The battlefield narrowed without anyone saying it would.
It wasn't an order. It wasn't strategy spoken aloud.
It was instinct.
Everything else—the scattered demons, the burning remnants of the base, the clashes between summons and survivors—began to fade to the edges of awareness.
Because at the center of it all, two presences stood above the rest.
Damien.
And the Captain of these demons.
They faced each other across fractured ground, the air between them heavy with pressure that hadn't yet been released.
For a brief moment, neither moved.
Then the Captain raised its hand and darkness gathered.
A dense, swirling mass of black energy condensed above its palm, crackling with unstable force. The surrounding air distorted as if reality itself rejected its presence.
Damien's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…So that's your angle."
The Captain smiled faintly.
"Die."
The spell launched.
It didn't travel like a projectile.
It collapsed forward.
