The Demon King's corpse sat like a fallen mountain.
The battlefield around it was starting to remember how to breathe—cries of the wounded, the clatter of armor, the thin, disbelieving laughter of people who had expected to die and hadn't. But up close, at the lip of the crater Ludwig had carved, there was only one sound that mattered.
Thump.
Not loud. Not steady. Just a stubborn, ugly twitch from the thing still lodged in the ruin of its chest.
The heart pulsed, a fist of black, knotted flesh threaded with veins of dull crimson crystal. Each flicker of light in those veins made the air shiver, like the world flinched every time it remembered this piece hadn't followed the rest into oblivion.
Ludwig planted the White Blade tip‑down in the fractured ground and rested both hands on the hilt. His arms still shook from the double strike. His lungs burned. Ash clung to his tongue.
He watched the heart try to beat.
He hated it.
Not for what it had been part of.
For what it would become.
"Don't." He said.
"Don't what?" Imelda's voice. Hoarse, but steady. "Don't look at the biggest prize humanity has seen in three generations?"
She came to stand beside him at the crater's edge.
Without the fivefold storm roaring around her, she looked almost human. Just a woman in scorched robes, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, hands faintly trembling. Only the way the elements still leaned toward her betrayed what she'd just done.
Her gaze went straight to the heart.
Of course it did.
"Step away." Ludwig said.
She snorted once, the sound closer to a cough.
"I didn't realize you'd been promoted to quartermaster," she said. "Or did they mint you a new title when I wasn't looking? 'Ludwig, Keeper of Loot'?"
"Imelda." Ludwig's tone became firmer, more warning than name.
She ignored the warning and leaned forward a fraction, studying the thing in the pit.
Even broken, the heart radiated weight. Every mage on the field could feel it. Some of the soldiers, too. The more practical ones were already making the calculation behind their eyes: how many fortresses, how many wards, how many new spells a chunk of that power could fuel.
"How many do you think?" Imelda murmured.
"How many ?" Ludwig said flatly, "People it will kill?"
"How many cities it could save." She replied, just as flat.
Their gazes met for a heartbeat, then broke.
"The answer to both." He said, "Is 'too many.' That's why we're not taking it."
Her jaw twitched.
"We?" she repeated. "Interesting pronoun, coming from the man planting himself in front of it like a signpost."
"Someone has to," he said. "Before your friends with banners decide which way to drag it."
She was quiet for a moment.
Around them, the battlefield's noise ebbed and surged. A healer's shout. A dwarf's wheezing laugh. The low, disbelieving murmur of men and women looking up at a sky no longer blocked by horns and teeth.
"It's not going to stay here." Imelda said eventually. "You know that."
"That's why I'm going to move it." Ludwig replied.
"Good." She said, "That saves me a spell."
He turned his head then, genuinely surprised.
She smiled.
It wasn't a nice expression.
"You're not the only one who can see three steps ahead, Lud." She said, "We can't leave it in a hole. Every king on this continent will be marching armies here before the ash cools. Arcanoth included."
He narrowed his eyes.
"And you." He said, "Are going to suggest it should go to Arcanoth."
"Of course." She answered. "We have the only infrastructure that can reasonably contain heart‑class artifacts. We have the wards, the forges, the barrier lines. We have—"
"—an imperial court that will turn it into a crown if you give them half a chance." He cut in.
Her smile thinned.
"Some of us would like to be the ones holding that crown." She said.
There it was.
She didn't say it loudly. Didn't need to. The words lay between them as plainly as any banner.
"You're not in the bloodline." Ludwig said quietly.
"No." She replied matter of factly. "I'm not."
Her gaze dropped back to the heart.
"That," she said, "is how I fix that."
Ludwig's grip tightened on his White Katana.
"By tossing a Demon King's heart onto the throne room floor and asking who wants to stop you picking it up?" He asked. "That's not a succession. That's a civil war."
"It's a civil war either way." Imelda said. "The Emperor's heart gave out two years ago. The crown prince is a drunk with delusions, the second son is a fanatic with better knives than sense, and the High Council is five cowards in robes pretending not to smell blood in the water. The only question is whether that war lasts a decade or a week."
"And that…" Ludwig gestured at the heart, "Is your week?"
"It's my leverage." She said, "You were there when we brought the last heart to Arcanoth. You saw what Arcanoth did with it. You saw how much worse this war could have been without it. We both know what a fourth heart would mean for whoever controls it."
"City‑leveling spell. Engines that boil oceans. We've done this dance before." Ludwig answered.
Her head snapped up.
"And how many Demon Kings have we stopped because of those?" She shot back. "How many times has Ortus survived by the skin of its teeth because somebody, somewhere, decided not to leave power like this on the table?"
He laughed, short and ugly.
"And now you want to be that somebody." He said. "Not the dynasty. Not the council. You."
"Yes." No hesitation. "Me. Because I am not Arcanoth blood. Because I owe them nothing. Because I am the only one in that viper's nest who might use this to break the cycle instead of tightening it."
"You want to break the cycle by putting yourself on the throne with something so powerful under you," Ludwig said. "You hear yourself?"
Her eyes flashed.
"What I hear." She said, "Is a man who has never had to sit at those councils and listen to old blood talk about 'necessary losses.' You think they won't find a way to weaponize this with or without me? They will. They always do. The difference, if I take it, is that they have to go through me first."
"And everyone who stands between you and the throne?" He asked. "The princes. The dukes. The city governors who don't like the idea of an archmage with no divine right clambering onto their favorite chair. They'll just… clap?"
"They'll die if they push." She said. "Or bend if they're smart. I'm not naive about the blood price. But better one decisive break than ten years of knife fights in alleyways and 'accidental' battles on border towns."
He stared at her.
"You are talking about using a Demon King's heart as a banner for a coup." Ludwig sighed.
"I am talking about using it as a lever." She answered. "The coup happens whether I'm holding it or a drunk eighty‑year‑old with the right surname is. This just decides who can enforce the end of it."
"You really think you're the lesser evil." He said.
"Yes." She answered, and there wasn't an ounce of irony in it.
Silence stretched.
It had been a few years past a decade he knew her. He knew even though what she said was true, she didn't tell him everything.
For her, Arcanoth's throne was just a start. Once she claimed it and delved deeper into the grimoire left by Lady Arcanoth from the Age of Gods, she would turn her sight to another place. Because that's just how humans are.
Down in the crater, the heart twitched again.
The pulse made Ludwig's spatial sense itch. The world bent around it in little, tiny ways. Lines of distance that didn't quite match, edges of rubble that seemed closer or farther than they should be. There was a pull there, faint but insistent. A hungry weight.
He remembered books with gilt edges and pages that smelled of dust and old blood he borrowed from Arcanoth Royal Library. Accounts of the First, Second, and Third Hearts. Lives transformed. Countries re‑drawn. Graveyards expanded.
"Every time." He said quietly, "They said the same thing."
Imelda's brows lifted.
"Who?" she asked.
"The ones who took the hearts." He said. "The First Lord of Arcanoth. The Barrier Architect. The Council of Three. They all thought, just like you, that they were the one exception. The one group that could hold something like this and not lose themselves in the arms race that followed."
He spat ash to the side.
"And every time, we got an age of brilliance wrapped in an age of slaughter."
Her jaw clenched.
"And your answer is to throw it away?" She demanded. "To leave Ortus weaker, just so you can say you didn't pull the trigger?"
"My answer is to take the gun out of the room." Ludwig answered firmly.
"You are not the only one who has to live on this continent." She said. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"Someone has to decide something." He said. "Before the princes get here and start measuring how many battalions it takes to move a heart this size."
She took a step closer to the crater.
He moved with her without thinking, keeping himself between her and the slope.
"Step aside." Imelda said.
"No." Ludwig replied.
The air between them tightened, fragile and hot.
Behind them, Bromnir shifted his stance, one hand going to his hammer. Satoshi lifted his head, posture sharpening despite the exhaustion carving lines into his face. Seraphina's hands stilled over the wounded man she was healing.
"Ludwig." She said quietly.
He didn't look back.
"Imelda, You are too hungry for that thing. You know it. I know it. Everyone who has ever watched you walk into a room and rearrange it until it fits your head knows it. You take that heart and there is no force on Ortus big enough to tell you 'no' when you decide something has to burn for the greater good." Ludwig spat. The last words left a bitter taste on his mouth, reminding him of someone who manipulated everything using that phrase.
Her lips curled.
"Whereas you…" She said, "are such a paragon of restraint."
He shrugged, a small, tired motion.
"No crown on my list." He said. "No empire. No reforms I think I'm the only one qualified to make. That helps."
"It also means you have no stake," She snapped. "You can leave. Disappear into whatever little pocket worlds you like. I have to live in what your 'restraint' leaves behind."
He lifted one hand from the White Blade and opened his fingers.
A thin circle of not‑light flickered into being above his palm—just for an instant, the hint of a window into somewhere else. Somewhere cold and quiet and empty.
Imelda's eyes narrowed.
"Your storage." She said.
"Locked room." Ludwig said. "Mine alone. Nobody gets in there but me."
He closed his hand; the circle vanished.
"You take the heart." He went on, "And Arcanoth burns to get it out of your hands. The other empires burn to keep you from using it. You carve yourself a throne out of the ash and hope you don't run out of enemies to kill before you run out of justifications."
He nodded toward the crater.
"I take it." He said, "and at least this one war doesn't have a core to orbit around."
"Until you decide to open the box." She said softly.
He didn't flinch.
"Yes." He said.
They faced each other in the heat above a corpse too big for either of them to fully grasp, each of them a different kind of danger.
Imelda raised her hand.
Flame licked along her fingers, answering the gesture like a loyal hound. The air thickened, the elements around her waking up again, eager, sensing a command.
"Take another step in front of me." She said, "And I will move you."
Ludwig lifted his blade. Space mana crackled along the pale steel, warping the air in small, sharp waves.
"Try." He said.
The tension snapped so tight that for a heartbeat, the battlefield felt smaller than the space between them.
"Children," a dry voice said. "Please."
Varcus appeared a few strides to the side as if he'd always been there, cloak untouched by ash, expression halfway between amusement and boredom.
"This is what ends the story?" The vampire asked. "Not the King of all Demons. Not the war. Two egos over a meat rock?"
"Stay out of this," Imelda snapped, almost perfectly in sync.
Varcus lifted both hands in surrender.
"Gladly." He chuckled. "Just do it somewhere that doesn't blow my head off."
The heart pulsed again, stronger this time, as if annoyed at being ignored.
Ludwig exhaled slowly.
"Imelda." He said, "I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to let anyone else be the one who decides what happens with this thing."
Her laugh was short and sharp.
"There is no 'anyone else.'" She said. "That's the point. The Emperor's blood is rotting in its chair. The council is a joke. The other crowns would rather die than let Arcanoth hold this. You or me, Ludwig. That's what this is."
Her fingers clenched.
"Step aside." She repeated.
"No."
Then, she moved.
So did he.
The clash never came.
Instead, he cut his hand through the air between them. The circle he'd shown her as a flicker snapped into full existence above the crater—wider now, edges hard, its surface a flat disk of wrongness hanging over the heart.
Space folded inward.
The heart jerked.
Imelda snarled a word and flung a lattice of force down over it, trying to pin it in place. Invisible pressure slammed into the organ, pushing it downward even as the pull from above tugged it up. The air between those two opposing forces screamed, a high, teeth‑aching whine.
Stone cracked.
Ludwig's teeth did too, as he poured everything he had left into the drag.
"Ludwig!" Seraphina shouted. "You'll tear—"
He didn't hear the rest.
There was only the weight.
The heart strained against the lattice and the pull, cords of flesh stretching, then snapping, black and red threads parting wiith wet pops. The field heaved. The circle above flickered, then steadied as he forced it to hold.
"Let it go." He rasped at Imelda. "You're done."
"Not yet." She hissed.
Her barrier fractured.
She wasn't done.
Her mana was.
The lattice shattered into a spray of fading lines. She swayed, catching herself with a curse, but the grip on the heart vanished with the spell.
Ludwig dragged.
The Demon King's heart tore free of its cage of ribs and floated up, ungainly and obscene, trailing strings of meat and crystal shards that evaporated as they hit the circle's edge.
The instant it crossed fully into the disc, the surface rippled, then went smooth.
The pull vanished.
Ludwig's knees almost followed it.
He sagged, catching himself on the White Blade, vision swimming as the circle above the crater hung for one heartbeat—
Then winked out.
The crater was empty.
The pressure in the air dropped like a stone tossed into deep water.
Every mage on the field felt the absence. The tug at the edge of their senses, the ugly gravity that had pulled at their thoughts, simply… stopped.
Imelda stood very still.
Her hand was still outstretched, fingers curled as if they'd closed on something that wasn't there.
"Where." She said, each word slow and precise, "Did you put it?"
Ludwig forced himself upright.
"In a room I built." He said. "On the other side of a fold only I can open. No doors. No paths. No coordinates in any atlas. It sits on a shelf next to a handful of things that should never have existed."
His storage dimension pulsed at the edge of his awareness, different now—heavier, skewed around a new, foul anchor.
He ignored it.
Imelda's eyes were bright. Not with tears.
With fury.
"You took the fastest path I had out of this mess." She said. "You know that."
"Yes." He said.
"You know I was going to take that throne." She said. "With or without the heart."
"Yes."
"And you decided…" She went on, "That this world was better off with me climbing there the slow way. Over a mountain of bodies I don't have a shortcut to avoid."
"Yes." He answered again.
Her lips trembled—not with weakness, but with the effort not to spit something she couldn't take back.
"What you just did." She said, "You didn't do it for Ortus. You did it for yourself. So you can look at the next war and say, 'At least I didn't hand them the match.'"
"Maybe." Se said. "But I can live with that. I couldn't live with watching you light the bonfire and pretend it was a sunrise."
Silence fell between them.
Around them, the army was slowly realising the danger had passed. Some cheered. Some sank to their knees. Some stared at the place where the Demon King's body had slumped and tried to imagine tomorrow.
On the edge of it all, an archmage and a would‑be restaurateur stared at a hole and tried to imagine ten years from now.
"When I take that throne." Imelda said at last, "And I start breaking the old blood with nothing in my hands but the scraps you left me, I will remember this."
"I know." Ludwig said.
"And when the next catastrophe comes." She continued, "And you decide whether to open your little vault… you will remember that you chose to put that choice in your own hands, not mine, not anyone else's."
"Yes." He said.
She stepped back from the crater.
For a second, it looked like she might fall.
She didn't.
Imelda turned away, shoulders stiff, and walked back toward the lines of her people. Even staggering, she carried herself like someone walking toward a city she intended to own.
Varcus let out a low whistle.
"Well…" The vampire said cheerfully. "That was more entertaining than the demon."
Ludwig didn't answer.
His hand still tingled from the drag of the heart into his storage. The quiet space he kept at the edge of reality now had a dark, thudding presence in it, like a second pulse.
No one else would ever feel it.
That was the point.
He pulled his Katana free of the broken ground and slung it over his shoulder, turning his back on the empty crater and the corpse of a king.
The war was over.
What he'd just taken with him would make sure none of them ever really left it behind.