Alric's wings flared, lightning roaring as he thrust his hammer forward, voice thundering across the torn sky.
"**You dare utter such words—**"
He never finished.
Kaelen was already there.
Not charging. Not accelerating.
**There.**
A fist—dense with compressed blood and wrath—**slammed straight into Alric's guard**.
The impact didn't explode.
It **collapsed**.
The sky folded inward at the point of contact, a concussive shockwave tearing outward in a perfect ring. Clouds shredded. Airships miles away lurched violently. The forest below flattened in a widening circle.
Alric's arms screamed as he blocked, lightning detonating off his armor—but the force **overwhelmed him**.
"—Ghk!"
He was launched backward like a broken comet, spiraling through the air, wings tearing as he fought to stabilize. Thunder cracked wildly in his wake.
Kaelen didn't watch him go.
His attention had already shifted.
The blood-blade in his hand **howled**.
It wasn't a weapon anymore—it was a verdict.
Kaelen swung.
Not wide. Not wild.
**Clean.**
The blade carved through the sky itself, a crimson arc that split clouds, light, and space. Elyndra reacted instantly, wings snapping tight as she crossed her blade, summoning a layered wall of radiance.
Too slow.
The blood-blade **sheared through the first barrier**, vaporizing holy script like mist. The second cracked. The third shattered.
Elyndra screamed—not in fear, but in fury—as she was hurled sideways, light bleeding from her armor in broken shards. One wing buckled, feathers of pure radiance scattering like falling stars.
Kaelen followed.
Each step he took in the air **crushed reality beneath him**, thunderless booms marking his advance.
"You call yourselves Apostles," he said coldly. "Judges. Executors."
His eyes burned brighter.
"Then judge this."
Alric roared back into the fray, lightning wreathing his shattered wings as he forced himself upright, hammer raised with both hands.
"**I will not fall—!**"
Kaelen vanished.
He reappeared **inside Alric's guard**.
The blood-blade reversed in a brutal, rising arc.
Alric barely twisted.
The blade didn't take his head—
—but it **cleaved through his shoulder**, severing wing, armor, and flesh in one merciless sweep.
Lightning exploded as Alric screamed, his body spinning out of control, blood and sparks raining through the sky.
Kaelen stood amid it all, crimson mana boiling so thick the sky had turned **red-black** around him.
Below, far beneath the carnage—
Draven knelt, unmoving, Elliana's lifeless body in his arms.
Kaelen saw it.
And whatever restraint still lingered inside the Vampire King **died completely**.
His gaze lifted once more to the Apostles.
"This ends," he said.
Not as a challenge.
Not as a promise.
As a **fact**.
Draven didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He didn't even breathe fully—just shallow pulls, ragged, as if each inhale burned him from the inside.
Elliana's lifeless body rested in his arms. Her head leaned against his chest. Her blood soaked through his hands, and yet he didn't notice—not really.
The world **faded**.
The last fragment of the shadow dome—the barrier she had made with her life force—crumbled entirely. Tiny shards of shadow melted into the forest floor, scattering like dying embers. But Draven didn't look. He didn't register it.
Around him, the battlefield continued. Knights, Apostles, the remnants of chaos—they moved, struck, screamed. But to Draven, it was all gone. Everything beyond the circle where he crouched, clutching his mother, was **nothing**.
The light of the world dimmed around him. Crimson shadows bled from the edges of his vision, curling inward until the forest, the air, even the sky itself seemed to vanish. He was the **only presence** in an endless void.
His tears flowed freely now. Hot, blinding. They streaked down his face, soaking into Elliana's hair. His lips parted in a soundless sob.
His gaze, once wide and uncomprehending, began to shift. Slowly. It darkened. Depthless, black as the night that had swallowed the battlefield. Every glint of warmth or hope extinguished.
He didn't even realize the **darkness was him now**.
Nothing moved him. Nothing mattered. Only the body in his arms. Only the silence.
Draven crouched there. Alone in the dark. And for the first time, he **let himself fall apart completely**.
The forest roared around him. Steel clashed, mana flared, blood spilled. And yet, in that shadowed circle, **he existed only for his grief**.
The last thing that remained visible in the world was the figure of a boy—cradling the lifeless form of the only mother he had.
And from the darkness that had swallowed him, a **cold, terrible resolve** began to stir.
From the depths of the shadows surrounding Draven, a **faint shimmer** appeared.
At first, it was barely perceptible—like a ripple in the void, a whisper of movement against the oppressive black.
Then, slowly, a figure stepped forward.
It was a boy.
But not just any boy.
He was **Draven**.
Ebony skin, hair like snow, eyes a deep, burning red that glimmered in the dark. But this version of him was… different. The sharpness in his gaze was colder, more calculated. His posture was straight, deliberate, almost ceremonial. And he wore a **white suit**, pristine, immaculate, completely at odds with the chaos and blood-soaked battlefield around them.
He paused a step away from Draven, tilting his head as if **studying him**, every movement unnervingly calm.
No words were spoken. No sound escaped him. Yet the presence alone **sucked the light from the air**, deepening the shadows around Draven.
Draven, still crouched, tears running freely, blinked. His chest heaved. For a moment, he thought it was a trick. A hallucination born from grief.
But the boy stepped closer.
His red eyes locked onto Draven's, mirroring his own pain—but **tinged with something alien**, something deliberate. A reflection… yet not.
The world outside the darkness—the battle, the Apostles, Kaelen—faded further into irrelevance. All that existed was **Draven and the boy who was himself, yet not**.
A single thought struck Draven, even amidst his grief:
*Who… are you?*
The boy didn't answer.
He simply **smiled**, faint, cold, terrifyingly calm—and in that smile was a promise:
This was **no friend.**
This was something else entirely.
The boy finally spoke.
His voice was calm—gentle, even—but it carried **too clearly**, cutting through the darkness like a blade sliding from its sheath.
"Nice to finally meet you, Draven."
He took another step closer, white shoes soundless against nothingness. His red eyes lowered briefly—to Elliana's body—then returned to Draven's face.
A pause.
A faint, knowing tilt of the head.
"…Or should I call you **Daniel** instead?"
The name landed wrong.
Not loud. Not violent. But **deep**.
Draven's breath hitched violently, like his lungs had forgotten how to work. His fingers twitched against his mother's clothes. His throat tightened.
That name—
It wasn't supposed to exist here.
The boy smiled a little wider, not cruel, not kind—**familiar**.
"Oh, don't look at me like that now," he said softly. "You buried it well. Different world. Different name. Different life."
He gestured lazily at the darkness around them.
"But grief has a funny way of opening doors, doesn't it?"
The void stirred.
Not outward—**inward**, folding tighter around Draven.
The boy crouched, bringing himself level with Draven, red eyes glowing faintly.
"You lost your mother," he said simply. No mockery. No pity. Just fact.
"And you're still breathing."
He studied Draven like a physician examining a wound.
"That's always been your problem."