The victory should've felt final. Mariposa stood above Zephariel's severed body, the crimson haze of battle still fresh on her breath, her demonic form pulsing with power beneath the silver glow of the full moon. She inhaled sharply, the adrenaline ebbing, her blood-soaked scythe beginning to dissipate.
Then the air changed.
Heaviness. Pressure.
The garden, now reduced to rubble and ash, began to quake.
It was as if the world itself had gone still—then something pushed against it. A force that didn't belong. Mariposa's sharp demonic eyes immediately locked onto the source.
The ground cracked beneath Zephariel's corpse.
Black mist began to seep upward, curling and twisting, defying the moonlight. The blood-soaked soil around it darkened further as the temperature dropped, then rose all at once. Energy pulsed out like shockwaves—suffocating, ancient, foul.
Mariposa stepped back, her scythe re-materializing in her hands. "No... That's not—"
The body convulsed. Then exploded.
