Two figures stood before the dark deity statue.
One was the undead, still burning in the eerie black flames.
The other—a demon clad in a red mask, bleeding but unyielding.
They had never seen anything this insane.
This was no ordinary fight.
This was a dance of shadows and death.
Kael's breath steadied, the burning pain in his side a dull throb beneath his focus.
The black flames licking at the undead's form hissed and writhed like living shadows, but the creature moved with an eerie grace—an ancient predator undeterred by torment.
They faced each other beneath the looming statue, silence thick and heavy, broken only by the faint crackle of dying embers.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. Every movement from here on was deliberate, measured—a dance between life and death.
The undead shifted, raising its skull-shield and sword in a slow, deliberate arc, each strike echoing hollowly.
Kael met it, parrying with precision. Steel rang against bone and ancient metal, sparks flickering briefly before fading into shadow.
Neither rushed. Neither faltered.
Each blow was a question. Each block, an answer.
Kael's eyes searched beneath the red demonic mask that hid his own face—a mask that had become his armor, his secret.
The undead staggered, its burning flesh smoldering beneath the shadowed flames, but it clung to its fading strength like a ghost to the last thread of life.
Kael's breath was steady now, his every movement deliberate and precise—a calm storm wrapped in steel.
The creature swung its sword in a desperate arc—slow, heavy, and wild.
Kael met the strike with perfect timing, parrying cleanly, the clash ringing out like a final bell.
In that breath's silence, Kael's gaze dropped, catching the faintest flicker beneath the creature's armor—soft, rotten flesh pulsing weakly.
A single, elegant strike.
His blade slipped past the shield, piercing deep into the creature's heart—if it had one left to beat.
The undead shuddered, a terrible sound rising from deep within its hollow form—half agony, half rage.
Kael stepped back, sword still embedded, eyes cold and steady.
Slowly, the burning shadow began to wane.
The creature's body sagged, the black flames guttering like a dying candle.
With one final shudder, the headless nightmare collapsed—its reign of terror finally at an end.
Silence settled over the ruined temple.
Kael stood alone, the weight of the battle pressing heavy in the air.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, from somewhere in the group—broken by fear and exhaustion—someone whispered, voice trembling:
"H-he… he killed it…"
A breath of disbelief followed.
"…It's over…"
A student dropped to their knees, sobbing with relief.
Another laughed—a quiet, disbelieving sound that edged on hysteria.
They began to move, slowly. Some hugged each other, others just stood in silence, too shaken to speak.
Elara stepped forward, her expression caught between awe and wariness. Her voice, though hushed, carried clearly through the vast, ruined hall.
"Sir… who are you?"
Her tone was careful. Respectful. This masked figure had done what none of them could.
Kael turned his head slightly, the red demonic mask hiding all but the weariness in his stance.
"You can call me the Devil," he said simply.
A murmur swept through the survivors.
"…Devil…"
"The Devil…"
The name echoed, uncertain and cold, like a rumor whispered through tombstones.
Then it happened.
The rift shimmered into being in front of the dark deity's statue—a jagged tear in space, same as the one that had brought them into this cursed place.
A breathless stillness followed.
Then one by one, they realized what it meant.
Escape !!!
Relief broke like a fever. Some students cried openly. Others hugged whoever was closest, their limbs trembling with joy and disbelief.
"We can leave…"
"We're getting out—finally…"
They moved instinctively toward the rift, as if drawn by the promise of light beyond.
Elara didn't move right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the masked figure, still standing alone near the altar.
She stepped closer, her voice gentle, uncertain.
"Sir… we should leave this place."
Kael didn't respond.
He didn't nod.
Didn't turn.
Didn't breathe, it seemed.
He simply stood there, facing the rift.
Still bleeding. Still masked. Still silent.
The atmosphere shifted again. The joy dimmed. The warmth cooled.
Elara swallowed hard. Her voice, softer now, edged with unease.
"…Please?"
No answer.
Behind her, the others fell quiet. Their steps slowed.
Their relief curled into something thinner… brittle.
No one could explain it, but Kael's silence felt wrong.
Not stoic.
Not noble.
Ominous.
Kael stood still as stone, his mask glinting in the cold shimmer of the riftlight.
Then—finally—he turned.
His voice came low and steady. Not loud, but it silenced the room like a blade sliding from a sheath.
"I'm plundering. Quickly—leave your powerful spells in scrolls. All of them."
A pause.
"Or…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
The threat lingered in the air, thick and cold as blood in water.
A silence deeper than before followed.
Not just fear.
Confusion. Betrayal. Dread.
He wasn't asking.
He was declaring.
"…Is he robbing us?" A whisper, brittle and unbelieving.