Lucian POV
The clang of steel against steel rang out like a death knell. Seraphim and I moved as
one, our blades carving arcs through the suffocating air. Each strike sent
shockwaves rippling through the earth beneath us, the ground trembling as if in fear
of what we had become.
Blood ran down my arm, pooling at my fingertips before dripping onto the crimsonstained ground. It wasn't mine. Not all of it. My muscles burned, my breaths were
ragged, but none of that mattered. The fire in my chest—the relentless drive to see
this through—burned brighter than any pain I could feel.
Seraphim blocked my next strike with a grunt, his once-pristine armor cracked and
smeared with dirt and blood. He parried and stepped back, his glowing sword
flickering like a dying star. His eyes, sharp yet weary, locked onto mine.
"Look around you, Lucian!" he barked, his voice strained but forceful. He gestured to
the carnage surrounding us, to the corpses of humans and demons alike strewn across
the battlefield. "All this blood spilled! All this death! What is it for?"
I glanced around, just for a moment, taking in the rivers of red that ran across the
cracked earth. The air reeked of iron and ash. The groans of the dying were a
haunting symphony in the distance.
Then I fixed my gaze back on him, the fire in my chest flaring once more. "Blood
flows everywhere," I said coldly, tightening my grip on my blade. "Be it inside the
body or out. But who cares where it spills?"
His jaw tightened, his frustration etched in every line of his face. "You care, Lucian!
That's the truth you keep running from. You care more than anyone, and it's killing
you."
I ignored his words, choosing to let my blade speak instead. I lunged, our swords
clashing in a spray of sparks, the sound of metal grinding against metal ringing out
like thunder. He pushed back with surprising strength, forcing me to take a step
back.
"You think this will bring her back?" he spat, pressing his advantage with a downward
strike. I parried, the impact jarring my arms. "Do you think wiping us out will make
you whole again?"
The mention of her name—or maybe just the ghost of it—stoked the fire inside me.
I surged forward, slamming my shoulder into his chest, sending him stumbling.
"This isn't about her," I lied, my voice cold. "This is about justice."
"Justice?" He laughed bitterly, wiping blood from his mouth as he regained his
footing. "Justice is what you tell yourself when you can't admit you're just as broken
as the rest of us!"
I didn't let him finish.
With a roar, I swung my blade in a wide arc, forcing him to defend. His glowing sword
caught mine, the clash lighting up the darkness around us. Our faces were inches
apart now, close enough for me to see the cracks forming in his resolve.
"You're wrong," I said through gritted teeth. "You don't know what broken looks like."
I shoved him back, and he staggered, his wings dragging behind him like weights. His
light, once blinding, was flickering. Dying.
But he wasn't done yet.
He lifted his blade again, his grip unsteady but defiant. "If this is what you want,
Lucian... then so be it."
The air shifted. Energy crackled around him as he gathered what little strength he
had left. His wings, torn and battered, spread wide, glowing faintly in the smokefilled night.
A moment of silence stretched between us, heavy and foreboding. And then he
charged.
Got it! Let's focus entirely on the opening scene of the chapter, zooming in on Lucian
and Seraphim's battle. Here's the standalone, immersive opening:
Chapter 25: A World Painted in Blood
POV: Lucian Blackwell
The clang of steel against steel rang out like a death knell. Seraphim and I moved as
one, our blades carving arcs through the suffocating air. Each strike sent
shockwaves rippling through the earth beneath us, the ground trembling as if in fear
of what we had become.
Blood ran down my arm, pooling at my fingertips before dripping onto the crimsonstained ground. It wasn't mine. Not all of it. My muscles burned, my breaths were
ragged, but none of that mattered. The fire in my chest—the relentless drive to see
this through—burned brighter than any pain I could feel.
"You're relentless," Seraphim growled, his voice strained. He was breathing hard too,
his once-pristine armor cracked and smeared with dirt and blood. "But you're fighting
for nothing, Lucian. Nothing!"
I said nothing, letting my blade answer for me.
He blocked my strike, but his footing faltered, and I pressed the advantage, forcing
him back. The ground beneath us gave way to shallow craters and smoldering ruins.
Around us, the remnants of the battle roared—a symphony of screams, explosions,
and the steady crackle of flames.
"You think this will bring her back?" he spat, slashing upward. I parried, sparks flying.
"Do you think wiping us out will make you whole again?"
The mention of her name—or maybe just the ghost of it—stoked the fire inside me.
I surged forward, slamming my shoulder into his chest, sending him stumbling.
"This isn't about her," I lied, my voice cold. "This is about justice."
"Justice?" He laughed bitterly, wiping blood from his mouth. "Justice is what you tell
yourself when you can't admit you're just as broken as the rest of us!"
I didn't let him finish.
With a roar, I swung my blade in a wide arc, forcing him to defend. His glowing sword
caught mine, the clash lighting up the darkness around us. Our faces were inches
apart now, close enough for me to see the cracks forming in his resolve.
"You're wrong," I said through gritted teeth. "You don't know what broken looks like."
I shoved him back, and he staggered, his wings dragging behind him like weights. His
light, once blinding, was flickering. Dying.
But he wasn't done yet.
He lifted his blade again, his grip unsteady but defiant. "If this is what you want,
Lucian... then so be it."
The air shifted. Energy crackled around him as he gathered what little strength he
had left. His wings, torn and battered, spread wide, glowing faintly in the smokefilled night.
A moment of silence stretched between us, heavy and foreboding. And then he
charged.
Everything happened in a blur.
His blade came at me like a falling star, faster than I could track. I sidestepped,
narrowly avoiding the strike, but the shockwave sent me skidding back. He was faster
now, desperation fueling his movements, and I barely had time to block his next
attack before the force of it sent me reeling.
He didn't let up. Strike after strike rained down on me, and for a moment, I felt the
weight of it—the sheer force of his conviction.
But conviction alone wasn't enough.
His next swing left him overextended, and I seized the opening. My blade arced
upward, catching him across his chest. He cried out, stumbling backward, his sword
slipping from his grasp.
This was it.
I advanced on him, raising my weapon for the final blow. He dropped to his knees,
blood pouring from the wound, his wings collapsing at his sides.
"It's over," I said, my voice steady despite the pounding in my chest.
He looked up at me, his face pale, his breaths shallow. And then he smiled—a weak,
sorrowful thing.
"You win, Lucian," he said, his voice barely audible. "But tell me... is this really what
you wanted?"
The battlefield was quiet now. The kind of quiet that crawled under your skin, a
silence so heavy it felt like the world was holding its breath.
I stepped away from Seraphim's lifeless body, his last words still ringing in my ears.
Is this really what you wanted?
What I wanted didn't matter anymore.
The wind carried the smell of ash and blood, a nauseating blend that clung to me as
I moved. Bodies were everywhere—strewn across the broken landscape like
discarded relics of a war no one truly won. The ground was soaked in red, each step
I took squelching underfoot. It didn't feel real, none of it did, but the weight
pressing down on my chest told me otherwise.
I stopped and looked around. Fires dotted the horizon, their faint orange glow
painting the night sky in haunting streaks. Smoke rose in twisting pillars, blotting out
the stars. The heavens above mirrored the chaos below—dark, fractured, and cold.
A faint groan came from somewhere to my left. I turned, expecting an enemy, but it
was just another dying soldier. Human? Demon? I didn't care enough to check. Their
hand twitched, reaching out to no one, before going still.
I kept walking.
The war was over. The gods were dead. The humans who had clung to their protection,
their illusions of salvation, were gone too. All of it... gone.
And yet, the emptiness inside me only grew.
I glanced down at my blade, its once-polished surface now dulled and slick with blood.
It felt heavier than it should have, as if the weight of every life it had taken was
embedded in the steel. I tightened my grip, forcing my hand to steady, but even that
felt like a hollow gesture.
My eyes scanned the wreckage again, searching for something—anything—that
wasn't death. But the world refused to offer me solace. There was nothing left.
And then I felt it.
A shift in the air. A presence so immense it was suffocating.
I turned slowly, and there he was.
The Demon King.
He descended from the smoky sky, his form immense and commanding, silhouetted
against the fire-lit horizon. His dark armor seemed to drink in the light, and his
eyes—those piercing, unrelenting eyes—glowed with an otherworldly intensity.
The ground trembled as he landed, the force of it cracking the already-broken earth
beneath him. For a moment, he stood there, surveying the battlefield, his expression
unreadable.
I didn't speak. Neither did he.
The fires burned on, their light casting jagged shadows across the wasteland as the
two of us stood in silence.
The Demon King's first words broke through the oppressive stillness, his voice deep
and commanding, yet laced with a rare tone of approval.
"Congratulations, Lucian." His gaze swept the desolate battlefield, then returned to
me. "You've done well. Seraphim is no more, and with him, the last of those who would
stand against us."
I held his gaze, my grip tightening on the hilt of my sword. "And you, Demon King. I
see the Supreme God lies in ruin as well."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Yes. His arrogance was his undoing, as I always knew
it would be."
We stood there, two victors amidst the ashes of a shattered world, acknowledging
each other's triumph. But the moment was fleeting, and the questions that had
plagued me since the war began surged to the forefront of my mind.
"I have a question," I said, my tone sharp. "And you will answer me honestly."
His smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of intrigue. "Ask, little king."
I met his unyielding gaze, refusing to falter. "Who was the Goddess of Time to you?
And why did she betray the Supreme God?"
For a moment, his expression was unreadable, the firelight playing off the dark
planes of his face. Then, he spoke, his voice lower, heavy with something I couldn't
quite place.
"For that, my little king," he said, a hint of something almost nostalgic in his tone,
"we will have to go back in time. Back to when I was not the Demon King, but what
the world once knew as the God of Death."