Eiden sank to his knees beside Yajin's body as the last remnants of divine power faded like dying embers. Their ascended forms unraveled, collapsing back into human shapes—no towering auras, no celestial markings, no third eye burning with judgment. Just two men, battered and exhausted, lying in the quiet aftermath of a battle that had torn the plains apart.
Yajin's face had softened into a serene stillness, his eyes closed as though he were simply resting beneath the open sky. The tension of the fight was gone, replaced by a silence that made the world feel painfully heavy. Eiden exhaled shakily, lifting his gaze toward the heavens where stars shimmered across the dark canvas of the night. The moon hung low and steady, its pale light catching in his frost-white hair. His grey eyes reflected the sky—tired, hollow, and searching.
Pressing a trembling hand to his chest, Eiden whispered a healing incantation. Soft white light spread beneath his palm to mend the worst of the damage, though the spell flickered with his uneven breath. The wound in his forearm pulsed with a dull, persistent ache; he had been drained far past his limits. As the last threads of magic faded, his arm fell to his side, trembling in the cool night air.
His gaze drifted to the Sword of Judgement lying beside Yajin. The once-divine weapon was now dim, its green radiance reduced to a flickering ghost of its former self. For a long moment, Eiden simply stared at it, the weight of the night pressing against his ribs. Finally, he reached out. His fingers closed around the hilt, and the blade responded with a soft pulse, recognizing a new master.
As he lifted it, the metal felt colder, lighter. White light flowed from his palms like drifting smoke, and the weapon began to tremble. The green hue bled away, the hilt darkening into a deep, shadowed black. Metal shifted and tightened, forming intricate engravings along its length—sharp, deliberate patterns like ancient runes. The guard reshaped itself, becoming sleeker and more refined to match Eiden's presence, while the blade brightened into a polished silver-white sheen. It hummed softly, a quiet promise of power.
Eiden tested the weight, swinging the reforged longsword once; the air parted with a smooth resonance. Balanced and obedient, the relic was reborn. He sheathed it at his side with quiet finality just as his aura dimmed like a candle fighting the wind. Only then did he look back at Yajin, the silence between them stretching into something unspoken.
Footsteps broke the stillness as the Sages emerged through the haze of moonlight and dust. Selyndra reached him first, dropping to her knees and cupping his face with trembling hands. "Gods, Eiden… are you okay? You had us worried," she whispered, her voice cracking as her gaze flicked to Yajin's body.
Iris, Seraphaine, Vaelus, and Dravien arrived moments later, breathless and wide-eyed. Dravien's tail hung low in worry; Seraphaine covered her mouth, her eyes shimmering with relief. Iris's jaw was tight, betraying the fear she had carried, while Vaelus scanned the shattered terrain with sharp precision.
"Where's the Sword of Judgement?!" Vaelus demanded, his urgency cutting through the heavy air. Eiden didn't speak; he simply tapped the hilt of the black-and-silver blade at his belt. Vaelus let out a long breath of relief, the tension leaving his shoulders.
"I need… to rest a little," Eiden murmured, his voice thin and worn. Selyndra didn't hesitate, wrapping her arms around him and guiding his head to her chest in a protective embrace. Eiden sank into her hold, his eyes closing as exhaustion finally claimed him.
"Rest all you want," Selyndra whispered. The others stood in a loose circle, though Vaelus remained a few steps back. A flicker of something sharp and wounded—a moment of unmistakable jealousy—flashed in his emerald eyes before he quickly looked away, pretending to scan the craters once more.
More footsteps thundered across the plains as dozens of figures emerged from the darkness, their eyes glowing a predatory red. Draped in ribbed cloaks and black suits, the vampires approached with disciplined speed. At their front was Zeth, moving like a shadow with a crimson longsword in his hand. He slid to a halt and drove his blade into the ground, dropping to one knee.
"Is he okay?" Zeth asked, his voice low and urgent. Selyndra nodded, holding Eiden close. "Yes. He just needs to rest."
Reinforced wagons rolled to a stop behind them. Zeth rose, his eyes sweeping over the Sages. "Wait… where's the Angel King?"
"Morvath is handling him," Iris replied, gesturing toward the distant horizon where the kingdom once stood.
Zeth's jaw tightened. He pulled his crimson blade from the earth with a hungry hum. "Everyone get on that wagon; we brought supplies for all of you," he commanded, his resolve sharpening. "I'll make sure Morvath doesn't die—if he hasn't already."
Before anyone could respond, Zeth's body dissolved into a violent swirl of red mist. He streaked toward the distant battlefield like a crimson comet, leaving only the rushing wind and a faint echo in his wake.