A/N: Hello Guys! So, this is a retelling of the classic Parallel story with whole new twists and turns in the tale. I essentially realized there was so much I did not bother thinking out when I started the story (it was supposed to be a fun, little experiment) that by the time we were seen volumes deep, I would find myself having to retcon or explain too many new concepts that should have been introduced much earlier. Thus, I set out to write this wrong!

Anyway, I've poured a lot into this, so I hope you like the new and improved version: ENJOY, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

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Zytra - the land of the brave, a haven for adventurers far and wide. It promised riches and glory, offering plenty to those she deemed worthy.

Like many others seeking to mark their names in the lands, a man arrived in this land many years ago with little more than twenty syros to his name. Fear of poverty did not deter this man, as his lust for battle far outweighed his flesh's desire for sustenance. His rage-fuelled fierce desire to become the strongest being in the world thrust him neck deep into the hairiest of situations, but he always found a way to beat the odds and emerge the victor.

Some would find it ironic that the happiest moments of this man's life all came in the midst of battle. From the elder dragons of Skrymdoor to the famous murderers of Zetana. He had seen them all, beat them all, and now there was nothing left he could challenge. Now and then, an adventurer would show up to challenge him. Sadly, none could match him, and the fights never lasted long enough for him to get any real pleasure.

Empty.

That was his sole emotion. He needed something more, something to reawaken his thirst. Unfortunately, this was a wish the land of Zytra could grant no longer.

Somewhere, history began to unfold at the zenith of a colossal hilltop piercing through the swirling embrace of the clouds.

Here, in the dead of night, where the very earth kissed the heavens, a breathtaking tableau unfurled—a perfect round crown of land cradling a radiant lake at its heart. The water shimmered under the pale glow of the waning moon, reflecting a silver luminescence that danced upon its surface like ghosts of forgotten dreams.

Perched at the water's edge, brooding, clad in obsidian armor that seemed to swallow the moonlight, sat the Demon King, his presence an intoxicating blend of dread and allure—a living shadow amidst the celestial light.

The Demon King's gaze, smoldering like molten iron, was fixed on the majestic crystal throne that stood defiantly at the cliff's precipice—an ancient sentinel, a harbinger of power and destiny.

Silent footsteps approached, soft as a whisper from the stars. A lich, draped in tattered robes that carried the chill of eternity, halted behind the armored colossus. In its skeletal grasp lay arcane knowledge, a woven tapestry of fate threaded through time with dark intention.

"They've arrived," it rasped, its voice a chorus of echoes from another world.

The Demon King exhaled a breath, seemingly laden with the weight of millennia. His voice, a thunderous murmur against the nocturnal serenity of the lake, seemed to make the world hold its breath. "Destiny arrives," he muttered, an incantation both resigned and resolute.

Demon King Razznik Y'Terlow arose, steps sending faint ripples through the lake's surface. The Demon King's molten gaze softened somewhat as he gazed at the shimmering waters. "Perhaps, if we had more time. But then again, all of creation wishes for more time."

With those words, the king's gaze hardened with renewed conviction. He resolutely turned away from the lake and the throne. With his back to the waning moon, he descended the mountain through a flight of stairs hewn into the mountainside, then passed through an open door into his throne room hidden deep within its heart.

The Demon King's throne room lay concealed from the world's prying eyes, a secluded bastion echoing whispers of ages past. The chamber was vast, hewn from the very stone that held the earth together, its walls alive with the soft luminescence of will-o-wisps and the mischievous flitting of zipping faeries. These ethereal beings cast a delicate tapestry of shifting shadows and shimmering light, lending an otherworldly glow to the entire room.

The walls bore witness to the storied life of their master, lined with paintings that chronicled the Demon King's epic journey. Each frame was a labor of artistry, capturing lifelike depictions of his evolution—from a mere red-haired youth, muscles straining as he trained within the humble confines of a gym, to a majestic warrior locked in combat with a fearsome dragon, clad in full battle regalia. These portraits told a thousand tales, the Demon King immortalized in brush strokes, a warrior's heart ever on display.

No golden treasures or glistening jewels adorned this domain, for the Demon King's passion was not for riches but for the art of war. Instead, a veritable arsenal of weapons decorated the throne room, each piece a testament to the conquests and battles fought. Swords with intricately carved hilts, shields still bearing the scars of conflict, spears so finely balanced that even the air seemed to part before their tips—all arranged with care, a deadly symphony of steel and strength.

At the room's center, the throne itself stood as a monolith of power, carved from the same stone as the mountain that cradled it. It was a simple yet commanding structure, adorned only by the battle-worn armor pieces that had served their liege throughout his myriad campaigns. Here, amidst arms instead of riches, the Demon King held court, his sanctuary a reflection of the indomitable spirit and insatiable hunger for battle that defined his reign.

On this fateful night, the throne room—customarily an expanse of haunting emptiness—was now filled with the eerie presence of the undead. Hundreds of these forsaken entities, their eyes glowing like simmering coals, stood motionless on either side of the opulent path leading to the throne. Rejected by the world and nature alike, these beings fixated their gaze faithfully on their sovereign.

The sound of Razznik's footsteps echoed throughout the cavernous hall, each resonant thud pulsating like the beats of countless hearts now long still. The Demon King halted before the small stairway leading to his throne, his eyes shifting toward the imposing grand doors at the far end of the chamber.

Almost as if on cue, the immense double doors swung open, revealing a young man draped in a flowing robe of deep blue. Intricate tapestries of stars and constellations adorned the fabric, a testament to his esteemed identity as a mage. With determined intent, the mage advanced unflinchingly, his eyes steady amidst the gaze of hundreds of undead.

Upon reaching the base of the throne, Razznik noticed a subtle tremor in the mage's fingers as they gripped his staff. It was expected; that Razznik's formidable reputation left none unfazed, and only a soul devoid of fear could enter this realm without a hint of apprehension.

"There's no point in delaying this further," Razznik declared, his voice a deep rumble. He lifted his hand, commanding, "Come."

In an instant, thousands of runes materialized, forming a colossal, rotating mandala in his palm. The magical circle spun with vigor, exerting a powerful pull that caught the mage by surprise, lifting him from the ground.

Reacting swiftly, the mage raised his staff, mana coalescing at the gemstone in preparation to counter the force. However, a stifling pressure descended upon him, suppressing his very breath. He looked up, meeting the Demon Lord's penetrating gaze.

That singular glance quelled every protest within him, extinguishing his flicker of defiance. Resigned, the mage surrendered to the captivating force, coming to rest a mere three feet from the Demon Lord.

Contrary to expectations, Razznik merely extended his hand once the young man landed before him. "You have come a long way, Servant of Destiny. Come, bring me to this era's conclusion."

The young mage's eyes trembled as he looked at the armored glove. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the Demon King's hand in a firm handshake, then met the famed World Ender's red eyes. "Demon King Razznik Y'Terlow. I, Romulus, come to you at the behest of the World Alliance for a final battle at the Valley of Ki'ol."

"Ki'ol, is it? Your Commander has a wicked sense of humor." The Demon King's thoughts were unreadable beneath the helmet, but the mage's continued existence was enough to suggest he was not truly offended. "So, it shall end where it all began? Very well. Lead the way."

The mage channeled mana into his gloved hand, igniting a mandala etched inside it. The magic circle swiftly rose from the gloved hand, expanding to about seven feet wide before descending to the ground and enveloping the duo in a bright glow.

"A pre-etched Long-Distance Teleportation rune." Razznik's voice rumbled with a hint of acknowledgment as the light grew blindingly bright before collapsing into a tiny sphere and vanishing.

Within the hall, the ghostly lights gradually dimmed, and the paintings depicting the Demon King's road to glory faded into shadow.

Valley of the End, K'iol.

Somewhere within the continent of Zytra, a gigantic mountain range stood with a giant bowl cut at its center like an otherworldly being had taken a scoop of the earth for themselves. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed as the skies forever praised the battles in this land in never-ending storms.

Within this thunderstricken land now stood over a million warriors gathered from all races and professions that existed on Zytra. These men and women nervously clutched their bows, swords, and staffs, gazes traveling from the valley's epicenter to the dark skies above, where an unusually red star seemed to expand with each passing second.

Five warriors stood near the edge of a hill overlooking the valley, protected by a significant protective detail misrepresenting their status.

At the head of the group stood a most beautiful lady with long pointed ears, milky-white skin, and long black hair that cascaded in the night winds. The young wisben who drew eyes from all directions gazed at the valley below, before turning her eyes to the rapidly expanding star.

"Do you think he will come?" questioned Freya, an old human male with kind eyes.

"He shall," answered Aileera, the wisben woman without a shred of doubt in her tone.

"How can you be certain?" Borg, a lycan with blue fur questioned as he smashed his fists against each other. Lycans were a species of humanoid beastmen that retained mostly canine features, like a wolfish head, clawed hands, and tails, known worldwide for their large sizes, brute strength, and strong camaraderie.

"Aye, even if the lad be doin' nothin', that cursed rock'll send us to Davy Jones' locker in a few hours," growled a human man with skin dark as the depth of the deep seas. Rono, the pirate, squinted up at the blood-red star of doom. "If were him, I wouldn't be comin' here fer a final blow like this with my victory secured."

"Indeed, that would seem to be the case," Aileera murmured, her gaze fixed on the pillar of light rising from the valley below. "If victory were truly his only goal."

"What do you mean?" Freya asked, his voice trembling. "What else could he be after?"

Aileera's grip on her staff tightened as the light faded, revealing the dark figure at its center—Demon King Razznik Y'Terlow, towering in all his terrifying majesty. His hand remained clasped around the young mage, whose terror was visible even from their distant vantage. "Long ago, before madness claimed him, he told me something I'll never forget. 'Strive—'"

"Aileera," a voice, colder than winter and sharper than steel, echoed across the mountains, silencing the very wind. The sound was not loud, but it seized the air, snuffing out all other noises like a predator claiming its prey. "Such a welcome you've prepared for me."

Though Razznik stood hundreds of meters away, the guildmasters shivered as his voice washed over them, an invisible hand tightening around their hearts.

Among the trembling figures, Aileera alone held her ground. She tapped her staff lightly against the earth, summoning a gentle flow of mana from the grass beneath them. The calm energy soothed the others, their ragged breaths steadying. Only then did Aileera shift her focus to the demon below.

"Demon King Razznik Y'Terlow," she began, her voice clear and unwavering. "Godbreaker, World Destroyer, Calamity Liberator, Devil God of Rage... The titles you've earned are as countless as the lives you've taken. Yet, despite your countless sins, her Holiness, Goddess Divine Aerith, Mother of All, has shown you mercy time and time again. And how did you repay her? By betraying the one who created you and siding with the Undead—those vile beings who threaten the balance of this world itself."

"The balance of the world, is it?" Razznik's voice was quieter now, his eyes shifting to the mage trembling in his grip. "Tell me, mage, if a being's very existence threatens to destroy the world, does it deserve the right to live?"

The young man flinched, beads of sweat forming on his brow as he struggled to answer. "Th-the Undead... they're monsters! They spread death and destruction wherever they go, infecting everything in their path with their curse."

"Perhaps, but that is the role they were given, and they deserve the right to pursue it to the end." Razznik shook his head, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "Still, if the Undead reached maturation, the world as we know it would indeed cease to exist."

Perhaps because the Demon King appeared to be in a talkative mood, the mage plucked up the courage to ask. "If you know this, then why side with the Undead?"

"I made a promise." Four words. Simple, curt, and straightforward like the Demon who uttered them, brooking no reproach. "If the world requires me to renege on my word, then it is already broken. Besides, compared to the Undead, there is another whose existence is even more detri–"

"That is enough, Demon King of Oni Hill," Aileera promptly interrupted. "I will not allow you to poison our thoughts with your barbed tongue." Stomping her staff against the ground, she uttered, "I will give you one chance. Surrender, accept your death with honor that the world may know peace."

"My Death?" Razznik's voice, like a deathly whisper, brushed through the warriors' ears even as a black greatsword appeared in his left hand raised high above his head. "It is yet to be decided who shall perish tonight." With those words, he gently swung down, and blood splattered as the sword cleaved the stunned mage in two halves.

Following the mage's death, the man's body exploded, and a small blood-red rune condensed from the blood before shooting at Razznik and phasing through his armor to form a tattoo on his arm.

A harsh silence fell upon the valley as everyone stared at the Demon King in shock. Perhaps, due to his willingness to speak, they had forgotten the man's fearsome reputation. Indeed, he had just reminded them. The final assault was upon them, and at the center of it all stood Razznik Y'Terlow, the Demon King, alone and defiant.

He stood, black armor glinting with a blood-red glow, his twelve weapons hovering ominously in the air around him, each bathed in a different aura of destruction. His crimson eyes surveyed the vast army before him, unfazed by their sheer number. His breath fogged in the cold air, but the fires of battle raged within him.

This was his final stand.

"Kill him."

Following Aileera's judgment, terror gripped the valley of K'iol as the Demon King, Razznik, hurled himself into the army's heart. It wasn't arrogance that drove him—this was strategy. His blood-forged swords, chained to his arms, extended with every sweep, cleaving through scores of adventurers before they could even draw near. His attacks were relentless, each slash wide enough to leave a trail of bodies in its wake.

Razznik's crimson gaze swept over the warriors. He recognized that look in their eyes—the gleam of those who stood before an insurmountable wall, determined to break it down. It was a look he had worn himself countless times before. They believed that with enough strength and sacrifice, the wall would crumble, and beyond it, their greatest desires awaited.

A pugilist darted toward Razznik, narrowly avoiding a deadly sweep of the blood swords. A mage nearby cast a quick spell, boosting the pugilist's speed. The warrior charged, using the bodies of his fallen comrades as cover. He moved with terrifying precision, closing in on Razznik in a blur of motion.

The pugilist's fist shot up in a devastating uppercut, his mana-infused strike aiming for the Demon King's chin.

Razznik slid back just in time, the ground beneath him cracking from the force of the blow. He stopped, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Not bad," Razznik muttered.

The temporary break gave the adventurers just enough time to regroup and close the gaps. But Razznik was ready. His blood swords vanished in a flash of light, replaced by a sleek black staff. As the warriors lunged, he slammed the butt of the staff into the ground, sending a shockwave rippling through the battlefield.

The Demon-King twirled the staff behind his back with a single hand, taunting the advancing warriors with his free hand. Enraged, they rushed him, only to regret it seconds later. Razznik moved like a shadow, evading their attacks with fluid grace before striking with brutal precision. Bodies crumpled around him, but with each kill, something darker stirred. Black tattoos crawled up his arms, creeping over his skin like a curse, the marks pulsing ominously with each soul he claimed.

"Razznik is holding his own quite well," Freya, the old mage, remarked from his perch on the overlooking cliff.

"Let him enjoy his small victories," Aileera, the battle-hardened mage who had once confronted Razznik, replied coolly. "Those blades are powerful, yes, but they come with a price."

Freya raised a brow. "And that is?"

"You'll see soon enough," Aileera said, her voice carrying a quiet certainty.

Minutes ticked by, yet Razznik showed no signs of slowing. He tore through the adventurers like a hurricane of steel and flame, his swords igniting the battlefield in a whirlwind of death. But despite the carnage, the army held firm, their morale unbroken. Their numbers were vast, and within their ranks burned the desire for glory.

"He's not defending his back," Borg noted, his fur bristling with anticipation.

"That's because he doesn't need to," Aileera said. "That cape—it belonged to the former Demon King. It's enchanted. He was never struck from behind until his final battle."

Freya let out a low chuckle. "Impressive, truly."

"Hmph, even the worst of the deep seas couldn't take him down," Rono muttered. "That man's not your average demon."

Aileera pulled out a small, clear sphere, a communication Rink. "Focus on his cape," she ordered.

Down in the valley, a group of warriors took heed of the command, hacking away at Razznik's back. The Demon King glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing.

"Damn you, Aileera. Sharp as ever," he mused. "But strategy alone can't overcome my power!" He slammed the staff down again. This time, instead of a shockwave, his voice roared like thunder. The adventurers glanced skyward, their faces paling as dark, roiling clouds gathered overhead.

"Is that... his doing ?" Freya whispered, eyes widening as lightning cracked through the sky.

Aileera remained stoic. "Yes. And it's about to get worse."

The adventurers braced themselves, but as the storm intensified, many faltered. Razznik's hands shifted again, summoning a pair of black gloves as arrows rained down from the archers hidden in the storm's veil. He clapped his hands together, sending out a pulse of mana that shattered the arrows mid-air.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning struck the earth, incinerating everything in its radius. Chaos erupted. Mages scrambled to create barriers, but they were disorganized, protecting only a lucky few. Many clusters of the enemy fell to the relentless storm. Razznik moved through the chaos, dodging lightning bolts with ease, his gloves tearing through armor and barriers alike.

"Won't he be hit by his own storm at this rate?" Rono asked, bewildered by the sheer scale of the destruction.

Freya shook her head. "No. He controls the storm."

The tide of battle seemed to be turning in Razznik's favor—until Aileera's voice crackled through the Rink again. "Now."

The adventurers cheered as spearmen drove their weapons into the ground, transforming them into lightning rods. The bolts struck the spears harmlessly, dissipating into the earth. Mages gathered at the rear, weaving a counterspell to dispel the storm. And knights, accompanied by marauders, surrounded the Demon King, determined to hold him off.

Razznik's expression darkened. His armor, once pristine, was now cracked and worn. His legendary cape had been reduced to tatters. And yet, the Demon King remained unnervingly calm. He looked up as a sliver of moonlight pierced the dark clouds, casting a serene glow on the battlefield.

For a moment, the adventurers dared to hope. But Razznik merely smiled. The black tattoos on his arms pulsed again, spreading further across his body.

"Impressive," he muttered, his voice low. "But this... is far from over."

Razznik watched the surviving adventurers rejoin their groups, receiving quick healing and fervent praise from their comrades. His crimson eyes, burning with dark intensity beneath his mask, followed their every move. In that brief moment, a thought gnawed at him. Had he missed something in his pursuit of ultimate strength? Were the sacrifices, the lives torn apart in his rise to power, worth it?

He clenched his jaw. Time, that relentless force, was the one thing beyond his grasp. Even if granted the power to alter the past, Razznik wasn't sure he would change a single choice. He didn't loathe who he had become.

But still, the creeping doubt lingered.

The army below, oblivious to the Demon King's silent introspection, was shifting. Ranks tightened, formations solidified. They weren't scattered adventurers anymore—they had become a singular, unified force, joined in their desire to overcome the challenge before them, or lay down their lives to give their companions an easier time.

The air grew tense with a renewed sense of purpose, made even more ominous by a chorus of howls rising from the rear.

"Damn," Razznik muttered. His sharp ears recognized the source. Beast-tamers.

The howls of direwolves and growls of monstrous creatures echoed closer. These beast-tamers fought with animals captured and broken to their will, a savage arsenal of creatures that ranged from monstrous wolves to chimeras, and in rare cases, even dragons. Flying beasts, though, were no threat here. In the chaos of a battlefield, targeting a single opponent was impossible. No, the real danger came from the ground—the fangs, claws, and raw, charging might.

A low, approving growl escaped his throat as the pack of beasts emerged from the fog of war. Chimeras, dire-wolves, spirit-wolves, and even a lumbering rhino crashed through the ranks, surrounding Razznik. He could feel the collective breath of the army held as they awaited his response.

"A magnificent display," he remarked, his voice calm and darkly amused. "I suppose it's only fitting that I grant you the honor of witnessing my true strength."

As his words fell, Razznik's black armor began to crack, then shattered like glass, falling piece by piece to the ground. A brilliant, otherworldly light engulfed him, blinding for a moment, until it faded to reveal a completely different figure.

Gone was the imposing full-plate armor. In its place, Razznik now wore a sleek, midnight trench coat, its surface faintly pulsing with glowing runes that thrummed with contained power. His leather pants and combat boots matched the same shade of black, subtly infused with arcane sigils. Two slim, twin swords gleamed in his hands, blades designed for speed rather than defense, and his mask had transformed—pure white now, slashed by claw marks that streaked diagonally across it, from jaw to brow.

To those who stood before him, Razznik had never seemed more terrifying.

"Prepare yourselves," Aileera whispered to the masters. Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of an unspoken dread.

"Indeed," Freya murmured, unable to suppress the chills that crawled across his skin. Even for a seasoned warrior, the sight before him was unsettling.

Then, the beasts lunged.

Razznik moved faster than thought, closing the distance with the charging rhino in a blink. His hand gripped its horn mid-charge, and with a sickening crack, the creature's neck snapped under the immense strain. The Demon King swung the massive carcass around, using it as a living flail to scatter the remaining beasts, their bodies crashing to the ground like broken dolls. With one final swing, he released the rhino's corpse, sending it hurtling into a group of stunned adventurers.

The rest of the beasts, undeterred by the brutal display, continued their attack. Razznik's red eyes glowed behind his mask, and with a smooth motion, he connected the hilts of his twin swords, fusing them into a double-ended blade. As the monsters closed in, he spun the weapon in a deadly arc. Blood sprayed the ground in torrents as his sword cleaved through flesh and bone with terrifying precision.

Whoosh!

An arrow sliced through the air, narrowly missing Razznik as he dodged a wolf's snapping jaws. Another volley of arrows, bolts, and spells rained down, aimed with deadly timing. The adventurers had learned quickly—they were using the beasts as bait, waiting for those critical moments when Razznik was mid-movement, his attention divided. Clever. He had to give them credit. Amidst the chaos, some projectiles were bound to find their mark.

But it wouldn't be enough.

The ranged assault intensified, and as the beasts swarmed him, Razznik's voice began to rise. A low chant, ancient and malevolent, escaped his lips. "Servi Domini, Meisque invocant. Ego te in certamine vinci..."

Freya's eyes widened in shock. "Impossible!" he cried.

The chant surged, gaining strength. Razznik's words sliced through the battlefield like a dagger.

"...formatum est ex sanguinibus convenant usque in finem dierum. Circumdederunt undique hostes, Et quaerunt animam meam..." His tone never faltered, even as he sliced through the final chimera, ripping its jaw clean off.

"He is a summoner too," Miles muttered.

"Runemaster, Master crafter, Sword-master, Sage, healer, battle king, Knight, marauder, rogue, assassin-," Rono counted.

"And those are just the ones we know of," Miles continued, "What kind of monster is he?"

"That is not all," Aileera said calmly.

"What do you mean?!" Blorg growled. His furs stood on end, and his eyes had gone dark yellow, a sign he was already preparing for combat.

"As planned, the curse is draining him, so he has been forced to use his trump card," she replied, "You shall witness that power soon, and why I requested we wait behind."

"Nunc impleret pactum quod fecimus, percutiat inimícos meos. " Razznik continued as his pitch and voice rose higher and carried through the crowd.

"Whaddaya reckon the beast will summon?" Rono asked.

"Something we have yet to witness," was Aileera's terse reply.

Purple mandalas began to appear across the battlefield, intricate symbols glowing with an eerie light. And then, from those summoning circles, they came—an army of demons and undead, rising from the depths to join their master in battle.

Razznik had never summoned his entire legion before. He looked upon the adventurers with grim satisfaction. They had forced his hand, and they would now witness the true might of the Demon King.

The adventurers shifted their focus as Razznik's spell unleashed a swarm of demons across the battlefield. The once singular threat of the Demon King was now divided, but their resolve did not waver. They were seasoned fighters, used to facing the unknown, and they quickly formed small groups, treating the demonic horde like any other raid challenge.

"These aren't as bad as we thought," Freya muttered, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "We overestimated him."

But Aileera, standing at the center of the group, frowned deeply, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "No, it's not over." Her voice was tense, every syllable laced with unease. "The true threat has arrived."

A moment later, the world seemed to shudder as a deafening roar—like a thousand thunderclaps at once—shook the earth. The sky above darkened, and a massive shadow blotted out the moon. The ground trembled beneath the adventurers' feet as they turned to witness the arrival of Skyrm, the Lord of Dragons.

The colossal beast descended from the heavens, his wings unfurling with a force that sent shockwaves across the battlefield. The moonlight reflected off his dirty gold scales, each one like a plate of armor tougher than the finest steel. Skyrm's enormous form balanced atop a mountain overlooking the valley, his yellow eyes blazing like twin suns. They swept across the battlefield with cold calculation, finally settling on Razznik.

The dragon's booming voice reverberated through the valley. "I see." His words carried a weight that made even the most battle-hardened adventurers tremble. "I shall end everything." His jaws parted, and the air around him crackled with raw mana as a ball of fire began to grow between his teeth, expanding with each passing second.

The adventurers faltered, fear rippling through their ranks. Despair took root as cries of panic and hopelessness filled the air. "What now?" someone whispered. "It's over," another muttered, sinking to their knees.

But Aileera was not one to give in to fear. Stepping forward, her voice rang out—not through a magical link, but loud and clear across the battlefield. She used her magic to amplify her words so they reached every ear, her tone steady and commanding.

"Stand up!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos like a beacon of hope. "You are all gathered here for different reasons. For honor, for power, for glory, for fame! But forget those reasons for a moment and look at yourselves. You are still alive—not by your power alone, but through the sacrifices of those who came before you. Now look at the warrior or mage beside you, the ones who fight with you! The foe before us is powerful, yes. His strength is immense, but there is one thing you have that he does not!"

She paused, her words hanging in the air as the adventurers raised their heads, eyes fixed on her. "You have the strength of a party. You stand together, side by side, not alone. You fight, you fall, and you rise with each other. That is your strength. So when you feel like you can't go on, when the fear is too great, look to your partner and remember—you are not alone! Fight for each other! Abandon fear and fight! Protect one another and fight! And if we fall, we fall with a smile, knowing we stood together!"

Aileera's words spread like wildfire through the adventurers, igniting a flame in their hearts.

"A sword in one hand and a beer in the other!" Rono shouted, raising his weapon high.

"A sword in one hand and a beer in the other!" a warrior echoed from the front lines.

"A sword in one hand and a girl in the other!" came a mischievous voice, sparking laughter amidst the tension.

"A sword in one hand and gold in the other!" another voice bellowed, and soon, the entire valley rang with chants, laughter, and a surge of renewed determination. The collective roar of the adventurers soon rivaled even Skyrm's mighty voice, shaking the very ground beneath them.

In distant lands, across different nations, people knelt and whispered prayers to the goddess Aerith, asking her to watch over their warriors and grant them strength. Their hopes, their fears, their desires flowed into the battlefield, converging as pillars of light erupted from the ground, enveloping the adventurers in divine radiance.

The warriors felt the surge of power coursing through their veins, their strength amplified beyond anything they had ever known. Their eyes gleamed with renewed vigor as they prepared to charge once more, their hearts unified under Aileera's command.

But Razznik stood apart from the rising tide of hope, his eyes fixed on the glowing pillars that illuminated the battlefield. His expression was unreadable as he gazed skyward, the faintest hint of a chuckle escaping his lips. "Do you hate me that much?" he murmured, the irony of his situation not lost on him.

He was the Demon King, after all. The villain. The one they were meant to destroy. But seeing their camaraderie, their joy—it opened a wound deep within him, one he hadn't even realized was there.

How can they be so happy? he thought, anger rising in his chest. What gives them the right to smile like that?

That anger, that frustration—he could no longer contain it.

Razznik roared, a cacophony of rage and defiance that tore through the valley, his eyes glowing with malevolent fury as he descended into his berserk state. His muscles tensed, power surging as the infamous twelve spectral arms appeared around him, weapons in hand, ready to annihilate.

"No more mercy," he growled as his black aura exploded outward, sending a shockwave across the battlefield.

The adventurers were ready for him now, but so was he.

The adventurers, driven by Aileera's rallying speech, had their spirits rekindled, charging forward with newfound strength and unity. Razznik could feel the weight of their collective will pressing against him, but it only stoked the fire within. His arms, now covered in pulsating rune tattoos, gleamed faintly under the moonlight, each symbol a testament to the lives he had taken—and a reminder of the growing price he paid.

Razznik growled low in his throat, his muscles tensing as the weight of the runes pulled at his very soul. The tattoos sapped his strength with each kill, but that didn't matter. Not yet. His eyes burned crimson as he scanned the battlefield. He was far from done.

With a deafening roar, the Demon King surged forward, a black blur against the chaotic battlefield. His hand, veined and crackling with dark energy, plunged through the chest of an unfortunate warrior, the body dissipating before it even hit the ground. The runes slithered further up his arms, now creeping past his shoulders, their slow crawl both empowering and weakening him with every breath.

"They just keep coming," he muttered, the rasp of his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

A shadow passed over him—the colossal figure of Skyrm, the Dragon Lord, casting its ominous presence across the land. The dragon's eyes, glowing like molten gold, locked onto Razznik. The weight of those eyes carried a promise of destruction, but Razznik stood defiant.

"Is this all you've got, adventurers?" Razznik's voice thundered as he lashed out again. Two men tried to flank him, their weapons aimed for his exposed back. But Razznik anticipated them. His body moved in a blur, twisting mid-strike. His fingers clenched, a black spear materializing from thin air. In one fluid motion, he rammed it into the first attacker's chest, spinning and severing the second's head before either could react.

The rune tattoos crept further, slithering across his chest and down his side, tightening their grip on him. His breath grew labored, his vision tinged with red, but Razznik pressed on. Not yet... I can't stop here.

His movements became more aggressive, each strike laced with a growing desperation. With each life he claimed, the tattoos crawled further, consuming him piece by piece. His body was a canvas of power and pain. Half his torso now glowed with dark, intricate symbols, each pulse of energy drawing away a sliver of his strength. But the adventurers came at him relentlessly, bolstered by their numbers and Aileera's words.

"Not nearly enough!" Razznik growled, his voice thick with rage and exhaustion. He could feel the adventurers' determination, their unwillingness to break, to yield to the fear he instilled. They fought with their hearts, with their comrades at their sides. And that... that was what infuriated him the most.

His mind flashed with memories of battles long past, of standing alone, of clawing his way to the top with nothing but blood and death to accompany him. Why should they get to fight together? To share in triumph and laughter?

"RaaaaaAAAAAAWWWWRRRRR!!!" His roar shook the valley, filled with a hatred that went deeper than the fight at hand. The infamous twelve arms materialized around him, spectral and sinister, as if responding to their master's torment. Black arrows shot out, piercing through enemies with deadly precision, and yet, more warriors took their place.

A warrior's blade sliced across Razznik's side, followed by another strike to his back. His vision blurred, but he refused to fall. With a guttural snarl, he spun on his heel, black blood trailing behind him. The runes now covered half his body, their glow menacing, pulling at his strength, but he fought through the pain.

"Annoying... so annoying!" he hissed as he decapitated a soldier, then kicked another into the dirt, twisting his body to avoid a volley of arrows. His black aura flared, deflecting the projectiles, and in one swift motion, he summoned his bow. An arrow of pure darkness flew through the air, striking down three adventurers in a single shot.

Yet, even as his enemies fell, more rushed in. Their determination, their unity—everything about them tore at the wound in Razznik's heart, a wound he didn't even know existed.

"They laugh... they fight... they die together," he muttered, his voice cracking under the weight of his rage and exhaustion. He looked down at the tattoos now consuming his chest and back. Each one weighed heavier than the last, but Razznik refused to be crushed. His hands trembled as he clutched his weapon tighter, but the fire in his eyes never dimmed.

"I chose this path," he spat. "I will see it through!"

And with a savage cry, Razznik threw himself into the horde once more, determined to make them pay for every step they took closer to him, even as his own strength waned.

Several hours passed, and the battle in the valley of K'iol had become a chaotic storm of steel and magic, the likes of which Zytra had never seen. Heroes from across the continent—warriors, mages, and assassins of every race and class—fought as one, their movements unified under a single banner. The sight was both magnificent and terrifying. Adventurers were infamous for their pride, each believing themselves the strongest, the best. Yet here, in the face of the Demon King, their egos were set aside, and they moved like a well-oiled machine.

Such a display of teamwork would have amused Razznik under different circumstances, but now it only grated at him. The adventurers were no longer mindlessly charging at him—they had become organized, disciplined, and methodical. Their commander had adapted, ordering them to strike with strategy rather than brute force.

Razznik's lips curled into a sneer as he stood at the center of the battlefield, surrounded. "Organize all you want," he muttered, his voice low and filled with disdain. "It won't change anything."

He raised his hand, and a single arrow of light shot skyward. At its peak, the arrow exploded into dozens of smaller bolts, raining death upon the adventurers below. A few cries rang out, but the mages were quick to respond, forming protective barriers that shielded their comrades from the worst of the attack.

Razznik's crimson eyes flickered toward the mages, but before he could move, two swordsmen lunged at him from behind. He didn't flinch. His staff flashed into existence, effortlessly parrying both blades with a resounding clang. In one smooth motion, he spun on his heel, the staff whipping around with deadly precision. A sickening crack echoed as the skull of one unfortunate warrior caved in.

Arrows whizzed through the air as Razznik ducked low, his body moving with the fluid grace of a predator. From the ground, he extended his staff, spinning it in a wide arc that swept the legs out from several adventurers surrounding him. But even as they fell, two assassins vaulted over his attack, their blades glinting in the moonlight as they descended upon him.

Too slow.

Razznik's eyes gleamed as a black shield materialized on his left arm, raised just in time to block their strikes. The assassins' blades clanged uselessly against the barrier, and before they could recover, Razznik's retaliation was swift and brutal. His shield arm shot upward, knocking their weapons aside, and with a swift swipe of his newly conjured sword, both assassins were sent to the Circle, their bodies collapsing before they even hit the ground.

The rune tattoos on Razznik's body pulsed, crawling further up his torso, glowing faintly in the darkness. He could feel the drain on his strength with every life he claimed, the weight of his power bearing down on him. His breath came a little harder, but there was no time to dwell on it. For every enemy he cut down, ten more seemed to take their place.

His muscles burned, and the runes etched into his skin tightened with each passing second. Half of his body was already covered, and the tattoos now inched toward his chest. His power was immense, but it came at a cost—a cost he felt with every swing of his weapons.

A knight charged at him with a gleaming lance, hoping to capitalize on Razznik's growing fatigue. The Demon King smirked, his hand shifting seamlessly to a pair of gauntlets. He caught the lance mid-thrust, twisting it with inhuman strength. The knight, still clinging to his weapon, was lifted into the air like a ragdoll before Razznik hurled him skyward with a flick of his wrist.

Before the knight had even reached the peak of his ascent, a ranger loosed a volley of arrows charmed with ice and fire. The enchanted projectiles hissed as they cut through the air, aimed straight for Razznik's heart.

But again, the Demon King's shield was there, blocking the arrows with ease. He smashed it into the face of an onrushing warrior, shattering both the man's nose and his spirit, before switching back to twin blades. The weapons danced in his hands, parrying strikes from every angle, cutting down those foolish enough to engage him at close range.

With a grunt, Razznik swung his broadsword in a wide arc, cleaving through the adventurers who had dared get too close. Blood sprayed across the battlefield, and more runes flared to life across his skin, creeping like dark vines over his chest and legs. His strength was slowly ebbing, but his fury burned hotter than ever.

"Fools," he growled, his breath ragged but his movements still sharp. "Do you think this will wear me down?"

He tore through another line of shields, his broadsword slicing through the reinforced metal as if it were paper. The adventurers, despite their synchronized attacks, could not land a significant blow on the Demon King. But they kept coming, relentless in their assault, their strategy clear: wear him down, force him to expend his energy until he had nothing left.

Razznik snorted, his eyes gleaming with defiance. Let them come, he thought. He could feel the toll the battle was taking on him—the runes now covered nearly seventy-five percent of his body, and with each kill, the tattoos glowed brighter, the weight of their magic pulling at his very soul. His movements, once effortless, were now becoming heavier, each strike requiring more effort than the last.

But his fire hadn't dimmed.

With a roar that sent a shockwave across the battlefield, Razznik charged forward, switching seamlessly between weapons as if they were mere extensions of his body. His enemies fell before him in droves, but with each victory, the runes claimed more of his flesh, their dark power sapping his strength little by little.

The adventurers knew this was their chance. If they could just hold out a little longer, if they could push him to his limit, then maybe—just maybe—they could topple the Demon King.

But even as the weight of the battle pressed down on him, even as his body grew heavier with each passing second, Razznik's resolve never wavered.

"Come," he snarled, his voice a low growl filled with unyielding defiance. "I will show you the strength of my resolve."

And still, he fought.

Meanwhile, as the Guildmasters scrambled to regroup after their encounter with the Dragon King, Aileera stepped forward, standing resolute in the face of Skyrm's enormous presence. The wind from his great wings stirred the air around her, making her robes flutter.

Skyrm paused, his molten-gold eyes locking onto the small figure before him. "What is your name, child?" he inquired, his tone more curious than hostile.

"I am called Aileera, great one," she answered, bowing respectfully. Her calm demeanor did not betray the subtle hand signals she sent to Freya behind her back. The seasoned Guildmaster caught her eye and nodded, readying herself for whatever would come next.

"You seek battle with me?" Skyrm's voice rumbled through the valley, and though it was polite, it carried the weight of an ancient force.

"No, my lord," Aileera replied steadily. "My quarrel is with Razznik alone." Her words were diplomatic, but her eyes blazed with determination.

Skyrm chuckled, a sound that caused the earth to tremble slightly beneath her feet. "You say you do not wish for battle, yet you prepare for one. Humans—ever so interesting." He leaned down, his gigantic head lowering until his forehead was close enough for Aileera to see the minute patterns of scales and the ancient magic etched into them. His sheer size was overwhelming. His forehead alone could crush entire buildings. "Tell me, why do you oppose the traitor?" he asked, voice echoing like a distant thunderclap.

"He bested me in combat," Skyrm admitted, straightening up as he spoke the words.

"What?!" gasped the Guildmasters behind Aileera. They had assumed Razznik had secured Skyrm's aid through diplomacy, trickery, or favors—anything but a feat as impossible as defeating the Dragon King himself.

Aileera, however, remained stoic. "I suspected as much," she said quietly.

Skyrm's eyes narrowed slightly. "And now you seek to raise your army's morale by accomplishing the same?"

Aileera held his gaze without flinching. "I have no desire to battle you, but..." She gave a subtle signal to Freya. The older mage finished a long, intricate chant, and a shimmering dome of light began to enclose the valley. The very air hummed with the immense power it took to erect such a barrier.

Skyrm's brow furrowed in irritation as he watched the last of the manastones crumble to dust, drained of their energy. He growled in disapproval, feeling the painful loss of magic. "This is your plan?"

"If you wish to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, now is the time to leave," Aileera said, her voice calm but resolute. Her stance betrayed no fear, even in the face of Skyrm's rising fury.

Skyrm's eyes gleamed with menace as orbs of bright energy crackled into existence around him. "You dare to give me ultimatums?" he roared, sending the orbs crashing down into the earth, creating craters the size of small mountains. The earth itself seemed to scream in protest as the shockwaves rippled outward, but Aileera calmly cast a barrier that shielded her and the Guildmasters from the worst of the destruction.

Her calm infuriated him even further.

"No," Aileera said with a firm stomp of her staff. "It is you who underestimates me." The ground beneath her feet pulsed with magic, and a visible aura of power enveloped her and her companions. The Guildmasters around her felt their strength surge, their limbs lighter, their senses sharper.

Before Skyrm could retaliate, a flurry of arrows rained down from the sky, interrupting his next attack. Skyrm's keen eyes caught sight of the archer—Miles—who had strategically positioned himself far from the conflict, launching volleys of enchanted arrows toward the Dragon King's wings.

Skyrm snarled. He was used to such tactics—adventurers always aimed for his wings, seeking to ground him—but Miles' arrows were different. They arced unnaturally, curving mid-air and striking with precision. A few even pierced the edges of his wings, though they only left minor wounds. Skyrm roared in anger, his pride wounded more than his flesh.

He turned to chase the elusive archer, but before he could gain speed, a blue blur lunged from the trees. Blorg, with his mighty ax raised, attempted to strike the Dragon King down, but Skyrm simply veered upward, evading the blow with ease.

The attack on Skyrm did not relent. Blorg, Miles, and the other Guildmasters, with Aileera's buffs enhancing their capabilities, were a relentless force. Arrows whistled through the air, chains whipped around limbs, and blades cut through the wind, all aimed at the same target. But Skyrm, even in his fury, was too skilled. He dodged, parried, and counterattacked with a primal grace.

Amid the chaos, Rono—a pirate infamous for his fearlessness—had somehow grappled onto Skyrm's back. His scimitar gleamed as he repeatedly drove it between the Dragon King's scales, though the strikes seemed more annoying than truly damaging. Skyrm, in a fit of desperation, crashed his back into a nearby mountain, hoping to dislodge his pesky attacker.

Instead of one problem, however, he soon found two more. Two assassins, Troy and Else, agile and silent as shadows, hidden from sight until that moment, leaped onto his wings, their blades slicing through the thin membrane as they tore across the span. Skyrm bellowed in agony, his massive form crashing into the ground with the force of a landslide.

Smoke and ash filled the air as the forest around them ignited from the explosions, but even within the chaos, Aileera remained focused. "Now," she murmured, signaling Freya.

The old mage raised his staff high, and the air itself seemed to shimmer. A web of glowing white chains erupted from the ground, slithering through the air like serpents before coiling around Skyrm's limbs. He howled in rage, trying to shake them off, but the chains tightened, pulsing with a radiant energy that sapped his strength.

The Dragon King fell to one knee, struggling against the magic that bound him. "Impressive," Skyrm muttered through gritted teeth. "But it will take more than this to—"

He froze as a titanic explosion shook the valley, the shockwave tearing through Aileera's barrier like paper. A column of black energy surged toward the sky, and at its epicenter stood Razznik, his body now covered in pulsating rune tattoos that glowed with dark energy. His transformation was nearing completion.

"Time is up," Skyrm whispered, his gaze softening as he looked at the distant figure of his old companion. With a final, exhausted breath, he glanced at Aileera, giving her a knowing look. "You do not yet understand the true terror of that man."

Before Aileera could respond, Razznik moved—faster than any of them could react. His black sword cleaved through the chains binding Skyrm, freeing the Dragon King from his magical prison.

"Thank you, old friend," Skyrm muttered as he took the flask Razznik offered, downing it in one gulp. The healing elixir coursed through his body, restoring his strength.

Skyrm looked at Razznik with hazy eyes. "So, this is it?"

Razznik released a wry smile and shook his head. "We both knew this would eventually come."

"That may be so," Skyrm muttered as wings sprouted from his back. With a powerful flap, he suspended a few feet off the ground. "But it does not change the unpleasantness of it all."

Razznik laughed and shook his head. "This is goodbye old friend."

Skyrm looked like he wanted to say something, but he changed his mind, and with a large flap of his wings, he disappeared into the skies.

Razznik turned to Aileera, his massive black sword balanced effortlessly on his shoulder, its weight seemingly inconsequential. The runes covering his body pulsed faintly, weaving beneath his skin like dark rivers of energy. "Enough games," he growled, his voice steady despite the battle-worn state of both sides. Looking beyond her at the shattered valley drenched in deep pools of blood without a single living being, living or undead, he stated, "Your army is shattered. I've used my last summon. We're all running on fumes—mana, health... Let's end this."

Aileera straightened, wiping the sweat and grime from her brow, her eyes locked on him with steely determination. "My thoughts exactly." She glanced at the Guildmasters, who had regrouped, their bodies battered but far from broken. After downing a set of glowing elixirs, they stepped forward to form a semi-circle around the Demon King, their weapons gleaming with renewed strength.

Razznik's lips curled into a smirk beneath his mask. Of course, he thought. It always ends like this. Me against the world. The irony wasn't lost on him; his entire life had been one relentless battle, and this was merely another chapter in the same cursed story.

"Dawn breaks in thirty minutes," he said suddenly, his tone casual, but the words weighed heavy on the air. The adventurers tensed, realizing the gravity of his statement. "By then, one side will stand victorious."

A single drop of rain descended from the grey sky, landing softly on Razznik's blade. It rolled down the edge, slow and deliberate, until it fell to the ground, lost among the chaos.

Then, without warning, the adventurers surged forward.

Blorg, the towering lycan, led the charge, his massive axe held high as he barreled toward Razznik. The Demon King braced, positioning his sword in front of him. The impact came hard and fast, the force of Blorg's strike lifting Razznik off his feet and sending him skidding back. But before Blorg could capitalize, his arm jerked from the recoil, leaving him exposed.

Razznik grunted mid-air, stabbing his sword into the ground, using it as leverage to spin back toward his attacker. The sword dematerialized in a flash, reappearing in his hand just as he launched himself at the lycan with deadly precision.

Before he could land the blow, two assassins darted out from beneath Blorg's shadow, their blades aiming for Razznik's exposed flanks. With a fluid motion, Razznik switched to his twin blades, parrying their attacks in a flurry of sparks. He shoved them back with a forceful strike, just in time to sense Rono's looming presence at his rear. The pirate lunged with ferocity, his cutlass aimed at the Demon King's spine.

Razznik, unfazed, transformed his weapon into a staff, bringing it crashing down toward Rono. The pirate danced around the strike, aiming a thrust at Razznik's chest. But the Demon King was already a step ahead. He smashed the staff into Rono's ribs, then swept it around, knocking one assassin away with the butt of the weapon before sending the other flying through the air like a ragdoll.

A hail of arrows descended upon Razznik from above, but he barely acknowledged them. His sword reappeared in his hand as he charged the archers, slicing through the rain of arrows with terrifying ease.

Miles, the legendary archer, grinned as Razznik approached. He knew the Demon King's assumption. Archers were weak up close—except Miles wasn't just any archer. He met Razznik's sword with his bow, parrying the strike and instantly nocking an arrow to stab toward the Demon King's gut. Razznik blocked the attack with his shield, but Miles grinned wider.

The arrow wasn't meant to pierce.

With a sharp boom, the arrow exploded, engulfing Razznik in smoke and fire. But as the smoke cleared, Razznik stood unharmed, his shield raised just in time. His runes glowed brighter, spreading further along his skin, their tendrils now creeping up his neck. His breaths came sharper now.

Before he could react, an enormous arrow the size of a spear hurtled toward him. Razznik barely had time to raise his shield before the impact sent him crashing through the forest. Trees splintered under the force as he was blasted into the open air—straight into Freya's waiting arms.

The old mage, glowing with enchantments, kicked down with the might of a behemoth, aiming to crush Razznik into the earth. Razznik, grinning savagely, caught the blow with his shield. A rope of dark energy snaked from his hand, wrapping around Freya's leg, and with a brutal yank, he pulled her down with him, sending them both careening to the ground.

The black cord was one of Razznik's lesser-used creations, a whip he could control with his mana like a living serpent. He never liked it much, but it had its moments.

Aileera chose that moment to strike. Clad in full knight's armor, she appeared seemingly out of nowhere, lunging at Razznik with a gleaming longsword. Razznik barely managed to block her assault, and for the first time, his eyes narrowed in surprise.

"I thought you were a mage?" he asked, incredulous, as their swords clashed in a fierce dance of steel.

"I am," Aileera replied coolly, not missing a beat. "You're not the only one that can master multiple professions"

"Interesting." Razznik's grin widened, but his breaths were coming faster now, the runes spreading across his face. With a powerful kick, he knocked her back several steps, then switched to his staff. White chains, identical to the ones Aileera had used earlier, erupted from the ground, snaking toward her companions.

"They won't work on me," she said confidently, but her smirk faltered when the chains ignored her. "No, Wait!" Aileera cried as she charged at Razznik.

Snorting, the Demon King controlled the chains with one hand and held up his broadsword with the other, blocking Aileera's strikes.

At the other end of the white chains, the guildmasters, recognizing the spell they used to trap Skyrm desperately attempted to flee the chains.

"Don't let it touch you!" Freya shouted, as he fired several fireballs at the approaching chain. Unfortunately, the chain moved like it had eyes of its own, effortlessly dodgin the projectiles.

"Goddamn it!" Borg roared in anger, while smashing the chains with his axe. |I thought you said we could only bury the Nullification Chain and use it as a trap!"

"That..." Freya glanced at Razznik, whose entire attention was focused on blocking and parrying Aileera's blade. He did not spare a single attention to the other guildmasters, but the chains chased them relentlessly without error.

Those movements. They could not be explained with asimple homing spell. It was evident Razznik had reached the realm where he could split his sight and retain total control of multiple external objects.

Feeling a crushing sense of defeat, Freya suddenly stopped, being hte first to get struck by the chain. He instantly felt his mana and strength dry up, as if sucked by a hungry abyss.

Like an unfortunate case of dominos, Freya's defeat seemed to bleed into the others as the chains caught them one after the other, either due to exhaustion, or because they inevitably made a mistake. It did not take long before all were trapped beneath the chains.

But, Razznik did not stop there. Extending his arm, he squeezed his palm into a fist and the chains immediately constricted xinto tight balls, crushing the guildmasters into a bloody paste.

Only Aileera remained.

She stood at the edge of the battlefield, her sword trembling in her hand as she stared at Razznik. Her once-bright robes were singed and torn, her face pale from exhaustion and grief. Blood trickled down her forehead, but her eyes, though weary, still burned with determination. Her light magic had shielded her from the worst of Razznik's assaults, but now she felt the weight of her comrades' deaths crushing her heart.

Razznik staggered, his form swaying as the curses continued to eat away at him, but his crimson eyes found Aileera through the haze. He chuckled, a broken sound, dark and filled with the bitterness of his fate.

"Five minutes left. You... you are the last one standing," Razznik rasped, his voice now strained as he tightened his grip around his sword. Chest heaving heavily, he pointed his sword at Aileera, the last bit of uncovered skin on his face slowly succumbing to the creeping runes. "Do you still think you can defeat me? I am cursed, yes, but I am still the Demon King. You are alone."

Aileera gripped her sword tightly, feeling the trembling in her hands grow worse. She had nothing left—her magic was spent, her body aching from wounds she could barely feel through the adrenaline. But there was something more in her now—a resolve born of the loss of her friends, of the weight of a world that had bled for too long.

"That's where you were always wrong," she whispered, barely audible. "I am not alone. Everyone who gave their lives to slow you down even one second sooner. They are all with me."

Summoning her remaining strength, she raised her sword to the sky. Holy light gathered at its tip, a soft, radiant glow that illuminated the dark battlefield.

Razznik blinked, confused for a brief moment. But that moment was all Aileera needed.

With a shout, a surge of pure holy light poured down from the heavens, bathing her sword with a divine brilliance, while the shield shimmered, large and radiant like the sun. Her body surged with newfound strength, but it was fleeting—she knew she had only one last chance.

Razznik snarled, summoning his greatsword to meet Aileera's charge, but even his movements were slower now, the curse dragging him down. His form flickered with dark energy, barely holding together. "Holy Element? Is that the best you have, priestess?"

But Aileera was already moving. She charged at him, her holy sword raised high. The world seemed to slow as she closed the distance between them, the brilliance of her weapon clashing with the darkness of his presence.

Razznik swung his greatsword down with all his remaining strength, aiming to cleave her in two. But Aileera raised her shield, bracing for the impact. The force of the blow was like being struck by a mountain, but her shield held, glowing brighter as the dark energy of Razznik's attack was absorbed into it. With a cry, she pushed back, knocking his greatsword aside.

Before Razznik could recover, Aileera surged forward, her sword gleaming with holy fire. She slashed across his chest, cutting through armor and flesh alike. The Demon King roared in pain, his cursed tattoos flaring as he staggered backward, but Aileera pressed on. She struck again, and again, each blow driving him further toward the edge of defeat.

"I will not fall," Razznik hissed, his voice breaking, though his grip on his greatsword faltered. He swung again, but the curse had taken too much from him. His strength was fading, his power slipping away.

Aileera ducked beneath his swing, stepping inside his guard. She saw her opening, and without hesitation, she drove her holy sword deep into Razznik's chest.

The world seemed to freeze as the blade pierced his heart. Razznik's eyes went wide, and for a moment, the terrible, unrelenting power in his gaze flickered. His greatsword fell from his hand, clattering to the ground. He looked down at the blade in his chest, the holy light burning through him from the inside.

Aileera held the hilt with both hands, her body shaking from the effort, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. "Stubborn Bastard," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Was this really the only way?"

Razznik's lips curled into a sad smile, his voice barely a whisper as he looked at her, perhaps for the first time, with something other than rage. "Yes... it is," he said softly.

The Demon King gazed over the charred battlefield and then raised his eyes to the heavens where the sky cracked open, and from its depths emerged a gargantuan meteor, a molten, fiery mass plummeting toward the battlefield. The force of its descent alone threatened to crush what little remained of the world. Its size was unimaginable, blotting out the sun and casting everything below it into a blood-red hue.

The red star, the gods' contingency plan, was set to obliterate everything on the continent.

"Say, what do you think? Will they remember me?"

Aileera's breath caught in her throat and she could do nothing but slowly nod as she felt his heartbeat slow through her sword.

"I see. That's good." With a final, shuddering breath, Razznik's body crumbled to the ground, the light from Aileera's sword still burning in his chest.

Aileera looked up, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no time to grieve, no time to rest. This was the end, but not if she had anything to say about it.

Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she lifted her hand to the heavens, her fingers glowing with holy light. "I cannot fail now," she whispered to herself, her voice firm, though her body ached with exhaustion. She closed her eyes, letting the divine energy of her magic surge through her once more.

A light arrow formed in her hand, its shaft thin and flickering, almost too weak to even be called a weapon. Aileera's brow furrowed—this was not enough. How could something so small stop the apocalyptic force bearing down on them?

But then, something unexpected happened.

The cursed tattoos that had covered Razznik's body, dark and consuming, began to shift. They crawled off his dying form as if drawn to Aileera's light. The curses, once feeding on his life and strength, turned toward her arrow, flowing into it like streams of dark energy. The arrow began to grow, its light intensifying with each curse that merged with it. The power that had nearly destroyed Razznik was now pouring into Aileera's creation.

The arrow swelled, expanding far beyond its initial form, until it was the size of a house—then a castle—then several neighborhoods combined, its light blinding and furious, crackling with energy both divine and cursed. The ground trembled beneath its weight, and the air itself seemed to hum with its power.

Aileera raised the massive arrow high, her legs shaking from the effort, but she held firm. This was it—the one shot to save the world. Her heart raced as she drew her arm back, her entire being focused on the meteor descending from the sky. It was so close now, the heat from it already scorching the earth beneath her feet.

Razznik, lying on the ground, his vision darkening as death crept closer, managed a weak smile. His crimson eyes flickered one last time as they looked toward Aileera and the arrow she had conjured.

"You... would have made a splendid archer," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper now, each word labored. There was a wistfulness in his tone, a strange sense of regret. He let out a faint chuckle, the sound bitter but soft. "I wish... I could see it. The arrow that saves the world. But... that is not a scene... for a villain... to witness."

With those final words, his eyes closed, his body going still, the last remnants of the Demon King fading into the wind.

Aileera didn't hesitate. With a fierce cry, she hurled the massive arrow toward the sky, its light cutting through the darkness as it shot upward like a beacon of hope. The cursed power that had fueled it surged, propelling it faster and faster until it collided with the meteor in a blinding explosion of light and fire.

For a brief, terrifying moment, the world seemed to hang in the balance, the meteor's force pushing against the arrow. The air roared with the sound of the collision, the sky torn apart by the sheer energy of it all. But then, slowly, the light of Aileera's arrow began to overwhelm the meteor, its divine power purging the darkness.

With a deafening boom, the meteor shattered into a million pieces, its fragments disintegrating into harmless embers that scattered across the battlefield like stars.

The light faded, and silence fell.

Aileera stood alone now, her body shaking from the effort, her breath ragged. The sky above was clear once more, the threat of destruction gone. The world had been saved. But as she lowered her hand, her holy sword and shield disappearing, she could not help but feel the weight of the loss that surrounded her. The battlefield was still, a graveyard for both heroes and villains alike.

She looked down at Razznik's still form, her heart heavy. Victory had come, but it had cost everything.

With a deep breath, she straightened her back, knowing that her fight was over—for now. The world had been spared, but she would carry the scars of this battle forever.

And though no one else remained to witness it, she silently thanked Razznik—for giving her the chance to strike the final blow, for the cursed power that had turned into salvation.

As she turned to walk away, the wind carried his last words to her, faint and distant.

"Not a scene for a villain... but perhaps a hero."

And with that, the chapter closed on the Demon King, his legacy forever intertwined with the light that had defeated him.

GAME OVER!

Thank you for Playing King's Journey.

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Iruma, Saitama Prefecture,

Japan

04.45 a.m Monday, 6th April, 2043

"I guess it's really over."

Suzuki sat cross-legged on the bare mattress, his muscular frame still tense, his breath shallow as the last echoes of the virtual battlefield faded from his mind. His cold, sharp eyes stared forward, seeing nothing of the quiet room around him for several seconds longer. He was still in the game—in that other world where every scar earned felt real, and the blood spilled meant something. His fingers curled involuntarily, remembering the weight of the sword Razznik held just moments ago, now replaced by nothing but air.

With a faint sigh, he lifted his hand to his face and slipped off a pair of virtual reality goggles, feeling the slight resistance as the machine released its grip on his temples. The familiar hum of the game shutting down filled the quiet, bare-bones room, and Suzuki blinked, adjusting to the dim lighting of reality.

His room was sparse, almost sterile, with only a bed and a desk standing as a testament to the life he lived outside the game. Papers with half-finished sketches of weapons, landscapes, and strange creatures were scattered on the floor, many crumpled as if they had failed to capture his vision. The ceiling above him was painted—a single masterpiece that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the room—depicting the view from atop Razznik's Oni Hill, the highest point in the virtual world where the Demon King once ruled. Suzuki's silent tribute to the place that had consumed countless hours of his life.

The game felt more real than this world ever did.

He pushed himself up from the bed, his muscles rippling as he moved with quiet, deliberate efficiency. His body was well-trained, each motion purposeful, scars etched into his dark skin like silent reminders of battles fought—not in the real world, but in the one where it mattered. He rolled his shoulders, then stretched, his long, fluffy, and messy hair falling over his face as he reached for the ceiling with both arms, feeling the tightness in his muscles loosen slightly.

There was no rush in his movements. Everything about Suzuki was measured, and controlled. His cold eyes glanced around the room briefly, but there was nothing new to notice, nothing to break the monotony of the space he had crafted for himself. He bent down, touching his toes, holding the position with ease, his breath steady as if he had done this a thousand times before. His long hair brushed the floor, messy and untamed, a stark contrast to his otherwise meticulously controlled demeanor.

As he stood up straight again, he moved to the floor, dropping into a series of push-ups. His body lowered and rose in perfect rhythm, his expression never changing, his mind already somewhere else. This was routine—nothing in the real world ever stirred him. His cold eyes were fixed on the floor, but he wasn't seeing it. He was still there, back on Oni Hill, fighting endless enemies, feeling alive in ways this empty room couldn't replicate.

After completing his exercises, Suzuki stood, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He glanced at the painting on the ceiling once more, his eyes twitching ever so slightly—not quite a frown, but something similar.

Today should have been no different than yesterday. A little training. A little preparation. And then back to where the battles mattered, where the scars were earned.

His cold eyes hardened as he turned to face the empty room.

But he knew the truth. This was the end.

Razznik was dead, and with him, that chapter of his life had closed forever.

A shrill alarm brought Suzuki's attention to the phone on his desk. It was time to start the day. He was ready. But, in truth, the day hadn't really begun for Suzuki for a very long time.

James Shouyou stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his silhouette framed against the vast expanse of the early morning city. The world below him was still cloaked in darkness, the streets quiet, the buildings reduced to shadows beneath the faint glow of distant streetlights. His reflection in the glass was sharp and polished—golden hair impeccably styled, his stylish suit a perfect match to the calm authority he exuded.

But it was his eyes, those mischievous blue eyes, that betrayed the glint of something more—something far less predictable than the rest of him suggested. The corner of his lips twitched into a small, effortless smile, one that could lower the guard of even the most vigilant. He was waiting, and he was always a step ahead.

The soft click of the door opening behind him didn't surprise him. James didn't turn, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the city below, watching as the faintest hints of dawn began to creep along the horizon, promising a new day.

"Mr. Shouyou," a calm male voice broke the silence, professional and controlled. Footsteps, light but deliberate, approached from behind, followed by a second, more delicate step. Both enforcers moved with precision, clad in black suits that spoke of business far more serious than their tone suggested. "Are we still moving ahead with the plan?"

James remained still for a moment longer, his smile growing slightly, almost as if savoring the question. His reflection in the glass seemed to shimmer in the dim light of the lamp on his desk, casting an aura of confidence that filled the room.

Finally, he turned to face them, slow and graceful, as if the whole world operated at his pace. His hands slid effortlessly into his pockets, the fabric of his suit shifting without a wrinkle. His charming smile greeted them like an old friend, yet there was an air of calculation behind it, hidden beneath the surface.

"Ah, good morning." His voice was smooth, laced with a warmth that was almost too perfect. He took a step forward, his gaze moving between the male and female enforcer, sizing them up with casual ease. "You're up earlier than expected. Couldn't sleep, perhaps?"

Neither enforcer responded to the small talk, their expressions remaining stone-faced. James chuckled softly, his smile widening as he shrugged. "No matter. As for the plan..." He paused, his mischievous eyes locking onto theirs, teasing, almost daring them to break their composure.

He took a slow step toward his desk, running a finger along the edge of the smooth surface. The lamp's soft glow reflected off his golden hair as he seemed to weigh his answer in the air, letting the silence stretch just a moment longer than necessary.

"Yes," he finally said, his voice as calm as it was certain. "We're still moving ahead. Why wouldn't we?" He tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence, though the glint in his eyes suggested he knew more than he was letting on. "Is there a reason you're concerned?"

The male enforcer shifted slightly, not quite unnerved but definitely aware of the careful dance they were stepping into. "No, sir. We just wanted confirmation. The situation is... delicate."

"Delicate," James echoed, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of amusement. He nodded thoughtfully as if considering the weight of it. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he dismissed the tension in the room like it was nothing. "Delicate, like the fate of the world? Do not worry, Delicate is my specialty."

The female enforcer, silent until now, cleared her throat. "And the target?"

James smiled again, this time more to himself than to them. His blue eyes sparkled with something darker, something hidden beneath layers of charm. "Leave the target to me. Everything is in place."

He stepped away from the desk, moving back toward the window, his gaze once again drawn to the city below. The first hint of sunlight had broken through the horizon, casting a faint glow over the skyscrapers.

"Timing," James said softly, almost to himself, "is everything."

The enforcers exchanged a glance, but they knew better than to question him further. With a silent nod, they turned to leave the room, their footsteps echoing briefly before the door clicked shut behind them.

James stayed by the window, watching as the city slowly began to wake beneath him. His smile faded just slightly, replaced by a look of quiet reflection, though the mischief never truly left his eyes.

"Delicate indeed," he whispered, his breath fogging the glass for just a moment before the warmth of the rising sun erased it. "Which reminds me..."

James reached for his cell phone and pressed '7' until it began to ring. Raising the phone to his ear, his smile broadened once again when a familiar voice answered on the second ring. "Hello Su-chan..."