Chapter 109:
Skiller sprinted through the forest, Aisha cradled in his arms. His footsteps were firm yet silent—a ghost weaving between the trees. His supernatural reflexes kept him one step ahead of the chaos closing in.
Time itself seemed to fracture. Leaves hung suspended in midair, as if an invisible force had frozen the world. A shiver clawed up his spine. He ran faster.
Without warning, the forest dissolved around them. The air thickened, reeking of iron and decay. Crimson light pulsed underfoot, throbbing like the breath of some unseen beast.
"Put me down, Skiller." Aisha's whisper was frail.
In the distance, a guttural growl reverberated—something deeper than fire lurked in the shadows.
The ground gave way.
They plummeted into an endless abyss. Around them, a labyrinth of blue flames erupted, its glow carving endless corridors that burned with ancient fury.
"This isn't possible…" Skiller's voice trembled as an alien will pressed against his mind, thick as tar. Every breath was a struggle. His thoughts turned sluggish, his resolve wavering—as if some unseen entity was peeling away his sanity.
Then, a figure emerged from the fire.
First, a silhouette—warping within the flames like part of them. Then, features sharpened.
Lionel.
But not the Lionel he knew.
His eyes were voids. His smile—a jagged crack across his face—promised nothing but cruelty.
"Lionel… What are you doing here?" Skiller's voice wavered between disbelief and primal fear.
Lionel moved calmly, untouched by the weight crushing Skiller. He knelt beside Aisha—still unconscious—and in one swift motion, slashed off her hands with a dagger.
No flicker of emotion. No hesitation. Just hollow eyes and a whisper stolen by the flames:
"The sacrifice must be pure."
Skiller's teeth ground together. Aisha's blood soaked his shirt. Every heartbeat was a countdown.
Not her. Not like the others.
He screamed.
The blood flowed. The fire reacted.
Flames roared skyward, writhing in ecstasy as they drank in the offering. A deafening bellow shook the labyrinth—something old was waking.
"STOP!" Skiller's roar ripped from his throat.
He tried to move—but his body wouldn't obey. Muscles locked. An invisible current pinned him in place, as if Hell itself had chained him.
Lionel barely glanced at him.
"My lord will be pleased."
Then—he vanished into the labyrinth's shadows, leaving Skiller drowning in helpless rage.
Varek's Descent
Not far away, Varek staggered forward, each step heavier than the last. The darkness in him writhed—a war between control and the desperate need to save his family.
Sariel's voice slithered through his mind:
"You should have sacrificed us both."
Varek clenched his eyes shut. Tears carved paths down his face as he tore the chains embedded in his flesh—hooks ripping through skin.
He knew Sariel was right.
He'd failed first. Failed as a son. Failed as a brother. And now, if he hesitated—he'd lose everything.
But not this time.
"It's true… I should have done it." His whisper was raw, aching. "That's why I'll make it right."
He stopped. Drew the sword at his belt.
Without flinching, he dragged the blade across his arm—then sank his fangs into the wound. His black blood drenched the steel, and the weapon pulsed in his grip like a living thing.
The beasts of the labyrinth attacked, drawn to his power.
Varek slaughtered them—one after another—his movements ruthless.
"None of you are leaving alive."
He strode forward, leaving carnage in his wake.
The Labyrinth's Heart
Elsewhere, Sanathiel clutched the medallion around his neck. It flickered like a dying star.
Beside him, Salomon kicked a beast back with a snarl.
"This is worse than we imagined."
Then—the medallion burned.
Agony seared through Sanathiel's veins. Muscles split. Bones cracked. A bestial roar tore from his throat as fur erupted across his skin—his body twisting into something primordial.
"The Nevri can enter now!" Salomon's voice was a thunderclap as the beasts retreated.
At the labyrinth's core, Sariel waited.
Every scream, every drop of blood—shifted the maze. As if Hell itself was watching.
Shadows slithered around Sariel like living things, curling around his fingers. His smile was a razor's edge.
"Well, well… The family's all here. And for her?" He tilted Aisha's chin with two fingers. "Wake up, little doll. I want you conscious when they choose who to save."
Aisha's Nightmare
Aisha floated in formless dark—not emptiness, but something liquid, like a tear that would never fall.
Visions struck like lightning:
Rasen, kneeling, his eyes hollow as he screamed without sound.
Sanathiel, impaled on his own blade.
Varek, walking alone through ruins, hands stained with blood.
And behind it all—Sariel.
A crown of black thorns. A throne of Nevri bones.
The sky burned red.
The forest wept.
And she was there—
Chained. Faceless. Nameless.
A whisper cut through the nightmare—not from outside, but from her own blood:
"You chose this. Now the world kneels to your mistake."
Aisha gasped awake, tears streaming.
Was it a dream? A warning?
One truth seared her mind:
She couldn't save them all.
Not without losing herself.
The Final Strike
Sanathiel—now a monstrous wolf—lunged at Sariel. The impact shook the labyrinth.
Flames surged higher, illuminating Aisha's face as consciousness returned.
Then—Varek burst into the fray, his sword dripping black.
At the sight of Sariel, his eyes burned with guilt and resolve.
"Brother… This time, I won't let you win. Even if I have to fall with you."
Sariel laughed—a sound like crumbling graves.
"You don't have the strength to stop me, Varek. But try. I love watching you fail."
Then—the voice.
Ancient. Colder than the void. It pierced their marrow like a prophecy:
"My servant has returned. The end begins with your flesh."
The earth shook.
As if Hell had just taken its first breath in centuries.