Fire roared.
Not the clean burn of torches or hearths—but the violent kind, devouring banners, cracking stone, swallowing history. The throne room behind them was no longer a place of rule, only a furnace coughing smoke and ash into the night.
Between the flames and the fallen stood two figures.
The Demon of Vanward
and
the Monkey King.
Gris knelt beside Julies.
The king's body convulsed as he vomited blood onto the scorched marble, each breath rattling like it might be his last. Gris pressed a hand against Julies' chest, feeling the weak, stubborn heartbeat beneath cracked armour.
Julies laughed.
A soft, broken sound.
"Still… standing?" he whispered.
Gris answered with a grin—wide, feral, wrong.
"You don't get to die before I finish this."
He stood.
Across the room, Saru watched with open amusement, resting his spear casually against his shoulder. Firelight danced across his scarred skin, his eyes sharp and alive with anticipation.
Gris looked straight at him.
"Saru," he called. "Was it your doing?"
Saru chuckled. "No. That honor belongs to your king's beloved brother."
He tilted his head, lips curling. "I'm just here to enjoy the show."
The air snapped.
They moved at the same time.
Steel screamed as sword met spear, sparks exploding outward in a blinding spray. The impact cracked the stone beneath their feet as both men slid back, boots carving lines into ash-covered marble.
"So you're the demon," Saru said, spinning his spear effortlessly. "I planned to kill you after your king."
Gris stepped forward, blade raised.
"Change of plans."
Saru laughed—and rushed in.
Their weapons collided again and again, too fast for soldiers to follow. Gris's greatsword came down in brutal arcs, each swing meant to split bone. Saru slipped between them like smoke, spear flashing, scraping, stabbing—never stopping.
"You're strong," Saru said, ducking under a swing and striking Gris's ribs. "But strength alone doesn't make a legend."
Gris roared and kicked him back.
As they fought, Gris turned his head just enough to shout—
"Greviers!"
The word carried like thunder.
"Stand!" Gris bellowed. "You live because you chose to follow me! You die only when I say so!"
Bodies stirred.
From rubble and blood, figures rose.
Buckshot's voice cut through the smoke, sharp with disbelief.
"That sedative should've dropped a bear—"
The ground shook.
Ed Grizzly stood up.
White bull-demon horns cracked through ash as he lifted his massive mace with one hand. Blood streamed down his face, but his grin was wide and eager.
"Sorry," Ed rumbled. "Bear woke up."
He charged.
The floor cracked beneath his steps.
Ed swung.
The mace came down like a falling mountain, air screaming under its weight. Saru barely managed to raise his spear in time—metal shrieked as the impact slammed him into the ground, knees shattering stone.
Another thip.
An arrow punched clean through Saru's knee.
He snarled, dropping to one leg.
Before he could recover—
A howl tore through the flames.
Red eyes.
Red horns.
A tongue stained black with blood.
Adam—the Berserker.
He came in spinning, axes flashing, laughter tearing from his throat as he hacked again and again. Steel bit flesh. Blood sprayed the fire.
Saru growled and drove his spear forward—
It pierced Adam's gut.
The Berserker froze.
Then laughed louder.
He stepped forward.
The spear was still inside him.
Adam grabbed Saru by his axes, logged in his shoulders, blood pouring from his mouth as he whispered, "My turn."
Saru ripped free and slammed him aside—
—and in that instant, Gris was there.
He seized Saru by the head and smashed him through the wall.
They burst into the grand corridor like a living catastrophe.
Stone exploded outward as Gris drove Saru through the wall, rubble scattering across the polished floor. Heat slammed into them instantly—the left side of the corridor was an inferno, flames crawling up pillars and devouring tapestries, while the right side stood intact, lined with towering glass windows that reflected moonlight in cold, merciless clarity.
Fire on one side.
Moonlight on the other hand.
A battlefield split between hell and heaven.
Both men staggered back.
Gris's boots skidded on blood-slick stone as he dragged in a breath that burned his lungs. Saru rolled his neck slowly, bones cracking, spear twirling once before settling into his grip.
Blood dripped from Saru's arm, splattering onto the marble.
He smiled.
"I see it now," Saru said. "Why do they call you a demon?"
Gris answered by charging.
His sword came down in a brutal overhead strike, meant to cleave Saru in two. Saru slid sideways at the last instant, the blade crashing into the floor hard enough to crack stone. Sparks burst upward as Saru's spear stabbed forward, grazing Gris's shoulder and tearing armor open.
Gris grunted and slammed his shoulder into Saru's chest, driving him back toward the windows. Glass rattled violently as Saru twisted, planting his spear against the wall and using it to vault over Gris's next swing.
They traded blows in a blur.
Steel rang again and again, echoes stacking over each other until the corridor screamed with sound. Gris fought like a battering ram—wide, devastating swings, each one meant to end the fight. Saru fought like a predator—precise, efficient, always striking where Gris was weakest.
Saru ducked under a slash and drove the butt of his spear into Gris's ribs.
Something cracked.
Gris spat blood and answered with an elbow to Saru's face, snapping his head sideways. Saru laughed as he staggered, wiping blood from his lip with his thumb.
"Yes," Saru breathed. "This is it."
Gris kicked him hard, sending him sliding across the floor toward the fire. Saru rolled, flames licking dangerously close as he sprang back to his feet, spear flashing upward in a sweeping arc.
Gris blocked.
The impact rattled his arms to the bone.
They moved again—down the corridor, step by step, destruction following them. Pillars cracked. Banners burned. Glass windows shattered one by one as stray strikes sent shards raining down like knives.
At one point, Saru leapt, running three steps along the wall before driving his spear down.
Gris raised his shield.
The spear punched straight through it.
Wood split. Metal screamed.
The blade tore into Gris's chest, ripping through armor and flesh. Blood sprayed across Saru's arm and the corridor wall.
Gris roared—not in pain, but fury—and surged forward anyway, dragging the spear deeper as he slashed across Saru's side.
Both men stumbled back, bleeding heavily now.
"You don't stop," Saru said, breathing hard. "Even when you should."
"I don't get that luxury," Gris snarled.
Soldiers appeared at the far end of the corridor, shouting, rushing forward in desperate courage.
Saru raised one hand.
"Mine."
The soldiers froze.
Gris charged again.
Their weapons collided mid-run, steel locking as they pushed against each other, faces inches apart. Sweat, blood, and ash mixed between them.
Gris's sword cracked—
Then snapped.
Gris kicked the spear away.
They collided bare-handed.
Their fists met in the air—
A white-hot explosion tore through his hand as his knuckles collapsed inward. His fingers bent the wrong way, bones snapping like twigs. The force traveled up his arm, dislocating his wrist, shattering the palm clean through.
The pain was absolute.
Then Saru twisted his wrist and kicked Gris square in the chest.
Gris flew back—straight through the glass.
The world shattered.
Glass didn't just break—it screamed.
Gris tore through the window in a storm of shards, his body twisting midair as moonlight flashed across spinning steel and blood. For a heartbeat, he was weightless, suspended between fire and sky.
Then gravity remembered him.
He hit the training ground like a meteor.
The impact drove the breath from his lungs in a violent burst, air exploding from his chest as his back slammed into packed earth and broken stone. Something cracked—maybe ribs, maybe armor—and pain detonated through his body in blinding waves.
He rolled.
And rolled.
Until his shoulder struck something soft.
A corpse.
His head snapped sideways, cheek pressed against cold, lifeless flesh. Open eyes stared back at him—unseeing, frozen in terror. The smell of iron and smoke filled his nose.
For several seconds, Gris didn't move.
The training ground was a graveyard.
Bodies lay scattered across the sand—soldiers twisted at impossible angles, weapons half-buried, blood darkened and sticky beneath the pale glow of the moon. Broken spears jutted from the earth like grave markers.
The castle loomed above, half-engulfed in flame. Burning banners fell from the walls, drifting down like dying birds.
Gris tried to breathe.
His lungs screamed in protest.
He coughed—and blood splashed onto the sand.
His right hand twitched.
Pain flared so violently his vision went white.
Gris lifted it slowly.
What he saw made him laugh.
His knuckles were wrong—flattened, crushed inward. Fingers bent where they shouldn't, bone threatening to tear through skin. His palm was swollen, purple and red, trembling uncontrollably.
"So… that's broken," he muttered hoarsely.
He pushed himself up onto one knee.
The movement sent fire through his chest and back, but he forced himself upright anyway. He planted the ruined hand against his thigh, teeth clenched hard enough to crack.
Above him—
Stone scraped.
Gris looked up.
Saru slid down from the shattered window frame, boots carving lines through scorched stone as embers cascaded around him. He landed lightly, almost gracefully, spear resting against his shoulder.
The Monkey King looked untouched.
Blood marked him, yes—but his posture was relaxed, eyes bright with excitement.
"Oh?" Saru said, tilting his head as he took in the scene—the corpses, the broken demon, the moonlit carnage. "You survived."
Gris spat blood onto the sand.
"Disappointed?"
Saru smiled wider. "Delighted."
Gris lowered his gaze to his hand again.
Slowly—methodically—he reached down and tore a strip of cloth from his torn cloak. He wrapped it tight around his shattered fist, winding it again and again until the bleeding slowed. Then he grabbed the broken shield strap still hanging from his arm and cinched it over the cloth, locking his hand into a crude brace.
Every pull sent agony ripping through him.
He didn't make a sound.
Nearby, a dead soldier lay face-down, fingers still wrapped around a sword.
Gris stepped forward, knelt, and pried it free.
The blade was chipped. Worn. Ordinary.
It would do.
He rose to his full height, blood dripping from his chin, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.
Saru watched him like a child watching a favorite toy refuse to break.
"Oh?" Saru said again, amusement creeping into his voice. "Ready to be killed now?"
Gris lifted the sword.
His ruined hand trembled—but it didn't drop.
"I was going to ask you the same," Gris replied, then vomited blood onto the sand and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
The wind shifted.
Ash drifted between them.
Moonlight shone down on two men soaked in blood, standing in a field of the dead.
Then—
They moved.