The battlefield reeked of blood and burnt metal.
Ryle, struggling to stay upright, stared at Azazhel — who stood untouched amidst the corpses and silver debris.
Suddenly, a soft cracking sound echoed across the endless hallway.
Azazhel's horns — twisted, blackened monuments of his demonic nature — crumbled into silver dust, falling around him like an eerie snowfall.
Thea, her hands trembling, tried to shield Ryle.
But as she took a step, her body froze in place.
"Ngh—!" Thea gasped, muscles locked by Azazhel's unseen will.
Her Twinlight Sword, still glowing faintly, shivered in her grip.
Then, like a puppet string snapping, it was ripped from her hands, flying across the air.
The Twinlight Sword merged.
The two blades merged in a blast of blinding white light, forming a single, resplendent weapon.
Azazhel laughed and seized the fused weapon.
The sword's light melted into his body, his form shifting, growing more brilliant and terrible by the second.
When the light faded, Azazhel stood transformed.
No longer a Demon King.
But an angelic figure, radiant with celestial wings of pure white.
A golden crown hovered over his brow, and in his right hand, he held the sword — now named Kriz, the true Hero's Sword.
Azazhel's new voice rang out, no longer rough and venomous but solemn and clear:
"I am Michael. The creator of the Hero's Sword.
And soon, I will conquer this world — rewriting its fate under my divine hand."
Ryle, battered and bleeding, could barely lift his head.
The crushing despair coiled around his heart like iron chains.
He had lost.
Thea was frozen.
Tobin was dead.
Kessia fought blindly, hopelessly.
Everything he fought for... crumbled before him.
Ryle's arms collapsed under him, and he slumped to the ground.
Darkness rose up like a tide, swallowing him.
He let it.
He had no strength left.
Softness.
Silence.
When Ryle opened his eyes, he no longer smelled blood or ash.
Instead, he lay on a quiet field of snow, the sky above alive with shimmering auroras that painted the heavens green, violet, and blue.
The air was cold but comforting.
Beside him, Thea slept curled up peacefully, her face serene, untouched by sorrow or pain.
For a long moment, Ryle just stared at her, heart aching with something deeper than despair — something like love, like longing.
Then, from across the snow, he saw him.
Ignilth.
His dragon father.
The great being who once soared above mountains now stood in human form — tall, rugged, his eyes kind and fierce.
Ryle scrambled to his knees, tears blurring his vision.
"Ignilth—"
His voice cracked.
"I... I failed. I failed them all. Tobin is dead. Thea— she— and Azazhel—"
His words tangled in his throat.
Ignilth smiled, the same warm, knowing smile that used to comfort Ryle when he was just a child struggling to lift a boulder.
He stepped closer and placed a heavy hand on Ryle's trembling shoulder.
"Remember the fairy tale, Ryle," Ignilth said softly.
"The gold will shine the silver, and the dark will be gone."
Ryle clenched his fists against his chest.
The fairy tale...
The silver man who wished only to die...
The gold woman who taught him to live...
It wasn't about winning every battle.
It wasn't about being the strongest.
It was about walking forward, even when broken.
It was about carrying the light, even in the darkest night.
Ignilth's form began to fade, breaking into soft motes of golden light that rose toward the sky.
"No—wait—!" Ryle cried, reaching out.
But Ignilth only smiled wider and whispered:
"Live, my son.
Shine brighter than any darkness."
The light vanished, leaving Ryle kneeling alone in the snow.
Yet — for the first time in what felt like eternity — hope stirred in his heart.
Ryle wiped the tears from his face and turned to Thea, who still slept peacefully.
He smiled weakly, vowing to protect that peacefulness.
To let her light shine.
To never let the silver crack again into emptiness.
The snow around him began to shatter like glass.
The aurora swirled faster, pulling him back — back to the waking world.
Ryle opened his eyes.
The silver hallway returned — now soaked in shadows and blood.
His body hurt. His heart ached.
But his spirit — his spirit burned.
And Ryle rose, steady, ready.
The final battle was not over yet.