Draven did not rise immediately.
He remained kneeling in the fractured clearing, one hand pressed flat against the broken stone beneath him, the other loosely curled at his side.
Inside him—
Chaos.
The newly absorbed Abyssal mana raged like a storm trapped within a cage of bone and flesh. It crashed against the inner folds of his structure, slamming into the lattice of channels he had carved over years of relentless refinement. It searched for fractures. For weaknesses.
For escape.
He did not allow it.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He began compressing.
Folding.
Layer upon layer upon layer.
The process was never meant to stop. His internal structure had never been designed for stability—it was built for evolution. Continuous refinement. Nonstop folding. Endless compression. Infinite tightening of density.
Perfection through pressure.
He forced the wild energy into that rhythm.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The violent currents resisted. They bucked and tore against his control, lashing like a living thing as the remnants of Abyssal will dissolved into raw, volatile force.
He folded harder.
A long breath left his lungs—
Then he coughed.
Blood erupted from his mouth in a violent spray.
Not a trickle.
A burst.
It streamed from his lips, poured from his nose, spilled from the corners of his eyes in dark red trails that carved paths down his cheeks. Thick drops fell from his chin and splattered against the shattered earth.
Another breath—
Another cough—
Blood seeped from his ears as well, staining the collar of his cloak and soaking into the fractured ground beneath him.
Aldric stiffened.
Lyriana inhaled sharply.
Vaelith tightened her hold on the children instinctively.
But Draven did not collapse.
He continued folding.
The mana screamed silently within him, its shape writhing under the strain. Yet slowly—imperceptibly at first—its edges began to dull. The jagged volatility of the Abyss softened. The chaotic currents lost their violent turbulence.
They grew heavier.
Denser.
Quieter.
Becoming structured.
Becoming his.
Finally—
The internal storm began to slow.
Not fading.
Not weakening.
But compressing into a deeper, darker state of cohesion.
Draven exhaled.
Slowly.
His vision steadied, the faint distortion at the edges fading back into clarity.
His mind, however, did not rest.
It raced.
Forty percent.
He could feel it with unsettling precision.
Forty percent of what he required to construct his true mana pool.
Not surface channels.
Not temporary reserves.
Not a patchwork system held together by force of will.
A true core.
A stable, sovereign foundation.
If the cat had not absorbed its portion of the overflow—
He might have reached fifty.
Perhaps even sixty.
His jaw tightened faintly.
One named entity.
And it had granted him this much.
If he could acquire two more of comparable density—
He could complete the foundation.
He could create it.
The thought sent a faint curl to his blood-stained lips.
"I need more…" he murmured softly.
The words were not frantic.
Not desperate.
Measured.
Hungry.
"More."
Slowly, he pushed himself upright.
His movements were steady, controlled—but something in his posture had shifted.
Heavier.
Grounded.
Predatory.
A calm voice broke through the settling silence.
"My lord… are you alright?"
Vaelith stood a short distance away, the crimson barrier she had conjured now gone. Both children were cradled securely in her arms.
One of them was awake.
Elenya.
Her small eyes blinked curiously, unfocused but bright. Soft baby sounds slipped from her lips as she squirmed lightly against Vaelith's chest—utterly unaware of the shattered battlefield, the scorched earth, the metallic scent of blood hanging thick in the air.
Draven's gaze shifted toward them.
The hunger in his eyes dimmed—if only slightly.
For a brief moment—
The violent calculations in his mind slowed.
He lifted the back of his hand and wiped the blood from beneath his nose.
"I'm fine," he said calmly.
The crimson glow in his eyes had stabilized once more—deep and controlled, no longer flaring erratically beneath the strain of assimilation.
Elenya made another small sound, her tiny hand lifting and curling as though reaching toward him.
Draven stared at that small, uncertain motion.
Then he exhaled slowly.
Her fingers stretched toward him again.
Tiny.
Uncoordinated.
But reaching.
He froze.
For a fraction of a second, genuine surprise flickered across his face.
"…You can still see me?" he murmured quietly.
Even through the blood.
Even through the aftermath of battle.
Even like this.
Her hand continued to wave in his direction, soft babbling spilling from her lips as though nothing had changed.
Aldric let out a short breath that almost resembled a laugh.
"Of course she can," he said, stepping closer. "You look exactly the same."
Draven's brows drew together faintly.
"The disguise—"
Aldric gestured vaguely toward him.
"Is gone."
Draven stilled.
The magical artifact woven into his cloak—the layered illusion construct that softened his features and dulled the sharpness of his presence—had been burned away during the overload.
The Abyssal mana had corroded it from within.
And now—
There was no concealment.
No masking.
No borrowed face.
Only him.
Dark skin glistening faintly beneath streaks of drying blood.
White hair falling loosely around his shoulders, the ends stained crimson where blood had splattered upward.
Sharp, pointed ears no longer hidden.
His eyes—still faintly glowing—were deeper now.
Older.
He glanced down at himself briefly.
His wounds were gone.
The torn flesh, the internal ruptures, the strain upon muscle and vein—all of it had already repaired even under the weight of compressed mana still folding inside his body.
Only the blood remained as evidence.
Elenya made a soft, pleased sound.
She was not afraid.
She recognized him.
Draven's gaze softened—barely, but undeniably.
Then—
A new voice cut across the clearing.
"He is the true lord…"
Low.
Reverent.
All eyes shifted.
From the shadows at the edge of the ruined battlefield, two figures stepped forward.
Black robes.
Unmarked.
Faces partially concealed beneath lowered hoods.
They dropped to their knees immediately.
Heads bowed.
One pressed his forehead against the fractured stone.
"The one who consumed the Abyss Lord…"
The second continued, his voice trembling—not with fear.
With awe.
"The one who devoured Vaeroth the Rift-Breaker."
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
Aldric's expression hardened instantly.
Lyriana shifted closer to Vaelith, protective instinct sharpening into quiet readiness.
Draven did not move.
He simply looked at them.
The cultists who had performed the summoning were dead.
These two were not from that circle.
Their mana signatures were different.
More restrained.
Controlled.
Watching.
Waiting.
"You witnessed it," Draven said calmly.
It was not a question.
"Yes," the first cultist replied without lifting his head. "We have searched for proof. For one worthy of the title."
The second raised his head slightly—just enough for his voice to carry clearly.
"You consumed a named entity of the Abyss."
His tone held reverence.
"You are not prey."
A pause.
"You are sovereign."
The wind whispered through the ruined clearing, carrying the faint scent of scorched bark and dried blood.
Draven's crimson gaze rested on them without warmth.
Without approval.
Without denial.
Behind him, Elenya made another soft noise, her tiny hand still reaching in his direction.
The contrast was almost surreal.
Blood-soaked stone.
Kneeling zealots.
A child reaching for him without fear.
Aldric stared at the two black-robed figures.
His expression shifted from tension…
To irritation.
Then to outright disbelief.
"How," he said flatly, "are these bastards still alive?"
The clearing was still thick with the residue of Abyssal corruption. The ground was scorched, trees shattered, the air warped by lingering mana distortion.
Everyone else caught within the summoning radius had either been torn apart—
Or hollowed out.
Yet these two stood untouched.
Draven did not appear surprised.
He studied them carefully.
Their robes were singed at the edges—but intact. Their mana signatures were thin, restrained, suppressed almost to the point of nonexistence.
Not powerful.
Not impressive.
But meticulously concealed.
"You weren't inside the ritual circle," Draven said calmly.
The taller of the two lowered his head slightly.
"No."
"We were observers."
Lyriana's eyes sharpened. "Observers? Of an Abyssal summoning?"
The second cultist answered this time.
"We do not serve chaos."
Aldric scoffed. "You're kneeling to the man who just devoured it."
The cultist did not flinch.
"We serve power that survives it."
That silenced Aldric for a brief moment.
Draven's gaze sharpened slightly.
"You shielded yourselves," he said.
It was not praise.
It was analysis.
The first cultist slowly pulled back his sleeve.
Thin silver threads were embedded into the fabric beneath, runes woven into concentric binding patterns so delicate they were nearly invisible.
"A suppression lattice," he explained. "It dampens presence. Reduces mana output to near-zero expression."
Lyriana frowned. "That wouldn't stop a named entity from noticing you."
"It didn't," the cultist replied evenly.
A pause.
"We made ourselves insignificant."
Silence followed.
Draven understood at once.
They had not resisted.
They had not concealed themselves through strength.
They had diminished their presence so thoroughly that the Abyssal entity had categorized them as irrelevant.
Not a threat.
Not sustenance.
Not even worthy of attention.
Aldric exhaled sharply through his nose.
"So you survived by being beneath notice."
"Yes."
The answer carried no shame.
Draven's eyes flickered faintly.
Clever.
Cowardly.
Practical.
The second cultist continued, voice steady despite the weight of the moment.
"We were not certain you would prevail."
Aldric barked a humorless laugh. "At least you're honest."
"But when you consumed Vaeroth," the cultist went on, "we understood."
Draven tilted his head slightly.
"Understood what?"
The cultist lifted his gaze fully now, meeting Draven's crimson eyes without wavering.
"That you are not merely powerful."
A faint breeze stirred the ash at their feet.
"You consumed what should destroy you."
Behind Draven, Elenya made another soft sound, utterly unaware of the gravity pressing down upon the clearing.
Aldric crossed his arms, watching the kneeling figures with open distrust.
And Draven—
Simply watched them back.