From afar, a piercing cry split through the heavens.

  A massive griffin—its feathers pitch black yet shimmering with iridescent hues—swept across the sky with unparalleled might.

  It tore through the air like a streak of living thunder, striking directly into a host of high-ranking demons charging toward the battlefield.

  Those fearsome creatures, once thought invincible, were obliterated in an instant, their very forms dissolved into nothingness.

  The oppressive surge of black battle aura that followed seemed to silence the world itself.

  When the smoke and demonic ash finally cleared, the black griffin emerged once more into view—its rider revealed.

  The terrifying aura did not emanate from the beast, but from the knight astride its back.

  She was clad in light armor the color of dark ink, her helm obscuring her eyes, leaving only her glistening, midnight lips—seductive, yet devoid of warmth.

  Her sleek black hair flowed like silk behind her, carried by the rhythm of her surging aura.

  Her arrival seemed to ignite the courage of the griffin riders; the tide of battle turned, and the demons began to falter.

  From high above the demonic nest, the upper-ranked fiends watching the clash roared in outrage, eager to tear apart this human woman who had suddenly appeared to challenge them.

  But the leader, astride a colossal bone dragon, let out a roar that halted them.

  “You are no match for her,” it thundered. “Leave her to me.”

  The bone dragon’s flames flared brighter, its chains clattering as it surged toward the knight.

  The woman raised her sword, its gleaming edge aimed squarely at the demon lord. Her voice was calm, emotionless.

  “Vice Marshal of the Kingdom’s Griffin Knights—Fate Barchobush. I shall end you here.”

  The demon lord’s laughter echoed like the crack of ice. With a mad shriek, it charged straight toward her.

  The griffin’s black wings unfurled, unleashing a wave of magic as it met the dragon head-on.

  Their clash birthed a torrent of power that raged for miles, shaking the skies already darkened by the demons’ arrival.

  Lightning rolled in the heavens—storm clouds gathering as if the very world itself held its breath.

  For now, the demonic advance was halted. But the final outcome remained uncertain.

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  Dood Town.

  Glenn relayed to Leila and Bonnie, along with their mothers, that the demons would not come this way.

  When they asked how he knew, he replied simply that he had seen it with his own eyes.

  “So… we don’t have to evacuate?” Leila asked.

  “It seems so,” Glenn nodded. “But you could still take shelter at my place, just to be safe.”

  The two mothers exchanged glances. Mrs. Delia, Leila’s mother, shook her head. “No, we shouldn’t trouble you.”

  Glenn said nothing more. With a brief farewell, he hurried toward the town. He had to warn Douglas.

  But things were far from simple.

  Above Dood Town, a strange sigil—etched in crimson curves—flickered rhythmically against the sky.

  The moment Glenn saw it, a chill shot through him. It was no good omen.

  Without hesitation, he dashed toward it.

  Before long, he found the source.

  Five figures in tattered red robes had cleared the central square, standing in a circle, heads bowed as they carved symbols into the ground.

  At the center stood a towering column woven from red silken threads—over ten meters high.

  Dozens of children hung upon it like flies caught in a web.

  And when Glenn looked closer, he realized—the silk was pouring from the children’s mouths.

  He pressed a palm to his forehead with regret. “I should’ve asked the old man about those kids back then… maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

  He had assumed they were merely traumatized and never brought it up again. Now, it might be too late.

  “Glenn! Stay back!”

  A familiar voice rang out. Glenn turned to see Sheriff Douglas crouched behind a half-ruined house, gun in hand, his body drenched in sweat, eyes sharp and anxious.

  Glenn flickered forward, appearing beside him. “You all right? When did they show up?”

  Douglas glanced nervously toward the red-robed figures, then back. “No idea. We noticed them right after that thing appeared in the sky. Our guns are useless against whatever they are. Lost a few men already…”

  “I understand,” Glenn said quietly. “Go deal with the rest. The demons won’t be coming here.”

  “What do you mean? Why—”

  “I saw their army turn back with my own eyes,” Glenn interrupted, his tone firm. “Take your remaining officers and go. I’ll try to save those kids.”

  Douglas hesitated at the cold steadiness in Glenn’s voice, then nodded. There was nothing he could do here anyway.

  “Be careful,” he muttered, signaling the hidden officers to retreat.

  Once they were gone, Glenn stepped into the square.

  He had barely taken a few steps when the crimson column suddenly shrieked—a sound raw with fear.

  “It’s him! He’s dangerous! Eliminate him—now!”

  Glenn froze, startled that the pillar was conscious.

  The five robed figures raised their heads in eerie unison, turning toward him. Each one was missing their left eye.

  They held his gaze for a moment, then resumed their carving, as if he were beneath their notice.

  Glenn smiled faintly and moved forward.

  Just before his foot touched a stone slab, he halted mid-step.

  Instantly, all five cultists stiffened.

  So there’s a trap, he thought grimly.

  He had been watching their every twitch, and when he’d lifted his foot, they had faltered—ever so slightly—betraying their intent.

  Seems he’d guessed right.

  “Looks like you came well-prepared,” Glenn murmured. “I wonder—was this all for me?”

  Before he could finish, the world shuddered. His vision blurred, and when he regained focus, he realized he had been moved forward—by force.

  “Damn it…” he muttered.

  Some unseen power had shifted his position—subtle, inescapable.

  The scenery warped, dreamlike, twisting around him. Glenn transformed in an instant, his body expanding into his fifth-stage werewolf form, every sense sharpened to a razor’s edge.

  When the distortion settled, he found himself standing in the center of a vast coliseum, eerily reminiscent of ancient Rome.

  The same crimson sigil glowed above, staining the sky a deep, bloody red.

  The five robed figures stood upon the outer walls, maintaining the illusion with their dark ritual.

  And on the throne at the top of the stands—the pillar of red silk awaited.