He'd spent days in the shadows, a ghost among the trees, observing the Bloodbounds, meticulously mapping their movements. He'd known from the start—this was the same ritual as before. The same signs. The same inevitability.
But there was one crucial difference: they were rushing it.
The impending arrival of the Malice Bloom changed everything. The Bloom didn't discriminate; its emergence would bring a chaos that gnawed at the fabric of reality, a force neither side could hope to control. This meant the Bloodbounds wouldn't be able to perform their ritual once it took hold. They desperately needed every ounce of stolen power before the Bloom arrived. They weren't just hunting humans; they were fighting for their own survival.
This grim realization was why Emmet chose to intervene. Not because he believed in victory; he harbored no such delusions. Alone, he could have survived, disappearing into the wreckage as he had done countless times before, watching cities crumble without lifting a hand. Yet, allowing these people to die without even trying? That was a line he simply refused to cross.
With the plan now solidified, Emmet focused on the immediate task at hand. He'd assigned roles, tasking the Luminaries with gathering their sacred weapons. Most Luminaries received divine arms upon initiation—some blessed during baptism, others capable of directly absorbing divinity from the Athenari themselves. These Luminaries were inherently stronger than ordinary men, their power borrowed from the Athenari, the self-proclaimed gods who wielded Light Divinity. Among them, only three held the highest blessing: the title of Athenari, direct conduits of divine energy. Yet, now, all their weapons rested in Emmet's hands.
Emmet meticulously arranged the divine artifacts within the sigil, the altar itself. Before the assembled volunteers and soldiers, he unveiled his plan: he would harness the power within the sigil. It wasn't as simple as wielding it directly; his past experiments had proven he couldn't activate the sigil's energy on his own. He'd spent weeks studying runes, totems, and bindings, forming theories and testing results. He possessed no power to create or fuel such sigils, but with the right materials—divine weapons, sacred artifacts—he could tamper with them. It was a perilous undertaking, meddling with demonic power, but no one voiced objections. They had no other choice.
Through trial and error, Emmet refined his theories, cross-checking every possibility, aiming for at least an 80% chance of success. Higher was always better.
Finally, the plan was laid bare. "We need to survive this," he declared. "Our goal is simple—weaken them while strengthening ourselves. This is our only chance."
One voice broke the silence. "Why don't we just destroy the sigil?"
Emmet exhaled sharply. "And lose our chance to power up?" His eyes flickered, unimpressed. "They'd still be stronger. Nothing would change. Do you want that to happen?" The man looked away, ashamed for asking.
Day Two brought success. His theories worked; the weapons readily accepted the altered energy, their strength undeniably enhanced. But something else, something impossible, also occurred. The Luminaries wielding the divine blessings had grown stronger, a development completely unforeseen in his calculations.
Emmet watched as they marveled at their newfound power, their admiration now shifting toward him. The people believed now; they felt they had a real chance. But Emmet wasn't celebrating. He was deeply confused. "How...?" he murmured. How could Light Divinity—a force wielded by the gods themselves—be enhanced by dark energy? It wasn't just improbable; it was impossible.
A long silence stretched, heavy with his incomprehension. This wasn't a miracle; there was no such thing as miracles. Yet it had happened. And though it worked in their favor, a whisper deep inside him insisted: this should not be possible. A faint tremor ran through his hand, an unconscious reaction to the unsettling truth.
Emmet had no time to investigate the anomaly further. He had to use it. Whatever had happened with the divine weapons could be broken down later; what mattered now was the battle. He turned to Conor. "In battle, you will be General. It's your turn now." Despite their history, Emmet made no distinctions. The Luminaries had spent their lives training for war; they understood the weight of leadership, the responsibility of commanding armies. There was no time for traps, no time for anything but head-on conflict.
Roles were assigned to every person in the local town militia. Emmet hadn't promised survival, only a fighting chance. How they fought, and how much they wanted to live, was up to them.
Battle Formation – The False Retreat Gambit
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Frontline – The Shield Wall: The most experienced fighters formed the center, holding ground with shields and spears. Their sole objective was to absorb the demon charge, preventing the Bloodbound from overwhelming them too quickly.
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Flanking Civilians – Ambush Squads: Those unsuited for direct combat were strategically placed in alleys and buildings. Their weapons were simple yet deadly. As the demons rushed the main force, these hidden fighters would strike from the sides, weakening the charge.
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Emmet's Role – Duel with the Bloodbound Commander: While the formation held, Emmet would confront their leader. His totem would shatter their defenses, tearing through their magic without relying on the sigil's power. His only focus was to eliminate as many as possible.
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Final Push – The Militia Charge: The moment the Bloodbounds lost momentum, the entire militia would charge together, using their weapons to overwhelm the enemy before they could recover.
This was war. No tricks. No sigils. Only steel, desperation, and willpower.
The third day arrived, bringing with it the supposed parley. Emmet and Conor stepped forward, facing the Bloodbound representatives. On the other side, Divina grinned, flanked by her usual entourage, her presence radiating the same composed menace as always.
"So," Divina mused, her voice light, amused, almost mocking. "Have you decided to offer us fifty percent of them?"
Emmet laughed, a sharp, unhinged sound. "As if you mean that," he scoffed. His eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "This isn't a parley. I just wanted to see your face one last time."
Divina's smirk faltered for the briefest moment, perhaps offended by his blatant disregard for her ritual. But then, she tilted her head, studying him. "You've figured it all out, haven't you?" She almost sounded impressed.
Then, with an eerie serenity, she sighed. "These people never stood a chance at survival. It is better they die by our hands than fall to the spawns of the Malice Bloom. At least their deaths won't be wasted. They'll serve a purpose." Her voice carried a chilling certainty, as if there was no argument to be had.
Emmet's laughter cut through the air again, but this time, it was colder.
"What are you talking about?" He took a slow, unhurried, measured step forward. "The only sacrifice I see..." Then, in a flash, his hand lashed forward, locking around Divina's throat. "Is you."
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The Bloodbounds tensed. Some moved, but too slowly. Divina's eyes widened for a fleeting moment before her lips curled into something between amusement and annoyance. "Oh?" The air thickened; battle was mere seconds away. Conor wasted no time—his signal rang out like a call to war, and the battle erupted.
Emmet, unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him, had already buffed himself. His earth totem, now compact and no larger than his arm, pulsed with latent energy. He had no intention of using it as a weapon just yet; his focus was entirely on Divina.
Her fingers clawed against his grip, struggling to break free. But for the first time in her life, she felt helpless. Her strength, her power, the overwhelming force she had wielded so effortlessly—it was useless. Why is he so strong?
Emmet's lips curled slightly, as if he had plucked the thought directly from her mind. "Did you notice?" His voice was low, steady. "Do you feel any weaker? So do your friends." Divina's pupils dilated; the weight of his words settled in an instant. What does he mean?
Her only response was instinct: she began transforming, her body twisting into its demonic form. But the more she changed, the tighter his grip became. The pressure crushed her throat, forcing her back, threatening to snap her entire form if she continued. Her body screamed in protest—if she transformed any further, she would break. Fear. Real, raw fear. For the first time, Divina felt something beyond pain, beyond pride. She felt the inevitability of losing.
Divina stumbled as Emmet shoved her forward, releasing his grip. It wasn't mercy; it was permission, a silent signal that she could now fight seriously. But Divina was never a real threat to him. If he wanted, he could tear through half the enemy ranks instantly. But that would be reckless, pointless. Emmet wasn't the kind to play hero; he wasn't there to sacrifice himself. His method was clear: let the people win their own war. He would assist, nothing more.
Divina fully transformed, her body twisted, darkness rippling through her as she embraced her demonic state. Emmet stood firm, his buffed form durable and stronger, though using the totem to buff himself made him slightly slower and heavier. It didn't matter. At this distance, he didn't need speed; what he needed was power. And so, he launched his fist.
A single, devastating blow. The moment his knuckles met flesh, Divina's entire upper half was obliterated. Bone shattered, blood misted into the air. A faint cheer erupted from the militia, quickly swallowed by the din of battle. She was gone. Completely. Dead. Emmet exhaled, releasing his buff. Now, finally, he could get serious.
The battlefield was chaos: screams, clashing steel, the ground slick with blood and debris. Yet Emmet didn't act immediately. He watched, satisfied, as the Luminaries dominated the fight, cutting through the Bloodbounds with precision. Their formations held. Their divine weapons tore through the enemy ranks like fire through dry grass.
"Oh well," he mused, almost entertained. "I guess I have to do my part. Just as we planned... Just as I promised." And then, he moved.
Like a battle god, Emmet enlarged his Rock Totem, hefting it like a brutal mace. Then—slamming time. His steps cracked the ground, each leap sending violent tremors through the battlefield. From spot to spot, he struck with monstrous force, his totem crushing demons into dust. Leap. Slam. Destroy. He assisted his allies, tore through enemies, yet never claimed the fight as his own. He let them feel the victory, let them experience the glory of their own war.
Then, finally, the battle was over. The people of Hollow Town had survived. Not without loss—many had fallen—but the majority lived. Wounded, weary, but alive. They had done their best.
Emmet exhaled, surveying the remnants of battle: the blood-soaked earth, the exhausted faces, the shared relief. "So this is what it looks like... when humanity works together for the same purpose." For the first time, he saw hope in them. In humanity.
But then, his thoughts darkened. The Malice Bloom. A force beyond this fight. Beyond survival. "How am I going to save these people from that?"
The aftermath of battle had barely settled before the sigil ritual ignited, glowing with an unnatural pulse, absorbing the lingering death energy from both fallen Bloodbounds and humans alike. Emmet's victory was short-lived. As the people rejoiced, a new horror emerged: the Luminaries who had wielded sigil-infused weapons were changing, their bodies trembling, pulsing with demonic energy. Corruption was setting in.
They hadn't noticed it at first. But now—now they were losing control. Conor was the first to react, staring at his own arm. The veins beneath his skin darkened, shifting into something twisted, his fingers elongating, his muscles seizing in pain. His scream was rage and agony entwined.
Emmet's expression hardened. "What is this?" He had anticipated corruption within artifacts, within weapons, but this—this was different. The transformation only affected those with divinity, the ones who had been blessed. The ordinary Luminaries remained untouched, watching in horror as their own kind fell apart, shifting into Bloodbound monstrosities. The people ran, fleeing from the abominations they had once called protectors.
Emmet closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not to the ones escaping, but to those becoming demons before his eyes. It was his fault. He had caused this. But he would fix it. "This is the price of our victory." And with that, he struck. He cut down every last corrupted Luminary, ensuring no trace remained. There was no hesitation. No remorse. By the time the last one fell, Emmet had already forgiven himself.
His second task was clear: "Gather everything—every corrupted artifact, every tainted relic, every weapon, every piece of armor touched by the sigil." The people obeyed without question. They trusted him. Completely. And as the last remnants of corrupted divinity were laid within the sigil's depths, Emmet stood before the sigil, uncertain, but thinking. There was no time for deeper investigation, only theories—rapid conclusions formed through sheer instinct.
Step One: The Trap of Opposing Forces
Without hesitation, he gathered all the corrupted weapons and armor, arranging them in a precise closed loop around the sigil—an encirclement of demonic energy. The contradiction was clear: the weapons had been blessed to kill demons, yet they were infused with demonic magic themselves. The sigil, built upon chaos, would struggle to sustain this paradox. It had two choices: reject the corruption or implode from instability.
Step Two: Weapon Against Weapon (The Catalyst)
Originally, Emmet had planned to use an iron blade—something untouched by magic. But after witnessing the inexplicable boost in Light Divinity, he knew that wouldn't work. Instead, he turned to his fire totem. The fire totem had always been a safeguard, a force that could purge curses, poison, and ailments from his own body. But would it work against the sigil itself? There was only one way to find out. With nothing left to lose, Emmet stepped inside the sigil, buffing himself with the fire totem, using his own body as the sacrifice for the disruption.
Step Three: The Sigil's Self-Destruction
The moment he entered, the effects began. Like a serpent devouring itself, the sigil started breaking down, attempting to absorb the corrupted artifacts—but in doing so, it cannibalized its own power. The weapons crumbled to ash. The armor rusted instantly. The sigil itself began collapsing inward, twisting upon itself like a void of shrieking whispers. For a moment, Emmet felt something—something pulling at him, something trying to consume him along with the corruption. The pull was like a cold, invisible hand, trying to latch onto his very essence, to drag him into the spiraling void. Then—the sigil faded. Gone.
When Emmet finally destroyed the sigil, the air felt lighter—the oppressive weight of corruption had vanished, leaving behind nothing but silence. Then, the cheers erupted. The people of Hollow Town surged forward, some falling to their knees, others raising their voices in triumphant cries. They had won. And in their eyes, there was only one person responsible—their hero, Emmet. Names were whispered, shouted. Luminaries bowed their heads in reverence. Survivors grasped at him, some laughing, others weeping. He had done what was impossible—led them through war, defeated the Bloodbounds, and erased the sigil's horror from existence.
Yet, in the midst of their joy—Emmet didn't move. He stood still, staring at the spot where the sigil had once burned beneath him. His mind drifted back to the moment of destruction.
Flashback: As he stood within the sigil, fire totem pulsing, corruption unraveling—he felt something else. A pull. A siphon. A connection stretching beyond the battlefield. For a brief instant, his mind linked with the sigil, trying to purge it—and it worked. But as he stripped away its influence, he felt resistance. The sigil wasn't just absorbing death energy; it was being drained. From somewhere else. A presence. A force feeding off the ritual, as if the sigil was merely a fragment of something far greater.
The memory ended, and Emmet blinked—returning to the present. The celebration continued around him, but his thoughts were elsewhere. This wasn't over. The Malice Bloom was coming, but now, there was another mystery—another power source lingering beyond his reach. And Emmet knew—he had to find it.
When Emmet fell, it was not like any descent he had known before. The ground did not break beneath him; it swallowed him, dragged him down, a force neither cruel nor merciful. Tentacle-like constructs wrapped around his limbs, pulling, guiding, transporting—not organic, not demonic. Something else, something older, something meant to retrieve, not devour.
And then, the world changed. He landed, breath steady but mind reeling. A chamber, hidden beneath Hollow Town, carved into time itself. The space was small, yet vast, as if defying the limitations of reality—a world within a wound, a secret kept for thousands of years. At its center, a crystal, pulsing softly, its glow gentle yet infinite. And within it—a girl.
Emmet's pulse tightened. His breath caught. She was unlike anything he had ever seen. Not just beautiful—unearthly, untouched by time, yet struggling against it. A presence so pure, so delicate, that it made the battles he had fought—the blood, the carnage, the chaos—feel distant. As if his soul had been waiting for this moment without knowing why. His fingers curled slightly, the urge to reach out instinctive, undeniable.
And then, a whisper—soft, a plea buried in silence. "Help me."
His hand met the crystal. The seal below reacted instantly, pulsing, shifting, recognizing his feelings—the way he wanted her, the way he envisioned her in his future. A totem was forming—no, something beyond a totem. Like when he first shaped the rock totem. Like when he refined his fire totem through the essence of the dragon. But this—this was different. This was emotion woven into energy, instinct shaping reality. And between them, their essences—connected.