The one with the whip roared and launched again. But Asher flicked his fingers—Sanguine Threads burst from his palm, sharp, red, and hungry. They intercepted the whip mid-lash and consumed it, the shadows shrieking in protest.
Then the chain-blade coiled around him, aiming to bind and cleave.
No—he became blood. A pool of viscous crimson spread beneath the chains, reforming behind the wielder in a breath. His scythe sang.
One winged arm fell, then the other. Asher's blade had carved clean through, and before the dark elf could scream, he stepped forward and thrust a blood-forged spike through the elf's throat, twisting it until the body went still.
"Two down," Asher said calmly, red mist swirling around him.
Valeris and Veyra stood back, the wind of the battle howling against their hair and clothes. Valeris's arms were crossed, eyes glowing, but she made no move to intervene. She knew better than to step in when Asher was enjoying himself.
The fourth dark elf, the one with the demon gauntlet, bellowed and charged.
The ground shattered under their feet as they came like a juggernaut, each step a meteor strike. The gauntlet came crashing down—but Asher, grinning, raised a Sanguine Wall, formed from hardened blood-lattice. The gauntlet struck it—and cracked.
Asher launched upward, twisting like a dancer in the air. His scythe spun into a Blood Spiral, tearing the winds into red ribbons. He landed behind the dark elf and drove his blade straight through the spine, twisting it upward. Crimson veins exploded from the wound, drinking greedily.
The elf shuddered, eyes wide with disbelief, before disintegrating into ash-laced blood.
Only the old man and one surviving warrior remained.
The old man didn't seem fazed. Instead, his greatsword darkened. It drank the light of the world until it gleamed with Eclipse Flame—a rare variation of Darkness Law that burned with anti-light.
"You have talent," he admitted. "But raw power is not enough."
He pointed his blade, and the shadows came alive.
World Suppression Technique: Black Tomb of the Elders.
From the heavens, an inverted pyramid of darkness formed, massive and ancient, etched with ancient runes. The world dimmed—the sky itself knelt. It collapsed downward, seeking to entomb Asher within.
The ground warped. The laws of motion slowed.
Then his aura changed.
The Sanguine Supreme pulsed—once. Then again.
Bloodlit Dominion, now at full power, ignited around him like a blooming hellflower. Asher raised his hand and clenched his fist.
"Let me show you a domain of my own."
Sovereign Vein: Crimson Burial Field.
From beneath him, red light erupted. A dome of blood and bone rose to meet the Black Tomb above. But this was no simple clash of energies—it was devouring. His field drank from the tomb, corroding it, rotting its foundations with every second.
The old man's eyes widened.
The final dark elf, in desperation, charged. Their weapon—a tri-bladed fan of voidsteel—unfurled with a flick, attempting to slash and distract.
But Asher extended two fingers—and the dark elf was impaled from the inside by his Bloodline Barbs, summoned without gesture. Red tendrils erupted from their own shadow, skewering them like a grotesque flower.
Only the old man remained.
And Asher was now walking.
Each step he took bled power. The very world flinched.
"You mourn your son, but do not question his weakness. You rage at us… but did you ever raise him to deserve strength?"
The old man said nothing. But his greatsword lifted high. It pulsed with his life force, gathering a final technique.
Crescent Judgement: Eclipse Severance.
A black arc tore through the world, cleaving air, stone, sky—reality—in one swing.
Asher stepped forward—into the arc.
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Asher walked through it, blood trailing down his body in thin lines—but healing faster than it could damage him. His scythe pulsed once, twice—
And then he vanished.
A second later, he was behind the old man, scythe already mid-swing.
The old man turned—slowly. His head no longer attached to his body.
The wind returned. The realm exhaled.
Asher stood amidst the corpses and dust, scythe dripping. The Crimson Burial Field receded, the blood absorbed back into him like obedient rivers.
Valeris raised an eyebrow. "Satisfied?"
Veyra stared in awe. "You didn't even use your true form."
Asher exhaled once, steady and calm.
"Now what? I'm not planning on leaving his family alone," Valeris said, the anger unmistakable in her eyes. "Nor do I plan to. If they are like him, they tend to be a lesson. Though… I'm not going to commit genocide," she added, her voice sharp.
"But let's at least ransack their treasure house," she finished, her golden eyes gleaming.
Asher smirked. "Agreed."
Veyra glanced between them, her expression caught between awe and amusement. "You two make destruction sound like a date."
They nodded, and began moving—though Valeris still seemed dissatisfied.
She wanted them all to die. Her Dragon Queen nature stirred again, rising from beneath her skin like molten wrath. The urge to dominate, to burn, to end was as present as her next breath. Her power flickered behind her golden pupils.
But Asher looked at her.
And her face softened. She glanced away, touching her chest as if steadying her own heartbeat.
Akar'del's lineage was deep and proud—one of the ancient noble branches of the Dark Elves that had survived for millennia through cunning, shadow-deals, and raw might. His estate was hidden, woven into a fracture between realms—a twilight fortress carved into a great abyss canyon shaded by hanging gardens of blackglass flora.
But nothing remained hidden from Asher.
They arrived at the cliffs by nightfall. The entrance was masked by illusion and layered wards. Veyra traced her fingers along the barrier, frowning. "Soul-bound locks. High-tier encryption."
Valeris scoffed and stepped forward.
She exhaled—a breath that shimmered with draconic heat. Then her fingers pulsed with golden-red light.
Dragon Law: Royal Command.
The wards hissed in protest, then shattered like brittle porcelain.