Eiden sank to his knees beside Yajin's body, the last remnants of divine power fading from the air like dying embers. Their ascended forms unraveled completely, collapsing back into their human shapes — no towering auras, no celestial markings, no third eye burning with judgment. Just two men, battered and exhausted, lying in the quiet aftermath of a battle that had torn the plains apart.
Yajin's face had softened. His features were calm now, almost serene, his two eyes closed as though he were simply resting beneath the open sky. The tension that had twisted his expression during the fight was gone, replaced by a stillness that made the world around him feel painfully quiet.
Eiden exhaled shakily, lifting his gaze toward the heavens. The stars shimmered faintly above him, scattered across the dark canvas of night. The moon hung low, pale and steady, its light catching in his white hair and making it glow faintly like frost under lantern‑light. His grey eyes reflected the sky — tired, hollow, but still searching for something beyond the horizon.
He pressed a trembling hand against his chest, whispering a healing incantation under his breath. Soft white light spread beneath his palm, mending the worst of the damage, though the spell flickered with every breath. The wound in his forearm pulsed with dull pain, and the constant movement of the fight had drained him far past his limits.
His shoulders rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths.
The world was quiet now. Too quiet.
Eiden exhaled slowly, the last threads of healing light fading from his chest as he lowered his hand. His arm trembled from exhaustion, the wound in his forearm still pulsing with a dull, stubborn ache. The night air brushed against him, cool and quiet, carrying only the faint rustle of grass and the distant hum of settling aura.
Eiden's gaze drifted to the Sword of Judgement lying beside Yajin's still form — the once‑divine weapon now dim, its green radiance reduced to a faint, flickering glow. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, the weight of everything that had happened pressing against his ribs harder than any wound.
Finally, he reached out.
His fingers closed around the hilt, and the blade responded with a soft pulse, as though recognizing the touch of someone powerful enough to claim it. Eiden lifted it slowly, turning the weapon in his hand. The metal felt colder now, lighter, as if waiting for its new purpose.
Then his aura stirred.
White light flowed from his palms, wrapping around the sword like drifting smoke. The weapon trembled, its surface rippling as the green hue bled away.
Only its appearance changed.
The hilt darkened, turning a deep, shadowed black. Metal shifted and tightened, forming intricate engravings along its length — sharp, deliberate patterns that looked like ancient runes carved by a master's hand. The guard reshaped subtly, sleeker and more refined, matching Eiden's aura rather than Yajin's.
The blade itself brightened, the green fading completely as white light seeped through the metal, reforging its surface into a clean, polished silver‑white sheen. It hummed softly, resonating with Eiden's presence.
A faint pulse of white light flickered along the fuller of the blade — a quiet promise of power waiting to be called.
Eiden tested it.
He swung the longsword once, the air parting around it with a smooth, resonant hum. The weapon felt balanced, obedient, and unmistakably his.
A relic reforged. A weapon was claimed. A longsword reborn under a new master.
Eiden let out a tired breath and sheathed the transformed blade at his side, the metal settling with a quiet finality. His aura dimmed again, flickering like a candle fighting the wind.
Only then did he look back at Yajin, the silence between them stretching into something heavy and unspoken.
In the distance, faint at first, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness.
Eiden turned his head slightly, exhaustion tugging at every muscle. Through the haze of moonlight and drifting dust, he saw the rest of the Sages sprinting toward him — silhouettes growing clearer with every step.
Selyndra reached him first.
She dropped to her knees in front of him without hesitation, hands cupping his face on both sides, her touch trembling. "Gods, Eiden… are you okay? You had us worried." Her voice cracked as her gaze flicked to Yajin's body, then back to him.
Iris, Seraphaine, Vaelus, and Dravien arrived moments later, breathless and wide‑eyed.
Dravien's tail hung low, brushing the ground as he took in the shattered terrain and Eiden's drained posture. His ears flattened slightly — a silent, instinctive show of worry.
Seraphaine covered her mouth, eyes shimmering.
Iris's expression hardened, jaw tight, but her eyes betrayed the fear she'd been holding back.
Vaelus scanned the battlefield with sharp, calculating precision. His emerald eyes darted from crater to crater, then finally landed on Yajin's still form. His breath caught — not in fear, but in realization.
Then his gaze snapped around again, searching.
"Where's the Sword of Judgement?!" Vaelus demanded, urgency cutting through his voice as he scanned the ground.
Eiden didn't speak.
He simply lifted his hand and tapped the hilt at his belt — the newly reforged longsword resting quietly at his side.
Vaelus let out a long breath of relief, shoulders dropping as the tension finally left him.
"I need… to rest a little," Eiden murmured, voice thin and worn.
Selyndra didn't hesitate. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, guiding his head gently to her chest as she pulled him into a full embrace. Eiden let himself sink into her hold, eyes closing, his weight resting against her as exhaustion finally caught up with him.
"Rest all you want," Selyndra whispered, her voice soft but steady.
The others stood around them in a loose circle, each processing the scene in their own way.
Iris folded her arms, looking away for a moment, jaw tight. Seraphaine's eyes softened, relief washing over her features. Dravien's tail brushed the ground, low and worried, as he scanned the torn earth around them.
Vaelus… didn't move.
He stood a few steps back, staring at Eiden resting against Selyndra. His emerald eyes didn't blink, didn't shift. There was no anger in them, no hostility — just a quiet, hollow stillness. Something tight pulled at the corners of his expression, something he tried to hide behind a blank stare.
But it slipped through anyway.
A flicker of something sharp. Something wounded. Something jealous.
He looked away quickly, pretending to scan the battlefield again, but his gaze drifted back — just for a heartbeat — to where Eiden leaned into Selyndra's arms.
And in that heartbeat, the truth was unmistakable.
Vaelus wished it were him.
More footsteps thundered across the plains — not just a few, but dozens. The ground trembled lightly beneath them.
Eiden's eyes opened halfway, just enough to see shapes forming in the distance.
Figures emerged from the darkness, silhouettes draped in ribbed cloaks and black dress suits, their eyes glowing a deep, predatory red. Their movements were swift, coordinated, and silent — the unmistakable approach of vampires.
And at the front, moving faster than all of them, was a single figure.
A black dress suit. Glowing red eyes. A crimson longsword in hand, veins of red light pulsing along its edge.
Zeth.
He closed the distance in seconds, sliding to a halt beside Selyndra and Eiden. Without hesitation, he drove his blade into the ground, the metal sinking into the dirt with a resonant hum as he dropped to one knee.
"Is he okay?" Zeth asked, voice low but urgent. His gaze flicked to Yajin's body, then back to Eiden, searching for any sign of danger.
Selyndra nodded, still holding Eiden close. "Yes, he is. He just needs to rest."
Behind them, several wagons rolled to a stop — large, reinforced, and pulled by dark, muscular steeds. Vampires stood atop them, scanning the area with sharp, disciplined focus. One wagon was empty, its interior lined with blankets and supplies.
Zeth rose halfway, eyes sweeping over the Sages. He counted them quickly — Iris, Seraphaine, Vaelus, Dravien, Selyndra, Eiden.
Then his expression shifted.
"Wait… where's the Angel King?" he asked, tension creeping into his voice.
Iris turned her head toward the distant horizon — toward the direction Morvath had vanished into.
"Morvath is handling him," she said quietly. "Where the Angel King's kingdom once was."
Zeth's jaw tightened. "I see."
He straightened fully, gripping his crimson blade and pulling it free from the earth. The weapon vibrated with a low, hungry hum.
"Well then," he said, voice sharpening, "everyone get on that free wagon. We brought dried meats and supplies for all of you."
His eyes flicked to Eiden one last time — a rare, fleeting moment of concern crossing his features.
"Right now," Zeth continued, "I'll make sure Morvath doesn't die, if he hasn't already."
Before anyone could respond, his body dissolved into a swirl of red mist — a violent, spiraling burst of vampiric aura — and he vanished into the night, streaking toward the distant battlefield like a crimson comet.
The wind rushed in behind him, carrying the faint echo of his departure.