Three years had passed.

  Since the village, Lucas had crossed no cities. No names. No faces.

  He buried himself in a forgotten land — dead forests, broken mountains — where the world itself seemed to have given up on existing.

  There, he silenced his own existence.

  There, he believed time could forgive him.

  A foolish mistake.

  The Abyss whispered lazily.

  "Look at you... thought you could hide from what you are? Cute. Really."

  Lucas ignored it.

  Until the wind changed.

  Lucas felt it before he saw it.

  A cold, slicing presence scraping down his spine like a blade being sharpened.

  His eyes lifted.

  At the top of a dead tree, a figure watched him.

  A black cloak drifting.

  Light armor — built to kill, not protect.

  Dark hair tied back in a careless knot.

  A pale face, carved hard as stone shaped by war.

  Golden eyes that didn’t shine... they burned.

  Zathiel, the Blade Without Remorse.

  And the black katana strapped to his back seemed to breathe along with him.

  Zathiel descended.

  No sound.

  No rush.

  He stepped onto the ground like the world itself bent beneath his weight.

  He smiled, but it held no warmth.

  "So this is where the future Demon King came to die?"

  Lucas didn’t answer.

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  The air between them cracked, ready to tear.

  The shadows rose like hungry spears.

  Darkness ripped through the ground under his feet.

  He crossed the space in half a second, his fist plunged in darkness aiming straight for the assassin’s throat.

  The black katana sang.

  With a single motion, Zathiel parried, shattering the shadows into dark sparks.

  Lucas attacked again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each strike collapsed a world.

  But Zathiel moved.

  Like a dance of blade and silence.

  His feet never snapped a twig.

  His sword didn’t whistle — it bit.

  Lucas tried to crush him with a wall of shadows.

  Zathiel sliced the air.

  The darkness bled like living flesh.

  And before Lucas realized it, the blade slid across him, tearing his side.

  Hot blood splashed onto the cold earth.

  Zathiel’s smile widened.

  "Expected more from the man who crushed the Dragon Knights."

  Zathiel struck.

  Now he was the one advancing.

  Every movement was a death dance.

  The katana drew invisible cuts that opened wounds in the air — and in Lucas’s body.

  His arm was slashed.

  His shoulder.

  His thigh.

  Small wounds. But precise.

  Zathiel was toying with him.

  "What’s wrong, king? Lost your throne? Lost your nerve?"

  Lucas answered with fury.

  The void tore the earth in a brutal ring.

  Zathiel twisted in the air, shredding the darkness like paper.

  The ground trembled.

  Stones cracked.

  The smell of blood thickened in the forest.

  Lucas staggered back, gasping.

  His blood bubbled.

  The katana drank his essence — slow, cruel.

  The Abyss, silent until now, slithered from his chest.

  Like a nightmare peeling itself out from under his ribs.

  Black tendrils. Mouths laughing where none should exist. Cracked eyes boiling with hatred.

  But this time, it didn’t stop there.

  The Abyss wrapped around Lucas like living armor.

  Tendrils plunged into his wounds.

  Tore the flesh.

  Stitched it back together from the inside.

  Lucas roared — a scream muffled between pain and ecstasy.

  When it ended, Lucas stood covered.

  A living shell of darkness, pulsing, breathing with him.

  The Abyss growled.

  "Ahhh, now we’re ready for the party, little puppet!"

  Zathiel locked eyes, standing firm.

  The Abyss laughed, its voice booming.

  "Let’s set the table..."

  Tendrils of shadow stabbed into the ground.

  Reality spasmed.

  The forest vanished.

  Everything turned into a black hole.

  Thousands of eyes opened in the dead sky.

  Eyes that never blinked.

  Eyes that never slept.

  Under Zathiel’s feet, the ground rotted.

  The roots split open.

  And the souls began to appear.

  Mutilated souls.

  Fallen warriors.

  Forgotten civilians.

  Dead children.

  All staring at him.

  No screams.

  No words.

  Just waiting.

  The air froze.

  Zathiel slowly spun his katana.

  His gaze measured.

  Not fear.

  Strategy.

  He looked at Lucas. And the Abyss.

  He smirked.

  "We'll finish this later."

  He spun his body and, with a sharp step, disappeared into the shadows.

  Lucas stayed on his knees, gasping.

  The Abyss spun around him, ecstatic.

  "DID YOU SEE THAT? DID YOU SEE HIS FACE?"

  "Not even the dead wanna play with me, HAHAHAHAHA!"

  Lucas spat blood and rose to his feet.

  The world around him trembled.

  The forest. The air. Time itself.

  The Abyss growled, licking his mind.

  "Time to start the feast, little puppet..."

  "Let’s throw a party at the castle, what do you say?"

  "One last dinner. With them... on the plate."

  "The world will remember your name... by the scream."

  Lucas stood.

  The decision was made.

  He would return.

  To the kingdom.

  To the king.

  This time, the world would have nowhere left to hide.