Dark Parasyte
Chapter 36: Three Realms, One Raven

Chapter 36: Three Realms, One Raven

Ash choked the air like a curse, settling over the cracked plains of Nefrath in waves. The sky was black, not from absence of light, but from the density of smoke and sulfurous vapors that twisted above the battlefield. Lightning raked the heavens in silent arcs, crimson and violet bolts that writhed like serpents through the choking gloom.

Below, the thunder was not of storm but of steel and hoof and rage.

Thousands upon thousands of demons surged across the charred land, their horns raised, their hooves shattering the blackened earth with each step. They howled and bellowed, a symphony of hatred, hunger, and anticipation. Weapons, many forged from bone, flame and steel struck against obsidian shields in a rhythm that pulsed with the war drum from the heat of hell itself. Demons roraring in tandem, hoofs hitting the ground and fire spells shooting to the darkened sky from time to time to show how exiceted the hellspawn were.

At the heart of it all stood a towering spire of molten basalt, sculpted with runes that burned from within. At its peak, standing above all, was Archdemon Korvath the Proud.

Clad in a flowing mantle of scorched iron and infernal steel, Korvath looked like the crown of damnation itself. His form shimmered with heat, eyes burning with twin suns of contempt. From his perch, his gaze swept across the gathered legions, ranks upon ranks of Fiends, Emberbornes, Hellborne and seething Abyssal Champions. Dozens of Dreadlords were commanding them. The only Dark soverigh under Korvath’s Command was Ravathos the Grey. Two Demon Lords and Ravathos himself was the main Generals of Korvath’s forces.

Hatred born of Pride radiated from him like a field. It pulsed in his every breath.

He saw Velkoth’s insignias among the captured standards below, and his fingers twitched with restrained fury. His mind spiraled around one word: vengeance. Velkoth would pay. Pay in blood, in fire, in soul. What was taken from Korvath would be returned tenfold. No slaughter in the history of Nefrath would compare.

Standing behind him, like sentinels carved from spite, were the two demon lords who had sworn allegiance to Korvath’s cause. Their armors bled smoke, and their eyes glowed with sadistic promise. They waited for his command, but not all eyes held fury alone.

Ravathos stood apart.

Silent. Still.

Where the others seethed, his demeanor was calm, almost meditative. His old skin was untouched by soot, his curved horns polished. His eyes watched the battlefield not with hunger, but calculation.

There was a gleam in those eyes. Not the fire of vengeance, but something colder. Sharper. He, like Corvin, knew the truth behind the coming slaughter. The veils behind the blood.

He wished the shadow spawn was here to witness the result of their association. He was hoping it would be enough to let him evolve to a Demon Lord..

He turned his gaze briefly to Korvath, then back to the field below. The Archdemon was too immersed in his wounded pride. Destruction of his Psychic vanguard was a clear hit, It will take centuries to rebuild from scratch. His three Dark Soverigns, or two to be precise, as the last one betrayed him. Too set on the moment he believed would etch his name into the obsidian bones of Nefrath’s history.

The plains below trembled.

The war had not yet begun.

But it was already promised in ash and fire.

--

Far from the scorched lands of Nefrath, in the north of Argyll a group of Dark elf was slithering in shadows. The Obsidian Talons, among the Synod’s most feared and secretive operatives, they moved across the Holy Verrenate like shadows torn from nightmares. They were whispers carried by dread, sculpted from silence, sharpened by Psychic mastery, and armored in the secrets of Dark magic. Decades of training, experience and devotion had refined them into pure execution. Creatures of absolute purpose. Their methods were as varied as their affinities, each Talon bringing a different edge along psychic and dark magic: elemental flairs, mind warping auras, sensory illusions, temporal dissonance.

They were not assassins.

They were omens.

Their orders were brutal in clarity: destabilize the heretics of Verrenate from within. Assassinate key figures, commanders, purifiers, priests, and influential civilians. Cripple their spiritual core. Smother their righteous fury in doubt and silence. No mercy. No traces. No names.

In the fortified city of Halvar’s Grace, Commander Ilsenor knelt in his private sanctum, hands raw and calloused from his years of practice and morning rituals. The chamber was aglow with the gentle warmth of blessed braziers, and faint incense clung to the marble walls like prayers left unanswered.

As he whispered the final benediction, a tremor passed behind him.

The prayer died in his throat.

From the thin shadow cast by the altar, a Talon rose like black smoke, twin blades laced with pure venom emerging silently from his wrists. With one swift, downward stroke, the Talon severed the spine at the base of Ilsenor’s neck, the blade slipping between vertebrae like hot knife through butter. His soul was cleaved from his body before his lips could form a cry.

The body collapsed forward, blood pooling at the foot of the sanctified altar.

The Talon was gone before the blood cooled.

Within the sacred High Garden of Saint Velyra, a revered priest walked alone among golden lilies, his voice lifting soft hymns. Two guards kept silent pace behind him, more ceremonial than protective, their attention lulled by peace.

A passing breeze shimmered.

One guard collapsed as a sharp arrow embedded behind his skull. The second gasped, staggered, and collapsed as his mind was impaled by an unseen psychic lance, paralyzing every thought into stuttering static.

The priest turned to shout.

His shadow broke free from his feet and wrapped around him like a serpent of black fire. Thorned vines erupted from the stones beneath him, piercing his robes, skin, and soul. His body was pulled under in an instant, swallowed whole by cobblestone and shadow.

Not a trace remained.

Not even his name in the hymnals.

At the revered Academy of Cleansing Flame, Purifier General Marius addressed a hall of junior Purifiers . Clad in ceremonial armor adorned with etched oaths and divine glyphs, he lectured on righteous warfare, his voice firm and passionate.

As he raised his hand to illustrate a stratagem, the eternal flame brazier flickered once.

Then again.

A ripple of unnatural cold swept across the chamber.

A Talon erupted behind him, slowly, deliberately. He moved as if reality had yielded to him. His aura suffocated thoughts like a collapsing star. Psychic pressure flattened the room. The students didn’t scream as they were under the same effect by anouter five shadows.

Marius reached for his sanctified blade.

He never touched it.

The Talon extended one gloved hand. A pulse of psychic energy shattered the General’s mind from within, turning his eyes to soulless glass. His armor clanged to the floor, hollow.

The flames extinguished.

The students remained seated, staring into nothing, drooling silently.

In the border town of Ardent’s Hollow, Mayor Lucen, a fanatical bureaucrat known for his zealous surveillance of suspected heretics, sat at his desk, scribbling reports of subversive speech.

The room dimmed. His candle guttered without a draft.

His quill rose unaided, spinning once, then began writing. His name appeared on the parchment. Drawn in slow, deliberate strokes of fresh ink.

His breath caught in his chest.

"Too late," whispered a voice, not in the air, but inside his skull.

He lurched to stand.

His body refused.

From the corner where shadow met bookshelf, a Talon stepped forward, his cloak dissolving into wisps of nothing. He did not rush. He did not speak. His presence froze the air.

With one outstretched hand, he cast a spell not of death but of cessation.

Lucen’s heart stopped. Not ruptured. Not pierced.

Stopped.

His body collapsed, ink still fresh on the parchment.

And so the Obsidian Talons moved through the Holy Verrenate, not as assassins. As the reaping blades of an arcane will. Cities awoke to news of leaders lost, clerics vanished, and shrines desecrated. Whispers spread of gods abandoning them, of cursed retribution.

No warning.

No names.

Only fear.

And results.

--

Corvin slipped into the room unseen, his presence wrapped in the kind of seamless cloak woven from Dark and Space magic that could fool even the most vigilant of the Synod’s sentries. The guest quarters were modest in appearance, but woven tightly with layered enchantments. Quiet illusions to dull sound, subtle sigils to block intrusion, and mild wards meant to provide dignitaries with a false sense of security.

Kaelyn had added her own touch. Around her bed, she had laid traps, simple yet meticulous formations of space aligned glyphs designed to detect every motion. Displacement snares, spatial disruption veils, and a thin lattice of pressure threads shimmered invisibly through the room’s arcane fabric.

He circled them with quiet curiosity, head tilting slightly as he examined the glyphs suspended just beyond visible light. Space magic repurposed for daily utility was still a rarity. Kaelyn’s attempt was clean, structured. A respectable effort.

But ultimately forgettable.

He scoffed under his breath, not out of cruelty, but from comparison. After all, he had sifted through the minds of counless mages, Archmagus of many races whose mastery over the arcane redefined excellence included. Compared to the weavings embedded in their thoughts, this was no better than a novice’s chalk scrawl next to an enchanted tapestry. Where Umbraxis Arcanum delved into theoretical depth, and Cindrel Academy favored rigid application, Kaelyn’s approach lacked ambition and elegance.

He moved through the wards with ease, parting the weave without tripping its alerts. With barely a whisper of motion, he seated himself in a low chair opposite the bed, reclining with languid ease.

Kaelyn slept, unaware.

Corvin leaned back and allowed a faint shimmer to cross his irises. With a slow blink, he activated the Mind Walk.

The tendrils of his consciousness slipped gently into Kaelyn’s subconscious. Not to interrogate, but to observe. Like a shadow gliding over a mirror, he passed through her surface thoughts and into deeper fragments. Visions unfolded: cities of the Gilded Dominion under veiled tension, whispered meetings behind gilded doors, Yvanna pacing in a dim study, fingers clenching over parchment. The fragile web of diplomacy holding the Dominion together trembled with every passing day.

He absorbed the truths silently, cross referencing them with what he already knew. A smirk appeared on his face as he noticed the perfect timing of the Obisidan Talons and Yvanna’s desperation.

He did not bothered to siphen Kaelyn again. He’d done that long ago, before his evolution. He coud use Two spores still, yet her knowledge and affinity was not worth. Who knows maybe he’ll encounter something siphon worthy within the day.

His gaze drifted lazily to her sleeping form.

She was attractive, in a structured, textbook sort of way. Symmetrical features, graceful posture even in sleep, a youthful energy that clung to her like a second skin. Once, he might’ve found it captivating.

But then, his thoughts shifted, inevitably to Valyne Yrithis.

Valyne. The name alone brought with it a cascade of vivid impressions: the sway of moonlit hair, silver and stormlight; the poise in her stride that silenced rooms; the gaze that could chill fire or ignite ice. She embodied the ageless, dangerous grace that only highborn elven blood could bestow. Sharp intellect, effortless beauty, and a presence that commanded without a word.

Comparing Kaelyn to Valyne, Corvin mused, was like comparing an old Dacia to a Bugatti.

Reliable, perhaps. But lacking thrill, elegance, and beauty.

He let the silence linger, the weight of strategy coiling in his mind. The maneuvers he had set into motion across Thalasien, Argyll, and Nefrath were no longer ideas, they were forces, moving independently, driven by planted seeds, alliances forged, and vengeance left unspoken. What forms would their reactions take? Which forces would bend, and which would break?

The sky outside began to lighten, casting a faint glow across the windows.

Kaelyn stirred as dawn’s light brushed the chamber.

She stretched, feline and unhurried, arms above her head and fingers curling in the air. A low sigh escaped her lips, sleep heavy and unaware.

"Today’s the day," she mumbled, eyes still half closed. "Finally meeting the cursed Raven... At least I won’t return empty-"

She froze mid sentence and motion.

Across the room, legs crossed, a half full goblet of wine in hand, and bearing the smug satisfaction of a man who enjoyed dramatic entrances, sat Corvin.

"Good morning, human," he intoned dryly, voice laced with amusement and razor thin sarcasm. "It appears you’ve been looking for me."

Kaelyn’s eyes widened in an instant. Her breath caught in her throat, mouth hanging slightly open as if she had swallowed the sun and now had to explain herself.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Trice.

She looked like someone who had just found a basilisk sitting in her favorite reading chair.

Corvin raised one brow slowly, savoring the moment.

"Surprised?" he mused, taking a slow sip of wine. "I do have a habit of appearing unannounced. Occupational hazard."