In a grand obsidian-and-gold corridor lined with marble pillars and starlit tapestries, the vaulted ceiling seemed to come alive with a living night sky. Floating flames cast shifting shadows as celestial doors, marked with twin crests, awaited at the end. Evane knelt in the corridor, her obsidian-black hair spilling like ink across the marble. Her topaz-green eyes dimmed yet defied, and her luminous skin took on a ghostly echo of the fire she once commanded. Draped in midnight satin robes embroidered with glowing runes and crowned by a mantle of phoenix feathers, she exuded both elegance and danger – an aura of warmth that could shift into consuming fire.
As she sagged against the cold marble, ritual sigils still burned faintly beneath her palms. The elegance of a Grand Magus was discarded as she waited for the enemy's arrival. A heartbeat later, a gentle-looking old man appeared – white beard, plain robes, cane tapping softly – an image of harmlessness masking something vast. His serene, almost kindly smile hid the truth; his aura shattered space, cracking the marble beneath his feet.
The old man's voice was smooth, almost nostalgic. "Well now… aren't you that disciple girl they adopted five thousand years ago? And to think – you've already become a Grand Magus." Evane forced her head up, her breath shallow. Her body sprawled, but her gaze remained unbroken – defiance flickering like a dying star. "You're… a demigod. No. An enhanced fragment. Artificial… Divine Magus."
The old man's smile grew wider. "Clever girl. But cleverness won't save you." Behind his gaze lurked extinction. His smile never faltered, but a dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes. "Being clever won't help you here," he said softly. His voice carried the warmth of a kindly grandfather offering sweets to children – yet every syllable dripped with menace.
Evane didn't flinch. Her limbs trembled from exhaustion, but her gaze remained steady. "Maybe," she said, her voice fragile yet stubborn. The old man tilted his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. "Oh? Confident, are we?" "Yes," Evane replied, strength sparking in her tone despite her weakness. "Confident in the deal I'm about to propose."
He chuckled, wrinkles deepening at the edges of his eyes. "Go on then. But let me remind you of a little misconception. People like to think we old folk lose the sharpness of our prime, stumbling into foolishness as the years go by." His grin widened, as though sharing a harmless joke, though the danger coiled beneath it was unmistakable.
Evane's lips tightened. She understood perfectly what he meant: say something foolish, and I'll end you – call it one of my 'senile' moments. Instead of rising to the bait, she lifted her trembling hand. Three objects shimmered into existence above her palm, hovering weightlessly. For the first time, the old man's mask cracked. His genial expression faltered, surprise flashing in his eyes – then shock.
The kindly façade fractured for a heartbeat, revealing something raw and dangerous beneath. A moment later, his composure returned. The mask slid back into place as though nothing had slipped. Evane smirked faintly. Her exhaustion weighed on her body, but her spirit blazed brighter than ever. "So," she said with scornful ease, "do you think these treasures are enough to buy me a place in your little organisation?"
The old man's expression stayed neutral, but hunger lurked behind his eyes. His smile stretched a little too wide. "I'm afraid you misunderstand, little one. I don't work for anyone – nor for any organisation." Evane's contempt sharpened, though her voice remained calm. "Tch. Cut the crap, old man. We both know I'm running low on fumes. Either you take me to your people, or I destroy these treasures. And trust me – I'll do it faster than you can blink."
The smile vanished completely. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowing. "Fine then. Since you're already monstrously talented in space magic… follow my lead." His fingers traced precise, ancient sigils in the air. The patterns burned into the void, glowing faintly as reality itself seemed to bend.
Evane's chest tightened at his words. Talented? Perhaps. But she had seen true monstrosity before – the kind that would one day shake the world. Still, she recognised the spellcraft. Her lips moved, chanting with steady rhythm despite the weakness in her frame: "Swift gate, my unknown path, Darkness leads to an uncertain place. Stars descend, I follow my fate, Fire guides, my heart carries."
The chamber vibrated as energy surged. By the final verse, her body threatened to collapse. Her legs buckled, breath ragged, sweat clinging to her skin. The old man gave her a single approving nod. And then – light swallowed them both.
When it faded, the chamber stood empty, save for a whisper of lingering magic.
General Asura sat hunched, crimson-tipped hair falling across his damp face. Tears clung stubbornly to his cheeks. In the dim light, the giant of war looked shrunken, a titan crushed under the invisible weight of guilt. Weakness had no place here. With slow, deliberate motions, he wiped his eyes, splashed cold water on his face, and raised his head.
The mirror reflected him mercilessly: a warrior marked by endless regrets. Crimson hair like burning embers, eyes hardened by sorrow, jawline set in defiance. He looked both broken and unyielding, a man torn between sin and duty. He straightened, brushed dust from his cloak, and left his quarters.
The Hall of Conviction awaited him. A cathedral of crystal rose around them, walls etched with living sigils that pulsed like veins of light. The air hummed with arcane power, tasting of parchment, iron, and impending judgment. At its heart stood a long silver-white table, covered in glowing runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, echoing the room's magic.
Arthur broke the silence first, smirking with his usual irreverence. "Well, look who finally decided to grace us. The war demon himself – though right now, you look more like a drowned cat." "Stop calling me that," Asura muttered, irritation lacing his tone. "Because of that cursed title, the enemy brands me a traitor, a spy, a pawn to be controlled…"
The room erupted into a heated discussion. Ofori snorted. "Hmph. I've lost count of how many idiots bought that trick. At this rate, we should start charging admission." Yura added dryly, "Sometimes, I wonder if they even have intelligence. Then again, they keep losing to us, so perhaps that's the answer."
The argument escalated until Miguel's firm voice cut through like steel. "Enough. Yura, Ofori, sit down. Let's begin." Yura glared. "Since when do you give the orders?" Before the argument could flare, Asura's voice cracked like thunder. "Enough! Take your seats." His crimson gaze turned. "Ezekiel – why did you summon us?"
Ezekiel stood. Tall, with silky black hair, sharp eyes, and a head far too large for his slender frame – as though a mocking god had carved him to inspire both awe and ridicule. His voice was grim. "I can't sense Captain or Miss Francisca anywhere on this plane. But… I can still feel them. Somehow, they live."
The hall froze. The runes carved into the silver-white table flickered once… twice… then pulsed violently, filling the hall with a sudden, ominous glow. The room fell silent. And in that silence, a faint voice whispered – so faint, yet so sharp it cut to the bone: "They are watching."