After a few long, agonizing minutes, Ereskia's condition had stabilized, just barely.

The potion had done its job, dulling the pain, slowing the bleeding. Her breath came a little easier now, no longer sharp and gasping. The frantic rhythm of her pulse had steadied. But even with that sliver of relief…

They were still far from safe.

In truth, they were trapped.

Escape was no longer an option, not in the state they were in.

The battle had drained them completely. Their mana cores were scorched dry, no more than husks. Their limbs were heavy, their muscles torn and trembling from exhaustion. Every breath came with effort. Just staying conscious felt like a battle in itself.

Even if the temple doors opened wide and the path lay clear, they wouldn't make it past a few steps, let alone getting past all the shadow monsters outside to go home.

And yet, staying wasn't a good option either.

Their rations, what little food and water they had left, would barely last a month. Two if they starved themselves and rationed to the bone.

And not to mention, their health condition…

Both Ereskia and Larpard were grievously wounded. Their bodies were covered in blood, broken in more ways than they could count. And of the two, Ereskia was far worse off.

The wounds on her back were horrifying, with five long claw marks raked from her neck down to her lower spine, flesh torn, nerves exposed, scorched black from the ShadowFang Guildmaster's cursed lightning. And on top of that, fever had already set in, her skin burning to the touch,

Even now, sweat beaded on her pale face despite the cold air around them.

Luckily, they still had some healing salves and fever medicine.

The potions might delay the worst of it, but it was a temporary reprieve at best. If she wasn't treated by a proper cleric soon, if they didn't make it back to civilization within the next few days, the wounds would fester, infected.

The fever would rise.

And then…

Ereskia might never wake up again…

________________________

"…Fuck it," Ereskia muttered, slumping further into Larpard's arms. "I'm just gonna take a nap…"

Apparently, Catgirls were known for their accelerated healing. So, she was hoping that if she slept long enough, perhaps her body would manage to knit some of itself back together somehow.

"Alright," Larpard said softly, adjusting his grip to keep her steady. "Then I'll stay up and keep watch."

"Nah," Ereskia grumbled. "You take a nap too."

"But—"

"What? You think you can still fight monsters like this?"

"…Haha. Yeah. You're right…"

They were both so beat up that even a D-rank horned rabbit could finish them off without much trouble. Neither of them could cast a proper spell, let alone swing a blade. They were helpless.

"Alright," Larpard sighed in resignation, leaning back against the cracked temple wall.

But then—

"…What?"

Larpard's eyes snapped wide open.

In an instant, he scrambled to his feet, drawing his dagger despite the searing pain shooting through his side.

Because now—

Lucian's body had begun to move.

Headless.

And yet it stood.

The corpse, stripped of life, rose stiffly to its feet like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. Limbs twitching, jerking, disturbingly unnatural, like a zombie.

On his bare chest, the glowing mark pulsed violently.

Blinding light erupted from it, searing through the darkness of the temple. Larpard instinctively shielded his eyes, and Ereskia, weak as she was, turned her face away.

And when the light faded, when they dared to look again, an entity had descended.

It now stood where Lucian's corpse had been, and its presence made the very air shiver.

It stood cloaked in radiant light, its silhouette wrapped in a mantle of golden brilliance. Four immense wings stretched behind its back, blinding, ethereal, like the flares of a dying star, pulsing with power so immense it pressed down on their lungs like a crushing weight.

Its head was bowed, a deep hood pulled low. There was no face, no features. Just a hollow void where eyes should be.

It was not Lucian.

Not anymore.

"W-WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" Larpard shouted, tail bristling in pure terror, fangs bared, one arm holding his dagger in trembling defiance, while the other wrapped protectively around Ereskia's broken body.

The being didn't answer.

It simply raised an arm, gliding slowly through the air effortlessly, its hand reaching out toward them, like it was going to attack.

But then, without warning, without any chant, without even a flicker of mana—

The Sword of the End roared to life!

It materialized in midair, and radiating from it was an insane amount of hatred and divine wrath. No hands held it. No spell commanded it.

And yet, it trembled, violently, viciously.

It shook as though it were alive!

Alive and furious!

Ereskia's breath hitched.

She could feel it.

The sword wasn't just reacting, it was screaming. Not with sound, but with pure emotion: rage, disgust, loathing so potent it curdled the air!

It had sensed the figure.

And it wanted blood.

With a sudden snap—

FWOOSH!

The sword launched itself like a bolt from heaven's darkest forge!

Straight through the shining figure's chest!

BOOOOM!!

The temple trembled.

Sheol struck with unstoppable force, impaling the winged entity and nailing it to the wall like an insect beneath a blade. The stone behind cracked like brittle glass. Light exploded outward in jagged, glitching bursts.

"KRRRGGHHHHHHH…!"

The being let out a sound—like static and agony mixed together. Its body flickered, glitching in and out of existence, fragments of its form struggling to hold together under the sword's divine hate.

It spasmed, limbs twitching unnaturally, then slowly raised one trembling finger.

Pointing.

At Ereskia.

And then, in a voice distorted, layered with too many echoes to be human:

"Azraphael…" it whispered. "We… will meet again…"

Ereskia's eyes narrowed, breath shallow. "What…?" she muttered.

But before she could ask who or what the hell Azraphael was—

The figure vanished.

Disappeared, without a trace.

And where it once stood, only Lucian's headless corpse remained, pinned against the cold, cracked wall.