Draco moved like a specter of death—silent, seamless, unrelenting. His sword cut through the air with a rhythm too perfect, too practiced, like a butcher at his craft. Erebus and Octavius fought to keep up, but Draco left no room for error. No weakness.
Octavius gritted his teeth, struggling to match the pace with his only arm. "We need to press forward," he urged, breath ragged.
Erebus wasn't faring any better. He lacked the hardened instincts of a frontline warrior, his footwork faltering under Draco's relentless pressure and the sinking sands of scorching desert. The seasoned fighter had them both playing his game, and it was only a matter of time before one of them slipped.
And then it happened.
Octavius saw a sliver of an opening and lunged, aiming for Draco's ribs.
"Don't!" Erebus's warning came too late.
Draco twisted, the motion smooth, effortless. His sword carved through the space where Octavius had been a heartbeat ago, missing by a whisper—yet close enough to sheer off a golden lock of his hair.
Octavius inhaled sharply. "That was too damn close—"
Erebus didn't wait. He surged forward, his blade gleaming under the sun as it severed Draco's left arm in a vicious, bone-crunching arc. Flesh, sinew, and steel split apart—blood sprayed like a ruptured artery, drenching the sand beneath them.
But the horror came next.
Draco's arm reformed almost instantly, muscle knitting together with a grotesque squelch, flesh bubbling as if his body itself rejected the very notion of injury. The severed limb on the ground turned black, writhing like a dying parasite before disintegrating into ash.
Erebus barely had time to register it before Draco's sword drove into his chest.
His breath hitched. A deep, sickening cold spread through his core—not from the steel, but from something else. Something in the blade. His muscles locked, his veins felt as though they were freezing over. Poison. Or worse.
Draco leaned in close, voice a whisper of death. "Your time's up."
The world around Erebus fractured. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His vision blurred, dark tendrils creeping into the edges. His mind—his very thoughts—began to unravel.
"Rage all you want now," Draco snickered, wrenching the blade free. Blood poured from the wound like an open floodgate. "Turn against your own men... and die."
Instinct took over. Erebus's fingers locked around the retreating sword, gripping the razor-sharp steel. It cut into his palm, flesh splitting apart, but he held on.
Through bloodied teeth, he grinned.
"Don't you know?" he rasped, voice wet with blood. "God is indifferent to those who don't believe in Him."
Draco's smirk faltered, his face twisting in something between disgust and confusion.
"What?"
"No matter—" Erebus coughed violently, red splattering his lips. "What rank you hold... in the end, you're just a pawn—"
Draco barely noticed the sword stabbing into his chest until it was too late.
The blade sank through his sternum, past bone and flesh, piercing straight through his heart. He convulsed violently, steam rising where metal met skin. A terrible, searing agony burned through him, not from the wound—but from what coated the blade.
Holy water.
Octavius twisted the sword deeper.
"Die."
Draco's scream was raw, visceral—a wretched sound of something that should not be capable of pain. His body convulsed, bones cracking under the unseen force of the divine.
Erebus stumbled backward, barely able to keep himself upright as Draco's form withered.
Octavius didn't stop. He brought his boot down, shoving Draco off the blade. The fallen warrior hit the ground in a spasming heap, his skin peeling away in charred layers.
"Be gone for good," Erebus muttered.
Draco writhed, his body dissolving into dark mist. Octavius stepped forward, pouring the last of their holy water onto what remained.
Draco's final shriek echoed across the battlefield as his body burned—melting away into nothing but a rising plume of black smoke.
Octavius watched the remains scatter in the wind. His voice was low, venomous.
"This is for kidnapping Her Highness. And for Lady Leila, who suffered a miserable life because of a devil like you."
He looked up and was ready to blow up the signal to relay the fall of the enemy general for good.
But the battle wasn't over.
A gut-wrenching sound came from behind him. A sickening crack.
Octavius turned.
Erebus stood trembling, his body twitching violently as black energy pulsed from the wound Draco had left behind. The darkness writhed like a living thing, seeping from his chest, curling around him like a serpent tightening its grip. His eyes were completely white and lifeless.
Then, without warning, Erebus swung his blade—aimed straight for Octavius's throat.
Octavius barely dodged, stumbling back in shock.
"H-Hey! Have you lost your damn mind?!"
But Erebus wasn't there anymore.
His eyes were void—empty, a swirling abyss of madness.
And then he turned. Not toward Octavius. Not toward the enemy.
But toward everyone.
With a monstrous, primal roar, Erebus lunged into the fray like a maddened war beast. His blade tore through soldier and ally alike, bodies splitting apart beneath his strikes. Blood drenched the battlefield, staining the sand red. Limbs flew, screams of the dying swallowed by the chaos.
The undead, once falling under their blades, began to rise again—his energy pulling them back into the waking nightmare.
Octavius's blood ran cold.
"He's gone berserk," he muttered. "Curses!... he's completely lost it."
He turned to his men. "Fall back! Get the hell out of his way!"
Even the enemy soldiers hesitated. What they faced now wasn't a warrior—it was a nightmare, a raging and living storm.
Erebus raged, cutting through anything in his path. His blade carved through steel and bone as though they were made of parchment. His movements weren't calculated anymore—they were raw, wild, a force of carnage given form.
Octavius clenched his fists. There was only one way to stop him.
Holy water.
But their supply was almost gone. And Amanécer—the only place they could get more—was leagues away.
His mind raced. If he acted too late, Erebus would become something far worse than Draco.
But if he acted too soon…
Damn it.
Blood. Screams.
Erebus raged on.
And Octavius had seconds to decide before the battlefield became a graveyard of his own men.