CH2-EP5:

As Lucio slipped the sunglasses over his eyes, the world shifted — clearer, sharper, heavier.
But this time… something felt off. Just a flicker. A faint emptiness brushed the edge of his thoughts.

He blinked it away. Must be the adrenaline, he told himself.
Still… beneath the surge of strength, something hollow stirred — like a piece of himself slipping just out of reach.

The cemetery trembled. Shadows recoiled.
The sky, once still, now churned with distortion.

Lucio stepped forward, his presence changed — colder, heavier.
His eyes, hidden behind the black lenses, glowed faintly with something unreadable.

“Let’s end this.”

The sunglasses didn’t just shield his eyes — they unveiled the truth.

Reality bent around him.
Colours dulled.
Edges sharpened.

And Molgrim… is no longer a man.

Through the black lenses, Lucio sees him as he truly is —a grotesque beast with matted, bloodstained fur and jagged fangs snarling through a half-human, half-demonic face. Three burning red eyes gleam from the sockets of one twisted head — the mark of Cerberus.

A living nightmare in the shape of a man.

Lucio stumbles back for a moment, the shock of the vision ripping through his senses.

“What… the hell are you?”

For a moment, fear grips him — raw and paralyzing — rooting him in place. His body trembles, eyes wide, unable to look away from the monstrous presence before him.

Molgrim tilts his head, amused. “Ah… so you see it now, don’t you? The truth beneath the flesh.”

His voice echoes, layered with something not human. Something ancient and ravenous.

“You’ve just crossed the threshold. There’s no turning back.”

He straightens his back, one foot sliding into a steady stance.
The fear is still there — but buried beneath something deeper.
Not courage.
Not anger.
Something forged in long nights and silent screams. In loss. In regret.
Resolve.

His voice is low, steady.
“The guilt… the memories… the pain — they already haunt me.”
He locks eyes with Molgrim, unwavering.
“Your strength is hollow — built on fear and weakness.”
His hands tighten into fists.
“So if you think you can break me — you're too late.”

Meanwhile, Johan recovers.
Bruised and bleeding, the old man crawls silently through the chaos, inching his way toward Ella. She's bound, terrified — but alive. He reaches her, releasing the ropes with trembling hands.

They both rise to their feet.

“Take this—run,” he says quietly, pressing an ornate case into her hands. “Whatever happens... keep it safe. And stay hidden.”

Ella clutches the case, her eyes widening. A flicker of memory stirs.

“This… this belonged to my mother. I remember… she always carried it with her.”

Suddenly —
A whistling sound slices through the air.

Johan reacts on instinct, shoving Ella aside just in time to dodge the strike. A crater explodes where she was standing. Bran, face twisted with fury, steps forward. Humiliation still burns behind his eyes.

“When I was just a boy,” he said, voice low and sharp, “there were whispers — stories of a man named Johan. A war hero. The one who saved countless lives from calamity.”

He tilted his head, a cold grin forming.

“Shame you’ve become old and brittle. I would’ve liked a real fight — to the death. But I’m afraid I can’t let you walk away. This is the end, old man. Nothing personal.”

Johan, struggling to remain upright, chuckled through his pain.

“I might be old... might be brittle…” he said, his voice steady despite the strain, “but you haven’t bested me yet. So long as these legs still hold, I will never surrender.”

The remaining Crimson Hound grunts emerge from the ruins, surrounding Johan like vultures. Johan grits his teeth.

“Argh… back for more, are we?”
He rises slowly — weary but defiant.

Bran raised his right hand and gave a swift signal. The hounds leapt forward, snarling, ready to tear Johan apart.

But Bran had another goal.

While Johan braced for the onslaught, Bran slipped past the chaos — his eyes locked on Ella. In one fluid motion, he lunged and ripped the ornate case from her hands.

But the moment his fingers touched it—

A violent pulse erupted from the case, blasting him backwards with a crackling surge of force.

Bran is thrown back, his hands scorched and shaking. “What the hell...?” he gasps, staring at his trembling fingers.
The box vanishes in a flicker of light, as if pulled from this world entirely.

Johan, gasping, manages to rally the last of his strength. With raw grit and technique, he dispatches the remaining hounds. His chest heaves. Blood drips from open wounds. And still — he stands.

Bran, now beyond reason, draws two curved daggers, jagged like predator fangs. “Enough games,” he growls. “Where is the relic?”

Johan, body failing, still positions himself in front of Ella. “Run!” he yells.

Too late.
Bran lunges. The blades sink deep. Johan stumbles, impaled. The world spins. His vision blurs.

Ella’s scream pierces the night.

Lucio snapped his head toward the sound, eyes wide. He moved to help — but Molgrim stepped into his path, blocking him with a twisted grin, eyes glinting with malice.

The brute laughed, savoring the chaos.

“G-Grandpa... GRANDPA!”
Ella’s voice cracked under the weight of fear and grief.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her small fists trembled at her sides as she turned to Bran, her voice broken.
“You... monster.”

Then her knees gave way. Her eyes fluttered shut.

She collapsed.

And then — it happened.

A golden aura bursts from within her, spreading like sunlight cutting through dark clouds. The ground hums. The shadows withdraw.

Ella shines, bathed in radiant energy that defies the darkness around her. The very air bends in reverence.

A golden necklace — delicate yet radiant, set with gems of earth — floats gently toward Ella, hovering just above her chest.
It clasps itself around her neck as if answering a call from within.
Her body lifts, feet no longer touching the ground.
A warm light wraps around her.

Bran snarls at the sight, his pride eclipsed by greed.
“So… this is the relic… it didn’t vanish after all...”
A twisted grin spreads across his burned face.
“Now’s my chance, die!”

He lunges, blades gleaming, aiming straight for Ella’s heart.

But—

He freezes mid-air.
Suspended. Weightless. Helpless.

Ella, still unconscious in appearance, lifts a single hand — slow, effortless.

With a soundless pulse, a wave of radiant energy erupts from her palm, pure and unfiltered.
Bran screams.
The blast throws him back like a ragdoll, his body scorched with divine burns.
He crashes against a tombstone, weapons scattered, his breath shallow.

He doesn’t rise.

Ella gently descends to the ground, her glow fading like the last light of day. Her knees buckle, and she collapses — unconscious, but unharmed.

The golden aura lingers a moment longer… then flows outward — like a sigh.

Johan's wounds shimmer.
The gashes close. His breaths steady.
The energy heals him, not completely, but enough — a gift of reprieve.

He looks at Ella lying beside him, awe and fear blending in his eyes.

"...Selene... you knew this would happen, didn’t you...?"
He looks toward the distant clash — shapes blurred, colours bleeding into one another.
“It’s up to you now… kid.”
A faint smile touches his lips before the world fades to black.

Molgrim glares at Bran with utter disgust.
“How dare you…” he growls, low and venomous.

Lucio catches something — faint, but there. A flicker in Molgrim’s eyes. A reflection.

Concern?

Molgrim snarls, rage dripping from every syllable.

“Me? Concerned about that failure?”
He chuckles darkly. “Don’t make me laugh.”

A sharp gleam flashes over Lucio’s shades as he tilts them into place. “You act like a monster — but part of you still hesitates.”

They launch at each other.

A whirlwind of strikes and counters.
Blow for blow. Dodge for dodge.
Each movement is fluid, precise—until Molgrim begins to tip the scales.

His cursed energy surges.

Faster.
Stronger.
Hungrier.

“You’re not half bad…” Molgrim sneers as his shadowy aura expands.
“But the outcome… is death.”

Lucio grits his teeth. His body aches, his breath short. The weight of the fight is catching up to him.
But something… shifts.

In the chaos—insight flickers.
Like puzzle pieces falling into place.

A whisper of lost techniques. A memory.

The manipulation of shadow and light.

Molgrim howls — a blood-chilling sound.

“Unleash… Infernal Reign!

His arms twist grotesquely.
Now shaped like razor-sharp paws, his movements blur.

“Feel the Gatekeepers Wrath!”

Slashes tear through the air, slicing wind, stone, and everything in their path.

Lucio dodges — barely.

One strike misses by a hair. Another grazes his side.
But then—

Molgrim dips low, sweeping in from below with vicious speed.
Lucio doesn’t react fast enough.

A brutal upward slash tears across his left arm.
Blood sprays.

Lucio stumbles back, clutching the wound. Breathing hard.
His coat hangs torn. The pain is sharp, but his eyes… sharper.

Something is unlocking.

Mirage Bloom.
Lucio curls his fingers into a half-closed palm. The ground darkens unnaturally. Shadows twist like serpents. Light bends around him — refracting, warping — until the very air becomes unstable. The battlefield becomes a canvas of illusion.

A dozen silhouettes, each a perfect mirror of Lucio, flicker and dance like ghosts around a bewildered Molgrim.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, Molgrim snarls, unleashing a frenzy of wild slashes. Claws tear through air and illusion alike — but nothing connects.
Each time he attacks, a copy vanishes. Each time he hesitates; a real strike lands.

Lucio’s fists hammer into weak spots — ribs, joints, neck. Each blow precise. Each blow critical.

“Damn it!” Molgrim bellows, his aura sputtering. “What is this cursed power?!”

Lucio doesn’t answer.
Beneath the noise and flicker, he moves. Silent. Focused. Gathering something dense and bright in his palm — a spiraling concentration of light and shadow.

The mirages collapse, the illusion fades —
And Molgrim realizes the truth…

Too late.

Out of the swirl of shadows, a gleaming light bursts forth —
A radiant beam pierces the sky.

Molgrim instinctively shields his eyes, snarling.

“Mirage Break.”

The name is whispered, but the effect is thunder.

Trees shudder.
The earth quakes.
The foulness of the air dissipates.

A wave of pure force detonates from Lucio’s strike — reality snapping back into place.

Molgrim is launched like a ragdoll through the forest, his body crashing through bark and stone.
The cursed aura flickers… sputters…

Gone.

Only silence remains.

The sound of rustling leaves.
Footsteps echo — steady, unrelenting.

Lucio approaches.

A weakened, defenceless Molgrim crawls through the dirt. Stripped of his power. Naked.
Each step from Lucio echoes louder than thunder, stabbing terror into his broken frame.

Molgrim’s body seizes. His skin burns. His breath shortens.
A chill worse than death coils around him.

Total darkness.

Lucio’s eyes gleam faintly beneath the sunglasses — emotionless, judging.

“This power… no, it can’t be… could he be the Awakener of the—”

Molgrim’s words were cut short.

From the depths of that darkness, a colossal hand — forged of shadow and light — rises.
It wraps around Molgrim, slowly, deliberately, dragging him toward his inescapable end.

The void beckons.

Molgrim screams, a hollow cry no one will remember.

His soul — banished.

The cursed artifact of Cerberus trembles… then crumbles.
Only dust remains.