Dean never thought he would die like this.

  Standing boots deep in the mud of a battlefield while rain cascaded down around him. His hair was soaked through, as were the padded clothes beneath his worn armor. The hilt of his sword was slick, though whether with rain or blood, he couldn’t be sure.

  All around him were bodies. Humanity had fallen, and the once proud allied forces now lay broken, strewn across the ground like dice cast by the hand of some uncaring god. In the end, their last stand had meant nothing in the face of this new threat.

  The Black Devil. That’s what they called the demon that emerged from the Abyssal Gate. But he was unlike any demon Dean had ever seen. He was fast and humanoid, moving with an unnatural grace as he cut down his foes. Humanity's greatest Adventurers had risen to challenge him – the best and brightest that the Guilds and Nobility had to offer. But all that training, all that Noble lineage had amounted to nothing. One by one, they were all slain.

  That was when the carnage really began. Dean stood at the edge of it now, his chest rising and falling as he breathed through the pain. He was alive, or at least he thought he was. But his body was bruised and battered.

  Just a little bit farther. He thought, trying to reach for that well of strength that had always kept him going in the past. Just a little bit…

  A hand shot out and gripped the top of his boot, and Dean looked down, half expecting to see some enemy coming from the ground to claim him. Instead, he saw her, and in that moment it broke something inside of him.

  “Charlotte,” he breathed, dropping to his knees in the mud beside her. The Adventurer lay atop the corpses of two grey-skinned orks she had killed. Her hand pressed to a wound on her side, and he grimaced when he saw the crimson weeping between her fingers. It was bad – he knew that before he saw the blood crusted at the corners of her mouth. But still, he couldn’t let go of his hope.

  He fumbled with the minor health potion at his belt. It had taken him three weeks wages just to afford it, but if she needed it… If it could help her, then it was worth it. The Night Elf reached up, stopping his hand as his shaking fingers struggled with the clasp.

  “Don’t waste it,” she rasped. Her voice was halting, as if every word pained her. It was then that Dean saw her eyes. The whites were bloodshot, and the pupils themselves were no longer perfect halos. They had fractured, and the glow of power within them was beginning to blaze. His heart plummeted.

  Fractured eyes were a classic sign of severe essence overuse, and deep down, he knew what that meant for her. It was only a matter of time.

  “What did they do to you?” he asked, his voice no more than a rasp in his throat. He could hear the battle still raging on somewhere in the distance, but right now, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  His friend laughed, but it turned into more of a pained cough.

  “I pushed too far,” she said. “Ironic, considering it was the one thing I always counseled Adventurers not to do. Essence… the consumption of it. The power can be addicting. In a battle like this, a bronze ranker like me never really stood a chance.” She blinked, and tears of blood leaked from her eyes, running down her cheeks.

  “But that…that doesn’t matter now, does it?” she whispered.

  A shockwave of power rocked the battlefield, making the ground beneath them tremble. Dean looked up, his heart hammering in his chest as he saw the state of things. The last heroes of humanity stood stark against the demon horde. Magic burst forth as the best of humanity tried to push back, to repel the overwhelming waves of enemies. But as powerful as they were, they were no match for the Black Devil. He stood at the center of it all, wielding his glowing spear and striking down humanity's most powerful heroes with ease. The casual brutality of the slaughter made his stomach knot.

  “Dean,” the urgency in Charlotte’s tone broke the spell. He looked down and found she was gripping his wrist with surprising strength. There was a sharpness to her gaze – one that hadn’t been there moments before.

  “Listen to me,” she said, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The timeline is all wrong… everything is…”

  She coughed again, blood welling over her lips.

  “Charlotte,” he said, his brow creasing. “Take it easy. You're not making any sense you need to…”

  He tried off when the Adventurer's grip on his arm only tightened. Those broken eyes glared up at him with an urgency that he’d never seen before.

  “Dean,” she said, taking pained breaths now. “I know none of this will make sense to you now, but I need…. need you to hear me. It has to be you. I can see that now. There’s no one else left to carry the torch. Not anymore.”

  Tears pricked his eyes as he slowly shook his head. None of this was making sense. She didn’t seem in her right mind and yet the intensity in her words made him hesitate.

  “What are you saying?” he asked.

  In answer, Charlotte turned his wrist over, opening his hand. She pressed something into it – something hard and metallic.

  “It’s yours now,” she said. “Your burden to carry. And I’m sorry Dean, I’m so sorry. But there's no one else I trust.”

  Dean opened his mouth, at a loss of what to say. But it was too late for questions.

  Charlotte's body arched in sudden pain, her grip on him slackened as she began to tremble. It was starting, and he knew there was nothing more he could do. So he held her as best he could, even as her eyes went out of focus. For better or for worse, she had been his closest friend since he first joined the militia seven years ago. Most adventurers were of the upper class, wealthy, or hailing from noble bloodlines. They would have turned their noses up at someone like him. But Charlotte had never thought that way.

  She’d taught him things over the years, things that a twenty-four-year-old with a non-combat class ought not to know. And now, despite her power, despite her kindness, she was dying… and he couldn’t stop it.

  “Promise me,” she croaked, even as the glow began to overtake her eyes. “Promise me that you’ll try. That you’ll find him and strike the deal. You have a chance to change things… to set this right..” Words failed her then as her body began to convulse. She had overdosed on essence, and now it was consuming her. Light burned from her eyes, curling colored smoke into the air. The smell of burnt magic filled his nostrils, but he refused to let go even as the heat singed him.

  His tears spilled over, mingling with the light rain running down his cheeks. He didn’t know what she was asking of him or if her words were the frantic, addled speech of a woman close to death. Still, he couldn’t let her die in distress, so he did the only thing he could.

  “I promise,” he whispered, not even knowing what it was he was promising. Charlotte’s body relaxed. A strained smile played at her lips even as the light died from her eyes. Dean knew it was over. His friend was gone.

  Reaching out a trembling hand, he closed her eyelids. He might have said a prayer, but here in the midst of a losing battle, he wasn’t sure to whom he would be praying or why. If the Gods cared anything for humanity, they hadn’t shown it.

  The metal coin heated in his palm, and he stared down at it, half surprised to see it sitting there among the crusted blood. It was no currency he’d ever seen. A silver medallion-sized coin bearing the face of a child. When he flipped it over, there was only a set of numbers.

  What does it mean?

  The words echoed in his head without an answer. Pocketing it, he rose to his feet among the dead that he had once called allies. He could run now – flee the battlefield and earn himself a few days or weeks to live before the world was overrun. He could get drunk at some tavern, pissing away the money he’d saved as he tried to enjoy what little time he had left. But that had been the old him.

  Dean looked down at his friend. She was still smiling in her final moments.

  “I don’t know how to set things right,” he said. “Hell, I’m nobody. I don’t even have a combat class.” He looked down at the worn sword in his hand. He had spent years training his body and raising his base stats. He was strong for a civilian, but not nearly as strong as those who had manifested a class meant for fighting. Nor was he an Adventurer who could wield essence abilities and magic to powerful effect. In the end, Dean was just a man. But limitations had never really stopped him before.

  So he turned towards the heart of the struggle, where the last of the allied forces were locked in their final stand against the Black Devil. Dean gripped his sword as rain fell around him, washing off any remnants of his tears.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he said to his friend's body. “I’m going to kill him, or I’m going to die trying.”

  He knew the second was far more likely, but in the end, it didn’t matter. He’d made his choice, and he knew how he wanted to die. So Dean turned towards the fray, towards the smoke and the shouting, and he began to walk.

  ***

  “Is he out of his mind?” A soldier was slumped against one of the trench ramparts, goggling at him as he trudged past. The man’s face was streaked with soot, and the bandage wrapped around half his head was stained red. “He’s going the wrong way!” shouted another. “Hey kid, do you have a death wish!?”

  He must have looked unhinged, he realized. Wearing a set of old and worn armor, carrying a common sword coated in dried demon blood. But Dean was beyond caring how he looked now.

  He had only one destination and one goal. Kill the Devil.

  Closer to the front lines, soldiers hunkered down in their trenches as crossbow men struggled to crank their reloads. There was an air of desperation as the sounds of battle grew louder. Humanity's greatest heroes were dead. Those few remaining Adventurers who now struggled against the overwhelming tide were being overrun.

  Dean clambered from trench to trench as the sound of desperate battle grew louder. High above them, the Abyssal Gate loomed, its infernal orange glow casting everything around it in an otherworldly hue.

  Looks like hell itself. He thought. Then laughed bitterly. That’s exactly what it was.

  On the ground, one soldier knelt in the mud as he rocked back and forth on his knees. His sooty face was streaked with tears.

  “No,” he said. “It can’t be. It can’t be him…” The man looked up at him. Dean could see the burning fires of the Abyssal Gate reflected in his eyes. This close to the gate, he could feel it too. The weight of the dread debuff that now hung heavily on his limbs. The soldier had succumbed to it as he rocked back and forth, staring with eyes that didn’t see.

  “The Spear Saint,” he whispered. “He was supposed to save us. He was supposed to…”

  His voice faded as Dean continued onward. There was nothing he could do for the man and so he pressed ever forward.

  The center of the battle was carnage. It was a rout. Some soldiers tried to turn and flee, only to be brought down by the blow of an Ork or Minotaur in the back. Lesser Demon thralls danced in joy as they threw fireballs into the knots of remaining soldiers. Dean could feel the heat on his cheeks, and he gripped his sword, trying to keep his hand from trembling.

  There at the center of it all stood the one they called the Black Devil. His armor was dark and mirrored, reflecting the light of the fires around him. Dean could see intricate golden runes carved into its plate – runes that seemed to pulse with power every time he moved. Dean approached cautiously, lowering himself to a crouch as he used the charred remnants of an old wagon as cover. Smoke stung his nostrils but he didn’t dare to move. The smoke and cover were the only things hiding him from the horde before him. They’d tear him to shreds in seconds if he was lucky. If he was unlucky….well. Dean tried not to look at the cages that contained human prisoners fastened to the backs of rock trolls. It was a fate he wouldn’t wish on anyone – being a thrall of hell.

  The battle was nearly over, and the victors were already gloating.

  A huge red-skinned Ork stood beside the Devil, and as Dean watched, he leaned down and muttered something in his ear. The Black Devil threw back his horned helmet and laughed, the sound echoing across the battlefield. It didn’t take long to figure out why.

  Two Hell Knights strode forward, dragging between them a struggling form that Dean couldn’t help but recognize. The Rogue Saint himself, one of the seven most powerful adventurers to ever live.

  “Ah,” said the Black Devil, tilting his head towards the man who was now thrown to the dirt before him. “Adrian. I was wondering where you’d run off to.”

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  His voice was rich, echoing in the confines of that dark helmet. The Rogue Saint looked worse for wear. His once-proud Master-class gear was now in tatters. One of his legs was twisted at an odd angle, and he had a heavy gash on his forehead that bled steadily into one eye.

  Despite his present company, the Rogue Saint did not flinch. Instead, he leaned forward and spat on the ground at the Devil’s feet.

  “Traitor,” he snarled. “Coward. Oathbreaker.”

  The demons and Orks surrounding him only laughed, but throughout it all, the Black Devil remained still. He waited until the din died down before reaching up and gripping the edge of his helmet and pulling it free. Long dark hair cascaded around his shoulders, and any last hope that Dean had held that the rumors weren’t true died.

  Isaac Alarin, the Spear Saint and humanity's favorite Hero, tossed aside his helmet with a clatter. It bounced off the armor of the corpses around him, coming to rest feet away. The Traitor wasn’t smiling. Instead, his expression was cold as he gazed down at the man he used to call his ally.

  “Are you surprised? The Grandmaster always taught us to seek victory at any cost. To make decisions not for the present, but for the betterment of the future. Then again, you Saints were always so short-sighted.”

  The Rogue Saint sneered.

  “Is that your angle then? Pretending that your lust for personal power is some sort of noble game? I took you for a traitor, Isaac, but I never would have thought you were a fool. No deal with the devil is worth the price; it was one of the first things we were ever taught. Whatever the infernal court promised you was a lie, and now… now you’ve doomed us all to ruin.”

  “Doomed?” the Black Devil laughed, shaking his head. “Always so self-righteous. Doom was the inevitable conclusion if we continued down this path. You know as well as I that nothing is as simple as it seems. We were losing the war; any competent commander could see that. Town by town, county by county, how many had to die before the Empire was ready to admit its defeat? How many Saints were killed and replaced? Or discarded like broken weapons? How many Adventurers are slain in dungeons, rifts, or this pointless cyclical war? No, brother, I did not doom us. I am giving us a chance to end the cycle – to free ourselves from this torment.”

  Adrian laughed, and Dean winced when he saw blood stain his lips.

  “And you thought that allying yourself with the very enemy that wants to destroy mankind would save it? How blind can you be? They are using you and you can’t even see it.”

  The Spear Saint’s face darkened. Dean saw a flash in his eyes, a hint of something ugly. But before he could be sure, that smooth imperious mask of superiority had returned.

  “I understand this new reality is… hard to swallow.” Said the Black Devil. “But if you cannot see that a ceasefire was the best path to peace, then there is no saving you. The Emperor didn’t want peace, the Grandmaster-“

  “You killed him,” snapped the Rogue Saint. He was laughing now, a sort of wild, incredulous sound that seemed to delight the demons around him. “Grandmaster had sympathy for you. Tried to reason with you and talk you off the ledge like he always does, and you fucking killed him, Isaac. In cold blood. So don’t you talk to me about peace or some sort of higher calling. The truth is that you betrayed everyone you ever knew and loved. Your family, your people, your home. And for what? Power? Empty promises?”

  Silence fell across the battlefield. Dean swallowed hard as he realized what exactly that must mean. The battle was over; whatever resistance had struggled against the horde had either been subdued or fled the field. He gripped the edge of the wagon, staring intently at the man who had caused all of this. If he was going to try, it was better to do it now, while the Spear Saint was distracted. Opening his inventory, he scrolled until he found the vial he was looking for.

  Holy Water level 10: This item can only be used once. Apply?

  Dean hesitated for only a moment before he hit accept. Water droplets slid along his blade, causing the demon blood on the steel to steam. Dean had never manifested a combat class. He couldn’t harvest and use essence or abilities like an Adventurer, and his base stats were still average despite his best efforts. He didn’t have a noble bloodline or the wealth required to make more of himself. But despite that, despite the hand he was dealt, he had learned to use the resources at his disposal.

  I have one chance to get this right. He thought as he readied his blade. One chance to avenge mankind, my sister, and everyone else who’s fallen in this damned war.

  Once, Dean might have fled the battlefield. Growing up that’s how he had dealt with most of his problems. When life got hard, he ran away. But war had changed that. He wasn’t running now.

  Through the heavy downpour and the dampened hellfire, Dean locked eyes with the Rogue Saint. The Adventurer’s gaze widened slightly as if surprised to see a young Militia soldier who hadn’t fled the battlefield. When he saw Dean’s drawn sword, his lips pursed.

  Slowly, the Rogue Saint gave a minute shake of his head. Dean only gripped his sword tighter. He wasn’t going to back down, not now. And yet something in the Saint’s eyes made him hesitate.

  The Black Devil had his back to Dean as he strode towards the Rogue Saint. Adrian removed his eyes from Dean to gaze up at his death as it approached him. But rather than strike him down, the traitor only crouched, leveling his former ally with a sad stare.

  “It’s a shame,” he said. “Of all of the Saints, I might have expected to see reason; I thought you had the best chance of coming around. But now I see that you want war as much as the others, no matter what it costs.”

  The Rogue Saint snorted.

  “Well, you’ve ended the war. Piles of bodies, hundreds slain by your hand. Tell me, oh peacemaker, is the cost worth it?” As he spoke, his eyes darted again to where Dean now crouched, and in that moment, something passed between them.

  Dean tightened the grip on his sword, glancing around at the demons and Orks that stood nearby. None were looking his way, seemingly focused on the interaction before them. He could strike now.

  “The worth of my decision will echo generations from now, where there is peace for humanity instead of endless war.” Said the traitor. The Rogue Saint only shook his head, his battle fatigue suddenly showing.

  “You’re a fool, Isaac,” he said, and the words were filled with bitter sadness. There will be no humanity left. The demons never wanted peace; they wanted dominance and destruction.”

  Adrian’s head dipped. He was still held in place by the power of the Hell Knights, but Dean saw his lips twitch as he mouthed something.

  Get Ready

  The Black Devil rose to his feet in a creak of armor and held out a hand. From red flame, his spear materialized, glowing a hot molten orange. It was such a contrast, Dean thought, to the man he’d heard about in songs and stories. That hero was dead, and the devil that now stood in his place had no redeeming qualities.

  “I grow weary of this conversation,” the Devil said, whipping his weapon through the air. “I had hope that you might be willing to entertain reason, but I can see that the Grandmaster's lessons have addled your mind. You can see only the picture that the emperor has painted for you and nothing else.”

  The Two Hell Knights gripping the Rogue Saint tightened their grip, their infernal power rippling as they forced him down. Adrian struggled, but his movements seemed weak. It would be any moment now. Dean’s heart thundered with a mix of fear and anticipation. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew these were his final moments alive, and he was determined to make the most of them.

  The Rogue Saint stared up at the traitor who now loomed above him. The runes on the Black Devil’s armor glowed. His eyes, once the same bright blue of his father's, now burned with the light of the infernal flame. Any semblance of the hero he used to be was long gone.

  “Die well, old friend,” said the traitor. Then he lifted his spear. Adrian bowed his head, and to all appearances it seemed that he had given up. That the rogue saint was prepared to die in defiance, here and now.

  Then time seemed to slow. The Black Devil raised his spear, thrusting downwards towards his enemy. But the flaming blade encountered only empty air. The Rogue Saint was gone.

  For a moment, the two Hell Knights simply stood in place, their flame-bound fists gripping the remnants of the Saint’s tattered shirt. That was when Dean saw it. It was barely visible, no more than a flash of metal barely caught by the naked eye. One of the Hell Knights' heads toppled sideways in a spray of boiling blood as something whipped past so quickly that it was impossible to track.

  The gathered demons and orcs were slow to react, and it cost them. The rogue saint may be injured, but his speed is still legendary. He flashed through several of the standing demons before they could move, severing heads, cutting throats, and major arteries. Dean watched in awe as more than half of the congregated demons were slain in a matter of seconds. The Rogue Saint was fast, faster than any man Dean had ever seen. He knew that the Adventurer was likely burning essence at an incredible rate as he slashed through foe after foe.

  The Black Devil snarled, the sound almost inhuman. His head jerked to the side, eyes scanning for any sign of movement, but the battlefield was silent but for the gasps of dying monsters. A blink of metal made him turn, but the Black Devil wasn’t quite fast enough. Baring his teeth, the traitor raised his spear as the Rogue Saint darted straight for him. Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he felt the crackle and power of pure burned essence.

  The two saints collided with a sound like a thunderclap. Dean was nearly knocked off his feet as the ground trembled beneath him. He gripped the wagon with white knuckles, watching as two of the most powerful beings in this mortal plane fought for dominance. The Black Devil moved with deliberate grace, whipping his spear through the air. The form of the Rogue Saint blurred, and in a flash of power Adrian seemed to blink out of existence. In an instant, he was behind the traitor, eyes glowing as he thrust his dagger forward. He had an opening.

  Once again time seemed to slow. The black Devil’s head tilted sideways, those burning eyes turning to fix on the Rogue Saint. That was when he moved. More quickly than Dean would have suspected possible, the Devil twisted. Dean’s stomach dropped as the Rogue Saint’s eyes widened. The Black Devil’s teeth gleamed as he bared his teeth in a smile. In an instant, his hand closed around the Rogue Saint’s wrist, arresting it’s forward momentum.

  The shockwave of energy that burst forth made Dean’s eyes water. Even the Rogue Saint himself seemed shocked.

  The spear saint is faster than the Rogue Saint? It shouldn’t be possible. And yet it was.

  “Always the same tricks, Adrian,” said the traitor, his lip curling in lethal amusement. “Have you learned nothing by now? You aren’t strong enough to defeat me. You weren’t then, and you certainly aren’t now.”

  Adrian struggled, snarling as he drove an enchanted dagger into the armored arm of the traitor over and over again, trying to free himself. The Black Devil showed no sign of pain, nor did he bleed. He merely watched the smaller man struggle, his face a mask.

  But Adrian wasn’t done yet. There was a flash of steel and a howl of pain. The Rogue Saint had cut off his own hand at the wrist, leaving the traitor clutching the bloody appendage as he blinked forward yet again. Moments passed, moments that seemed as short as they seemed an eternity.

  Then Dean blinked, and the Rogue Saint had him. The Adventurer had the traitor in a chokehold, his teeth barred as essence pulsed from his body. His arms and legs were wrapped around the Devil, the bloody stump of his wrist quivering as he fought to hold the man in place.

  The Traitor laughed, the sound echoing off the battlefield.

  “You must understand this is futile,” he said as he reached down. He didn’t even bother to try to extricate himself from the hold. Instead, he clamped his armored fingers over the bloody stump, making the Rogue Saint scream as flame burst from his hand. The smell of charred skin made Dean’s stomach twist.

  There was no denying that he was afraid – here at the edge of the world, why he watched two creatures far stronger than anyone he had ever known fight to the death. And yet, even through fear, Dean could feel the anger.

  The Spear Saint was still speaking, but his words drowned in the background. Over his shoulder, the Rogue Saint’s tired eyes met his. They were glazed with pain, but the resolve in them was the same.

  Now. They seemed to say. And before Dean’s nerves could betray him, before he could second-guess himself, he did the only thing he could. He stepped out from behind the cover of the wagon and charged. He had spent the past seven years of war facing enemies bigger and stronger than him. Sometimes it had been with his militia company at his back. Sometimes isolated on the battlefield, it had been alone.

  But either way, as his boots pounded the ground, eating up distance to where the Black Devil now waited, Dean told himself this was no different. The traitor didn’t notice his approach. Caught up as he was with his struggle against the Rogue Saint, his back remained to Dean.

  Reaching up, the Black Devil wrapped his fingers around the Rogue’s neck, prying him free from his hold. The Rogue Saint kicked, but with an already broken leg and a stump as an arm, there was little he could do. Adrian panted, blood flowing freely from the cut on his eye as the traitor held him.

  “Such a waste,” said the Black Devil. His tone was almost mournful. “It didn’t have to be this way.”

  Then he tightened his grip. Dean heard the sound of the Rogue Saint’s neck snap. He hadn’t been fast enough to save the Saint, and perhaps Adrian had known that from the start. For as the light died from his eyes, Dean was almost certain he saw the Rogue smile. He was five feet away now. Two. Dean raised his blade, drawing the hilt back in both hands as he angled his body and prepared for the thrust.

  It was the same motion he’d practiced a thousand times, the very same he’d used to kill monsters and beasts on the battlefield. And today was no exception. He drove his blade towards the gap between the Devil’s backplate and shoulder pauldron. A roar erupted from his lips. Years of pain, of uncertainty, of anger bursting out of him as he struck out. The blade made contact. The metal bit deep into the Spear Saint, and the man went stiff. His eyes widened, face turning towards Dean in shock. Dean felt a flash of triumph as he sank the blade deeper. He’d done it. His strike had been true.

  Or so he’d thought. He realized his folly the second the spear pierced his gut. He felt the pressure first, then the pain as he was lifted off his feet. His grip on his sword fell away, and he was left instead to clutch at the spear shaft as the waves of pain struck him.

  The Spear Saint reached down with his free hand, drawing the sword out of himself as if it were a mere inconvenience. Shadow clung to the blade, cold and rippling. Dean saw the wound steam – the holy water was working. And yet, it seemed to have no effect on the traitor.

  The Black Devil gave him a vicious smile as he dragged the spear shaft closer. Dean dangled there, blood welling from his lips. He wanted to lash out, to strike the traitor down, but his arms were going numb.

  The Devil threw back his head and laughed, the sound carrying out across the dead battlefield. From somewhere around him, Dean could hear more laughter. Deeper, rougher, and inhuman. From the smoke, more of the demonic horde were appearing. Minotuars, Grey-skins, lesser demons, and hellhounds were emerging from the dark haze, and their eyes all seemed to glow.

  “So this was it?” asked the Black Devil, a smile of incredulity playing at his lips. “This was your grand plan, eh Adrian? Distract me while this runt sneaks up and tries to stab me in the back? Pathetic.”

  And he kicked at the Rogue Saints' corpse with a boot. Dean was barely conscious. He could feel the burning heat of the blade in him, feel the blood flowing out of his body at an alarming rate. Somewhere, distantly, he felt that sense of urgency.

  He couldn’t give up. Not while he still drew breath. Fumbling at the clasp on his belt, Dean felt his numb fingers close around the hilt of his knife. Drawing it out, he shouted, plunging it over and over again into the Spear Saint’s arm until his vision went dark around the edges.

  Power Level insufficient

  The notification made tears well in his eyes. Or maybe it was the pain. He wasn’t strong enough to do any real damage – not really. But despite it all, despite the agony in his gut, Dean refused to die.

  His breath came faster and faster as his heart stuttered, failing to pump enough blood to keep him alive.

  “I’ll kill you,” he snarled, nearly choking on the blood. “You smug bastard. I’m going to,” he choked, spraying blood over them both. “Beat your face in.”

  The Spear Saint chuckled, and the sound was mirrored by the army around him. A faint ring of fire crowed his head, marking him as what he now was. A prince of hell, and humanity's greatest weakness.

  “Kid,” said the Spear Saint as he stared into Dean’s dying eyes. “I don’t even know your name.”

  And with that, he cast Dean’s body to the ground. Dean felt the impact. Felt the cold, hard ground beneath him as his vision began to fade. He was fading now, and there was nothing he could do about it. From the corner of his eye he saw the Black Devil take up his spear, striding to the center of the army that now wreathed him. He stood over the body of the Rogue Saint, the last Adventuerer that had remained, and raised his weapon in the air.

  All around him, demons chanted his name.

  “Isaac! Isaac! Isaac!”

  For the first time in his life, Dean felt the depth of real hatred.

  “I’m gunna kill….” But his mouth couldn’t form words. Not as he slipped backwards into darkness and away from the pain.

  I’m dying he thought. Gods damn it, I’m dying.

  And then there was darkness. It was cold in the endless void, but even that began to fade. He felt lost – adrift on a tide of darkness as the warm embrace of death claimed him. Dean closed his eyes. A voice cut through the darkness, soft and inquisitive. Yet that voice was strong enough to reach something in him.

  “Dying?” it asked, the words echoing in his head. “Why die at all?”