The wasteland was a choir of dying things. The smell was the worst part—the metallic tang of blood mixing with the ozone of Kaelith's dragon fire and the sulfurous rot of the Flesh Shaper's remains.
Renji and his father stood back-to-back. It was a strange, heavy symmetry. Kaelith's purple armor hissed as he drove a palm into the Flesh Shaper's sternum. The creature didn't just break; it detonated into ash, the dragon-fire devouring the grotesque meat before it could hit the ground.
I failed her, Kaelith's eyes were hard as flint. I won't fail him.
Renji didn't look back. He couldn't. He focused on the Whispering Shade. The entity was a smear of ink against the grey horizon, trying to melt into the shadows of the obsidian crags. Nearby, the Gashadokuro was systematically dismantling the Iron Carapace. Each blow of its massive axe sent tremors through the island, the sound of breaking metal like a shipyard coming apart. The Venerated Knight stood as a silent wall, its blade a flickering barrier against the weaponless Zephyr Striker.
The Shade was the problem. You couldn't cut a shadow with a normal edge.
Renji gripped the Obsidian Greatsword. He didn't ask the System for a miracle; he forced his mana into the metal. The blade didn't glow. It seemed to hollow out, becoming a rift in the shape of a sword.
"Shadow Flare," he whispered.
He vanished.
The Shade's tendrils whipped frantically, tasting the air for a threat that was already there. Renji materialized inside its guard. He didn't swing; he drove the point of the sword through the entity's flickering core.
A sound followed, a soul-shattering shriek that made Renji's teeth ache. The Shade expanded, its dark form bloating like a dying star, then it simply went out. A cloud of black soot was all that remained, drifting away on the alien wind.
The cohesion of the invaders broke.
The Zephyr Striker tried to run, a desperate blur of fading mana, but Kaelith was faster. He didn't use a sword. He simply wove a cage of purple flame around the creature, turning the air into a furnace. The screams were short.
The Iron Carapace was the last to fall. The Gashadokuro brought its axe down in a final, vertical arc. The armored beast didn't just split; it shattered. It hit the ground with the sound of a mountain of gravel being dumped onto stone.
Silence settled over the wasteland. It was a heavy, suffocating quiet. Renji leaned on his sword, his lungs burning. His green aura was a guttering candle, flickering at the edges of his vision.
Kaelith walked over, his armor receding back into his skin, leaving him looking tired—human. He placed a hand on Renji's shoulder. It was heavy and warm.
"That was a hell of a fight, Kerry," Kaelith said. His voice was raw. "Everything the prophecy said. And more."
Renji nodded. He didn't have words for prophecies. He only had the ache in his muscles.
"Return," he commanded.
The Gashadokuro and the Knight dissolved. They didn't walk away; they simply sank into the shadows beneath Renji's boots, leaving him alone with his father.
Renji looked toward the ridge. The Mage was still there, eyes closed, hands trembling as he tried to hold the Portal open. Renji moved. He didn't use a skill; he just ran. As he passed, his blade caught the light once.
The Mage's head slid from his shoulders with a soundless snap. The connection was severed.
"Are you alright, son?" Kaelith asked. There was a genuine warmth in his face, a smile that looked like it belonged on a man who had finally come home.
"Yes, I'm—"
Renji stopped.
A single drop of blood fell from Kaelith's lip. Then another.
Renji's gaze dropped. A dark, jagged spear of spectral energy was buried in his father's abdomen, protruding from his back.
Kaelith's smile didn't fade; it just sharpened into something final.
The Zephyr Striker. It hadn't died in the fire. It had reconstituted itself for one last, desperate strike. The entity stood a few yards away, its form flickering like a dying bulb, its hand still outstretched.
Renji caught his father as his knees buckled. He lowered him to the obsidian ground, his hands moving frantically, trying to press against a wound that was already too large.
"Dad. Dad, please." Renji's voice was gone.
It was a dry, desperate croak. "I can't lose you. I just lost Mom. Stay. Just stay."
Kaelith's hand, cold now, covered Renji's.
"It's alright, son. It's okay." He coughed, and the red on his chin grew. "I just wanted to see you... strong. Brave. One last time. And I did."
He wheezed, his eyes searching Renji's.
"This isn't the end. Save the world, Kerry. We'll be with you. Your mother and I... destroy the devils."
Kaelith's eyes closed. The weight in Renji's arms became absolute.
Renji knelt there in the red mist. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He just sat with the body until the tears burned hot trails through the dust on his face.
Forgive me, Mom. I couldn't protect him.
He stood up.
His aura didn't flicker now. It roared. A pillar of dark green light erupted from his core, shaking the very air of the dimension. He turned toward the Zephyr Striker. The entity was barely holding its shape, a ghost of a thing.
"I will take vengeance," Renji snarled.
He didn't use the sword. Not at first. He moved faster than the eye could follow. The Striker didn't have time to blink. Renji's hands were a blur of micro-slashes and blunt force. He tore the entity's spectral sinew apart with his bare fingers. He shredded the muscle, the bone, the very essence of the thing until it wasn't even smoke anymore. It was nothing.
The Portal began to contract, the edges of the rift snapping like a whip.
Renji lifted Kaelith. He placed his father respectfully over his shoulder, the weight familiar and terrible. He didn't look back. He flew through the collapsing dimension and out onto the soil of Tsushima.
The Portal snapped shut behind him, the sound like a thunderclap.
The island was still a war zone. Dozens of lower-rank beasts were clawing at the Special Hunters, who were barely holding on.
"The Portal is closed!" a woman's voice—Minami—screamed through the comms.
"Kill the rest! Finish them!"
Renji landed in the middle of the horde. He didn't speak. He didn't look at the other Hunters. With Kaelith on his shoulder, he drew the Obsidian Greatsword.
He was a hurricane. A blur of green and black that moved through the beasts like a scythe through wheat. Thousands of creatures died in a heartbeat, their bodies turning to ash before they realized he was there.
Then, he was gone. He didn't stay for the cheers or the questions. He vanished from the island, a streak of shadow carrying a fallen king toward a home that was too quiet.