The constant, low groans of the undead had ceased, replaced by the brittle sound of collapsing forms. All around, the shambling corpses were desiccating where they stood, crumbling into piles of bone-dry husks, their stolen moisture wicking away into the air.

  The hulking corpse that had held her chain was no exception. It swayed, then collapsed into a cloud of dust, the cruel iron ring around her wrist suddenly loose.

  Rowan, bruised and bleeding from his failed attempt to protect the others, stared in shock.

  "Now!" the green-haired girl gasped, her voice thin but sharp. "Move!"

  She pressed her pale hands to his side. A faint, warm light seeped into his battered body, just enough to knit the worst of the damage and let him draw a full breath.

  He didn't need telling twice. Scrambling to his feet, he grabbed her hand, and they ran, stumbling through the eerie new quiet of the mist.

  "You were the one who healed us before, right?" Rowan panted as they fled. "Thank you. It saved our lives."

  "Don't thank me," she replied, her voice pragmatic, devoid of sentiment. "I only did it because I don't know how to fight. Having you around increases my chances of escape. Or at least my survival."

  Rowan managed a pained laugh. "Oh, I see. Well, I'd better make sure your hypothesis is correct, then."

  "Quit talking," she snapped, her green eyes scanning the shifting gray. "Keep moving."

  From behind them, a voice cut through the fog, unhurried and laden with predatory amusement. "Where will you run? This whole area is my playground. You poor kids are just increasing your own suffering."

  The Beast King emerged from the gloom, his immense, lion-headed form moving with a slow, measured confidence. His crimson eyes glowed as he surveyed the field of desiccated undead. A low, thoughtful rumble escaped his chest.

  "Hmm. What the heck is even happening here?" he mused, more to himself than to his prey. "Have those fools failed? Whatever." His gaze locked back onto the fleeing pair. "I'm bored by this charade. I'll just kill everyone here, like I planned."

  He began to walk after them, his heavy steps deliberate. "Zero and Dex will be an okish challenge. Nothing special," he continued, his tone that of a king contemplating minor administrative tasks.

  "I was thinking how strong that old man would be after his awakening. If I kill all his workers, he will definitely get angry and come after me. It will be a good challenge. Hah!"

  A wide, fanged grin spread across his features. "I even have those four pricks. I'll use them to get to Cedric. Looks like it will be an easy win."

  His pace quickened from a walk to a stalking lope. The hunt was back on.

  "Found it," Lucien said as he stood over a fissure in the earth.

  The ground was webbed with veins of fire, glowing a deep, bloody red, radiating a quiet, almost imperceptible energy that felt like a void rather than a presence. Thick plumes of smoke erupted from the cracks in violent bursts, rising high into the air and cloaking the landscape in a shifting, ashen haze.

  So the Mist was the smoke of this ritualistic fire, it must be burning underground. Just below me is that place I need to destroy, or perhaps I could somehow just erase this fire, and it’s all done let's see

  He knelt, his analytical gaze tracing the patterns. This was a core component of the ritual, it is deliberately hidden. He reached out, his fingers brushing the glowing red line.

  A flicker, a reaction, shot through him. Not from the earth, but from within. One of the Astral Plates fused to his being flared to life. A wave of goosebumps swept over his skin, and a sound, both mechanical and spiritual, rang in his mind

  ‘Purgatory Flame detected… Experience it to inscribe onto the plate.’

  The sensation faded, leaving only cold clarity.

  Purgatory flame?

  I see.

  The function of the Astral Plates, as the old man had explained, is to recognize and permanently bind distinct energy signatures. The entire network itself is one such signature.

  Purgatory flames symbolize a type of spiritual cleansing, But the ritual's purpose is corruption and selfish rebirth. The one behind this must have exploited a powerful artifact to summon a true purgatory flame, then twisted it through spells, perverting its holy nature into an engine for an unholy rite.

  He closed his eyes, activated his true perception once again, and assessed the energy flow. And from the fading resonance he sensed, the artifact that summoned it was on the verge of been consumed itself. Once the ritual ended or was destroyed, this flame would vanish along with this artifact.

  It was an opportunity. He would ensure this unique power was not lost. He would inscribe it, and in doing so, rob his enemy of their goal.

  Just as Lucien’s focus sharpened, intent on seizing the purgatory flame, he perceived a new disturbance.

  Two figures, frantic and fleeing. And a third, moving behind them with unnerving, predatory ease.

  It was the third presence that truly captured his attention. This one radiated a dense convergence of potent attributes. It was a signature powerful enough to register not as a mere obstacle, but as a point of interest. For the first time since leaving his family’s domain, an external entity had presented itself as something other than trivial.

  A genuine interest stirred within him.

  His mind, an engine of constant calculation, processed the new data. The enemy’s military strength was broken. Ultimare is on the field. He could claim The purgatory flame at any time. He now knows the location of the main site and can destroy at any minute. All primary strategic objectives were met.

  This left an opening. A personal one.

  His training over the past two months had been thorough, but it was ultimately practiced against his siblings—familiar, controlled, and limited.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The conflict at the mining camp had been a test of new abilities against inferior opponents, a clinical exercise. He had not been pushed to the limit, where true growth or understanding is forged in the crucible of a desperate fight.

  Here was a variable. A strong, unknown opponent. And it was delivering itself directly to him.

  A cold, analytical clarity settled over him. The mission could tolerate a brief, tactical delay.

  The potential intelligence gained from engaging a high-value target, and the personal calibration such a conflict would provide, outweighed the marginal efficiency of an immediate end.

  He rose smoothly, turning his back on the pulsating veins of purgatory flame.

  He stood, calm and ready, as the sounds of flight and pursuit drew nearer. For the first time in a long time, Lucien Sinclair was not just executing a duty. He was anticipating a challenge.

  The fleeing pair burst into a small clearing, their breath ragged. Rowan and the green-haired girl stumbled out of the mist, their flight coming to a sudden, instinctual halt.

  The reason was right behind them, the Beast King emerged from the mist, his fanged grin wide, his crimson eyes burning with predatory delight. He took a final, heavy step, ready to pounce and end the game.

  But in the next heartbeat, his gaze shifted. The predatory gleam vanished, replaced by a deep, primal focus that was far more terrifying. He was no longer looking at them. He was looking past them, beyond what the mist held.

  Rowan and the girl turned slowly, their hearts freezing in their chests.

  On the far side of the clearing, the mist seemed to lift, as if someone had swept it aside. His back to a web of pulsing, bloody-red fire etched into the ground. Sensing their presence, he slowly moved toward them.

  He was not large, not like the Beast King.

  But his presence filled the space, making the air itself still in deference. He was calm, a statue of composure in the chaotic mist. His eyes, cold and analytical, swept over them, and in that glance, Rowan felt more seen and more utterly insignificant than ever before in his life. They were assessed, cataloged, and dismissed in an instant.

  His full attention settled on the Beast King.

  The two titans regarded each other across the small space. No words were spoken, yet the silence between them screamed of imminent, catastrophic violence. It was a pressure building, a storm gathering in the space of a single breath.

  The Beast King let out a rumbling growl that vibrated in Rowan’s bones. "Ha… such a fine scent… Why… why wasn’t I told? Such a… delicious guest we’re hosting! Hah… I didn’t even get the chance to… greet you, did I?"

  Rowan’s instincts screamed at him. He grabbed the girl’s arm, his own injuries forgotten in a surge of pure survival adrenaline. They were not participants in this. They were insects about to be caught between two colliding continents.

  He didn't run away from the clearing. He pulled the girl sideways, scrambling for the fragile cover of the tree line at the edge, desperate to get out of the direct line of sight.

  They huddled behind a petrified trunk, peering out. The Beast King took a single, ground-shaking step forward. Lucien remained still, waiting.

  They were trapped, forced to be the audience to a confrontation they couldn't possibly understand, hoping the aftermath wouldn't simply erase them.

  The silence between them was torn apart by the crack of whiplash.

  One moment The Beast King was across the clearing, the next his fist was an inch from Lucien's face, the air compressing into a visible shockwave.

  Lucien's head moved a fraction. The fist grazed his temple, but the force of the miss tore a trench in the ground behind him, fifty feet long.

  A flicker of surprise crossed the Beast King's eyes. It was all the opening Lucien needed.

  His hand snapped out, to grasp the Beast King's thick bicep. With a twist of his hips that seemed impossible for his frame, he used the beast's own forward momentum to hurl him like a discus into a stand of petrified trees. They exploded into clouds of splintered stone.

  The Beast King landed on his feet, skidding backward, a low growl rumbling in his chest. This time, he didn't charge. He vanished.

  He reappeared behind Lucien in a blur of golden motion, his claws sweeping in a decapitating arc. Lucien didn't turn. He dropped, the claws whistling over his head, and drove his elbow backward into the Beast King's ribs. The sound was a sickening crunch of armor and bone.

  The Beast King grunted, stumbling back. His lips peeled back from his fangs in a snarl of pure, exhilarated joy. "Good! I like it!" he roared, the word a physical force.

  He lunged again, and this time Lucien met him head-on.

  Their collision was not a sound, but a cessation of it. A dome of silent force erupted, flattening the earth in a perfect circle around them. They became a storm of motion, a brutal exchange of power and speed that defied perception.

  The Beast King was a hurricane of feral strength, every blow meant to pulverize and shatter. Lucien was a paradox of calm precision within the storm, his movements economical, every block and counter a lesson in applied physics and overwhelming force.

  He caught a punch that could have leveled a castle wall on his forearm, the impact ringing out like a colossal bell, and answered with a palm strike to the Beast King's chest that cracked the strange black armor and forced the air from the beast's lungs in a sharp gasp.

  The Beast King attempted to grapple, his massive arms seeking to wrap around Lucien and crush him. For a moment, they were locked, a test of pure, raw strength where the ground beneath their feet fractured into a web of cracks. Muscles bulged, sinews strained.

  A grimace of effort showed on the Beast King's face. Lucien's expression remained one of detached focus.

  With a final, explosive roundhouse kick to the Beast King, Lucien shattered the grapple. He followed through with a sharp knee aimed at the beast’s face. The Beast King managed to block, but the sheer force of the blow drove him back five heavy steps, each one punctuated by a resounding thud.

  The Beast King crashed amidst the glowing red veins, the dark fire licking at his armor. He pushed himself up, his crimson eyes burning with a new light—not just of rage, but of dawning, brutal respect. This was no longer a hunt. It was a war.

  Lucien stood ready, his composure unbroken, waiting for the next move. The first act was over. The real fight was just beginning.

  "You... are a delight," the Beast King rumbled, his voice a low, vibrating hum that promised annihilation. "I have a proposal for you." He looked at Lucien for a reaction, which he did not offer. The Beast King laughed. "Let's take it to death. Only one shall survive today. Go all out. Muster all strength. Let us go frenzy and dance as long as we can."

  Lucien's voice was a shard of frozen steel, his gaze terrifyingly cold, one corner of his lip twitching upward in a faint, cruel mockery. "You actually believed you’d be walking out of here alive? You are living in denial. Like an animal in a slaughterhouse, it does everything in its power to break out of the cage, to get away from the butcher till its last breath. I expect you to do the same. That is my expectation from you, and I do not desire to be disappointed, animal."

  The Beast King laughed, a sound now tinged with genuine insult. "Ok, ok. I got it. I will definitely not fail you. In fact, I will outdo your expectation. Therefore, remember my name, human child. Be grateful, for you have the glory of knowing it. I am Tarruk, the Beast King, who will be putting the nail in your coffin, if your body survives."

  Lucien didn't even blink. "Giving me your name means a little to me. What will I do with the name of a soon-to-be dead animal? And if you are expecting me to give you mine, that would be even more funny. Your soul will have to live with that sorrow. Let me do you a favor. Consider me an accident which happened to you. When your ancestors in hell ask, just say you had an accident."

  The Beast King's laughter was sharp, a mix of fury and grudging amusement. "Are you baiting me? Or is this that ‘trash talk’ the youngsters use to fire themselves up? Well, you succeeded. Be glad."

  Lucien didn't even blink. "Then what are you waiting for? Come at me. I have more work to do after this."

  “Your wish,” the Beast King replied.

  The final word was a trigger.

  They shot toward each other. No running, no charging up. Just two forces of nature meeting in the middle of the wasteland.

  The Beast King's fist was wrapped in a storm of red energy, a blast of pure destruction.

  Lucien's fist was plain, a hammer of pure, simple force.

  When they connected, the world went silent for a heartbeat.