Winston was screaming in pain. His regeneration had slowed to a crawl. The flesh where Eamon's sword had cut him was blistering and blackened, burning as though fire itself clung to his skin. He staggered, clutching the wound, his face twisted in fury.
Skarn lay motionless beside Arthur, his silver fur stained with blood and dirt. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.
Eamon knelt down near Arthur, sweat dripping from his brow. His broken left arm hung uselessly by his side, but his eyes were sharp with urgency.
"How is Skarn a sacred being?" Eamon demanded, his voice cracking with disbelief.
Arthur coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his lips. His pale face contorted into what might have been a smirk, if not for the agony wracking his body. "I'm bleeding out right now," he whispered hoarsely, "so I can't laugh at you. But you, Eamon, are without a doubt the most clueless person I've ever met."
Eamon's eyes widened, his jaw clenching. "Huh? There is a killer standing fifty feet away from us! We're both bleeding out, my hand is broken, Skarn's down, and you're cracking jokes?"
Arthur's laugh was weak, broken by another cough. "Listen, idiot. The sacred bonds… they weren't ordinary beasts. They were created by Empyrean Seraphs centuries ago. Blessed by the heavens themselves. They were always sacred beings."
Eamon blinked, his mouth slightly open. His eyes darted toward Skarn's limp body, then back to Arthur. "So what you're saying is… all this time, we had a way to kill an immortal pure-blooded vampire, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning?"
Arthur's expression hardened despite the blood soaking his clothes. "And how was I supposed to know you carried a sword forged from Vixterium? That metal is reserved for royal knights and higher. It's rarer than gold. What kind of madman carries such a blade into a cursed town?"
Eamon scratched the back of his head with his good hand, wincing at the pain. "Well… that one's on me, I guess. Heh." His chuckle was hollow, more to mask fear than genuine humor.
Across the clearing, Winston's body began to twitch unnaturally. The severed arm Eamon had lopped off slowly regenerated, sinew and bone knitting together in grotesque detail. His chest wound bubbled and frothed as skin grew back, though sluggishly compared to before. He rose to his feet, swaying slightly, but with fury burning brighter in his crimson eyes.
He took one slow, deliberate step toward Eamon. Then another. His lips curled in a predatory snarl.
Eamon's face tensed. His broken arm throbbed, his body screamed with pain, but still he forced himself upright. He turned to Arthur, his voice firm despite his trembling legs. "You rest a little longer. But if I get any more injured… it's your turn to get up and fight this bastard."
Arthur gave a half-smile, his voice dry. "Generous of you to leave me the scraps."
Eamon smirked faintly, then bent to place his sword carefully beside Arthur. With determination carved across his face, he stepped forward. His boots crunched over broken twigs and stones until he stood opposite Winston once again.
Both men glared at each other, tension crackling in the air. The distance between them seemed to shrink under the weight of their hatred.
Winston raised his hand high. His voice boomed like thunder as he chanted, "Noctis Crimson Rain!"
At once, the sky above darkened. Thick, heavy droplets of crimson liquid fell from the heavens, spattering the earth. It was no ordinary rain—it sapped stamina and drained the life force of those it touched. The very ground hissed as the cursed liquid struck it.
Eamon clenched his teeth and raised his unbroken hand. "Arcana Crimson Dome!" he shouted.
A dome of swirling fire burst into existence around him, its flames blazing upward, shielding him from the rain. Each droplet that touched the barrier hissed and evaporated instantly, filling the air with a burning mist.
The forest became a battlefield of red rain and roaring flames. Winston's attack clashed against Eamon's defense, and for a while, the two forces seemed locked in an endless struggle.
Winston narrowed his eyes. "You defend well, mortal. But defense alone will not save you."
His other hand twitched, and his blood magic shifted. From the pooling blood beneath him, something vast began to rise—a serpent, its body formed entirely of pulsating, writhing blood. It grew larger with every passing heartbeat, its eyes glowing a deep scarlet. With a hiss, it lunged.
Eamon's eyes widened in alarm. He thrust his arm forward desperately. "Arcana Fire Wall!"
A towering wall of flames surged up before him. The serpent collided with it, hissing, the heat searing its liquid body. For a moment, it seemed the fire might hold. But then, with a violent surge, the serpent tore through, shattering the wall and barelling into Eamon with unstoppable force.
The impact was cataclysmic. Eamon's body was hurled backward like a ragdoll. He crashed through tree after tree, trunks splintering and snapping as though struck by a battering ram. The forest shook with the violence of his landing. Finally, he hit the ground, his body broken and bloodied, struggling even to breathe.
Arthur's vision blurred as he tried to stay conscious. His head lolled to the side, and he saw Eamon's crumpled form in the distance. "Damn it," he muttered weakly, blood bubbling in his throat. "He'll get himself killed…"
Beside him, Skarn whimpered faintly, his silver fur rising and falling with every ragged breath. His eyes fluttered open briefly, dim and unfocused.
Winston, still limping and clutching his half-regenerated chest, turned his gaze toward Arthur and Skarn. His grin was vicious, savage. He began to walk toward them, each step slow but deliberate, like a predator savouring its kill.
The forest fell silent except for the crunch of his boots on the blood-soaked soil. His crimson aura flickered around him as his hand flexed, fingers twitching with blood magic that pulsed and writhed in the air.
Arthur forced his body to move, propping himself up on one trembling elbow. His strength was nearly gone, but he glared defiantly at Winston. "Stay… away…stay away you bastard!" he growled weakly.
Winston ignored him, his grin widening. "Your friend is dead. Now it is your turn, mixed-blood. And that precious mutt's."
He was still limping. His chest was still healing. But he kept coming, inch by inch, like death itself closing in.
His severed hand had almost fully regenerated, the new skin pale and raw. The hole in his chest had closed halfway, flesh knitting grotesquely together as steam rose from the wound.
Arthur's vision darkened, his body sagging. His eyes flickered toward Skarn, lying helpless at his side. The wolf's tail twitched faintly. His breaths were shallow, yet steady.
Arthur's lips parted, and in a hoarse whisper meant for no one but himself, he muttered, "Skarn…run…"
And Winston kept walking, his shadow falling across the two of them.