The air in the Silver Cathedral didn't just turn cold; it turned stagnant, thick with the iron scent of death. Count Zion, his regal face now a contorted mask of agony and humiliation, stared at his arm—or what was left of it. The white ash of the angelic burn was climbing past his elbow, devouring his ancient cells with a hunger that surpassed his own.
"You... you dare..." Zion whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "I am a Noble of the Syntr! I am the blood of the peaks! I will not be erased by a freak!"
In a final act of suicidal defiance, Zion reached into the very core of his being. He didn't just use magic; he sacrificed his remaining life force to trigger a Sanguine Supernova.
"Witness the end of all things!" Zion shrieked.
A forbidden blood-burst exploded from his chest—a physical shockwave of pressurized gore and dark energy. The force was astronomical. The remaining marble pillars of the cathedral, which had stood for centuries, were pulverized into dust. Gwaine was caught in the center of the blast. He felt his ribs shatter and his lungs collapse as he was hurled through the air like a ragdoll, smashing into the ruins of the high altar.
Gwaine lay in the wreckage, his mortal shell cracked and bleeding. For a heartbeat, his pulse stopped. In that silence, the "truce" between his powers shattered. The Angelic blood, exhausted by the defense, retreated.
The Darkness did not retreat. It surged.
"No..." Gwaine gasped, but his voice was drowned out by a roar that didn't come from his throat, but from his soul.
His body stood up, but his mind was no longer at the helm. This was the First Vampire—the raw, primal abomination that had made a deal with Lucifer before history was written. His eyes didn't just turn red; they bled shadows, weeping a black mist that dissolved the stone beneath his feet.
Zion, barely clinging to life, tried to crawl away through the rubble. He didn't even have time to scream. Gwaine's body moved with a speed that transcended physics—a flicker of black lightning. He slammed into Zion, pinning the Count to the shattered floor.
With a ferocity that was purely animalistic, Gwaine's body began to dismantle the Noble. He didn't use a sword. He used his teeth and claws, draining Zion's ancient blood in great, violent gulps to fuel the darkness. Within seconds, the once-proud Count Zion was nothing more than a pile of unrecognizable, desecrated remains.
Then, the monster turned.
Kignar, who had been dazed by the blast, slowly opened his eyes to a nightmare. He saw Gwaine—or the thing wearing Gwaine's skin—standing over the mess of Zion. The creature's head snapped toward Kignar, its jaw dripping with crimson, its eyes void-black pits of hunger.
"Gwaine?" Kignar whispered, his hand trembling as he reached for the silver-edged claymore buried in the dust.
The creature didn't answer. It lunged.
Kignar rolled, the wind of the attack ruffling his hair. He scrambled to his feet, picking up both his sword and a silver dagger. He didn't want to kill his friend, but he knew he was facing the "First Abomination".
The fight was a desperate dance of survival. The power of the First Vampire was terrifying, but Kignar noticed something: the creature was sluggish, its movements jerky. Deep inside, the Angelic blood was slowly waking up, fighting to regain control, acting like a spiritual anchor that slowed the monster's strikes.
"Gwaine! Fight it!" Kignar roared, parrying a blow that vibrated his entire skeleton. "This isn't who you are, this isn't what you wanted to be!"
Kignar didn't just fight with steel; he fought with his voice. He reminded the monster of the human heartbeat it had earned. He dodged a lethal swipe and managed to press the silver cross of his necklace against Gwaine's forehead.
The contact was like a lightning strike.
Gwaine's body stiffened. The normal color returned to his eyes in a jagged flash. The Angelic power within him, spurred by Kignar's presence and the holy symbol, surged forward to suppress the dark tide.
Gwaine collapsed to his knees, vomiting black ichor. His mind rushed back into his body, a sickening sensation like falling from a great height. He looked at his blood-stained hands and then at Kignar, who was standing over him, battered and bleeding but alive.
"I... I lost it," Gwaine wheezed, his voice trembling with horror.
"You're back," Kignar said, sheathing his sword with a shaky hand. "That's all that matters."
Gwaine lay down in the dirt, the adrenaline leaving him as a bone-deep fatigue set in. He realized then that this "balance" was a lie—or at least, an incomplete truth. Even though the powers were blending, they were still opposites, hostile to each other. To use one was to risk inviting the other to war. If he unleashed too much Light, he might burn away his humanity; if he tapped too deep into the Dark, he would become the very thing he hunted.
"I have to be careful," Gwaine whispered to the fading stars. "One slip... and it all ends."
His eyes grew heavy. The sheer strain of the battle and the internal civil war had drained him to the marrow. As his consciousness faded into a dreamless sleep, he heard Kignar let out a short, tired laugh.
"Sleep, you crazy bastard," Kignar muttered, wiping his brow and sitting down with his back to Gwaine, his eyes scanning the dark woods for the next threat. "I'll watch the surroundings."
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, the two of them lay in the center of the ruins—a broken hunter and a sleeping god, waiting for the world to wake up.