The obsidian castle was silent save for the soft clink of porcelain.
Steam rose from a teacup as the tall man—his smile warm, his gestures elegant—poured jasmine into crystal glasses. The scent was strangely calming, even as the golden chandelier above them pulsed like a living thing.
Ryle sat straight, notebook open, pen gliding quietly across the page.
"You know," the man began, "I've waited centuries for this moment. The Eighth King… truly magnificent. The previous Demon Kings? Petty tyrants. But this one?" He tapped the cup lightly. "He understands. Balance isn't peace. It's obliteration. A true end. An elegant extinction."
Thea narrowed her eyes, clutching the remaining Twinlight on her lap.
The man kept speaking, words cheerful and melodic. "With both Twinlights… humanity will crumble. They were never made to protect—it was always about judgment. They are keys, not blades. And one is already in my possession."
Ryle didn't look up. His hand kept writing, fast, controlled.
"Hmm?"
The man's tone shifted.
He tilted his head, eye twitching ever so slightly.
"What are you doing?"
Ryle paused. "Writing your confession."
The air cracked.
In an instant, Thea lunged forward, blade flashing silver.
Her sword slashed across his sleeve, fabric peeling away.
Underneath—
Eyes.
Dozens of them.
Blinking, twitching, wide and wet across his right arm, from shoulder to wrist.
The man's smile spread wider—too wide. The temperature in the room dropped.
"Well," he murmured, rising to his feet. "You've seen it now."
Obsidian horns coiled out of his head with a sickening crunch, like twisting stone. Black veins crawled across his face, and the pupils of his true eyes turned vertical.
He began to unbutton his shirt.
Ryle stood.
"Stop," he said.
But it was too late.
He dropped the fabric to the floor.
Both arms. Both arms were covered in eyes.
Eyes in his shoulders. Eyes on his chest. Even two pulsing orbs beating like hearts near his collarbone.
"My name," he said with sick joy, "is Gorvash. Strongest of the Demon Generals. Creator of the fiend race.'"
He chuckled.
"No one dares speak my true name because…"
His fingers raised, ticking down.
"Three…"
Ryle stepped back.
"Two…"
Thea raised her blade.
"One."
He vanished.
BOOM.
A black streak of destruction exploded forward. Gorvash tore through the room, targeting Ryle with impossible speed.
But Thea moved first.
She leapt, screaming, Twinlight blazing, and intercepted the strike. Their blades collided—and she was launched through a wall, disappearing into darkness.
Ryle spun, eyes wide—
A corrupted sword surged up from the obsidian floor. The missing Twinlight, once pure, now drenched in black fog, its shape twisted, its core pulsing with hate.
Gorvash caught it mid-air.
"Now… let's begin."
The battle shattered the castle.
Thea returned in a storm of light, her blade whirling with divine fire. She clashed with Gorvash—again and again—but the Demon General grinned, shrugging off her hits.
He fought with a lazy elegance, like he was enjoying a dance.
When Ryle joined, unleashing his dragon claws, he was faster. Stronger. Furious.
But it wasn't enough.
Not against Gorvash.
The corrupted Twinlight moved like a serpent, cutting through the air and bending around defenses.
Ryle's wings tore.
His bones cracked.
Blood spattered the ground as he coughed violently, falling to one knee.
Thea screamed his name—only to be thrown aside by a blast of dark energy.
Everything went black.
Cold.
Ryle opened his eyes to silence.
He was lying on a snowy plain, a vast arctic land of shimmering frost and glowing auroras that painted the sky in hues of green and blue.
Wind swept over him, soft, gentle.
He was alone.
Dead?
He sat up slowly. "Am I…?"
His voice broke.
"I failed," he whispered. "Again…"
His fists clenched in the snow, trembling.
And then—
A familiar warmth.
Ignilth.
His massive form stepped from behind a frozen ridge, wings tucked, golden eyes gentle.
"…Dad?"
Ryle staggered to his feet, eyes wide with tears.
"Am I… a great son?"
Ignilth smiled, and knelt before him.
"Yes," he said. "But every child still needs their parent."
He placed a clawed hand over Ryle's chest.
"And right now… you need Me."
Back in the real world—
Gorvash stood over Ryle's broken body, triumphant. The corrupted Twinlight hovered beside him like a living beast.
Then—
Ryle moved.
His body rose slowly, even though he was unconscious.
His right side glowed black with a molten light.
A golden eye opened on his forehead.
A mark spread up his neck and across his face like cracked runes.
Gorvash froze.
Eyes widened.
And for the first time, his smile faded.
"…That mark…"
The eyes on his arms blinked, shuddering.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Are you the Incarnation… of the Primordial?"
The world held its breath.
But it wasn't Ryle moving anymore.
It was—
Ignilth.
Controlling him.
A god behind a son.
A dragon beneath human skin.
And then the ground split open.