Ivan's head **burst** in Kaelen's grip—blood and bone scattering like crimson mist.
Kaelen didn't hesitate.
The blood-blade flashed.
A single, merciless arc cleaved Ivan's headless body **clean in two**, the halves peeling apart mid-air before gravity could even claim them.
Kaelen stood amid the ruin, crimson mana roaring around him, his voice flat—absolute.
"You're not getting **even an inch** closer to my children."
For half a heartbeat—
Silence.
Then the blood **reversed**.
The severed halves **flowed back together**, flesh knitting seamlessly, bone reforming, veins weaving themselves whole as though reality itself were being corrected. A neck re-formed. A skull. Skin followed.
Ivan's head grew back with a wet, effortless motion.
Golden eyes opened.
He smiled.
"Mm," Ivan murmured, genuinely impressed. "Even without your heart… you're still this strong."
He brushed nonexistent dust from his sleeve, posture relaxed—almost respectful.
"I would've been disappointed otherwise."
Kaelen's aura spiked.
The forest below **groaned**, trees bowing as if crushed beneath an invisible weight. His fangs were fully bared now, eyes burning like twin blood moons.
"You talk too much," Kaelen growled. "For someone who's already dead."
Ivan laughed softly.
"Ah, but that's the tragedy, brother," he replied. "You *can't* kill me like this."
He tapped his chest—right where a heart should have been.
"You felt it, didn't you?" Ivan continued calmly. "That delay. That drag in your regeneration."
Kaelen didn't answer.
Ivan's smile widened.
"You're still alive," Ivan said. "Yes. As long as your heart exists, you won't die."
Then his eyes hardened.
"But life isn't binary."
The golden glow around Ivan intensified, space subtly **warping** around him.
"A body without its anchor," he said softly, "is just… matter waiting to stop."
Kaelen lunged.
The sky **shattered**.
Blood and gold collided again, shockwaves tearing through the heavens. Apostles were flung aside like debris. Kaelen's blade carved through Ivan's torso—only for the wound to **refuse to remain**, reality bending, the cut sealing itself as though it had never existed.
Ivan reappeared a step away, unharmed.
"I told you," Ivan said quietly. "Your heart isn't *here*."
Kaelen snarled, grabbing Ivan by the throat and slamming him downward—through layers of cloud, through pressure and sound and light—until they hovered once more above the ruined forest.
"You think this changes anything?" Kaelen hissed. "I'll tear apart every world you hide it in."
Ivan met his gaze, utterly unafraid.
"I know you will," he said. "That's why I did it."
Below them—far below—
Draven fell.
Unconscious. Limp. Dark mana fading to dying embers.
Ivan glanced down briefly.
"And while you chase what you can't reach," he added, voice lowering,
"your son—"
Golden eyes returned to Kaelen.
A pause.
Kaelen's grip tightened. His gaze snapped downward.
For the first time since his heart had been torn from existence, **urgency** cracked through his fury.
He raised a single finger.
Crimson mana answered.
Blood gathered instantly—compressed, sharpened, refined—forming a **spear** so dense it bent the air around it. No flourish. No hesitation.
The spear **vanished**.
Not thrown.
**Commanded.**
---
Draven was still falling.
Unconscious. Limp. Dark mana barely clinging to him like dying embers. Wind tore past his body as the ruined battlefield rushed up to meet him.
Then—
**SHNK.**
The blood spear appeared beside him in a flash and **pierced straight through**—not his heart, not his spine, but clean through his shoulder and chest cavity at a precise angle meant to avoid killing him.
Blood sprayed.
Draven's body **jerked violently** as the spear didn't stop.
It **dragged him sideways**, ripping him out of freefall like a hooked fish yanked from the depths.
The ground below **missed him by meters**.
Trees shattered as the spear tore through the forest canopy, carving a crimson line through trunks and stone alike. Draven's body followed, trailing blood as he was ripped away from the battlefield—away from the knights, away from the airships, away from judgment.
Far above, Kaelen's finger curled.
The spear **arced upward**, obeying.
Draven was hauled through the air at impossible speed, blood whipping behind him as the sky screamed. His body slammed against the spear once, twice—then steadied, suspended, pinned but alive.
Ivan noticed.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Still protecting," he murmured.
Kaelen didn't look at him.
The blood spear continued its ascent, dragging Draven farther and farther from the war below—toward Kaelen, toward survival bought in blood.
Below, the battlefield froze.
Above, the brothers hovered—one heartless, one smiling.
The pressure **lifted**.
Not slowly.
All at once.
Lyriana staggered a half step, breath hitching as the crushing weight that had pinned her very soul vanished. Aldric gasped beside her, a hand flying to his chest as his heart slammed wildly, finally allowed to beat freely again.
"…It's gone," Aldric muttered, disbelief thick in his voice.
Lyriana didn't answer.
The forest air shuddered with every passing heartbeat as Draven's limp body was dragged across the sky.
---
The **maid** had already locked her gaze upward.
A streak of crimson cut across the clouds—then a second shape, tumbling, broken, trailing blood.
Her eyes widened as Draven's form tore through the heavens above.
"My lord…" she whispered.
Without hesitation, she sprinted forward, branches snapping beneath her feet, leaves scattering like sparks. Her movement was precise—almost ethereal—as though the forest itself bent to her will.
The **blood spear vanished** just as Draven's body fell through the canopy.
Time slowed.
With a single, graceful leap, she launched herself from the branches and caught Draven mid-fall. The impact sent leaves and splintered wood into the air, but her grip never faltered—her body a shield, her arms unwavering.
She landed smoothly among the undergrowth, knees bending to absorb the force. Draven sagged against her, weightless yet heavy with trauma. Blood streaked through the air like living fire before dripping onto fallen leaves.
The forest fell silent.
Only the wind remained—and the soft patter of blood striking the earth.
Above, the crimson-stained sky still raged with distant battle. But **here**, in the shadowed woods, a fragile pause had been carved.
Draven was alive.
For now.
The faint remnants of the **blood spear's wound** shimmered briefly across his chest before sealing completely, leaving no trace behind—an eerie testament to the unnatural resilience clinging to him. Still, he remained unconscious, limp in the maid's arms—a fragile contrast to the storm that had surrounded him moments earlier.
Aldric and Lyriana appeared beside her, moving with urgency born of instinct. In Lyriana's arms rested **Lucifer**, still asleep, his expression calm yet vulnerable. Nearby, **Elenya's** eyes widened, reflecting confusion and fear. She stretched her small arms instinctively, reaching toward a world that had turned violent without warning.
The maid's voice cut through the tension—sharp, commanding.
"We need to move—*now*. As far away as possible."
She shifted Draven carefully into a more secure hold, movements precise and practiced. Lyriana adjusted Lucifer against her chest, securing him tightly. Elenya cast a final, frightened glance toward the crimson sky, unaware of how close disaster still loomed.
Aldric took the lead, scanning the forest ahead, every sense alert.
The woods felt alive with warning—the whisper of leaves, distant cracks of branches, even the wind carried tension.
Time compressed into motion.
**They had seconds, not minutes.**
Every heartbeat mattered. Every step had to be exact.
Survival demanded it.
They moved.
Through undergrowth and fallen trunks, shadows swallowing them whole, carrying with them fragile lives—and the weight of everything they had endured.
The forest closed behind them.
A fleeting sanctuary.
While above, the storm continued to rage.