Ancestral Lineage-Chapter 238: The Crimson Ascension

The battlefield lay silent, blanketed in the remnants of fury and salvation. The sky above was heavy with ash and lightless stars, and the scent of scorched earth lingered like the memory of death.

And at the center of it all, surrounded by fading magic and shattered might—Ethan Smith, lay still.

The spirit beasts were gone now, their radiant forms having dissolved into streams of essence that faded into his soul, vanishing like ancient guardians returning to slumber.

A trembling pulse fluttered in Ethan's chest as ten shadows rushed toward him, their voices frantic and overlapping.

'ETHAN!'

Clara reached him first, falling to her knees with a sob, her hands cupping his face. 'Stay with us… please… look at me…'

Harley landed next, her wings dispersing in a gust of light. She crouched beside him, eyes narrowing as she summoned her magic. Golden threads of energy streamed from her palms, weaving into Ethan's torn flesh. Cuts sealed. Bruises faded. His broken ribs mended with a faint crackling sound.

'He's still stabilizing,' she muttered. 'But—something's wrong.'

Andriel held his hand gently, her own trembling. 'He's… slipping. He shouldn't be… he shouldn't be…'

Carmen, Lisa, Pisces, Christel, Elaine, and Barki formed a loose ring around them, every gaze locked on Ethan, every breath held.

And then Seraphis stepped forward—slow, solemn, eyes focused only on him.

Ethan stirred.

His eyes opened, faint and dim.

'Ethan…!' Clara gasped.

He smiled softly, the kind that looked like goodbye.

'You're… safe…' he murmured, gaze moving from one face to the next. 'You're all… safe.'

His soulmates nodded through their tears, their voices choked.

'We're here, Ethan.'

'All of us.'

'You did it.'

'You saved the world.'

He blinked, struggling to stay conscious.

His skin began to shift—veins dimming, glow receding. The last embers of Sync's divine radiance faded from his form as he slowly reverted to his normal appearance. His red hair fell across his face in loose strands. The divine markings vanished from his skin. The aura of godlike might ebbed… leaving behind a man.

A man pushed far beyond his limits.

A man who had given everything.

Harley's healing kept pouring into him, desperately trying to fight the damage ravaging his core, but his eyes began to close.

'No, no—stay with me!' she cried. 'You're not done yet!'

Ethan exhaled slowly, a final breath of peace.

'I'm… just gonna rest a bit…' he whispered, voice barely audible.

And then… his body fell limp in their arms.

'Ethan?!' Elaine's voice cracked.

But he didn't respond.

His breathing slowed into something faint and rhythmic. A pulse that signaled life—barely—but life nonetheless.

Carmen knelt closer, her hands running over his body in search of deeper damage. After a moment, she whispered, voice heavy with grief:

'He's alive… but he's gone into a coma.'

A silence settled over them all.

Clara clutched his hand like a lifeline. Christel pressed her forehead to his chest. Lisa wept openly, while Barki stood like a statue, her expression unreadable.

And Seraphis… Seraphis stood over them all, her arms folded and her eyes glistening.

'He saved us all,' she said softly. 'Now it's our turn to protect him… until he returns.'

Around them, the ruins of battle slowly quieted.

The sky cleared—just a little.

And the world, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, was at peace.

But peace always comes with a price.

And Ethan Smith had paid it in full.

...

The war was over.

The sky, once split by fury and arcane fire, now lay silent above the scorched earth. Smoldering ruins of once-mighty strongholds hissed beneath the falling ash. The great battlefield, where people and monsters clashed, where blood had stained the soil deeper than roots could reach, had quieted into the eerie, soul-deep stillness that only follows the end of chaos.

At its center lay Ethan.

His body, battered and broken, was cradled in the arms of his wives. His once-transcendent form had reverted, his war-form melting away to reveal the man beneath—the man who bore the weight of kingdoms, lineages, and a destiny he had never asked for. Crimson trails stained his chest and arms, remnants of the impossible battle he had endured.

Harley wept as she worked feverishly, her hands glowing with golden life-magic, trying to restore the damage that should have killed him ten times over. Clara knelt beside her, holding Ethan's hand tightly as if her warmth alone could anchor him to life. Andriel's lips moved in silent prayer, invoking the stars that once guided her path. Lisa sat vigilantly behind them all, weapon still in hand, her gaze scanning the horizon for any lingering threat, refusing to trust peace so easily.

Carmen, trembled with every shallow breath Ethan took. Pisces stared at him with trembling lips, her oceanic eyes filled with dread, while Christel and Elaine leaned against each other, whispering encouragement as though their voices could reach his soul.

Seraphis did not speak.

The Frost Primogenitor stood like a statue of sorrowful ice, her eyes on Ethan's pale face, her aura flickering weakly. Her pride as a queen, as a warrior, had cracked. Not because of fear—but because of how close she had come to losing what mattered most.

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Barki—the quietest of them all—leaned forward, brushing back Ethan's hair, tears soaking her dress. She didn't need words. None of them did. He had given everything. For them. For the world.

And as the last of Harley's healing magic sank into his skin, a final, ragged breath escaped his lips.

He slipped into unconsciousness.

Into a coma.

Harley collapsed beside him, whispering, 'I did all I could… I healed what could be healed… but…'

'His soul is resting now,' Barki whispered. 'It should have broken. But it didn't. He's… still fighting, even in sleep.'

One by one, Ethan's spirit beasts flickered into view.

Faded. Dim.

Like dying stars returning to the void.

Galeno bowed his head before sinking into Ethan's body as dust. Angitia wrapped her coils around him in silence before melting into his veins. Maverick clutched his warhammer one final time, then vanished with a smirk. Stygian lingered longest, his burning eyes casting one last watchful glance at the women before being swallowed by the crimson glow of Ethan's core.

Onyx and Sage followed—Onyx a ripple in space, and Sage a soft hum in the air that left echoes of song and sorrow.

The Sync was gone.

Ethan was alone again, within himself.

And still, he breathed.

...

News of the final battle spread faster than any wind or magic.

From the icy reaches of Zenerith to the sun-scorched sands of Thal-Dorim, from the mountain fortresses of dwarven kin to the flying citadels of the Skyborn—the world of Anbord heard of the duel between Ethan Smith and Luciel the Heretic.

And they trembled.

But not from fear.

From awe.

For what they had witnessed—or heard described—was not merely a battle. It was a reckoning. A war between ideology and soul. Between vengeance and salvation. And when it was over, it was not a god who stood victorious, but a man.

A king.

The survivors of the Blade Clan—those who had allied with Luciel's descent into madness—were rounded up, their weapons shattered, their command broken. They were given mercy—trial, not slaughter—a testament to Ethan's principles. Even comatose, his ideals still ruled the battlefield.

All across the lands, the banners of fractured kingdoms began to fall—not in surrender, but in unity.

The clans. The tribes. The noble houses.

They came.

To Anbord's capital. To Antrim City where the war council had once stood fractured. They came not with challenge, but with reverence.

Not one voice dared oppose what had become obvious to all:

Ethan Smith was the rightful king of Anbord.

His blood was pure. His strength unmatched. His resolve unshakable. And above all, he had bled for every inch of land, for every soul who called Anbord home—whether they loved him or hated him.

...

Though there was no ceremony, no crown placed on his head, no trumpet of golden horns—Anbord had made its choice.

The people whispered his name.

Sang it.

Etched it in the stone of cities and carved it into trees.

The King in Crimson.

The Hammer of Blood and Creation.

Ethan Smith.

And he slept, unmoving, in the heart of the new world he had saved.

His wives kept vigil beside him, refusing to leave his side.

The throne could wait.

But the world would never forget.

The King had risen.

And though he now rested…

He would return.