At the opposite end of Vayllen City, the royal army advanced through the shattered streets under the command of Second General Steve Erkham.

  What unfolded before him would have shaken lesser men.

  Hundreds of grotesque creatures rampaged through the ruins—devouring soldiers, tearing bodies apart, spreading chaos with unrestrained savagery. The air trembled with bestial roars and the detonation of spells. The ground, soaked red, seemed to shudder beneath the weight of hell itself.

  Erkham did not hesitate.

  "Forward!" his voice thundered, cutting through the carnage like divine judgment. "We will not let these monsters halt our advance!"

  The order echoed across blackened walls and lifted the spirits of his men. Inspired by their general's presence alone, the soldiers tightened formation with disciplined precision. Shields locked. Spears lowered. They advanced as one—a wall of steel moving through smoke and ash.

  At every corner, twisted beasts lunged from the shadows.

  The royal army did not break.

  Blades sang through the air. Spears struck true. Mana projectiles flashed like lightning across the battlefield. Blue and gold bursts illuminated the carnage, while battle cries merged into a relentless symphony of death.

  Their mission was clear.

  Not merely survival—but eradication.

  The Denisse family would be captured. The demonic cult dismantled. The kingdom cleansed of its corruption.

  A light mage hurried to Erkham's side, breath ragged, his staff trembling with unstable radiance.

  "General… I detect a powerful surge of demonic mana. They're close."

  Erkham narrowed his eyes, adjusting the cloak over his shoulder. The wind lashed his face as he studied the ruins ahead, the horizon stained crimson.

  The demonic counts were still here.

  With a single gesture, he ordered a halt.

  Silence fell—thick and suffocating, as though even the smoke held its breath.

  "Attack formation," he commanded, voice iron-hard. "Advance. No retreat."

  The army answered as one.

  The earth shook beneath synchronized steps. Spears rose. Shields sealed into a unified front. The royal standard snapped violently in the ash-choked wind.

  The battle resumed.

  The demons, who had manipulated the monsters from afar, reacted too late.

  Steven's assault was brutal and exact.

  Before the conjurers could summon reinforcements, they were engulfed by the allied charge. Spells were interrupted mid-incantation. Summoned creatures were cut down before they could spread chaos. Within moments, the demons fell—each death bursting into dark energy that dissipated like smoke among the ruins.

  With the greatest threat neutralized, Steven's knights pressed forward.

  Caught off guard by the rear assault, the beasts faltered. Blades flashed through dust. Spears tore into flesh. Douglas soldiers reformed their defensive line with synchronized precision, forging a barrier of steel and fire that crushed all resistance.

  Their objective: free the trapped soldiers and restore the defensive front.

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  They advanced like a storm unleashed.

  In their wake, battered survivors lifted their heads with renewed hope.

  The demonic tide—once seemingly endless—began to recede beneath the force of unity and human resolve.

  High above, Sofía seized the opportunity.

  She divided her riders into two squadrons for a pincer assault against the remaining demons. There was no margin for error. A mistimed collision could spell disaster.

  Her riders moved as one.

  The first squadron struck the right flank, magical beasts roaring as they churned dust and lightning. The second charged from the left, sealing the trap with flawless coordination.

  The demons were crushed between converging fronts.

  Lances pierced demonic flesh in merciless rhythm. Victory was forged in blood and iron will.

  But not all were willing to fall.

  Demonic Duke Irgold understood the battle was lost.

  With a roar that froze the air, he summoned his magical beast—a colossal creature of black wings and burning eyes—and ascended skyward, dragging a wave of corrupted mana that dimmed the daylight.

  Ten of Sofía's winged riders gave chase.

  With a sweep of his claw, Irgold unleashed a shockwave of demonic energy that hurled them back. Their mounts shrieked in protest as the duke rose higher—a dark omen against the sky.

  Meanwhile, Laurence advanced through the halls of the Denisse castle.

  Flames devoured tapestries. Columns cracked beneath the thunder of battle. Echoes of distant screams reverberated through smoke-filled corridors. Douglas knights cut down the last defenders without mercy.

  When Laurence entered the grand hall, he stopped.

  Gargranelt sat upon the throne, one leg crossed over the other, gaze cold and amused—as if the chaos were nothing more than entertainment.

  Beside him stood Tomás Denisse, trembling with contained fury, surrounded by demons whose presence distorted the very light.

  "I was beginning to grow bored," Gargranelt said lightly.

  Tomás stepped forward, rage breaking loose.

  "Damn you, Laurence! You've destroyed my family!"

  Laurence regarded him without emotion.

  "I came to ask you one question. Did you order my son's murder?"

  "Yes," Tomás spat. "I wanted to see you kneel. To watch you drown in regret. Or have you forgotten how you humiliated me before everyone?"

  Laurence's expression did not change.

  "I would never remember trash like you."

  Tomás's face twisted.

  "The primordial families… always the same. You look at the rest of us like filth. That's why I betrayed the kingdom. Because of men like you."

  "None of that matters," Laurence replied coldly. "You will pay."

  Dark mana seeped through the cracks in the marble floor.

  Laurence stepped forward.

  Their blades collided.

  Laurence frowned.

  Tomás's aura was unnatural—impure, almost alive.

  "So you sold your soul."

  "Not all of us are born powerful," Tomás sneered. "Some of us must seize it."

  Ice spikes materialized and shot forward in a lethal storm.

  Laurence cut them apart effortlessly.

  Mana flowed through him like breath, channeled into his blade with lethal efficiency.

  The duel had only begun—but it carried the weight of destiny and long-suppressed vengeance.

  Then the hall trembled.

  A towering demon entered, extinguishing torches with his mere presence. With a casual gesture, he incinerated a knight in black flame, reducing him to drifting ash.

  He stopped before Gargranelt.

  "Stop acting like an idiot," the demon roared. "Three armies close in on us—and you stand here posturing!"

  Gargranelt sneered.

  Before he could finish, the titan struck him, the impact shaking the hall.

  "This isn't the lower world, fool! There's a lunatic riding a magical beast who can send us to the abyss. If we fail Astarot, we'll be executed."

  Tomás paled.

  Irgold turned away.

  "My concern is Astarot. Do as you wish."

  He leapt through the shattered window and vanished into darkness.

  Gargranelt's eyes burned crimson.

  "I'll kill these insects myself."

  He lunged at Laurence—blasting him through a wall in an explosion of demonic mana.

  Gargranelt advanced for the finishing blow.

  Suddenly—

  Pain.

  His right arm was gone.

  Sofía burst into the hall in a surge of lightning.

  "Here!" she shouted. "Don't let him escape!"

  Her riders charged in formation.

  Sofía hurled her spear, lightning wrapped around it. Then she activated an ancient talisman.

  "Pure light… come."

  Radiance exploded through the hall.

  Gargranelt roared as the beam struck him. He tried to retaliate—but claws burst through his chest from behind.

  Larryet.

  With a final crack, the demon shattered.

  Laurence rose from the rubble.

  "Thank you," he said curtly. "It wasn't necessary."

  Sofía's gaze sharpened.

  "If you're eager to visit Caleb, say so. I'll send you."

  "I'll handle this. Return to camp."

  She departed, cutting down a fresh wave of demons with ruthless efficiency.

  Laurence turned back to Tomás.

  The count unleashed spell after spell in desperation.

  Laurence advanced, deflecting each one.

  The distance closed.

  One perfect arc of steel.

  Tomás lost his left leg.

  A second strike—his right.

  He fell, trembling.

  Laurence paused.

  Not out of rage.

  Out of certainty.

  Tomás needed to understand what he had taken.

  A clean cut severed his right arm.

  Then the left.

  Silence filled the hall, broken only by labored breaths.

  Laurence watched as Tomás bled across cracked marble.

  No vengeance could restore his son.

  But in that moment, there was cold justice.

  A father's resolve.

  Unyielding.

  And absolute.