RETURN OF THE DARK LORD

Marcel regenerated his severed limb with ease, flexing the new arm as he stared at Hanz's completed transformation.

"No doubt about it now," he muttered to himself. "That's definitely the image I saw in that book."

His grip tightened on his sword. Wings snapping to full span, he dashed at Hanz.

"Who would have guessed," he said, "my own brother would be him."

Their blades met in a shower of sparks. Hanz parried with ease and answered with a quick slash across Marcel's chest, driving him back a step.

Hanz wasted no time. A Kantar clone shimmered into existence beside him, and he handed off Shu's unconscious body to it. The clone took off at a sprint, kicking up a trail of dust as it vanished into the desert haze.

Marcel watched it go, jaw tightening. Should I send a clone after him? No — he'd just throw it at my clone, and even two-on-one, Hanz is strong enough to stall long enough for the boy to disappear. I need to end this fast. No more messing around.

His Kantar flared — a dark blue aura streaked with green swallowing him whole. The greatsword in his grip dissolved and reformed, shrinking into a slim katana with a white hilt and a golden guard. He settled into a two-handed grip, focus sharpening, and in the span of a single breath carved a dozen phantom slashes into the air around Hanz, all striking at once from every angle.

Hanz moved on instinct, weaving through the barrage. The handful he couldn't fully dodge he turned aside at the last second, letting them open shallow cuts instead of anything deeper. Then he drove his Kantar into his blade and slammed it into the sand.

The ground answered. A shudder rolled outward and jagged pillars of stone tore upward around Marcel — one surging directly beneath his feet. He wrenched himself skyward just in time, clicking his tongue in irritation.

"Using his Kantar to disrupt the terrain itself," he muttered. "Gotta give him points for creativity."

He concentrated his Kantar to the tip of his blade and loosed a compressed beam at Hanz. Hanz caught it on his own sword, deflecting the worst of it, then snatched one of the seven flames hovering at his back and shaped it into a burning rope. He lashed it around Marcel's ankle and hauled him back down out of the sky, slamming him into the earth — then drove his blade straight through him before Marcel could recover. Marcel coughed blood onto the sand.

Using the closed distance to his advantage, Marcel gathered his remaining Kantar into his core and unleashed it all at once — a violent burst of energy that swallowed the ground around him. The force sent Hanz skidding backward several feet, though he caught himself on one knee before he fell.

Marcel looked down at his own chest, Hanz's blade still buried there. He gripped the hilt and tore it free with a single hard pull, blood pooling beneath him, then tossed the sword aside. The wound at his sternum had already begun closing — but slower this time.

Hanz noticed immediately.

"Looks like you're running low on Kantar," he said, summoning his own blade back into his hand and settling into a defensive stance.

Marcel shifted into an attacking posture, fingers flexing around his katana's hilt. A ghost of a smirk crossed his demonic face.

"I'll admit — that's good judgment," he said. "Seems I spent too much energy flaunting my power, the way older brothers tend to do with their younger siblings." His expression hardened into something colder. "A mistake I intend to correct."

He surged at Hanz again. Hanz answered by drawing two more flames from his back and shaping them into a pair of burning Kantar dragons, hurling them forward. Marcel didn't hesitate, redirecting his focus and carving a Kantar arc through both constructs with a single swing.

"I know your techniques, brother," he said, watching the dragons dissolve. "Your Kantar dragons are your signature move — they siphon an opponent's Kantar and turn it into a devastating blast on impact. I won't fall for that trick twice."

While Marcel's attention stayed locked on the dragons, Hanz pulled two more flames from his back and fused them into a single massive fireball, hurling it straight at him.

Marcel saw it coming and didn't flinch — he stepped directly into its path, still engaging the dragons, timing his dodge to the last possible instant. The fireball tore through empty air where he'd been standing and detonated against Hanz's own dragons instead, destroying them outright.

Marcel smirked, eyeing the flames still circling Hanz's back.

"You sure you should be burning through those like that?" he said. "Doesn't look like they reform once you use them. You've got two left."

You can't be serious right now, Itzal snapped inside Hanz's head. You just wasted both of our dragons for nothing.

Oh, wow, Hanz shot back silently, so you only have opinions when things aren't going our way?

He let the irritation pass, steadying his breathing before answering more evenly. Besides — it wasn't a total waste. His output's dropping. Notice he didn't throw out that blast-radius technique again when I sent the dragons at him. He's conserving.

Itzal was quiet a moment, then: Fair point. But we're not exactly one to talk either — I don't know if you've noticed, but we can't hold this form much longer ourselves. Something tells me this is the last push. Whatever happens next decides it.

Marcel closed the gap at top speed, katana swinging for Hanz's throat. Hanz deflected and tried to turn the parry into a counter — only for Marcel's tail to snap up and seize the blade mid-swing. Hanz's eyes went wide. He'd assumed the tail was decorative, a piece of the transformation's aesthetic — this was the first time he'd seen it used as a weapon. He didn't let the surprise slow him down, driving a kick into Marcel's side hard enough to stagger him, then following through with a slash across his chest.

This time, the wound didn't close.

Marcel answered anyway, thrusting his katana into Hanz's side before either of them could fully recover.

They broke apart, both breathing hard. Hanz tilted his head back, the curved horns of his mask angling toward Marcel, and began gathering a massive sphere of Kantar between them. Marcel responded in kind — two Kantar clones flickering into being beside him, all three raising their hands together to build a matching sphere of their own.

The moment Hanz launched his, Marcel launched his.

The two orbs met in the space between them and detonated, the explosion leveling the ground beneath their feet and carving out a wide, smoking crater in the sand.

When the dust finally settled, Marcel had reverted to his human form, a faint green afterglow still clinging to his skin. Bruises and shallow cuts covered him head to toe, and his hair — once dark — had turned stark white. He looked down at Hanz's unconscious body.

"If I hadn't channeled the last of my Kantar into the time stone and shifted through time at the last second," he muttered, "I might actually have died."

He staggered over and pressed two fingers to Hanz's throat.

"Still breathing," he said. "Gotta hand it to you — tough as always."

He glanced up at the darkening sky, thinking it through. His clone can't have much time left before it dissipates — but we've been at this long enough that it's probably far from here by now. And I'm in no shape to chase it down.

With visible effort, he hauled Hanz over one shoulder, breathing hard.

"The government will have to make do with you, then," he said. "At least now you're finally out of my way."

He locked onto a distant Kantar signature and teleported away.

The two brothers reappeared in a vast, dimly lit laboratory. Rows of humming machinery lined the walls, their glass panels casting pale blue light across polished marble floors. The air smelled faintly of ozone and something chemical underneath it — sterile, cold, wrong.

Marcel didn't waste time. He let Hanz's unconscious body drop, the thud echoing off the high ceiling, and turned toward the lone figure working at a bank of monitors — a scientist whose Kantar signature he'd locked onto from across the desert.

"Where are the others?" Marcel asked. "I don't sense them anywhere."

The scientist turned. He was a large-framed man with dark skin, long locs pulled back from his face, a cleanly shaved jaw, and thick glasses that caught the blue light of the monitors.

"The king had duties to attend to," he said. "Something about a meeting with the other villages. The nobles and the royals are preparing for our Lord's descent to Earth."

His gaze shifted to Hanz's crumpled, disheveled form — and to his stark white hair.

"Seems to me you've been overusing the time stone," he said. "The strain's telling on you. And it doesn't help that you still haven't finished recovering from the seal the Demon Lords used to control you, all those years ago. You're killing yourself, Marcel."

Marcel's eyes narrowed, jaw tight with annoyance.

"Shut it. My well-being is none of your concern, Adamus." He gestured down at Hanz. "I couldn't bring in the boy — but I brought something better. His tutor. I'm sure the Dark Lord will be pleased. The boy has no choice now but to come to us."

He glanced toward the far side of the room, where a body lay motionless on a steel medical table, a web of tubes feeding chemicals of shifting color into its veins.

"How long before he can transfer into the vessel?"

Adamus checked his notes. "Should be any minute now. The vessel's fully prepared for his descent — all that's left is for him to—"

The laboratory shook.

The tremor threw both Marcel and Adamus to the floor, equipment rattling against the walls. Adamus stared up at the vessel, awestruck. Marcel gritted his teeth.

Finally, he thought. Going to show yourself.

A blinding light descended into the room from somewhere above, forcing both men to shield their eyes. It hovered there a moment, a sharp, screeching hum building in the air — then dissolved into the vessel's chest.

The body on the table sat up.

Its features shifted in real time — hair darkening, lengthening into a jagged, shoulder-length cut. An earring formed at one ear. The irises bled from dull to glowing crimson. Pale skin stretched taut over a lean, muscular frame. With a lazy wave of one hand, every tube in the room disconnected itself and the figure planted bare feet on the marble floor, looking down at the two men still sprawled before him.

"Adamus. Marcel." A slow smirk. "I believe this is the first time we're meeting face to face."

He flexed his arms, rolled his shoulders, testing the new body's limits.

"Good work, Adamus. This vessel feels strong."

Adamus dropped to his knees instantly, head bowed. "It's an honor, oh great Shun."

Marcel rose at his own pace, dusting himself off, meeting Shun's eyes without kneeling.

"I couldn't get the boy," he said. "My brother and the rest of his cohorts protected him at any and all costs — exactly as you predicted." He gestured toward Hanz's unconscious form. "But I got my brother. He means a great deal to the boy and his people. They don't have a choice now but to come to us."

Shun's smirk widened into a full grin.

"Good work, Marcel. You've done well." A pause, almost gracious. "I'll hold up my end of our deal. I'll help you exact your revenge on the Demon Lords who wronged you."

Adamus sprang back to his feet, hurrying to a cabinet and returning with a folded set of clothes, holding them out like an offering.

"Clothes readied for my liege. Made exactly as you requested."

Shun took them without a word of thanks and dressed unhurried — a white collared shirt, left open at the top two buttons to bare his collarbone, fitted black trousers, a long black leather coat settling over his shoulders like a second skin. With a flick of his wrist, a full-length mirror shimmered into existence. He studied his reflection, turning slightly, something like amusement flickering across his face.

"Good. Good." A faint, almost fond smile. "I have to admit — you humans are resourceful."

His gaze slid from the mirror to Hanz's still body on the floor, then to Marcel.

Their facial structure is identical, he thought, studying them both. But the eyes, the hair — completely different colors. They could almost pass for strangers. His eyes lingered a moment longer on Marcel. This one has a few months left to live, at best.

He said none of it aloud. Instead, he turned toward the door, voice carrying easily across the lab.

"Lock the unconscious boy up. And spread the word among the rest of you ants — tell them the great celestial Shun now walks among you humans. I want it heard everywhere."

He paused at the threshold, a slow smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

"That way," he said, "my darling sister Hannah will have no choice but to come looking."