Draven stepped forward slowly.
He could end it now.
He could walk to the ritual circle.
Place his hand upon it.
Drain it dry.
Collapse the structure.
Shatter the summoning mid-descent.
Simple.
Efficient.
Finished.
But he didn't.
His eyes lifted instead toward the tear in space above the clearing.
The thing forcing its way through was not sustained by the circle alone.
The circle was merely the doorway.
The mana spilling downward in violent streams—
That was coming from the other side.
And if that much power was leaking through simply to anchor the descent…
Then whatever was crossing over possessed far more behind it.
His lips curved faintly.
"…Better."
He would let it finish.
Let it step fully into this world.
Then he would take it.
Not the scraps. Not the spillover.
The source.
He turned sharply.
"Vaelith."
She did not hesitate.
"Yes, my lord."
She bowed immediately, understanding without further explanation.
Crimson mana flared brighter around her barrier as she leapt backward and rose into the air—higher, farther—distancing herself from the ritual's epicenter. The children remained asleep in her arms, protected within layered veils of condensed crimson light.
Below, the cultists stood tall, faces twisted in fanatic delight.
One threw his arms wide, voice cracking with ecstasy.
"He's coming!"
Another laughed hysterically.
"He descends!"
The tear in reality widened with a violent rip.
Space itself screamed.
Black mist poured downward like inverted smoke, heavy and suffocating. A massive, horned silhouette forced its way through the rupture—claws digging into the edges of space as though it were tearing open flesh.
The ground trembled.
Stone cracked.
The air thickened.
Draven did not flinch.
He lifted his bow.
Slowly.
Calmly.
The string drew back in a smooth, deliberate motion. Mana gathered at his fingertips, condensing with disciplined precision.
An arrow formed—translucent blue at first. Clean. Refined.
Then he released thin strands from the folded mass sealed within him.
Guided them upward.
Fed them into the arrowhead.
The color shifted.
Blue deepened.
Darkened.
Became a dense, violent crimson.
The air around the arrow distorted under compression alone, bending subtly as the energy stabilized.
Draven aimed.
Not at the creature.
At one of the chanting mages.
Release.
The arrow tore through the air with a piercing shriek.
The mage did not even register the motion.
Impact.
His head snapped backward in a violent eruption of blood and bone fragments, the back of his skull obliterated as the arrow carried through.
The chanting faltered.
One voice gone.
Then another.
Draven had already drawn again.
Another crimson arrow formed, denser than the last.
No wasted movement.
No wasted breath.
Release.
The second mage fell before the first body struck the ground.
Silence began fracturing the ritual's rhythm.
Panic bled into fanaticism.
"Stop him!"
"Protect the summoner!"
"Maintain the formation!"
The horned creature's torso forced further into the world, roaring as its anchor destabilized. The tear behind it rippled violently, edges flickering with unstable distortion.
Draven's gaze remained cold.
If they wanted it fully here—
He would allow it.
But they?
They were no longer necessary.
Another arrow formed.
Crimson.
Condensed.
Refined.
He drew and released in one seamless motion.
A third cultist attempted to raise a defensive sigil, light flaring shakily around his hands.
Too slow.
The arrow pierced through the half-formed barrier, shattered the construct, and drove through his chest—pinning him to the stone pillar behind him with crushing force.
The chanting shattered completely.
"What are you doing?!"
"Don't break rhythm!"
"It's destabilizing!"
Draven drew again.
The demonic mana within him no longer resisted. No longer lashed wildly against containment.
It flowed.
Obedient.
Another release.
Another body dropped.
The ritual circle flickered violently, its runes stuttering and dimming without synchronized voices to sustain them.
But the tear had already widened too far.
A massive claw slammed onto the stone outside the circle.
The impact cratered the ground.
Black fractures spider-webbed outward, tearing through the clearing.
With a guttural roar, the creature dragged its other arm free and forced its torso into the world, ripping itself loose from the thinning membrane of reality.
Its eyes burned like molten embers.
The remaining cultists stared upward in awe and terror.
"He… he's here…"
"Yes…"
"Descend, O—"
The creature's massive arm swung sideways.
Two of them vanished beneath its palm.
Not in fury.
Not in punishment.
Simply in the way.
Draven lowered his bow slightly, observing.
"…Predictable."
To it, they were not worshippers.
Not allies.
Not even sacrifices of value.
They were tools.
Anchors.
Expendable.
The creature stepped fully out of the rift.
Nearly five times Draven's height.
Black, armored hide plated across its massive frame. Jagged horns curved backward from its skull. Crimson fissures glowed across its body where unstable energy leaked from its incomplete synchronization with this world.
Mana poured off it in waves.
Overflowing.
Unstable.
Untethered.
Draven felt it instantly.
The density.
The pressure.
The sheer abundance.
His lips twitched faintly.
There it is.
The remaining cultists fell to their knees.
"Lord of the Abyss!"
"We offer—"
The creature's gaze shifted.
Not toward them.
Toward Draven.
It could feel him.
The draining structure within him.
The folding.
The foreign compression of demonic energy not native to this realm.
It growled.
A low vibration that bent the air and rattled loose stones.
Draven calmly drew another arrow.
This one formed larger.
Denser.
He poured more into it.
The crimson darkened toward black, the edges of the arrowhead fracturing space in subtle ripples.
The creature stepped forward.
Each step cracked stone and shook the clearing.
Behind Draven, Aldric inhaled sharply but did not move.
Lyriana stared, frozen between fear and awe.
High above, Vaelith hovered silently, her crimson barrier burning brighter as she prepared for impact.
The creature opened its mouth.
Energy gathered within its throat—dense, spiraling, compressing into a sphere of annihilating force. The air screamed as pressure mounted.
Draven did not step aside.
Did not rush.
Did not hesitate.
Instead—
He shifted his perception.
Not to the surface.
Not to the overwhelming aura.
But deeper.
Into the unstable channels beneath its armored hide.
Into the fractures still adjusting to the laws of this world.
Into the mana bleeding through hairline cracks along its form.
He saw it.
The misalignment.
The leakage.
The inefficiency.
He smiled faintly.
"…You're leaking."
The creature roared.
The beam fired.
And Draven stepped forward into it.