Goody reared back on his hind legs before stumping heavily to the ground, the weight of his bulk shaking the dirt like a drumbeat.

"Master is brave… come on, master, climb on!" the dragon's deep voice rumbled, half proud, half teasing.

Simma smirked faintly, though the anger in his eyes did not fade. With a quick motion, he mounted Goody's scaled neck, gripping tight. With a single massive flap of wings, Goody launched skyward, cutting through the air like a blade through silk.

The dragon tilted forward, scales glinting under the firelit sky. Air whistled past them in sharp shrieks, as he dove, coiling his body nimbly as arrows of fire streaked past them.

Another rocket screamed toward them, but Goody snapped his wings to the side and veered away with startling agility.

"Good thing I saw that one," the dragon muttered, his tone as casual as if he'd dodged a falling fruit.

"Get me lower!" Simma ordered, his voice sharp, and urgent.

Without hesitation, Goody looped in the air and dove toward the ground, wings slicing the wind as he arrowed toward the ground where the Singriths were most densely gathered. too preoccupied with their bloodletting to notice what was descending upon them.

As they sped earthward, Simma pushed himself off Goody's back. He somersaulted in mid-air, twisting into a controlled backflip before landing with deliberate precision; one hand planted firmly against the dirt, one knee bent to catch the impact.

His frame was coiled like a predator crouched to strike, the ground trembling beneath him as though the earth itself recognized who had just touched it.

Slowly, with the menace of a predator lifting its gaze, Simma raised his head. His gaze, stern and unforgiving. His eyes glowed with an eerie blue light, cold yet searing, his face set in a stern and merciless mask.

Lucent blue energy crackled across his arm, scaling over his skin like living lightning. His weapon shimmered into existence, glowing with the same violent light, sparks dancing along its blade as though eager to taste flesh.

Simma rose to his full height, his shadow stretching long behind him. Before him, the Singriths braced themselves, their snarls cutting through the chaos as they prepared to lunge.

With a guttural roar, they charged.

"Lightning Sword," Simma muttered under his breath. He, too, began to run, his frame drenched in hatred, every muscle woven with rage, every heartbeat echoing vengeance.

His sword was not just a weapon now: at those words, it became the embodiment of his fury, the promise of death.

Step by step, the distance between them shrank. Simma's posture was a storm wound tight, ready to be unleashed.

"IGNICARIS!" he thundered, his voice a tremor in the battlefield.

His body flared, pulsing with explosive energy. His sword burst into violent radiance, arcs of blue lightning coiling around it, as wild and furious as his eyes. He raised it high, every ounce of wrath pouring into the strike.

"YAAAAAAHHHHH!"

SLASH.

The clash was brutal and immediate. With one sweeping slash, he cut through the Singriths. Each swing of his blade carried lightning, each arc carving through flesh and bone.

A head spiraled skyward before hitting the dirt with its fanged mouth still twitching. Another was cleaved through the chest, its heart split and cauterized by raw power.

His blade sang through the air, cutting through Singriths as if they were made of parchment. Every movement of his body was precise, honed, yet feral; dodging strikes by a breath, countering with steel that never missed.

His blade pierced hearts, his arcs cleaved necks, and heads rolled to the dirt, with eyes still wide and fangs bared in the last frozen moment of life.

Singriths could only be killed by beheading or piercing their heart. Fire could kill too, but only in searing intensities that left no room for survival.

Simma's kimono was drenched crimson, his face painted in streaks of blood that was not his own. Yet he fought on, weaving like a phantom among the Singriths, striking with such speed and ferocity that his movements became a terror to them.

But his ferocity drew their attention. Slowly, more and more of them abandoned other Azren fighters, circling in toward him. Until at last, he stood alone, surrounded.

Their snarls, their dripping fangs, the metallic clink of weapons closing in; it was like a wolf pack, tightening the circle around its prey.

Simma's grip on his sword tightened.

He stood with sword raised, breath steady, eyes sharp, scanning the circle of snarling faces around him. Their fangs dripping with gore, claws flexed, weapons gleamed. The circle was shrinking, their intent suffocating the very air.

One lunged. An axe descended toward his skull, only to clash with his blade in a metallic shriek. Sparks sprayed like fireflies. With a swift, almost theatrical movement, Simma's foot swept the Singrith neatly of the ground, launching it into the air.

The beast hadn't even touched the ground as Simma's sword like a blue blur sliced past, and before its head would wrap around what was happening, it was already severed, as it rolled free off its shoulders.

Another came, claws high. Simma pivoted, grabbed him by the back, and hurled him into the others with bone-cracking force.

Then a third. A fourth. A fifth. Each one was met with steel and fury. He sliced one in half mid-leap, blood arcing in the air like a grotesque ribbon.

But the numbers swelled; seven, eight, nine. Soon, the entire horde surged at once, burying him beneath a crushing wave of snarls and limbs.

Outside the tightening circle, the other Accrehx Azrens fought desperately. Among them was Delilah, her blade flashing with relentless defiance. But the enemy was too many.

"Call the others! We need reinforcements now!" one of the Azren warriors bellowed, driving his spear through three Singriths at once.

"Pull back from the horde!" he barked again, already retreating.

"But Simma is still in there!" Delilah shouted, voice breaking with rage.

"His sacrifice will be remembered!" came the cold reply.

Delilah's jaw clenched. No. she would not retreat. She slashed forward, blade tearing through flesh, her persistence blazing like fire.

"Lilah, he's dead already!" someone cried, but she didn't hear. She couldn't. Soon, she too was encircled, Singriths closing around her like a tightening noose.

"Lilah, fall back! Wait for reinforcements!" But her answer was her blade, swinging defiantly.

"Simma!" she cried, fending off the encroaching monsters. Her voice cracked.

"Simma!" she screamed again, as the circle closed in. But she didn't care. If she was going to die, she'd die trying to cut through to him.

"Simma!" she yelled again.

But no answer.

Rather, something else was happening.

The ground convulsed beneath them, quaking so violently that dirt rippled like waves on water. Sand leapt into the air. The atmosphere thickened, suffocating, as if the battlefield itself held its breath.

Delilah and the Singriths froze, captivated by the strange force. For a moment, fighting itself was forgotten.

From the very center of the horde where Simma had been buried, a red light pulsed. At first faint, beating slowly, rhythmically, like a heart. Then it grew, swelling, burning hotter, and brighter. The glow swelled, heat rolling off it like the breath of a furnace.

BOOM!

A thunderous eruption tore through the field. A storm of lightning, red as blood, exploded outward. Singriths were hurled into the air like ragdolls, some obliterated entirely.

The shockwave ran through the battlefield, raising dust in a suffocating wave that cloaked everything in a choking fog.

When it finally began to settle, a figure was revealed, crouched low.

One fist pressed to the ground. One knee bent, the earth cracked beneath him. His head hung low, hair falling like a shadow across his face.

Then, slowly and majestically, he raised his head.

His eyes burned crimson, blazing with unholy fire. His aura was no longer human; it was raw, sharp, and demonic. Fangs bared, claws dripping with dark energy, and his once-dark hair now shone ghostly white, whipping about his face.

Demonic patterns, glowing faintly like smoldering tattoos, coiled around his body, stopping at his neck. Only one crept close to his face, arching like a scar above his right eye.

He was in his demonic form, a shape so coarse and wild that even the air recoiled from its rawness.

Through the haze, he spotted Delilah, her lucent beast fighting at her side. The creature mimicked her movements, slashing where she slashed, roaring where she roared. Though the fog blurred its details, he caught glimpses of its reptilian frame, shimmering with radiant light.

The dust still concealed him. None could yet see what he had become.

Then, ahead of him, a figure appeared. A silhouette standing amidst the haze, tall, composed, radiating menace. It held an aura and physique that showed it was unlike the other ranked Singriths around.

Simma's gaze locked with the figure's. The world seemed to narrow until it was only the two of them, stepping forward, closing the distance one steady pace at a time.

Step by step. Closer and Closer.

Until they stopped.

Through the thinning dust, Simma saw the face clearly now. An eyepatch covered the left eye. The smirk on that face was one Simma would never forget; not for admiration, but for hatred.

His heart tightened, as he gritted his teeth, the anger in him doubling all the more.

Maybe… just maybe, fate had blessed him with his vengeance.

The figure standing before him... the Singrith with the eyepatch per se... was the one who killed Sonja.

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