John landed awkwardly on the other side of the vehicle and immediately had to duck again as the entire car was hurled at him.
"…That seems excessive!" he yelled.
The grimoire flickered sharply beside him again.
John pointed at it while running.
"I'm dodging for my life right now, timing is important!"
John slid backward across the hood of a wrecked car as another blast of black mist tore through the street where he'd been standing moments earlier.
The Blightcaster shrieked in fury and lunged again.
Relentless.
John hit the pavement hard, rolled beneath a swipe of claws, and came back up breathing heavily.
"Okay!" he snapped between breaths. "I'm running out of creative ways to not die here!"
The grimoire beside him pulsed violently.
Its pages suddenly stopped flipping.
One page held.
A symbol burned across it in brilliant gold.
John glanced at it for half a second while backpedaling.
"…That'll work?" he asked skeptically.
The grimoire pulsed once.
Firm.
Certain.
John grimaced.
The Blightcaster charged again, black smoke exploding behind it like wings as the revenants around the street screeched violently.
Another pulse from the grimoire.
John swallowed hard.
Then nodded once.
"…Alright."
He planted his feet.
"I've trusted you this far."
The wind around him intensified.
Golden light slowly began mixing with the pale-blue glow along his arm.
"Whether I'm going crazy or not right now…"
The sigils ignited brighter.
The pavement beneath him cracked outward.
"…I need to keep trusting these voices."
The Blightcaster screamed and struck.
Fast.
Deadly.
Its claws came straight for his throat—
John moved at the last possible second.
He ducked beneath the strike—
Stepped inward—
And drove his glowing right fist forward with everything he had.
"AHHHH—!"
Golden and white light erupted across his entire arm.
The sigils blazed like miniature suns.
Then—
IMPACT.
His punch tore straight through the Blightcaster's chest.
BOOOOM.
A catastrophic burst of compressed air detonated behind the strike, exploding outward down the entire street.
Windows shattered for blocks.
Cars flipped sideways.
The asphalt beneath them cratered violently.
The Blightcaster's body jerked in shock as John's glowing fist punched completely through the black armor and out the other side.
For one impossible second—
Everything stopped.
John stood there breathing hard, arm buried through the creature's chest as golden light poured from the wound.
The Blightcaster looked down slowly.
At the hole through its body.
Then back up at John.
Its glowing green eyes flickered violently as golden light spread through the cracks in its armor.
"…T-that…"
Its layered voice stuttered unnaturally now, whispers breaking apart into static.
"…that is not… possible…"
John stood there panting hard, his glowing fist still buried through the creature's chest.
"Yeah," he breathed heavily. "I've been getting that a lot tonight."
The Blightcaster's body began to break apart.
Slowly at first.
Then rapidly.
Cracks of golden light split across its entire form as black mist poured from the wounds like smoke escaping a furnace.
The creature let out one final distorted screech—
Then collapsed inward.
Its body dissolved into dust and shadow, scattering apart in the wind until nothing remained but drifting black ash across the ruined street.
Silence.
John remained standing there for a moment.
Panting.
Trying to steady his breathing.
The golden light along his arm slowly dimmed, the sigils fading back beneath his sleeve as the grimoire drifted quietly beside him.
Then—
Drip.
John blinked.
Drip.
A soft sound against the pavement.
He frowned slightly and looked down.
Blood.
Dark red drops hitting the cracked street below.
"…Huh."
He followed the trail upward slowly—
To his left shoulder.
A deep slash cut through the jacket and shirt beneath it, blood steadily running down his arm.
John stared at it for a second.
Then sighed tiredly.
"…Okay," he muttered sarcastically. "That seems medically concerning."
The grimoire flickered once beside him.
John pointed weakly at it.
"You are not allowed to say 'I told you so.'"
He pulled his arm slightly tighter against himself and started walking toward the Whitmore estate.
One step at a time.
Slow now.
The adrenaline was fading fast.
The electric fence around the mansion crackled softly ahead of him as the huge white house loomed closer through the dark.
John made it halfway down the block—
Then stumbled hard.
His vision blurred violently for a second.
"…Oh," he muttered weakly.
His knees nearly buckled before he caught himself against a parked car.
The blood loss was catching up.
Fast.
John pushed himself upright again, breathing unevenly as he tried to keep moving.
One step.
Then another.
The world swayed around him.
The streetlights blurred into streaks of pale color while the crackling electric fence ahead sounded louder and louder in his ears.
Too loud.
Like everything else was fading except that.
His left arm hung weaker now, blood dripping steadily from his fingertips onto the pavement behind him.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The grimoire floated close beside him now, slower than before, almost hovering protectively near his shoulder.
John glanced at it weakly.
"…Don't look at me like that," he muttered.
Another step.
His knees nearly gave out again.
"…I'm walking."
Barely.
The Whitmore estate gates finally loomed directly in front of him, towering black metal wrapped in crackling lines of electricity.
Beyond them—
The mansion lights glowed faintly through the trees.
Safe.
Close.
John reached the brick wall beside the gate and leaned heavily against it, breathing hard as dizziness rolled through him again.
The electric current snapped and crackled only feet above his head.
His vision doubled.
Then blurred.
"…Okay," he whispered weakly. "Just gotta… not die for like… thirty more seconds…"
The intercom camera sat beside the gate.
John lifted his shaking hand toward it.
Missed once.
Tried again.
His bloody fingers smeared across the button as he finally managed to press it.
A faint buzz echoed through the speaker.
John swallowed hard.
"I'm h-here for…" he breathed weakly.
His eyes struggled to stay open.
"…Kendra Wil…"
The name barely made it out.
Then—
His body finally gave out.
John collapsed hard against the gate controls before hitting the pavement with a heavy thud.
The grimoire dropped beside him instantly, hovering low near his unconscious body.
John lay motionless at the front gates of the Whitmore estate.
Blood slowly spreading across the ground beneath him while the electric fence crackled overhead in the dark.
For a few long moments—
Nothing happened.
John remained motionless on the pavement outside the gate, blood slowly spreading beneath him while the electric fence crackled overhead.
Then—
BZZZT.
The current abruptly shut off.
Silence replaced the constant hum of electricity.
A second later, the front gate unlocked with a heavy metallic CLUNK.
The doors slowly began to open inward.
Warm light spilled out across the driveway beyond.
Three men emerged cautiously from inside the estate, all carrying rifles.
Older.
Nervous.
Their eyes immediately locked onto the body lying outside the gate.
"…Jesus Christ," one muttered.
"That's the kid from the camera," the other whispered.
They approached carefully at first, weapons still raised—
Then stopped when they got close enough to really see him.
Young.
Bleeding badly.
Unconscious.
And beside him—
The book.
The grimoire now lay completely still on the pavement, its glow gone dark, looking strangely lifeless without the swirling energy it carried moments before.
One of the men frowned at it uneasily.
"…What the hell is that thing?"
"No idea," the other answered quietly. "But if he made it here carrying it through all that…"
He glanced back nervously toward the dark streets beyond the estate.
"…then we should probably bring both inside."
The first man nodded quickly.
Neither of them wanted to stay outside longer than necessary.
One slung his rifle over his shoulder and carefully lifted John under the arms while the other grabbed his legs.
John groaned faintly but didn't wake.
Blood stained the driveway beneath them as they carried him through the gate.
The third man hesitated briefly before bending down and picking up the grimoire from the ground.
The second his fingers touched it—
The pages shifted slightly.
Just once.
The man nearly dropped it immediately.
"…Nope," he muttered nervously. "Don't like that."
Still, he carried it in.
The gates shut behind them moments later.
And the electric fence roared back to life.
The Whitmore estate was chaos inside.
Not panic.
Controlled chaos.
People moved quickly through the massive foyer and adjoining living room carrying towels, water, medical kits—whatever they could find.
Generators hummed somewhere deeper in the house, keeping the lights alive while shadows danced across the marble floors and expensive walls.
John had been laid carefully across one of the long couches near the fireplace.
His jacket had been cut open around the shoulder wound while an older woman pressed towels firmly against the bleeding.
"He's losing too much blood," she muttered urgently.
"Just keep pressure on it," another man said. "We don't have a hospital anymore."
Nearby, the grimoire rested on the large wooden coffee table.
Still.
Silent.
Watching.
Nobody touched it again.
Not after it moved.
One of the men who brought John in kept glancing nervously toward it every few seconds.
"…I'm telling you," he whispered quietly to another survivor, "that thing is alive."
Before anyone could answer—
Footsteps echoed from the staircase.
Everyone looked up.
A tall man in his fifties descended first, dressed in expensive clothes that looked hastily thrown on after days without proper sleep.
Richard Whitmore.
Owner of Crestwood Estates.
Behind him came two girls around high school age.
One blonde.
One brunette.
Both looked exhausted.
Scared.
But alive.
Beth Whitmore stayed close beside her friend as they descended into the room.
Richard's eyes immediately landed on the unconscious figure stretched across the couch.
"…That's him?" he asked.
One of the armed men nodded. "Collapsed outside the gate. Barely conscious."
Richard's expression tightened as he stepped closer.
"He kept asking for someone named Kendra Wilson."
At the mention of her name, Kendra looked up immediately.
Richard glanced toward her.
"Do you know him?"
Kendra opened her mouth instinctively.
"No, I—"
Then she looked closer.
Really looked.
The messy dark hair.
The face beneath the blood and bruises.
Recognition hit instantly.
Her eyes widened.
"…Wait."
She stepped forward quickly.
"John?"
Beth blinked beside her. "You know him?"
Kendra stared at the unconscious boy in shock.
"…That's John Holden," she said quietly.
The room fell silent.
Kendra looked between the others.
"He's my brother's best friend."
Silence hung over the room after Kendra's words.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances.
One of them finally looked back at her in open disbelief.
"…You're saying this kid is human?"
Kendra frowned immediately, confused by the question.
"Yeah?" she answered slowly. "Of course he is."
The guard stared at her like she'd just said the sky was green.
"This kid," he said, pointing toward the unconscious John, "came through the front gate carrying some floating nightmare book while glowing like a damn power station."
Kendra blinked.
"…What?"
Richard Whitmore's expression darkened slightly as he looked between them.
"Explain" he said sharply.
The guard hesitated.
Then motioned toward one of the security monitors still running off generator power near the far wall.
"…Sir," he said carefully, "I think you need to see this."
The room grew quieter as Richard moved toward the monitors.
Beth and Kendra followed close behind.
The guard pulled up the exterior surveillance footage from only minutes earlier.
Static flickered across the screen.
Then—
The street outside the Whitmore estate appeared.
The Blightcaster stood at the gate.