the source of the psychic pressure in an instant. He disappeared and reappeared on the second-floor stairs, reaching behind a pile of undead corpses and pulling out a wounded, terrified woman—Flower.

  "Ah," Ultimare said, holding her easily. "So he left a small fry like you behind, too. I wonder for what purpose." Flower was on the verge of tears, sensing the immense, hostile aura radiating from him. He grabbed her throat, his grip tightening, almost crushing her windpipe. Then he pulled her close, his voice a deadly whisper only she could hear.

  "Do me a favor, and I will spare your life, just as my brother did. But if you refuse, you will not leave this place alive. I will turn you into something far worse than these undead."

  She shook her head frantically in agreement. He told her the coordinates for the ritual site.

  Satisfied, Ultimare turned and threw her unceremoniously toward Maeve. The spell broke instantly, and the heavy feeling vanished, the group returning to normal.

  Lena had her sword out, pointing at Flower. "Was she the one behind that?"

  "Yes," Ultimare confirmed. "I asked her if she knew the main site. She said yes. I was about to kill her, but I guessed you three could find a use for her."

  Maeve looked at him, her suspicion warring with necessity. "Isn't this all oddly convenient?"

  "Yes," Ultimare agreed without hesitation. "But not for me."

  Tobias approached Flower, who was cowering on the floor. "Do you know where the site is? Can you take us there?"

  "I can. I will," she stammered. "Just... please don't kill me."