The plan was madness. Everyone knew it.
But after the eye's beam, after the knights' advance, after the throne room where Zarveth had toyed with them like insects, madness was all they had left.
The general assembled every able hunter. Not just the Ascendants—everyone. Kindled, Forged, Exalted. They would hold the perimeter, fight the knights, keep the shadows at bay. The strike force would enter the throne room and lure Zarveth out. The helicopters and jets would do the rest.
"You're not trying to kill him," the general said. "You're trying to make him follow you. Make him angry. Make him stupid."
Aurelion looked at Caelus. At Ryuta. Three of them against an ancient king.
"We can do stupid," Caelus said.
They entered the Stain at noon.
The knights were there—thousands of them, standing in silent rows. But they did not attack. The eye watched, its pupil tracking the three hunters as they walked the crimson corridor toward the castle.
"He knows we're coming," Ryuta said.
"He's been waiting," Aurelion replied.
The throne room doors were open.
Zarveth sat on his throne, his posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Grave Sun floated beside him, its core pulsing lazily. His silver hair cascaded over the obsidian armrest.
"Again," he said. "I admire the persistence. If not the intelligence."
Aurelion stepped forward. "We're not here to admire you."
"Then why are you here?"
"To show you something."
Zarveth raised an eyebrow. "Show me, then."
They attacked.
Not recklessly—strategically. Aurelion had drilled them on the counters. Not perfect, but enough.
Against blood magic: stay mobile, never stop moving.
Against spatial distortion: spread out, never cluster.
Against Grave Sun: evade, don't block, use its blind spot behind Zarveth.
Caelus engaged Grave Sun directly, drawing its attention. The telekinetic blade slashed at him—he dodged, rolled, kept it occupied. Ryuta darted through the throne room, his katana slicing at the air, disrupting Zarveth's spatial focus.
Aurelion pressed Zarveth himself.
Blood spears erupted from the floor. He sidestepped, spun, kept moving. The spears tracked him, but they were slower when Zarveth had to split his attention.
"You've been practicing," Zarveth observed.
"We've been learning."
"Learning is not the same as understanding."
They got closer.
Not by much—but enough. Caelus drove Grave Sun into a corner, forcing it to spin wildly. Ryuta's katana found a gap in Zarveth's blood shield. Aurelion lunged.
His blade struck Zarveth's arm.
Not deep. A scratch. But blood—real blood—dripped onto the obsidian floor.
Zarveth stared at the wound.
Then at Aurelion.
For the first time, his expression shifted. Not pain. Not fear.
Fury.
"You drew blood."
"You're not a god," Aurelion said. "You're just old."
Zarveth rose from his throne.
Not slowly. Not lazily. He exploded upward, the throne cracking beneath him. Grave Sun flew to his hand. The air in the throne room grew thick, heavy, wrong.
"You want my attention?" His voice was no longer calm. "You have it."
He attacked.
The battle transformed. Zarveth no longer stood in place, directing his powers from a distance. He moved. Fast. Faster than anything his size should move. Grave Sun swept toward Caelus—Caelus blocked, but the impact sent him flying into a pillar.
Ryuta struck from the side. Zarveth caught his blade with his bare hand, twisted, and threw him across the room.
Aurelion faced him alone.
Blade against blade. Blood magic against mana. Zarveth was stronger, faster, more experienced. But Aurelion had something else.
Desperation.
He dodged a blood spear. Parried a strike from Grave Sun. Countered with a slash that opened a cut on Zarveth's cheek.
The ancient king's eyes blazed.
"You—"
He swung Grave Sun with both hands—not a technique, not a spell. Pure, raw, enraged force.
Aurelion raised his sword to block.
The blades met.
For a heartbeat, they held. The crimson veins in Aurelion's sword pulsed wildly. The core in Grave Sun screamed.
Then Aurelion's blade shattered.
Not cracked—exploded. Fragments of dark steel sprayed across the throne room. The mana inside the sword released in a burst of crimson light, a small sun erupting between them.
The shockwave threw Aurelion backward.
Through the throne room doors. Through the corridor. Through stone walls—one, two, three—until he crashed into the courtyard outside, his body screaming, his ears ringing, blood pouring from his mouth.
He lay on the cracked flagstones, staring at the red sky.
The sword, he thought. My sword.
It was gone.
Zarveth emerged from the castle.
Not walking—striding. Grave Sun blazed in his hand, its core a nova. His silver hair whipped in the wind. The eye above pulsed in rhythm with his rage.
"You broke my sword," Aurelion said, coughing blood, a small smile forming on his face.
"That thing? It was weak"
Zarveth raised Grave Sun for the final strike.
Aurelion rolled.
The blade slammed into the ground where his head had been, carving a trench through the stone. Zarveth pulled it free, swung again—Aurelion rolled again, scrambled to his feet, ran.
Not toward the castle. Toward the open courtyard.
Toward the sky.
Zarveth chased him.
The ancient king moved faster than any human. But Aurelion poured everything he had into his legs—every scrap of mana, every ounce of will—and ran.
Faster, he thought. Faster.
The courtyard opened before him. Flat. Exposed. Perfect.
He stopped.
Zarveth stopped ten feet away, Grave Sun raised, his eyes wild.
"No more tricks."
"One more," Aurelion said.
He raised his arm.
The sound came first.
A distant thrumming, growing louder. Shadows crossed the ground.
The Apaches arrived.
Dozens of them, their rotors thundering, their mana cannons glowing. They opened fire—not at Zarveth, but around him. Suppressing fire. Keeping him in place.
Mana bolts tore into the ground, kicking up dust and debris. Zarveth raised a blood shield, but the bolts kept coming, endless, relentless.
"You think this stops me?"
"This doesn't," Aurelion said. "This slows you down."
The Raptors came next.
F-22s, screaming low, their afterburners painting lines of fire across the sky. Missiles dropped—not one or two, but dozens.
They struck Zarveth.
Explosions ripped through the courtyard. The blood shield shattered. Grave Sun spun wildly, trying to intercept the missiles—but there were too many. The ancient king staggered, his armor cracking, his hair singed.
He screamed.
Not a battle cry—a sound of pure frustration.
The Apaches kept firing. The Raptors circled for another pass.
Ten minutes.
It felt like ten years.
The general's voice crackled over the comm. "Cease fire. Cease fire."
The helicopters stopped. The Raptors climbed.
The smoke began to clear.
Aurelion pushed himself to his feet. His body screamed. Blood dripped from his mouth. His sword was gone. He had nothing left.
But he looked.
The dust swirled. The fires died.
And Zarveth stood.
His armor was shattered—black plates hung in pieces, revealing the shadowed flesh beneath. His silver hair was singed, half of it burned away. Grave Sun lay on the ground beside him, its core flickering weakly, its light almost gone.
Blood—real blood, dark and thick—poured from a dozen wounds. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. One arm hung at a wrong angle. His legs shook.
But he stood.
The eye in the sky pulsed once—weakly, dimly—then went dark.
Zarveth raised his head. His red eyes found Aurelion.
No words. Just a look.