Kael's voice echoed like thunder through the arena:
"No matter what you do—DON'T KILL HIM!"
The Proctor's expression didn't shift—at least, not right away.
But behind the faint glow of his crescent-tipped helm, his gaze darkened.
He hovered midair above the scorched battlefield, still as stone. His cloak of astral silk drifted slowly, tugged by the rising heat and the unnatural winds spiraling from the corrupted crater below.
The Doom Beast snarled beneath him. Tendrils lashed out in every direction, writhing like living cables, veins of blackened smoke coiling with violent intent.
The Proctor had heard the voice clearly.
And he knew exactly who it belonged to.
Kael.
A general of the Demon King.
His eyes narrowed behind the magic-veiled helm.
It made sense now. Malik was a demon prince. Kael wouldn't want him dead.
But what Kael wanted didn't matter.
Because whatever that thing was down there... it wasn't Malik anymore.
His soul had been hollowed out.
