The next morning, Oryzzell wandered deeper into the woods, guided by instinct. Not the sword's. Not his memories.
The Mark's.
It tugged at him like a compass, pulling toward something ancient.
By midday, he found it.
A broken ruin. An altar of obsidian, cracked and covered in moss. And chained to the base—a dying girl.
She was young. Barely a teenager. Pale skin, bruised wrists, silver hair stained red.
A sacrifice.
He rushed to her side, severing the chains with Aeon Severance. Her eyes fluttered open.
"D-Don't..." she whispered. "The flame... it watches..."
A pulse of darkness erupted from the altar.
Three figures stepped from the shadows.
Not men. Wraith-Knights.
Their armor shimmered with ancient sigils. Their swords bled shadows. Their eyes burned like coals.
One stepped forward, voice echoing like broken bells.
"Bearer of the Brand... Leave her. She is the Flame's Chosen."
Oryzzell stood slowly, placing the girl behind him.
"I don't take orders from forgotten echoes."
The Wraiths charged as one.
His blade moved—but it wasn't enough.
They were fast. Too fast.
One cut his side. Another slammed him into a pillar. He coughed blood.
He reached for Aeon Severance—but the Mark throbbed louder.
> "Command us..."
He could deny it no longer.
"Fine," he snarled. "Just once."
He slammed his palm into the ground.
"Brand Unleash: First Seal – Black Flame Baptism!"
The world screamed.
Black fire erupted from the sigil on his arm, swallowing the ruins in shadow. It wasn't heat—it was despair made manifest. The flames writhed like living serpents.
The Wraiths screamed as their armor melted. Their shadows were peeled from their bodies and incinerated.
The girl wept silently, curled behind him.
Oryzzell stood amidst the chaos, eyes glowing red, black fire coiling around his body like a mantle.
He didn't breathe.
He consumed.
And then—
He sealed the Brand again, the flames vanishing instantly.
The altar crumbled to ash.
He fell to one knee, clutching his side.
"…That wasn't holy power," he muttered.
No. It was dominion.
The Demon Lord's power—raw, hungry, absolute.
The girl crawled toward him, whispering, "You... you're one of them..."
He looked at her, voice low.
"No. I'm worse."