Back in the ravaged wasteland of Zone 16, the air was a hurricane of elemental chaos—shockwaves of raw magic ripping through the ruins of fallen cities. Swords forged from pure light burst from Caelum Virellan's will. Mountain-sized glaciers crashed down under Sylas Wynrow's command. Tharionson Magna unleashed waves of searing fire, while Regulus's electrified arrows lit the sky like thunderbolts. Tempest gales howled from Varyn Hone's strikes, Magnus Yaer delivered slicing torrents of wind, and Mystica Moonstone rained down overwhelming waves of Primordial energy.
All of it—every ounce of their combined fury—was hurled at one target: Sylvathar.
And still… it wasn't enough.
Bathed in divine light stolen from Sheila, his power amplified, Sylvathar withstood it all. The barrage hit him like a storm against a mountain—and the mountain didn't flinch. With a single surge of his hand, a pulse of green Myst exploded outward, blasting the seven warriors back like ragdolls.
Bodies crashed into buildings, tore through steel, and cratered into the earth with bone-shaking force.
Floating high above like a god surveying the insects below, Sylvathar's emerald eyes glowed with disdain.
"Why persist in something so futile?" he said, more to himself than anyone else, though his voice echoed with twisted clarity. "Haven't you suffered enough? You protect a world that wouldn't hesitate to abandon you. That's what humans do—preserve themselves above all. And yet, here you are, seven fools, bleeding and dying for a world that won't even remember your names. How pitifully noble."
Below, among the rubble, Mystica stirred. Her shield had held—barely. She coughed once, then shot upward, eyes darting. Magnus had been closest to Sylvathar during the blast.
She heard it first—stones collapsing and something groaning. She darted toward the sound and found him, lying half-buried in debris, his coat torn and blood smeared across his face. His sword was still in his hand, resting across his chest like a knight in slumber.
"Magnus!" Mystica called, her voice sharp with worry.
"Nope," Magnus croaked, cracking one eye open. "Definitely not okay." He gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright with a pained grunt. "Still alive, though. Small victories."
Mystica sighed, half in relief, half in frustration. "I thought you were done for."
"Aww. Do I mean that much to you, Moony?" he teased weakly, flashing his bloody grin.
"Not the time." Mystica rolled her eyes. "Sylvathar's far stronger than the records ever implied."
"Probably juiced up from Sheila's divine light," Magnus muttered.
"Exactly," she agreed, exhaling. "We need to regroup, find the others and—"
Her comm-rune flickered to life with a soft pulse. She tapped it, and Lucy's voice came through, calm but urgent:
"Mystica. I need you and everyone else to fall back from Sylvathar. Now. Things are about to get messy."
Mystica frowned. "Fall back?" she echoed under her breath. It made no sense. They were the only ones standing between Sylvathar and the rest of the kingdom. Why pull them out now?
Before she could dwell on it, Magnus's voice cut in. "Yo… who the hell is that?"
Mystica followed his gaze—and froze.
Hovering in midair, not far from Sylvathar, was a figure that hadn't been there a moment ago. He'd appeared out of nowhere—no portal, no flash of magic. Just… there.
Or… someone that looked like him.
But Mystica's heart dropped. That presence—it wasn't Liam. She remembered it. Felt it once before. That ancient, soul-crushing aura that made her body freeze and her magic shrink.
"Isn't that Liam?" Magnus asked, squinting.
"Yes… but no," Mystica said quietly. "That is something else entirely."
She turned to Magnus, eyes wide with urgency. "Lucy's right. We need to get out of here now."
"Huh?" Magnus grunted, forcing himself to stand. "Why are we bailing now?"
"There's no time to explain, but listen—whatever you're seeing up there? That's not just Liam, that's a whole different being. And he's nearly on Galen's level." She glanced back toward the sky. "If he and Sylvathar clash while we're still here—in our current condition—we'll be nothing but collateral."
She turned sharply and took off, scanning the battlefield. "We have to find the others. Fast."
Magnus blinked, watching her go. Then, with a groan, he rose into the air as well, scanning the ruined city alongside her.
"Nearly on Gally's level, huh?" he muttered with a tired grin. "Well, I don't know how that happened… and I don't care. If the kid's got what it takes to burn down that green freak, I'm all in."
As they moved through the fractured ruins in search of their allies, high above them, Sylvathar stood suspended in the air, his gaze fixed upon the familiar face of Liam Hunter—the very boy he had abducted from the Tempest Kingdom mere hours ago. But something was different. Deeply different.
The aura that now poured off the boy was dark, yes, soaked in the unmistakable scent of ancient shadow magic. But there was something else layered beneath it. Something older and beyond mortal comprehension.
It was like the magic of a Primordial Mage… but denser and more refined. Sylvathar could feel it in his bones, his blood—an instinctual recognition of a power that predated even the demonic lineages.
This was the ancient force within the boy. The true possessor of the power Sylvathar had sought to extract. The real core—the origin.
Hovering in front of him now, their gazes level in the heavens, stood Aesmirius.
The rightful owner of the forbidden might Sylvathar longed to wield.
With calm emerald eyes and a tone devoid of hostility yet heavy with recognition, Sylvathar finally spoke.
"So... you are what I've been trying to take from him," he said, his gaze scanning Aesmirius like a scholar dissecting an artifact. "What are you, truly? You may not possess a physical form of your own to show your age, but the power you exude... it's ancient. You feel older than a millennium."
He tilted his head. "No. I'd wager you're older than all my siblings combined. Maybe… just maybe… you're even as old as my father, Volgath."
Aesmirius's violet eyes bore into him, piercing through flesh, spirit, and facade alike. He replied with a measured scoff.
"So, your father still breathes?" he said, voice like an old bell tolling. "Fascinating. Demon Emperor Volgath... it's been ages since I last heard that name. But I digress."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"This isn't about your father. It's about you," Aesmirius said, tone cooling further. "You see, your mere presence in this realm interferes with my plans. And that… is a problem. An inconvenience. One I intend to correct."
Sylvathar chuckled softly, the sound carrying an amused malice.
"How entertaining. An ancient relic rising from the dirt to threaten me when he can not even use a fraction of his strength," he said, that signature smirk curling across his lips. "Let's not pretend. I can see it. You're still chained. Bound to that boy's fragile vessel. His body is too weak to house you properly, isn't it?"
He floated forward a little, his voice turning low and persuasive.
"But I, Sylvathar... I can. I offer you this—abandon that brittle flesh. Use me as your vessel instead. I am immortal, stronger than any mortal host. With your power and my body, we could reshape this world, burn the heavens, and crush the divine. Why remain locked in a cage when I offer you a kingdom?"
He extended his hand, open and still, as if welcoming destiny.
There was a long, pregnant silence.
Aesmirius looked down at the outstretched hand. Then back into Sylvathar's glowing emerald eyes.
Then, slowly, calmly, he smiled. It was a thin, dismissive smile. The kind of smile that tore through pride like a blade.
"You demons," he said, voice soft yet lethal, "you never change. No matter how long you crawl through time."
The word 'demons'—spoken like a slur—hit Sylvathar squarely. His smile twitched. His spine straightened.
Aesmirius floated forward, his aura starting to bloom like a storm at sea. "Listen closely. No matter how strong you think you are, no matter what enhancements you've stitched together from stolen divinity, demon myst, or otherwise... you will never be able to wield my power."
He raised a single hand, slowly, like he was holding up the weight of fate itself. "Not in this life. Not in any life."
His tone turned glacial. "No one. No one but this boy can contain me. And even he may not survive it."
Sylvathar dropped his offered hand and calmly clasped both behind his back again, the smile gone. "I see. Then you've made your decision. And I suppose… I should respect it."
His gaze sharpened, locking into Aesmirius like a blade drawn.
"But if you truly believe that this half-broken shell can stop me, you are gravely mistaken. I felt your presence the moment you awakened. When you slaughtered Morenelle—I felt that. When you set fire to my sanctuary—I felt that too. When you stole away the Princess and the protector, I knew you were moving."
He took a single step forward, his aura growing like a tidal wave.
"And from what I've seen... your body is already deteriorating. You've already used too much and soon enough, that body will collapse from within."
Still, Aesmirius didn't flinch. His expression remained indifferent. Unbothered.
Sylvathar's voice turned sharp, like the edge of a blade drawn across glass.
"So I'll ask once," he said. "Do you truly believe you have enough time—and strength—to stop me?"
Aesmirius stared into him. Through him.
Then, with a single blink, his own aura erupted—a deep violet blaze laced with shadows older than memory. The air around him froze, thunder cracked across a clear sky, and his voice rang like a death knell.
"For a crow to believe it can soar beside an eagle... is not just foolish—it's pathetic."
His eyes gleamed like a dying star. "So hear me, Sylvathar—I, Aesmirius, have more than enough time… to kill you."
Sylvathar's smirk returned, slightly wider now, his teeth showing.
"Aesmirius, huh?" he repeated, rolling the name across his tongue. "A name I've never heard. A name I'll remember… when I grind it into ash."
"Well then… so be it."