The evening had draped itself in golden twilight, laughter echoing through the grand halls of the Ragnar estate. The celebration was nearing its final act—an atmosphere of warmth, of peace. Yet, peace, as always, is the most fragile illusion.
Suddenly, the estate's main gates swung open with unnatural force. A group of unfamiliar figures strode into the heart of the party, their presence abrupt, unwelcome, and chilling. Their dark cloaks swayed with silent menace.
One among them stepped forward, voice sharp and cutting:
"So, you are the infamous Duke Sion Ragnar. We are glad to finally meet."
The crowd fell into murmurs. Confusion spread like wildfire. These people weren't from the Clover Kingdom. Nor from Sidom. Nor even the Dwarven domains.
Sion narrowed his gaze. "Who are you? Do I know you?"
With grim synchronization, the intruders drew back their hoods.
Sion's breath caught. Raphael's eyes widened in horror.
A sinister aura, faint yet unmistakable, clung to them—demonic magic.
Then came the chanting. The words were ancient, profane—seeping into minds like poison. Guests screamed, clutched their heads, collapsed. Magic surged like a tidal wave.
It all happened in an instant.
One of the cloaked figures moved—a blur of speed and precision—and with a single stroke, Luthor's head fell to the ground.
Gasps turned to panic. Another figure lunged at John, stabbing deep into his back. He collapsed in a pool of blood, gravely wounded. Janet tried to intervene—only to scream as her right hand was severed.
Sion stood frozen—shocked, disoriented—trying to comprehend the chaos unraveling before him.
"They're from the Old Demonic Cult!" Raphael shouted. "They're not human!"
Rage burst from Sion's core like a storm. A divine aura ignited around him—terrifying, brilliant, unrelenting.
He moved.
With impossible speed, Sion whisked his family to safety, cradling Janet in his arms. His magic surged—pure, divine. Her severed arm was healed, whole again, as if time had rewound.
But the battlefield remained. Blood pooled. Screams rose. Even King Nathan and the royal family weren't spared. They had been attacked—wounded—humiliated.
Except Leonard.
He stood among the carnage, his smile a twisted mirror of madness.
"You… Sion… you and your cursed family." His voice cracked, deranged. "Because of you, I'm being judged—questioned! My sister is no longer crown princess because of your interference!"
His eyes gleamed with fury.
"I'll kill you. I'll end every last Ragnar. I'll annihilate your bloodline!"
Lucien stepped forward, voice laced with disbelief. "Have you gone mad, Leonard? Stop this before it's too late!"
"Don't provoke him!" Katherine cried, stepping in front of Leonard. "He doesn't know what he's doing!"
But the members of the demonic cult had already begun attacking Sion's allies, those loyal to the Ragnar name.
Sion… remained calm.
Silently, steadily, he moved through the wounded—healing, shielding, saving. But his eyes—oh, those eyes—were burning embers of wrath.
Katherine grabbed his arm. "Sion… please. Don't do it. He's my brother… we can explain. Please, don't become a monster."
Even King Nathan and the Queen stepped forward, pleading. "Let justice handle this. Do not take that path, Sion."
But it was too late.
Sion's gaze locked onto Leonard—a predator eyeing its prey. A beast unleashed.
Katherine's grip trembled as she held his hand. "Please…"
Sion turned to her. His expression no longer held the man she knew.