The sky over Nakarrah bled smoke. Ash hung like a curtain between heaven and earth, cloaking the once-glorious port in the stench of death and salt. Screams mingled with the roar of steel and the shrieks of the Nameless beasts, twisted things that scuttled from alley to alley like malformed spiders, gnashing their broken jaws.

  Michael raised a curved Azanean blade—borrowed from a fallen Dhilal—and brought it crashing down against the sinewed neck of a howling creature. It shrieked once before crumpling to the sand-slicked cobblestone, leaking black rot.

  “Left!” Xhiamas shouted.

  Michael spun in time to catch another attacker mid-leap. His blade hummed with magnetized mana as he redirected the steel debris around them, slamming it into the creature’s side with a clang that cracked its ribs open.

  Orcs surged past them, war cries rumbling like drums from their throats. The Dhilal shadowwalkers danced between flares of light and fire, cutting at phantom things that tried to crawl back to the abyss.

  “We push toward the upper ward!” Michael barked.

  “Where the dock garrisons are?” Xhiamas asked, eyes glinting through a mask of blood and sweat.

  Michael nodded. “If Jophiel is anywhere, it’s at the heart of the madness.”

  And he was.

  As they rounded the shattered causeway leading up the ridge overlooking the piers, Michael blinked at what he saw—and then blinked again.

  There, standing amidst a whirl of horrors and collapsing buildings, was Jophiel.

  He was laughing.

  The Archinventor of Primera, sleeves rolled, coat stained with blood and soot, stood spinning a massive brush nearly the length of his body, its bristles glowing with Arcscript and wild chromatic ink. With each stroke, reality bent. A painted griffin burst to life and tore into a chitinous demon. He sketched a wall midair, and it slammed into an oncoming horde. A monstrous scythe made of dripping ink cut through a line of charging beasts—before dissolving into butterflies.

  "Are you painting jokes into the battlefield?" Michael muttered.

  Xhiamas arched a brow. “I think he just conjured a duck with a helmet.”

  Jophiel turned, hair wind-whipped and madness in his grin. “Michael! You made it!” he called, ducking a lunging horror. “Didn’t think you’d show up this fashionably late—but I did paint you into the climax, so all is forgiven!”

  Michael exhaled, sheathing his blade for just a breath. “Still as eccentric as ever.”

  “You brought an army,” Jophiel said, finally twirling his brush like a sword and plunging it into the earth, sending out a shockwave of prismatic mana. “That means you were successful.”

  Xhiamas nodded. “More than you know.”

  Jophiel wiped ink off his brow. “Good. Because we’re barely holding the line.”

  Jophiel dusted off his coat, then casually pulled a scroll from his satchel—one smeared with ink and blood alike. He unrolled it against the wall of a toppled stall, revealing a crude but functional sketch of Nakarrah.

  “Current status,” he began, stabbing a quill through various circles. “Skyloom’s hovering over the outer docks. Best idea I’ve had in months, honestly. All the wounded are up there, getting treated by Azanean physicians, and our arbalests are raining down magical hellfire on anything that moves too grotesquely.”

  As if on cue, a boom cracked through the air.

  They looked skyward—past plumes of smoke and tangled banners—and saw the silhouette of the Skyloom, its gleaming hull casting shadows below. A rune-lit cannon roared again, sending a shell through a spiraling beast trying to tip a burning vessel. The creature exploded mid-screech, the water catching fire with floating bile.

  Michael’s brow lifted. “Impressive.”

  Xhiamas grunted. “So that’s your invention.”

  “I call it battlefield ballet,” Jophiel said proudly, brushing his lapels. “Though I suppose it’s less dance and more fire and ink and screaming.”

  Xhiamas tilted his head. “How long can you maintain the Skyloom’s mana load?”

  Jophiel looked deeply offended. “Oh come now, I’m not that fragile. My ink reserves are vast, and I’m drawing directly from the rift-sealed node beneath the city. The Skyloom has enough juice to keep dancing for another day or two—unless someone drops another leviathan on us.”

  Michael crossed his arms. “And the King? Where’s Ennoris?”

  A tremor answered him.

  The waters near the pier parted with a thunderous shriek as something massive was hurled skyward—a monstrous form, bloated and writhing with broken limbs. It hung for a moment like a dying god in the sun.

  And then it exploded in a rain of salt and viscera.

  A geyser of piercing water surged from below, and when the froth settled, a single figure remained standing atop the surface of the sea. Cloaked in silver-streaked armor, robes soaked but regal, stood King Ennoris of the Depths, his trident shimmering with sea-glass mana.

  “Speak of devils,” Jophiel muttered.

  Ennoris turned his head toward them even at this distance—an uncanny awareness in his storm-bright eyes. The waters beneath him curled and shaped into steps, leading him toward the shore.

  Michael shook his head. “I’ve fought alongside many… but that man might just be the sea itself.”

  The swirling tide receded behind him as King Ennoris finally stepped onto the broken stone of the Nakarrah docks, his silver-blue armor glistening with seawater and gore. His trident, carved from the fang of a Leviathan, gleamed faintly with latent mana, still dripping with black ichor from the fallen beast he’d cast aside only moments earlier.

  Michael stepped forward, saluting sharply. “Your Majesty. It’s an honor to finally meet the King of Abusson. Though I’d have preferred a more... diplomatic setting.”

  A sudden screech tore through the air as a spined crawler lunged from a shattered building.

  Ennoris didn’t even flinch.

  With a swift flick of his wrist, his trident sailed backward and impaled the beast through its shrieking maw—splattering blood in a crimson arc. The king yanked the weapon free with one hand, and calmly continued the conversation.

  “I do enjoy cutting through the pleasantries,” he said, offering Michael a nod of respect.

  Xhiamas approached beside him, scanning the sky for more incoming horrors. “Forgive our delay. We came as quickly as we could. Has your side been able to identify who is leading this siege?”

  Ennoris shook his head, wiping blood from the edge of his sleeve.

  “We’ve been trying,” he said grimly. “But most of our efforts have been focused on keeping the magic locks stable—the seals we placed beneath the water to contain the Forgotten Ones.”

  He gestured toward the sea, where ancient runes shimmered below the waves—barely visible amidst the wreckage and flame.

  “Jophiel’s been invaluable,” he added. “He’s kept the enemy from flanking us by conjuring barricades and tools faster than I can call reinforcements. But we’ve been at this for days. Every time we push forward, another wave strikes from some distant, corrupted coast.”

  Michael clenched a fist. “We need to find the one orchestrating this. In Primera, we were able to end the sieges once Sir Byronard and the Seven captured Lilith, one of the Nine Circles.”

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  At the name, Ennoris' brow furrowed.

  “One of the Circles?” he echoed, lowering his trident slowly.

  Michael nodded. “Yes. They’re not just monsters. They’re generals. Each one leading a siege—commanding waves of the Nameless. If there’s one here…”

  Xhiamas finished the thought, “...then removing it would be like cutting off the head of the serpent.”

  The king’s voice dropped low, serious. “Then we must find it. And quickly. Before the city falls completely.”

  A low howl echoed across the ravaged courtyards of Nakarrah—deeper than any war horn, carried by a fury unnatural.

  “Something’s wrong!” Ka’laar shouted from a crumbled tower’s edge.

  Michael turned just in time to witness a horrifying shift among the defenders—Azanean soldiers, civilians, even some minor battalions—falling to their knees before rising with shrieks, their bodies flushed red, eyes glowing a noxious green. Foaming at the mouth, they tore into their allies with bestial violence.

  “They’ve gone mad!” cried one of the Dhilāl.

  “They're increasing in number!” muttered another in horror.

  Xhiamas cursed under his breath. “No orc... no shadowwalker... not even beasts of Azane would fall to this.”

  Michael leapt forward, drawing the dagger Ziyad had lent him. “It’s not plague—it’s mana. Something is turning them into berserkers!”

  Just then, the air shimmered—and ignited.

  The sky cracked, as if the world itself inhaled a breath of rage.

  Above them, on the cliffside, stood a figure silhouetted in flame and smoke. His armor looked melted into his flesh, ash chains writhing from his shoulders, and his skin glowed like charred embers beneath the surface.

  His voice boomed across the battlefield, low and thunderous.

  “So... this is the great hope of Primera?”

  All eyes turned upward as Kael, the Flamebound Tyrant, Circle of Wrath, made his presence known.

  King Ennoris, bloodstained and breathing hard, stepped forward and lifted his trident. “Are you the one behind this?!”

  Kael smirked, his molten eyes brimming with fury. “I merely opened a door, Your Majesty. And what poured out? That was always within them.”

  He gestured at the rampaging Azaneans. “Hatred. Rage. Betrayal. All it took was a whisper. A nudge. A spark.”

  “Who are you?” Michael demanded.

  Kael spread his arms wide. “Kael. The Fifth Circle. The Flamebound Tyrant. The Hand of Wrath.”

  The flames behind him surged.

  “I am not here to conquer. I am here to burn away the lies. You think yourselves noble, united. But your hearts—your peoples—are fractured. I am simply truth by fire.”

  Suddenly, a crack echoed—not from the sky, but from within.

  King Ennoris’s eyes widened as he looked down at his cloak, pulling from it a sea-glass locket, once gleaming azure.

  A hairline fracture now ran across its center.

  Kael laughed, the sound like coals falling from the heavens.

  “Oh yes… that little relic of yours. So delicate, so precious. The barrier is thinning, King of the Deep.”

  “How—” Ennoris began.

  Kael cut him off. “I couldn’t break it on my own. But I found... a way. Let’s just say, an old truth was bent. And now the cracks spread.”

  He stepped forward, embers falling from his heels.

  “The Forgotten Ones stir. And when the final thread snaps, your sea will be their gate.”

  He extended one hand—flames beginning to spiral in his palm.

  “Now. Burn.”

  The battlefield erupted into a storm of panic and violence.

  The possessed Azaneans lunged, snarling like beasts, their weapons swinging with reckless fury. Michael parried one strike, then another, desperately trying to incapacitate without killing.

  “Damn it—these aren’t enemies!” he yelled, as another frenzied soldier charged him, blade trembling with unnatural strength.

  Xhiamas danced through the madness with precision, knocking blades aside with swift cuts and using the hilt to strike pressure points. Beside him, Ka’laar was fighting tooth and nail, unwilling to harm his own countrymen, but forced to knock them unconscious.

  Orcs and Dhilāl fought side by side, forming makeshift lines to contain the madness, but the weight of numbers—and the twisted mana infecting the minds of their people—was overwhelming.

  From above, Jophiel was unleashing waves of conjured barriers and illusions to hold the line, but even he couldn’t do much with the sheer hysteria consuming the battlefield.

  Then came the voice—commanding, resolute.

  “Leave him to me.”

  King Ennoris, cloak billowing in the salt-ridden wind, stepped forward, water rippling around his feet as if pulled by the tide.

  Michael turned. “Your Majesty—wait!”

  Ennoris didn’t look back. “You stand face to face with one of the firstborn. Prepare yourself, tyrant.”

  Kael grinned wide, molten light dancing in his eyes. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

  Without another word, the cliff erupted beneath Kael’s feet, launching him high into the air in a pillar of fire.

  Ennoris raised his trident. A spiraling wall of seawater exploded upward, colliding with the flame like divine titans locking hands.

  And then, chaos.

  Fire and water clashed, vaporizing into blinding steam. Thunder boomed—not from the skies, but from the force of their blows. Every strike from Kael's burning fists sent arcs of flame slicing through the air, igniting the very wind. Every counter from Ennoris's trident summoned tidal surges, slicing through the flames with cutting pressure.

  Their duel became a storm, firestorms colliding with crashing waves.

  The sky darkened as clouds churned, pulled by the intensity of the mana released.

  The battlefield below struggled to hold formation. The possessed were still attacking, and the orcs and Dhilāl tried desperately to keep the berserkers from reaching the still-unconscious or injured.

  “We need to move! Now!” Michael shouted to Xhiamas. “We can’t win this fight standing still!”

  Xhiamas nodded, blood dripping from his cheek. “We hold the line. Nothing more. Leave the gods to their war.”

  Another quake shook the ground as Kael punched downward, erupting the earth into a geyser of molten rock—but Ennoris surged upward on a column of seafoam, striking back with a piercing torrent of pressurized water, shattering Kael’s molten armor in streaks of blue lightning-like streams.

  The entire city trembled as fire and sea raged—an inferno storming a flood.

  The battle raged, but all momentum halted when the locket slipped from King Ennoris’s neck.

  It clattered against the blood-soaked stone—then cracked.

  The sound was barely audible, like breaking glass beneath the tide, but the world felt it.

  A pulse echoed beneath the city, and then—the sea howled.

  Tremors shook the land. Waves surged violently, flooding the lower docks and tearing anchored ships from their moorings. The air became heavy, electric with the scent of salt and mana. Deep beneath Nakarrah, something ancient stirred.

  “The locket…!” Xhiamas muttered in dread.

  “Jophiel! We need to end this now!” Michael shouted.

  Jophiel, who had been dancing across rooftops hurling bizarre weapons—painted nets, whistling bombs, copper birds—skidded to a stop beside him, grinning even amid the chaos.

  “Just say the word, darling,” he beamed, flexing his fingers. “I’ve been waiting to try this trick.”

  Michael extended a hand, aura flaring gold-blue. “Let’s do it together.”

  Without hesitation, Jophiel conjured metallic ribbons—copper, silver, even threads of shimmering mythril—and flung them toward Michael in a spiraling arc.

  Michael gritted his teeth, sweat forming as he manipulated the incoming metals, forging them into ethereal chains of restraint. The enchanted bands wrapped around the berserk Azaneans, pinning them mid-charge, locking them to walls, to earth, to one another.

  “Almost…!” he growled.

  The final pulse of his mana flared outward in a blinding burst—and every single berserker froze, imprisoned by his will.

  Michael fell to a knee, gasping, barely able to stay upright.

  Xhiamas rushed to him. “Michael!”

  “I’m fine,” he coughed, waving him off. “Check on the others. Jophiel… focus on the sea.”

  Jophiel tilted his head toward the crashing waves, where dark shapes now writhed beneath the surface.

  “About time,” he whispered. “Let’s see if the runes hold.”

  He reached behind him and slapped his hand across a glyph carved into his coat’s collar—a water-breathing rune, glowing aquamarine.

  “Pray to the Divines,” he said with a grin. “Because I’m about to dive into hell.”

  And then—

  He leapt.

  From the edge of the broken sea wall, he launched himself into the turbulent waters below.

  As he fell, his body surged with mana, a trail of inky black spiraling behind him like the tail of a comet. The water seemed to part in recognition, embracing him not as a man, but as an artist of war.

  Both Kael and King Ennoris turned briefly at the sight.

  The Flamebound Tyrant tilted his head. “So the black sheep of the Seven has teeth after all.”

  Ennoris’s trident crackled with oceanic force. “You should fear him. That one dances on the edge of madness—and makes beauty of it.”

  The moment passed, and their duel resumed—fire and water colliding once more, casting steam and lightning across the battlefield, obscuring the moon itself in a swirling tempest.

  The sky above was smoke.

  The sea below was wrath.

  And between them, the defenders of Nakarrah were caught in a standstill.

  Michael forced himself to his feet, muscles aching, his aura flickering dimly after the exertion. But his eyes remained sharp, surveying the battlefield with soldier’s precision. The berserkers were contained — for now — but the tension hung thick in the air, like a fuse just shy of the flame.

  “This stalemate won’t last,” Xhiamas said grimly beside him, sheathing his dagger. “If Kael pushes again… the line will crack.”

  Michael nodded. “Then we push first.”

  He turned toward the Dhilāl commander nearby, shouting, “Where’s Ka’laar?!”

  A moment later, Ka’laar emerged from the smoke, blood staining one arm but still standing proud, a broken Shivarak helm dangling from his belt.

  “You called?”

  “I’m putting the two of you in charge,” Michael said, gesturing between Ka’laar and Xhiamas. “Split the army. You both know the terrain. You’ve fought these creatures before.”

  Xhiamas blinked. “You’re giving me command?”

  “I’m trusting you,” Michael said. “We’re out of options.”

  Ka’laar grinned, fangs flashing. “About time the humans recognized talent.”

  Michael smirked, then turned serious again. “We have to snap them out of Kael’s influence. Killing the affected isn’t helping. If we can break his hold—just for a moment—it might release them.”

  Xhiamas nodded. “So we target the source. Not Kael himself… but the magic that’s anchoring his influence here.”

  Ka’laar cracked his knuckles. “You want to shatter a curse tied to wrath incarnate?”

  “I want to disrupt the battlefield. Knock him off balance. Hit him from multiple angles. Enough to make him lose focus.”

  Michael turned to a young orc runner. “Send the order to spread our forces into a loose double crescent formation. Wide arcs. Shadowwalkers on the flanks, orcs in the center. Rotate berserkers to the back. Do not engage unless provoked.”

  The runner darted off with a nod.

  Xhiamas glanced at the swirling clouds above. “Jophiel’s already deep beneath us. If we can break Kael’s grip at the same time Jophiel seals the rift, this might actually work.”

  Ka’laar drew his curved axes, eyes gleaming like molten gold. “Then let’s bleed the fire god until he screams.”

  Michael stepped back, breathing deeply as he reached into his satchel and pulled a flask of tonic—something Raphael had given him weeks ago. He downed it and hissed at the bitter taste, but felt his body stabilize slightly.

  He looked at the two commanders.

  “Begin.”