CHAPTER 57: CRIMSON BLOOM - 5

"RAAAAAAAARGH!"

The demon screamed, a sound not of pain but of undoing, a guttural wail that tore through the ruins like the death throes of a collapsing star, its body cracking open like porcelain under a hammer’s blow.

Shadows bled from the fractures, spilling like ink from a shattered vial, each split singing with the groan of dying stone, the city’s towers echoing the agony as if they shared the demon’s flesh.

The sky above—what little sky the Abyss allowed—shuddered and darkened, swallowing the last threads of its twisted light, the air thickening with the stench of rot and despair.

Nyxsha held him down, her massive claw pressing into his chest with unyielding force, her violet eyes blazing like infernal stars, flames dancing along her black fur as she snarled through bared fangs.

The demon thrashed beneath her, its horned form convulsing, one broken horn crumbling to dust as shadows writhed from its wounds.

Sylvara raised her hand, her thorn-crowned head tilting, her amber eyes cold as she summoned her vines—hundreds of them, slick with crimson sap and dirt, erupting from the ground like vengeful roots.

They curled inward, lashing around the demon’s limbs with brutal precision, dragging it toward the heart of its own crumbling city, the tendrils piercing shadow-flesh and pulling taut, ichor spraying in arcs that sizzled on the stone.

"No!" the demon howled, half of its face melting away in a cascade of black sludge, one horn snapping off with a crack that echoed like thunder.

"You’re—aberrations! I was supposed to—cleanse this filth!"

"Funny," Virelya purred, her hydra heads weaving through the air like serpents in a storm, her golden eyes gleaming behind her cracked masks.

"Because we were just thinking the same thing." One head struck, fangs sinking deep into the demon’s shoulder, venom pumping like liquid fire, sizzling through its veins as it writhed in agony.

Nyxsha didn’t speak.

She stood over him, her beastly form towering, her breath hot and ragged, her golden eyes locked on the demon with a hatred forged in centuries of pain.

"You.," she growled, her voice low, barely more than a rumble, her claws flexing as she pressed down harder, the demon’s chest cracking under the pressure.

Tighter.

"You watched him."

The demon choked, its ragged robes tearing as shadows bled out, its limbs bending unnaturally.

"You said you’d take him."

The demon’s eyes—glowing sockets beneath the mask—widened in terror, its voice a rasping plea.

"Mercy—!"

"You won’t get a second chance," Nyxsha snarled, her claw plunging deep, ripping out its heart with a wet, tearing sound that echoed through the ruins.

It didn’t beat—it hissed, like a rotten core of smoke and teeth, pulsing once in her grip before she crushed it in her fist, black ichor exploding between her claws, splattering her fur like ink from a burst vein.

The moment the last pulse of the corrupted organ died, the city screamed its final wail—a deafening, soul-shattering cry that rattled the bones and cracked the sky.

Towers collapsed into chasms with thunderous crashes, roads splintered like brittle glass, statues crumbling mid-pose, their eyeless faces frozen in eternal agony.

The buildings shivered and melted, walls dissolving into sludge as if the entire district were a carcass finally giving up its ghost, the red moss withering to dust, the bone bridges snapping like dry twigs.

The corrupted souls, once bound to their torment, flickered like candles before a hurricane and vanished—freed or forgotten, their forms dissolving into wisps of shadow that scattered on the wind.

It was done.

The demon was dead.

And the city that birthed him... ceased to be.

Ash rained down, soft and gray, blanketing the ruins like a shroud, the air thick with the acrid scent of burnt bone and faded malice.

The battlefield was a wasteland now, the garden’s remnants withering, petals blackening at the edges as the Abyss reclaimed its own.

The women stood amid the destruction, their monstrous forms heaving with exertion, blood and ichor staining their bodies—Nyxsha’s fur matted, Virelya’s scales glistening, Sylvara’s bark-skin cracked and seeping sap.

They exchanged glances, the chaos settling into a heavy silence, the weight of their victory sinking in.

The garden of thorns around Azareel slowly uncurled, petals wilting back with a faint rustle, thorns pulling away with delicate grace, revealing him still asleep, untouched by the storm that had raged outside.

Sylvara stepped forward first, her monstrous form receding into her willowy, flower-swept self, her amber eyes softening as she gazed at him.

She blinked once, her breath steadying, petals reforming around her like a cloak of crimson and gold.

Virelya’s serpentine mass withdrew next, her body compacting, heads folding inward until only her usual sinuous figure remained, her porcelain mask intact despite the cracks, her golden eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and exhaustion.

She sighed and stretched her back lazily, as though she hadn’t just caused a natural disaster, her veils settling around her like a shroud.

Nyxsha lingered last, her fur bristled, teeth still stained red, her glowing beast eyes looking toward the garden, hesitant, her massive form trembling with the aftershocks of rage.

But then she exhaled, deeply.

Her massive feline form settled—fur rippling, claws retracting slightly, and her tail twitching with residual tension.

She slumped beside Azareel, protective and alert, but no longer on the edge of battle.

The garden fully parted, the vines retreating like obedient servants, the moss softening underfoot as if sighing in relief.

Azareel stirred, his silver eyes flickering open, his faint glow pulsing once as he sat up slowly, rubbing his face with a hand.

He looked around, confusion etching his features, the ash drifting down like snow in the ruins.

"...Did something happen?" he asked, his voice soft, still laced with sleep, his silver-white hair tousled and dusted with faint debris.

Three women stared at him, their forms still humming with the echoes of battle, blood and sap clinging to them like badges of war.

Sylvara sat with a serene, too-perfect smile, her amber eyes warm.

"No, Heartwood. You were simply resting," she said softly, her voice a melodic whisper, as if the violence had been a distant dream.