Silence.
That was all the world heard in that moment.
Elven's blade rose—its edge glinting red in the moonlight. His boots pressed firm into the earth, weight shifting for the killing blow.
Auren knelt beneath it. Bleeding. Barely breathing.
Then, even as his knees buckled, his hand lifted—reaching across the space between them.
Not toward his enemy.
Toward her.
Serai.
Their eyes met.
And in that second, something snapped.
She didn't hear a sound.
But she felt it.
Like a thread inside her ribcage tearing loose and reweaving itself—tight, burning, violent.
Rage.
Not anger. Not impulse.
This was clean. Ancient. A storm pressed into muscle and nerve.
She felt it boiling inside her.
She felt the urge to tear the enemy in front of her apart.
Not because he hurt her.
Because he hurt him.
The tether.
Her tether.
A red aura ignited around her skin—heat without flame.
Her arms trembled—then cracked. Not bone. Muscle.
Splitting. Expanding.
Veins lit like molten thread beneath her skin, glowing up through her neck, her temples. Her irises bled crimson. Her teeth clenched until blood touched her tongue.
And then—
She moved.
Elven turned—just in time to see a demon lunging at him.
No weapon.
Just wrath.
She swung for his throat with bare fists.
He barely parried—blade between them, catching her knuckles.
The force sent him skidding backward.
He landed, steadied.
She was already on him.
What followed was not a fight.
It was a mauling, a one sided beating.
Serai didn't strike wildly—she struck with intent, like a veteran killer. Each punch carved wind. Each kick shattered footing. Elven blocked—but the blade shook in his grip.
Cracks began to web along the edge.
He growled.
"Form Three. Pierce."
He lunged.
Serai ducked the thrust.
She dodged it like a veteran warrior, who ran rampant on battlefields
She then stepped past the edge.
And punched him in the ribs so hard the ground gave beneath his feet.
Bone cracked.
His breath snapped out like glass.
He swung.
She weaved through it.
Blow after blow. His sword no longer an extension of skill—just a shield to die behind.
And then came the punch.
The one.
A fist to center mass.
Her knuckles met his chest like a hammer dropped from a mountain.
Crack.
The sound echoed through the valley.
Elven flew—ten meters, straight through the outer clearing.
He hit the grass hard.
And didn't get up.
Serai staggered once.
Then turned.
Auren still knelt—eyes closed, blood at his lips.
She stared at him for a long, still moment.
Then dropped beside him—
And passed out.
The Wazir stepped forward, hands still folded behind his back.
His eyes gleamed with something close to ecstasy.
He looked down at the scene—two collapsed bodies, one ruin of a knight.
And whispered, almost reverently:
"Finally."
He exhaled slowly, as if the night had just delivered a secret he'd been owed for lifetimes.
Then, softly, to no one and everything:
"The thread stirs.The silence breaks.The hand that pulls does not yet know what it holds."
He stepped closer, gaze flicking between Serai and Auren—both unconscious, both scarred and remade.
"One gave without understanding.The other took without asking.And still—it answered."
He laughed. Quietly. Too long.
Then turned to the night sky and whispered like a lover sharing a forbidden name:
"It's finally happening."
He then walked to Elven.
The knight was still.
Then—his shoulder twitched.
A hairline shift.
Almost nothing.
But the Wazir saw it.
He crouched. Studied the body.
A slow regeneration—tissue stitching itself together, cell by cell. Not visible to most eyes. But not to him.
He smiled.
"As expected of the Marquis's experiment."
Then his expression shifted.
From delighted—
To merciless.
His eyes went cold.
His voice was still silk. But sharpened.
"But this world has no need for a shell like you."
He raised one hand. Fingers splayed over Elven's chest.
Then—
"Life Drain."
The light dimmed.
And Elven Varn exhaled one final, silent breath.