Kai crashed onto the shattered earth, his body trembling, eyes wide with confusion and raw hatred as he stared up at the airborne fiend. Panic clawed at his chest. His fingers reached instinctively for the glass knife—his only hope, the sole weapon capable of piercing the heart of the dragon.
But there was nothing.
His breath caught.
The blade was gone.
His gaze snapped upward. And there it was—mocking him, drifting in the air beside that wicked creature. The ivory knife floated like a forgotten dream, orbiting the malevolent bird as memories orbit the soul core. The Thieving Bird — that loathsome, mocking specter of mischief — hovered in the sky, its eyes gleaming with vile amusement.
Kai no longer wasted breath on words. Resolve burned within him like a dying sun refusing to collapse — he would kill the dragon, no matter what. That unwavering purpose was carved into his soul. No matter what had happened—no matter that Klaus had clearly betrayed them—his resolve remained unshaken.
With a furious scream, Kai launched himself skyward, determined to reclaim the knife and finish the mission. But Loki, ever the predator, shimmered into being behind him—his presence like a dagger in the wind.
And then he struck.
But the talons did not rend flesh. No. They clawed far deeper—into Kai's mind.
The bird's will slithered through his thoughts, a serpentine invasion of the psyche. With surgical cruelty, Loki sank into the depths of Kai's consciousness, stealing not memories, but purpose. His claws ripped away Kai's thirst for vengeance, his defiance, his singular, burning desire to slay the dragon. It was all torn from him, strand by strand.
And in moments, Kai plummeted. His body hit the earth like a discarded puppet, his eyes dulled to ash and emptiness — not from pain, but from loss. His will had been stolen. The flame that once burned within him now snuffed out like a candle drowned in pitch.
Above him, Loki shook his wings. The sound they made was wrong—venomous, vile, a rasping shriek that no bird should ever utter. But Loki was no mere bird. He was a wretched spirit of theft and mischief, a hateful abomination clothed in feathers. And why wouldn't he rejoice? He hadn't simply stolen a weapon—he had stolen meaning. At that moment, the most precious thing to Kai had been his resolve... and now it belonged to Loki.
"Kekekhahaha!" The spirit cackled, his voice like splintering glass and poison. "Ahhh... how I adore watching mortals grasp at the impossible. So brave. So full of hope. You raise your blades against gods and dragons with puffed chests and fire in your veins... only to collapse like broken toys when the game no longer favors you."
His voice dripped with venomous delight as he turned his gaze toward the colossal dragon sprawled in the distance. The wounds Sevirax had suffered were grievous and fatal. But... Twenty minutes. That's all it would take for him to regenerate. And once restored, the dragon would be untouchable. Their window of opportunity would close forever.
_____
Klaus emerged above the pale, bleached stairs—ancient and worn smooth by time—that spiraled endlessly into the abyss below like a forgotten monument carved into the bones of the world.
He was bloodied. Exhausted. Every breath felt like fire tearing through his lungs, every step a struggle against collapse.
But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
He ascended with purpose, pushing through the agony, driven by the singular necessity of reaching the island's heart.
There, waiting like a vulture atop a battlefield, stood Loki. The avian wretch loomed beside the broken form of Sevirax, the once-mighty dragon now lying still, his colossal body mangled and scorched. Nearby, Kai lay crumpled like a discarded doll, his spirit visibly shattered, unconscious and pale against the dust.
Klaus came to a halt, chest heaving as he took in the sight. His eyes narrowed, not in pity, but calculation. Loki, perched like a triumphant carrion crow, was siphoning the last embers of resistance from the dragon's soul—devouring its resolve, its will to rise again.
Exhaling sharply, Klaus swept his blood-matted hair from his face, crimson strands clinging to his skin like vines. Then he spoke, voice low and clipped, yet unmistakably commanding.
"Loki. Hassan will be here soon. Don't get cocky. Keep peeling away the beast's will. Break him down, piece by piece.
And remember my orders. You move only when I give the signal. Understood?"
Loki turned his head with that slow, deliberate grace unique to predators. His golden eyes glittered with mischief, and with an exaggerated flourish, he bowed low, wings spread wide in mock deference.
"As you command, my glorious liege. And how could I ever disobey the illustrious king of excrement?"
Klaus's eye twitched. Fury flickered across his face like a flame catching oil. He didn't have time to waste, and yet—Loki's smugness clawed at his nerves like nails on raw flesh.
"You know what?" he snapped, "Screw you. I'll deal with your rotting, feathered ass later, you miserable crow-fucked bastard!"
With that, he turned to the fallen titan.
Even now, Klaus bowed his head—a fleeting moment of respect to the ancient beast that had once scorched cities and broken armies.
With that, he vaulted over the severed wing of Sevirax and vanished into the shifting mists beyond.
Loki watched him go, his feathers ruffling with disdain. He sniffed the air once, then muttered under his breath with a scoff:
"I don't smell… you pitiful mongrel."
Loki let out another shriek—this one disturbingly close to laughter—and then descended, his wings a blur of ink and shadow. Below, a figure slammed into the earth, sending dust and rock into the air.
Hassan had arrived.
He landed without flair, the force of his descent cracking the stones beneath his boots. Unlike Loki, Hassan made no mockery. His gaze fell upon Sevirax with something far more dangerous than contempt—respect.
Loki touched down softly beside him, spreading his wings with mocking theatricality and bowing low as if greeting royalty. His tone was slick with sarcasm.
"Ahhh, the youngest spirit forged by our dear, detestable master. The pleasure is mine—no, truly, I am honored."
But Hassan did not deign to acknowledge the bird's venom.
His eyes were fixed on the dragon.
Sevirax.
His breaths were shallow but powerful. Even in this wounded state, he radiated a defiance so immense it seemed to shake the world itself. A dragon unbroken. A titan of flesh, scale, and fury.
And Hassan... lowered his head.
It was not submission. It was respect. The kind granted from warrior to warrior. For all his role in this grand game, Hassan recognized the nobility in the dragon's struggle—the unyielding strength, the valiance in standing tall against countless foes.
Sevirax was worthy.
And Hassan knew — as did his master — that even among enemies, such worth demanded respect.
______
Klaus stood before the Ivory Tower.
Its colossal gates loomed like the jaws of a god long gone silent—untouched by time, unbent by storms. They were shut tight, as though the very concept of entry had been forbidden for a thousand years. He exhaled sharply through clenched teeth, blood drying on his lips, and pressed his palms against the cold marble.
With a guttural snarl, Klaus pulled.
Stone groaned. The air itself seemed to resist, as though the world remembered what lay beyond and sought to deny him entry. But inch by inch, the door yielded, parting just wide enough to swallow him whole.
He didn't wait. He slipped through the gap like a man fleeing death, or perhaps chasing it.
Inside, the great hall unfolded before him—an ocean of pale light pouring through sky-tall windows, casting the endless floor in a soft, dreamlike glow. Seven chains sprawled upward like monolithic vines of silver, each one anchored deep into the radiant floor… yet four now lay shattered.
Only three remained unbroken.
Noctis.
Sevirax.
And the One in the North.
Klaus took a single step forward—
And the world collapsed.
His eyes went wide, pupils dilating into spirals of red. Blood poured from them in thick rivulets, streaming down his face like sacred ink defiling parchment. A scream tore itself from his throat—raw, animalistic, inhuman. He clawed at his own face, fingers trembling as he barely managed to deactivate the Divine Eyes of Void.
But it was too late.
A glimpse.
A glimpse was all it took.
A fragment of divinity had nearly annihilated him.
Breathing in short, ragged gasps, Klaus dragged himself across the radiant floor, leaving a trail of blood behind him. His vision blurred, but his mind screamed in vivid detail. What he had seen—what he felt—was enough to fracture entire civilizations.
And now, with his mortal sight alone, he beheld her.
Hope.
Not the idea. Not the virtue.
The Daemon.
She stood—or floated, or perhaps simply existed—at the center of the hall. Chains coiled around her like serpents made of fate, binding her within a hurricane of shadow and brilliance. Her form was indistinct, like a fever dream one struggles to recall—beautiful beyond comprehension, terrible beyond reason.
She was human, but not.
Alien, yet intimate.
Familiar, but grotesquely foreign.
And so beautiful it hurt to look at her.
Every longing Klaus had ever buried, every hunger, every quiet ache roared to the surface. His desires did not whisper—they screamed. They burned. His flaw—his curse—amplified each one into a thunderous chorus. The want, the need, the madness of craving consumed him.
It was agony. Beautiful, euphoric agony.
He should have collapsed.
But something in him still fought.
His [Cold-Blooded] attribute surged forth like glacial wrath. The [Conquest] enchantment of the Devourer screamed in defiance. These tools—these shields—he had crafted for this moment.
But against Her, they were dust.
Every breath was a battle. Every heartbeat a detonation.
And then, Klaus laughed.
He laughed like a broken prince at the gallows. A wet, delirious noise escaped his lips—half-cackle, half-sob. His face contorted into a feral grin, eyes wild and bloodshot, mouth trembling with hysteria.
"Stop it!" he barked, voice shaking with both torment and joy. "I'm trying to— hahah—I'm trying to free you from your chains…"
His voice cracked.
Then shattered.
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!"
His words dissolved into shrieking hysteria, tears mingling with the blood still pouring from his sockets. But the overwhelming pressure began to subside—not gone, never gone—but lessened. As though some fragment of her impossibly vast attention had tilted toward him.
Somehow… Hope listened.
He rose like a puppet straining against its strings, every joint jerking with manic determination. Blood soaked his torn coat, his body trembling under the weight of her presence.
In the swirling storm of light and shadow, her silhouette remained bound. Klaus stared upward, dazed, reverent, shattered. The divine and the infernal danced in her form—light and darkness entwined like lovers. He could not tell where she ended and eternity began.
She was a dream carved into nightmare. A hymn rendered in screams.
She was Hope.
Drool trailed from the corner of his mouth as he crawled forward, painting the immaculate marble red with his blood. His movements were spasmodic, puppet-like, a broken marionette jerked forward by the last shreds of its own will.
He reached the chains. His breath came in rasps, chest heaving like a dying animal. Under the weight of her gaze, his limbs failed. He collapsed, twitching, laughing through clenched teeth.
But still—he rose.
Staggering upright with the grace of a corpse, Klaus began the final act of his grand design.
***
It's here! Only one chapter left until this nightmare is over! Wow, seriously, guys—I'm so excited, I think I rushed it. But the finale will be peak! At least, that's what I think.
Well, Klaus is almost traumatized by Hope… and what will he do now? Will he free her? But how could he even do that? Will he kill her? That seems even more impossible!
We'll see what happens.
Anyway, thanks for your support, and enjoy!
(I'm taking a break, so the last chapter will come out in about a week or so. Sorry, guys, but that's how it is.)
***