The western district lay in eerie silence.

  Eslene moved carefully down the abandoned street, her boots crunching softly over scattered debris—broken pottery, torn cloth, a child’s wooden toy snapped in half. Lucien walked beside her, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade. Behind them, a squad of hunters advanced in formation, eyes sharp, weapons ready, every sense alert.

  But not a single civilian was in sight.

  The buildings around them stood intact for the most part—doors closed, windows shuttered—but something felt wrong. It was not the calm of peace. It was the hollow quiet of something forcibly emptied.

  They stopped before the first house.

  Lucien pushed the door open slowly. It creaked in protest, echoing far too loudly through the empty street. Inside, the house looked… lived in. A half-set dining table, bowls of food long gone cold and crusted. A chair lay overturned, as if someone had stood up too quickly.

  Eslene knelt near the table. “They left in a hurry.”

  Lucien nodded. “No signs of struggle, though. No blood. No broken furniture. Just… panic.”

  They moved deeper into the house. In one corner, a blanket lay crumpled on the floor, as if someone had abandoned it mid-rest. In the back room, a wardrobe stood open, clothes hastily pulled out and scattered across the bed.

  “Not looting,” one of the hunters muttered. “They didn’t pack anything valuable.”

  “Which means they weren’t relocating,” Eslene replied. “They were forced to leave.”

  They exited and moved to the next building.

  A shop. Shelves still stocked, coins left unattended at the counter. A ledger open, the last entry unfinished, the ink smudged as though the writer’s hand had shaken.

  Lucien traced the edge of the page. “Same story.”

  Another building—a small shrine. Candles burned down to wax puddles. Prayer beads scattered across the floor, as if dropped mid-chant. No bodies. No signs of violence.

  Everywhere they went, the same clues repeated themselves.

  Open doors. Abandoned belongings. Food left untouched. Beds unmade. Signs of people leaving fast.

  “They didn’t flee a fire,” Lucien said. “No scorch marks. No smoke.”

  “They didn’t flee attackers either,” Eslene added. “No corpses. No blood trails.”

  “So… where did they go?”

  Eslene straightened, her expression dark. “That’s what scares me.”

  As they stepped back into the street, both of them suddenly halted.

  Two powerful presences surged past overhead.

  Eslene and Lucien instinctively looked up.

  A pair of figures streaked across the sky—dark wings cutting through the clouds, crimson aura trailing behind like a comet’s tail.

  Lilith and Camilia.

  They didn’t slow. They didn’t glance down. They flew with urgency, bodies leaning forward, as if racing against time itself.

  Lucien frowned. “They seem… in a rush. Something happen?”

  Eslene narrowed her eyes. “They’re heading toward the battlefield direction.”

  She paused, confusion crossing her face. “But… didn’t they enter the Citadel with the others? Since when did they come back out into the district?”

  Lucien turned his gaze to the street from which the two vampires had emerged. The wind still stirred where their wings had cut through the air.

  “Maybe we should go take a look,” he suggested. “There might be clues.”

  Eslene nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They sprinted forward, the hunters following close behind.

  Smoke still lingered near the collapsed gate of the holy city. The once-proud entrance lay in ruins, shattered stone and splintered wood scattered like the remains of a fallen giant.

  Arame stood among the aftermath, overseeing the aftermath of battle.

  Vatican soldiers who had surrendered were being escorted to a secured area, their weapons confiscated and piled into heaps. Healers moved swiftly among the injured, both enemy and ally, their magic glowing softly as they stabilized wounds.

  Despite the chaos, order was being restored.

  But Arame’s attention drifted.

  He noticed Zero standing beside Vesta near the edge of the fallen gate. Both of them stared into the distance, their expressions tense, brows furrowed as if sensing something unseen.

  Arame approached, the Seven Swordsmen falling in behind him like silent shadows. They did not speak. They did not move unnecessarily. Guardians to the core.

  “What is it?” Arame asked, following their gaze.

  Zero didn’t answer immediately. He looked at Vesta instead. “You felt that, didn’t you?”

  Vesta swallowed. “Yes… at first, it was faint. I thought I imagined it. But then… those presences appeared out of nowhere.”

  Zero’s eyes darkened. “Judging by the mana… one of them is familiar. Darkness. Heavy. Oppressive.” He exhaled slowly. “Likely one of the Dark Ones.”

  He hesitated. “But the other… I’ve never felt anything like it.”

  Arame followed their line of sight.

  Far across the battlefield, barely visible through the haze, two figures stood facing each other. One radiated abyssal darkness, devouring the light around it. The other burned—literally. A fiery presence so intense it distorted the air.

  Even from this distance, their mana could be felt.

  Not just dense.

  Not just heavy.

  It burned.

  Arame clenched his fist. “Should we go check it out?”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Zero shook his head. “No. We’d only get in the way.”

  He stared ahead, jaw tight. “The power level over there… it’s beyond our league now.”

  He swallowed. “One of them is likely Draculius. I will never forget how terrifying his mana felt.”

  Vesta gasped. “Draculius…?”

  Zero continued. “The other… likely an Archangel. A different one from what Kevlar told us about.”

  Vesta froze. “An Archangel? A holy being?” Her eyes widened. “They still exist?”

  Arame turned to her. “Yes. They do. And your beloved Saint has been hiding them in his underground sanctuaries all this time.”

  Vesta staggered back a step. “W-What…?”

  “Guess he never intended to let his loyal servant know of such secrets,” Arame added coldly.

  Vesta shook her head. “But… isn’t it a good thing? A holy being… he’ll be our savior, right, Zero?”

  Zero didn’t respond immediately.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was cold. “No.”

  She looked at him in disbelief.

  “They’re no saviors,” he continued. “Just an extinct species… struggling for supremacy. Like humans.”

  Vesta’s eyes trembled. “You don’t know what you’re saying… Zero. Did the darkness corrupt you? Our teachings—”

  He cut her off.

  “Those ‘saviors’ you worship,” Zero said quietly, “killed Slavik.”

  Vesta froze.

  “They killed our knight,” he went on. “And they felt no remorse. No pity.”

  “Because to them… we are nothing but insects.”

  His voice hardened. “Everything we were taught since young… to believe, to submit, to obey, to sacrifice.”

  “For what?” he demanded. “To be tossed aside like disposable pawns?”

  “To be discarded when we’ve served our purpose?”

  He grabbed Vesta by the shoulders. “I told you… see for yourself.”

  “See the truth.”

  “Then you’ll understand.”

  He released her and turned back toward the distant clash of shadow and flame.

  “Whatever happens next,” Zero murmured, “depends on the outcome of that battle.”

  Vesta remained silent, trembling, her beliefs cracking under the weight of reality.

  Far away, shadow and flame continued their silent standoff.

  Seraphine and Varain moved deeper into the center district, their footsteps echoing faintly across the deserted streets. The once-grand heart of the holy city now felt hollow—statues of saints loomed overhead like silent judges, their stone eyes watching as if aware of the tragedy unfolding beneath them.

  They had already combed through the west district.

  Nothing.

  No shelters.

  No survivors.

  No clues.

  Only abandonment.

  Now, they stood before a massive circular field carved into the heart of the district. The open space was unnaturally wide—far too large for simple gatherings. It looked capable of holding thousands of people at once. The ground was worn smooth, as if countless feet had once trampled over it.

  Around the perimeter stood seven massive gate-like structures, ancient and imposing. Their surfaces were engraved with sacred runes and celestial symbols. Time had eroded their edges, yet the aura they emitted still felt oppressive.

  Inactive.

  Silent.

  Dead.

  Hunters circled the structures, tracing their carvings, trying to channel mana into them.

  “No reaction,” one hunter muttered.

  “No mana circulation at all.”

  “They’re completely dormant.”

  Seraphine studied them closely. “Try activating them.”

  They did.

  Magic surged. Runes glowed briefly. Some hunters even forced raw mana into the structures—

  But nothing happened.

  The gates remained lifeless.

  As their frustration grew. Suddenly—

  “Over here!”

  A hunter near the edge of the field waved frantically.

  They all rushed over and saw it. Half-buried beneath dust and debris lay a large metal hatch. Rust clung to its edges, and deep scratch marks ran across its surface—as if something had once tried desperately to claw its way out.

  “On three!” someone shouted.

  Several hunters strained together.

  Groooooan—

  The hatch finally lifted, revealing a stone staircase spiraling downward into darkness.

  Cold air rushed up from below, carrying a damp, metallic scent that made their skin crawl.

  Seraphine didn’t hesitate.

  She stepped forward.

  “Stay sharp.”

  They descended in a single file.

  Light spells ignited, glowing orbs floating beside them. Shadows danced wildly across the walls as they moved deeper. The stairwell stretched far longer than expected—each step taking them further from the surface, further from safety.

  Minutes passed.

  Then they reached the bottom.

  A long corridor stretched before them, disappearing into darkness. The walls were carved stone, stained by time and moisture. The air felt heavy—stagnant, suffocating.

  And at the far end—

  A massive steel gate.

  The hunters rushed forward and tried to pull it open.

  “Argh! It’s not budging!”

  “Just how heavy is this thing?!”

  Their veins bulged and muscles strained.

  Nothing.

  Not even a tremor.

  Seraphine stepped forward calmly.

  “It’s okay. Fall back. I will take it from here”

  She drew her blade.

  The moment steel met air—

  The temperature plummeted.

  Frost exploded outward from her feet, crawling up the walls, coating the floor in crystal ice. Their breaths turned to mist.

  And with a single precise jab—

  CRACK—!

  The entire gate instantly froze solid.

  She sheathed her sword without another word.

  “Your turn, Varain.”

  Varain stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. His gauntlet pulsed as he coated it with pure mana. Energy crackled around his fist, compressing violently.

  He inhaled.

  Then—

  BOOOOOOM!

  One punch.

  The frozen gate shattered into a thousand glittering shards, exploding outward like broken glass. Shards clattered across the corridor floor.

  Varain shook his hand slightly, smirking.

  “Heh… awesome, wasn’t it?”

  The hunters stared in disbelief.

  Seraphine didn’t react.

  She walked forward beyond the shattered gate and inside it was pure Darkness.

  “It too dark. I need more light,” she said.

  The Hunters behind casted multiple brighter spells.

  The chamber illuminated.

  And—

  Everyone froze. Their expression turned into shock and disbelief.

  Bodies.

  Hundreds.

  No.

  Thousands.

  Men.

  Women.

  Children.

  They were scattered throughout the chamber floor.

  Lifeless.

  Motionless.

  Their skin was dry and shriveled, as if something had drained them completely. Their eyes were blank—white and hollow. Faces twisted in silent agony, some still frozen in expressions of terror.

  It looked as if life itself had been sucked out of them.

  The silence was unbearable.

  A hunter dropped to his knees and gagged.

  Another turned away, vomiting.

  Not because of the smell.

  But because of what had been done.

  Varain trembled.

  Then he slammed his fist into the floor.

  BOOM!

  “What the hell is this?!”

  His voice cracked.

  “This wasn’t supposed to be like this!”

  “We were supposed to save them—Alive!”

  “DAMN IT!!”

  For the first time—Seraphine lost control of her emotion.

  Her mana surged violently.

  A wave of freezing air erupted from her body, spreading across the chamber. Ice crept along the corpses, encasing them like a frozen grave.

  Her voice remained calm.

  Too calm.

  But every word dripped with hatred.

  “That Saint of theirs…”

  “…is a monster.”

  “No.”

  “He’s worse than a monster.”

  “He deserves to die a million times.”

  Her gaze dropped.

  Something small lay near her boots.

  A child’s doll.

  She slowly bent down and picked it up.

  The cloth was torn. One button eye missing.

  Her hands trembled.

  Tears welled up as she squeezed it tightly.

  “How could they do this…?”

  Her voice broke.

  “They didn’t even spare the children…”

  And everyone remained silent.

  Even Varain usual aloof self couldn’t speak.

  Hunters looked away, fists clenched, teeth grinding in helpless rage.

  Seraphine wiped her tears slowly.

  “Our mission here… is done.”

  She turned to Varain.

  “Now…”

  “We have a new one.”

  “Our new mission…”

  “…is to hunt Saint Fariel.”

  Her eyes burned.

  “And kill that murdering son of a bitch.”

  Kevlar stood in the center of the ruined hall, arms relaxed, posture casual—yet his presence alone felt suffocating.

  Across from him—

  Three Archangels.

  Lumiel,

  Omael,

  and Ramiel.

  At the same times, the battle of their comrade that had occurred around them left mana tremors rippled through the air.

  They all felt it.

  From every direction.

  Powerful fluctuations—clashes that shook the very fabric of space. Even without seeing, they could sense the outcomes.

  Kevlar chuckled.

  “Looks like your brothers aren’t doing too well.”

  Lumiel’s eyes widened.

  His wings trembled slightly.

  I can’t sense Samael…

  Or Vergil…

  His breath hitched.

  Impossible…

  They shouldn’t fall to those humans…

  Omael clenched his spear tightly, wings flaring outward in agitation.

  “Brothers… something isn’t right.”

  “For our brothers to fall to those weaklings…”

  “It Impossible!”

  Ramiel snarled, slamming his spear onto the floor.

  “This must be a trick!”

  “Some kind of illusion or deception by the humans!”

  Kevlar burst out laughing.

  “A trick, you say?”

  “So when angels fall…”

  “It’s a trick.”

  “But when you slaughter us…”

  “it means we’re just weak?”

  He wiped a tear of mockery from his eye.

  “Just accept it.”

  “You Archangels…”

  “…are nothing but forgotten relics still basking in your own self proclaimed supremacy”

  “History... should stay in history.”

  “With you parasites clinging to the present world…”

  “The era can never grow.”

  His eyes sharpened.

  “And it’s my duty as The Shadowborn of this era…”

  “…to erase you from this world.”

  Lumiel trembled.

  His wings shook violently.

  Rage boiled inside him—but he couldn’t speak.

  And for the longest time—

  Fear crept back into an Archangel’s heart.