Khorin stumbled, barely holding himself up. Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling beneath his feet. He turned to Zarrek, his one remaining brother.
"…Brother," Khorin rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. His claws twitched as he reached out. "Help me—"
Zarrek's breath hitched.
For a split second, the battlefield disappeared. In its place, memories surged—their childhood, their hunts, the nights spent staring at the moon together.
Khorin had always been the reckless one, always getting into fights that Zarrek had to drag him out of.
And now… he was dying.
Zarrek clenched his fists.
He had no choice.
Khorin was too weak to survive. If Zarrek didn't act, they would both fall here.
His hands trembled as he stepped forward. Khorin's eyes flickered with something—relief? Trust? Did he think Zarrek was here to save him?
Zarrek let out a slow, shuddering breath.
"…Forgive me, brother."
Then—he plunged his claws into Khorin's chest.
Khorin's body jerked, his mouth opening in shock. A wet, strangled gasp escaped him, but he didn't fight back.
He just… looked at Zarrek.
Zarrek felt his throat tighten, but he didn't stop.
He absorbed everything—Khorin's blood, his essence, his very being. Strength poured into him, making his muscles burn, his bones expand, his very existence shift into something beyond his old self.
By the time it was over, Khorin was gone.
And Zarrek… wasn't the same anymore.
His silver eyes burned with a new power. His body surged with raw strength, his wounds closing as his form twisted.
His head turned toward Menma, injured but still standing.
Zarrek clenched his fists.
This wasn't over.
Menma took a step back, realizing what had just happened. But before he could react—
A presence cut through the battlefield.
A familiar, cold voice.
"Not another step."
Menma and Zarrek both turned—
Annie was standing there.
Her glowing blade hummed with power.
Zarrek's lips curled into a grin, fangs gleaming. "So you finally showed up."
Annie's gaze was like steel. "I'm done chasing ."
The rematch had begun...
Zarrek lunged at Annie with newfound speed, claws slashing through the air. Annie met him head-on, parrying his strikes with her glowing blade. Sparks and blood flew as they exchanged blow after blow, neither yielding an inch.
But something was different this time.
Zarrek was faster, stronger, more resilient. He grinned as he withstood Annie's attacks, his wounds sealing almost instantly. "You don't understand, witch," he growled, dodging a swipe. "We werewolves have two forms of creation."
Annie's eyes narrowed, but she kept attacking. "And?"
Zarrek chuckled darkly, his muscles bulging. "The first form is —our natural wolf transformation. Bigger, stronger, but still bound by flesh."
Annie dodged a sudden claw strike, countering with a slash to his chest, but the wound barely slowed him down.
"The second form," Zarrek continued, his voice deepening, "is what only the strongest of us can achieve—a humanoid shape, mixing raw strength with intelligence."
He stepped back, his body beginning to shift, his bones cracking. His wolfish features sharpened into something more monstrous, his fur retracting slightly to reveal humanoid muscles, his claws lengthening into deadly black blades.
"And now…" His grin widened, his voice filled with madness. "After absorbing Khorin, I've evolved."
A surge of black and crimson energy exploded around him, his body stretching, twisting—his muscles swelling to unnatural proportions. He had taken a third form.
A colossal monster, both humanoid and wolf, now loomed over Annie.
Annie simply sighed. "That's it?"
With a flick of her wrist, her Light of the One sword extended, glowing even brighter.
Zarrek roared and lunged.
Annie didn't move.
The moment Zarrek came close, she sidestepped—her golden sword carving through his monstrous frame.
Again. And again.
She danced around him, slicing through his limbs like he was nothing more than a slow-moving shadow.
Within seconds, deep wounds crisscrossed his entire body, golden light searing through his corrupted flesh.
Zarrek staggered, disbelief flashing in his fading silver eyes.
"How…" He coughed up blood. "How can you still be… stronger?"
Annie flicked blood off her blade. "Because I never needed a 'another form' to kill you."
With one final slash, her sword pierced his heart.
Zarrek's monstrous form trembled—then collapsed into a lifeless heap.
Annie barely spared him a glance.
"Just how strong is Mother". Thought Menma as he knew he wouldn't stand a chance against that monstrosity.
She turned to Menma. "Go check on the trapped witches, and drink some healing potions!"
Menma clenched his fists, still in shock, but nodded and ran toward the pit.
Deep in the cavern, as the witches prepared to leave, the shadow solidified.
A towering figure stepped forward.
His skin was red, his body unnaturally tall and muscular, his eyes burning with a malevolent glow. His presence radiated power.
But he carried no weapon.
Instead, he raised his hand—and the ground beneath them shifted.
"I am Vel'Zorath, Purgatorist of the First Castle," he intoned. "And you will all die here."
The cavern twisted as walls of stone and steel erupted from the ground, forming a shifting castle around them.
PURGATORIST CREATION // CASTLE LORD
The witches barely had time to react before the walls moved—turning, closing, crushing. The castle itself was his weapon.
Lilith shouted, "Move! Don't let him control the battlefield!"
The witches attacked with spells and steel, but Vel'Zorath was untouchable. The castle itself blocked their attacks, its shifting architecture turning the battlefield against them.
One by one, witches were crushed by moving walls, impaled by sudden stone spikes, or thrown into endless pits.
The cavern roared with the crashing of stone as Lilith charged forward, her violet blade shining with determination.
The Purgatorist stood still, his red skin gleaming like molten lava, his eyes cold and calculating. His very presence twisted the air around him, but Lilith didn't flinch. She had come too far to back down now.
She slashed at him with all her might, her sword leaving glowing trails in the air. But before her blade could make contact, the Purgatorist's power surged.
The walls of the cavern shuddered and cracked, the stone beneath Lilith's feet twisting and contorting as if alive. A massive fortress began to rise around her, trapping her within the confines of shifting walls and towering spires.
"You are trapped now, witch," the Purgatorist's voice echoed. "You think you can defeat me in my own domain?"
Lilith's eyes blazed with defiance. "I don't need to defeat you. I just need to stop you."
With a roar, she dashed forward, using the collapsing stone to leap higher, slashing at the walls to clear a path.
Every strike sent shockwaves through the air, but the castle around her mended itself, stone flowing to repair the damage. She couldn't outlast it forever, but she was determined to make every second count.
The Purgatorist raised his hand, and the castle's structure shifted, causing the ground to split apart.
Massive stone pillars shot up, slamming toward her with crushing force. Lilith dodged, rolling beneath them, her body already worn from the constant battle, but still she pushed on, her resolve unwavering.
"You can't win, witch." The Purgatorist's eyes glinted with malice as he raised his hand once more. "This castle is mine to command."
The stone walls began to close in, but Lilith wasn't afraid. She surged forward again, using every ounce of her strength to break through the stone.
But as she neared the Purgatorist, he raised his hand, and the very ground beneath her feet shifted, sending her plummeting into a chasm that had opened beneath her.
Before she could react, the walls shifted again, forming jagged rocks to trap her. She was surrounded, her movements restricted as the Purgatorist loomed above her, towering like a god.
"End this." The Purgatorist's voice was cold. "There is no way out."
But Lilith was not finished. With a savage cry, she broke free from the stone, her sword crackling with energy, and slashed upward, aiming straight for the Purgatorist's chest.
The force of her attack ripped through the air, but the Purgatorist caught the blade with one hand. His red skin burned as she pushed against him, her muscles straining.
He smiled as her energy began to wane. "Foolish."
With a swift motion, he threw her against the crumbling walls, the impact sending shockwaves through her body. She gasped, her vision flickering as blood poured from her wounds. She tried to stand, tried to raise her sword, but her limbs felt heavy.
The Purgatorist approached her, his eyes cold, his power undeniable. "You've fought well, but now… you die."
With a final, devastating strike, the Purgatorist's hand pierced through Lilith's chest. Her eyes widened in shock, but she never flinched. She had made her choice.
"I won't die alone," she whispered through ragged breaths, her grip tightening around her sword. She summoned her remaining power, focusing all of her energy into her blade. Light erupted, illuminating the cavern as she drove it into the Purgatorist's heart.
For a moment, the Purgatorist faltered. His form shimmered with anger, but Lilith's strength was too much. He staggered back, blood seeping from his chest. The stone walls began to crumble, collapsing around them.
But the Purgatorist wasn't done yet. With a final roar, he ripped her sword from his chest and crushed it in his hand. Lilith, gasping for air, fell to her knees. The world around her seemed to slow, her vision darkening as the Purgatorist stood tall before her.
"You were brave, witch," he said, his voice filled with cold amusement. "But it's over."
Lilith looked up at him, her lips curling into a faint, defiant smile. "You may have won today. But there are others who will fight.
As he moved away from the castle, with the rocks falling down on Lilith's lifeless body , the scene became silent .
The witches stood frozen, disbelief settling in as the weight of her death crushed them. Some fell to their knees, others trembled, gripping their weapons but unable to move.
As Vel'Zorath got ready to finish the fight,he suddenly stopped...
As if he was communicating telepathically with someone.
Then without saying much he turned away as if Lilith was nothing more than another corpse.
"Unfortunately, I don't have time to kill you." he muttered. "The others need me."
Then he was gone, vanishing into the shifting walls of his castle.
The witches were left broken, their leader's body lying still among the ruins of the castle.
When Menma arrived at the battlefield, his boots splashed into the pool of blood.
Something was wrong.
He spotted the witches first—faces pale, bodies trembling. None of them could speak. Then his eyes landed on Lilith.
His breath hitched.
She was lifeless. Stabbed through, blood pooling around her in a dark halo. Her violet-stained sword lay useless beside her.
Menma took a step forward, but his vision blurred. His heartbeat slammed against his skull. His breathing turned ragged, uneven.
"No."
"Lilith wasn't supposed to die."
"Why is she dead?"
His fingers twitched. His nails dug into his palm, drawing blood. His body trembled—not with grief, but with something deeper.
Something primordial.
A rumble built in his chest, low and guttural. His entire form convulsed, his veins turning black as an unseen force clawed its way to the surface. His breathing hitched, then slowed, his body adapting to the overwhelming pressure inside him.
His eyes darkened, a slit of burning red forming in the center. His teeth elongated, his skin burning as dark marks etched across his arms.
A sharp crack echoed as his bones shifted. His body twisted, reshaping itself into something more monstrous.
He exhaled—and the ground beneath him split.
The witches staggered back. This wasn't the Menma they knew.
This was something else.
Something demonic.
As Menma opened his red eyes he immediately smelled the Purgatorist and started chasing him!
While Annie looked for Lyra in the Werewolves's den ...
moving through the labyrinthine corridors with purpose, her eyes scanning every corner. She needed to find Lyra,
The air around her felt heavy, charged with an unfamiliar energy. The further she moved, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Her grip tightened on her glowing light sword, its radiant edge a beacon in the darkness.
Suddenly, a cold chill swept through the air.
Annie stopped dead in her tracks. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Before she could react, three figures materialized out of the shadows, their forms flickering like smoke.
They were Purgatorists—three of them—each standing in eerie silence, their red eyes glowing with a malevolent light.