The gates of Valemourn Castle opened like the mouth of a beast. Inside, the air was cold—too cold, like something divine had died here long ago. Thea's steps echoed across the blood-slick marble floor, her Twinlight swords humming in their sheaths. Beside her, Ryle limped, scorched and bandaged, but still breathing.
And at the far end of the throne room, on the crimson dais where vampire royalty once ruled, stood Varaziel.
Majestic. Terrifying. Calm.
He wore no crown, yet he stood like a king. His armor shimmered black and violet, carved from infernal bone. His eyes—silver, ancient—glimmered with something beyond cruelty. Beyond logic.
He smiled faintly.
"You made it," Varaziel said, voice as smooth as obsidian. "I was beginning to think you'd die along the way."
Thea raised her swords. "You're behind all of this. The Noctis Vitae. The vampire war. Elizabeth's fall."
Ryle narrowed his eyes. "What do you want, Varaziel?"
The demon lord stepped forward.
"I am The Leader," he said. "Of the Demon King's Generals. Without me, they would have ripped each other apart centuries ago."
His tone sharpened. "I was the strategist behind every victory in the Demon War. The one who pacified the southern lords. The one who made peace with the Demons just long enough to gut their capital."
He took another step, fangs barely visible.
"But despite all I've done, the Demon King still breathes. Useless. Hollow. And when he falls, the others will squabble like rats."
His voice dropped into a whisper.
"I deserve the throne."
Ryle tensed. "So you caused the vampire civil war… to weaken them?"
Varaziel nodded. "Vampires are dangerous when united. So I shattered their kingdom. And now…"
He extended a hand.
"I want the Hero's Sword. The only blade that can slay a true Demon King."
Thea stepped forward, blade flashing. "You're not getting it."
"Oh, I think I am," Varaziel said—and vanished.
He reappeared behind her.
A single strike—too fast to see—sent Thea flying across the hall, crashing into a column. Blood sprayed across the marble.
He caught her sword mid-air.
Then, raising his own—the corrupted half stolen from earlier—he merged the two blades.
The Hero's Sword ignited in full.
A holy artifact twisted into demonic hands.
Ryle charged.
But Varaziel was ready.
In five heartbeats, Ryle was struck a dozen times. Bones cracked, wings torn, blood pouring from his mouth. He hit the ground hard, gasping, unable to rise.
Varaziel raised the Hero's Sword above him.
"You were brave," he said. "But you were always destined to fall."
Ryle's vision blurred.
Memories flashed—
Ignilth, roaring beside him.
Dravenith's smile, filled with secrets.
Thea's voice, calling him back from madness.
And something else…
A whisper. From his blood.
"Let the hunt begin."
His body snapped.
White light exploded from his chest, and his bones realigned with a sickening crunch. Scales tore through his skin, wings burst anew, and his eyes turned pure white.
Ryle rose.
No longer human.
No longer Journalist.
Bloodlust Ryle.
Monstrous. Dragonic. A nightmare with divine rage.
He lunged at Varaziel with a roar that shattered glass across the castle.
Their blades met—demonic grace against bestial fury.
Varaziel fought like a devil king, each move precise, laced with infernal magic. He wielded the Hero's Sword like a god. But Ryle was chaos incarnate, biting, clawing, ripping with his wings and tail. He fought without technique. He fought to destroy.
He broke Varaziel's left arm.
He bit into his shoulder and ripped out flesh.
He snapped Varaziel's sword hand, causing the Hero's Sword to drop with a clatter.
And then—
He roared.
A blast of dragonfire engulfed the throne.
Varaziel screamed.
His body turned to ash, torn apart by the very thing he feared most.
Ryle stood amidst the flames, panting, burning, twitching with energy too vast for any mind to hold.
But he didn't stop.
He turned to Thea, fangs bared, eyes white with madness.
And roared again.
Fire erupted toward her, and Thea dodged just in time. She rolled, grabbing Twinlight from the debris—the blades had separated again when the sword fell.
"Ryle!" she screamed. "Snap out of it!"
But he didn't hear her.
He attacked.
The battle that followed was unlike any before.
It was heartbreaking.
Every time she slashed, she saw him flinch—memories trying to rise.
Every time he lunged, she saw glimpses of his old self—buried beneath blood and rage.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, tears falling as she parried blow after blow.
Finally, she dropped her guard.
Ryle struck—
—but stopped.
His claw hovered inches from her face.
His hand trembled.
Thea looked into his eyes.
"Come back," she said, voice soft. "We won. You don't have to fight anymore."
The madness faded.
His eyes returned to gold.
His wings folded.
He collapsed into her arms.
Behind them, Charlotte stepped into the throne room, surveying the ruin and the ashes of Varaziel.
She sheathed her blade.
"I'll protect Valemourn now," she said.
The war was over.
But the scars would remain.
As dawn broke over the cursed kingdom, Ryle and Thea walked away—wounded, limping, but victorious.
For now.