Four months had passed since Zer'Kravul vanished in a burst of gold and shadow, taking one of the sacred Twinlight blades with him.
The memory still haunted the world.
The skies above Velbrath were clouded more often now, even when the sun shone. The air felt heavier, as if the land itself anticipated disaster.
And disaster was coming.
The Demon King's Awakening—the eighth and final one, as the ancient texts warned—loomed like a thundercloud at the edge of history.
In the open courtyard of a mountain estate outside the capital, Ryle clashed swords with Thea beneath a violet dawn. Wind howled around them, catching Thea's silver hair and tossing it like streamers of war. Her hand gripped the remaining Twinlight, the once divine blade now slightly dimmer, as if mourning its lost twin.
Sparks flew as they traded blows.
Ryle, fast and brutal. Thea, elegant and clever.
She spun, leapt, aimed a high slash—but Ryle ducked and countered with a sweep that knocked her sword free.
Thea tumbled to the side and landed gracefully, chest heaving, grinning despite her loss.
"You're stronger than ever," she said, picking up her sword. "But don't be scared, Ryle."
He blinked. "Scared?"
"You're carrying everything," she said softly. "Let me help you."
Ryle didn't respond. He just stared at the horizon, where blood-colored clouds crawled across the sky.
In the dusty confines of the old journalistic office, still locked down, Ryle and Thea sat in his darkened study. A single candle flickered beside the Book of Awakenings, ancient leather cracked by time.
They read together.
The Demon Kings are born when hatred outweighs fate. Seven have come and fallen. The first, Lucifer, was struck down by the first Holy Hero in a blaze of untainted fire. But the Eighth... he is different. The Demon Generals bow to him willingly. Even evil serves evil greater than itself.
Ryle ran a finger over the script. "Even the Demon Generals..."
"And no Hero," Thea whispered. "Still missing. BECAUSE OF YOU."
Tobin had tried to fill that role—training endlessly, igniting his body with holy fire—but everyone knew the truth: he couldn't kill the Demon King.
The pressure was suffocating.
All across Velbrath, armies trained with urgency. Blacksmiths forged day and night. The Glory Knights, once a ceremonial order, now stood sentry at every major road and border.
In the capital, Kessia paced restlessly, her claws sparking as she sharpened them out of habit. She missed the battle. Missed the certainty of an enemy she could see.
Tobin sat quietly, staring into a basin of water. His hands trembled.
Even the journalistic guild, once buzzing with whispers and leads, had gone silent.
In Valemourn, the vampire kingdom, Charlotte had ascended the throne with cold, serene authority.
Her decree had been swift—and terrifying.
"All vampires must retreat to their homes. Lock yourselves away. If the Awakening causes our instincts to surface… we will not harm mortals."
Ryle had visited briefly, uneasy under the moonlit silence of that crimson land. Before leaving, Charlotte had pulled him aside.
"Watch my people, Ryle," she whispered. "We've survived longer than anyone thinks—but this… this is different."
And so Ryle contacted Duke Caelum Valtoria, the cold-eyed tactician who owed him a favor.
Caelum nodded once. "I'll send Solrath."
That name alone made Ryle pause. "He's still alive?"
"Released. Reforged. He'll observe the vampire lands… and take ten dragonoid warriors with him."
Everywhere, despair wrapped the world in a slow choke.
That night, Ryle stood alone atop the office, cloak fluttering in the wind. He stared at the stars—though even they seemed fainter.
"We can't take care of them all," he muttered. "Wraiths, succubi, incubi… they're still out there."
The door creaked behind him.
Thea stepped out, holding the Twinlight, its glow faint in the moonlight.
"Hey Ryle. Want to spar again?"
He smiled despite himself. "You really never get tired, do you?"
They never got the chance.
The sky cracked with thunder—though no storm followed.
A massive explosion shook Velbrath.
Thea dropped to her knees from the shockwave. Ryle grabbed the rooftop edge, eyes wide.
The moon turned blood-red.
From the eastern edge of the kingdom, where no fortress had stood, a castle of obsidian now towered—impossibly tall, carved with runes that twisted and bent the air. It shimmered as if not fully real.
Ryle grabbed Thea's hand. "We're going."
They flew together, wind ripping past them as the castle loomed closer. It was like flying toward a heartbeat—loud, slow, and evil.
On the outer rim, they saw Tobin and Kessia already there.
Tobin dropped to the ground, clutching his head.
"His mind—" Kessia snarled, shielding him, "—he can't stay near it! This place has… something inside it. Like a mental poison."
Ryle's eyes narrowed. "Take him back."
Kessia nodded and took off with Tobin in her arms.
Ryle and Thea turned back to the castle.
It stood silent.
Majestic.
Clean.
Too clean.
They landed on the obsidian steps, the doors opening without a sound.
Inside: shining black floors, flawless polished walls, and soft golden light from candles that never flickered.
It felt like walking into a sacred temple… of something blasphemous.
Then he appeared.
A tall man, draped in a formal black suit, his face kind and serene. Long gray hair flowed past his shoulders, eyes the color of ash.
"Welcome," he said gently. "Please. Come inside. I'll make tea."
Ryle froze, instincts buzzing.
Thea stepped closer, sword lowered but ready. She glanced at Ryle.
He nodded.
"…We accept."
And the doors closed behind them.