The crater was still burning when Vorthar dragged himself from its edge.
His body was broken—more broken than it had ever been. The light had carved through him like a blade through flesh, searing his armor, his wings, his very essence. The mana drain had been catastrophic, leaving him hollow, empty, dying.
He had never felt anything like it.
He pulled himself across the charred earth, his claws scraping against the blackened stone. His vision swam. His breath came in ragged gasps. The wound in his chest was still smoking, the edges of it glowing faintly with residual energy.
The humans, he thought. They built something. Something that could hurt me.
Something that could kill me.
He dragged himself into the ruins of an old settlement—a burned-out building, its walls still standing, its roof partially intact. He collapsed against the wall, his body screaming, his mind reeling.
He needed mana. He needed to heal. He needed to survive.
He looked around. The building was empty, but he could sense them—demons, scattered across the plain, retreating from the battle, their own forces broken and scattered.
He reached out with his will.
Come to me, he commanded. Come to me and serve.
The first demon arrived within minutes.
It was a low-tier creature—a grunt, barely more than cannon fodder. Its eyes were wide, its body trembling. It had felt the pull of his command and had been unable to resist.
Vorthar looked at it.
"I need your mana," he said.
The demon didn't understand. It opened its mouth to speak.
Vorthar's claws closed around its throat.
He drained it. Not gently—violently. He pulled the mana from its body like a man dying of thirst pulling water from a well. The demon convulsed, its eyes bulging, its body shrinking, crumbling, dying.
Vorthar felt the mana flood into him, warm and vital. The wound in his chest began to close. The pain began to fade. His vision cleared.
He dropped the demon's husk and stood.
More, he thought. I need more.
The second demon came. Then the third. The fourth.
He drained them all.
His wounds healed. His strength returned. His power rebuilt itself, piece by piece, demon by demon. By the time the twelfth demon fell, he was whole again.
He stood among the bodies, his claws dripping, his armor repaired, his wings folded. He flexed his hands, feeling the strength return to his limbs.
The humans, he thought. They built something that could hurt me.
But I am not dead.
And now I know what they have.
He turned and walked out of the ruins.
The plain was empty.
The demons had scattered, their forces broken, their will shattered. The fire was still burning in the distance, but it was fading, dying, losing its strength.
Vorthar walked through the carnage, his boots crunching on the charred earth. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for something—anything—that could help him.
He found it.
A group of soldiers. Human soldiers. They were moving across the plain, their weapons raised, their eyes scanning. They were not demons. They were not weak.
They were prey.
He smiled.
He approached them slowly, his footsteps silent, his wings folded. They didn't see him coming until he was almost upon them.
One of them turned. His eyes widened.
"Vorthar—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Vorthar moved, fast, brutal, efficient. His claws found the soldier's throat, and the man fell, gurgling, bleeding, dying. The others raised their weapons, their faces pale, their eyes wide.
He killed them one by one.
Not with mercy. Not with speed. With deliberation. He wanted them to feel it. He wanted them to know.
When the last soldier fell, he stood among the bodies, his claws dripping, his breath steady.
He looked at the city in the distance.
"I'm coming back," he said. "And this time, I won't stop."
He turned and walked away.
The fire was still burning behind him. The city was still standing ahead of him. The war was still raging.
And he was still fighting.
He would find the humans who had hurt him. He would find the weapon they had used. And he would destroy them all.
He walked through the darkness, his wings spread, his eyes scanning. The plain was empty, the demons scattered. He had drained enough mana to heal himself, but he needed more. He needed to be ready for whatever came next.
Then he saw them.
A group of figures, moving across the plain. Human figures. They were small, distant, but he recognized them.
The strike force.
Kade and his soldiers.
Vorthar smiled.
There you are, he thought. I've been looking for you.
Vorthar moved toward the strike force.
His steps were silent, his wings folded against his back, his claws gleaming in the dim light. The fire was still burning in the distance, casting long shadows across the plain. The smoke was thick, the air choked with ash.
He could see them clearly now.
Aurelion Kade led the group, his sword drawn, his body coiled. Behind him, six soldiers—their faces grim, their weapons ready. They moved with purpose, scanning the plain, searching for something.
They're looking for me, Vorthar thought. How thoughtful.
He smiled.
He approached them from the flank, using the smoke as cover. His footsteps were silent, his presence hidden. The soldiers didn't see him until he was already among them.
The first one died without a sound.
Vorthar's claws found his throat, and the soldier crumpled, his weapon clattering to the ground. The second one turned, his eyes widening—but he was too slow. Vorthar's claws found his chest, piercing his heart, and he fell.
The third one raised his rifle, his finger tightening on the trigger. Vorthar moved faster. His claws found the soldier's wrist, twisting, snapping. The rifle fell. His claws found the soldier's throat, and he fell.
The fourth one tried to run. Vorthar caught him by the leg, dragged him back, and drove his claws through his spine. He fell.
The fifth one raised his weapon, his face pale, his eyes wide. He fired—a wild shot, panicked, useless. Vorthar sidestepped and drove his claws through the soldier's chest. He fell.
The sixth one stood frozen, his weapon shaking in his hands. Vorthar looked at him, his cold eyes meeting the soldier's terrified gaze.
"Please," the soldier whispered.
Vorthar killed him.
He stood among the bodies, his claws dripping, his breath steady. The soldiers lay scattered around him, their weapons still warm, their eyes still open.
He looked at the last survivor.
Aurelion Kade.
He stood apart from the others, his sword drawn, his body coiled. His eyes were cold, his expression unreadable. He had watched his soldiers die, and he had not moved.
Vorthar smiled.
"You let them die," he said.
Aurelion didn't answer.
"You could have saved them. You could have fought me. But you didn't." Vorthar stepped closer, his claws dripping with blood. "Why?"
Aurelion met his eyes.
"Because I needed to see what you would do."
Vorthar laughed—a dry, hollow sound.
"You're cold," he said. "Colder than I expected."
"I've had time to practice."
Vorthar stepped closer, circling him slowly.
"You've changed," he said. "When we first met, you were weak. Fragile. You fought like a man who had something to lose." His eyes narrowed. "Now you fight like someone who has already lost everything."
Aurelion raised his sword.
"Maybe I have."
They faced each other in the smoke and ash.
The fire was still burning in the distance, casting long shadows across the plain. The bodies of the soldiers lay scattered around them, their weapons still warm, their eyes still open.
Vorthar studied him, his cold eyes unreadable.
"You're not going to win," he said.
"Probably not."
"Then why fight?"
Aurelion met his eyes.
"Because I don't know how to stop."
Vorthar smiled.
"Neither do I."
He attacked.
Fast. Brutal. Inevitable. His claws raked across Aurelion's armor, gouging deep furrows. Aurelion staggered, recovered, struck back. His sword found Vorthar's side, drawing ichor. Vorthar laughed.
"Still weak," he said.
"Still standing."
"Barely."
He struck again. Aurelion blocked, countered, pressed. The battle was short and brutal—two warriors who had nothing left to lose, fighting for reasons they no longer understood.
Vorthar drove his claws through Aurelion's shoulder.
Aurelion fell.
He lay on the ground, his sword still in his hand, his blood pooling beneath him. Vorthar stood over him, his claws raised, his eyes cold.
"You've lost," Vorthar said.
Aurelion met his eyes.
"Have I?"
Vorthar's eyes narrowed.
"What are you planning?"
Aurelion smiled.
"Nothing," he said. "I just wanted to see your face when you realized you couldn't kill me."
Vorthar's claws descended.