Chapter 469: Clarity Of The Pureblood Way
The clash had stilled, not because Serah’s will had faltered, but because the Purebloods willed it so. Like predators weary of circling but not of playing, they withdrew in perfect sync, their movements unnervingly calm as if their retreat were nothing but another phase of their game. They perched upon broken stones and twisted roots at the edge of the clearing, their black-veined bodies almost regal in their grotesque stillness. Golden irises glowed faintly in the afternoon haze, burning holes into her resolve.
Their laughter came first, hollow and deliberate, seeping into her ears like venom. Then came their words—sharp, deliberate knives aimed not at her flesh but her soul.
"You wear that blade as if it makes you strong," the four-horned demon jeered, his tone smooth as silk but layered with malice. "But look at you. Bleeding, trembling, hiding your weakness behind clenched teeth. A knight in name, nothing more. Even your weapon shakes in your hand."
His brother leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice rolling like thunder coated in disdain. "Did you really think you fighting us will make you stand among legends? That your fire would scorch us even a little? No... your fire is only good for burning yourself alive. Look at the steam pouring off your skin. You’re cooking yourself from within just to resist us. Pathetic. How long before you collapse under your own pride?"
The words burrowed deep. They did not roar them; they whispered them with perfect precision, every syllable deliberate, designed to echo inside her head. Serah felt each insult scratch at the carefully built walls she had always held firm.
Her crimson eyes narrowed, but before she could bite back, a flicker of shadow came. A spike of blood, thin and sharp, lanced through the clearing like a serpent. She pivoted late. Too late. It pierced through her thigh, the sound wet and sharp. The world froze in that instant, the sensation of steel-like blood cracking through flesh anchoring her in place. The spike bent itself, grotesque and alive, curling into the dirt until it locked her leg firmly against the ground.
Pain flared white-hot. Her body jerked involuntarily, her grip on her claymore tightening to keep her upright. Then came the poison—a surge like fire laced with ice, slithering upward through her veins. She gasped sharply, her breath catching, her body betraying her with tremors as the venom sought her heart.
But Serah was no ordinary fighter. Her will surged with the fire inside her, and with a thought she forced her myst outward. Heat poured through her veins, scalding and brutal, burning the poison as it moved. Steam hissed from her skin as if she were forged in a smith’s furnace, her wounds searing themselves closed from within. The agony was unbearable—her insides scorched, her blood boiled, her muscles twitched violently from the torment.
The Purebloods did not intervene. They only watched. And laughed.
"Look at her dance," the two-horned demon said with delight, clapping his hands once as though applauding a performance. "She burns her own life away just to spit at us. Does she not realize? Every flame she calls forth is another lash against her own body."
"She realizes," the four-horned one answered, a smile splitting his face unnaturally wide. "That’s why she suffers so beautifully. Pride demands it. Her fire will not allow surrender, so she roasts herself alive to deny us satisfaction. And yet..." he tilted his head, his golden eyes gleaming, "we are satisfied anyway. Because she will break regardless. Either by our poison, or by her own flames. And we will be here to watch."
Their joy was honest. No malice hid beneath their tone; it was pure, simple pleasure at her struggle. And that truth struck deeper than any blade. They were not frustrated with her resistance—they were delighted. Her pain was not an obstacle to them, it was the entire purpose of the battle.
Serah’s breath came heavy, her leg shaking beneath her, pinned and bleeding. Steam curled from her wound, rising like incense into the air. Every heartbeat was a hammer blow inside her chest as she fought the venom, her flames scorching her own blood vessels to ash. The pain should have broken her focus, but instead it sharpened her clarity.
This—this was the true nature of Purebloods. The earlier one she had fought had taunted, yes, but it was hasty, careless, and driven by desperation to escape Marcus. That one had not wanted to linger or wanted to savor. But these two? They had no such desperation. They relished the cruelty and indulgence of the hunt, not in killing her quickly but in unraveling her slowly, thread by thread.
Her lips curled upward, and a sound escaped her—low at first, then rising. A laugh. Harsh, breathless, and sharp.
The demons tilted their heads in intrigue as the laughter grew, bubbling up from deep within her chest despite the agony of the spike in her thigh. Her crimson eyes glowed brighter through the haze of steam, her voice breaking between pained chuckles.
"So this is it..." she said, her words strained yet steady. "The Pureblood way. Not just predators. Not just killers. You’re artists in torment. You break people not with your strength, but with your patience. You... savor it."
Her shoulders shook, another laugh breaking free even as she clenched the hilt of her claymore tighter, her knuckles pale from the strain.
"And here I thought I was ready for anything you could throw at me," she admitted, her tone touched with both bitter humor and newfound revelation. "Turns out... it’s easier for you to crawl into my head than I ever thought."
Her gaze sharpened, her laughter thinning into a thin smile. "But now that I’ve seen it—now that I’ve felt it—I know exactly what you are. Exactly how you fight. And exactly how I’ll deal with you."
Her suffering hadn’t broken her; it had taught her. And though her body trembled, though blood and steam mixed across her skin, there was a clarity in her crimson eyes now that hadn’t been there before—a dangerous glint born not from rage or despair, but from understanding.
The Purebloods, still perched in their places of mockery, saw her laugh and her words as nothing more than a final flare of defiance—a dying ember’s last crackle before being stamped into silence. They exchanged glances, grins carved wide across their faces, and leaned back in satisfaction, ready to savor her descent into nothingness.
But then—everything shifted.
The air itself trembled. At first it was subtle, a ripple of warmth brushing through the ruined clearing. Then it grew heavier, thicker, suffocating, until every breath burned the lungs like inhaled embers. The temperature surged in violent waves, so sudden and so severe that the very forest groaned in protest. Leaves shriveled and curled into black husks, sap hissed and boiled within the trees, and cracks spread through stone as if the earth itself recoiled.
Before the demons could voice the unease clawing at their instincts, it happened.
From the exact point where Serah still stood pinned, a pillar of fire erupted with apocalyptic force. It roared upward, a blazing spire that tore through the canopy and scorched the sky itself. The shockwave of heat and light blasted outward, forcing both Purebloods to skid backward across the shattered ground, their claws digging trenches in the earth to brace themselves. The world was momentarily drowned in fire—searing, blinding, absolute.
The inferno howled for a full second, the sound like the voice of the sun itself, before it began to contract, folding inward upon its source. Slowly, the towering blaze diminished, peeling away in layers of molten gold and crimson until only one figure remained.
Serah.
She stood tall, no longer bowed or bound by pain, the spike of blood having been incinerated into nothing within the eruption. Where weakness and suffering had once weighed her down, now there was only unshakable authority radiating from every line of her stance. Her entire form was cloaked in fire, each flame moving not as chaotic tongues but as disciplined, controlled strokes of divine artistry.
Her claymore blazed like a shard of a newborn star, its edges dripping sparks that sizzled upon the ruined earth. Her eyes, once merely crimson, now burned as twin miniature suns, radiating brilliance so fierce that it forced the demons to squint against their light. Her long hair, once tied high and whipping with the wind, now streamed behind her in molten strands of living flame, crackling and alive.
And behind her—spanning wide and unfurled with godlike majesty—two colossal wings of pure fire stretched outward. Each feathered ember shimmered with the brilliance of dawn, every flicker carrying heat so intense that the air itself wept under its presence. The wings flexed once, and the shockwave of heat alone sent waves of distortion across the clearing, rippling reality like water.
She did not look broken anymore. She did not even look human. She stood as something else entirely—an avenging seraph, a living flame that demanded reverence and dread in equal measure.
The Purebloods froze, their grins faltering into something else—something rare. Recognition.
They did not need words to confirm it, but their golden eyes flicked between each other, the realization dawning heavy and undeniable. This was no ordinary knight, no mere human who had somehow pushed them to irritation. This was a name spoken in whispers among Redbloods.
The Phoenix of Solara.
Serah Magna.
And now, she was no longer prey, no longer a toy to be broken. She was the executioner, wings of judgment unfurled, fire drawn to burn away anything in it’s path.