FIGHT FOR YOU

The battlefield was drenched in smoke, ash, and the metallic scent of blood.

Screams of the wounded, roars of devils, and the thudding echo of chaos reverberated across the war-ravaged land.

Amidst the battlefield, ZARELLE—the monstrous mid-level demon—stood tall on clawed feet, his obsidian-scaled body gleaming under the fractured red sky. His glowing crimson eyes pierced through the mayhem, scanning the battlefield with savage pride. His long, barbed tail dragged behind him, searing the ground with every sway. Carnage surrounded him, Echelon Knights scattered and injured, and even Elira Saelwyn, the Zenith-ranked elite, lay bloodied and unmoving beneath a shattered arc of crystalized energy.

And Arslan... had finally awakened.

He stood at the edge of the battlefield. His dark hoodie partially torn from fever, eyes shadowed under damp hair. He didn't speak, not yet—his gaze shifted across the smoldering field, taking in the collapsed forms of his comrades: Caelis barely breathing, Tharion pinned beneath rubble, Zhalya coughing blood, and...

"Nirela," he whispered.

She lay motionless, her shoulder pierced with an abyssal claw, breathing faint. Arslan's heart trembled, not from fear—but something deeper. Something that burned just behind the ribs.

King Farhan and Julius stood behind the barrier line, protected by Zeniths and Council members. When they saw Arslan finally step forward, King Farhan's lips parted in quiet relief.

"He's here," Julius murmured, clutching his injured side. "Finally…"

With slow, determined steps, Arslan entered the battlefield, the air folding around him with a quiet hum of energy. Every movement rippled with unspoken power. But no grand entrance. No aura surging. Just silence, and storm in his eyes.

He reached Nirela first.

Falling to one knee, Arslan gently lifted her from the ground, his arms cradling her carefully. Her skin was pale, blood dripping from the wound. Her breathing was ragged.

"I'm here," he said softly.

Nirela's eyes barely opened. She saw him. Her lips trembled. "Ars…lan…"

"Shh…" he whispered, brushing her hair aside. "I'll get you to safety."

He walked her to the barrier edge, past stunned Echelon Knights. No one dared stop him. Even the devils momentarily halted, sensing a shift in atmosphere. The battlefield watched silently as Arslan set her down gently near the medical vanguard.

Then he stood again, back straight, breath slow.

He turned to face the field of broken bodies, the sea of devils, and finally—ZARELLE.

He walked forward.

Every step heavier than the last.

ZARELLE's demonic eyes narrowed. "Another lamb?" the beast laughed, voice rumbling like tectonic plates grinding. "Come, human. Let me crush your bones like the rest."

Arslan didn't respond.

But inside him, Kar'Thael's voice finally returned.

> "Arslan… He's not like the others. Listen carefully."

> "ZARELLE commands shadows and flame. His skin is resistant to piercing weapons. His tail... a whip of soul-burning spikes. But his weakness is his arrogance. He underestimates those who hide their strength."

> "Don't reveal your truth too early. Let him believe you're just another Mythic. And when the moment comes—show him the Vessel."

Arslan took in a slow breath.

"I'm sorry," he whispered aloud—not to Kar'Thael, but to the battlefield, the wounded, and especially… his team.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I was weak. I'm sorry for hurting all of you."

Then he raised his eyes, dark irises glowing faint violet now.

"But now… it's my turn."

He snapped his wrist back.

Crimson Verge formed from a cloud of red mist, its blade gleaming darkly with pulsing veins of chaotic energy. Shadows wrapped around his back, forming partial wings like torn banners.

ZARELLE roared, slamming both claws into the ground and charging with a devastating force.

The first wave of the clash had begun.

ZARELLE's claw struck—

Arslan dodged left in a blur, his body twisting with refined grace. The ground behind him exploded into shrapnel as the beast's claw shattered it.

Without delay, Arslan countered.

With a pivot on one heel, he brought Crimson Verge up in an upward arc—meeting ZARELLE's left shoulder. The blade screeched against the demon's hardened scales but failed to pierce.

ZARELLE laughed.

"You can't even scratch me."

But Arslan had already shifted.

He planted his foot and somersaulted backward, sending two Shadow Blades flying mid-air. They curved like serpents through the smoke—but ZARELLE spun, knocking them aside with his tail.

The demon charged again—teeth bared.

Arslan ducked, narrowly dodging a claw swipe that cleaved an entire stone wall behind him. He then activated Phantom Rift, slipping through the air like smoke—and reappeared behind ZARELLE mid-spin.

ECLIPSION PULSE.

A sudden surge of dark energy burst from Arslan's chest, forming a shadow-clone who mirrored his stance.

Together, they struck.

Crimson Verge collided with ZARELLE's back—but the beast twisted, grabbing the clone and crushing it mid-air, dispersing it in a shadow explosion.

ZARELLE turned to Arslan, snarling. "Tricks? You rely on tricks?"

Then—

BOOM!

From beneath, Arslan detonated a hidden Shadow Vein Channel, black tendrils erupting and gripping ZARELLE's legs.

The demon roared in frustration as the ground gripped him. Arslan rushed forward again, launching into mid-air.

SPIRAL RECOIL!

Crimson Verge spun with vibrating force as he threw it mid-air like a crimson drill—piercing into ZARELLE's left arm just enough to make him stagger back.

Blood dripped. Not much, but enough.

The demon's laughter paused.

"You've scratched me," ZARELLE admitted. "Interesting…"

Then suddenly—he grinned.

"But now—you bleed!"

ZARELLE vanished.

A flicker of demonic teleportation—his body burst into flames and shadow.

He reappeared behind Arslan and slammed his clawed hand into Arslan's side, sending him flying like a ragdoll.

Arslan crashed through a broken stone pillar, coughing up blood. His ribs screamed with pain.

Inside him, Kar'Thael growled.

> "Don't falter. This is what it means to fight a mid-level."

Arslan wiped blood from his mouth. "I'm not done."

He snapped his fingers.

Chains of shadow exploded from the ground—

VOID CHAINS.

They whipped through the battlefield, binding ZARELLE's arms and legs in brutal constriction. The demon roared, thrashing—but the chains pulsed with draining energy, siphoning his stamina.

Arslan, panting, staggered forward.

And unleashed NOIR TEMPEST.

A vortex of darkness and spiraling blades formed in his palms and surged forward like a tempest spear—slamming into ZARELLE's chest and launching the demon back.

The impact was thunderous—dust engulfed the battlefield, black mist rising in the air.

Silence.

Everyone—King, Julius, the Zeniths, and the wounded Mythics—watched.

Elira, barely conscious, whispered. "He's... strong..."

Tharion, bloodied and burned, tried to rise. "Is that... Arslan?"

The dust began to clear.

And ZARELLE was still standing.

Wounded—but not broken.

He licked his own blood.

"Interesting. Very interesting…"

He smiled—wide, manic, and murderous.

"I'll kill you slowly now."

But Arslan... only smirked faintly.

"I haven't even begun."