Along the dark streets of the Lower Ring’s third district, Kael Denvorn strolled silently under the cold night, his face shadowed by the hood of his cloak. It became an empty street, mostly. Finding another dead body in the district had made an alarming panic and fear on the people, with rumors spreading about a demon lurking in the alleys of the capital. “The body has already been taken, Sir Denvorn,” a knight spoke, walking beside Kael. “I don’t see why you still want to check the alley.” Kael shook his head, chilly wind brushing against his face. “It’s not the body I want,” he said. “You said the mark’s still there.” “Aye, Sir Denvorn.” “This is the seventh case we’ve had received,” Kael said. “I want to see the mark myself.” “But …” the knight hesitated, then he continued, “I thought the councilors have given you all the details and clues … why would you bother going here?” “Not all …” Kael’s eyes dropped towards the dark cobblesto

Tristan wanted to curse the world. Had he not been too taken away by that damn noble, he would’ve caught the cruise ship before it sailed off from the port. There’d been no longer cruise ships arriving on the harbor that day, as the next one would arrive in two days. So Tristan had no other choice but to ride the pettiest and stinky ship he had ever been. It was the only ship that would sail in that hour. And Tristan could not afford to wait any longer. The sun had risen from the eastern horizon—his first day away from land—and Tristan had missed a lot already, especially sleep. He couldn’t get his eyes closed as his wooden bed, flat and hard, kept on swaying from the moving ship. Several times his stomach had turned. Several times he threw up. Until now, even if he’s on the deck, he always carried a bucket with him, as he could throw up anytime. Tristan stood on the right side of the deck, his arms resting on the taffrail while he gazed on the endless ocean, gleaming under

"You won't get a single blood from me," Arth said as he unsheathed Frostcalibur, facing six, armed demons. They had muscled bodies with rough burnt skin, wide wings, and long tails. Their armors screamed in black metal, their capes burning red. One of them was dressed in a dark purple cloak, with a long staff in his hand. The others were armed with dual machetes. Arth had found them waiting around the portal just as he entered the Underworld. Good thing he had sensed the presence of demons already before he walked out of the portal, that he immediately closed it to prevent them from using it. He came into the same place where he, Lucas, and Janshai had been. The ground was dark and cold, with several glowing ice crystals surrounding them. The skies were nothing but dusk and thunder. Arth stood on his guard, trying to calm his anxiety and fear, but his heart betrayed him as it pounded harder and faster against his chest. He could feel the enormous aura radiating from their pr

The floor was icy cold beneath his knees. Kael couldn’t move a single muscle as he stared at the portal; now closed as if it returned to its slumber. His eyes fixed steady. His only heartbeat challenged the sound of the howling chilly wind, slow but strong, pummeling against his chest. What just happened? He could hear voices echoing inside his head. Kael Denvorn, the King’s Guard, Protector of Ice Crown, and Divine Knight of Glacia, had failed once again. The biggest failure he had. The worst one.Light snow rained like thousand questions, pummeling Kael harder and harder into the ground, driving him into insanity. What had he done? Was this the end of his duty? Was the King dead after getting trapped in the Underworld? What would the councilors say? What would the people of Glacia say? What now?With a single, slow exhale from his mouth—white mist released—Kael tried to process the situation in front of him. T

Tristan could not bear it much longer. The salty air combined with the stank of his vomit, of piss, of rotten food, along with the sickening motion of the ship, would soon end him before he could even get out. His mouth bled from his wounded tongue. Bruises from his arms and legs screamed pain. His gut ached as if every breath he’d take had pained whatever was left of him.Tristan winced as he raised his head to look. Several prisoners sat behind their bars, waiting for something. No more than ten, Tristan counted. Could they do it?“I swear if this won’t work you’ll be the first one I’d kill before I get out of this ship,” Tristan whispered towards the next cell where Lewis sat.The young noble let out a raspy chuckle. “I’ll give it to you, then.”Tristan fixed his gaze on the man, remembering what had gotten into him that made him agree to follow Lewis’