While Azrah and Morthen toyed with the Hollow Blades amidst the chaos, another battle had already begun.
Zevara stood like a statue of obsidian at the center of the square, her golden slit eyes fixed lazily upon the four Holy Knights before her. No tension in her shoulders. No shift in her posture. Merely... patience. The coiled, absolute kind.
Selvanna Dawnblade, the bearer of the Virtue of Diligence, stepped forward — sword drawn, her storm-grey eyes steeled. Her companions followed, forming a loose perimeter.
"Dragonkin," Selvanna said, voice calm but edged. "You're not of this world's war. Why interfere?"
Zevara rolled her neck once, claws flexing gently at her side. "I'm not interfering. I'm participating." Her voice was soft, lilting — not mocking, simply matter-of-fact. "You all seem so confident. Let me educate you."
Without warning, Selvanna moved.
She vanished and reappeared behind Zevara with a flash of radiant light, her Virtue-forged blade descending in a perfect arc.
CLANG.
The shockwave rattled windows. Sparks flew as metal met scale.
Zevara had raised her forearm — nothing more — and caught the sword on her bare skin. Her arm was unmarred.
"Mm. That tickled."
She moved then — fluid as wind — and swatted Selvanna away with her tail. The Knight of Diligence flew back several feet, rolling to her feet mid-air with grace, though her arm trembled from the impact.
"She's... unfazed," muttered a late coming Calen. He raised a palm and azure sigils bloomed in the air.
"Seris! Now!"
The elven cleric raised her staff, golden light coalescing into glowing symbols that raced toward Zevara like divine chains.
But the chains snapped inches from her.
Zevara exhaled — not fire, not ice — but raw, ancient pressure that shattered Seris's spell like fragile glass.
"Divinity," Zevara murmured. "A sweet flavor. But I am... older."
Aeron charged with a roar, greatsword raised. He tried to flank her, seeking an opening while Calen's elemental storm began to build.
Zevara, without turning, flicked her tail — a blur.
CRACK.
Aeron hit the wall with bone-shaking force, coughing blood but forcing himself back up.
"She's toying with us!" he growled.
Calen's chant reached a crescendo. A storm of ice and lightning shot toward her.
Zevara watched the spells approach. She didn't dodge. She simply raised her scaled hand and let the storm hit.
Crackling frost and lightning engulfed her figure — for a moment, she vanished.
Then the glow faded.
She stood at the center of the blast. Her scales shimmered with the remnants of magic, lightly steaming.
She rolled her shoulders.
"Elemental manipulation. How quaint."
Selvanna gritted her teeth. "Form up. We bring her down. Together!"
The four knights converged.
Zevara smiled faintly.
Then she moved — graceful, swift, destructive. Her claws danced through their attacks, every movement elegant, controlled, and utterly devastating.
Blades met scale.
Spells met nothing.
Each strike the Holy Knights delivered was turned aside. Each gap they tried to exploit became a trap.
And through it all, Zevara did not gloat. Did not mock. She simply fought like royalty — like a goddess playing among mortals.
She kicked Calen off his feet, dodged Aeron's overhead strike with a twist, and caught Seris's divine blast with a palm before crushing it.
Selvanna alone held her ground.
Their blades clashed again, and this time Selvanna pushed her sword harder, glowing with the full blessing of Diligence.
Zevara's gaze sharpened — just for a second — and she smiled.
"You are strong. I'll remember your name."
Then, a pulse of golden energy erupted from Zevara's hand, sending Selvanna skidding backward, armor smoking.
The four Holy Knights regrouped, panting, bruised, and wide-eyed.
Zevara stood untouched.
"Your effort was beautiful," she said softly. "But this is the difference between mortals and Dragonkin."
Ash drifted across the scorched plaza like gray snow. Cracks spread across the tiled stone beneath the Holy Knights' feet, blood staining its edges in crimson constellations. The clash had not lasted long. Minutes, perhaps. But to the ones still standing, it felt like an eternity of humiliation.
Selvanna stood still, her sword arm trembling.
She couldn't believe it.
Her sword — Diligence, the divine blade passed down through generations of sanctified warriors — had been stopped. Not by a spell. Not by a barrier. By flesh. Zevara had caught the radiant blade in her bare hand and, with a flick of her wrist, thrown her back like a child.
Aeron lay beside her, coughing up dust and blood. His armor was dented, his pride more so. "She didn't even flinch," he muttered hoarsely. "Like we were bugs."
"Not even that," Selvanna whispered. Her storm-grey eyes fixated on the figure ahead.
Zevara, standing tall, untarnished, regal in stillness. Her golden eyes scanned them with an indifference that cut deeper than any blade. There was no malice. No cruelty. Just the calm of a predator who didn't see the point in feasting on something beneath her.
Seris gripped her staff tighter, sweat dripping from her brow. She had cast divine suppression magic — prayers older than Solmaria itself. And Zevara had blinked through it. As if it were mist. Her elemental barrage? Not a scratch. The Dragonkin's scales had glimmered, absorbing fire, ice, wind as though she were drinking from the earth itself.
"Is this... what we're meant to fight?" Seris said, voice small.
"This is what the gods warned us about," Selvanna replied, swallowing hard. "What Envy commands now... It isn't just demons. It's nightmares."
Zevara flicked her tail once, sending shattered debris into the air.
* * * * *
The first blade fell—not with thunder, but with the stillness of inevitability.
The battlefield roared around Leon: screams, crackling stone, the metallic scent of blood on the wind. Shadows flitted like dying things. He tightened his grip on Wrath's Blade strapped to his back, feeling the leather hum against his spine—the only calm in the chaos.
Then he saw her: Envy. Immobile amid firelight, her obsidian hair gleaming, violet eyes watching like stars. Behind her, a pack of shadow wolves rose from the shadows.
Leon's breath slowed.
She spoke first, soft enough to sound familiar.
"Leon."
He turned, fists clenching.
"I've heard tales of your deeds. But the real highlights… a child named Velis, and my darling girl Sylva."
Velis flashed a smug grin. Sylva bowed quietly.
"I saw them dancing with shadows," Envy continued. "You changed. Your hair. Your eyes."
Leon laughed, uneasy.
"My hair—believe it or not—has a long story."
Envy cocked her head.
"And all because of Wrath's Blade."
Something sharpened behind her words. Leon's chest tightened.
"Why do you insist on calling it that?" he snapped.
She studied him, mocking.
"You know nothing," she said. "Nothing of this world… nor of the blade you carry. It hungers. And you feed it with death."
Leon's eyes flamed.
"You know nothing of my life. My world—Japan—of high school, friends, normal days—"
He paused, emotion choking him.
"Since I came here, I've danced with death more times than I can count."
He felt the shadows stir, Wrath inside him whispering.
From the dark flank, Velis and Sylva attacked: Velis weaving illusions, Sylva rushing in at inhuman speed.
They moved so fast that Leon barely caught them.
Envy barely shifted—then caught both their wrists, fingers cracking Sylva's reinforced dagger, pulling Velis's arm clean up.
"So cute," Envy said, releasing them both like toys cast aside.
Sylva stumbled backward. Velis hissed but grinned.
"You won't even let us fight fair?" Sylva forced out, jaw tight.
Envy laughed.
"Fair?" she said. "I won't use my scythe yet. Not for you."
She discarded the scythe, drawing two violet-tinted daggers.
"Let's begin."
Now the air rippled with deadly intent.
Selene wove a flaming barrier, shielding Iris as she chanted prayers of light.
Iris smiled through worry, forging pillars of radiant chains to hold the shadow wolves off the sides.
Gaius and Darius intercepted packs of corrupted fiends whose claws slashed at the edges of the clearing.
Leon sprinted toward Envy, Sylva and Velis behind him, trying to flank—though clearly outmatched.
Envy danced between their strikes, blades humming low, twirling in and out of Selene's firelight, leaving silvery arcs of conviction in her wake.
In the midst of a clash, she leaned in close and whispered—
"That blade... it doesn't crave justice. It craves annihilation. Can you feel it? Every heartbeat, every soul it cleaves…"
Leon froze, vision pulsing red. Wrath's voice thundered in his mind: Kill them.
Sylva's voice sliced through the haze:
"Leon! Control yourself!"
He staggered back, inhaled, and snapped back into the world.
Suddenly, Velis lurched. A slash cut across her side—almost hidden under layered fabric.
Leon shouted. Selene dropped a healing orb in mid‑air.
Velis staggered, then smirked.
"Paper cut," she said, voice wobbling—but fierce. "Don't stop now. I was just warming up."
Sylva fought behind him. They circled Envy—but then she paused mid‑strike, eyes glazing over.
Envy uttered a phrase Sylva knew too well:
"Sleep like the candle you once snuffed."
Sylva froze, blood draining from her face.
"Leon…" she croaked.
The world tilted.
Envy smirked, knives poised.
Leon lunged, parrying the dagger inches from Sylva's throat.
"Sylva—move!" he commanded.
She recovered instantly, shaking. They regrouped, breathless and wounded. Wrath raged silent in Leon's grip.
Velis, bleeding but still perched beside Sylva, cleaned finger against blade.
"We keep going," she said. "Nothing stopped yet."
Envy smirked wider, stepping back.
"Now it's interesting," she said, lowering her daggers like a predator savoring fresh blood.
Leon's chest thundered. He looked at Sylva's eyes, at Velis's bleeding side. He looked at his friends.
She backed away, ready to strike again. And Leon wondered if he was ready to fight the blade inside him—or if it would fight him first.
* * * * *
The air quivered with the smell of dust and fear as the Hollow Blades circled Azrah and Morthen. Krevic's grip tightened on his rapier; beads of sweat tickled his temple. They'd come as a unit—but now it was two against four.
Krevic charged. Azrah sidestepped—no scramble, no hesitation. He stumbled into the blade's hilt to the face again. Stars exploded in his vision as he felt the crushing impact. Staggering, his rapier was tossed to the ground. Azrah plucked it effortlessly from the dirt, smirking. Krevic's vision went red as he inserted the rapier through his chest, letting it pierce until it stuck in the cobblestone beneath. He fell forward onto his face, the world fracturing.
Behind him, Beran raised his broadsword to strike. Morthen caught his attack mid-swing, hand engulfing Beran's blade. Beran staggered, bladed teeth slicing into him from Morthen's free hand. As blood erupted, Krevic's sight dimmed—but he saw Beran trying to push Morthen away, sword nicked but dropped. Beran fell face‑first, lifeless.
Kaelith tried elemental magic—fire spells, ice shards—but Morthen's massive fist intercepted every spell. One blast of frost froze over Naraine's stomach wound, shards embedding in her flesh. She choked and keeled over. Kaelith's eyes went wide as her spells indiscriminately wounded their own teammates. In that moment of distraction, Morthen lunged. A lethal punch to the face shattered Kaelith's jaw and skull. He crumpled silently.
Jorik roared, raising his great-axe, posing like a mountain. But Morthen bypassed his guard—clawed inward with unnatural speed, grabbed his throat, and squeezed. Jorik's eyes bulged as his spine bowed backward, bones cracking audibly. He gasped, arms quivering, then collapsed into the dust.
Krevic's world narrowed. All around him, the Hollow Blades lay broken—a puddle of ragged survivors. He coughed, choking on blood. His lungs felt aflame, vision dark. Azrah's dagger hovered in the air as she glided forward, dispassionate.
She knelt, aligning her blade with Krevic's temple.
Morthen's voice, low and guttural, echoed:
"Five down. Only one to go."
The cruelty in his tone made Krevic see everything in slow motion. He tried to raise his rapier—not ambition, only dread. Azrah's dagger punctured his skull.
No struggle. No mercy.
Silence swallowed the square. Smoke curled over shattered bottles, broken wagons, terrified onlookers frozen in flight. Dust trembled where the Hollow Blades had fallen. The two demons stood unmoving—Azrah's dagger stained ruthlessly, Morthen's bloodied gauntlet dripping viscously.
In that fleeting stillness, Krevic's final breath hissed out as the world turned black.