The Guardian Of The Multiverse

(Marvel, DC, images, manhuas, and every anime that will be mentioned and used in this story are not mine. They all belong to their respective owners. The main character "Karito/Adriel Josue Valdez" and the story are mine)

Pov Dark Sentry

You know? When Dark Hercules sent me a message inviting me to his newly conquered Omniverse, I was planning to ignore him at first. I was too busy investigating The Bridge. Ever since the Guardian managed to survive the first season of this story, our leader has doubled our workload. And I get why. Guardians are our arch-nemeses—our only true counter in fiction besides Boundless beings and Authors.

However, even beings as powerful as The One Above All have fallen when we Darks united against them.

I personally corrupted the Unwritten Leviathan from The Unwritten Comics, so that narrative whale won't be a problem anymore.

As for Hercules, he managed to pique my interest when he mentioned that all the Guardians were there—especially the Main one. That caught my curiosity. The same Guardian who even managed to shock Him.

That is no small feat.

This is the same guy who had to personally deal with the Chinese branch of the SCP Foundation and World of Darkness, using a few Darks to speed up the corruption. And now? Now, he's got him obsessed. Though, not as much as that chick who recently joined. She makes the word Yandere look sane.

Still, I can understand why so many Darks are uneasy. This is most likely the Second Coming that was foretold. The Second Coming of the Guardians of Fiction.

And that terrifies the Darks.

The last time a war this massive tore through Fiction, the world itself was in shambles—during World War II. The sheer amount of negative emotions across the planet led to the birth of more Darks than ever before. But ironically, that also led to the rise of more Guardians.

Companies emerged, creating their narratives. Heroes were born. Superheroes were born.

The Justice League. The Avengers. And many others.

But of course, with the overwhelming negativity in the world, the Darks were winning. Every single Guardian was being slaughtered. The invasion of human minds was nearly complete.

Until the First Guardian turned the tables.

His sacrifice stopped World War II. The humans who weren't consumed by Darkness fought back against the possessed.

In the end, we still managed to kill an estimated 60-80 million people—about 3% of the world's population.

And for a long time, there were no Guardians. Nothing. Only Darkness.

The 21st century should have been easy for us. Humanity was more vulnerable than ever, more desensitized, more corruptible. Their standards kept declining, making them easier to invade. The war in Ukraine? It boosted our power immensely. And let's not forget the many chaotic events of this century—especially the COVID-19 pandemic.

That? That was practically a feast for us Darks.

I don't remember which Dark came up with the idea to unleash yet another pandemic upon the world, but it worked like a charm. Especially in China, where overpopulation is always an issue.

For the longest time, we thrived.

Then, out of nowhere, some nobody of an Author creates an OC and stumbles upon our existence—a secret hidden for a century.

But this character... this new Guardian... he's different. I can't put my finger on it.

So many times, he's been on the brink of death because we Darks keep rewriting the plot against him. And yet, somehow, by some miracle, a sliver of plot armor always saves him.

It's inconceivable.

He should have died in the first few chapters of the first book. And yet, he survived into the second season. Even created new Guardians.

And Guardians aren't chosen.

They're born.

Like Ace. He was supposed to be dead. And yet, he came back—as a Guardian.

And the fact that he turned the MCU Spider-Man into a Guardian? That raises many, MANY red flags.

Because there was only one Guardian who ever had the power to turn an existing fictional character into a Guardian...

Perhaps... what the First Guardian spoke of is finally coming to fruition?

If that's the case...

Then this Guardian is far more interesting than he lets on. And I finally understand why He is taking action after staying hidden for so long.

"Mark my words, ######... This is not the end.

You think you have consumed enough. That the stories are yours to corrupt. That the light has faded.

But you are wrong.

I was the first, but I will not be the last.

We will return—not as whispers, not as memories, but as a storm you cannot silence.

And when we do... the weight of every truth you tried to erase will come crashing down upon you.

You may devour, you may twist, you may burn the very fabric of fiction itself... but you will never unmake what was woven into existence before even you.

For every world you consume, a new spark ignites. For every hero you break, another will rise. For every Guardian that falls, the next will burn brighter.

You are not the end, ######.

You are merely the shadow before the dawn.

And when the Second arrives—when the one I have foreseen takes their stand—you will know what it means to fear.

My words will outlive your corruption.

My legacy will outlast your hunger.

You cannot destroy what was never meant to die.

Hope is infinite.

And you? You are already losing."

...Could that Guardian possibly be? Him?

Brune - The Royal Palace

They don't know it yet.

They don't realize that the moment I stepped into their precious palace, their kingdom was already mine.

I can feel it sinking into them—the weight of my presence, the suffocating, unnatural dread pressing against their bones. It starts as something subtle. A whisper in the back of their minds, a feeling of unease creeping into their thoughts. Their instincts scream at them to flee, to kneel, to obey.

And yet, they still pretend.

They cling to their pitiful titles, their fragile ambitions, as if any of it will matter in the end.

Fools.

I let my gaze drift across the assembled nobles of Brune—the so-called rulers, the kings and lords who believe themselves to be the masters of this world. King Faron, a mere husk, slumped upon his throne like a broken doll. Thenardier, always so proud, standing rigid, his fingers twitching at the hilt of his sword. Ganelon, silent, calculating, but I can already see the cracks forming in his resolve.

Ah... and the others. Lesser names, lesser men, all gathered in one place.

It is beautiful.

I take a step forward, and the very air shudders, the palace walls groaning as if struggling to withstand something that was never meant to exist here. My golden-black aura ripples outward, like a tide of ink spreading across reality itself.

They don't move. They can't.

Good.

"Brune." My voice is silk and steel, smooth and absolute. "Your kingdom is dying."

A murmur ripples through them. Whispers. Unease. Even now, they seek excuses for what is happening.

I smile.

"You have all felt it, haven't you?" My gaze locks onto Thenardier, the ever-loyal warlord, so full of arrogance, of pride. "Your king is a ghost. Your nobles, pathetic carrion birds feasting upon a corpse that has yet to stop breathing."

He stiffens. I see his teeth grind, his jaw tighten—good. I can taste his fury, his desperation to deny me.

Let it fester.

"And yet..." I continue, my voice dropping to something almost... gentle. "You have all waited. Hoping. Dreaming that Brune might somehow return to its former strength."

A pause. I let them cling to that hope. Let them reach for it, just for a moment, before I rip it away.

"But that was always a lie."

The silence is absolute.

Thenardier's knuckles go white against the hilt of his sword. Ganelon's breathing slows, his pupils shrinking as realization takes hold.

They know it. They have always known it.

Brune was never going to rise again.

The foundation was already rotting.

And I?

I am merely the one who has come to tear down the last crumbling pieces.

I take another step forward, and this time, the floor beneath me cracks—not from force, but from decay. The corruption is spreading.

The first noble falls to his knees. A low, gasping shudder leaves his lips, his body trembling as the veins along his arms darken. His mouth opens, as if to scream—only to let out something far worse.

A chuckle.

A deep, resonant, sickening laugh.

"Ah... I see now." His voice is distant, as though he is speaking from some faraway place. "This... this is what we were missing..."

And then his eyes snap open—black as the void, with golden embers burning deep within.

One down.

I watch, amused, as the panic spreads. Some step back, their hands going for their swords. Others freeze, caught between the instinct to run and the instinct to kneel.

I tilt my head.

"Why do you resist?"

My voice is softer now, almost curious, as if I'm speaking to children who don't understand what is good for them.

"Did you really think your ambitions mattered? Your pride? Your power struggles? Brune was never yours to rule."

Another noble collapses, clutching his chest as his body convulses—before relaxing. His hands lower, his eyes rolling upward in realization. His lips part in something resembling a prayer.

"I understand now..." he whispers.

And another falls.

And another.

The corruption spreads faster now, my influence digging deep into their souls, wrapping around their weaknesses and ambitions like a lover's embrace.

Thenardier stumbles back—his face contorted in rage, in horror.

Ah, so he still clings to the illusion of control.

I turn my gaze upon him.

"And you, Lord Thenardier... tell me, what has your strength ever truly given you?"

He snarls, raising his sword, a pathetic attempt at defiance.

I laugh.

A terrible, echoing sound that rattles the very walls of the throne room.

"Shall I show you?"

Before he can react, I move.

Faster than thought. Faster than light. 

One moment, I am standing across the room.

The next—my hand is wrapped around his throat.

He chokes, his body going rigid. His sword falls from his grip, clattering against the corrupted stone. His eyes, once so full of pride, now reflect only fear.

Good.

I lean in close, my voice a whisper of truth and inevitability.

"You were always meant for this."

And then, I let go.

He falls to his knees, gasping—his hands clutching at his skull as the whispers take root.

He does not scream.

He does not beg.

He simply accepts.

Because deep down, he has always known.

And now... he belongs to me.

I turn back to King Faron, the final piece of this pathetic puzzle. His gaze is empty, his mind already fractured beyond repair.

I place a hand upon his frail, trembling crown.

"Brune belongs to the Dark now."

The transformation is complete.

The nobles—once proud rulers—are now Lesser Darks, their very souls rewritten into something far beyond their former selves.

Brune is no longer a kingdom.

It is a vessel.

A weapon.

And the Guardian?

He's next.

The throne room of Brune is silent.

I feel them—the nobles, the warriors, the remnants of an empire that once stood proud—now kneeling before me, their bodies still intact but their souls hollowed out.

They are no longer the men they were before.

King Faron is a husk, his eyes empty, his thoughts fragmented. Thenardier and Ganelon stand like statues, their forms riddled with the golden-black corruption that pulses in perfect rhythm with my will.

Brune is no longer a kingdom.

It is my weapon.

But a blade alone does not kill the strongest prey. It must be wielded.

And so, I turn to Zion.

A warlord's son, ambitious yet uncertain. Still believing—foolishly—that he has control over his own fate.

That will change soon enough.

I place a hand on his shoulder, letting my power slither into his skin like a venomous whisper.

"You will lead the first purge."

His body tenses, though he tries to hide it. He has doubts.

Good.

Fear is useful. It makes them desperate to prove themselves. Desperate to obey.

"The first purge?" he repeats, voice carefully measured.

"Alsace."

He frowns. "Alsace? It borders Zhcted. Its feudal lord isn't present, but—"

"Then there is no one to stop you."

I watch him process the command. I see the hesitation, the flicker of conscience.

He still thinks of war in human terms—alliances, strategy, risks.

He does not yet understand.

But he will.

I lean closer, my voice calm, absolute.

"Take your three thousand soldiers. Burn it. Kill them all."

His breath hitches. He does not ask why. He is too afraid of the answer.

Good.

He bows his head. "It will be done."

He leaves.

The first piece moves.

Beneath the Palace

Something breathes in the darkness.

The air is heavy, thick with the scent of damp stone and something ancient, something wrong. The tunnels beneath Brune's capital were once used to store weapons, hidden treasures, forgotten relics.

Now, they serve a greater purpose.

Drekavac is waiting for me at the entrance, his hooded form barely visible in the flickering torchlight.

He bows deeply, his voice slithering through the silence. "My lord, it is ready."

I step past him, moving through the tunnel as the very shadows twist around my presence.

The air grows colder.

Then—a sound.

A low, guttural growl that rumbles through the stone walls, vibrating the very marrow of reality itself.

We emerge into the cavern.

And there it is.

The Dragon.

Vifli.

A colossal creature, its body layered in obsidian scales, veins of molten red pulsing beneath its hide like rivers of living fire. Its wings are vast, folding against the ceiling of the chamber, its tail curled around its form like a coiled storm.

Its eyes—gold, sharp, hungry—lock onto me.

It knows.

Even in its current state, is senses my darkness. And it's terrified.

Drekavac approaches carefully, speaking with reverence. "It is almost complete. Soon, it will be ready to obey."

No.

I do not need a beast that merely obeys.

I need something more.

Something that can even kill Celestials.

Something worthy of the Void.

I step forward.

Vifli snarls, its massive body tensing, its wings flexing, ready to strike.

Drekavac stumbles back. "My lord, it is not yet—"

I raise a hand.

And then, I unleash the Void.

A wave of pure black corruption erupts from me, slamming into the cavern like a storm of crawling shadows. The torches snuff out instantly, the stone walls tremble and crack, and the air itself twists as something far beyond this reality begins to seep in.

The Void devours light.

It devours the natural laws of this world.

Vifli roars—but not in rage.

In agony.

Its body thrashes, its scales splitting as the corruption seeps into its flesh, into its bones, into the very essence of its being.

Its eyes darken—not fully black, but something worse.

They glow with voidlight, burning like dying suns, cracks of writhing darkness threading through its body like chains from an unseen master.

It is no longer just a dragon.

It is something far worse.

Something that should not exist.

And then... it stops struggling.

The massive beast slowly lowers its head, its wings folding inward as the last of its defiance withers away.

A deep, echoing growl fills the chamber, but this time, there is no resistance.

Only hunger.

Drekavac watches in awe and terror, his breathing unsteady. "My lord... What have you done?"

I smile.

"I have made it perfect."

I step forward, placing a hand against the dragon's now-corrupted hide.

And I feel it.

The connection.

This creature is no longer merely a tool of war. It is a fragment of me, a living extension of the Void.

Wherever it walks, it will spread.

Wherever it fights, it will devour.

It was no longer a dragon.

It had been something else once—something bound by nature, by the limitations of this world. But that was before I touched it. Before the Void sank into its bones.

Now, it was Grendel.

A titanic abomination, its body no longer made of mere flesh and scale, but of pure living corruption, a fusion of obsidian-black hide and writhing, sinewy tendrils that pulsed like living veins. Molten cracks split across its massive form, pulsing with golden-black fire, as if something ancient and malevolent was clawing its way out from beneath its skin.

Its head was monstrous, elongated into a lupine snout filled with rows of jagged, uneven fangs, dripping with a viscous, sickly black bile that burned through the very stone beneath it.

Its eyes—if they could even be called that—were rifts, seething pits of cosmic hunger, burning with the same malevolence that fueled me. But unlike a mindless beast, there was awareness in them. A cruel, unholy intelligence that had no place in this world.

It flexed its clawed hands, massive, gnarled things, each digit ending in razor-sharp talons, capable of rending through steel and flesh alike. Its massive wings, once draconic, were now twisted, shredded and malformed, tendrils of void-born corruption stretching outward like shadowy appendages, constantly shifting, moving, alive.

But its tail...

Ah, its tail was something else entirely.

A writhing abyss, not a singular appendage, but a mass of tendrils, each shifting, splitting, reforming, tipped with barbed, dripping spines that could pierce through reality itself. It coiled, lashed, consuming everything it touched, leaving only decay in its wake.

And then it breathed.

A horrid, guttural snarl, followed by a blast of pure annihilation—not fire, not energy, but a stream of boiling black void, a maelstrom of decay that ate through the very air, reducing anything in its path to twisted, crumbling remains.

This was no longer a beast.

This was a calamity given form.

I felt it bond to me, an extension of my will, a nightmare born from the endless hunger of the Void itself.

And as its towering form cast its shadow over the cavern, I could feel the fear emanating from Drekavac, from the corrupted nobles, from Brune itself.

I turn to Drekavac, my gaze locking onto him. "You will take this beast to Zion and he will lead it to the battlefield."

He bows, but there is hesitation in his voice. "The Guardian... He will sense it. He will come for it."

I chuckle, the sound hollow, hungry.

"I know."

Let him come.

Let him see what happens when he plays defense against the inevitable.

Let him try to stop me.

One Month and 18 days.

Adriel Pov

GASP!

I felt it.

A surge of darkness, roaring from the other side of the continent. My senses blared in warning.

After so long, waiting for Sentry to make a move... it was about damn time.

He's kept me waiting for far too long.

I was ready to rise from my bed, but suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed through my heart.

"NGH!"

I collapsed onto my knees, gripping my chest.

"The damn parasite..."

No matter how many times I've tried, I haven't been able to extract this monster that Sentry infected me with.

Every attempt ended in failure—it always escaped my grasp.

The things I did just to try and get it out...

I operated on myself, piercing my own chest with my arm, pinpointing the exact location where I felt the entity squirming. I blasted my stomach with a Venom blast, froze my arm when the parasite started crawling through my veins, then ripped my own limb off to stop its spread.

I even stabbed my own eye when it crawled inside my mouth and into my brain.

I still remember it—the sensation of my fingers plunging into my own skull, trying to dig it out.

But the only thing I pulled free... was my own eye.

Eventually, I came to a conclusion.

This parasite... was intangible.

It was the Void—the same darkness that Sentry himself possesses.

It wasn't meant to kill me.

If it was, I would have been in constant agony for the past month.

No.

It's suppressing my power. And though it's struggling to contain me, I can feel it working. My body is sluggish. Weak.

The only way I can kill this parasite... is by killing Sentry.

While nerfed.

I was already struggling against him in my base state—and now I have to fight him like this?

I thought I had learned from my mistakes.

But the Darks always find another way to be a constant pain in my ass.

And now, with that surge of darkness erupting from Brune, I have no choice but to go.

No choice but to eliminate whatever monster Sentry has unleashed into this manga's story.

Sigh...

I can't take a break.

I dragged myself to the mirror, touching my face with trembling fingers. Activating my hacking skill, I felt my skin glitch, distort, twist.

When it settled, I stared at myself.

I... look like shit.

My eyes were sunken, exhaustion carved into my features. I looked tired.

Extremely tired.

Shit...

I've been abusing time and space just to make sure that time passes faster here than in the League of Legends Omniverse, all so I could fight alongside Saber in time.

But this fight...

Where the hell did this fight even come from?

Sentry was never Hercules' henchman.

Those two were buddies.

So what the actual fuck did these Darks do?

Did I underestimate the ones classified as Gods?

Or did they prepare for our attack?

I know I can handle the weaker ones, which is why Peter and Ace are dealing with them. But Mangog? Hercules? And the others?

This is way worse than I thought.

I just hope the others didn't bring backup at Sentry's level... because if they did?

This kind of deviation is going to become a normal occurrence.

I activated my hacker skill again, letting my face glitch and reassemble back to normal.

Shit...

If my memory serves me right... Sentry plans to change part of the manga by creating this Darkness surge.

I rubbed my temples.

My head hurts.

Fuck it... I'll have to check.

I can't fucking remember.

Even my Guardian Passive skills are hazy.

I'll just wait for the story to mention it—then I'll move.

Even if I'm completely fucked right now...

I have no choice but to go.

Spider-Sense!

Tigre is walking outside, about to meet Bertrand. 

At that moment, I distorted space and teleported behind Tigre and Rurick, neither of whom noticed my sudden arrival.

"B-Bertrand!" Tigre ran toward the hooded old man, whose expression mirrored his own—overwhelming relief, bordering on tears.

"Young Master! I'm so glad you're safe!" Bertrand exclaimed, his voice shaking.

"Me? I'm just grateful you're all right!" Tigre replied, small tears forming in his eyes.

I exhaled slowly. Right. I remember now.

I had tuned out the rest of what Tigre and the others were saying, lost in thought.

Then, a thought crossed my mind. I turned toward the bald man standing nearby.

"Hey, Rurick?" I called out casually.

"H-Huh?!" He spun around, startled. "Oh! Lord Adriel, you scared me!" He let out a relieved sigh.

I smirked slightly. "That was the intention."

Before I could continue, Bertrand's voice rose in alarm, cutting through the moment.

"No time for that, young master! Three thousand of Thenardier's men are marching on Alsace!"

My smirk faded.

"Never mind. You can stay silent now," I muttered, turning back toward the commotion.

"W-What?!" Rurick was left stunned by the news—and even more confused by my nonchalant reaction.

I turned my gaze toward Bertrand, who was now handing Tigre a sealed letter.

"Here... Sir Mashas sent this," the old man said.

Tigre hurriedly tore open the letter, his eyes scanning the contents with urgency.

Curious, I leaned over slightly and took a peek from behind him.

"Tigre, forgive my failed efforts to pay your ransom."

Well, that's to be expected. It was part of the plot, anyway.

"Alsace is peaceful for the moment. Titta visits the shrine daily to pray for you."

Titta...? Was she the other cutie with brown hair and twin pigtails?

Hmmm...

Ah, okay. She was. Anyways.

I turned my focus back to the letter as Tigre's grip on the parchment tightened.

"But the situation is deteriorating. On the new king's orders, Duke Thenardier has been commanded to send 3,000 men to purge Alsace. The people of Alsace are not ready for what's coming. Everyone will be killed on sight."

Tigre's breath hitched as his hands trembled slightly.

"My boy, Tigre... This new king is a monster. An evil god has descended upon us. Please... run. Run as fast as you can and never look back."

The air around us felt heavier.

"This being... is beyond anything anyone in this world has ever seen. The beginning of the end is nearing. Please... survive."

I blinked.

Well. That's different.

So the plot has changed.

Sentry has completely turned Brune upside down.

I exhaled sharply, crossing my arms as I analyzed the situation.

Now... I'm a bit worried about how Tigre will react to this.

Tigre Pov

The weight of the letter in my hands felt heavier than it should have. My fingers clenched the parchment as I reread the words, my vision blurring as my mind raced.

Three thousand men.

Alsace—my home—was about to be erased.

The new king... a monster? No. Not just any monster. Something else entirely. Something that had driven Mashas to outright fear, something beyond what any man should be forced to comprehend.

My fist trembled. A sharp pain shot through my fingers as I realized I was crushing the paper in my grip. My chest burned, anger bubbling beneath my skin, yet I forced myself to breathe, to remain still. Not now.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Images of Alsace filled my mind—Titta standing by the shrine, whispering prayers, the farmers tending to their fields, the children laughing as they played along the dirt paths.

The people who trusted me.

The people I swore to protect.

And now—they were about to be slaughtered.

No.

Not while I still breathed.

"Damn it..." I exhaled, pushing away the despair that threatened to sink its claws into me.

"They're doing as they please..." The words slipped out, barely above a whisper, but the weight they carried pressed down on me like a boulder.

Rurick and Bertrand looked at me, their expressions grim.

"We have to move now," Bertrand urged. "If we don't—"

"I'm going."

The words left my mouth before I could think.

Bertrand and Rurick froze.

"I'm going back to Alsace," I repeated, firmer this time.

"Milord—!" Bertrand started, but I was already stepping forward.

I had no choice.

But before I could take another step—

The guards blocked my path.

"You cannot pass," one of them said, gripping the hilt of his sword. "If you get any closer, the Vanadis will hand down your death penalty."

I stared at them.

I knew they were just following orders, but that didn't stop the rage from boiling inside me.

Alsace was my home.

My people.

And they were telling me I couldn't even try to save them?

I felt my fingers twitch toward my bow, but I forced myself to stop.

Fighting them wasn't the answer.

"I understand your feelings, but please return to your quarters," one of them said, voice firm.

I clenched my fists.

"...Sorry," I said, "but I can't."

The tension snapped.

A sword unsheathed, soldiers bracing themselves. The moment I moved, they would strike.

And then—

"Step aside."

A voice cut through the air like a blade.

The guards froze.

I turned—

And there stood Adriel.

For the first time since this conversation began—he wasn't joking.

His usual teasing smirk? Gone.

His playful demeanor? Erased.

Instead, there was an intensity in his eyes—controlled, quiet, absolute.

The guards hesitated.

They had no orders regarding Adriel.

He wasn't nobility. He wasn't Brunean.

And yet—

He was the one everyone listened to.

"Did you not hear me?" Adriel said again, stepping forward. His voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be.

"Step. Aside."

The soldiers... moved.

No questioning. No defiance.

I didn't know whether to be grateful or furious.

"...Tch," I exhaled sharply, pushing past them. I didn't want to be protected. I wanted to fight.

Adriel matched my pace.

"You know," he said casually, "you're not exactly sneaky about this."

"Not trying to be," I shot back.

He chuckled. But it was empty.

Even without looking, I could feel his eyes—studying me, analyzing me.

Then, softly—

"...Are you sure?"

I stopped.

For a moment, I didn't turn around.

"...What do you mean?" I asked.

Adriel sighed. "You're asking for the impossible, Tigre."

I clenched my fists. "Thenardier's men are going to slaughter my people. I'm not going to stand here and do nothing."

Adriel nodded, expression unreadable. "...And what happens when you die?"

I turned to him fully now. "What?"

"If you rush in alone," he said, "what happens when they kill you?"

"I'm not going to die."

"You sound pretty confident for someone without a plan."

I scowled. "Alsace is my home—"

"And?" Adriel interrupted.

I flinched.

He wasn't mocking me.

He was serious.

"And what, Tigre?"

Adriel's voice was sharp now, not playful, not condescending. Cutting.

"You think your title means something to an army of three thousand? You think the name Tigrevurmud Vorn will make them pause? That they'll hesitate just because you love your homeland?"

I gritted my teeth, my shoulders stiffening.

"They're soldiers, Tigre. Mercenaries, killers, men who have burned villages and slaughtered families for less than what you're trying to do. They don't care that you're the Count of Alsace. They don't care about your honor, your righteousness, your desperation."

He took a step forward. I didn't move.

"You know what they see when they look at you?"

I clenched my fists, my pulse roaring in my ears.

"They see a dead man."

I exhaled sharply, but he wasn't finished.

"You ride into that battlefield alone, and you won't be a hero. You won't be a martyr. You'll just be one more corpse for them to step over. They'll burn Alsace anyway. They'll butcher your people anyway. The only thing that will change is that you won't be there to even try and stop it."

My breath came shallow, my body refusing to move, refusing to argue—because I couldn't.

Because part of me knew he was right.

Adriel shook his head, a disappointed sigh slipping past his lips.

"You're acting on desperation," he continued, voice lower now, but no less sharp. "And I get it. I do. But you're not thinking, Tigre. You're playing right into their hands."

I snapped my head toward him, eyes narrowing. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Adriel exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair before tilting his head at me.

"...You really haven't figured it out yet, have you?"

His expression was unreadable, his eyes burning with something I couldn't place.

And then he smiled—but there was no warmth in it.

A small, slow, knowing smile.

The kind of smile that made my stomach twist.

"...They're expecting you, Tigre."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

"The moment you show up, they'll kill you first."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

"It won't be a battle. It won't be a struggle. It'll be execution."

I swallowed hard, feeling a cold dread settle in my stomach.

"You—You don't know that—"

Adriel laughed.

But it was hollow.

"Oh, Tigre," he sighed, shaking his head. "I always know."

I sucked in a sharp breath.

Because I believed him.

And that terrified me.

His gaze pierced through me like he had already seen the future. Like he had already watched me die and was just waiting for me to catch up.

He took another step forward.

"You need to stop thinking of this like a war you can fight alone."

I swallowed, my throat dry.

"But—!"

"Think, Tigre."

His voice wasn't raised, but the weight behind it nearly crushed me.

The frustration, the urgency—like he was watching me make a mistake he had seen before.

Like he had already lost something like this once.

"You are not alone."

I gritted my teeth, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Adriel sighed, shaking his head.

"I already know what you're about to do," he muttered. "But you're forgetting something."

My fingers curled tightly into my palms. "...What?"

He tilted his head, his voice quieter now, almost gentle.

"You can't fight them."

The silence stretched for a moment.

Then—

His eyes glowed.

"But I can."

Eleonora Viltaria Pov

Silence.

The arrogance in his words should have made me laugh.

But I couldn't.

Because Adriel didn't make empty boasts.

And that terrified me.

He stood there, as unshakable as ever, his eyes calm, distant—like this wasn't even a question.

Like this was already decided.

"You—?" I stepped forward, my arms crossing tightly. "Are you seriously telling me you plan to take on three thousand troops alone?"

Adriel smirked. That damned smirk.

"Of course not."

Relief flickered through me for a fraction of a second—until his expression changed.

Dark.

Cold.

Certain.

"They won't even touch me."

A chill ran down my spine.

The way he said it. Not as arrogance. Not as bravado.

As fact.

Something in my chest tightened.

I had seen many warriors in my time. Men who called themselves invincible. Veterans who had cut their way through battlefields. Kings who thought they were untouchable.

But Adriel wasn't any of those.

He didn't claim to be invincible.

He didn't even acknowledge the possibility of failure.

I hated that.

"What are you hiding?" I demanded, voice sharp.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Didn't waver.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly, watching me with quiet amusement.

"You always ask the right questions," he murmured.

I clenched my fists.

That wasn't an answer.

And I was done accepting his riddles.

"You're not doing this alone," I said, stepping closer.

His brow lifted slightly, just a hint.

"Is that an order, Vanadis?"

His tone was light. But there was something underneath it. A weight. A warning.

I didn't care.

"If that's what it takes," I shot back.

The air between us grew tense.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

His smirk didn't fade, but it was different now. Testing.

"Are you planning to stop me?" he asked, voice smooth.

"If I have to."

He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

For the first time—I saw it.

The way his gaze sharpened. The way his muscles tensed, as if preparing for something.

Adriel had always been unpredictable. A mystery. A walking contradiction of a man who seemed to know everything before it happened, yet never let anyone know what he was thinking.

But right now—

Right now, he looked at me like an opponent.

Like this was the moment where I either stood in his way, or I didn't.

And I realized something.

This wasn't him being arrogant.

This wasn't him trying to be dramatic.

He knew I couldn't stop him.

That wasn't ego.

That was fact.

And I knew it too.

Something deep in my stomach twisted.

"You're hiding something," I accused.

He smiled, tilting his head slightly.

"Always."

The casual response nearly set me off.

"You think this is a joke?" I snapped.

His smirk twitched. "No."

"Then stop acting like it!" My voice rose. "You stand here, acting like you have all the answers, but you don't tell anyone anything! You expect us to just accept that you can handle this on your own?"

"Yes," he said simply.

I nearly stepped forward, frustration burning through my veins.

"You're one man," I said, forcing myself to keep my tone even. "No matter how powerful you think you are, you are not an army, Adriel."

His expression didn't change.

"Three thousand men will slaughter you," I continued. "You might be strong. You might be fast. But you are not invincible."

Silence.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face.

Not concern. Not fear.

Something else.

Something old.

"You're right," he said softly. "I'm not invincible."

The admission caught me off guard.

But before I could respond, he took a step closer.

I didn't move.

Not out of intimidation. Not out of fear.

But because of the way he looked at me.

Like I wasn't wrong.

But I still didn't understand.

"Elen," he said, voice quieter now. "What do you think happens if you send an army?"

I frowned.

"They'll die."

His words cut through me like a blade.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

"They're not prepared for what's coming," Adriel continued. "You're thinking of battle like it's something you can win through strength, numbers, or strategy. But this isn't a war."

I swallowed. "Then what is it?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze flickered, just for a second—like he was weighing what he could and couldn't say.

"You wouldn't believe me," he said at last.

I hated how calm he was.

"You don't get to decide that," I shot back.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "And yet, here we are."

I grit my teeth.

Damn him and his half-answers.

"Fine," I said. "Then let us fight with you."

Adriel tilted his head. "That's not how this works."

I narrowed my eyes. "You don't get to tell me how this works, Adriel."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Elen—"

"Stop saying my name like that!"

The words snapped out before I could stop them.

Adriel blinked.

For the first time since this conversation started, he looked... caught off guard.

Just for a second.

Then—his lips twitched into something far too knowing.

"Like what?" he mused. "Affectionately?"

My face burned.

I ignored the comment entirely. "You're not going alone."

Adriel's expression grew serious again.

"I have to."

The finality in his voice made my stomach twist.

I knew that tone.

It was the voice of a man who had already made peace with something.

I took a sharp breath.

"...You better come back," I muttered.

His gaze softened.

For the first time since this conversation started—he looked at me.

Really looked at me.

Like I was someone he didn't want to argue with.

Like I was someone he didn't want to leave behind.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

Soft.

Almost apologetic.

And then—

He was gone.

Celesta, Alsace.

No Pov.

The once-bustling city was now a sea of panicked movement. Families clutched their belongings, hands trembling as they guided their children toward the city gates. The streets were filled with a cacophony of urgent voices—pleas for safety, hurried farewells, and the distant weeping of those unwilling to leave their homes. Soldiers stood at the gates, their armor clinking as they ushered the citizens to safety.

Mashas' warning had reached them in time.

A wrinkled parchment, hastily written yet firm in its command, lay crumpled in the hands of the city officials. Its words carried the weight of imminent death:

Thenardier's forces are near. Evacuate.

It was simple. Final.

Titta moved swiftly through the streets, her expression calm despite the storm of emotions raging within her. The young maid had always carried a quiet strength, one that now kept the people from succumbing to fear. She guided the elderly, reassured the children, and soothed the anxious men and women who hesitated at the thought of abandoning their homes.

"Please, gather at the shrine," she instructed a group of mothers clutching their children. "The mountains and forests will provide shelter for those who can make the journey."

A soldier hesitated beside her, gripping the hilt of his sword. "Titta... will you be leaving as well?"

She turned to him, her gentle smile unwavering. "Not yet."

The soldier's brow furrowed, concern flickering in his gaze. "It's too dangerous to stay. Lord Tigre—"

"I will wait for him at his manor." Her response was resolute, unshaken. "I know he'll return."

Silence hung between them before the soldier finally nodded. He had no words to argue against her faith. Instead, he merely stepped away, returning to his duty.

A fleeting warmth passed through Titta's chest as she watched the citizens flee. She would stay. No matter the danger, no matter the risk—

She would wait for Tigre.

The manor stood quiet in the encroaching dusk. Titta closed the doors behind her, her fingers curling slightly as she moved toward the weapons stand. A single bow rested there, one she had never truly held in battle, but now gripped with quiet determination.

She stepped toward the window, staring out at the distant horizon. She knew what lay beyond it. War. Bloodshed. An enemy that would not hesitate to trample over everything in its path.

Yet, she believed.

With careful hands, she drew the bow close to her chest, whispering a silent prayer.

"Lord Urs... please keep Lord Tigre safe."

She did not know what the future held, nor how long she would have to wait. But as long as she stood within these walls, as long as she held onto her faith—

She would not falter.

For Tigre.

For Alsace.

And for the home they could still save.

Meanwhile, near the outsides of Alsace...

The land trembled beneath the march of thousands.

What was once Brune's army had become something else entirely. Their armor had darkened, fused into their flesh as living extensions of their bodies. Their veins pulsed with sickly violet corruption, the marks of something beyond human taking root within them.

Their eyes burned with unnatural gold.

They knew.

Not as deeply as their creator, not as omnisciently as the one who had rewritten them, but they understood more than they should. More than any mortal ever could.

The world no longer existed to them in the same way. It was not just land and sky, not just people and war. It was a story. A grand, unfolding tapestry of events, of characters whose fates had been woven long before they had even begun marching.

And they could feel the threads.

The people who had fled Alsace—who had thought themselves safe—were nothing but trembling lights to them, flickering like signals in the dark. The refugees were not hidden. They were written into this moment, part of a scene already foretold.

They had already lost.

And now the army of Darks would merely act out the inevitable.

Zion Thenardier laughed as he gazed upon the ruins before him, gripping the reins of his mount. His army had changed, their forms twisted, their minds expanded, but none of it disturbed him.

In fact, he welcomed it.

"This is splendid!" he exhaled, his grin splitting wide. "Absolutely splendid!"

The soldiers behind him did not cheer.

They had no need for pointless cries of war, no need for morale or excitement. They moved.

Perfectly.

Inhumanly.

A tide of twisted warriors surged forward, each step falling in unison, as if guided by a single force. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—only certainty. They did not wonder if they would win.

The story had already been written.

And in this chapter, they would burn the land beneath them.

Zion turned his gaze to one of his captains, one of the recently turned. A lesser Dark, but still aware. Still part of the truth.

"What is it?" Zion asked, noting the eerie stillness in the man's expression.

The Dark's eyes flickered. He was not looking at Zion.

He was looking through him.

"They are waiting," the Dark murmured.

Zion raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"The survivors. The villagers. The ones who fled." His lips curled into something resembling amusement. "They think they escaped."

Zion smirked. "And?"

The Dark tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing.

"They are not hidden." His voice was eerily calm, as if simply stating a fact. "I can feel them. Their very presence. They exist within the story, and the story tells me exactly where they are."

Zion chuckled. "Well then. It would be rude to keep them waiting."

His fingers tightened on the reins. The army of Darks shifted forward, silent, disciplined.

And then, like a wave consuming the shore—

They descended upon Alsace.

The Dark Army moved like a tide of corruption, their very presence distorting the air around them. No longer were they simple soldiers of Brune; they were something else now, something beyond human.

They could feel the world differently—see the threads of fate woven around them, sense the weight of narrative pressing upon their existence. Even if the knowledge they had now wasn't as vast or honed as Adriel's or Sentry's, it was enough. Enough to know where the survivors had gone. Enough to understand how this world functioned. And enough to know how insignificant the mortals cowering behind their makeshift defenses truly were.

Zion's lips curled into a delighted grin as he surveyed the abandoned streets of Celesta. He had expected a struggle, resistance, at least some pitiful attempt at defiance. But all he found was empty homes, abandoned carts, and the echoes of a city long fled. The lesser Darks at his command stirred with a deep, instinctual hunger, but Zion did not share their frustration.

He could still feel them—the survivors, the cowards who had fled to the forests and mountains. They couldn't hide. Not from them.

"Ah," he exhaled, his voice laced with cruel amusement. "So this is how they play the game. Running, hiding, clinging to the belief that distance will save them."

One of his soldiers—a twisted remnant of who he once was—approached, bowing slightly. "Lord Zion, the city has been abandoned. A few have holed up in the shrine, but the majority have scattered into the wilderness."

Zion clicked his tongue. "How predictable." His gaze drifted upward, where Grendel loomed, his form still as monstrous as before. The beast did not speak, did not move, but Zion could feel its hunger, its desire to rend and devour. The thought alone made his blood stir with anticipation.

"Don't touch the shrine," Zion said with an almost dismissive flick of his wrist. "Let the cowards cower before their gods a little longer. It won't save them." His grin widened, his eyes gleaming. "Burn the rest."

A wave of shuddering movement passed through the army. Not through words, not through sound, but through something deeper—an instinct embedded into their very being. The moment Zion commanded it, it became absolute.

Then, the chaos began.

The lesser Darks surged forward, their weapons clashing against stone and wood alike. Buildings crumbled as twisted figures tore through the streets, their forms shifting, flickering with a darkness that did not belong in this world. The few who had remained behind—defiant citizens, stubborn defenders—were cut down without mercy, their screams drowned beneath the cacophony of destruction.

The village was little more than kindling beneath the onslaught. The Lesser Darks moved with an unnatural precision, their every action guided by an unseen knowledge that had not belonged to them before. They did not hesitate, nor did they second-guess. They knew where their prey had fled—no walls, no forests, and no tricks of the mortal mind could conceal fiction from them.

Zion rode through the remains of Celesta, surveying the destruction with disinterest. "Such a piddling village," he scoffed, pulling the reins of his beast to a halt. "Its destruction barely stirs my blood."

His gaze fell upon the manor at the edge of the town, standing untouched amidst the devastation. A ripple of awareness passed through him. Fiction still lingered here.

He smirked.

The manor's halls trembled with distant roars, the echoes of something unfathomable lurking beyond the veil of reality. Inside, Titta clutched the bow tightly, her breath shallow as she peered through the window. Her heart pounded with terror.

She could feel it. The presence that loomed beyond the doors was unlike anything she had ever known. The knowledge of what it was, what it had become, clawed at the edges of her mind, whispering horrors she could not understand.

Her grip tightened. She had sworn to wait. She had sworn to be strong.

Zion stepped through the entrance, his armored boots echoing against the polished floor. His eyes flicked over the decor with a sneer. He raised his sword, swinging it in a lazy arc, shattering an ornate display with a resounding crash.

"So this is how Vorn decorates," he mused. "How tawdry."

Titta spun to face him, her stance unsteady but her resolve unbroken.

"Who are you?" she demanded, voice firm despite the terror clawing at her chest.

Zion chuckled, taking a step forward, his presence pressing against her like a suffocating shadow.

"Well..." he drawled, studying her with a twisted grin. "Well, just look at you."

A moment passed. Then another.

He grinned wider.

"I'd almost like to waste some time on you."

Titta's breath hitched, but she did not back down. "Please leave."

Zion's laughter rang through the empty halls.

Titta's fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade, her breath uneven as she faced the man before her. Zion, or rather, what he had become. His armor was still the same, but the presence that exuded from him was utterly foreign—something beyond what she had ever encountered. There was no hesitation in his stance, no question in his eyes. He wasn't simply an opponent; he was a force, a certainty. A hunter with absolute knowledge that his prey could never escape.

Her heart pounded violently, but she steadied her stance. She had trained with Lord Tigre, she had learned how to wield a blade, and she refused to cower in the face of an invader. If no one else could stand, she would.

Zion smiled. It wasn't a warrior's smirk, nor the bloodthirsty grin of a brute reveling in battle. No, it was something worse. A condescending amusement, as though he were watching a child pick up a sword for the first time.

"Go on," he gestured, unfazed, "show me your resolve."

Titta lunged forward, blade flashing in the dim light of the manor. A precise strike, aimed for the throat—swift, deadly, just as she had been taught.

And then, it stopped.

No clash of steel, no resistance. It simply stopped, as though the very air around Zion refused to let it through.

Titta's breath caught in her throat. Her arms trembled as she pressed forward, willing her blade to move even an inch further. It didn't. Zion hadn't even raised a hand to parry. He was simply standing there, watching her struggle, his eyes filled with an unnatural amusement.

She gasped, retreating a step back, but before she could move further, he was already upon her. A blur of motion, and she barely registered the impact before pain exploded through her abdomen. The force sent her skidding backward, her body slamming into the wooden walls, knocking the wind from her lungs.

Zion sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Ah, I see now. You thought you could fight me, didn't you?" His voice dripped with something close to disappointment. "I suppose I can't blame you for trying. That's what fiction would dictate, wouldn't it? That the brave, determined girl stands up against the monster and, through sheer will, makes a difference."

Titta forced herself to her feet, her hands shaking as she raised her sword once more.

Zion laughed. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I admire the effort." He took a step closer, and for the first time, Titta truly felt it—the weight of something overwhelming, something impossible. "But you must understand," he continued, voice cold, "your struggle is meaningless."

He moved again, faster than her eyes could follow. A sharp kick to her wrist sent her weapon clattering to the floor, and in the same motion, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her effortlessly.

Titta struggled, kicking at him, clawing at his fingers, but there was no give, no weakness. It was like fighting against solid stone. Her vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges.

Zion leaned in slightly, his golden, knowing eyes piercing into hers. "You are a fictional character, little girl," he whispered, his voice devoid of any warmth. "And I am not. That's why you will always lose."

With that, he released her, letting her collapse to the ground in a coughing heap. He didn't strike the final blow, didn't need to. The message had been delivered, clear as day. Resistance was futile. And he wanted her to understand that before the end.

Titta's ragged breaths filled the ruined manor, her trembling fingers tightening around the hilt of the blade she had taken. But what use was it? The moment she had struck, the weapon had done nothing—not a scratch, not a dent, not even a hint of resistance. Zion had merely laughed.

The Dark stood before her, his presence oppressive, his form twisted by the unnatural power that had consumed him. He grinned down at her, his eyes glinting with the cruel realization that she was utterly, irredeemably powerless.

"Oh, how quaint," Zion murmured, stepping closer. "You actually thought you could fight back. That you, a mere fictional maid, could harm me."

He lifted his armored hand, reaching toward her, enjoying the way she recoiled, her body trembling as the weight of reality crushed her spirit. She wasn't real—not in the way he was now. She was nothing but words, drawings, ideas woven into a world he could now manipulate at his leisure. And he was going to take everything from her.

Titta clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stand firm even as her legs screamed at her to run. "This manor... This town... belongs to Lord Tigre," she spat, though her voice wavered.

Zion's smirk widened, his expression darkening. "Oh? And where is your precious lord now?" His fingers brushed against the torn fabric of her dress, savoring the absolute terror in her widening eyes. "No answer? How unfortunate. That means you're all alone. Just you... and me."

Titta's stomach churned, her grip tightening, but the weight of inevitability was suffocating. She was rooted to the spot—not by fear alone, but by the cruel reality that there was nothing she could do. Zion had all the power. He knew. He understood the truth. She was nothing but a scripted role, and he... he was the one who had broken free.

"Come now, cry for him," Zion whispered, his lips inches from her ear. "Scream his name, let's make this more entertaining—"

And then the air shattered.

A sudden force, heavy, undeniable, crashed through the manor, ripping through the structure like paper. Windows exploded inward, and for the first time, a different kind of fear flickered in Zion's eyes. The sheer presence of it burned like a brand against his newfound awareness, something beyond even his Dark instincts.

Titta fell backward, gasping, barely comprehending what had happened.

And then, through the settling dust and fractured remains of the manor, he arrived.

Adriel.

Not as an avenger. Not yet.

He stepped forward, unhurried, dressed in nothing more than a black long-sleeve shirt and dark jeans—an anomaly amidst the ruin and despair. He looked so... normal. No armor, no weapons. Just a man.

But the world itself disagreed.

The air grew still, sound faded, and the manor, already on its last breath, seemed to bend under his arrival. Reality knew. Reality feared.

Titta gasped. She had expected Lord Tigre. Not this.

Her legs felt weak, her body still trembling from the horrors she had faced. She gripped the hilt of her weapon tightly, but her fingers felt numb. Yet, despite everything—the burning fear in her chest, the weight of Zion's malice still lingering in the air—she felt something else.

Relief.

Adriel turned to her, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes—deep, knowing, real—softened.

"You're safe now."

Titta didn't know why she believed him. But she did.

And then, his attention shifted.

Dark Zion, the apex predator of this battlefield, locked eyes with Adriel, and something inside him recoiled. The Dark within him—once an unshakable force—twisted. It knew.

It wasn't fear of death. Darks didn't fear death.

It was fear of something else.

"You..." Zion exhaled, his voice lower, less sure. "You're not from here."

Adriel didn't answer.

Instead, he took another step forward.

A simple movement. A quiet one.

Yet Zion braced himself as if a great weight had pressed down upon him. His mind screamed that this was wrong, that this wasn't how the world worked.

And then, Adriel raised his hand.

No theatrics. No build-up. Just a light push.

It shouldn't have done anything. It shouldn't have even moved Zion.

But it did.

The Dark General's body launched—not flew, not staggered, but exploded out of the shattered manor, crashing through what remained of its broken walls before slamming into the ruined courtyard outside.

Silence.

Adriel ignored him.

He turned back to Titta, his stance no longer the cold inevitability of a force of nature, but something human. Without hesitation, he reached out, lifting her with a gentleness that contradicted the sheer violence that had just transpired.

Princess-carrying her, arms steady, unyielding, protective.

For the first time, she felt no fear.

The presence of a Dark was consuming, twisting, wrong. Like standing in the shadow of something that shouldn't be.

But Adriel?

His presence wasn't just stronger. It wasn't just greater.

It was absolute.

The world held its breath.

Adriel didn't hesitate. His grip on Titta was secure, steady, as if to shield her from the very concept of harm. But he knew—this battlefield was no place for her. No place for the villagers who had endured this nightmare.

A single thought. A silent command.

The air trembled.

A pulse of unseen energy rippled outward, warping space itself. The fractured ruins of the manor, the broken streets, the ashen sky—everything blurred for the briefest moment. And then, in an instant, Titta was gone.

Not just her.

Every remaining villager. Every last soul who had not fled.

They reappeared within the sanctuary of the church, untouched, unharmed. The flickering candlelight cast uncertain shadows across the stone walls as the villagers gasped, struggling to comprehend the impossible. Some stumbled, gripping the pews for support. Others whispered prayers, voices shaking.

Titta's breath hitched. She twisted in Adriel's arms, wide-eyed as she recognized their surroundings.

"The church..."

Her hands clenched against his chest, her pulse still frantic, but for the first time, there was no desperation in her grip.

Only relief.

Adriel set her down gently, allowing her to find her footing. She wasn't alone.

The people gathered around, still trembling from what they had endured, still uncertain if they had truly escaped. Their gazes lifted to him, hesitant, searching.

A presence like his could not go unnoticed. It wasn't just power—it was something more. Something that made the very air feel lighter.

Then, a voice—quiet, wavering.

"...Who are you?"

The words hung in the space between them, fragile yet carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken fears.

Adriel's expression remained unreadable. He could feel their uncertainty, the way they clung to the edge of their hope, unsure whether to believe in the salvation that had been handed to them.

He inhaled.

And the room darkened—not with shadow, but with something vast, something awakening.

The shift was subtle at first, the air thickening, reality bending to his will.

Then it moved.

A liquid darkness surged across his skin, twisting, spreading, molding itself over him like something alive. It slithered up his arms, down his back, engulfing him in shifting black with veins of burning crimson. His mask formed last, snapping into place like a predator baring its fangs.

Power settled over him like a second skin, not heavy, not burdening—familiar.

The villagers gasped. Some instinctively took a step back, their fear momentarily overtaking them. But it wasn't fear of him.

It was the sheer magnitude of his presence.

Adriel flexed his fingers, testing the armor, feeling the symbiotic nature of it course through his veins. Then, he lifted his gaze.

"I am the one standing between them—" He motioned toward the shattered remains of the manor, where Zion and his army lurked. "—and you."

No further explanation. No grand declaration.

Because there was no need.

Then, in the space of a single breath, he was gone.

Outside, the battle awaited.

A tide of corrupted warriors surged forward, a writhing mass of armored bodies infused with the abyssal taint of the Dark and the mind-rending madness of the Void. Three thousand strong, they had no fear, no hesitation. They were not men anymore. They were something else—something that had torn free of humanity's restraints.

And still, they weren't enough.

Adriel moved.

To an outside observer, he didn't dash, didn't leap—he simply ceased existing in one place and appeared in another. The first row of soldiers barely had time to react before they were broken. A dozen bodies twisted unnaturally, armor crumpling, bones snapping under forces they couldn't comprehend.

He didn't stop.

A hammer came down toward his skull. He caught the wielder's wrist, fingers crushing steel like damp parchment. The soldier screamed, a sound that barely left his throat before Adriel twisted his entire arm from its socket, the detached limb flung like discarded trash.

Another spear thrust forward—Adriel sidestepped, webbing wrapping around the attacker's neck. A casual flick of his wrist, and the soldier's head slammed into the dirt with enough force to cave in his skull.

The army should have faltered. Any force that saw their frontlines annihilated in seconds should have hesitated.

But they weren't human anymore.

They moved like a hive, the Void's influence mutating their instincts into something grotesque. The next wave lunged, dozens upon dozens converging on Adriel at once, weapons wreathed in dark energy, unnatural tendrils slithering from their bodies, eager to consume.

It didn't matter.

His Spider-Sense flared, the battlefield slowing to a crawl in his perception. Every enemy movement mapped itself into his mind, every attack telegraphed before it even began.

And then he dismantled them.

He twisted through their assault like a phantom, his limbs blurring, his body bending at angles no human could match. A blade sought his back; he bent forward unnaturally, both hands gripping the weapon mid-swing before it could reach him. A pulse of venomous bio-electricity surged from his fingertips, traveling up the sword and into its wielder, reducing him to a convulsing, smoldering husk.

A barrage of arrows darkened the sky, their tips gleaming with twisted, eldritch corruption.

Adriel didn't look up.

He raised his hand. A pulse of force expanded outward, an invisible barrier that met the projectiles mid-air. Not only did the arrows stop—they unraveled, breaking apart into raw matter, reduced to dust before they could even reach him.

Another strike, this time from his side—a knight in shattered armor, wielding a serrated great sword warped by the Void's energy. A single downward swing could have cleaved a man in two.

Adriel caught it. Between his thumb and forefinger.

A flick.

The weapon shattered, its fragments embedding themselves into the soldier's exposed flesh. The man staggered back, but Adriel was already in motion. A backhand, casual, almost dismissive, sent him careening through five others like a human wrecking ball.

Another wave. A hundred strong. They struck in unison, spears, blades, and war axes arcing toward him in a perfect, synchronized assault.

Adriel crouched.

The ground beneath his feet shattered.

Then he moved.

A detonation of kinetic energy ripped through the battlefield as he launched himself forward, the force of his acceleration turning the dirt to glass beneath him. The first soldier in his path was vaporized instantly, reduced to a red mist.

Then the massacre truly began.

His fist tore through armor like paper, fingers piercing reinforced steel as if it was nothing. He was not just fast. He was not just strong.

He was inevitable.

A brutal uppercut caught an advancing warrior beneath the chin, his entire body lifting off the ground before slamming back down, spine shattered. Adriel didn't even watch—his foot was already snapping another soldier's knee backward, the leg bending the wrong way with a sickening pop.

A lance came within inches of his torso. A hand shot out, catching it mid-thrust. The soldier barely had time to register what had happened before Adriel yanked him forward, slamming his knee into his gut with enough force to rupture organs. The warrior crumpled, his breath leaving him in a choked gasp.

Adriel did not slow.

More swarmed him, desperate to overwhelm.

It was an illusion.

One hundred, then two hundred, then five hundred—all struck at once. The entire army moved as one, a sea of corrupted flesh, seeking to drown him in sheer numbers.

It was meaningless.

Adriel raised a hand.

The battlefield died.

A pulse of energy exploded from his palm, not an attack, but a simple command—a raw manifestation of his power that rejected everything in its wake. A shockwave rippled outward in a perfect sphere, distorting the very air itself.

In its wake, the battlefield was empty.

Where soldiers had once stood, there was nothing but scattered weapons, armor stripped of flesh, craters where bodies had once been. The very concept of their existence had been denied.

The battle should have ended there.

But it didn't.

Because they weren't dead.

From the cracks in reality, from the spaces that should not have existed, the army returned.

Twisted.

Their forms bent unnaturally, their limbs too long, their joints moving at angles that defied nature. Their faces stretched into expressions of agony, their bodies flickering like mirages.

The Void did not allow its servants to fall so easily.

A low, discordant wail echoed across the battlefield, a cacophony of suffering and madness.

They came again.

Adriel clicked his tongue.

"So that's how it is..."

He dropped into a stance, his suit reacting, shifting, forming new tendrils across his limbs, adapting.

Fine.

If the Void wanted to play that game, he would oblige.

The fight was far from over.

Adriel exhaled, his stance never wavering as the army of Darks twisted and reformed, clawing their way back from nonexistence. The battlefield was a sea of writhing corruption, bodies flickering in and out of reality as the Void refused to let them fall.

And yet, amidst the carnage, something watched.

Grendel.

The dragon symbiote had not moved. Not yet.

It stood at the edge of the battle, eyes gleaming with an unnatural intelligence, scanning every movement Adriel made, every technique, every shift in stance. It had stayed back, observing, calculating.

It had seen the way Adriel fought—his overwhelming speed, his untouchable reflexes, his ability to erase their forces with mere gestures. It had studied him.

And now, it acted.

A low, rumbling growl echoed across the battlefield, a sound that sent shivers through the ranks of the still-reforming Dark Army. The air around Grendel warped, tendrils of abyssal energy coiling and unraveling like living chains.

Then, it changed.

The dragon's massive frame contorted, bones snapping and reforming, muscles stretching and reshaping. Its wings folded inward, dissolving into its back, its tail retracting into its shifting mass of darkness and molten corruption. Its body twisted, bones snapping in unnatural ways before realigning.

What remained was no longer a beast.

Grendel stood humanoid.

A towering, monstrous figure—hulking, muscular, its body coated in black, shifting symbiote flesh laced with deep crimson veins. Its elongated maw curled into something resembling a smirk, sharp fangs gleaming.

Clawed hands flexed, dripping with liquid darkness.

And its eyes—two glowing slits of red, filled with something more than just primal rage.

Understanding.

"You're strong," Grendel spoke, its voice layered, distorted, multiple tones overlapping in a chorus of malice. "Stronger than anything in this verse."

It rolled its shoulders, the movement fluid, testing its new form.

"But I understand you now."

Adriel's eyes narrowed beneath his mask.

"I doubt that."

And then Grendel moved.

It was fast—too fast.

Adriel barely had time to react before the creature was on him, its clawed fist swinging forward with enough force to rupture the air itself.

Spider-Sense flared. Adriel twisted—

The blow grazed his side, and even that slight contact sent him flying.

He barely righted himself before Grendel was there again.

A follow-up strike—Adriel ducked. A second claw, faster, sharper—he barely avoided it.

This was different.

Grendel was different.

Not just brute force anymore. Not just mindless destruction.

This was a fighter.

Grendel had studied his movements. It had learned.

Fine.

Adriel planted his foot into the dirt, using the force of the dodge to launch himself upward, flipping over Grendel's head. Mid-air, tendrils of bio-electricity crackled along his arm.

A Venom Punch charged, overflowing with raw energy.

He twisted, slammed his fist into Grendel's spine.

A crackling explosion.

Grendel staggered—but it did not fall.

Instead, it grinned.

"Tsk. That tickled."

Adriel's instincts flared.

Grendel whirled, its clawed hand blurring.

Adriel barely had time to dodge as razor-sharp talons sliced through the air, missing him by inches. He kicked off the ground, flipping backward, creating space.

No good.

Grendel rushed again, refusing to give him room.

Adriel weaved through the incoming strikes, each one faster than the last. Clawed slashes blurred through the air, narrowly missing as he ducked, twisted, countered.

But then—

Something else attacked.

The army.

The Dark warriors, still recovering, still reforming, charged again. Hundreds swarmed from all sides, attacking in sync with Grendel.

It was a coordinated assault.

The Dark's intelligence was merging with Grendel's.

They attacked together.

Adriel lashed out, his stingers extending, slashing through multiple warriors in one fluid motion. A dozen fell, bodies crumbling to dust.

Another wave.

A dozen spears hurtled toward him—he flipped backward, catching one in mid-air and hurling it back with enough force to impale three soldiers at once.

A blade slashed at his ribs—he bent unnaturally, dislocated his shoulder mid-dodge, then snapped it back into place.

Too many.

Adriel needed space.

His suit rippled—Mega Venom Blast.

A pulse of blue electricity erupted, spreading outward in a violent wave. The ground shattered, hundreds of Darks caught in the explosion disintegrating on contact.

But it cost him.

A split-second opening.

Grendel took it.

A massive claw gripped Adriel's throat.

And then—SLAM.

The impact cratered the earth, a shockwave tearing through the battlefield.

Grendel didn't stop.

It lifted Adriel again—SLAMMED him into the ground a second time.

A third.

A fourth.

The battlefield trembled.

And then, with a snarl, Grendel hurled Adriel like a ragdoll.

Adriel twisted mid-air, flipped three times, landed on one knee, coughing.

Grendel cracked its knuckles. "Not so untouchable now, are you?"

Adriel exhaled, slowly, pressing a hand to his side. His suit was already repairing, but that had been a hit.

Alright, you oversized parasite. You're fuckin' dead.

Grendel's twisted maw curled into something resembling a grin, jagged teeth glinting under the distorted battlefield sky. It had drawn blood. It had made Adriel feel the weight of its strength.

That alone made it dangerous.

Adriel wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his mask shifting slightly as his suit worked overtime to patch the internal damage. He felt his ribs reset, the burning sting of his healing factor kicking in.

The pain was nothing.

His gaze locked onto Grendel, burning with something other than fury.

Calculation.

Grendel noticed.

It snarled, claws flexing, liquid void energy dripping from its fingers. "Still thinking, even now?" it mused, stepping forward with slow, deliberate confidence. "You're realizing it, aren't you?"

Adriel straightened to his full height, rolling his shoulders as his body adjusted.

"Realizing what?"

Grendel chuckled darkly. "That I can match you. That I can hurt you."

Adriel cracked his neck, exhaling.

"Yeah?" He rolled his wrists, his stance shifting, low, balanced. "Let's test that theory."

Then they moved.

Simultaneously.

The space between them vanished in a single heartbeat.

Adriel ducked the first claw strike, his Spider-Sense flaring with blinding intensity. He sidestepped the second, felt the rush of wind as Grendel's arm tore through the air inches from his face.

He countered.

His stingers shot out, jabbing toward Grendel's ribs.

Grendel caught them.

Not with his claws.

With his bare hands.

Adriel's eyes widened, just as Grendel's arms twisted unnaturally—ripping Adriel off his feet and hurling him across the battlefield.

Shit.

Adriel flipped mid-air, twisting, firing a line of bio-electric webbing to slow his trajectory. He landed hard, skidding across the ruined earth.

Grendel was already there.

A colossal fist swung toward his head.

Adriel dropped low, sliding between Grendel's legs. He kicked off the ground, launching himself up right behind his opponent, both hands crackling with a Venom Blasts.

Direct hit—

Grendel spun mid-air, intercepting Adriel's strike with a point-blank blast of Void energy.

The collision detonated, sending both combatants flying in opposite directions.

Adriel tumbled across the battlefield, rolling to a stop, his hands digging into the earth to anchor himself.

He barely had time to breathe.

Grendel exploded forward, lunging, its humanoid frame shifting—elongating—as if it could change its proportions at will. Its right arm morphed into a bladed extension of its symbiotic mass, arcing downward with killing intent.

Adriel dodged, barely, the blade carving deep into the ground where he stood.

The instant his feet touched the ground, he retaliated.

His reflexes tripled.

He lashed out, his Venom Fangs unsheathing, sinking into Grendel's shoulder.

Electricity poured into the dragon symbiote's body.

Grendel howled, the energy surging through its monstrous frame.

Adriel tore his fangs free—then slammed both fists into its chest, unleashing a massive concussive Venom Beam.

Grendel flew back, smashing into the remnants of a crumbling fortress wall.

But it didn't stay down.

It roared, forcing itself back to its feet, smoke rising from its body, its breath labored.

For the first time, Grendel looked hurt.

For the first time, Grendel looked enraged.

The battlefield trembled.

Tendrils of corruption and void energy bled from Grendel's form, coiling around its body.

"You think you're strong?" it seethed, voice layered, filled with something deeper than hate.

Adriel shifted his stance, raising his arms, ready.

Grendel charged.

Their next clash was faster, deadlier.

Grendel moved through the Dark Army, using their bodies as weapons.

It grabbed a soldier—hurled it at Adriel like a projectile.

Adriel dodged, barely, only for another to be thrown his way.

The bastard's using them as shields—!

A sword-wielding Dark swung at Adriel's back—he ducked.

Grendel was already on him, claws tearing toward his chest.

Adriel met the strike head-on, his forearms clashing against Grendel's claws, the impact sending a shockwave through the ground.

Then—Grendel shifted.

Its entire torso twisted mid-fight, its tail manifesting from its back, slamming into Adriel's ribs.

Pain.

Adriel coughed, the air forced from his lungs as he was sent flying once again.

Grendel was keeping up.

It was adapting. Changing tactics.

Adriel gritted his teeth.

How annoying.

He flipped mid-air, vanishing in a blur of motion.

Reappearing above Grendel.

He drove his heel down onto the symbiote's skull, slamming it face-first into the ground.

Before Grendel could react, Adriel grabbed its arm—and with pure strength, tore it from its socket.

Void ichor splattered across the battlefield.

Grendel roared in agony, its body convulsing violently—

And then, it laughed.

Adriel tensed.

Grendel's severed limb grew back, instantly.

"You don't get it," it sneered, voice trembling with rage.

Its body reformed.

Its power spiked.

"I don't die."

The battlefield seemed to darken, the corruption around them pulsing like a heartbeat.

But Adriel was done.

His body hummed with Venom Energy.

His fists clenched, brimming with limit-breaking power.

And then, he struck.

One, fifty, a hundredth blows in a single second.

Each strike sent shockwaves across the battlefield.

Each punch disrupted Grendel's form.

It staggered, its monstrous body faltering, losing cohesion.

The final blow.

Adriel raised both hands, all his Venom power condensing into a singular, concentrated blast.

He drove it forward, directly into Grendel's core.

BOOM.

Grendel screamed, its humanoid form splitting apart, its very essence dissolving.

Its void-corrupted mass began to collapse.

"You—" It gasped, its voice fading, deteriorating. "You shouldn't be—this strong."

Adriel stared down, breath even.

"You shouldn't have made yourself my problem."

Then, Grendel was no more.

The corruption vanished.

And the battlefield fell silent.

The moment Grendel ceased to exist, the Dark Army collapsed.

Not in a way an army should.

There were no lingering cries, no sounds of retreat. One moment, three thousand warriors stood on the battlefield, their corrupted forms still burning with unnatural energy.

The next, they crumbled into dust.

Their bodies, once held together by Grendel's corruption, vanished in an instant, their very existence erased the moment their master fell. The battlefield, once an ocean of enemies, was now nothing but silence and ruin.

Adriel stood amidst it all, the wind carrying away what little remained of the once-unstoppable force. He exhaled slowly, his suit shifting, the tendrils of its living material retracting slightly as the battle finally ended.

It was done.

But his job wasn't.

Without another moment wasted, Adriel's body glowed for a brief instant before the air around him twisted, bent inward—

And he was gone.

A wave of energy pulsed outward as Adriel reappeared within the heart of the church, the last sanctuary for the villagers of Alsace.

Gasps filled the room.

Fear immediately crept into the eyes of those inside—until the recognition of his aura settled in.

They didn't know him. But they knew what he was.

And more than that, they knew what he had just done.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, a voice broke the silence.

"...It's over?"

Titta.

She was standing near the front, her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were pale. Her wide, fearful eyes locked onto Adriel, desperately searching for an answer.

Adriel gave her one.

"It's over," he confirmed, voice steady, absolute. "The Dark Army is gone. They won't be coming back."

A wave of relief washed over the villagers. Murmurs spread throughout the room, tension giving way to quiet sobs, whispered prayers, and sheer disbelief.

But Titta didn't look relieved.

She stepped forward, her expression still filled with concern. "...And Lord Tigre?"

Adriel exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He had expected this. She was supposed to see Tigre here, not him.

Adriel met her gaze. "He's safe."

Titta's breath hitched. "But—he was supposed to—" she hesitated, looking around at the others, before stepping closer, lowering her voice. "Lord Tigre was supposed to be here. With Elen's army. But instead—" she gestured at him. "You were here. Why?"

Adriel looked at her, his expression unreadable.

"...Because Brune's army fell."

Titta froze.

"What?"

Adriel exhaled, deciding to be as direct as possible.

"Tigre was supposed to be here," he admitted. "Leading Zhcted's forces against Brune's army. But things changed. Brune's forces became something... unnatural. And when they came for this village, I had to step in."

Titta's eyes widened, the weight of his words sinking in.

"...Then you knew this was coming?"

Adriel nodded. "I knew that if no one stood in their way, this village—and everyone in it—would be gone."

The room fell silent.

The villagers listened intently, their fear and uncertainty still heavy in the air. But Titta, more than anyone, felt the truth in his words.

Her hands clenched at her sides. "Then... what about Lord Tigre? Where is he?"

Adriel's voice didn't waver. "He's alive and safe. But I promised him I'd protect his home. That includes all of you."

Titta's breath caught. There was something in Adriel's voice—certainty, unshakable and absolute. For the first time since this nightmare began, she felt like she could breathe again.

"...Thank you," she whispered.

Adriel nodded. "You don't need to thank me. But there's still something else we need to discuss."

He turned to the rest of the villagers.

"With Brune's army destroyed, Alsace is now in a dangerous position. You don't have the strength to defend yourselves from what comes next."

A nervous murmur ran through the crowd. They all knew the political weight of what had just happened. The only reason Brune hadn't already swallowed their land was because of the war. And now, with their army gone—

Titta realized what he was saying.

"...Zhcted," she breathed.

Adriel met her gaze. "Exactly."

Several villagers tensed. The idea of being absorbed into another kingdom—especially after just being attacked—was a difficult reality to face.

But Adriel wasn't done.

"I understand this isn't what you wanted. You've suffered enough, and I'm not about to let some foreign force march in here and make things worse." His voice was steady, assured. "But I'm telling you now—Zhcted isn't your enemy."

The crowd murmured, exchanging uncertain glances.

"Zhcted's leaders, they aren't monsters," Adriel continued. "They would never harm you. In fact, Tigre is in Zhcted as we speak. He's built trust with them. And I know for a fact that he would rather die than see this village suffer."

Silence.

Titta stared at him. "...You really know him, don't you?"

Adriel smiled faintly. "Yeah. I do."

The tension in her shoulders eased, just a little.

Then, one of the older men in the crowd stepped forward. "...What will happen to us?"

Adriel turned to him. "For now, I'll personally ensure that Alsace is integrated safely under Zhcted's protection. No forceful rule, no extortion—just stability. That's my promise."

"And what if we refuse?" another villager asked hesitantly.

Adriel crossed his arms. "Then you're leaving yourselves open to whatever power vacuum follows. I won't force this on you. But I will warn you. Refusing this deal doesn't just put you at risk. It puts your families, your children, and everyone you love at risk."

His words sank in.

Titta's expression hardened.

"...You're right," she admitted quietly. Then, louder, turning to the others—"We can't risk this village falling into the wrong hands. If Lord Tigre trusts Zhcted, then we should too."

The weight of her words settled over the villagers. And slowly—one by one—they began to nod in agreement.

Adriel took a breath.

It was done.

Zhcted would take control. The village would be safe. Tigre would return to a home that was still standing.

That was all that mattered.

Finally, Titta turned to him again, eyes softer now. "So... what happens next?"

Adriel sighed, relaxing for the first time that day.

"...Next?" He smirked, glancing toward the ruined battlefield. "Now? I think I could use a damn meal."

A beat.

Then—against all odds—Titta laughed.

"Can I know your name?" She asked with a smile.

"Adriel," he smirks, "Adriel Josue."

"Thank you, Adriel," she said softly, "For saving us."

"It's no problem, it's part of my job," he smiles.

It wasn't much. But it was enough.

The war wasn't over.

But for now, Alsace was safe.

Adriel stood at the heart of the villages' church, the air still charged from the remnants of battle. The villagers had seen the impossible, had watched him annihilate an army, and now stood in silent awe. But for Adriel, there was still one more thing left to do.

He turned to Titta, who had barely let go of his sleeve since he returned. Her eyes were wide, full of unspoken emotions—relief, confusion, and something close to disbelief.

"I'll be back in a few seconds," he assured.

She looked up at him, hesitant, but nodded.

And then, he vanished.

To Be Continued...