The wind that blew across the scorched fields carried the scent of blood, ash, and something darker—something ancient. Elias stood among the smoldering remains of what used to be Steve's last stand. The crimson glow that once raged in Steve's eyes had finally dimmed, but the victory came with a price. Elias's body bore the marks of war—deep lacerations, bruised bones, and a fire still pulsing in his veins from the Devil's System.
But there was no time to rest.
As dawn cracked over the horizon, a chill swept through the land. Elias could feel it in his bones—something wasn't right. The air had grown thicker since Steve's death, as if his destruction had unsealed another layer of the curse that bound Whitmoor.
He turned to Zira, who was tending to the wounded. Her hands trembled as she healed what she could. Elias approached her slowly, his boots crunching over burnt leaves and broken glass.
"How many did we lose?" he asked quietly.
Zira looked up, her eyes heavy with tears. "Too many. But the survivors… they believe in you now. They saw what you became."
Elias exhaled. He hadn't even realized he was holding his breath.
Behind him, the Devil's voice murmured in his ear. "This is just the beginning. You've drawn the gaze of something older than Whitmoor's curse. Blood calls to blood, Elias. And yours is no longer human."
The ground beneath his feet rumbled slightly. Elias clenched his fists.
---
That night, the survivors made camp near the River of Broken Glass. Fires flickered along the bank, casting dancing shadows on tents and faces. Elias sat alone near the edge, staring into the water. The reflection that stared back was no longer the boy who had died in that alleyway. It was a monarch in the making—eyes aglow, fangs slightly protruding, power barely restrained.
Zira joined him.
"You're worried it's not over," she said.
"Because it isn't," Elias replied.
He gestured toward the stars. "The sky changed when I killed Steve. Did you feel it?"
Zira nodded. "Like the world took a breath... and held it."
Elias's jaw clenched. "The System told me something. That Steve was just a gatekeeper. His death opened a door. And now, something worse is coming."
"Do we know what it is?"
"No. But I know its name. Tharion."
Zira flinched. "That name... it sounds like a god."
"Or a devil," Elias muttered.
---
The Next Day – The Bloodrise Crypts
Elias and a small group of loyal followers descended into the oldest part of Whitmoor—the forgotten catacombs known as the Bloodrise Crypts. Led by old maps and the fragmented whispers of the System, Elias searched for an artifact said to awaken the monarch's full potential: The Crimson Sigil.
The deeper they went, the darker it became. No torch seemed to hold its flame for long. The walls bled ancient carvings and black vines that pulsed as if alive.
"I don't like this," said Reign, a former soldier who had joined Elias after witnessing his duel with Steve.
"Neither do I," Elias replied, "but we need the Sigil if we want to stand a chance against what's coming."
The group reached a sealed archway covered in rusted chains and strange glyphs.
"Only one with the blood of the monarch can pass," the System whispered.
Elias stepped forward, slit his palm, and pressed it to the sigil etched into the arch. Blood sizzled on contact, and the chains dissolved like smoke.
The door creaked open.
Beyond it lay a circular chamber. At the center, floating above a pedestal, was the Crimson Sigil—a shard of bloodstone, pulsing like a heart.
Elias approached it, every step echoing like thunder.
Suddenly, a voice hissed from the shadows: "You are not yet worthy."
A creature stepped forth—towering, skeletal, clad in black armor with eyes like burning coals. A Warden of Tharion.
The battle that followed was fierce. Elias unleashed every ounce of his newfound power—teleportation, blood-forged weaponry, enhanced strength—but the Warden was relentless.
It wasn't until Elias bit into his own arm, offering the System fresh blood, that a surge of raw, demonic power flowed into him. He incinerated the Warden with a wave of dark crimson fire.
The Crimson Sigil fell into his hands.
"Now," the System whispered, "you will no longer be hunted. You will be feared."
---
Later That Night – Whitmoor
Zira watched from the tower window as Elias returned from the crypts, the Sigil in hand, his aura completely changed. The people bowed in silence. The rebels cheered. Children hid behind their mothers.
The Monarch had returned, not as a savior—but as something far more dangerous.
And in the deepest, coldest part of the world, Tharion opened his eyes.
The wind howled through the broken windows of the abandoned cathedral. Moonlight spilled across Elias's body, which lay sprawled among shattered pews and splinters of wood. His shirt was torn, the Crimson Sigil still glowing faintly on his chest like a freshly branded scar.
He stirred.
Every breath hurt. His limbs trembled, heavy as stone, and his mouth was dry with the copper taste of blood. The last thing he remembered was Steve's maddened eyes—and the howls of the abyss screaming through him as he unleashed that deadly burst of power.
Elias pushed himself up with a groan. The world felt different. The air around him pulsed faintly, reacting to him… submitting.
"What… am I becoming?" he whispered.
His vision sharpened beyond normal human sight. Every speck of dust seemed suspended in time. His heartbeat had slowed, but his strength had multiplied. He looked down at his hands—cracked, burned, yet somehow healing rapidly.
The Devil's System chimed softly in his mind.
> [WARNING: Soul Threshold Temporarily Surpassed. Host is stabilizing. Corruption Level: 13%.]
New Title Gained: Crimson Wielder.
Ability Unlocked: Infernal Surge – Unleash a burst of soul-infused hellfire. 10% health per use. Cooldown: 3 minutes.
He blinked. That blast had nearly killed Steve—but it had nearly taken him too. Elias staggered to his feet, breathing hard.
The cathedral creaked, ancient and haunted. Shadows curled like tendrils toward him, as if drawn to the sigil.
Then—he heard it.
Clapping. Slow. Ironic.
A figure stepped from behind a stone column. Tall, gaunt, dressed in a long velvet coat darker than ink. His skin was ghostly pale, and his smile cut like a blade. Eyes—completely black.
"Bravo," the man said. "You burned him beautifully."
Elias braced himself. "Who the hell are you?"
"Names? Hm." The man bowed mockingly. "They used to call me Lucien Veyne. First bearer of the Crimson Sigil. The one who lost it… and paid the price."
Elias's eyes narrowed. The system pulsed with static in his mind, as if warning him.
> [System Notice: Unknown Entity Detected. Danger Level: ???]
Lucien continued, circling Elias slowly. "You've no idea what you've activated, do you? The Crimson Sigil is not a gift. It's a curse. A calling. And now that it burns on your soul… they will come for you."
Elias clenched his fists. "Who?"
Lucien's smile widened.
"The Soul Shepherds. The Devourers. Even those false gods you humans once worshipped. You've just rung a bell that echoes in Hell and beyond."
The ground beneath Elias shook faintly. An ominous rumble churned in the depths below the cathedral. He glanced around, alert.
"I didn't choose this," Elias snapped.
"No," Lucien said softly, "but you accepted it. And now it's yours to carry—or be consumed by."
In a flash, Lucien vanished—his form dissolving into black smoke, laughter lingering like poison in the air.
Elias exhaled, heart pounding. His instincts screamed at him that the worst was yet to come.
---
Meanwhile...
Back in Whitmoor, the skies had begun to darken unnaturally.
Inside the research bunker below Mr. Sabastin's estate, glowing orbs flickered erratically as power surged and fizzled.
Mr. Sabastin stared at the monitors in front of him. Dozens of red dots flickered into existence across the map of the region.
Each one pulsed with high soul activity. Each one was a threat.
"More of them are waking up…" he muttered.
He touched a black-and-white photo pinned to the side of the console—a younger version of Elias's father, standing with Sabastin and a third man whose face had been scratched out.
"This wasn't supposed to happen so soon."
Suddenly, the monitor closest to him sparked violently. A new red dot pulsed in the center of Whitmoor—brighter than all the rest.
Sabastin's eyes widened.
"Elias… What have you done?"
---
Far from Whitmoor…
Steve's body lay half-buried beneath broken rock and ash. Blood seeped from his wounds, steam rising from his burned skin.
And yet—he smiled.
His fingers twitched. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself up.
His body was charred—but something inside him still lived. Still wanted.
A swarm of dark, winged creatures fluttered down from the ruined sky, landing on his shoulders, whispering in a language only he could understand.
"I tasted it," Steve rasped. "His power… I need more."
From the cracks of his skin, something black and unnatural oozed—writhing, like veins alive with shadows.
"I'll become more than a vampire," Steve muttered. "More than a predator. I'll become… a god."
His pupils turned serpentine. His teeth sharpened into obsidian fangs.
He screamed into the night.
---
Back in town…
Elias sat at the edge of a rooftop, watching the moon rise higher. His hoodie covered the brand on his chest, but it still ached beneath.
In his hands, he held the photo of his father—found tucked inside a file from Sabastin's lab. A younger man, eyes serious, wearing the same sigil.
His father had known.
His father had been part of something much bigger.
Why didn't you tell me? Elias thought bitterly.
As the wind howled, he stood and looked over Whitmoor.
"Come then," he said softly. "Whoever you are. Whatever you are. I'm not afraid anymore."
And far in the distance, in every shadowed alley, in every broken grave, something stirred.
The Blood Monarch was rising.
And the war for souls had only just begun.