The castle of Valemourn loomed in the distance, silhouetted against a sky torn by chaos. Screams echoed from beyond the hills, and the scent of blood, smoke, and undeath tainted the wind. The city's mighty walls—once the bastion of vampiric nobility—were fractured. Its gates, shattered. Its streets, aflame.
But no bodies lay still.
Everyone kept rising.
A civil war raged between vampire houses—Draven, Noctivar, Astoria—and smaller clans now twisted by the Noctis Vitae. They clashed endlessly… yet not a single one could die.
Charlotte stood atop a broken watchtower, her cloak whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed.
"I tried controlling their blood…" she muttered, voice sharp with disbelief, "but they have none."
Below them, two factions stabbed, burned, and tore at each other—only to rise moments later, flesh knitting, bones reforming.
No hearts beating. Still fighting.
"They're corpses… animated by hatred," Charlotte said.
Thea watched grimly, tightening her grip on her swords. "Ryle… if you didn't traumatize the hero, we wouldn't be dealing with this."
Ryle groaned, glancing at her. "In my defense, he threw a church at me."
They didn't get to laugh.
A dark fog swept over the ruined avenue. The air grew thick with ancestral malice. From the shadows emerged a horde—not of mindless undead, but tall, noble figures with regal postures and glowing red eyes. Each wore armor bearing the Draven crest.
The Draven Clan, once thought to be wiped out, had returned. Undead. Controlled. Revived by Varaziel.
Charlotte cursed. "I know this will be happening."
One lunged forward—unnaturally fast.
Charlotte stepped in front of Thea, forming a blood shield—but too late.
A spear pierced Ryle's chest.
His eyes widened as crimson spilled from his mouth. The vampires chanted as one:
"The World's Strongest Journalist ends here."
Ryle dropped to his knees, breath shallow. His blood floated into the air, a beautiful, terrible red mist.
But then—
The mist twisted.
A shape formed mid-air—a dragon's head—screaming with silent fury. Its eyes glowed gold, its jaw opened wide, and with a roar that shook the heavens, the dragon lunged—
slamming the blood back into Ryle's body.
His wounds healed instantly. Power surged through him like wildfire.
"I'm not done," he growled.
From the sky, a shadow descended.
Elizabeth.
Her dress, once elegant, was tattered and soaked in blood. Her skin pale. Her eyes empty, as though her soul had cracked.
Charlotte fell to her knees. "Your Majesty?"
Elizabeth trembled, eyes glassy. "I… I failed Valemourn. I failed you all."
From every undead vampire's back, rotting arms erupted—grotesque, twisted limbs that moved with unnatural grace. Their spines stretched, and now they walked on their arms, contorted like beasts, their faces slack and weeping.
Thea gasped. "What the hell is—"
"Varaziel," Charlotte whispered. "He's using Dzoavits… through all of them."
Thousands of undead now moved in unison—beasts controlled by a god of flesh and blood.
Thea stepped forward, both swords glowing. "I'll cut through them all."
But Ryle stopped her, spreading his wings wide.
> "Thea… give me the swords."
She hesitated, then nodded.
He took Twinlight and he merge it, the sacred blades once meant for the Hero. He pressed them together—light and darkness merging—and the swords fused into one, transforming into the legendary Hero's Sword once more.
A blade of harmony.
A blade of finality.
Ryle took to the skies.
Flames erupted from his back, and he soared above the city like a comet.
He dove into the undead swarm, each slash burning with sacred dragonfire. Vampire monstrosities shrieked as his sword carved through them. Each impact shattered bone, each breath incinerated the rot. He cleaved through limbs, sliced off mutated arms, severed heads—and still they came.
He was relentless.
His wings beat with fury, every motion etched with purpose.
This wasn't just a battle.
It was a purge.
Thea and Charlotte watched from below—helpless, awed.
The Hero's Sword glowed brighter with each strike, feeding on righteousness. Ryle's aura became blinding. The sky above parted—sunlight piercing through the cursed storm.
And finally, when the last of the grotesque army fell, he landed.
His knees buckled.
He dropped the sword.
Charlotte caught him.
Thea knelt beside him and reclaimed the blades, their glow fading.
From the ruins, Elizabeth crawled forward, blood staining her pale hands.
Her voice cracked. "Charlotte…"
Charlotte turned.
"I need to die," Elizabeth whispered, tears falling. "Please. Before he uses me again."
Charlotte closed her eyes.
"Forgive me."
She drove her hand into Elizabeth's chest—directly through the heart.
The Queen of Valemourn body fall finally at peace.