Draven **appeared**.
Not climbing.
Not leaping.
Not emerging.
He was simply **there**—suspended in the air directly before the prow of the **Lux Invicta**.
Close enough that every soul on the command deck could see his face clearly.
The world seemed to **stall**.
Wind screamed past the hull. Mana engines thrummed deep within the ship's core. Cannon chambers glowed white-hot behind reinforced ports.
And yet—
No one moved.
Because every eye on the deck had locked onto **him**.
---
Draven hovered effortlessly, body upright, head slightly lowered.
Then—
He lifted his gaze.
Blood ran cold.
His eyes were no longer human.
The sclera were pitch black, cracked like shattered glass.
The pupils burned red—steady, focused, unwavering.
Dark crimson mana leaked from him in slow, lazy streams, curling around his body like smoke rising from a dying world.
Not wild.
Not flaring.
**Controlled.**
That terrified them more than rage ever could.
An officer dropped to one knee without realizing it.
Another stumbled back, whispering prayers under his breath.
A third simply stared, mouth open, unable even to scream.
Across all three ships, the projection crystals adjusted.
Draven filled every view.
No distortion.
No interference.
Reality itself seemed to **behave** around him.
---
"B-Barrier readings?" someone croaked.
"Stable—no, wait—fluctuating—no—"
The operator swallowed hard. "He's not pressing against them. He's not attacking. The barrier is… reacting to *him*."
Theron took a single step forward.
His golden gaze met Draven's.
For the first time since the battle began—
Something **tightened** in the Emperor's chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"…So," Theron said calmly, his voice carrying across the deck through arcane amplification, "you're the one."
Draven did not answer.
He looked past Theron.
Past the officers.
Past the cannons.
Past the soldiers bracing in terror.
He looked at the **ship itself**.
At the sigils.
The wards.
The saints' blessings carved into sanctified steel.
Then his gaze returned to Theron.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His lips parted.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet—too quiet for how far it carried.
"You ordered it."
The words were not a question.
Theron's eyes narrowed. "I did."
A pause.
The air between them **thickened**.
Crimson mana pulsed once.
Several officers staggered as if struck in the chest.
No one breathed.
Theron straightened slightly. "Sacrifices are made in the name of order."
Draven tilted his head.
Something in his expression shifted—not rage, not grief—
**Decision.**
The mana around him deepened, darkened, thickened. Space itself seemed to bend inward.
Warning sigils screamed across the deck.
Mana alarms howled.
Cannons auto-locked despite frantic manual overrides.
"Y-Your Majesty—!"
"He's destabilizing the forward hull—!"
"Weapons at full charge—fire now—!"
Theron raised a hand.
"Hold."
His gaze never left Draven.
Draven didn't speak.
Didn't look.
He simply **reeled his fist back**.
---
In that same instant—
Light **condensed** beside him.
An Apostle tore through space itself, appearing at Draven's flank. A blade of pure radiance was already formed, humming with judgment as it carved toward his neck.
Too fast for anyone to shout.
Too close for anyone to intervene.
But before the blade could fall—
The sky **ruptured**.
Crimson **smashed** into gold.
Kaelen was there.
Not arriving—**colliding**.
His fist drove into the Apostle like a falling star. Blood-mana and wrath detonated on impact, the shockwave folding the air as the Apostle was hurled backward in a spiral of shattered light.
Kaelen followed, forcing her away from the ship in a brutal exchange that cracked thunder across the clouds.
Steel rang.
Light screamed.
Blood howled.
The clash tore through the heavens like gods tearing at one another.
Draven didn't react.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't even blink.
Bloody tears slid down his face, dripping from his chin, vanishing into nothing.
His arm came forward.
**Clean.**
**Sharp.**
**Final.**
His fist slammed into the air.
**BOOM.**
The sound didn't explode outward—
It **collapsed inward**.
Space before the Lux Invicta compressed violently, reality buckling like glass under a hammer. The forward barrier flared white-hot, every ward, blessing, and sanctified seal igniting at once.
The entire ship **shuddered**.
Not rocked.
**Shuddered.**
Deck plating screamed.
Officers were hurled from their feet.
Mana conduits burst in showers of sparks.
Cannon crews were flung backward as recoil dampeners failed all at once.
Warning sigils bled crimson.
"Barrier integrity—seventy—no—sixty—!"
"Forward hull stress exceeding limits—!"
"Saint-core resonance unstable—!"
The barrier **held**.
Barely.
Its surface warped inward, stretched thin like glass about to shatter. Holy runes flickered erratically as cracks of dark red pressure spiderwebbed across it.
Draven's fist remained outstretched.
He stared through the distorted light.
Not with hatred.
With **intent**.
Theron braced against the railing, boots grinding into the deck as the flagship groaned beneath him. His golden gaze hardened—not wavering, but no longer untouched.
"…So that's it," he murmured. "You intend to break the sky itself."
Draven's head tilted—just slightly.
The mana around him thickened again, deepening beyond crimson, threaded with something darker, heavier, suffocating.
Above, Kaelen drove the Apostle back once more, blood-blade crashing against radiant steel, forcing her farther from the ship.
Below—
The Lux Invicta trembled.
And for the first time since it took to the skies—
Its barrier wasn't protecting it from an army.
It was holding back **one step away from annihilation**.
---
Kaelen hovered in the torn sky, crimson mana rolling off him in suffocating waves as he turned fully toward the Apostles.
His gaze was no longer merely cold.
It was **offended**.
Slowly, deliberately, he straightened. The blood-blade dissolved into mist as his hands clenched at his sides. The air around him **compressed**, pressure building until even the Apostles' wings shuddered beneath it.
"…You keep going for my son," Kaelen said.
His voice wasn't loud.
That made it worse.
"You circle him. You lunge past me. You strike when my back is turned—"
His eyes narrowed, crimson burning brighter.
"—like I'm not even here."
One Apostle shifted, light flaring instinctively, wings spreading wider in defiance.
Kaelen's lip curled.
A low laugh escaped him—not amused.
Wounded pride turning into wrath.
"Is that it?" he asked softly. "Have I fallen so low that the Goddess' **puppets** don't even bother to look at me anymore?"
The sky **groaned**.
Crimson mana thickened, turning almost liquid, spilling from him in heavy curtains that stained the clouds blood-red. Lightning drowned in it. Light warped as though submerged.
Kaelen's pupils shrank to slits.
Fangs slid free.
Long.
Sharp.
Ancient.
His aura **detonated**.
Wind vanished.
Clouds shredded.
The horizon bent inward as though the world itself braced.
"I bled for centuries!" Kaelen roared, his voice tearing through heaven and earth alike.
"I endured your hunts, your crusades, your so-called judgments!"
His wings—formed of pure blood-mana—**unfurled**, vast and monstrous, blotting out the sun as they snapped open with a thunderous crack.
"And now," he snarled, gaze snapping downward toward the Lux Invicta—toward Draven—
"you dare reach past me…"
His voice dropped.
"…to touch **my family**."
The Apostles faltered.
Just a fraction.
Enough.
Kaelen's roar split the sky.
"**TODAY—YOU REMEMBER MY NAME.**"
Crimson mana erupted, drowning the heavens in red. Even airships miles away buckled beneath the pressure.
"This ends now," he growled.
"No more restraint."
His eyes burned like slaughter given form.
"Today… I remind the world why it learned to fear the Vampire King."
And then—
Kaelen moved.
Not as a blur.
As a **calamity unleashed**.
---
Behind the prow of the airships, Draven **reeled his fist back again**.
This time—
It was different.
The dark red mana no longer drifted lazily. It **answered**.
Every thread.
Every strand.
Every drop.
All of it snapped inward, spiraling toward his arm like a tide reversing at once.
The air screamed.
Gravity warped.
Across all command decks, alarms detonated into shrill chaos.
"Mana convergence detected—!"
"Barrier load spiking—reinforce, reinforce NOW!"
"Saint-core output at maximum—runes overheating!"
Priests collapsed, blood spilling from noses and ears as they poured everything into the wards. Engineers screamed orders, rerouting power, burning out secondary systems just to keep the barrier alive.
Theron's expression finally **changed**.
Not fear.
Calculation breaking under reality.
Draven's fist was no longer a hand.
It was a **singularity**.
Space dimpled inward.
Light bent.
Sound died.
Even the Apostles felt it—a pull like the world preparing to tear itself open.
Bloody tears fell from Draven's eyes, evaporating before they could reach his knuckles.
Then—
His arm came down.
**BOOM.**
The shockwave didn't just slam forward.
It **ripped** through the air.
A concussive wall of force detonated against the Lux Invicta's barrier like a god's hammer. The sky folded. Clouds disintegrated. The airships were hurled backward, massive hulls screaming as stabilizers overloaded.
The barrier flared blinding white.
For a heartbeat—
It **held**.
Then—
**CRACK.**
A fracture spiderwebbed across the barrier's surface.
Silence fell.
Then another crack.
And another.
Hairline fractures raced across the holy shield like shattered glass under pressure.
"Barrier integrity failing—!"
"Cracks multiplying—forty percent—thirty—!"
"We're losing containment—!"
Golden runes flickered violently, some burning out entirely. A priest screamed as backlash tore through him, collapsing lifeless onto the deck.
Draven didn't move.
He stood there, fist lowered now, head bowed, shoulders trembling—not with exhaustion, but with **something building**.
The cracks continued to spread.
The Lux Invicta—pride of the Empire, blessed by gods, shielded by saints—**creaked** like a dying beast.
And everyone watching understood the same truth:
The barrier hadn't stopped him.
It had only **bought time**.
And Draven was already pulling his fist back again.