Smoke curled into the shattered skies as silence fell over the estate—broken only by the distant moans of the wounded. The once-glorious celebration was now a graveyard of ruin and betrayal. At the center stood Sion Ragnar, his divine aura glowing like a second sun. The marble beneath his feet cracked under the weight of his fury.
Katherine clutched his arm, tears streaming.
"Please," she whispered, "don't do this. He's still my brother."
Sion didn't move.
His eyes, once warm and noble, were cold and blazing—twin storms behind a calm mask. His gaze swept the carnage: Luthor's lifeless body, John bleeding but breathing, Janet clutching her reattached arm in shock.
"Father…" Janet's voice was small, trembling. "Come back. Please."
But Sion's fury wasn't a flame—it was a force of nature. It didn't burn; it consumed.
Leonard limped forward through the debris, his fine clothes now torn and bloodied, his smirk unshaken.
"You're shaking," he said mockingly. "Is it fear? Or the thrill of finally having a reason to kill me?"
"Silence," Sion said, his voice like a hammer on steel.
From the shadows stepped a cloaked figure—tall, robed in black silk that shimmered unnaturally. His presence warped the air.
"You stand in judgment, Duke Ragnar," the cult leader intoned, voice echoing with inhuman tones. "But it is your bloodline that doomed this world to ruin. Leonard is not broken—he is reborn."
Leonard laughed, unhinged. "Tell them! Tell them how weak they are! How fake their power is!"
The cultists behind him began to chant again, their demonic magic thickening the air like smoke. The sky darkened unnaturally, and crimson glyphs pulsed beneath their feet.
Sion moved.
In less than a breath, he was among them. His divine aura exploded, a golden tempest, his hands glowing with radiant sigils. One cultist raised his blade—and was vaporized. Another chanted a dark incantation—and Sion drove his fist through his chest.
Wherever he walked, corruption fled. His magic cut not only flesh, but the essence of evil.
Raphael, injured but standing, extended a shield to protect the wounded. "Contain the dark glyphs!" he shouted. "Don't let them stabilize the summoning!"
Amid the chaos, Leonard tried to retreat, but Sion was upon him.
"Still hiding behind others to do your work?" Sion asked.
Leonard raised a trembling sword. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Then you're a fool."
Their clash lasted only seconds.
Leonard's strikes were wild, desperate—driven by madness, not skill. Sion's movements were precise, economical. He disarmed Leonard with one swing, dislocated his shoulder with another. As Leonard collapsed, Sion raised his hand, golden light swirling around his palm like a celestial scythe.
Katherine ran forward. "No! Sion—please!"
He looked at her once—only once. And in that moment, she saw the war inside him. The protector and the executioner. The man and the god.
"I won't kill him," Sion said quietly.
Then, without pause, he cut off Leonard's legs and sword arm.
Leonard screamed, blood soaking the stones, his body thrashing in agony.
"This mercy," Sion said, stepping back, "isn't for you. It's for her."
He turned and walked away, leaving Leonard writhing in the dirt—broken, humiliated, and alive.
All around, the cultists lay dead or dying. A few fled into the woods, but not without leaving their mark. A massive glyph—burned into the courtyard—continued to pulse with faint demonic light, its meaning unknown but foreboding.
Raphael flying above the bodies, his brows furrowed. "They weren't here to kill you, Sion," he said. "They were here to send a message."
From the perimeter, an aged voice spoke, calm and chilling.
"Indeed. And the message has been delivered."
A figure emerged from the treeline—a tall seer in deep violet robes. Their face was obscured by a porcelain mask, but their eyes glowed beneath it—neither mortal nor demonic.
"You've awakened something," the seer said. "A war long buried beneath the surface of this world. The Cult of the Black Depths is no longer hiding."
Sion looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Then neither will I."
Then the seer vanished—dissolving into motes of silver light.
Behind him, King Nathan struggled to stand, supported by guards. His robes were torn, his crown dented. He looked not like a ruler—but a man shaken to his core.
The Queen remained silent, holding her daughter's hand tightly.
Katherine approached Sion again, her voice still breaking. "What will you do now?"
Sion didn't answer immediately. He turned, looking over the ruined estate—over the bodies, the flames, the blood. His eyes, though dimmer now, still carried a fire.
"I protect my family. That hasn't changed."