The battlefield was a grotesque mosaic of ruin—shattered bodies twisted into unnatural shapes, blood soaking into the earth like ink into parchment. The scent of iron and burnt flesh choked the air, mingling with the distant cries of the dying.
Octavius stood amidst the carnage, paralyzed, watching the horror unfold. He had witnessed many atrocities, but this—this was something else.
Erebus was no longer a man. He had become something more terrifying. Something beyond control.
He carved through the demon army like a force of nature, his blade an unrelenting executioner. He should have collapsed by now, but his rage kept him upright, his body refusing to succumb despite the countless wounds marring his flesh. His once black armor was no longer black; it was red—slick with the gore of his enemies, his own blood lost in the ocean of slaughter.
Even as the demons turned to flee, he pursued them with the obsession of a starving wolf. Their screams echoed into the fading light, but no mercy came.
Octavius knew he had to act.
"Restrain him," he ordered, summoning the alchemists, who were busy with capturing the wild demonic beasts to be used later as specimens of their future research.
But Erebus was beyond reason. He broke through every chain, his raw power defying the magic meant to bind him. Every failed attempt ended in fresh bloodshed—limbs severed, skulls crushed under his blows, the battlefield growing even more defiled with the remains of those who had dared approach.
Then, a single misstep. A moment of hesitation. But Octavius pushed them to execute his orders.
The alchemists seized their chance.
Glowing chains shot forward, one wrapping around his right arm.
"Anchor his legs!" Octavius shouted.
The alchemists pulled with every ounce of their strength. Erebus thrashed violently, his roars shaking the very air around them. It took multiple failed attempts and the deaths of many of his own men, but at last, they brought him crashing to the bloodstained ground, a beast finally brought to his knees.
Zeraf and Lu Yin pursued the remaining demons, leaving only the hesitant, trembling figures of Erebus's own men. They dared not approach. They feared what he had become.
Octavius exhaled sharply. "Bring the holy water."
Alessio arrived moments later, holding a skin of holy water filled with the only thing that might purify him—or kill him.
Octavius hesitated. Erebus was still tainted, his body housing the blood of devils. If the purification was too much, his very being might rupture, torn apart from within and ultimately explode.
"This is a gamble…" he murmured.
Night was closing in. Only now did Octavius realize—three days had passed. Three days of ceaseless war. Three days without sleep. And yet, they had survived.
He uncorked the bottle he had with him, stepping cautiously toward the restrained figure. Erebus's eyes that only had whites, now dark with something primal, locked onto his.
Then he lunged.
Without hesitation, Octavius shoved the bottle into his mouth and withdrew, putting distance between them.
A beat of silence.
Then Erebus convulsed. His body twisted unnaturally, veins bulging, muscles tensing until they threatened to snap. His screams were guttural, inhumane, the sound of a soul being torn from the brink of oblivion. A single chain snapped, its magical glow fizzling out, letting him loose.
Octavius's breath caught.
"Hold him down!" he barked.
The alchemists heaved, dragging the chains taut. Erebus hit the ground hard, his body trembling as something divine bloomed across his back. His veins appearing swollen from the efforts of pulling himself free from the restraints.
A radiant sigil, delicate yet unyielding, formed in the air above him, pulsing with an ethereal glow. His wounds began to close, the raw flesh knitting itself together with excruciating slowness.
Then—silence. Erebus had fallen still.
Octavius swallowed thickly. He recognized the sigil. He had seen it before.
"She has blessed him…" he muttered, the taste of bile rising in his throat.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips—hollow, almost delirious.
"I should have let him die here."
The admission felt like a curse.
He closed his eyes for a moment, his mind a battlefield of its own, before whispering a prayer to no one in particular.
"God… keep me sane."
When he opened them again, the battlefield lay before him—a wasteland of the dead.
He turned, his voice cold with exhaustion.
"Gather the bodies. Burn the devils. Treat the wounded."
His orders were met with quick, methodical movements. The soldiers worked in silence, their expressions numb from days of bloodshed. The stench of burning flesh soon filled the air, thick and suffocating.
Night fell heavily. The war felt like it was over, but peace had not come. The bodies of their fallen were buried with reverence. The demons—those who had attempted to flee the battlefield—were tossed into the fire, their corpses twisting as the flames devoured them.
The prisoners, those deemed useful, were dragged to the cells. No kindness was spared. Hot water scalded their throats, forcing confessions from their lips.
Then—
The earth trembled.
A deep, bone-shaking rumble split through the canyon, sending boulders crashing down, burying what little remained of the battlefield. One of the search parties was informed to be annihilated under the landslide.
Every soldier stiffened, their hands gripping their weapons, eyes darting to the shifting shadows beyond the firelight.
Then—a silhouette.
A lone rider, flying toward them with desperate urgency.
The night watchman wasted no time. He sprinted to Octavius's tent, breathless.
"Commander, we have a messenger."
Octavius, still bent over his maps, barely looked up. "Let him in."
The flap of the tent was pulled back, and in stepped a familiar figure—disheveled, dust-covered, barely standing.
Octavius's brow furrowed. "Lucerne?"
His younger brother, always composed, always sharp, now looked utterly spent. His silver eyes flickered around the tent.
"Where is General Erebus?"
Octavius glanced at him warily. "Wounded. He's in the aid tent." He straightened. "What's happened? What of His Majesty's forces? Have they reached their destination?"
Lucerne hesitated.
Octavius turned back to his maps, marking a new strategic point. "When you return, inform His Majesty that we have reclaimed the territory. The demon general is dead. Their army has been anni—"
"Brother!"
The word snapped through the air like a whip.
Octavius's head jerked up.
Lucerne stood rigid, his body trembling from exhaustion, but his face—his face was carved from something raw and desperate.
"We need to relocate," Lucerne said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Immediately."
Octavius's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
Lucerne swallowed. His fingers curled into fists. When he spoke, his words were drenched in something close to horror.
"Dabbah," he said. "Our army at Dashret's Veil…" His voice faltered for a brief second. "It's gone."
The room turned deathly quiet.
Octavius stared at him. "Gone? No survivors left? His Majesty? Our father?"
Lucerne's jaw tightened. "Annihilated." His next words sent ice down Octavius's spine.
"By a creature the size of a mountain."
The tent seemed to shrink around them, suffocating in its stillness.
Octavius exhaled slowly, the map forgotten beneath his fingers.
The battle they had just survived—it had been nothing more than a prelude.