Diana's wrist snapped with a wet crack. Her sword fell from nerveless fingers, clattering against marble.
Torkh's other hand grabbed her throat and lifted her off the ground as easily as lifting a child.
"Artifact or not," he said, his voice cold enough to freeze blood, "Level Four is still Level Four."
His chains wrapped around her legs, her arms, her torso, constricting like pythons.
"And you just made me very, very angry."
Rowan's roar shook the throne room.
The massive warrior charged, shield raised, every ounce of his considerable mass behind the blow.
Torkh turned, still holding Diana by the throat.
He caught Rowan's shield with one hand.
Stopped it cold.
Rowan's eyes widened in disbelief.
Torkh smiled.
"Immovability," he said conversationally. "A good ability. Useful in the right circumstances."
He pushed.
Rowan flew backward, crashing through a pillar, smashing into the far wall hard enough to crater stone. His shield clattered away, cracked straight down the middle.
Thorne and Sylva attacked as one—blades and recovered spear moving in perfect synchronization, a dance of death honed over decades of fighting together.
Thorne's mirrored edges cut from eight angles simultaneously.
Sylva's spear built impossible momentum, becoming a blur of silver.
Torkh's wings spread wide.
He spun.
The blood chains followed his movement, becoming a whirlwind of crimson death.
They wrapped around Thorne's blades, yanked them from his hands, threw them across the room where they clattered into darkness.
They caught Sylva's spear mid-thrust, stopping her momentum, pulling her forward into Torkh's waiting fist.
He punched her in the stomach.
The sound was like a hammer hitting meat.
Sylva's eyes rolled back. She collapsed, gasping, ribs cracked, unable to draw breath.
Ivy's bow sang.
Arrow after arrow, each one certain, each one true, each one guided by her will to strike vital points.
They all found their mark—Torkh's eyes, throat, heart, joints.
Every single one was intercepted by chains, devoured by screaming faces that opened mouths impossibly wide.
"Please," Ivy whispered, drawing another arrow despite knowing it was futile. "Please work—"
A chain wrapped around her ankle.
Yanked.
She hit the ground hard, bow skittering away across blood-slicked marble.
Ashwood stood at the edge of the battlefield, staff blazing, eyes cataloguing everything with the desperate focus of a man trying to find any weakness, any opening.
The gem. The eye inside it. The signal emanating from deep within.
"Connection point confirmed," he muttered, hands moving in complex patterns. "Anchor to… Evil Realm. Estimated completion time—"
A chain shot toward his head.
He raised his staff.
The chain wrapped around it, yanked.
The staff flew from his hands, clattering across the floor.
Ashwood stumbled back, defenseless.
The chain rose again, poised to strike—
Don watched it all.
Hanging in his chains, body broken, regenerating slowly.
The green-haired warriors—brave, skilled, loyal—being torn apart one by one.
The princess, hanging by her throat, face turning purple, struggling to breathe.
The Blood King, barely touched, smiling that terrible smile.
And in the corner, visible now—not just a voice but a presence—Madness stood watching.
His doppelgänger. Same height. Same build. Same red hair with silver streaks.
But both eyes glowed yellow. Dragon eyes. Predator eyes.
Madness smiled at him.
["See?"] he whispered, his voice echoing in Don's mind and the air simultaneously. ["This is what happens when you refuse me. Good people die. And you do nothing."]
Don's hands clenched in his chains.
["Give in, little seed. Just a little more. Twenty-five percent. Thirty. You don't need to go all the way. Just enough to save them. Just enough to—"]
The collar around Don's neck suddenly blazed with light.
Torkh's head turned, surprised, his grip on Diana's throat loosening slightly. "What—"
Rowan appeared beside Don, shield gone, face bloody but eyes clear. He'd crossed the entire throne room while Torkh was distracted.
"Hold still, boy," he rumbled.
He grabbed the collar with both massive hands and pulled.
The metal groaned. Sparked. Resisted.
Rowan's muscles bulged, veins standing out on his forearms. "ASHWOOD! A LITTLE HELP!"
The old mage scrambled for his staff, grabbed it, and staggered over, hands already glowing with verdant light.
"This is—the enchantment is adaptive—I need to—"
"LESS TALKING, MORE DOING!"
Ashwood's jaw clenched. His hands blazed brighter. Runes appeared around the collar, clashing with the blood-red glyphs carved into the metal.
"If I do this wrong, it'll detonate—the feedback could take his head clean off—"
"THEN DO IT RIGHT!"
Ashwood closed his eyes. Focused. His entire being poured into the single task of unraveling centuries-old blood magic without triggering the fail-safes.
The collar cracked.
Split.
Fell away in pieces that dissolved into ash before hitting the ground.
And Don gasped.
Not just air.
Power.
The Source—that vast, warm presence he'd felt once before—roared back into his consciousness. Not speaking. Not guiding. Just there. Like the sun after months of darkness. Like coming home.
His mana didn't flood back all at once, but it rose steadily, a well refilling drop by drop.
His body—broken, exhausted, carved apart and put back together dozens of times—began to truly regenerate. Not the forced, agonizing knitting of flesh under torture. Real healing.
And in the corner of his vision, words appeared in that familiar blue script.
[SYSTEM RESTORATION COMPLETE]
[SUPPRESSION COLLAR REMOVED]
[SOURCE CONNECTION: ACTIVE]
[EMERGENCY BACKUP PROTOCOL DISENGAGING]
[MESSAGE FROM SYSTEM :]
["Until we meet again, host."]
The words faded.