Chapter 11: Roar of Blood
The air was thick with smoke, and the scent that filled the space was a dark blend of ash, blood, and burning wood. Damon Salvatore groaned as he rolled onto his side, his ribs shattered, his body barely responsive. Elijah Mikaelson lay motionless on the ground, blood trickling from his forehead and silently bleeding into the cracked earth beneath him.
Rebekah crawled slowly across the floor, dragging her wounded body toward Elijah, her trembling voice barely audible:
"Please... get up..."
The witch stood above them all, panting from exhaustion, her eyes glowing with ancient magical energy that surged through her like an unending blaze. Her skin was cracking, shimmering with glowing seals—magical tattoos that lit up in the shadows like markings from another world.
She exhaled as she raised her hands toward the sky, magic sparking like lightning between her fingers.
"You came seeking salvation..." she said in a hoarse, contempt-filled voice, "but you'll be buried under the weight of your sins."
With a single gesture of her arms, flames erupted around them in the shape of a wild, fiery circle. The house groaned under the pressure of the magic, its walls trembling, its floor cracking... as if preparing to burn entirely.
Stefan Salvatore was now standing beside Rebekah, breath ragged, his clothes torn from a battle just moments before. He was clutching a vial of her blood tightly—but it would do nothing... if they all died in the next minute.
Rebekah looked at him, her voice hoarse and worn:
"We can't fight her... not like this."
The witch began to chant, in a language older than the Originals themselves. Her words echoed through the burning house like omens of death slipping from the void.
Then—
A great sound tore through the skies.
It wasn't a whisper... nor was it magic... but a roar.
A deep, primal roar—ancient and resounding. A sound that silenced everything.
It was followed by another roar, fiercer and louder. Then came the crash—the front wall of the house shattered and collapsed inward amidst the smoke and fire.
And two figures entered.
One was tall, sharp-featured, his eyes wild, fury radiating from his skin like a living energy. Klaus Mikaelson, his hybrid power barely contained beneath his searing skin.
Beside him... was something darker.
Alexander Salvatore. His shirt torn, his body stained with blood and ash. The two had been fighting the witch's coven outside for some time.
But now—
Now Alexander stood, his eyes glowing with a blend of shadows and flame. The energy around him cracked like lightning, as if storms were trapped inside his flesh.
The witch stepped back.
She whispered, narrowing her eyes:
"You..."
But Alexander did not reply.
He moved forward quietly, each step resonating deeply against the charred floor, as if the ground itself ached under the weight of his rage.
Then he saw Damon and Stefan...
His brothers.
Bloodied, broken, bleeding.
He had always thought they abandoned him... forgot him... never looked back.
But now, he saw the truth.
They came... sacrificed everything, not to win a war, nor to seek revenge...
But to save him.
His heart clenched, his body trembled.
His fists tightened, his breathing quickened, and his shoulders shook with a mix of pain, guilt... and something deeper—fury.
He looked at the witch, his eyes ablaze.
He roared with a voice cracked by rage, each word burning:
"You hurt them... you tried to kill them... and you kept my curse as a leash around my neck."
The energy exploded within him, and the curse boiled beneath his skin like fire devouring bone.
Klaus looked toward his siblings—Elijah bleeding, Rebekah on the brink of unconsciousness.
He clenched his jaw and said in a thick voice:
"You've gone too far... and you'll pay for it."
The witch raised her arms again, but her spell faltered beneath the storm of power pouring from Alexander and Klaus.
Alexander stepped forward faster now, his rage echoing with every footfall, as if the earth trembled beneath him.
He spoke in a voice saturated with power:
"You wanted a monster?... Then face the one you created with your own hands."
And with a roar that shook the horizon of New Orleans, Alexander lunged at her like a storm from hell.
Klaus followed a moment later, fangs bared, his hybrid fury burning without restraint.
The battle began—not with reason, but with rage.
The air inside the house pulsed with raw, uncontainable energy.
They were no longer men.
Alexander and Klaus had become forces of nature. The ground cracked beneath their feet, and the walls quaked with every blow they exchanged with the witch. Their shared fury surpassed anything the witch had ever known.
She fought with everything she had, screaming ancient spells, summoning fire and chains of energy, her hands glowing with arcane magic. Every strike she unleashed tore through the air like lightning, every spell ripping the fabric of reality with overwhelming force.
But they attacked her like twin storms, relentless and unforgiving.
Alexander was the embodiment of wrath—his movements too fast to follow, every strike he delivered shaking the earth, inhuman. His eyes burned with centuries of rage, and with every scream, every punch, he poured out years of torment, every betrayal, every scar buried in his chest. This was not just a battle... it was a purge.
Klaus, by contrast, was precise, brutal, a professional killer. He wasn't just angry—he was cold, calculated, merciless. A hybrid being crafted from vengeance, he met Alexander's chaos with deadly precision, aiming his strikes at her weakest points.
The siblings below could do nothing but watch.
Damon, torn and bloodied, leaned against the shattered remains of a wall frame, his eyes wide with disbelief:
"I've never seen anything like this..." he murmured faintly.
Stefan was beside him, cradling Rebekah in his arms. Her breath was shallow, her head resting against his chest, but her eyes were fixed... on the battle above.
"It's like... they're no longer human." she whispered with difficulty.
Elijah stood, gripping his broken ribs with one hand and wiping blood from his mouth with the other. He spoke calmly, with eyes that knew the truth:
"Because they aren't... not tonight."
Above, the witch let out a thunderous scream that shook the city's foundation. Lightning split the roof, and a beam of energy shot toward Klaus—striking him in the chest and hurling him through an entire wall.
But Alexander didn't move.
He roared. His voice split the spell in two, and he launched himself forward. The witch met him mid-air, and they collided in a massive explosion of energy that shattered every window in the house.
They crashed to the ground amidst dust and flame.
The witch rose first, blood dripping from her lip. She raised her hand to summon another spell—
But Alexander was already there.
He grabbed her wrist and crushed it with a sickening crack. She screamed in pain that tore through the air.
He roared, staring into her eyes:
"You think yourself a holy ruler? But rulers bleed just like us."
Then he slammed her to the ground. Once. Twice.
Klaus emerged from the smoke, like a shadow reborn from ash. He grabbed her other arm and twisted it until her final spell fell from her hand.
"Now." Klaus said, looking at Alexander, "Finish it."
But Alexander... looked around—to Damon, exhausted, half-conscious, silently watching; to Stefan, holding Rebekah like a fragile treasure; to Elijah, barely standing, yet steady.
They had all come for him.
And they had all nearly died for him.
Beneath him, the witch whispered another incantation.
Klaus screamed, his eyes blazing:
"Do it!"
And Alexander did.
He plunged his hand into her chest and tore out a heart soaked in magic, pulsing with centuries of darkness. Her eyes widened... then dimmed.
And the body went still.
Silence fell.
The trembling of the walls slowly ceased.
Alexander dropped the heart from his hand.
And for a moment... no one spoke. No one moved.
Then Klaus laughed—a mad, breathless laugh, a mix of victory and release:
"That..." he panted, "was worth every second."
Damon clapped, blood dripping from his fingers:
"Remind me never to piss him off."
Stefan nodded once, never taking his eyes off his brother.
But Alexander...
Did not smile.
Did not speak.
He stood amid the ashes of the witch who had cursed him, his heart still beating, his rage not yet quieted. He looked at his family—wounded, broken, but alive.
The storm inside him had not calmed.
But... for the first time in centuries, it had a purpose.
That divine fury had been unleashed.
And now... it had direction.
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