The once quiet village burned beneath a heavy black sky.
Screams and weeping filled the streets, mingling with the stink of blood and sulfur. Families knelt beside the corpses of loved ones—fathers, mothers, brothers—cut down after they turned into demons before their horrified eyes.
The earth was soaked with grief.
Tobin swung his sword with a snarl, slamming it into a monstrous creature that had once been a wraith. It squealed—a noise like tearing flesh—as its mutated body burst into flames.
Another came, its arms fused into long bone blades. Thea stepped forward, blades in hand, spinning through the air like a whirlwind. Her Twinlight cleaved the demon apart before it could even screech.
"They're evolving…" Tobin muttered, sweat rolling down his brow.
"Everyone With Demon Blood Is Evolving."
"Not just evolving," Thea replied, breathing hard. Her eyes swept across the burning village. "They're adapting. Feeding off despair."
Around them, the villagers cried out—not in hope, but hopelessness.
"Why did it have to be my son?!"
"I killed my own brother!"
"My wife… oh gods, my wife…"
The barely-contained sorrow that Velbrath had bottled up for generations had finally shattered. It poured into the streets, filling the air like poison.
And the demons drank it greedily.
Valemourn—once a silent, cursed city—was now a warzone of unspeakable horrors.
At the heart of it, towering above the chaos, stood Solrath.
The Dragonoid general barked orders, his wings unfurled, his glaive dripping black blood.
"Hold the gates! Reinforce the lower districts!" His voice shook the very bones of the city.
Behind him, his loyal Dragonoids moved like a machine—efficient, merciless, unyielding. They held the city's spine together, even as rogue vampires—now mutating into berserker demons—flooded the streets.
One vampire, eyes white with madness, lunged at Solrath.
The general spun once, severing its head cleanly, never breaking stride.
Nightclubs that once trafficked succubi and incubi, once hidden behind illusions and dark contracts, now lay in rubble and ash. The false glamour burned away, revealing the pit of rot beneath.
This was no longer rebellion.
It was Ragnarok.
The end had begun.
In the heart of the ruined village, Thea stopped.
Something called to her.
She turned, following the vibration deep into the square—where a church, half-destroyed, still clung to the last vestiges of its sanctity.
There, lying atop a crumbled priest's corpse, was a blade.
A corrupted Twinlight.
Blackened, twisted with agony.
Thea knelt, reaching out.
The moment her fingers closed around the hilt, a ripple of energy burst through the air. The corruption peeled away, screaming as it was banished into nothingness.
The Twinlight glowed—pure, brilliant.
A second weapon, born anew.
Thea rose, holding both Twinlights—one in each hand.
And the world screamed back.
The ground trembled. Cracks spidered across the earth.
From the shadows, from the ruins, from the very air itself—hundreds of demons emerged, their bodies writhing with rage and agony.
They howled, clawing toward her.
Their fury was not hunger.
It was hatred—as if Thea herself were an anathema to their existence.
She gritted her teeth, planting her feet.
But before they could reach her—
The sky tore open.
A figure fell like a meteor, trailing fire and golden-black light.
Ryle.
He crashed into the horde with a burning arc, his sword swinging wide, unleashing a wave of destruction that vaporized dozens of demons in an instant.
His dragon power flared, unstable, wild—but unstoppable.
His wings beat once, sending another shockwave across the battlefield.
The demons recoiled, screeching.
The villagers watched, some falling to their knees in awe, others too weak to move.
But Ryle did not stop.
He roared, a sound that shook the heavens, and threw himself back into the fight.
Behind him, soldiers—exhausted and broken—picked themselves up, finding strength in his presence.
They fought desperately to protect children, elders, homes.
Many fell.
But some endured.
From the southern hills, a line of armored knights rode in—cloaked in silver, bearing gleaming banners.
The Glory Knights.
They rallied the shattered troops, forming a bulwark against the onslaught.
And across Velbrath, the New Order Church activated divine barriers, domes of shimmering light around every holy site, protecting those who had nowhere else to run.
Above the battlefield, Ryle's head snapped up.
A voice brushed against his mind—Dravenith's, cold and sharp.
"We'll send the dragons. Find the demon king before it's too late."
Ryle exhaled, steam billowing from his lips.
He nodded once, wordlessly.
Turning to Thea, his voice was a growl:
"Call Tobin and Kessia. It's time."
Thea smiled grimly, twirling the Twinlights.
The war had truly begun.
And they would meet it head-on.