The ritual was nearly complete.

  The chamber reeked of blood and burning incense, the air thick with the metallic scent of sacrifice.

  The lifeless bodies of the slain lay scattered across the floor, their crimson offering feeding the dark magic that pulsed through the room like a living thing.

  Shadows coiled in the corners, whispering incantations of power and despair.

  Demon King Grion stood unmoving, his piercing eyes locked onto the towering glass tube before him.

  It was more than just an artifact—it was everything.

  Inside, bathed in thick, enchanted liquid, his family remained suspended in unnatural stillness.

  His wife. His daughter.

  A ripple in the liquid. A flicker of movement.

  And then—a delicate twitch.

  His daughter’s hand shifted, her fingers barely curling.

  His heart lurched.

  Hope.

  For the first time in years, a whisper of salvation touched his soul.

  Maybe… maybe the ritual was working. Maybe he could finally—

  But then the castle shook violently.

  A deafening explosion tore through the chamber, splitting the stone floor apart.

  Pillars crumbled like brittle bones, sending plumes of dust spiraling into the air.

  The ancient walls, carved with dark inscriptions, collapsed under the force, their power reduced to nothing.

  The glass tube shattered.

  Enchanted crystal shards flew in all directions, their edges catching the dim light before embedding into flesh and stone alike.

  The sacred liquid spilled in thick rivulets, flooding the floor in waves of silver and red.

  The shamans, their voices raised in panicked incantations, screamed as they were crushed beneath the falling wreckage.

  Their prayers were cut short, swallowed by the merciless weight of stone.

  And his family—

  They fell.

  Their bodies hit the ground, limp, lifeless.

  A hollow silence settled over the chamber.

  The air was thick with dust and the scent of death.

  But all Grion could hear was the sound of his own breath, ragged and shallow.

  His fingers trembled, reaching toward them, but deep inside, he already knew.

  Hope was gone.

  Something inside him cracked.

  Not like the walls that had fallen around him—not in a way that could be repaired.

  It was a shattering, an irreversible ruin that left only darkness in its wake.

  A scream clawed at his throat, but it never passed his lips.

  It remained within, festering, twisting, growing into something more.

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  His chest burned, a sensation beyond mere rage or sorrow. This was something purer, something deeper.

  This was vengeance.

  Through the thick smoke, he rose.

  His massive frame loomed over the battlefield, his movements slow, deliberate, filled with an unholy fury.

  The shadows clung to him like living things, winding around his limbs, seeping into his skin.

  He did not look at the ruins of his kingdom.

  He did not mourn the fallen throne or the shattered remnants of centuries of power.

  None of it mattered anymore.

  Nothing mattered.

  His six arms flexed, claws twitching in anticipation.

  His massive wings unfurled slightly, shifting with barely contained wrath.

  His legs tensed, bracing for the destruction to come.

  And his six burning eyes—each one fixed upon a different enemy.

  One on Asael, the so-called Hero, his golden aura flickering with divine determination.

  One on Steven, the warrior of thunder, his sword crackling with raw electricity.

  One on Sirius, the Crown Prince Mage, fire swirling in his grasp.

  One on Giren, the orc axeman, his stance grounded in battle-worn strength.

  One on Lily, the elven archer, her fingers steady on the bowstring.

  And the last on Anne, the Saintess, her expression filled with unwavering resolve.

  His enemies stood before him. And he would make them suffer.

  A battle cry tore through the shattered castle.

  Asael, Steven, and Giren dashed forward, their weapons gleaming with deadly intent.

  Gold, lightning, and steel moved in unison—a perfect storm of destruction aimed straight for Grion’s core.

  Asael led the charge, his golden aura flaring, his weapons trembling with divine energy.

  His blade glowed, a strike meant to sever darkness itself. With a roar, he swung.

  A massive clawed hand caught the blade mid-swing.

  The golden light seared into Grion’s flesh, the divine energy hissing against his skin, but he did not flinch.

  Another hand lashed out, closing around Asael’s throat, fingers tightening with merciless strength.

  The hero’s golden aura flared brighter, burning into his skin, but the Demon King’s wrath burned hotter.

  A third hand shot forward.

  Claws plunged into Asael’s stomach.

  A wet, sickening squelch echoed through the battlefield.

  Blood. Golden blood.

  It dripped from the gaping wound, trailing down Grion’s arm like molten sunlight.

  Asael’s breath hitched, his body trembling.

  Pain—immense, unbearable, white-hot agony that stole the strength from his limbs.

  But Grion did not stop.

  His claws pushed deeper, twisting, ripping through flesh and muscle with ruthless precision.

  Asael choked on his own breath, a strangled sound escaping his lips.

  Weapons flew toward the Demon King.

  Lily’s enchanted arrows, slicing through the air like deadly whispers.

  Steven’s lightning-infused sword, crackling with raw power.

  Sirius’s blazing fireballs, scorching with the fury of a dying sun.

  Giren’s war axe, hurled with orcish might.

  The attacks rained down upon him.

  But Grion did not falter.

  He hurled Asael away like a discarded doll.

  The Hero’s body crashed into the ruins, golden blood splattering across the shattered stone.

  The impact sent a tremor through the battlefield, dust and debris swirling in the air like the ghosts of the fallen.

  Weapons soared toward Grion from all directions—flashes of steel, streaks of light, burning embers of magic—but he wove through them like a phantom, each movement fluid, unnatural, untouchable.

  Then—

  Lightning struck.

  A blinding bolt ripped through the sky, slamming into his massive frame with a deafening crack.

  The force sent waves of searing energy coursing through his flesh, burning through muscle, licking at bone.

  His six eyes twitched, rolling toward Steven.

  The warrior of thunder stood tall, his sword pulsing with crackling electricity, his stance unwavering despite the sheer power that radiated from the Demon King.

  Pain lingered. The divine burns still gnawed at his body, the golden energy eating away at his unnatural regeneration.

  His flesh refused to heal fast enough.

  The wounds remained open, seeping with dark, sluggish blood.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Grion moved.

  But Giren was faster.

  The massive orc lunged, his iron grip locking around Grion’s torso, thick arms clamping down with unbreakable strength.

  His muscles bulged, veins like steel cords beneath his skin as he wrenched the Demon King back.

  "Now!" Giren roared, his voice thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the battlefield.

  Grion snarled, a guttural, monstrous sound.

  His claws plunged deep into Giren’s flesh, slicing through thick muscle, piercing his ribs with a sickening crunch.

  Blood erupted from Giren’s mouth, a thick, dark stream spilling over his tusks.

  His body shook with agony.

  But—

  He did not let go.

  He gritted his teeth, his massive arms tightening even further, his grip turning into a deathlock.

  He would not release his hold—not even in death.

  Then—

  Golden weapons rained from above.

  Asael’s divine swords, burning with celestial fire, plunged into Grion’s back, piercing through flesh and bone, embedding themselves deep into his monstrous form.

  One speared through his throat.

  A choked, guttural growl rumbled from deep within him.

  His claws twitched, reaching instinctively for the weapons impaled in his body.

  His wings convulsed, trying to beat against the pain.

  But before he could even think of removing them—

  Thunder fell.

  Steven unleashed another devastating bolt, the electricity crawling up Grion’s spine, searing his insides, forcing his muscles to seize and convulse.

  Then fire.

  Sirius’s spell detonated at Grion’s side, flames swallowing him whole, the heat melting the very stone beneath his feet.

  Arrows whistled through the air.

  Lily’s enchanted shots found their mark, sinking into his joints, his wings, the soft flesh of his skull. Every impact sent another shudder through his monstrous frame.

  And then—Asael’s swords returned.

  They twisted in his flesh, slicing through muscle, carving deep into his form like vengeful ghosts.

  Anne rushed to Giren’s side, her hands glowing with brilliant light, the warmth of her magic fighting against the deep, gaping wounds in his chest.

  The battlefield stood still.

  A thick, black smoke swallowed the air.

  For a moment—

  There was nothing.

  Only silence.

  Then—

  A step.

  A shadow moved within the smoke.

  And Grion emerged.

  He did not stumble. He did not falter.

  Weapons still pierced his body, their holy glow flickering against his dark flesh. But instead of removing them—

  He tore through himself.

  His own claws sliced through his torso, severing the burning, divine-tainted flesh, hacking off the wounded parts of his own body.

  Chunks of his limbs, wings, and shoulders fell away, thudding onto the broken ground like discarded meat.

  And in mere moments—

  New flesh grew.

  Whole again.

  Stronger.

  His regeneration roared back to life, no longer held at bay. The golden wounds no longer festered. The fire no longer burned.

  His six eyes locked onto Steven.

  And in a blur, he moved.

  The warrior of thunder met his gaze, unwavering even as death hurtled toward him.

  Electricity crackled, wrapping around his body, his sword surging with raw power.

  He gritted his teeth and charged forward.

  Their weapons clashed—

  Steven’s lightning-infused blade against Grion’s monstrous claws. Sparks erupted, the sheer force of their impact sending a shockwave through the battlefield.

  Asael descended, divine swords slashing from above.

  Sirius unleashed another inferno, the flames spiraling toward Grion’s side.

  Giren, his wounds newly healed, roared and threw himself back into the fight, his axe cleaving through the air.

  Lily’s arrows rained down once more, piercing the shifting shadows.

  Anne’s magic wrapped around her allies, mending wounds, strengthening resolve.

  And through it all—

  The Demon King did not stop.

  Uncaring. Unwavering. Unstoppable.

  This was no longer a battle.

  It was a storm of death.