The air didn't just feel heavy; it felt broken. The silence following Patrick's execution was shattered not by a battle cry, but by the rhythmic, hurried scuffing of boots on gravel.
The forty soldiers—the last remaining teeth of the Devil's Flames—began to move. Gunther and Armal tensed, expecting a desperate, suicidal charge against the King of Fluxton. But the soldiers didn't raise their hands. They didn't summon a flicker of blood magic. They ran past their commanders, their heads bowed, moving with the frantic energy of rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Raphael didn't even look at them. He kept his predatory gaze fixed on the four ex-generals, his sneer deepening as the forty men came to a halt behind him.
It was a betrayal so simple it was deafening. The soldiers had seen the math written in Patrick's blood. They saw a man who had dismantled a century of power in a single strike, and they realized that their commanders weren't leaders—they were just the next names on a casualty list. They hadn't even seen Raphael's army yet, and they were already surrendering to his shadow.
"You cowards!" Armal hissed, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and disbelief.
The four ex-generals surged with a desperate, frantic power. The air around them began to boil as they reached for every drop of *malum* left in their cells.
Armal's hands blurred as he summoned a pair of crimson daggers, their edges jagged and screaming with light. Pyrax, his face twisted in a mask of pure spite, gripped a pair of blood-sickles so tightly that the veins in his forearms threatened to burst. Quel leveled a long, obsidian-dark blood spear, his breathing coming in shallow, jagged gasps. Gunther, the architect of this failed masterpiece, snatched a crimson arrow from the quiver at his back, nocking it to a bow of solid light with a snarl.
They were backed into a corner, four rabid dogs ready to bite the hand that had just put their master down.
Raphael's deranged expression softened. The malice didn't leave his eyes, but it was joined by something worse: pity. He let out a low, melodic hum as two more figures emerged from the gloom behind him.
Darion and Jay Night stepped into the light. They moved with the easy, synchronized grace of brothers who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of the kill. They didn't look like men going to war; they looked like men coming to clear away the trash.
"It seems we have a few leftovers," Raphael said, his rings catching the crimson glow of the generals' weapons. He tilted his head toward the four men. "Pick your favorites. Let's not keep the crows waiting."
Darion adjusted his sleeves, his eyes settling on Armal. "I'll take the one with the daggers. He looks like he thinks he's fast."
Jay offered a bored, thin-lipped smile, his gaze landing on Pyrax. "The sickles, then. He has a look of someone who enjoys the sound of his own screaming."
Raphael's eyes flared with a sudden, violent heat as he looked at Quel and Gunther. "Then I suppose the spear and the bow belong to me."
In the middle of the standoff, ignored by both the kings and the vultures, Selina Gallows finally looked up. The daze that had protected her mind for weeks finally cracked, exposing her to the reality of the blood-slicked earth and her husband's headless corpse. Her hands began to tremble, the chains rattling against the stones. She didn't pray for a savior. She didn't ask for a miracle. She simply closed her eyes and whispered a plea to the void, begging for the madness to finally end—begging for a blade to find her, too.
The air in Fluxton was no longer composed of oxygen and silence; it was a pressurized chamber of ozone and dying screams. When the first spark of steel hit the pavement, the pretension of a "war" evaporated, leaving only the raw, ugly physics of slaughter.
Darion was a blur of predatory grace. He didn't just run toward Armal; he hunted him. A massive crimson sword, heavy with condensed *malum*, hummed into existence between his palms as he closed the distance. When the blade met Armal's daggers, the impact sent a shockwave of crimson sparks through the dark, illuminating the bulging veins in Armal's temples.
Armal was fighting for his life, his teeth bared in a snarl of pure desperation. Darion, however, looked almost bored. He moved with a terrifying lack of effort, his eyes tracking Armal's panicked movements with the clinical detachment of a butcher. Armal managed to deflect a heavy overhead swing and scrambled backward, desperate to put space between himself and the Night brother.
He didn't get a second to breathe. Darion was there before Armal's heels even touched the dirt, the sound of their weapons clanging together in a rapid, metallic staccato that drowned out the wind.
Nearby, Jay had made his own move. Unlike his brother, Jay preferred the intimacy of the kill. Crimson light coiled around his arms, hardening into jagged, armored claws that looked like they had been ripped from a nightmare. He lunged at Pyrax, his first strike caught by the curved edge of a sickle.
Pyrax's eyes widened. He expected his blood-tempered blade to shear through Jay's magic, but the claws didn't even chip. Jay's grin widened, the light from his claws reflecting in his eyes. He shoved Pyrax back with a surge of raw strength and, before the ex-general could reset his stance, Jay's hand flashed out.
The claws tore through Pyrax's abdomen, a deep, horizontal rent that sent a spray of dark blood onto the cobbles. Pyrax hissed, trying to seal the wound with a frantic surge of magic, but Jay was already back. A second swipe caught Pyrax across the face, the talons scraping against the bone of his cheek.
Pyrax shrieked, the world turning into a red haze of agony. His vision was failing, the skin of his face hanging in wet ribbons. He forced his eyes shut, leaning into the sensory darkness, trying to track Jay by the sound of his breathing and the scrape of his boots. But Jay wasn't just fast—he was silent. Another slash opened Pyrax's chest, the heavy fabric of his coat fluttering away like dead leaves in a storm of blood.
Watching the carnage, Raphael let out a short, melodic whistle of satisfaction. He turned his gaze back to Gunther and Quel, his rings glowing with a hungry, red light.
"My turn," Raphael whispered.
Gunther didn't wait. He notched a crimson arrow, pulling the string until the bow of light groaned under the tension. He released. The arrow whistled through the air, a streak of lethal light aimed directly at Raphael's throat. Simultaneously, Quel lunged, his long spear thrusting forward with enough force to pierce a stone wall.
Raphael moved like water. He twisted his torso, the spear-tip missing his chest by a fraction of an inch, while the arrow hissed past his ear.
But Gunther was a marksman for a reason. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he manipulated the flow of his magic. The arrow didn't fly into the night; it pivoted mid-air, snapping backward with a violent crack, its glowing tip now screaming toward the back of Raphael's head.
The air around Raphael didn't just vibrate; it seemed to scream. As Gunther's arrow pivoted in mid-air and Quel's spear whistled downward, the King of Fluxton didn't panic. He smirked—a cold, sharp expression that suggested he was finally starting to enjoy himself.
Raphael's eyes flared into a violent, blinding crimson. In one fluid motion, he spun on his heel, his hand snapping out like a viper to catch Gunther's arrow out of the air. Using the arrow's own momentum, he slammed it against the shaft of Quel's spear, parrying the thrust with a shower of sparks.
He lunged, aiming to drive the stolen arrow directly into Quel's eye. Gunther, desperate to save his comrade, notched five arrows at once. They flew from his bow in a chaotic spread, curving through the air as he tried to manipulate their flight paths with his blood magic. He pulled at the arrow in Raphael's hand, trying to yank it away through their shared magical connection, but it was like trying to pull a mountain. The power gap was a chasm; Raphael held the projectile with an iron grip that smothered Gunther's influence.
Raphael swerved through the hail of five arrows with a dancer's grace. He brought the stolen point down toward Quel's face, but Quel was fast—a crimson shield materialized between them just as the tip made contact.
Not missing a beat, Raphael's other hand brought his crimson sword down toward Quel's exposed throat. Again, a second shield flared into existence, the metallic clang of the impact ringing out across the square. Realizing he was being boxed in by Gunther's homing arrows, Raphael leaped back, creating distance.
Quel scrambled away, breathing hard, and took his place beside Gunther. They shared a single, silent nod—a temporary truce born of pure necessity.
Raphael stood across from them, laughing. It was a mocking, jagged sound. "Pathetic," he spat, his rings humming as he poured more *malum* into his blade until it glowed white-hot. "Is this the best Wilson has to offer? A bowman and a shield-bearer playing house?"
Then, he stopped. He turned his gaze to the forty soldiers who had betrayed the Devil's Flames only minutes prior. They stood huddled together, their faces pale with the realization that they had traded one set of monsters for another.
"You," Raphael commanded, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. "If you want to prove your loyalty to the Abyssal Gang, prove it now. Kill your former commanders. Anyone who stays still... well, I'll consider that a refusal."
The soldiers stiffened. Terror, cold and absolute, washed over them. They were caught in a nightmare with no exit: charge two of the most dangerous men in Wilson and die, or stay put and be erased by the King of Fluxton.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The silence was a physical weight.
"Fine," Raphael whispered.
He became a blur. To Gunther and Quel, it looked like a red mist had descended upon the defectors. The square was suddenly filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of tearing flesh and the high-pitched shrieks of dying men. Raphael moved with such efficiency that it wasn't a fight; it was a harvest. Heads rolled, limbs were severed, and souls were reaped in a frantic, bloody seconds-long display of absolute power.
Gunther and Quel watched in frozen horror. They didn't feel pity for the traitors, but the sheer scale of the massacre was a reminder of exactly what they were facing. To Raphael, life was a currency he spent without thought.
As the last soldier fell, Raphael stood amidst the sea of corpses. He wasn't breathing hard, but a dull, persistent ache had begun to throb in his chest—the price of such high-output magic. He didn't let it show. He slowly turned his head, his eyes locking onto Gunther and Quel once more.
He pointed his blood-slicked blade at them, the tip trembling slightly from the sheer intensity of his power. "Now," he said, the malicious light in his eyes returning. "Let's finish this."