The flames snapped and roared around them, licking at the curtains, devouring the window frames, spitting smoke through the corridors as if the house itself were purging the sins it had harbored for so long.
The heat made the air ripple. The ceiling cracked. The carpet went up like dry straw.
And still, neither of them backed down.
Rael moved first.
With a single burst of speed, he crossed the corridor and raised his sword in a direct thrust — sharp, swift, aiming to end it before the fire buried them both.
But Darian Velhorn, fully possessed by delusion, howled like a cornered beast.
"CRONOS!!! I'LL END YOU!"
He lunged at Rael with the axe in hand, face twisted with rage and madness.
The impact was brutal.
Rael's arm was knocked to the side, his blade scraping the wall planks with a screech of metal.
Darian kicked him like a bull.
The young warrior flew backward, crashing into a bookcase stacked with dusty scrolls and parchment — which instantly caught fire.
Rael dropped to his knees, coughing as the smoke took over the floor.
His eyes burned, but not only from the fire.
The fury burning in Darian was... insane. Almost supernatural.
"You think you can wear his skin, boy? DO YOU?! I'VE SEEN THOSE EYES BEFORE! YOU DON'T FOOL ME!"
Rael rose slowly, gasping.
His eyes met Darian's.
And for a moment—he understood.
"This man..." he whispered.
CRACK!
A chunk of the ceiling collapsed at the end of the corridor. The fire was on top of them now.
Rael spun his sword and entered guard.
"I'm not Cronos!"
"BUT HE'S WHO I SEE!" Darian roared, charging like a living wall.
The axe came down.
Rael blocked. Sparks flew.
The floor groaned beneath them.
The world felt like it was breaking on their shoulders.
The fire devoured the ceiling.
The walls trembled.
The house was dying with them inside it.
Smoke choked the air.
The boards cracked.
The second floor shook like it wanted to throw them out.
Rael weaved his blade with precision, dodging Darian's wild blows.
The burning wood snapped under his feet, heat rising through his legs as if trying to set his blood aflame.
Even in chaos, his eyes searched for Lyara.
She was farther ahead, slumped against a wall, half-conscious, her hair tangled, the cloth on her face soaked in sweat and smoke.
Every blow Rael gave or dodged was measured — not out of fear of death, but of harming her by accident.
Darian howled.
Blind. Possessed.
His eyes glazed. Sweat mixed with soot and blood. The smoke painted his face like a demon's mask.
"YOU'RE JUST LIKE HIM!" he screamed, arms wide as if invoking judgment. "WHERE YOU WALK, ONLY FIRE AND ASH REMAIN! JUST LIKE THE KING! JUST LIKE DAMNED CRONOS!"
Those words hit Rael harder than any axe.
For a moment, everything stopped.
The heat vanished. The sound disappeared.
Only the echo of the accusation remained.
"You… don't know what you're talking about," Rael said, his voice lower, darker, eyes locked on Darian's.
The fire exploded behind them.
A beam fell. The ceiling moaned.
But Rael moved first.
With a sudden leap, rage refusing to be contained, he vaulted past Darian—moving like a bolt of lightning.
He slammed into the mayor with full force, shoulder first, crashing through the blackened wood of the second floor.
The wall burst in an eruption of sparks, dust, and screams.
Both of them plummeted through the air like demons in freefall.
The world spun.
And then—
CRASH!
The impact rocked the village floor like a thunderclap from the earth's core.
Doors slammed open.
Lights flicked on in a hurry.
They landed in Eloren's dirt road with a crash that woke the entire village.
Dust, splinters, and embers flew—while the night sky was briefly lit by flames pouring from the second floor.
Rael rolled and rose, panting.
Darian lay farther off, among debris, the axe fallen from his hand, blood trailing from his elbows, his eyes rolling—but still alive.
And from the house, the sharp groan of a beam giving way.
Lyara was still inside.
People emerged in their sleepwear, blankets draped over their shoulders, children in their arms, running toward the main street with confused and frightened eyes.
And there they were.
In front of the ruined house, beneath the smoke rising like black fingers into the sky, two figures began to rise from the rubble and dust.
The first—large as a bear, shoulders broad and deformed by fury, face covered in blood and soot. His steps sank into the dirt road as if each movement were driven by a rage buried decades deep.
The second—steady as a war lion, leaner but still strong, with a presence that burned in his eyes. He moved with precision, even wounded, even gasping, like a predator who had been hurt many times, but never hunted down.
And the people… just watched.
Mouths open. Eyes wide. No one dared to get close.
Until, from the crowd, the old man emerged.
The newspaperman.
Panting, his knees faltering with each step, arms resting on his hips, his face sweaty and carved with wrinkles that looked like furrows in a land that had seen too much war.
He stopped in front of the people.
Lifted his eyes toward the two beasts standing tall.
And he didn't see two men.
He saw two eras colliding.
"The past… and the future. Darian, the symbol of everything that broke us. And the boy… the one who, for a moment, made us dream that justice could exist."
The fire reflected in the newspaperman's tired pupils.
And in his mind, a question echoed:
"How many generations of Eloren watched evil unfold without ever standing up?"
He swallowed hard as the wind scattered embers and voices whispered all around him.
"Enough..." he said, only to himself. "Enough of bowing our heads."
And behind him, the crowd began to grow.
Villagers. Men. Women. Youth. Elders. All witnessing something they would never believe if they weren't standing right there:
The village's monster facing the unknown lion, before the flames devoured his own home.
The silence was broken by a desperate sound.
"Aaah!!"
Lyara.
The girl's scream tore through the air like a shard of glass.
It came from inside the burning house.
Faint... but unmistakable.
Everyone heard it.
The villagers recoiled instinctively.
Some brought their hands to their mouths.
Others shut their eyes.
No one moved.
But Rael turned immediately.
His body injured, clothes torn, sword dripping sweat and blood.
He spun on his heel and ran toward the flames.
"LYARA!!" he shouted. "I'M COMING!"
But before he could take more than two steps, Darian rose like a living wall, his eyes ablaze with insanity and pain. Even bleeding, even wounded, the man moved with military precision.
"You're going nowhere," he growled. "Not until we finish what was started."
Rael tried to dodge, but the axe came down with fury.
He jumped back, the blade nearly touching his chest.
"It's just the two of us now, boy," said Darian. "No one left to save you. No distractions. Just you... and me."
Rael staggered to the side, his eyes still locked on the house.
Smoke danced in the windows.
The flames had already consumed part of the roof.
"SHE'S GOING TO DIE, YOU BASTARD!" Rael roared. "SHE HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!"
Darian advanced again.
"She has the same blood. That's enough."
Rael turned to the people.
"HELP HER!" he shouted, arms outstretched, voice cracking in desperation. "SHE'S GOING TO DIE!"
But no one moved.
Eyes wide.
Bodies frozen.
Fear petrified.
Rael's gaze darted around...
And then he saw him.
The newspaperman.
Standing.
At the front of the crowd.
Eyes fixed on the burning house.
His legs... trembling.
As if carrying the weight of every time he had failed.
Rael looked at him like a man watching a frayed rope about to snap.
"OLD MAN! WASN'T THIS WHAT YOU WANTED? THEN HELP!"
The scream echoed through the street like thunder.
The newspaperman clenched his fists. Cold sweat ran down his brow.
And for a moment, he was no longer just an old man...
He was a man standing at the edge of a choice that would define everything.