The two versions of Callan stood in the burning void, facing each other like mirrored destinies. One bore the weight of countless atrocities, wrapped in blood-forged armor, flames dancing in his eyes. The other, draped in worn leathers and a blade etched with sacrifice, stood for the life he had reclaimed.
They were not so different.
They were never meant to be.
"You were never supposed to be separate from me," the Demon General said, his voice layered with ancient echoes. "You cut me out and thought you became a man. But you only became hollow."
Callan tightened his grip on his sword. "I had to kill you."
"You didn't," the demon said with a cruel smile. "You buried me. You needed me more than you admitted. You still do."
The flames around them flared higher, licking at the sky of ash.
Behind Callan, flickers of memory swirled. Solenne's voice. Lysander's loyalty. The rebels who followed him. His brother's dying words.
He wasn't hollow.
He was human.
But humanity was not weakness.
It was choice.
"I need your strength," Callan said evenly. "But I don't need your madness."
The demon stepped closer, grin widening. "You don't get one without the other."
Callan exhaled, blade rising.
"Then I'll take what I need—and leave the rest in hell."
The duel began.
The clash of steel sent shockwaves through the burning plane. Sparks exploded with each strike. The Demon General fought like a god of ruin—overpowering, brutal, relentless. Every swing was an avalanche. Every movement cracked the world beneath them.
But Callan didn't yield.
He remembered.
Every scar. Every war. Every betrayal.
And every lesson.
Where the demon was raw rage, Callan was refined fury. He parried a cleaving strike and pivoted, cutting deep into the demon's shoulder. Black ichor spilled, hissing against the flaming ground.
"Still holding back?" the demon mocked.
Callan didn't answer.
He just kept striking.
Their blades met again and again—until finally, with a twist and a roar, Callan disarmed him.
The demon stumbled.
Callan lunged.
Steel pierced the demon's chest, pinning him to the cracked ground.
The fire died down.
Silence.
"You think this will destroy me?" the demon whispered.
Callan knelt, eyes level with his.
"No," he said. "I'm not here to destroy you."
He closed his eyes.
"I'm here to accept you."
And then the flames rose—not with violence, but with clarity.
The demon screamed, not in pain, but in release.
Callan felt the power surge into him—not as a curse, but as completion.
The fracture was healed.
He stood, alone again, but whole for the first time in centuries.
He awoke in the Vault.
The Ember Key hovered before him, dimmed but still warm. Solenne groaned nearby, shaking off the impact.
"You alive?" she called out, coughing.
"Barely," Callan said. "But something's changed."
He looked down at his hands—no longer burning with rage, but steady. Grounded.
The Vault began to tremble.
"We need to go," Solenne said.
As they fled, the Vault collapsed behind them—not as destruction, but as closure.
Outside, the city had changed.
The false Emperor's magic was waning. The sky's fractures began to mend. The resurrected fell still. The scream of the world quieted.
And on the horizon—riders.
Infiltrators. Rebels. Survivors.
All converging.
And waiting.
For him.
Hours later, on the ramparts of the last bastion of Dovaryn, Callan stood before the gathering.
He looked over faces bruised, bloodied, but hopeful.
Solenne stood beside him, quiet, her gaze never leaving his.
He raised his voice—not with force, but with truth.
"I am not a hero," he began. "And I am no longer just a demon."
"I am what the Empire made me. What the gods tried to break. What you believed in."
"I am Callan."
"And I am coming for the throne."
The roar of the crowd echoed to the horizon.
Far above them, hidden beyond the last layer of the broken sky, the Emperor watched in silence.
And for the first time, he looked… uncertain.