The hospital was quiet at this hour.
The emergency room doors slid open. Aurelion walked past the triage desk, past the waiting room, past the nurses who glanced up and then looked away. He was still covered in blood—cultist blood, not his own—but no one stopped him.
He found Ami's room.
She was still unconscious. The monitors beeped their steady rhythm. Bandages wrapped her head, her throat, her chest. An IV dripped fluids into her arm.
Aurelion sat in the chair beside her bed. He didn't speak. He just watched her breathe.
She almost died because of me, he thought. Because the ancient wanted to test me.
Because I wasn't there.
He touched her hand. Her fingers were cold.
"I'm going to end it," he said quietly. "The gate. The ancient. The Demon King. All of it."
The monitors beeped.
"I don't know if I'll come back. But I'm not going to let them hurt you again."
He stood.
"It really is ironic, you tried to kept me from hurting myself, yet here you are," he stated, while turning towards the door and stepping out.
The hallway was empty.
Aurelion walked toward the exit, Gatekeeper strapped to his back, his boots echoing on the linoleum.
A nurse stepped out of a side room. She looked at him—at the blood, at the sword, at the exhaustion in his eyes.
"Sir, visiting hours are—"
"I know."
He kept walking.
The night air hit him like a wall.
The wind was still blowing from the east, cold and hungry. The city lights flickered in the distance. The turrets hummed.
Aurelion stood at the edge of the parking lot, looking east.
The crater. The gate. The Demon King.
One of them will die.
Maybe all of us.
He started walking.
Not toward the wall. Toward the warehouse district. Toward the altar where the shard still rested.
He had left it behind. He needed it now.
The warehouse was still dark. The bodies still lay where they had fallen. The symbols still wept crimson mist.
Aurelion walked to the altar. The larger shard sat there, pulsing faintly, waiting.
He reached out.
His fingers touched the obsidian surface.
The shard screamed.
Not a sound—a pressure. A weight. A memory that was not his own.
A gate, enormous and dark.
Chains of shadow and light, cracking.
A voice, ancient and desperate.
"Help me hold it."
"Please."
"It's almost through."
He pulled his hand back.
The shard went dark.
Aurelion stood there, breathing hard, his heart pounding.
The gate is not just a threat, he realized. It's a prison.
And something inside is almost out.
He picked up the shard. It was warm. Alive. Hungry.
He tucked it into his coat.
He left the warehouse for the last time.
The street was empty. The city was dark. The wind was cold.
He walked toward the wall.
Not the gate—the wall. The place where he had stood with Corrin and Kael, watching the demon army withdraw.
He climbed the stairwell to the parapet.
The turrets were silent. The searchlights were off. The guards had been reassigned.
He stood at the edge, looking east.
The plain stretched into darkness. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the crater waited. The gate waited. The Demon King waited.
Aurelion drew Gatekeeper.
The shard in the blade pulsed in rhythm with the shard in his coat.
He raised the sword toward the sky.
"I'm coming for you," he said. "All of you."
The blade erupted.
Not with light—with fire. A column of crimson flame shot from Gatekeeper's edge, roaring into the night sky like a beacon. It lit up the clouds, reflected off the city towers, painted the walls in shades of red and gold.
Aurelion stumbled back. His eyes went wide. Gatekeeper vibrated in his grip, the shard blazing, the wyvern's fire breath unleashed without warning.
"What—!"
The flame lasted three seconds. Maybe four.
Then it cut out.
Smoke curled from the blade's edge. The shard dimmed, pulsing sheepishly.
Aurelion stood there, sword still raised, his coat singed, his hair smoking. The silence rushed back in, thick and awkward.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
He slowly lowered Gatekeeper.
Did I just—
Yes. Yes, I did.
He looked at the blade. The blade did not answer.
He looked at the city. Lights were flicking on in windows. People were probably staring.
Great, he thought. So much for subtle.
He coughed once, sheathed Gatekeeper, and walked toward the stairwell.
The wind blew colder.