The plains burned.
Columns of black smoke rose like funeral pyres across the horizon as war erupted in the kingdom of Lioren. The Empire had begun its final push, marching with dragon-bound siege towers, spirit-bound artillery, and ranks of soldiers bearing the crest of the Twin Suns.
Villages fell in hours. Cities held for days—before crumbling into ash.
And amid it all, the enemy had begun to whisper a name.
Not of kings.
But of demons.
Callan's.
He stood atop a hill overlooking the ruined border fortress of Myrholt, the air thick with the scent of charred steel and blood. Bodies littered the fields below. The city gates, once proud and unbroken, now hung like broken jaws.
"We're too late," Solenne said, her voice tight.
"No," Callan replied. "We're just on time."
From the field, something moved.
A figure walked alone through the corpses, straight toward them—cloaked in imperial red, armor scorched but intact. He carried no banner, yet none of the fires touched him. Shadows writhed beneath his feet.
When he stopped before them, Callan stepped forward.
"Name yourself."
The man smiled.
"I am Serik of the Warborn. Herald of the Emperor's Will."
Callan's eyes narrowed. "You're no herald. You're a shadowcaster."
Serik tilted his head. "Not anymore. I'm something greater. The Emperor has granted us his blessing—the same way you once blessed your own."
He drew his blade slowly. Its edge bled black mist, whispering voices that weren't human.
"The Empire no longer fears demons, Callan. It uses them."
Without warning, Serik attacked.
He moved like smoke—vanishing and reappearing behind them in a blink. Shura barely deflected the first strike, but the shockwave threw her back. Ren caught her before she hit the rocks.
Solenne unleashed a flash of radiant fire, but Serik split into three shadows, each one attacking from a different angle.
Callan dashed forward and clashed steel to steel with the real one, their blades locking.
"You're like me," Serik said, grinning. "But corrupted by guilt. I embraced what I became."
"You're a puppet."
"I'm a prophet."
The sky cracked.
Above them, wings darkened the sun.
Three imperial drakes descended, ridden by armored Warborn elites. Their eyes glowed violet. They bore the same mark Callan had once worn on his back—the sigil of the Demon General, now twisted and repurposed.
He felt a pulse of anger burn deep in his chest.
They had stolen it. Perverted it.
"This power is not yours to wield," he growled.
But Serik only laughed. "You gave it up, remember?"
The drakes landed hard. The ground quaked. One of them roared, unleashing a torrent of purple fire. Solenne raised a barrier, sweat pouring down her face as the flames pushed against her will.
Shura vanished again, diving into the chaos.
Ren leapt onto one of the drakes, spear in hand, spinning like a whirlwind of steel. He struck hard—piercing through the beast's eye and driving it mad. It bucked, throwing its rider, who Shura promptly skewered midair.
Callan focused on Serik.
Their duel was faster now—blades meeting in a flurry that shattered trees and cracked stone. Serik's shadow magic let him warp space, but Callan's experience and raw flame matched him step for step.
"You think you're still a general?" Serik taunted. "You've been hiding behind lost memories and guilt."
Callan's aura flared.
"I've been remembering who I really was."
He grabbed Serik mid-blink and drove his fist into the man's gut. The impact cracked ribs. Serik coughed blood and vanished into mist, reappearing twenty feet back.
"Enough of this," he growled.
He raised his hand.
And called down the abyss.
From the ground erupted a pillar of void—dark energy that screamed with a thousand voices. It rose like a tree of death, warping the land around it. The other Warborn fell back as its roots pulsed across the battlefield.
But Callan didn't move.
Instead, he reached into his cloak.
And pulled out the three Ember Keys.
They pulsed in unison—resonating with the chaos, pushing against the shadow.
Solenne shouted, "Callan! Don't—"
He slammed them together.
The sky ignited.
Fire—not of this world—exploded outward in a dome that vaporized the void's roots. It surged like a tidal wave across the field, purging the land with heat and light. The drakes shrieked and tried to flee—but one by one, they fell.
Even Serik screamed.
Callan walked into the fire as it parted for him.
He stood before Serik, now burned and bleeding, armor cracked.
Serik looked up, fear in his eyes for the first time.
"What… are you?"
Callan's voice was low.
"I am the end of what you've twisted."
He drove his blade down.
And ended the Herald.
The fire died slowly.
The battlefield was silent once more.
But far on the eastern horizon, horns sounded.
War had begun in truth.
And the final Ember Key waited in the heart of the Empire itself.