(Narrator POV)

Allen's roar rolled through the stadium like thunder breaking against stone.

"COME AT ME!"

It wasn't a challenge—it was an invitation. A declaration. A promise of the carnage he intended to unleash.

The agents, bruised and breathless, exchanged one last look among themselves. Some swallowed fear, some steadied shaking hands, but none stepped back. They had already accepted what this fight meant. If they died here, at least they wouldn't die running.

They charged.

Allen didn't retreat.

He didn't flinch.

He simply lifted his arm.

A low crack came from within his skin—bones shifting, reshaping. Then the claws emerged, obsidian and jagged, each one thick enough to cleave steel. They scraped the air with a harsh metallic note as he flexed his fingers.

His expression never changed.

Then he struck.

One smooth motion—so swift it left an afterimage hanging in the air—and the front line collapsed before they understood what had cut them. A spray of red followed, warm droplets scattering across stone and steel. Bodies fell. Shadows twisted. The battlefield exhaled in horror.

Allen moved with a predator's grace, each step calculated, each slash precise. He wasn't fighting—he was performing. He spun through the crowd of soldiers like a dark waltz, claws leaving arcs of crimson light.

But everything stopped with a single sound.

CLANG.

His claw hit steel and did not push through.

Allen paused, almost surprised, before he slowly turned his head. The blade locking his strike shimmered—not forged metal, but living blood hardened into a sword.

At the other end of it stood Sara.

She wasn't unhurt—her cheeks were streaked with dust, her lip split, her hands trembling—but her stance held firm. Her crimson eyes glowed like dying embers refusing to go out.

Allen's voice lowered into something strangely soft, almost fond. "So you finally step forward."

Sara pushed against his claw, jaw tight, her arms trembling from the pressure. "Looks like I made you wait long enough, you Disgusting monster."

Allen laughed—quietly, almost warmly—but the sound carried the chill of a grave. He tilted his head as if studying a rare creature. "You pretend to despise me," he murmured. "But you also like me, don't you? The blood… the chaos… the deaths." His smile stretched, sharp and knowing. "It fuels your art."

Sara's grip tightened. "You don't know a single thing about my art."

"Oh, but I do." His eyes glittered. "You shape inconnet blood into weapons. Yet every weapon you forge is a memory of someone who fell. You fight with ghosts, Sara Venom."

Her expression flickered—but just for a heartbeat.

Then she lifted her sword, pointing its trembling tip toward his throat.

"I'm done listening to you Disgusting monsters."

Allen spread his arms slightly, inviting her in. "Then come silence me, little blood sucking bat."

The air thickened, vibrated—two opposing wills crashing invisibly before their blades touched. The soldiers far behind felt their knees weaken from the pressure alone.

Around them, the battlefield held still.

No wind.

No echo.

No breath.

Only two figures standing amid a sea of blood, preparing for a clash that would decide the fate of everyone watching.

And when they were waiting for first moved as they were playing chess.

Sara and Allen circled each other like two tempests measuring the winds before impact.

The battlefield around them was drenched in shades of red—fresh blood reflecting harsh stadium lights, bodies lying where they had fallen only moments earlier. The metallic scent in the air clung to the lungs like smoke.

Sara's boots sank slightly into the pooled crimson.

Allen's claws dripped with it.

Neither spoke at first.

Venti—the sentient vampiric blade—throbbed faintly in Sara's hands like a living heart, responding to her rising anger. Allen, bare-chested and marked with ancient symbols, breathed with a controlled thrill. His excitement was unmistakable; it pulsed around him like a second aura.

Finally, Allen tilted his head, offering a thin smile.

"Quiet All of sudden little bat? Losing confidence?"

Sara didn't answer.

That was exactly what he wanted—her voice, her temper, her focus to falter.

Instead, she inhaled once, steadying herself. She had seen this version of Allen only twice in her life—when he was genuinely having fun.

Their gazes locked, a silent agreement passing between them.

Then they moved.

Their clash was instantaneous—steel grinding against claw with an echo sharp enough to split the air. The collision sent a burst of force outward, the closest rubble lifting from the ground before settling again.

Sara spun, lightning-fast, sending a second slash across Allen's midsection.

He slid around it like he had rehearsed the movement for years.

She followed with four blood spears—each forged from her veins, each deadly, each aimed with flawless precision.

Allen didn't flinch.

The first grazed past him, the second skimmed his shoulder.

The third he let slip beneath his arm.

The fourth he caught gently—two fingers, effortless—before crushing it to dust.

"Sara," he said with a theatrical sigh, "you're too predictable."

Her jaw tightened.

She had another card to play.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her left hand—not toward Allen, but toward the battlefield itself.

The blood at her feet quivered.

The blood of the fallen trembled.

Dozens of scattered pools rose into the air, swirling upward in elegant arcs as if gravity had been reversed. Allen's smirk dipped—not in fear, but in interest.

Sara whispered just one word.

"Awaken."

The floating blood snapped, twisted, and reshaped—molding into armored figures with blank, hollow faces. One after another, the blood soldiers materialized, standing in a tightening ring around her.

Allen's eyes gleamed, admiration flickering.

"Now that," he murmured, "is more like you."

The clones moved.

Their charge shook the ground—an army of crimson bodies thundering forward.

Allen didn't step back.

His wings erupted outward in a violent burst—jagged, black, massive, shaking the lights overhead. One wing swept forward with the force of a hurricane.

The front line of blood soldiers exploded instantly, showering the field in a mist of scarlet.

The next wave pressed in.

Allen met them head-on.

He moved through them like a practiced dancer through a familiar routine—wing, claw, wing, claw. Each strike was precise, almost elegant, every impact leaving a crimson burst.

Burst—reshape—charge again.

Sara kept reforming them.

It became a rhythm.

A cycle of destruction and rebirth.

The clash turned into a storm—blood spiraling through the air, darkness cutting through crimson arcs. Every time a clone burst, its remnants flowed back to Sara, swirling around her hands as she drew more weapons from the carnage.

And through all of it, Allen laughed softly under his breath.

A laugh that was frightening not for its volume, but its sincerity.

"Sara," he said between steps, "this… might be the most fun I've tasted in centuries."

She didn't smile.

Her voice was low, steady, carrying years of anger, loss, and determination.

"Good," she replied. "Because fun ends here."

Allen's grin widened.

Their auras rose—her red storm tightening around her like armor, his dark energy expanding like a living shadow.

The battlefield trembled.

Sara's knees finally buckled.

The blood beneath her rippled as she fell forward, catching herself with trembling hands. Her breath came in shallow, ragged pulls. The crimson aura around her flickered like a dying flame.

Allen paused mid-step, lowering his claws.

A grin curved across his lips—mocking, cruel, delighted.

"Well now…" he drawled, tilting his head. "Did the little bat run out of mana?"

He knew exactly what had happened.

Vampire blood arts drained mana faster than any human spell.

And Sara, unlike Erza, could not adapt to Earth's thin, suffocating mana levels.

She was burning out.

Allen crouched slightly, his smile widening as if savoring her collapse.

"Class too low… body too fragile… aura too thin. You're not made for this world, Sara Venom."

Sara lifted her head slowly.

Her lips were pale, but her eyes still burned.

Even kneeling, even shaking, she managed a faint smile.

"I may look weak to you," she whispered, her voice brittle but unwavering, "but you will die surely today, Allen. If not by my hands…"

Her gaze hardened.

"…then by the Atlantis Blade. Or by Yuuta's age. One way or another… you will return to those chains."

The word chains struck him like a hammer.

Allen's entire body jerked.

For a moment, a shard of terror flashed in his eyes—the kind he could never hide.

Chains were the only thing demons feared more than death.

But just as quickly, the fear faded.

He remembered who he was.

What he was chosen for.

His smile returned, sharper than before.

"Then let's see," he whispered, "how you plan to send me back."

Before Sara could respond, Allen's head snapped sideways.

He heard chanting.

A spell.

A powerful one.

He turned—and his pupils narrowed.

Across the battlefield, Fiona sat on the ground, trembling yet determined.

Elga and Erika stood in front of her like shields, their weapons drawn, blocking every stray attack.

Behind them, members of the Lebius Agency formed a protective circle.

And at the center—

Rika knelt with a holy sword across her lap.

A blade too divine for mortals.

A weapon created to slay Demon Kings.

Light ran along the sword's edges like liquid gold as Rika poured spell after spell into its core.

Each chant made the air ripple.

Each sigil glowed brighter than the last.

Fiona's hands hovered over the sword, ready to take it once the sealing was complete.

Allen blinked.

Then he laughed.

A deep, wild, chilling laugh that echoed through the ruins.

"So that's why," he said, turning back to Sara.

"That's why you kept saying I'd die today. You were preparing this behind my back."

Sara didn't answer.

She couldn't.

She was barely breathing.

But her silence said everything.

Allen stretched his wings, shadows pouring off him like smoke.

His voice dropped to a cold whisper.

"And you expect me… to just sit here… and let you kill me?"

The air thickened.

Allen shot forward like a black comet, the tips of his claws slicing through the air with murderous intent. Fiona's breath caught in her throat—she knew she couldn't block what was coming. But Allen never reached her.

A shadow moved.

A fist—large, scarred, and blazing with raw physical power—collided with Allen's jaw with a sound that cracked through the arena like a cannon. The force sent him flying across the battlefield, tearing a trench in the floor before he smashed through a reinforced steel wall. The explosion of dust that followed rained down from the ceiling like ash from a broken sky.

Elga planted herself between Allen's path and Fiona, shoulders squared like a guardian beast awakened from a long slumber. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and her golden eyes shimmered with fury that had been buried in silence for years.

"ALLEN MANSTAR!" she roared, her voice shaking with a depth of rage only time could forge. "I'VE WAITED YEARS FOR THIS!"

When the dust finally cleared, Allen stepped out of the rubble. Not limping. Not wounded. Not even concerned. He brushed pieces of concrete from his shoulder as though he had merely tripped against a doorframe. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Elga… still using those caveman punches, I see."

Her answer was a low, guttural growl that rumbled through the facility. She lunged forward again, her fist trailing pressure strong enough to bend metal. Allen dodged with fluid grace. They collided again and again, each impact releasing a shockwave that split the ground beneath their feet and sent soldiers stumbling backward.

Elga fought like a woman who had carried resentment for a lifetime—every blow driven by memories, by pain, by the ghosts Allen had left behind. But Allen… Allen moved with the calm indifference of a man dancing under moonlight. Every one of Elga's punches trembled with desperation; every counter he delivered was smooth, effortless, almost mocking.

And he wasn't even serious.

A short distance away, Sara struggled to rise. Her body ached; her mana reserves had crashed to empty. She could barely breathe without wincing. The battlefield soaked in blood—blood she needed—had already dried into a dark, lifeless black under the cold air.

Without blood, her arts were nothing.

Without mana, she was barely more than human.

Watching Elga fight alone stirred something sharp and painful deep inside her chest. She was the captain, the strongest among them, the one meant to lead. Yet she was kneeling, helpless, while Elga stood alone before a monster.

"I can't just stand here…" Sara whispered, her voice breaking with frustration. "Not when the chance to kill him is right in front of me."

But her fingers wouldn't respond.

Her power wouldn't rise.

Her body refused to obey.

She clenched her jaw, trembling with helpless rage—until a soft metallic sound echoed behind her.

Shhhk—

A blade unsheathed.

Sara turned slowly.

Three low-ranking soldiers stood mere steps away. Their armor was cracked. Their clothes burned. Their bodies swayed as though even standing took everything they had left. Yet each held a combat knife to their own throat.

Sara's breath caught.

"What… what are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling, a raw edge of fear in her words.

The first soldier smiled gently, as if speaking to a friend instead of committing suicide. "For humanity, Chief."

The second raised his chin, blood already dripping from his chest wounds. "For the future our families live in."

The third whispered, eyes steady and fearless, "For a world without demons."

And before Sara could scream—

the blades dragged across their throats.

The sound was soft.

The impact was devastating.

Blood burst forward, splashing across the floor in thick, crimson waves. It spread quickly, forming dark, swelling pools that crept toward her boots. The metallic scent hit her instantly—warm, heavy, unmistakable.

Her vision blurred.

Her knees buckled.

She fell forward, hands slapping the ground as the soldiers' bodies collapsed around her.

"No… No… NO!" Sara's scream tore out of her, raw and shaking, louder than the clashing steel and the crumbling walls around her.

Her fingers dug helplessly into the blood-soaked floor. She felt its warmth. She felt their trust. She felt the weight of their sacrifice crush her lungs from inside. These were the humans she once dismissed—fragile, useless, bothersome creatures she had never truly cared to protect.

She reached out with trembling hands.

Warm.

Fresh.

Alive a moment ago.

Guilt struck Sara with a force that nearly drove her to the ground. She had always despised humans—fragile creatures who cried for protection and clung to their captains when danger approached. To her, they were nothing but a liability.

Yet the sight of three dying soldiers, offering their last breath not for glory but for her, ignited a bitter storm in her chest. Rage, shame, and an unfamiliar ache twisted beneath her ribs, swallowing the arrogance she once carried.

These were the same humans she had dismissed without a second thought. And yet, in their final moments, they had believed in her more fiercely than she had ever believed in them.

Their blood pooled at her feet, warm, vivid, and accusing, reminding her that they had died to give her another chance. Her fingers trembled as she reached toward the crimson stain, feeling the weight of their trust crushing her more heavily than any wound she had taken in battle.

The blood around her began to stir, vibrating softly as if awakening from a deep sleep. The ground itself responded with a low rumble, sensing the shift within her. Something inside Sara—something she had sealed away long ago—started to crack, then shattered completely.

She rose slowly, her breath deepening into something primal. Thin streams of blood slid down her fingertips, gathering behind her in a swirling crimson storm. When she finally lifted her gaze, her eyes burned with molten red light.

The battlefield fell into a stunned silence. Even Allen, who moments earlier tore through agents with laughter echoing behind him, paused mid-swing as he felt the pressure in the air thicken. The blood of the fallen soldiers rose into the air, twisting into shapes that glowed like living fragments of a nightmare. Sara Venom had not merely recovered—she had ascended. She stood reborn, no longer bound by her former limits, no longer confined by fear or restraint.

Sara Venom had awakened—and stepped into the realm feared even by demons.

Calamity Class.

To be continue..

Hey everyone, your author here.

I've read all of your comments and feedback, and honestly… thank you. It opened my eyes to where I was slipping. To be truthful, I've been distracted lately—long shifts at the café turned me into a caffeine addict, and staying awake late at night messed up my entire sleep schedule. Because of that, I wasn't giving my full heart to writing, even when my precious readers were waiting for chapters. I took that for granted, and it cost me. I lost many readers along the way… and I am truly sorry for that.

From here on, I'm cutting down on caffeine and taking a real break from social media—no more endless shorts and reels. I want to focus on the story again. I'll also take my sleep schedule seriously, so I can come back with the energy needed to write the kind of chapters you all deserve.

Thank you for pointing out the flaws I missed—Erza and Yuuta's emotional bond, and the side characters who didn't get enough attention. I'll work hard to fix that and bring the story back to the level we all love.

Thank you for staying with me. I love you all.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

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