The darkness pulsed.
Not natural night—
but a **sealed absence**, thick and suffocating, where sound died before it could ever echo.
The ground was carpeted with bodies.
Knights lay twisted in death, armor split open, throats torn wide.
Priests were crushed, pierced, or burned out from the inside—holy symbols shattered, robes soaked crimson.
Blood pooled everywhere, steaming faintly where it touched lingering mana.
At the center of it all—
One knight still stood.
His armor was cracked and warped, his cape shredded into ribbons. Both hands clenched around his sword so tightly that blood seeped through the gaps in his gauntlets. Mana surged wildly around him—unstable, desperate—his entire body trembling as he forced it to keep responding.
His eyes were wide.
Bloodshot.
Unfocused.
From the edge of the darkness—
**Something moved.**
A ripple.
A distortion in the void itself.
The knight spun, panic shattering what little discipline he had left.
"D–DEMON!" he screamed. "DON'T COME ANY CLOSER—!"
He raised his sword and brought it down in a frantic, overcommitted arc—mana flaring violently as he poured everything he had into the strike.
Too slow.
The shadow **slipped past the blade** like smoke through fingers.
A flash.
A soft, wet sound.
Steel punched straight through the knight's helmet—through skull and thought alike.
Blood sprayed.
The mana surrounding him collapsed instantly as his body went slack, sword slipping from lifeless fingers as he crumpled atop the pile of corpses.
Silence reclaimed the space.
The shadow straightened.
Draven stood there, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and dripping from his blade. His form was soaked dark red—some of it fresh, some already drying—his dagger and stolen sword both stained beyond recognition.
His breathing was heavy.
Controlled.
Alive.
Red eyes swept across the field once more, scanning instinctively for movement.
Nothing.
No heartbeats.
No mana signatures.
Only death.
"…That's the last of them," he muttered, voice rough.
He lowered his weapons slightly, shoulders rising and falling as the adrenaline slowly began to ebb. The darkness around him—Elliana's battlefield—still pressed in, swallowing the carnage whole.
Draven wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, only smearing it further.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue. "Damn bastards…"
For a moment, he stood there alone amid the corpses—
a boy-shaped shadow carved out of violence.
Then—
Draven let out a long, unsteady breath.
Then another.
His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the **aftershock** of what he'd done.
"…Damn it," he muttered.
He looked down at his hands.
At the blood soaking his fingers, drying beneath his nails, streaked up his forearms. Some of it was already flaking where mana heat had scorched it.
"So… this is what it's like," he said quietly.
There was no pride in his voice.
No triumph.
Just something raw.
"Killing this many people… in one go…" He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. "That wasn't easy. Not even close."
His gaze drifted over the bodies again—faces frozen in fear, shock, rage. Knights who had screamed. Priests who had begged. Men who had tried to run.
The memories hit him all at once.
The speed.
The precision.
How quickly it had ended for them.
"…First time I've ever done that," he admitted under his breath. "Didn't even have time to think."
He pressed his fist against his chest, breathing shallowly for a moment before forcing it to steady.
"…I feel fucked up," he said bluntly.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Something messier.
A tight, ugly knot in his chest—his mind replaying flashes of movement and blood, his body still buzzing as if it hadn't realized the fight was over.
He tilted his head back slightly, staring into the ceiling of darkness.
"This whole thing's been fucked up anyway…" he exhaled slowly. "All these bastards showing up out of nowhere."
His grip tightened around the dagger.
"Even after killing them, I still feel pissed—and a little tired," he finished, voice hardening. "I just… need a sec."
The darkness around him remained silent.
Patient.
Waiting for him to move again.
Draven closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath.
Held it.
Then let it out—long and controlled—forcing the tremor out of his hands, forcing the weight in his chest to settle where it belonged.
"…Enough," he murmured.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders once, blood dripping from his blades to the corpse-strewn ground. Whatever he felt—shock, revulsion, lingering adrenaline—there wasn't room for it now.
Not yet.
"I can't waste time," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "Not when she's still fighting."
He lifted his head and spoke clearly into the darkness.
"Mom," Draven called out. "I'm done here. Let's not waste time—send me to that bastard."
For a moment—
Nothing.
The darkness did not answer.
The air did not stir.
Silence pressed in, thick and heavy, long enough for doubt to brush the edge of his thoughts.
Then—
A familiar voice, warm despite the strain beneath it, echoed through the void.
> "Alright, honey."
The darkness **shifted**, no longer oppressive—gentle now, almost embracing.
> "Take care."
Draven's lips curved faintly.
"Always," he replied.
Shadows rose around his feet, climbing his legs and torso, wrapping him like flowing ink. The corpse-filled ground faded from view as the sealed battlefield dissolved.
Just before his face vanished into the dark, his eyes burned sharp and focused.
*Just wait,* he thought. *I'm coming.*
The darkness closed—
—and Draven was gone.