Draven remained where he was, head lowered, the faintest tremor of crimson-dark mana slipping from him like smoke curling off a dying fire. The forest air grew heavy—thicker, denser—as though the world itself hesitated to breathe around him.
The knights froze.
Swords tightened in trembling grips. Shields rose half a breath too late. One of them finally dared to speak, his voice thin and shaking as he glanced desperately at the others.
"…I thought… I thought he couldn't use mana," he whispered. "But… what the hell is that?"
The words barely left his mouth before the mana itself seemed to respond—coiling, pulsing, becoming *present*. An almost tangible pressure pressed against their chests, forcing shallow breaths, locking joints in place. The faint leakage of red-black energy from Draven's body wasn't just visible anymore.
It was **oppressive**.
Demanding attention.
Demanding fear.
Instinct took over.
The knights stepped back in unison, shields snapping into place—yet none of them could move freely. Even the captains exchanged uneasy glances, realization dawning in their eyes.
This was far beyond anything they had prepared for.
Elira's grip on her staff tightened until her knuckles went white. Her chest rose and fell in harsh, ragged breaths, but her stance never wavered. Her eyes—sharp, burning—never left Draven.
"It doesn't matter what he was," she said, voice steady despite the tremor buried beneath it. "Or what he's become."
Golden light began to crackle along her staff, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"A darkness like that…" she continued, lifting the weapon higher, "…**needs to be cleansed**."
"With the light of her radian—"
Draven moved.
Not fast.
**Absent.**
One moment he stood there, head lowered, mana bleeding into the air like a wound that refused to close—
—and the next, he was **gone**.
No wind.
No sound.
No warning.
Draven reappeared **above** Elira.
He landed lightly—almost gently—both feet resting on her shoulders, as if that position had always belonged to him. Before her mind could even begin to process the impossibility of it, his arms came down.
His hands closed around her head.
Firm.
Certain.
There was no hesitation.
He twisted.
It wasn't a strike.
It wasn't rage.
It was the casual motion of someone wringing water from cloth.
Elira's gaze didn't change. Her eyes remained fixed forward, lips still parted mid-breath—her mind **never catching up** to what was happening.
Then—
A wet, final sound.
Draven pulled.
Her head tore free.
Blood erupted in a violent spray, painting the air as her body remained upright for a heartbeat longer—before collapsing lifelessly to the ground. Her staff clattered beside it, its golden light extinguishing instantly.
Draven landed softly.
He stood there holding the Saintess's head with both hands.
Her face was still calm.
Still convinced.
Still righteous.
Draven tilted his head back.
His mouth opened.
Blood poured down from the severed neck—over his lips, his chin, his throat—
—and he **drank**.
That was when the knights finally turned.
Finally saw.
Weapons slipped from numb fingers. Mouths fell open. Knees locked in place. No one screamed. No one moved.
Draven's arms tightened.
His fingers **crushed**.
The Saintess's head collapsed in his grip with a sickening, final burst—bone, blood, and flesh reduced to nothing as it splashed across the forest floor.
Silence.
Absolute. Crushing silence.
Draven lowered his arm.
Then—slowly—he raised his head.
His mouth hung slightly open, blood trailing freely down his face. His eyes were wide—but the whites were no longer white.
They were **pitch black**.
Dark cracks spread outward from his eyes, crawling across his cheeks and temples like shattered porcelain. Tears poured freely—but they were no longer clear.
They were mixed with blood.
He stared at the knights.
Not with anger.
Not with hatred.
With **finality**.
Whatever stood before them was no longer a boy fighting to survive.
It was something that had **accepted the truth**.
The forest itself seemed to recoil as Draven took his next breath.
One of the captains finally broke.
His composure shattered as he stumbled back, eyes locked on Draven like he was staring at an oncoming natural disaster.
"B-BACK OFF!" he screamed, voice cracking as it echoed through the trees.
"Everyone—keep your distance! **NOW!**"
The order rippled through the knights like a shockwave.
Boots scraped against dirt as men retreated instinctively, shields raising, formations breaking apart as fear overrode training. Some nearly tripped over one another in their rush to put space between themselves and **him**.
No one argued.
No one questioned.
They had all seen it.
The Saintess—dead in a heartbeat.
No chant.
No judgment.
No mercy.
Draven didn't move.
He just stood there, head slightly tilted back, blood still dripping from his chin, dark mana seeping from his body in slow, suffocating waves. The ground beneath his feet began to discolor, veins of shadow spreading outward like roots.
The captain swallowed hard, sweat pouring down his face despite the cold.
"D-don't provoke it…" he whispered, more to himself than to his men.
"That's not a man anymore…"
Draven's blackened eyes shifted—just slightly—toward the captain.
And in that tiny motion, every knight present understood the same terrifying truth:
Distance wouldn't save them.
It would only decide **how long they had left**.
Lightning **howled**.
Cedric stepped forward, boots grinding into scorched earth as arcs of golden-white electricity wrapped around his body—crawling over armor, blade, and breath alike. The air screamed under the pressure, thunder rolling low and constant like the growl of an approaching storm.
His eyes never left Draven.
*It doesn't matter,* Cedric thought grimly.
*It doesn't matter what he's awakened into.*
Monster.
Demon.
Aberration.
Labels were meaningless.
One truth remained.
*If it lives—everything else dies.*
Cedric inhaled slowly, grounding himself as lightning condensed around his weapon. The crackling arcs tightened, sharpened, became **lethal**. His presence surged—authority and killing intent flooding the battlefield.
"Whatever you are now…" Cedric said, voice steady despite the chaos clawing inside him,
"…this ends here."
The knights felt it immediately.
This wasn't a charge.
This wasn't rage.
This was an **execution**.
Cedric took another step forward.
Lightning flared violently, coalescing into a blinding corona as power climbed higher and higher. The ground fractured beneath his feet. Thunder split the sky, echoing Kaelen's wrath above.
Draven didn't look away.
Didn't blink.
Didn't react.
The dark cracks across his face pulsed red once—slow, deliberate—like something deep inside him had **noticed**.
Cedric raised his blade.
"This time," he said quietly, lightning screaming around him,
"you don't get back up."
And the storm leaned forward with him.