Harold swings his claw toward Rose’s throat in a blurring, deadly arc. She drops instantly beneath the strike, her body moving with fluid grace, and counters in the same motion. The silver blade slices cleanly across his shoulder. Dark blood wells and sprays across the cracked marble floor.
Harold glances down at the wound, then back up at her—and laughs.
“At last,” he says, almost amused. “You finally managed to touch me.”
The gash knits slowly together, healing before her eyes.
Rose narrows her gaze. A faint, determined nod touches her chin.
“Good.”
Harold’s smile falters.
Rose shifts her stance, settling into a deeper, surer guard. A soft, vivid glow begins to gather around her—crimson and gold, swirling light that clings to her hands and flows along the silver blade like living fire. The air hums. The sword in her hand no longer reflects light; it seems to generate it.
Harold stiffens. He senses the danger instantly. His eyes widen at the sight of the energy she commands.
Rose lifts the sword high.
“Then let us finish this.”
Harold Wang stops smiling.
The entire hall trembles. Outside, the wider battle falls quiet, nearly concluded. Everyone left alive knows it comes down to this. Inside these walls, beneath shattered chandeliers and cracked ceilings, the fate of two universities—and perhaps much more—will be decided. The battle inside will decide everything.
Harold studies her, his expression turning wary, sharp with disbelief.
“A half‑breed such as you…” he murmurs, “ought not to exist.”
Steel clashes again. Rose pulls back before he can counter, blade whirling, light cutting through the gloom.
“You do not get to decide who exists,” she retorts, “or what becomes of us.”
Harold took the chance to strike, Rose’s defense cracked and sent her stumbling backwards.
Harold seizes the opening. He strikes before her feet settle. Rose’s guard cracks. She stumbles backward, driven back step by step.
“It is not I who decides,” Harold says, his voice cold and absolute. He does not give her a heartbeat to recover. He strikes again and again, driving her across the hall.
Rose hits the stairs, collides with overturned tables, slams hard against the wall. Blood spills from her wounds, dripping freely now. The scent rises—bright, warm, unmistakable—filling the air. Those who smell it recoil in fear, remembering what a single drop did to one of the strongest vampires present. The Zhao family watches from the exits, faces tight with worry, but they cannot abandon their posts. If they leave their positions, others will escape, and the fighting will spread beyond these walls to endanger innocents. They hold firm, trusting Rose, even as every instinct screams to help her.
Harold advances with caution, watching the blood drip from her, wary of what it can do. He strikes again. She blocks. She parries. She endures. But her strength is fading. Her movements slow. The glow around her dims.
Then, across the ruined hall, Andrei bursts free. He stands breathless and bleeding, having escaped his uncles with Zyber holding them off. He looks toward the centre of the room—and his heart stops.
He remembers the girl he first met. The one who carried too many secrets, who helps anyone who asked, who loved Dream University with a quiet, stubborn devotion. That girl stood before him now, battered and bleeding, fighting with the strength of a legend.
Harold takes a final, deadly step forward. He raises his hand to strike Rose down. Then he freezes. He senses movement to his left—fast, determined, unmistakable. He dodges and turns, ready to tear the newcomer apart.
It is Andrei.
Harold stares at his own son.
“You leave me no choice, Andrei.”
Father and son clash.
Andrei stands between Rose and Harold, taking blow after blow meant for her. He cannot match his father’s strength—not fully—but he endures. He buys time. He gives her breath.
Harold attacks relentlessly. Centuries of skill show in every motion. Every strike is honed, precise, devastating.
Rose does not waste the chance he gives her. She stands. She breathes. And then she moves. She steps past Andrei, beneath Harold’s reaching arm, and drives her blade deep across his back.
A ragged, tearing sound. Blood sprays.
Harold staggers forward, his eyes wide with shock. For the first time in his life, he looks stunned.
Rose does not let him recover. She presses forward, strike after strike, every blow carrying the weight of years. Years of watching her university threatened. Years of warning ignored. Years of fear and loss and standing alone. Every wound he inflicted, every student endangered, every lie told—all of it drives her.
Harold retreats. His healing falters. The wounds reopen faster than they can mend. He staggers, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Andrei stares, unable to believe what he sees. “Father… stand down.”
The most feared vampire in the region staggers. He realises it too. He is losing.
Desperation overtakes him. He throws his head back and roars, charging blindly, recklessly, driven entirely by fury rather than strategy.
Rose sees it instantly. She steps aside. He surges past her, momentum carrying him off‑balance. In one fluid, sweeping motion, she turns and swings.
The glowing silver blade slices across his chest from shoulder to hip.
Harold stumbles. He drops to one knee.
Silence crashes through the hall.
The ancient, powerful lord struggles to lift his head. He breathes heavily, blood seeping through his fingers.
Rose walks slowly toward him, sword held ready, glowing tip pointed at his heart.
Harold looks up at her.
“You…” he manages.
Rose stops directly before him.
“This,” she says, steady and unyielding, “is the consequence of every choice you have ever made.”
Harold tries to rise. His legs will not hold him. He collapses back, defeated.
Rose lifts the sword. The blade glows bright, aimed directly above his heart. One thrust. One end. It is all it will take.
Andrei’s voice cuts through the silence. “Rose… don’t.”
Rose tightens her grip. Her brow furrows. Her heart hammers wildly against her ribs. She must do it. She must strike. It is the only way to ensure he never harms anyone again. But Andrei’s voice stays her hand. It makes her hesitate. It makes her question.
And in that hesitation, a cold dread washes over her. A sudden, terrible feeling. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. She ought to be elsewhere.
Dream University.
Rosella.
The allies left behind to defend her home.
Harold never intended to win this hall. He intended to keep her here—occupied, bleeding, debating mercy—while her home falls.