The city outside had finally quieted, but the silence was far from comforting. Ian sat at the small wooden table in his room, staring at the glass of chamomile tea in front of him. Salvador had brewed it for him before leaving, but the bitter taste lingered on Ian's tongue, reflecting the heaviness in his heart.
"You had the power to stop them," Ian whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at the steam rising from the tea.
Salvador leaned back in his chair across the room, his beer in hand. He let out a tired sigh, his dark eyes meeting Ian's. "Even if I were a god, I couldn't have stopped them," Salvador said, his voice low and heavy with something Ian couldn't quite place. "Humans are terrified of what they don't understand."
Ian flinched at those words, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. A powerless god. That's what he felt like, restrained by the system's limitations in this human shell. The weight of Salvador's words pressed against the corners of his mind.
"You know this city doesn't make sense," Ian muttered, his voice barely audible.
Salvador tilted his head, observing the boy in front of him. "It is what it is," he replied, his tone resigned. He finished his beer in a single gulp, standing up and stretching.
"Stay here," Salvador said after a long pause. He glanced at Ian one last time, his expression softening. "Don't go out there. You'll only make it worse—for yourself."
And with that, he left, the door closing with a dull thud. Ian stared at the empty space where Salvador had been, the man's words echoing in his mind. He understands… but he's too tired to fight. Just like me.
Ian lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't shake the memory of the children's voices, the way they'd cried out in the flames. His stomach twisted. He wasn't innocent, either. How could he condemn others when his hands were stained with so much blood? He closed his eyes, the faces of the children flashing behind his eyelids.
The memory of another life drifted into his thoughts.
"First General, don't worry about the city near the Forest of Death. I've already covered it," a vampire's smug voice rang out, dripping with arrogance. Ian had sat beside the Demon King then, watching the vampire—Tristan—smirk triumphantly.
"You believe the humans will side with us?" Ian had asked, his voice calm, hiding the doubts gnawing at him.
"Of course," Tristan replied, crimson eyes glinting with sadistic glee. "We're their saviors, after all."
But the news had arrived soon after: Allen Winterbell had killed Tristan. Ian remembered the shock, the disbelief that rippled through the Demon King's army. He hadn't expected it, but when Tristan fell, Ian had been forced to take the mantle himself.
Corruption had been the key. Ian's voice had whispered through the commoners, planting seeds of rebellion. He'd spread rumors that their new mayor was colluding with demons, orchestrating everything to achieve glory once the hero left to save another city. The chaos had grown like wildfire.
And then Salvador had appeared.
Ian's mind conjured the image of Salvador's haunted face. The man who'd lost his wife and daughter in the carnage—the same man who'd unleashed his grief and rage upon the city, killing half its population. Ian had watched from the shadows as Salvador's pain became a weapon, turning the world around him into ashes. All because I lit the spark.
Ian blinked, his gaze shifting to the glowing city below. The lights blurred as tears welled in his eyes.
He thought of Tristan again, and the cryptic warning about the dungeon. The Noble Vampire, Claudia Nocturne. They hadn't planned to awaken her, only to use her blood. But in the end, she'd died, her final words haunting Ian even now.
"You are not like us," she had said, her crimson eyes dimming as her body turned to ash.
Ian never understood what she meant, and perhaps he never would. But he couldn't deny the weight of her words.
His thoughts shifted to Theoarize's divine book, glowing faintly on the table. It called to him. When he opened it, the words on the next page seemed to burn into his mind:
"The gods do not answer humanity's prayers, not because they are powerless, but because they cannot create miracles. Miracles are born from humans—through their sins, through their courage. Humans become gods. But gods can never become human, for they cannot learn, accept their flaws, failures, guilt."
Ian's hand trembled as he closed the book. He stared at it for a long moment before rising to his feet, his mind made up. He grabbed his cloak, draping it over his shoulders.
He stepped to the window, the cold night air brushing against his face as he opened it.
He didn't have to wait for Allen to fix this. There was no time. If he let himself drown in regret, in fear of his sins, then he would become no better than the world he despised.
And Allen would pay the price for his inaction.
Ian jumped from the second-story window, landing softly on the ground. His hand found the hilt of his sword as he straightened. His blue eyes gleamed under the moonlight.
It wasn't too late to act. It wasn't too late to atone.
*****
Ian stood in front of the cave. The air was cold, heavy with the promise of danger. Dark clouds circled above, blocking out the moon. His chest tightened as he stared into the darkness ahead.
He didn't want to go in. Every part of him screamed to wait for Allen, to have his brother do this job, his destiny. But he couldn't. Not this time. Ian had seen this future before, had lived through it's darkness and despair. He knew what would happen if he didn't act.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the dungeon.
The air inside was damp, carrying the faint smell of decay. The faint glow of mana stones lit up the walls, casting eerie shadows that danced as he walked. Each step felt heavier, as if the dungeon itself was weighing on him.
Ian forced himself to focus. He spotted a loose tile on the floor—a trap, simple but deadly. He stepped over it, his heart pounding. "Focus, Ian," he whispered to himself. "You've done this before."
He moved further in, his senses sharp. Then, he heard it—a low, guttural growl. Ian froze. Slowly, he turned the corner and saw them.
A pack of wolf-like creatures prowled the chamber. Their bodies were twisted, their red eyes glowing in the dim light. Their patchy fur revealed raw, pale skin beneath. Ian's stomach turned. Failed werewolves. He had seen these before, back when he was a general. Vampires created them—monsters made for war.
The memories clawed at his mind. He could still hear the screams, the chaos, the blood. Ian swallowed hard, gripping his sword. "It's not then," he muttered, trying to push the memories away.
The creatures turned toward him, their growls growing louder. One charged, faster than he expected. Ian barely sidestepped, slashing his blade across its neck. Blood sprayed, but the creature didn't fall right away. It stumbled, growled again, and finally collapsed.
The rest attacked at once.
Ian's body moved on instinct. He dodged a swipe and drove his sword into another creature's chest. It howled, clawing at him even as it died. Another lunged at him from behind, its claws raking his arm. Ian hissed in pain but spun around, slicing through its head.
Every time he thought one was down, it would rise again, its body stitched together by dark magic. Ian aimed for their heads, cutting through necks with precise, practiced strikes. He couldn't afford to hesitate.
But each kill left him shaking. These creatures were just tools, weapons created by someone else. And yet, here he was, cutting them down without mercy.
When the last creature fell, Ian stood there, his chest heaving. Blood dripped from his sword, pooling on the floor. His arm throbbed where the claws had scratched him. He wiped his blade on his sleeve and moved on, the silence around him almost deafening.
The next chamber was massive, its ceiling high and lined with glowing crystals. Golems stood in the center, their stone bodies towering and still. Ian stopped, gripping his sword tighter. He knew what was coming.
As soon as he stepped forward, the golems came to life. Their eyes glowed bright, and their heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber. Ian barely had time to dodge as one swung a massive arm at him. The force of the swing cracked the ground where he had stood.
Ian struck back, aiming for the joints where the stone pieces connected. His sword chipped away at the stone but didn't cut deep enough. The golem swung again, and this time, its fist caught him in the side. The impact sent him crashing into the wall.
Pain shot through his body. Ian coughed, tasting blood. For a moment, he wanted to stop. To rest. His body ached, his mind screamed at him to leave. But then he thought of the children—their faces, their lives cut short.
His grip tightened on his sword. "You can't stop now," he told himself.
Ian moved faster, dodging the golems' attacks and striking where he could. He aimed for their weak points, shattering one's arm, then its leg. It took everything he had, but one by one, the golems fell.
When the last one crumbled to the ground, Ian leaned against the wall, his breaths shallow. His hands trembled, blood dripping from his side. He closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm inside him.
He thought of Tristan.
Tristan was a vampire Ian once knew, someone who had helped him in the past. But Tristan wasn't kind. He was selfish, manipulative, always playing his own game. If Tristan was behind this, what would Ian do? Could he face him? Could he trust him?
Ian shook his head, trying to push the questions away. But the guilt lingered. He had fought beside Tristan once, had been part of the horrors that led to this. Could he ever make up for that?