However, the annular solar eclipse continues, bringing darkness to an innocent land afraid to look up.
Vera spun his trident through the ash-thick air, the steel glinting faintly beneath the red eclipse that still blanketed the sky. Every swing cracked the ground, every thrust shook the earth across the battlefield.
Around him, the last of his avatars were vanishing. Fading into thin air with each death, their echoes screaming silently before disappearing like dust in wind. Each time one vanished, a sharp pain cut through Vera's spine. Still, he didn't falter.
His armor was cracked, his hair matted with sweat and blood, but his eyes burned with that stubborn, unwavering defiance that made him who he was. A skeleton lunged; Vera spun the trident low, slicing its legs off, then impaled its skull in a smooth motion. He didn't even glance as it turned into smoke.
"Come on!" he muttered under his breath. "If you're taking me, then take me all the way."
He fought like a man trying to erase every memory of pain. His stance was steady, precise. Not wild or desperate but deliberate even in that terrible condition.
He was feeling the pain of getting crushed by void nonstop.
The movements of someone who had already accepted death but refused to die without reason. Each strike was art, sharpened by fury, polished by grief.
To his left, explosions of sand and light tore through the distance where Elior's battle raged on. To his right, he caught a glimpse of Radahn. Obsidian and Starlight, both of his scythes moved like two halves of night itself. Another vampire dragon he fought let out a roar so loud the clouds split for a second. Vera looked for only a moment, long enough to see Radahn leap, cutting the beast's beam of blood clean in half before it detonated into a spiral of crimson flame.
A faint smirk crossed Vera's face. "He got it." he muttered, before diving back into the chaos.
A mascular vampire gladiator came at him, wings outstretched, fangs gleaming. Vera ducked under its claws, twisted, and jammed the trident through its ribs. With a flick, he sent a bolt of blue water wave surging through the creature, disintegrating it midair.
Every few seconds, he winced as another avatar died by getting head ripped off somewhere across the field but instead of weakening, the pain drove him harder.
Somewhere in that endless violence, Vera caught himself thinking of the others. The faces of those still standing.
He tightened his grip. "I'll keep this side clean," he whispered.
The battlefield had fallen into somethimg strange. The eclipse still loomed above, dimming the land into a twilight that refused to end.
Tom dashed through the broken ruins, his steps heavy, his blade dragging faintly behind him, carving a shallow line in the dirt. His coat was torn, face bruised, eyes dull yet burning. He didn't know what time it was anymore, the concept of hours and minutes had lost meaning since the war began.
He saw Elior, standing amid the smoke, his sand-coated coat fluttering weakly in the wind. There were cracks along his arm, faint glowing fissures, something inside him was breaking apart slowly. But his expression was calm, distant.
Tom approached. Neither spoke for a few seconds. They simply looked at each other— two survivors, two ends of a fraying thread.
Tom spoke first. "They're gone," he said, voice rough. "All the main vampires — Karma, Fahrenheit, Xamin.… every single one. Only Azmaik's left. Vampires are running away."
Elior gave a slow nod, eyes narrowing toward the black horizon where Azmaik's forces stirred in the distance. "Then it's almost over," he murmured.
Tom clenched his fist. "Almost doesn't mean anything anymore." He hesitated, then looked up. "You think…. we'll make it through?"
Elior didn't answer right away. He walked a few steps closer, the wind picking up strands of his silver hair. "You've done more than anyone could've asked, Tom," he said quietly. "But now…. it's your turn to finish what you started. Azmaik's yours."
Tom blinked in confusion. "What about you?"
Elior smiled faintly, tired, but genuine. "I'll handle the Overseer's fragment. If Azmaik becomes its physical body, the descent will be irreversible. Someone needs to hold the line."
Tom stared, realization slowly dawning on him. "You're not planning to come back, are you?"
Elior didn't deny it. He just looked toward the dark sky, where faint cracks of golden light shimmered behind the clouds. The early signs of the Overseer's descent. "Every story needs an ending," he said softly. "You're still in the middle of yours. So don't waste it, you still have a lot to explore."
Tom's throat tightened. For a moment, he couldn't find words. "You always sound like some old teacher from a forgotten age," he muttered, forcing a smirk that almost hid the pain.
Elior chuckled under his breath. "Maybe I am. Maybe that's all I ever wanted to be, someone who passes something on before the end."
They stood there in silence again, the ground trembling far away. Vera's trident, Radahn's scythes, Grace's voice shouting somewhere in the distance.
Finally, Elior extended a hand. "Go. End him. Make it count."
Tom hesitated only for a heartbeat before gripping it tight. Their hands met, rough and scarred. A brief moment of brotherhood born in war.
"Don't die like a fool," Tom said, his voice faltered slightly.
Elior smiled. "And you better don't live like one."
Then they let go.
Tom turned toward the north, where Azmaik's shadow waited. Elior turned toward the sky, toward the light breaking through the clouds. Neither looked back, maybe because they knew if they did, neither would have the strength to walk away.
Their paths split, one toward vengeance, the other toward sacrifice.
And for a brief second, under that dying eclipse, it almost felt like their last meeting.
....
The bunker was shadowy by the light of oil lanterns and flickering bulb. The air was thick with exhaustion and the faint scent of blood and burnt metal.
Grace sat near the corner, her head leaning against the cold steel wall, trying to silence the growing ache inside her chest. Around her, the Homans were talking, laughing quietly. Cause the silence had become too unbearable.
Some were sharing what they'd do if they survived, others just talked to distract themselves from the rumbling tremors that still echoed outside. Despite the chatter, there was a sense of quiet dread lurking in the air, like everyone knew what was coming next.
Rosario sat near the entrance, cross-legged, cleaning his black dagger, the Omen. His pink hair shimmered faintly under the dark yellow light and though he looked calm. His mind was running through every possible scenario. He didn't say it out loud, but he knew things weren't right.
After finishing a small conversation with a few Homans mostly about water, food, and whether they'd see morning again, Grace walked toward Rosario. Her steps were tired but her eyes were sharp.
"Rosario," she said softly, sitting beside him. "Can I ask something?"
He didn't look up. "You can ask anything, Grace."
"You once said your master was influenced by some Sect, the one that followed Acurus Tiama, right?"
Rosario nodded once, eyes still on his dagger. "Yeah. The same Sect that broke my mind for years."
Grace hesitated, her mind pulling strings together. "That Sect…. your master had something from them. What did it look like?"
Rosario paused his motion for a second, then slowly looked up. "It was something yellow," he said, voice low. "Small and crystalline. Almost like a gemstone but warm. It was beautiful, it was attractive. Once you look at it, you can't look away."
Grace's eyes widened slightly. Her thoughts began to spin.
"The thing that was buried under the Kayef garden.… that same crystal was yellow too," she whispered, almost to herself. "It brought misfortune, turned everything rotten."
Rosario tilted his head. "You mean that lore Tom told us about?"
She nodded faintly. "Yes. And when Tom came back from Apollo's Twilight.… he showed me something. A glowing yellow rune. I didn't think much of it back then but.…"
She trailed off, realization creeping over her face.
Rosario frowned. "Grace, are you thinking the same?"
"I'm not saying anything for sure," she interrupted quickly. "But what if these three, your master's crystal, the one buried beneath Kayef and the rune Tom found.... what if they're the same? Or connected?"
Rosario stared for a long moment, the glow of the lantern reflecting in his crimson eyes. "If that's true," he said slowly, "then someone's been planning these things across ages."
Grace clenched her hands, tension in her jaw. "We can't take the risk of this falling into Azmaik's or the Overseer's hands. I have to tell the others."
Rosario stood up immediately. " I'll go."
"No," Grace cut him off firmly, her tone sharper than before. "If you go, there'll be no one left to guard the Homans. I'm already sick — I might be not able to handle whatever comes next."
Rosario glared, frustrated. "Don't go. If you are sick then—"
She looked at him, a faint smile breaking through her tired expression. "You trust me, don't you?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
"Just stay," she said softly. "Protect them. I'll handle the rest."
As she turned toward the exit, Rosario muttered under his breath, "You sound just like Elior…."
Grace stopped briefly, smiled faintly, then continued walking into the dim hallway where shadows waited, and so did fate.