The undead shrieked—a sound so raw it scraped across the soul.
Its rotting form staggered backward, thrashing in pain as the blue fire clung to its body like judgment given shape.
The temple fell silent.
No chants. No steel.
Only the crackle of ancient flame and the hoarse, guttural cries of a thing that had forgotten how to die.
And amid it all…
Kael stood.
Slowly, he rose to his feet—unsteady, bloodied, the faint glow of the divine flame dancing across his coat like ghostlight.
He said nothing.
He only stared at his hands.
Then calmly, almost thoughtfully, he began pulling shards of glass from his palms—one at a time.
Red rivulets of blood met the blue shimmer of fire and hissed faintly.
But he didn't flinch.
He moved like someone detached from pain.
Or perhaps simply used to it.
The flames coiled gently around him, licking at his sleeves, his back—like they were curious.
Like they knew him.
The students watched in stunned silence.
A man in a red demonic mask, black robes smoldering, calmly pulling glass from his bleeding hands while an undead monster wailed behind him in divine agony.
It was too much.
One student simply fainted on the spot, dropping like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
No one blinked.
No one moved to help.
Even fear had forgotten how to function.
Kael, still plucking out a stubborn shard from between his knuckles, finally noticed.
The fire—this holy, ancient fire—wasn't burning him.
In fact… his cuts were knitting closed.
Slowly.
But surely.
He stared at them, quietly amazed. "Yue."
His voice was low.
Almost dazed.
"What is this flame?"
A pause.
Then Yue—hovering near the edge of the statue's shadow, still visibly rattled—answered in a breathless whisper.
"It's divine fire," she said. "A curse to the undead…"
Her gaze shifted to Kael—wreathed in living flame, blood drying into soot.
"…and a blessing to the living."
Kael said nothing.
But the fire around him pulsed once—soft and steady.
Almost like it approved.
The undead let out a furious roar that rattled the very stones beneath their feet.
It had reached its limit.
This masked mortal—this flame-wrapped heretic—had danced through death too long.
Now, it would end.
It lunged, arms outstretched, hate in every fiber of its rotting body.
Kael didn't panic.
He simply sighed.
Then reached down, picked up the red katana still glowing softly in the blue-tinted dark.
"All right," he murmured, voice calm despite the weight pressing down on his battered body.
"Let's do round two."
He flicked his hand— Amplification!
The spell surged through him once more.
Only this time, the divine flame curling around his body answered the call.
It fed him.
Replenished the mana he no longer had.
Every aching muscle tensed with renewed vigor.
The fire was not burning him.
It was fueling him.
And he charged.
Their roars met midair—Kael and the creature clashing like beasts forged from two different hells.
Steel kissed bone with a scream.
The undead struck like a storm, fists hammering the air, spine cracking as it twisted in unnatural contortions.
The divine flame clinging to its body had begun its work—rotting it further.
Skin peeled.
Bone blackened.
With every step, it decayed.
And yet, it fought harder.
Kael's blade flashed—slashing into the thing's side.
Chunks of burning meat fell to the floor.
Still, the monster surged forward.
They moved through the temple like falling gods.
Two monsters locked in sacred fire, each refusing to fall.
To the students, it was beyond comprehension.
The blue flames made everything surreal—like watching gods clash in a dream.
Their spells had stopped. Their fear was forgotten.
They could only watch.
One whispered, almost reverently, "This isn't real."
Another, eyes wide and unblinking, murmured, "It's… beautiful."
Even Selene—eyes unblinking, lips parted—couldn't look away.
This was something else.
This was war.
Kael was breathing hard now.
The creature lunged again—wider now, sloppier.
The fire was eating through its spine.
Kael saw it.
He sidestepped at the last second, ducked beneath the flaming arm, and rolled past the creature's flank.
One motion.
One breath.
And then—strike.
He didn't go for the neck.
He went for the joint just below the skull—precisely where the fire had hollowed the bone.
The katana slid in, clean and deliberate.
A twist.
A pull.
CRACK.
The head flew—wreathed in blue flame—spinning in slow, almost reverent motion before crashing beside the statue.
The body stood still.
Then fell apart, not in death, but in release.
Ash scattered into the firelight, silent and weightless.
Kael stood over it, shoulders heaving, smoke curling from his coat, sword hanging low in his hand.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
He simply was—a silhouette of blood, flame, and silence.
A demon in a god's hall.
And behind him, no one dared break the quiet.
To the students, he no longer looked human.
He looked like something born from the temple itself.
Something divine.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then—from somewhere in the group, cracked by fear and exhaustion—a voice broke the silence:
"H-he… he killed it…"
A breath, disbelieving.
"...It's over…"
A student dropped to their knees, sobbing with relief.
Another laughed—a thin, hysterical sound, sharp against the silence.
They began to move.
Slowly. Some hugged. Some just stood—trembling, wordless.
Then Elara stepped forward, eyes wide, expression caught between awe and caution.
Her voice, though soft, carried across the ruined temple.
"Sir… who are you?"
Kael turned his head slightly, the red demonic mask hiding everything—except the weight in his posture.
"You can call me the Devil," he said.
A hush rippled through the survivors.
"…Devil…"
"…The Devil…"
The name echoed, cold and unreal.
A whisper threading through stone and silence like a ghost's breath.
Then it appeared.
A jagged shimmer of violet light—cracking open the space before the black statue.
A rift.
Just like the one that had dragged them into this nightmare.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then—realization.
Escape.
A cry went up. Another followed.
And then relief shattered across the room like glass.
"We can leave…"
"We're free—finally—"
Tears. Laughter. Trembling limbs.
They surged toward the rift like drowning souls toward air.
But not all.
Elara hesitated.
She turned back.
Kael stood near the altar, still wreathed faintly in blue flame.
Still masked.
Still bleeding.
Still silent.
She stepped toward him.
"Sir…" she said gently. "We should leave."
No response.
No nod.
No breath.
Just stillness.
The kind that felt… wrong.
Not holy.
Not calm.
Wrong.
She swallowed. "…Please?"
Behind her, the others slowed.
Something in the air shifted again—joy ebbing, like light swallowed by cloud.
Kael didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Until, finally… he did.
His voice cut the air like a blade drawn in a church.
"I'm plundering," he said.
"Quickly—leave your powerful spells in scrolls. All of them."
A pause.
Then:
"Or—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't have to.
The silence that followed was heavier than fear.
It was betrayal.
Shock.
Dread.
"…Is he… robbing us?" someone whispered, voice small.
Fractured.
And from the shadow near the statue, Yue watched—her eyes wide with stunned disbelief.
Then slowly… she smiled.
Her thoughts, light and amused:
Gods above. I think I like this idiot.
Maybe binding myself to him wasn't such a tragic mistake after all.