The scent of freshly cut wood mixed with the lingering traces of ash as the people of Duskwatch toiled under the midday sun. Hammers rang against nails, echoing through the half-rebuilt streets. Crimson Sun Cult members moved among the townsfolk, lifting beams into place, reinforcing crumbling walls, and hauling debris from the ruins.

  A child ran past, laughing as he chased a rolling apple down the dirt road. Nearby, an elderly woman watched as young men and women worked together to rebuild her home. The rhythmic creak of pulleys hoisting stone and the murmur of effort replaced the screams and chaos of days past. Duskwatch was healing.

  Inside the manor of Valtheran's family, Valen, Kaelion, and Vareth gathered around a sturdy table, their glasses filled with fine wine.

  Valen raised his glass, his gaze shifting between the two men who had stood by him through it all. "To you both," he said. "Without you, I wouldn't be standing here."

  Vareth only offered a small smile, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a sip. Kaelion, however, lowered his drink, his usual aloofness giving way to something more sincere.

  "I supported you because you'll be a great leader," Kaelion said. "I just wanted to leave my mark—to be the first to stand by you."

  Valen exhaled, the weight of Kaelion's words settling over him. He knew the cost of Kaelion’s sacrifice. He had used a forbidden technique of the doppelgangers to split his soul into one hundred pieces to create his other original selves. The technique had stolen his chance to reach the expert class. It also had stolen years from his life.

  "You won’t live long," Valen admitted. "But you will always be my closest friend. Your family—I'll make sure they are treated as my own."

  Kaelion smiled, lifting his glass. "I don’t doubt that."

  The three drank. Outside, Duskwatch rose from its ashes. Inside, bonds were forged over wine.

  Duskwatch Town breathed again. The marketplace bustled with chatter, merchants hawking fresh produce and cloth as if disaster had never touched the town. Children weaved between carts, their laughter mingling with the clatter of hooves on stone. The townsfolk, unaware of the true cause of the destruction, saw only salvation in the Crimson Sun Cult. Their banners fluttered proudly above repaired buildings, their robed figures moving through the streets like guardians rather than warriors.

  At the town square, the stage stood tall before the town hall. Rows of chairs lined the space before it, reserved for the highest-ranking cult members. The townsfolk, gathered in droves, filled every open space around the stage, murmuring in anticipation.

  A hush fell as the cult’s dancers took their places. The first drumbeat struck, a deep, resonant sound that stilled the crowd. Then came the flutes—high, winding notes that lured the mind into reverence. The dancers moved in unison, their crimson robes swirling as they danced. The people below watched in awe. Yesterday’s destruction faded from their minds. Today, there was only a celebration.

  As the last dancer stepped back, the crowd erupted in cheers. The High Sovereign rose from his seat, and the applause faded. He lifted his hand and silence followed.

  Valen ascended the stage. He knelt before the High Sovereign.

  "Valen Valehn," the High Sovereign intoned, his voice carrying through the square. "Do you swear to uphold the doctrine of the Crimson Sun, to lead with wisdom, and to safeguard the faith?"

  "I swear," Valen answered without hesitation.

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  "Do you vow to stand unwavering in the face of adversity, to bear the weight of this path without faltering?"

  "I vow it."

  "And do you accept this burden, knowing that the flames of the Crimson Sun will burn within you until your final breath?"

  Valen lifted his head, meeting the Sovereign’s gaze. "I accept it."

  The High Sovereign gestured, and an attendant stepped forward, carrying an ornate bowl filled with deep red wine. With both hands, the Sovereign offered it to Valen.

  "Drink, and let the flame take root in you."

  Valen took the bowl and drank. The wine was thick. It burned as it went down, not with pain, but with a strange warmth that settled deep in his core.

  The High Sovereign turned to the gathered crowd, his voice ringing.

  "From this day forth, Valen Valehn is the successor of the Crimson Sun Cult!"

  The town square erupted. Applause thundered, voices rose in celebration, and the cult members bowed their heads in reverence. The sun blazed overhead, and for the people of Duskwatch, it was a new day.

  Below the stage, the crowd parted as a sedan chair, draped in crimson silk and adorned with golden embroidery, emerged from the street. The carriers bore their precious cargo onto the stage. The crowd fell into hushed anticipation.

  The sedan door opened, and Alice stepped out.

  She was wrapped in a red dress, the fabric flowing around her like liquid fire. Gold-threaded patterns shimmered across the gown, tracing delicate motifs of blooming roses and curling flames. The sleeves billowed slightly as she moved, revealing glimpses of porcelain-pale skin. A golden sash cinched the dress at her waist, accentuating her elegant frame.

  Her hite hair cascaded in soft waves, catching the sunlight like spun silver. Red eyes—like smoldering embers—swept across the stage before settling on Valen.

  Valen opened his mouth. No words came. His breath caught in his throat, his mind blank.

  Alice moved toward him. The scent of something floral—delicate yet intoxicating—lingered in the air between them. His pulse quickened, hammering in his chest like a war drum.

  "Valen."

  Her voice pulled him back from her charm he had fallen under. She tilted her head slightly.

  "Focus. This is our engagement procession," she said.

  His face burned red. He nodded stiffly, forcing his thoughts back into order.

  The High Sovereign stood before them, his expression indifferent as usual, even though she would lead his daughter's engagement procession. "Valen Valehn, do you vow to stand beside Alice, to honor her as your betrothed, and to uphold your duty as her partner in all things?"

  "I vow it," Valen said.

  "Alice Azael, do you vow to stand beside Valen, to honor him as your betrothed, and to uphold your duty as his partner in all things?"

  Alice nodded slightly. "I vow it."

  An attendant stepped forward, carrying an ornate bowl of deep red wine. The High Sovereign took it and handed it to Alice.

  "Drink, and seal your union under the sun."

  Alice lifted the bowl to her lips, tilting it gracefully. The wine slid down her throat, leaving a faint flush on her pale skin. She lowered the bowl, her red eyes flickering toward Valen as she extended it to him.

  He took it, fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. The bowl felt warm, as if carrying the heat of her touch. He drank and emptied the bowl.

  The Sovereign raised his hands. "From this moment forth, under the light of the sun, Valen Valehn and Alice Azael are bound in engagement!"

  The crowd erupted in cheers, but Valen barely heard them. His world had narrowed to the woman standing before him. She was finally his woman.

  ---

  Arayn stepped out of the wooden house perched on the red hill, the warped sky of the Netherworld stretching endlessly above him. A path wound down from the hill, leading into the region's demonic forest filled with demonic beasts.

  Before he could take another step, a voice called from behind.

  "Where are you going?"

  He turned. Tyras stood at the threshold of the house, arms crossed.

  Arayn met his gaze. "I've learned the lay of the land. I’m heading out to hunt demonic beasts."

  Tyras didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached behind him and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed something toward Arayn.

  Instinct took over. Arayn’s hand shot up, fingers curling around the hilt of a blade. The moment he grasped it, a chill ran up his arm, coiling into his chest like a whisper of something ancient. He turned the weapon over, inspecting it.

  His system responded.

  [Name: Sanguine

  Grade: Rare

  Effect: Devours the wielder’s lifespan to heal wounds.]

  Arayn frowned. "This is…?"

  "For you," Tyras said. "It’s strange for a swordsman to be without a sword."

  A smirk tugged at Arayn’s lips. He gave the Tyras a slight nod. "Thanks."

  Tyras studied him for a moment before exhaling through his nose. "So this is your last day here, huh?"

  "Yeah. I’ll be leaving this evening."

  Tyras rolled his shoulders, stepping forward. "Then prove your worth, my disciple. Kill the Heavenly Demon."

  Silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, his grip tightened around the sword’s hilt.

  His smirk widened. "Naturally. I always have the higher ground."