Chapter 310: Last move

A subtle silence settled over the battlefield, thick and heavy, pressing down on everyone present. The clash of steel and howls of rage faded into nothing, replaced by the sharp, metallic stench of blood that hung in the air far stronger than before. It was impossible to ignore, seeping into every breath, clinging to the back of the throat.All eyes were fixed on Zyren and Lord Virelle.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Shock rippled outward in waves, visible in the way jaws tightened, hands trembled, and eyes widened as reality slowly sank in.

King Jared was the first to break the stillness.

With a furious snarl, he dashed forward, boots pounding against the ground. Rage fueled his steps, his thoughts racing ahead of him. He was too slow. The vampire lord must have struck first. Zyren must already be dead—or dying.

That thought alone nearly made him smile.

But then he saw it.

His steps slowed abruptly, momentum dying as his body reacted before his mind could. He staggered back two steps, nearly losing his footing, his expression twisting into something close to disbelief. His mouth fell open slightly, the sound stuck in his throat.

The others noticed instantly.

They followed his gaze.

And froze.

King Zyren was standing.

Slowly, deliberately, he straightened himself, his movements controlled despite the blood soaking his clothes. As he shifted his torso, the truth became impossible to ignore.

His arm was buried deep inside Lord Virelle’s chest.

Not merely stabbed—embedded.

Blood poured freely around Zyren’s forearm, dripping steadily to the ground below, forming a dark pool at their feet. Lord Virelle’s body shuddered violently, his knees buckling as his hands weakly grasped at Zyren’s wrist. His face was twisted in agony, yet disturbingly, a faint, warped satisfaction lingered in his eyes.

His mouth opened.

Blood spilled out instead of words.

Wet, choking sounds escaped him as he tried to speak, his strength rapidly draining away. His body trembled, then sagged further, completely supported by the arm lodged within him.

Still, he was a vampire.

That wound alone wouldn’t kill him.

No one cared.

No one spared Lord Virelle more than a passing glance.

All attention was fixed on Zyren.

The king they had all believed was on the brink of death.

What terrified them wasn’t just that he was alive—it was how he stood.

There was no desperation in his posture. No shaking. No sign of weakness. His back straightened fully, his stance steady, his balance perfect.

Fear crawled into every heart at once.

The same thought surfaced again and again, unspoken yet unanimous.

Was he faking it?

He had to have been faking it.

King Jared took another involuntary step backward, his instincts screaming at him to create distance. His gaze stayed locked on Zyren, searching for something—pain, exhaustion, hesitation.

He found nothing.

Zyren didn’t even acknowledge him.

His crimson eyes remained fixed on Lord Virelle, cold and unblinking. Lord Virelle’s fingers slipped, his grip failing as more blood poured freely from the wound. He would have tried to flee if he could, but Zyren’s arm kept him pinned in place, draining him relentlessly.

"I can’t say I expected any less," Zyren said evenly.

There was no strain in his voice. No triumph. Just certainty.

Lord Virelle tried to plead.

His lips trembled, opening and closing as more blood spilled down his chin. His eyes widened with panic as pain finally overwhelmed whatever confidence he once had. His attempts at speech dissolved into choking sounds, his body jerking weakly.

Nearby, Lord Noctare stood frozen.

Outwardly, he showed nothing. Inwardly, relief flooded him so sharply it nearly made him dizzy. One mistake, he thought. One wrong move, and that would have been me. He didn’t delude himself—Zyren wouldn’t hesitate.

Even the werewolves attacking Lord Drehk came to an abrupt halt.

The moment Zyren rose fully to his feet, their assault collapsed. The memory of being frozen in place by Zyren’s shadows was still fresh, still raw. One by one, they backed away, their snarls dying into uneasy silence as fear replaced aggression.

Lord Drehk didn’t hesitate.

He retreated instantly, positioning himself behind Zyren. Lord Lythari stepped forward without a word, draping a cloak over his shoulders before moving to stand beside him. Her silence spoke volumes—she was watching Zyren closely, measuring every movement.

All eyes returned to Zyren.

They waited.

Zyren didn’t make them wait long.

His fangs lengthened without warning.

Before anyone could react, he plunged them into Lord Virelle’s neck.

The sound carried.

A deep, unmistakable gulp echoed across the battlefield.

Zyren drank.

Lord Virelle’s body convulsed violently, his remaining strength draining away with every pull. Blood ran freely down his neck and chest, soaking into his clothing and dripping to the ground. His struggles weakened quickly, becoming nothing more than faint spasms.

Panic spread instantly.

Those closest stumbled backward, fear overtaking discipline. They understood what was happening—Zyren was restoring himself.

"Attack him!" King Jared shouted.

His voice cracked with urgency. If Zyren finished feeding, everything would be lost.

The werewolf guards responded immediately, charging forward—

And stopped.

Mid-stride, their bodies locked in place. Shadows wrapped around their limbs, pinning them as if the darkness itself had solidified. Growls turned into confused snarls, then silence as realization set in.

Clara stepped closer to King Jared, her face pale, her hands shaking despite her effort to remain composed.

"The artifact should have worked," she said, her voice tight. "He’s a vampire."

Her mind raced. She replayed every spell, every inscription. I didn’t make a mistake. I couldn’t have. And yet the evidence stood before her, undeniable.

A cold chill ran down her spine.

Zyren’s gaze lifted.

Even as he continued drinking, his red eyes settled on her.

Clara felt exposed, pinned by that stare. It felt as though he could see every fear, every doubt twisting inside her.

Moments later, Zyren pulled back.

He released Lord Virelle and shoved him aside. The vampire’s body hit the ground heavily, unmoving, completely drained.

Lord Virelle wasn’t dead.

Zyren ensured he wouldn’t recover.

He stepped forward.

The sound that followed was final.

The battlefield watched in stunned silence as what remained of Lord Virelle was destroyed beyond recovery. Sunlight crept across the ground, touching the remains.

They burned away rapidly.

Within seconds, nothing remained but scattered ash.

Zyren turned.

His gaze locked onto King Jared.

"Now," he said calmly, "what should I do with you?"

The message was clear.

They were no longer in control.

Inside Zyren’s body, pain still raged. The dark sand churned violently, trying to tear him apart from within. But his werewolf genes suppressed it just enough, holding the damage at bay and allowing him to stand—allowing him to fight.

His earlier wounds were gone.

Zyren glanced briefly toward Lord Noctare.

No words were exchanged.

Lord Noctare and Lady Lythari both understood. Their earlier calculations meant nothing now. Lord Drehk’s standing had risen far above theirs. In Zyren’s eyes, they were insignificant.

Do you really think you can take us on? King Jared wanted to shout.

He didn’t.

Hatred burned in his gaze as he clenched his fists. Zyren had recovered enough. Enough to kill them all.

Grinding his teeth, Jared made his choice.

If he was going to fall, he would drag everything down with him.

He clicked his tongue sharply.

Clara trembled beside him, sensing the decision even before it was spoken. Jared ignored her.

The hunters still hidden would act.

Fire.

The kind that couldn’t be stopped.

We might as well burn together, King Jared thought, staring at Zyren with pure, unrestrained hatred.

King Jared raised both hands.

The gesture was sharp and deliberate, not frantic. It was the signal he had sworn never to use unless everything else had failed.

For a brief second, nothing happened.

Then the streets came alive.

Doors burst open along the surrounding houses. Figures poured out in coordinated waves—hunters clad in dark armor, their faces hidden behind carved masks etched with old symbols. They moved with trained precision, spreading out as one force, not a mob. These were not ordinary soldiers.

They were Arun’s men.

Without hesitation, they raised their weapons and unleashed flames.

Fire roared through the air, arcing violently toward Zyren and the gathered vampires. The heat hit first, a crushing wave that made even the werewolves cry out in alarm as the ground beneath them scorched.

Screams erupted.

The werewolves closest howled in pure terror as the flames brushed past them. This wasn’t normal fire. Their instincts knew it instantly.

The flames burned green.

They moved unnaturally, clinging to stone, crawling over walls, spreading faster the more they touched. Water thrown desperately at it hissed uselessly, evaporating on contact. The fire didn’t dim. It didn’t slow.

It consumed.

King Jared stood tall, his hands still raised, a proud expression settling onto his face as he watched chaos erupt. For the first time since Zyren had risen, confidence returned to his eyes.

This was his answer.

This was his last move.