CHAPTER 362: WHO’S DEAD?

The scholar wept quietly, her shoulders trembling as her head bowed low. She wiped at her tears with a trembling hand, the memory of the incident playing over and over in her mind—vivid, merciless.

Guilt twisted within her like a blade, and she cursed herself for her helplessness, for doing nothing when Roderick needed her most.

Rationally, she knew the truth: there had been nothing she could have done. She wasn’t a warrior, not the emperor’s formidable right hand like Roderick, who had fought with Emperor Kaan, buying precious moments that no one else could have.

If she had intervened, she would have only gotten in the way. Her presence might have hastened the outcome, adding another body to the fallen and another weight on Roderick’s already impossible burden.

But logic did little to ease the ache. The guilt was relentless, a storm she couldn’t quiet.

She was on the verge of spiraling into a pit of endless regret when a fellow magic wielder stepped forward, breaking the silence.

"We may be able to help... with the aftermath of the poisonous mist," he said, his voice steady with quiet urgency.

They had spent years studying Ol’gaz and its insidious powers. Having been part of the emperor’s secret project, they knew too well how it corrupted through nightmares.

"We’ve developed a cure," he added. "A counteragent to the poison."

Roderick had done everything he could to get the scholars close to Emperor Kaan, hoping they might test their weapons against the demon that never left the emperor’s side.

But Kaan was no fool. He was calculating, vigilant, and never let his guard down. He thoroughly questioned every scholar who entered his presence and never allowed more than one into his chamber at a time.

With that, Roderick had made one thing very clear: under no circumstances were they to act on their own. Recklessness would mean certain death. No scholar, no matter how skilled in magic, stood a chance alone against the combined might of a strategic genius and a demon. Attempting anything would be suicide.

Creating potions and spells was always a dangerous endeavor. Testing them was even riskier. That was why early trials were often conducted on captured enemies or condemned prisoners—never the innocent. It was a grim necessity to prevent needless casualties.

But developing a cure for the demon’s corruption without the emperor’s knowledge left them no room to test it publicly. It wasn’t until the demon’s power had finally been broken and the surviving scholars were reunited that a few volunteers stepped forward, offering themselves as the first to take the cure.

The pain left in the wake of the mist was unbearable—so much so that many wished for death rather than another moment of suffering. And if death was inevitable, why not meet it with purpose? With that resolve, they volunteered.

Miraculously, the cure worked.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Madam Silvia’s voice cut through the haze like a whip.

Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, and though her face tightened with pain, she bore it with practiced grace. Years of discipline made her agony seem almost invisible—she remained every bit the dignified elder, despite the toll the mist had taken on her.

The scholar blinked, jolted from his thoughts. "Right. Of course!" He spun on his heels and gave a firm nod to his fellow scholars, each one already in position, prepared for their final act—to save what was left of their world.

Every one of them carried the same regret: ever trusting Emperor Kaan. If they’d known the true purpose behind his secret underground project—the twisted ambition behind the charm—they would have fled the moment they were recruited.

But regrets no longer served them. What mattered now was redemption. And they were determined to earn it, no matter the cost.

The werewolves had joined the effort, and vampire healers were tending to their wounded. Among them, Trudy stood out as always—arguably the fiercest and most relentless of the werewolf fighters.

Now, once again, she found herself teetering between life and death.

Her injuries were grave—a broken arm hung useless at her side, and a deep, ragged wound tore through her heel—but her thoughts weren’t on herself. She was searching the crowd with wild eyes, her breath short.

"Where are they—the vampires?" she asked, voice strained. It wasn’t clear who she was speaking to, but Charna answered without hesitation.

"I haven’t seen them," she said gently. Trudy hadn’t named anyone, but Charna knew exactly who she meant: Riona and Florian.

Trudy began to rise, her jaw clenched in determination, but Charna reached out and grabbed her by the good arm.

"Where do you think you’re going? You need to be patched up first. You’re in no shape to go saving anyone."

Charna’s gaze lingered on Trudy’s limp, bloodied arm. She couldn’t help but wonder, half in awe, half in exasperation, how someone like Trudy was still alive.

Reckless didn’t even begin to cover it. Trudy never knew when to quit. Admirable, yes. But as her friend, Charna felt more fear than pride. Watching Trudy throw herself into danger again and again was like watching a wildfire—fierce, beautiful, and always a breath away from disaster.

Elsewhere, Thorin had only one thought in his mind: Riona.

The moment he was sure the battle had ended, he made his way toward where he’d last seen Puck. But before he could take more than a few steps, he spotted Florian folding his body forward on the ground. Thorin froze. Florian was awake.

A grin broke across his face. She did it.

Riona had won. The poisonous mist was gone—that alone confirmed it.

But then Thorin frowned.

He squinted at the horizon, at the place where Florian and Riona should have been together. "Why does it still feel... heavy over there?" he muttered.

An uneasy tension curled in his chest. It didn’t make sense. They had won—hadn’t they?

He tried to calm the rising panic. There had to be a reason. Maybe Florian was simply overwhelmed, reluctant to let go of his sister after everything they’d endured. Maybe they were trying to mend what had been broken between them.

Thorin knew how heavy that process could be. Some rifts weren’t easily closed, and the weight of forgiveness could darken even a moment of triumph.

Still... something felt wrong.

But as Thorin drew closer, a weight settled on his chest—a creeping realization he wasn’t ready to face. His steps slowed. He didn’t want to hear it.

Riona lay motionless on the ground. Florian knelt beside her, his shoulders shaking with sobs. And Puck... Puck wore the expression he reserved only for the worst moments—when words were knives and silence even sharper.

Before Thorin could say a word, Puck looked up.

"Thorin..." His voice faltered, heavy with something that broke more than it revealed. He didn’t want to be the one to say it, but Florian was in no shape to speak.

"She’s gone."

"No..." Thorin shook his head, a bitter scoff slipping out. He took a few unsteady steps back. "I don’t care if you’re like a brother to me—that’s not a joke I’ll tolerate. Say it again, and I swear, I’ll—"

"I’m not joking." Puck’s voice was quieter now, almost broken. "She’s dead."

"Who’s dead?"

Time stopped.

Every breath, every heartbeat seemed to freeze as the voice broke the stillness. Slowly, eyes turned.

Riona had her eyes wide open. Still lying on the ground, she looked around at the stunned faces. "Who’s dead?" she asked, her voice raspy but alive.