The battlefield twisted, warped by forces beyond mortal comprehension.

  One moment, there was the blinding clash of light and darkness, Mikhail’s holy flames battling against the god’s corrupted blood.

  Then, a voice, calm, measured, cut through the chaos.

  "Incantation: Absolute Magic Circle: Erebus’ Embrace."

  The words did not echo; they invaded.

  The air grew heavy, thick with an unseen force. The clash of fire and corruption wavered, flickering like dying embers. Shadows bled from nowhere, creeping, coiling, devouring.

  A suffocating veil of darkness collapsed over the field, ravenous and insatiable. It did not simply obscure the light; it devoured it, an abyssal hunger consuming the crimson sky and the ruined earth beneath it. The very air thickened, pressing in on itself, as if the world had been folded into a singularity of absolute night. The wails of the undead, once an unholy cacophony, fell into a crushing, unnatural silence. Even the god, with their grotesque, leering form, an abomination of divine blasphemy, hesitated. Their ever-present grin twitched, shifting into something faintly resembling dissatisfaction.

  Mikhail, still braced in his stance, gritted his teeth. Something was wrong.

  His holy fire did not flicker from exhaustion, nor did some external force snuff it out.

  Wrong.

  This was something deeper, more primal.

  The flames recoiled, shrinking not out of weakness, but out of fear.

  Cold.

  A deep, unnatural cold slithered into his bones, sinking its fangs into his flesh and festering in the marrow.

  It was not the bite of winter nor the chill of death—this was something far worse.

  No warmth. No light.

  Not even the comforting burn of his own divine fire could keep it at bay.

  And then, a shiver ran down his spine.

  A delicate, yet freezing hand rested on his shoulder.

  Mikhail spun, every muscle in his body screaming to move, to strike, to purge—

  Until he saw her.

  Heathrine.

  She stood there, wrapped in the same abyssal void that had consumed the battlefield.

  Her presence was unnatural, an intrusion upon reality itself. The darkness clung to her, not like a shroud, but like something living, something that pulsed and coiled around her form. Her eyes gleamed, yet there was no warmth in them.

  "Stand down," she murmured, her voice slithering through the silence like a knife sliding through flesh.

  "You’re out of time."

  Mikhail hesitated.

  He never hesitated. Not in battle. Not in life. But this? This wasn’t something he could fight against.

  The god let out a low, amused chuckle. A sound like broken glass scraping against bone.

  "Ah... now this energy, I recognize."

  They did not move. Did not flinch. Yet there was something else woven into their tone—familiarity.

  "This magic," they mused, rolling their shoulders as if stretching, "isn’t like the boy’s. No purity. No righteousness. This—"

  Their grin stretched wider, splitting their face beyond what was natural.

  "This was born from something else."

  The darkness trembled at the words, a slow, shuddering ripple moving through the void, like something awakening from an ancient slumber.

  "Not light, not virtue," the god continued, their voice curdled with amusement, intrigue, mockery.

  "No... no... no... this was born from envy. From jealous rage. From vengeance!"

  They tilted their head, something shifting behind their too-bright eyes.

  "Magic truly meant to kill."

  Heathrine did not react.

  She did not blink.

  She simply melted into the ground. Not like a person stepping into shadow. Not like a creature of the night slinking into cover. She unmade herself, dissolving into the abyss with an absence so complete it left the air tasting wrong.

  Then suddenly-

  Hands.

  Dozens. Hundreds.

  Twisting, gnarled, wretched hands erupted from the ground, grasping, clawing, reaching for the god. They did not move with the frantic desperation of the damned, with dreadful certainty, with the inevitability of fate itself. They latched onto their limbs, their torso, their throat, and held them still.

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  The god did not struggle.

  Not yet.

  Before they could react, before they could begin to unravel the nightmare taking shape around them—

  Heathrine reemerged. Not from the ground. Not from the sky.

  From behind them: Silent, Crawling. Like something that had never been human. Dark, elongated arms unfolded from her back, grotesquely fluid, their fingers too many, too long. They reached for the god’s head with a terrifying, unerring crack.

  One pair of hands clamped over their eyes.

  The world went dark.

  Another pair covered their ears.

  The battlefield became silent.

  The last pair pressed against their mouth.

  And for the first time, in what could have been centuries, the god was truly alone.

  Senseless. Sightless. Voiceless.

  The god froze.

  They did not struggle.

  They simply stood still.

  Mikhail could feel it.

  The suffocating, absolute nothingness creeping into existence.

  A void not just of light, but of self.

  A realm where even gods could be forgotten.

  But for a brief, terrible moment—

  The battlefield felt empty. But Heathrine was not finished.

  A second Heathrine emerged. This one slithered forth from the void below, her movements slow, deliberate, inhuman. She crawled toward Rayne’s unconscious form, dragging herself across the earth with the sluggish inevitability of something from a nightmare.

  She knelt beside the girl, silent, her cloak billowing like smoke, curling at the edges like something breathing.

  A small, tattered notebook appeared in her hand. She flipped through it with dispassionate ease, as if reading the obituary of a stranger. She scribbled something down.

  Then, with a sigh, she muttered:

  "I'm sorry, kid."

  Her voice was flat. Hollow.

  A sound devoid of all that made speech human.

  With a simple flick of her wrist, a massive hand of darkness rose from the ground. It enveloped Rayne’s body in a cocoon of pure void, shielding her from the horrors that continued to unfold. Only then did the real Heathrine finally speak again. Her voice, a whispering thing, crawled through the void like a parasite burrowing into flesh.

  "You talk too much," she murmured to the god still trapped in her grasp.

  And the darkness swallowed everything whole.

  ...

  The wind howled like a wounded beast, carrying with it the distant wails of the damned, a haunting symphony that echoed through the ruins of Krenkol.

  Enoch and Genova sprinted through the shattered remains of the town, their boots kicking up dust and debris as they moved with singular purpose. The glow of burning buildings cast long, flickering shadows across their faces, the embers swirling in the air like fireflies born from destruction. The stench of decay and blood clung thickly, an invisible shroud draped over the town, suffocating in its persistence.

  In the near distance, an abandoned bus sat eerily still.

  Darkness coiled around it, thick and unnatural, shifting like living smoke. Tendrils of shadow pulsed and slithered, forming an impenetrable barrier between the children trapped inside and whatever horrors prowled beyond. Yet, despite the sinister presence, Enoch hesitated.

  This was not the same malice that stained the very bones of Krenkol.

  And that frightened him more than anything.

  His instincts screamed at him to move, to act before it was too late. With a sharp intake of breath, he surged forward, forcing his body into motion. The moment he reached the swirling void, he braced himself for resistance—but the shadows parted before him, slipping aside like water disturbed by an unseen force. The air grew thick as he passed through, suffocating in its silence.

  Then, the world erupted.

  Boom!

  His feet barely touched the ground before the sharp cries of children shattered the stillness, their terror a tangible force pressing against him. His gaze snapped toward the bus windows, where pale faces pressed against the glass, their wide eyes filled with unfiltered fear. Small hands trembled, clutching at each other, their muffled sobs blending into a singular, desperate plea.

  His axe was in his hands before he even registered drawing it, his grip tightening as he scanned the interior. The seats were filled with huddled figures, their small bodies curled in on themselves, seeking comfort where none could be found.

  A dozen. More.

  But not all.

  In the farthest corner, an unconscious man slumped against the wall, his face pale, his breaths shallow. Blood seeped through torn fabric, staining his clothes with crimson. His body bore the marks of battle, cuts, burns, bruises, for whatever horrors he had endured to keep these children safe.

  Beside him, a boy knelt, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. His fingers trembled as he worked, carefully tending to the man's wounds with slow, deliberate movements. He was so focused, so intent on his task, that he hadn’t even noticed Enoch standing there.

  The tension in Enoch’s shoulders did not ease.

  “…Are you kids alright?”

  His voice was steady, firm, a father’s voice, a voice meant to reassure, to ground. The children flinched at first, their fear instinctual, but after a moment, hesitant nods followed, small and uncertain. Relief bled through his rigid posture, until he noticed what was missing. His heart slammed against his ribs, a cold weight settling in his gut as his eyes swept over the bus once more.

  Then again.

  “…Where is Rayne? The girl with white hair? Do any of you know her? Where she is?”

  A bead of cold sweat slid down his temple. His grip on his axe tightened until his knuckles turned white.

  Silence.

  The air inside the bus seemed to grow heavier, pressing in from all sides, suffocating in its stillness. Finally, the boy tending to the man shifted, his voice barely above a whisper, rough from exhaustion.

  “…She’s still in the fields.”

  Enoch felt his stomach drop.

  “Not alone though,” the boy continued, his hands never stilling.

  “She’s with three others.”

  The words struck him harder than any blow ever could. Enoch closed his eyes for the briefest moment, forcing his breathing to steady, forcing himself not to give in to the fear clawing at his throat. His fingers curled into a fist so tight, the leather of his gloves groaned in protest. Only then, he nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Without another word, he turned and stepped out of the shadows.

  Outside the bus, Genova Yule leaned against the vehicle, her arms crossed, one boot tapping idly against the rusted metal. Her gaze swept over the desolate town, ever watchful, ever calculating. She heard Enoch approach before she saw him, the shift in the air, the subtle retreat of the shadows that had wrapped around the bus like a sentient thing. But it was his posture that told her everything before he even spoke.

  “…She’s still out there.”

  Genova exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her disheveled hair.

  “Goddamn it.”

  Reaching into the pocket of her coat, she retrieved a cigarette, rolling it between her fingers as her mind raced. Krenkol wasn’t just another town lost to the abyss—something far worse lurked beneath the surface, something neither of them had fully grasped yet. Before she could speak—

  The sky erupted.

  A brilliant explosion of light split the darkness, an unnatural radiance that burned like the heart of a dying star. For a single moment, the world was swallowed in blinding white.

  Then, the earth trembled.

  A shockwave tore through the air, rattling the bus, shaking the ground beneath them.

  And then, the sound followed with a deafening, monstrous roar, one that did not belong to anything human. Screeches. Metal rending. Flesh meeting steel. The unmistakable echoes of battle, fierce and unrelenting. Genova stiffened. Enoch stood motionless, as neither of them knew what had just happened. But one thing was certain.

  Rayne was still out there.

  And so was whatever had caused that. Genova sighed, rolling her shoulders as she brought the cigarette to her lips.

  “You know,” she muttered, the ember flaring as she took a drag, “I was really hoping you’d say she was already on the bus.”

  Enoch said nothing. She exhaled, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the night air. No fear. No hesitation.

  “…Alright.”

  She flicked the ash aside, jerking her chin toward the bus.

  “I’ll get these kids out of here. You go do your whole ‘unstoppable warrior father’ thing.”

  Enoch turned his gaze toward her, searching. She was composed, too composed, and dismissive, like she always was, but not uncaring. His eyes flickered back to the bus, the children inside, and finally, toward the horizon. Where his daughter was waiting. Then he nodded once.

  Genova smirked.

  “Try not to die, Enoch. You've still got some explaining to do.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Instead, he moved.

  A burst of energy propelled him forward, his body a streak of darkness against the ruin of the town.

  Genova watched him disappear into the night, her expression unreadable.

  “…So dramatic,” she muttered.

  Then, without looking back, she climbed into the driver’s seat of the bus.

  "Alright, younglings, buckle your belts!"