CHAPTER 235: CHAPTER 235

For the first time, I hesitated to kill—truly hesitated, even though I knew a demon was involved. It wasn’t just any demon; it was Drakar, tangled up with Raphael, their lives woven together in this mess.

I’d always thought demons were beyond redemption, but seeing their final moments, hearing their wishes... it hit different. Raphael, wanting nothing more than to reunite with his family, to live a normal life. Drakar, yearning to live as a human, to experience the world without the curse of destruction. Their dreams were raw, human in a way that made my chest ache. But now, those wishes were ashes, snuffed out by the ironclad plot of this damn novel. No second chances, just the story’s cruel path, forcing my hand.

Crunch.

The sound snapped me out of my thoughts, my head jerking up to see Kairos standing there, his coat billowing slightly in the wind that rustled through the trees.

"Take care of the corpse," he muttered, his voice low and matter-of-fact, like it was just another task on a list. No sympathy, no questions.

I simply stared at Kairos for a moment, his stoic figure cutting through the haze of my thoughts, before turning my gaze back to Raphael. His head rested in my lap, looking almost peaceful, a faint smile still etched on his lips as if he’d found some quiet end. But the reality was brutal—my Arcanum was still embedded in his chest, black blood oozing out slowly, staining the ground beneath us. He’d only partially transformed into a devil, his skin marred with lingering demonic marks, and I could feel the residual energy pulsing in his body, building toward a catastrophic explosion.

With careful hands, I pulled the dagger free, the blade retracting back to its original form with a soft click. Kairos stepped forward, helping me to my feet. That’s when I noticed the damage—my own body was half-burnt, the clothes I’d worn for Thorne’s disguise scorched away from the demonic heat when I’d held Raphael close. The pain hit me like a delayed wave, my skin raw and blistering, but I pushed it down, focusing on staying upright.

My legs wobbled beneath me, and despite my best effort, I couldn’t hold myself steady. I staggered, my head falling against Kairos’ shoulder as exhaustion took over. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away—just stood there, a solid presence in the chaos. A portal shimmered into existence nearby, and out stepped Thorne and Magellan, their faces grim as they took in the scene. They didn’t say a word, the silence speaking volumes—perhaps out of respect.

My vision blurred, the world tilting sideways. Whether it was from maintaining the Void Seal earlier, draining my mana to the dregs, or the sheer emotional weight of everything that had unfolded, I couldn’t tell. My knees buckled, and darkness closed in, pulling me under as I fainted against Kairos, the forest fading into nothing.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

January 5th

CLANG!

Aamon Forbes shoved the door open with such force it nearly splintered off its hinges. His face was a mask of grim determination, his eyes scanning the room with barely contained fury.

Inside, he locked eyes with a familiar figure—Azalea Crawford, the forensic scientist known for her sharp mind and unflappable demeanor. "Hello again, Mister Forbes," she said calmly, adjusting her gloves as she stood by a table in the center of the room.

Without a word of greeting, Aamon strode straight to the body laid out under the harsh lights. His breath caught when he saw it: his son, Raphael Forbes, lying there so still, a faint smile on his lips as if he’d drifted off in peace. The sight hit him like a punch, and he clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to cry. "Do you have any leads on the suspect?" he demanded, his voice low and edged with anger.

Azalea shook her head, her expression professional but sympathetic. "Not yet. The crime scene was wiped clean—spotless, really. No fingerprints, no traces of the struggle, nothing that points to who did this. It’s like they vanished into thin air."

Investigators in Aeonia wielded all sorts of supernatural Gifts—enhanced senses, truth-detecting spells, even memory echoes—but even the best of them had come up empty. No clues, no trails, just a void where answers should have been.

"Was it the Rogues?" Aamon asked, his voice rough, staring down at his son’s peaceful face as if willing the truth to surface.

"...We’re not sure," Azalea replied carefully, her eyes flicking to the body. "But I can sense a demonic energy within him."

"Are you fucking with me?" Aamon snapped, his composure cracking as tears streamed down his cheeks, raw and unfiltered.

Azalea let out a heavy sigh, knowing she had to deliver the hard truth. "Mister Aamon," she said, her voice steady but laced with regret, "this demonic energy... it originated from Raphael’s body itself."

Aamon’s face twisted in horror, his eyes widening. "...What?"

She met his gaze with a somber expression. "The demonic energy was building inside him, traveling through his veins, but it stopped when he died. It’s like it was part of him, halted mid-process."

Aamon Forbes stared at Azalea, his mind reeling, refusing to process her words. Demonic energy from Raphael’s body? It was unthinkable—no, impossible. The only explanation that came to mind was that his son had turned into a Rogue, but even that felt like a betrayal too deep to accept.

"If it’s you, Mister Forbes, tracking down the one who did this should be easy," Azalea said, her voice steady despite the tension. She knew his reputation—his resources, his influence—and hoped it might offer some solace.

Aamon’s eyes dropped to Raphael’s chest, the wound still evident, black blood lingering like a stain on his soul. The sight ignited something primal in him, a bloodlust that surged forth, filling the room with an oppressive force.

Azalea gasped, struggling to breathe under the pressure, but she pressed on. "I can only guess that something went wrong five years ago during the Myriad Operation," she continued, her words measured. "To uncover the real reason and find the culprit, an autopsy is essential. But... it would expose Raphael’s true state to the world."

Aamon fought to rein in the storm inside him, an overwhelming grief clawing at his core, threatening to consume him. He took a ragged breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "This wound... Are you the only one who knows about it?"

"Yes," Azalea replied firmly.

"Are you certain?" Aamon pressed, his eyes searching hers for any hint of doubt.

"Yes," she said, her gaze steady, "but it’s something we’ll have to reveal eventually—for the sake of humanity."

Aamon said nothing as he reached out, gently placing his hand on his son’s cheek. The skin was already cold and dry, like touching something lifeless and foreign, almost like a fish pulled from the depths.

He stroked it softly, his voice breaking into a somber murmur. "...I never thought I’d see the day where my son woke up."

He remembered the despair five years ago, believing Raphael was gone for good. But two weeks earlier, when his son had miraculously stirred, it felt like a miracle, like he’d been given a second chance at the top of the world.

"Today, I lost my son a second time." Raphael’s time had been so brief, almost as if he’d awakened just to say a final goodbye, leaving Aamon with a wound that cut deeper than any blade.

The pain was overwhelming, a burden he’d carry for the rest of his days. "...But I don’t want to lose him a third time. For Angela, I want to bury him peacefully." His words hung in the air, a quiet vow to protect his family’s memory.

Azalea bowed her head, her voice soft with understanding. "...I will do my best. I’ll take my leave now sir." With that, she stepped out, giving him the solitude he needed.

Alone in the cold room, surrounded by the stark steel and the lifeless body, Aamon caressed his son’s face with a trembling hand. Tears choked his throat, silencing any words he might have said. All he had left was a single, aching wish. ’My son... I hope in your next life, you have a better father.’