The air in the war tent was thick with tension.
Maps sprawled across the wooden table, pinned by daggers and marked with fresh blood. Cities were circled in red ink—forts blacked out, already taken or obliterated. Mountains that once defined borders had crumbled into ruins under dragonfire. The Empire was no longer probing.
It was consuming.
Callan stared at the parchment, his fingers drumming on the edge.
Behind him, Solenne paced. Shura stood near the entrance, sharpening her daggers with slow, deliberate strokes. Ren had just returned from a scouting run and dropped a satchel full of torn imperial insignias on the floor.
"They're not stopping," Ren said. "They've mobilized another entire legion. Thirty thousand strong. Marching under the Emperor's personal seal."
Callan didn't flinch. "Location?"
"They'll cross the Scarlet River in less than a week. They're heading for Cindral."
Solenne's head snapped around. "That's a civilian city. No military presence, no defenses—"
"That's the point," Callan muttered. "He's not conquering. He's sending a message."
Ren frowned. "What kind of message?"
Callan pointed to the map. "He's moving his pieces into place. It's not about territory. It's about forcing us to react. He's making me move the way he wants."
Shura sheathed her daggers. "You think he knows your next step?"
Callan looked toward the flame in the brazier. "He's gambling that I'll go for the Ember Key."
"And he's right, isn't he?" Solenne said softly.
Callan nodded once. "Because if I don't, this war ends with us buried under the ashes."
The Ember Keys were ancient artifacts forged during the First Demon War—remnants of a power that predated nations. Three had been recovered. One remained—sealed within the Vault of Dovaryn, beneath the Emperor's seat of power.
It wasn't just a key. It was his anchor.
Without it, Callan would never reach the depths of his former self.
Without it, the demon inside him would remain incomplete—and so would his war.
He stood abruptly and turned to the others. "We split."
Ren blinked. "What?"
"You and Shura lead a diversionary force west. Draw out their forward legions. Hit the supply lines, destroy bridges, anything to make the Emperor think I'm coming from that direction."
Solenne crossed her arms. "And what about me?"
"You're with me. We're going straight to Dovaryn."
There was silence.
Then Solenne sighed. "You know this is probably a trap."
"I'm counting on it."
The journey to Dovaryn was unlike any Callan had taken before.
Where once he would have ridden at the head of an army, now he traveled with shadows. Just he, Solenne, and a small team of elite infiltrators—former assassins, outcasts, and even a half-blooded mage who owed Callan his life.
They passed through burning forests, towns overrun by imperial conscripts with dead eyes, and rivers blackened by sorcery. The deeper they went, the stranger the land became.
And the colder the nights grew.
One evening, as they camped near the base of the Vale Peaks, Solenne sat beside him, her gaze lingering on the stars.
"You don't talk much about what it felt like," she said suddenly.
Callan looked at her. "What?"
"When you were him—the Demon General. What did it feel like to hold that power?"
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, "It felt like everything made sense. Like the world finally stopped lying. There was no ambiguity, no hesitation. Only purpose."
Solenne watched him. "And now?"
"Now…" He closed his eyes. "Now I remember why it had to end."
By the time they reached the outer gates of Dovaryn, the sky had turned crimson. The capital was different than Callan remembered. Where once towers of white stone gleamed in sunlight, now obsidian spires rose like claws toward the heavens.
The city was silent. Not quiet—dead silent.
Solenne shivered. "This is wrong."
Callan agreed. Something was… missing.
People.
No merchants. No soldiers. Not even the wind.
As they entered the city's outer ring, the source became clear.
Bodies.
Piled in alleys. Hung from balconies. Laid in perfect lines across the cobbled streets. Not a single drop of blood. Every one of them stared upward, mouths open in silent screams.
Callan knelt beside one. "No wounds. No sign of struggle."
Solenne checked another. "Their mana's gone. All of it. Siphoned."
"That's impossible."
But it wasn't.
They reached the center square.
And the sky shattered.
Above the throne tower, reality itself cracked open like glass, revealing a sphere of pure void. From it pulsed a beat—like a heart. With each pulse, the air grew heavier, the city darker.
And from within, a voice echoed.
"Welcome home… General."
The shadow formed slowly—descending from the cracked sky.
A man in imperial robes. Golden eyes. And a crown of thorns that bled light.
The Emperor.
But not as Callan had known him.
This was not a ruler.
This was something ancient wearing a man's skin.
"You seek the final Key," the thing said. "And in doing so, you step into my game."
Callan raised his blade. "I've never played by your rules."
The Emperor's smile deepened. "Then let us play without them."
And with that—
The final battle for Callan's soul began.