Behind them, at the site of Roderick’s execution, the night harbored a sinister spectacle.

The severed head lay motionless on the blood-soaked ground, its lifeless eyes staring into oblivion. For a moment, the forest was silent, save for the rustling of leaves. Suddenly, a grotesque twist contorted the flesh at the back of the head. Dark veins pulsed ominously, spreading like a malignant infection.

From the mutilated flesh, a faint buzzing filled the air.

A demonic fly, shimmering with an eerie, dark glow, emerged and hovered above the head. Its wings vibrated unnaturally fast, leaving faint ripples of malevolent energy. This was no mere insect — it was a Mind Weaver Demon’s puppet, a tool of domination crafted to control hosts through a strand of dark magic.

Guided by an invisible tether, the fly darted skyward, weaving through the trees with unnatural precision.

Miles away, deep within the Crimson Eye Sect's hideout, crimson banners adorned a cavernous hall drenched in shadows. On a throne forged of bone and obsidian sat Vaelith, the Mind Weaver Demon. His violet eyes glowed with malevolent delight, his lips curled into a grin that spoke of sadistic satisfaction.

Before him hovered a swirling magical orb, projecting the fly's vision. Vaelith's elongated fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest as the insect landed delicately on his clawed hand.

"You've done well, little one," Vaelith purred, his voice smooth and venomous. "Even in death, Roderick serves."

The demon’s grin widened as he absorbed the fly’s revelations. Kieran's power was formidable, dangerous even, but the young mage had failed to detect the fly’s escape—a mistake Vaelith intended to exploit.

"A pity he killed Roderick," Vaelith mused mockingly, "but no matter. We know their destination now."

The demon leaned back, amusement flickering in his wicked gaze. "Soon, Kieran Valdros... your threads will tangle in my web. And when that happens, not even your boundless power will save you."

A low, menacing chuckle echoed through the chamber.

Unaware of the sinister plots brewing, Kieran and Elara pressed on through the wilderness, the westward road ahead illuminated by a fading moon.

Deep within the ominous Crimson Citadel, where shadows danced under blood-red torches, the High Demon Council convened. Seven towering figures, each cloaked in dark robes adorned with ancient sigils, stood around a circular stone altar inscribed with forbidden runes. Their auras crackled with raw, malevolent power, thickening the very air with fear and despair.

Vaelith, the Mind Weaver Demon, sat at the head of the council, his violet eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "The mission was simple," he began, his voice echoing through the chamber, "yet they failed."

A wave of murmurs followed, growing into roars of discontent. The council members, all High-Ranking Demons, did not tolerate incompetence lightly.

"They were mere insects tasked with crushing a pest," hissed Maldrak, the Demon of Blades, his jagged teeth gleaming as he spoke. "And yet this Kieran Valdros humiliated them."

"Spare no mercy," snarled Xaleth, the Mistress of Shadows, her form shifting like smoke. "They bring shame upon the Crimson Eye Sect."

Vaelith raised a hand, silencing the rising fury. "Fear not. Their lives are already forfeit."

With a flick of his clawed fingers, Vaelith conjured a projection within the orb of darkness floating above the altar. The faces of the surviving assassins flickered into view—pale, desperate, and still fleeing through dense forests.

"You see," Vaelith said, his grin widening, "they run, thinking escape is possible." He chuckled darkly. "It isn't."

He chanted a twisted incantation in the forbidden tongue, his voice dripping with venomous power. Crimson chains erupted from the orb, spreading through the shadows like serpents on a hunt. The chains pulsed and shimmered, fueled by hatred and blood magic.

"Bring them to me," Vaelith commanded with a gleeful hiss.

Far from the citadel, the fleeing assassins gasped in terror as the cursed chains tore through the trees, moving faster than the wind. One by one, the chains found their targets, wrapping around necks and limbs with merciless precision. Their screams echoed into the night, silenced as swiftly as they began.

Within moments, the assassins were dragged back through a vortex of shadow, deposited brutally at the feet of the council. Bloodied, broken, and trembling, they dared not lift their eyes to the demons towering above them.

Vaelith stood, his presence suffocating. "You failed us," he declared, his voice devoid of pity. "And for that, your existence ends here."

With a single snap of his fingers, the crimson chains ignited in hellfire. The agonized screams of the assassins echoed through the citadel, fading into ash.

Silence fell once more.

Vaelith turned to the council, his smile as cold as death itself. "Now," he said, "let us focus on Kieran Valdros. He may have won this skirmish, but the war has just begun."