The cataclysmic explosion that had just shaken the mansion slowly faded, leaving behind smoking ruins. The rain, once a raging torrent, softened into a drizzle, as though the sky itself was holding its breath after witnessing such absolute devastation. Thin white smoke mingled with dust, weaving into a shroud of mist that swallowed the vast courtyard.
Viscount Elio Dyrtose, the white-haired man who still floated in the air, gazed down at the wreckage with a grim expression. His eyes narrowed, cold and vigilant.
He knew that woman—The Mad Queen. That title was no mere folk tale or whispered rumor. Ashtoria could never be underestimated. Even with her body broken, even with poison weakening her veins, disbelief gnawed at his mind.
He did not believe her death would come so easily.
His hand lifted again with a sharp motion. Thunder gathered once more, rumbling across the sky. Electricity hissed, forming a circle of light that spun wildly above him. From that storm, a colossal spear of lightning began to take shape, even larger than the one before. Its tip glowed like a white star poised to pierce the world.
But just as he was about to hurl the weapon—
A dark explosion erupted from the heart of the ruins.
Black fire surged upward, stabbing into the heavens like a tower of hell. Its color was not crimson, but pure darkness, searing the eyes of any who dared look. Jagged bolts of black lightning lashed out, then plummeted from the clouds, slicing at Dyrtose without warning.
His eyes widened. His body froze. The fire struck him with an ear-splitting roar, triggering a cataclysmic blast that shook the earth itself. Black light collided with crackling blue, their clash tearing the very air apart.
Almost at once, the black fire spread outward in every direction.
Like a tidal wave from the abyss, the inferno flowed unchecked, obliterating every building, every tree, every wall of stone that remained. Everything it touched crumbled, dissolved, erased. Faint screams rose from servants and guards who had survived the first blast, only to be silenced instantly as the wave devoured them.
From the epicenter of destruction, Ashtoria emerged.
Her body was smeared with dust and blood, her hair wild and tangled, her face deathly pale. Blood dripped from her lips as she coughed violently, spattering thick crimson across the scorched earth. Her whole body trembled, each step forced by sheer will, fueled by hatred. The poison inside her worked mercilessly—her head throbbed, her eyes flickered, her vision blurred as though the world itself had been drowned in fog.
But it did not stop the black fire pouring from her body.
This was no ordinary flame. It was power unbound, stripped of all restraint. It burned, consumed, killed indiscriminately.
Guards, servants, even those who had known nothing of betrayal—all were shredded, incinerated, and erased by the torrent of darkness radiating from Ashtoria.
She did not care.
There was no mercy, no hesitation.
In her mind, only one truth remained: there was a traitor among them.
Who it was, she did not know. She trusted no one. She had never trusted anyone, never cared for anyone. There was no time to search, no reason to wait. Only one choice remained: kill them all.
Her blurred eyes stared blankly, her trembling frame pressed forward through the storm of black fire. Each time she coughed, fresh blood spilled, staining the shattered ground. Each drop seemed to fuel the inferno, making it surge ever higher.
The world around her was nothing but ruin. Human screams were drowned beneath the roar of flames. Rain that had tried to douse the fire hissed away into steam as soon as it touched the black blaze.
A moment of silence lingered, broken only by the drizzle pattering against smoking rubble. The stench of charred wood and seared flesh suffocated the air.
The ravaged earth quaked once more—massive cracks tore open, and from their depths, colossal hands of soil clawed their way upward, stretching hungrily toward Ashtoria, striving to bind her, to imprison her in an earthen grip.
Suddenly, the ground beneath her gave way, as though the earth itself sought to swallow her whole. From the raging sky above, pillars of fire speared downward, entwined with lightning bolts and roaring whirlwinds. The world seemed to collapse all at once, crushing down upon her. Blast after blinding blast shook the land, until the mansion's ruins were ground to dust.
The onslaught raged endlessly. Only when time itself seemed to fracture did the storm at last subside. The sky dimmed, rain still fell, and the land around her was reduced to a gaping crater choked with smoke and blood.
From the haze of steam and ash, a vast silhouette emerged. A towering man stepped forward, his shoulders broad, muscles carved like stone. He carried a colossal iron hammer, as large as the mansion's vanished gate, his eyes burning with murderous intent.
Behind him, more figures advanced. One carried a spear, another cracked a whip that sparked with fire, others lurked behind dark cloaks. All came with the same conviction: after such destruction, nothing of the Mad Queen could remain but scattered ash.
But then the mist over the crater shivered, torn apart by a surge of heat. From within, a figure stepped forth. Her red hair was matted, dripping with rain and blood, her face hidden behind a cruel mask of thorns fused to her skin. From beneath that mask, a pair of glowing crimson eyes pierced the fog, staring straight at them.
Silence. Every soul froze, their skin crawling under the gaze of a predator calculating how best to tear them apart. Breath caught in their throats, but survival instincts forced their hands. Without command, they lunged together, knowing only a united strike might save them.
The man with the colossal hammer leapt first. His roar echoed, the weapon in his grip gleaming as it drew lightning into itself. He swung downward with all his might, aiming to crush Ashtoria's skull.
CRASH!
But the expected impact never came.
Ashtoria's hand rose effortlessly. With a simple motion, she stopped the massive hammer cold, as though it weighed no more than a splinter of wood. The man's body trembled, his muscles locked, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Impossible…" his voice broke, caught between fury and terror.
A faint smile—or perhaps only the cold curl of her lips—twitched beneath the thorned mask. From her palm, black fire seeped, flowing like living liquid. It crawled up the hammer's shaft, devouring the metal, and before he could let go, the flames leapt onto his flesh.
His scream tore the air, brief but horrific. In an instant, his massive body exploded. The hammer disintegrated with him, flesh, bone, and blood bursting into a grotesque rain. Warm gore splattered across the ground, dripping down the faces of his companions.
For a heartbeat, the others froze, paralyzed by dread. But Ashtoria's glowing red eyes, blazing from behind the thorned mask, reminded them of a single truth: to stop now was to die sooner.
They clenched their weapons, forcing their trembling bodies forward, though their souls already quaked.
Because they knew, beyond all doubt—
The figure before them… was not human.