Helios emerged from the shrouded boundary of Deshrat's Veil, his small entourage trailing behind him. The air was crisp with the lingering touch of the veil's magic, yet ahead, the world felt heavier—charged with tension, as if awaiting conflict.
A short distance away, Lucerne stood at the forefront of an assembled force, their armor reflecting the dim light of a waning sun. The dark troops stood in stark contrast to the alchemists accompanying them, their presence a shadow in the landscape.
Rudolph exhaled in relief, stepping forward. "Lucerne!" he called, his voice betraying the weight he had been carrying.
Lucerne dipped his head in acknowledgment. "The demon army has fallen, and Dabbah and the other two forces are on the move," he reported. "But it is the relocation that concerns us."
Before Rudolph could respond, Helios halted abruptly, his gaze locking onto the unnatural figures standing behind Lucerne. The dark troops. His expression darkened, suspicion clouding his eyes.
"Dark troops?" he echoed, his voice carrying the edge of a blade.
Lucerne met his gaze with measured calm. "They come under orders of Her Highness, the Crowned Princess. The new Grand Alchemist has sanctioned their aid."
Helios exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What is she thinking?" he muttered, half to himself.
The alchemists stepped forward, their robes shifting in the dry wind. One of them, an elder with silver-threaded hair, spoke fervently.
"Your Majesty, please allow us to assist you!" His voice wavered with conviction, and the others echoed him, their gazes pleading.
Another bowed low. "We will prove to you that the Alchemist Tower still stands as a shield to this realm. We have not failed our duty."
Rudolph glanced at Helios. "What do you say, Your Majesty?"
Helios swept his gaze over them. Desperation. Resolve. Loss. The grief of fallen comrades, the hunger for vengeance. These were warriors who had nothing left but the fight before them.
He straightened, his voice rising with iron-clad determination.
"For the glory of God! For Amanécer!"
A battle cry roared through the gathered force, their voices weaving together in a single, unyielding declaration. The air itself seemed to tremble at the force of their will.
And so they marched the scorched path to ruins of the wasteland.
Their journey spanned two relentless weeks through an ever-shifting landscape of scorched valleys and jagged cliffs. The sky above was ashen, tainted by the distant breath of volcanoes that ruled the horizon like slumbering titans.
As they pressed forward, Helios dispatched twenty of the dark troops to guard the rear, ensuring they would not be ambushed before the battle even began.
When they arrived at the foot of a ruined battlefield, a grim silence clung to the air.
The bodies of fallen soldiers littered the ground, their armor scorched and shattered. Some were half-buried beneath layers of hardened lava, frozen in their final moments of agony. The stench of burnt flesh lingered, thick and suffocating.
Helios knelt beside one of the bodies, brushing his fingers over the insignia on a melted breastplate. His worst fears were confirmed.
"The demon army was here," he murmured, voice tight. "But Iblis is not among them."
The heat of the land pressed against them, an oppressive force that drained their strength. Sweat slicked their skin beneath layers of heavy armor, and each breath felt like swallowing embers. The molten veins threading through the earth pulsed with a menacing glow, as if the land itself was alive, waiting to consume them.
Some flew, their wings or magic keeping them aloft above the molten terrain. Others trudged forward, their boots sizzling against the scalding ground.
Rudolph scanned the shifting slopes ahead. "Your Majesty… the land here has been disturbed. A landslide, perhaps."
One of the soldiers, a younger man with his hand pressed against his temple, suddenly stiffened. His voice was strained. "There's something… something wrong here."
Helios followed his gaze. In the distance, an ominous volcano loomed—its peak twisted into grotesque, unnatural shapes. A dark energy pulsed from within, tendrils of black smoke curling into the sky like spectral hands reaching for the heavens.
He narrowed his eyes. "Be on your guard."
The soldiers obeyed, their hands tightening around their weapons as they advanced toward the volcanic monolith.
Deep within the molten belly of the mountain, Iblis stood before the Core.
The chamber pulsed with veins of molten rock, the walls lined with serpentine tendrils of crimson light, twisting and writhing as though the mountain itself breathed. The Core sat at the chamber's center—a monstrous, pulsating heart of raw energy—its roots burrowed deep into the rock like the fingers of an ancient god, clutching the world in its grasp.
And before it stood Vlad.
Or rather, what remained of him.
The once-mighty warrior was now a hollowed vessel, his body infused with the Core's will. The dark tendrils of the heart-like entity had pierced his chest, wrapping around his spine and threading into his limbs like the strings of a marionette. His once-burning eyes were dull, empty, his mind buried beneath the will of another.
Iblis tilted his head, watching his creation with a slow smirk. "Ah… our guests have finally arrived."
He glanced toward the entrance of the chamber, as though he could already hear the distant footsteps of his enemies.
"A shame," he mused, his voice dripping with mockery. "Your mighty demon army couldn't even wipe them out."
Vlad did not respond. He merely stood, motionless, his body no longer his own.
Iblis chuckled. "No matter. I will finish what they could not."
The Core pulsed behind him, its veins throbbing with raw power.
He stretched out his arms, as if embracing the inevitable battle.
"Let's give them the warmest welcome, shall we?"
And with that, the mountain roared to life.