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Chapter Text

The Collector floated through the vast expanse of shimmering stars, his ethereal form a striking contrast against the swirling darkness of the Archivists’ realm. Drawn by a blend of curiosity and trepidation, he glided toward the grand hall, eager to reunite with his kind. But let it not be misunderstood; he knew they would miss the mortal friends they had made along the way. This was not a permanent farewell—after all, among them, only King was immortal, and he would visit soon.

As he journeyed, an inexplicable disturbance rippled through the cosmos, like a stone dropped into still water.

“What was that?” the Collector wondered aloud, puzzled by the strange sensation. He pressed on, hoping the other Archivists might have some insight.

Yet, upon reaching home, as he stepped into the vast, dimly lit chamber, an unsettling chill enveloped him.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he immediately noticed the eerie absence of sound that hung in the air—a silence that felt decidedly strange.

Curious, he quickly donned his attire and left his room, only to find the place utterly deserted.

The Collector scratched his head in confusion, struggling to comprehend the unusual circumstances. Then, a thought struck him: what if everyone had conspired to surprise him? After centuries of exile, they had made a tremendous effort to ease his loneliness; perhaps they had planned something extraordinary to entertain him. Indeed, it would be just like them to do something so delightful.

His heart began to race; if there was one thing he cherished, it was surprises, and curiosity bubbled up inside him like a sweet thrill.

But there was no one there—just the emptiness that lingered in the shadows and one person.

At the center of the room stood a figure sitting on a stair—a boy, seemingly no older than ten. His skin was pale and gaunt, and his messy hair hung in tangled strands, obscuring his face. Crimson red eyes glinted from beneath the disheveled locks, radiating an unsettling intensity. He wore a tattered tunic that clung to his frail frame, and his feet were adorned with beaten sandals, stained with a substance that looked disturbingly like dried blood. Atop his head rested a grotesque crown of twisted antlers, resembling branches torn from a tree, giving him an otherworldly presence. 

The Collector, drawn in by the boy’s eerie innocence, approached cautiously. “Uh, hi? Who are you?” they asked, their voice echoing in the hollow space.

“I’m just a friend,” the boy replied, his voice soft yet laced with a disquieting undertone. “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s been so long since I had someone to play with.”

Collector awkwardly sat near the strange boy.

“So…you’re not an Archivist, are you a friend of theirs?”

The boy shrugged, “More like, an acquaintance.”

Overtime, he and the boy stalked and conversed with each other. They did not know why but there was something about the boy that was both mysterious and disturbing. A paradoxical aura that told him to be very cautious and yet magnetics. At first, it seemed innocent, yet overtime the conversation became darker and darker without the Collector realizing it until the boy talked a bit about himself.

“I had siblings once…yet, they disappointed me .” His tone was that of disdain “Animals, all of them, slaves to their basic instincts. Even now, I do not miss them at all…” he uttered with a calm yet disquieting voice.

That was when the gradual shift of the conversation spiraled into dark musings about existence and the futility of life. The boy spoke of the emptiness that permeated the universe, weaving tales of despair and nihilism that sent shivers down the Collector’s spine. What began as an innocent exchange slowly morphed into something far more morbid, the boy’s facade cracking to reveal a deeper essence.

Collector tentatively wondered “Isn’t it strange? We search for meaning in everything we do.”

The Boy tilted his head, a small smile on his lips with no warmth. “Meaning? What a terrible lie. Like a moth drawn to flame, we chase it, but in the end, don’t we just burn?”

 “But isn’t there purpose in our stories? In creation?” Collector frowned.

“Creation? Oh, my dear Archivist, it’s simply a mask we wear to distract ourselves from the void. Just look up—every star is a mere echo of something that once was, flickering out into nothingness.” his words sent a chill at them.

“You speak as if nothing matters. Surely, we create connections, memories…”

 “Connections? Memories? Temporary distractions from the relentless tide of oblivion. They wither and fade like autumn leaves, swept away to join the desolate earth.”

 “But we have choices! Our actions can shape reality!” Collector growing unease, protested.

The Boy’s grin fell into a scowl and his eyes darkened “Reality? A fleeting dream! A façade built upon the bones of the forgotten. Each choice leads us deeper into the labyrinth of despair, where hope is but a faint flicker, easily extinguished.”

 “You can’t believe that everything is pointless… Surely, there’s beauty in existence.” Collector tried to keep calm.

The Boy leaning closer, his voice barely above a whisper “Beauty? A mere illusion we conjure to comfort ourselves. Just as every sunrise is followed by the inevitability of twilight. What’s the use of beauty when it too will decay, swallowed by the insatiable maw of time? What even is beauty is a subjective concept.”

The Collector grew  increasingly anxious “You… you can’t think that way. There must be a chance for something more, for a brighter future…”

The Boy grinned again, revealing jagged teeth that made the Collector even more unease “Ah, bright futures… Just more lies we tell ourselves. Shadows shall always linger just behind every light, waiting for their moment to consume.” noticed the increasing unease of them, he said “Why do you seem so… uneasy?” the boy asked, tilting his head, his crimson eyes narrowing. “The game just started, after all.”

The Collector’s heart raced. “Game? What do you mean?” He struggled to maintain a calm demeanor, but an instinctual dread began to creep in.

With a flick of his wrist, the boy shifted the atmosphere. The air grew thick, heavy with an oppressive darkness. Suddenly, the floor beneath them glistened with a viscous, starry liquid that dripped from the ceiling like cosmic tears. The Collector leaned closer, horror dawning on them as they muttered, “That’s not jelly…”

As they looked up, the scene before him shattered his sanity. The once-majestic Archivists lay strewn across the ground, their forms grotesquely torn apart, their insides ripped out, blood pooling around them like a macabre tapestry of despair and whatever they had for organs splattered like decoration.

The very beings who vanquished the Titans, held the very power of the stars, bent reality to their will and could move entire planets…. s laughtered like animals.

The boy’s expression shifted, eyes glimmering with grim glee as he surveyed the carnage, making Collector jump back helding a shriek.

“Look at them,” he said, his voice dripping with grimeness and contempt as he walked around . “They were my last playmates, but they’re… indisposed now. Their Ivory Tower drowned in their own blood. Oh they thought they were the apex of the cosmos, but like always ... .there is always a bigger fish as humans would say.”

The Collector’s gaze snapped back to the boy, and in that moment, he saw the truth. The boy’s crimson eyes transformed into fiery pits, glowing like scarlet furnaces, and the air around him crackled with dark energy. “Y-you… y-you’re n-n-not a boy…” the Collector stammered, almost falling backwards in fear. They were struggling to breathe, so much so that they could barely speak, realization dawning upon them like a bucket of ice falling at his head, he was no boy, he was a monster other Archivists told them when they were younger, a boogeyman the elders told the young Archivists to discourage them from misbehaving and he was now in front of him. “You’re- !

“K̶̨͚͔̲̬͇͉̞͉͇̙͇̯͐͋̂͑ḩ̵͔̘͈͕͍͈͖̗̟̱̗̖̀̊̿̉̌̊̇͂̆̓̚̕͜͠ä̷̟́́͝h̷̡̨̝͕̭͖̫͕̬̦̻̮̔͜ͅr̴͕̖̻̫̒̉̏́͠͝ȁ̸̲̘͔̦̉̈͒̓̒̕ḥ̶̺̳͐̉k̵̟̤̺̳͔̻̖̻̝̙͂̀̍̿͌̉̓̈́͆͛̇̅̎͘̚͠͝͝.”

The boy’s grin widened, revealing jagged teeth that seemed far too large for his mouth and the very mirror that was between him and the Collector shattered into pieces without even touching it as if the very words defied its atomic structure. The whole world seemed to tremble as soon as he uttered it. It was as if thunder had exploded without warning right above them.

As the shadows deepened, the Collector felt themselves being engulfed by darkness as every hair of theirs stood on their end. The boy’s figure loomed larger, casting an eclipse over the petrified Collector, who stood frozen in terror, they tried to move their legs again, but they seemed to have turned to stone from sheer terror.

The air thickened with an oppressive energy as the boy’s form shuddered, rippling like a mirage in the heat. Shadows and then Brimstone twisted and contorted around him, elongating in unnatural angles that defied the laws of nature. His once-innocent features warped, the edges blurring and folding into themselves, revealing glimpses of vast, chaotic voids that pulsed with a malevolent light.

As he moved, the atmosphere crackled with a low, ominous hum, resonating with a primordial force that resonated deep within the Collector’s very essence. Tendrils of darkness coiled from his frame, each one a chilling manifestation of despair, slithering across the ground like the arms of an ancient deity awakening from a slumber long forgotten.

The boy’s eyes burned brighter, morphing into twin suns of scarlet fury, igniting the shadows like a warning beacon in an abyss. Where once he stood small and frail, towering shapes emerged around him—twisted, unnameable forms that defied comprehension, their angular bodies writhing as if composed of living darkness and fire. 

And as the transformation reached its climax, it was clear that this was no mere boy. He was a harbinger of nightmares, a vessel of the indescribable, embodying a dread that transcended human understanding—a fear that clawed at the very fabric of reality and a bottomless hatred that promised an end to all existence as the Collector knew it.

“A̶̙̹͉̽̈̈͜͝r̸̪̠̃͑͐̏̍̀̓̑̒̍̀͆̅̌̀̃̕͘̚͠ç̸̖̬̠̤̗̖̱̥͎͓̥̖̦̓̐̎̐̇́͘͜͜͜h̶̬̟̠̖͓̼̗̏̐͒̋̑̉̈̌̂͒͌͐̌̃i̶̘̫̱̺̬̯͖͆̒ͅv̴͚̪̙͓̞̗͉̮̼̳̟̤̜̻͕̗̓͑̍͛͜͜͝ͅi̴̡̨̩̫̩͎͖͓̠̺̭͂̄̐̓̈͂͌͐̈́͆̏͗̃̕͝s̸̟̥͔̤̝̲̦̘͐́ͅͅt̷̨̢̛̼̖̤̪̟͔̞͚̭͚͉̥̫̟̻̠́̑͂̊͒̀́͂̊͗̈́̎̆̿́̿̊͘̚͠….” A voice—deep and resonant—echoed through the chamber, reverberating with the weight of eons and the whispers of madness. It carried the weight of uncountable souls lost to the void, filled with the whispers of eldritch knowledge that should never have been known with furnace eyes hotter than the deepest pits of Hell.

“Ẇ̶̳̺͎͚͈͂̈́̀͒̀̽̆͗̈́å̵̘̠̺͚͓̥͓̙̭͉̤̖̜͚͇̙͆͛͐̿̒̿͜ņ̶̧̨̗̖̝̲̘͚̤̟̦̟͖̳͆͌͌̐̈͌̊͜͠t̸̥̹̫̟̺̂̌̇̋̎̀̀̍͂̅̉̈́̂ ̸̤̀̌͒̈̔̿́̓̑̈́̚t̶͍̺͌̌͐̒̾̚͠ͅò̴̡̮̖̹̼͖̦͈͚̏̓͂͘͜ ̵̱̞̫̞̖̲̙͙̘́͜i̸̡̜̤̹̗̰̰̰͇͇̾̿̈̅̚͝n̶̢̛̲̙̺̿͆̀͗̍͋́̔̅͆̎̆̇͠d̶̢̘̘̰̼̩̦̳̱͕͈͐̽́͗̒͛͊̓͆͊̌̾̚͜͝ͅų̵͖̠͖̰͉̈́̾̀̋͌̇̅̔̅͋́̾̂͝l̴̜̩̝̈́͑̓̈́̓̂̓̆͒̏͑̏̾̀̀̚͝g̶̨̪̹̳̰̠̼̰̮̥͂͒̉͑̒̑̈́͑̈́͆͂͘̕ͅe̸̜̒̈́̍̂ ̸̜̝̲͌̈̀̀̉̿̑̐̅͋͒̿̆͗͛͜i̷͔̲̲̾̔͋̆̍̓̈̉̂̈͒̀̕͝͝n̴̡̧̗͙̮̳͕͓̣̣͚͇̺̼̊̍͛͑̓͋͛̽̔́͊͘̚͜͝͝ ̸̢̥̖̺̦͍͙̙̲̘̤̠͕̺̪̖̝́͆͠ä̶̧̗̪̐͆̓̉ ̴̢̢̡̡͕̺̪͎̱͎͎̘̩̯̫̠̬͛́̆́̇̈̄̒̄̒̒̍̑̎͛̕͝l̶̛͖̖̞͎̣͍͕̫͔̮̀̂̓̏̈́̉͌i̸̮̝͒̈̉͐̓̾̇͆̎̓͌̿̚͘̚̕͘ẗ̸̢̺̜̬͕̪͚̜́͌̎̾͒͑̍̍́͂̄̔̚̕͘͝ţ̵̜͕̔̽l̷̢̯̗̠̻̹͍̱̯̭̬̏̏́̑̈́̓͋̓̀͐̾̆͜e̴̢̳̬̼̳̠͋͂̈́̈́̆͗͒̓̇̓͂͝ ̸̢̖̫͉̼͙̖͍̾g̴̛̟̗͓̮̳̺͙͂͜â̷̡̨̡̨̙͖̩̳̟̞̝̙̝̈̄̃̈́͛̌͆̕͝͝͝ͅͅm̶͉̭̰̀̅͆͆́̀̓̄̌͋̀͆͐͘͝͠e̵̢̢̨͈̘̥̼̤̲͚̓̅̽̅̎́̎̏͒̒̆̈͝͝?̵̡̲̗́͒̂̓̆̈́͆̂̀͘͠”̴̢̮͉̱̠̺͊̋͌̉̿̐̂̿͋̈̚

The voice said with infinite malice as the ever growing shadow eclipsed the petrified Collector.

SCP-2408….

This once served as the headquarters of the Hunters Black Lodge, an infamous Neo-Sarkic cult intricately linked with the Russian Mafia. This anomalous criminal organization, primarily active in the post-Soviet states, had amassed a notorious reputation for engaging in grievous crimes—robbery, extortion, murder, slavery, and underground fighting rings filled with bloodlust and brutality.

The members of this criminal alliance were not ordinary men; they had the terrifying ability to undergo grotesque physical transformations, rendering them stronger, larger, and far more resilient than typical humans. With enhanced reflexes, superhuman speed, and advanced senses, they could even adopt various non-human physical traits, making them formidable opponents capable of testing even the most seasoned operatives from the Foundation and the Global Occult Coalition (GOC). Whispers among the shadowy circles spoke of their monstrous attributes, where a thin man could become a hulking giant, and the weak could emerge as apex predators of the night.

Yet, now, the once formidable hunters lay slain, their bodies sprawled across the cold, hard floor, lifeless and unrecognizable. Their skin, mottled and bristled, resembled that of victims afflicted by the Bubonic Plague, as if the very essence of their power had been cruelly stripped from them.

Those who did not succumb to death had either fled into the darkness, their instincts for survival kicking in, or had fallen prey to a far graver fate—transformed into mindless zombies, monstrous extensions of the intruder’s will. They moved with clumsy aggression, devoid of free will, compelled by an unseen force to attack their former allies, tearing through flesh and bone with the ferocity of wild beasts.

The intruder himself moved with an unsettling grace reminiscent of a preacher, exuding a charisma that masked the horror lurking beneath the surface. He appeared to be an ordinary adult man, with a black beard that obscured his true nature—something far more ancient and sinister lay beneath that human exterior. This was merely one of the many faces he wore; in truth, he possessed the unsettling ability to inhabit multiple human bodies, shifting his appearance to suit his needs. Within the ranks of the Foundation, he was known simply as SCP-2075, a name that sent shivers down the spines of those who had encountered him.

As the preacher advanced deeper into the shadows of the once-grand hall, he suddenly halted, his senses prickling with awareness. He felt a presence looming, one that held a weight of authority and age far beyond his own.

“Who… dares to intrude?” a guttural voice demanded, resonating from the darkness with an intensity that seemed to shake the very air around them.

“I am Karcist Varis, oh Great One. I’ve come to free you,” Varis proclaimed, bowing deeply as an act of utmost respect, his voice unwavering despite the enormity of the moment.

“The Heretics… are you not?” the voice rumbled, a deep suspicion threading its tone, reverberating through the chamber like thunder.

“No, I am Nälkä. I would sooner slit my own throat than join the ranks of those degenerate monsters,” Varis replied, his voice firm as he straightened, unwavering even in the face of such dark power. “We have all been hunted for centuries. What we have done to survive has not always been palatable… but we survived. I was visited by Grand Karcist Ion, who enlightened me about the ways of Nälkä. I seek a new path, a way to reclaim our power and pierce the veil of the oppressors.”

A deep growl vibrated through the air, weaving a tense silence that followed Varis's declaration. “I sense no lies… has the hour of our reckoning come?” From the inky darkness, a single, ominous eye glimmered back at Varis, belonging to something massive, a creature that loomed larger than life itself, made all the more imposing by the thunderous sound of heavy footsteps that accompanied its approach.

Varis looked up, unfazed. If anything, he appeared to be experiencing a religious epiphany, a moment of purpose igniting within him. With an enigmatic smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, he announced, “Orok, the Brute of Grand Karcist Ion. It has come. Our liberation is nigh. ”

With those words hanging in the air, the shadows deepened, and the tension crackled like electricity, suggesting that a new chapter of the Nälkä was about to unfurl.

Belos jolted awake with a shock, his heart racing as the memories of his brutal death flooded back. His eyes darted around, but all he could see was an endless expanse of darkness. 

Was this the afterlife? The thought struck him as utterly preposterous. He had so much yet to accomplish. Where were the welcoming angels and the pearly gates of Heaven, ready to greet him warmly for his relentless crusade against witches and demons? Instead, he was engulfed by an oppressive void. Was this Hell? It couldn’t be. After all his sacrifices and tireless efforts against the heathens and heretics, he expected a reward, not punishment. Moreover, Hell was a realm of eternal fire and brimstone; if this was the afterlife, where were the anguished screams of the damned? Where were Satan's torturers, ready to inflict endless pain? 

As he pondered his fate, he began to reflect on his actions during his life. If there was one significant mistake he made, it was becoming so consumed with the Demon Realm that he had neglected Earth. When he finally returned home after centuries of exile, he was horrified by the changes that had taken place. Everything he saw filled him with disgust to his very core.

There was a perverse freedom of religion allowing pagans and practitioners of magic, such as Voodoo and Wicca, to roam freely. Cultures that weren’t even rooted in Abrahamic faiths spewed their vile lies and twisted philosophies. The unfaithful dared to deny the existence of God, cheapening both faith and enlightenment in a society driven by the insatiable greed of capitalism. The idea of men and women enjoying equal rights was laughable to him. He was particularly appalled by the sight of men engaging with men and women with women, their depravity celebrated during holidays meant for righteous worship!

His mind flashed back to Luz, a child of tanned skin who managed to find her way into the Demon Realm and make a name for herself. While it was surprising, he felt an overwhelming disdain for the fact that she had been embraced by such a wretched society. He had endured so much time surrounded by these base creatures that he would take any human, regardless of their skin tone—no matter how much they resembled those detestable gypsies. Yet her affection for another girl, rather than a boy as God intended, exemplified a disturbing trend that he had witnessed in that cursed realm. It filled him with revulsion; he suppressed the urge to express his disgust in front of them and instead contemplated his return to Earth.

But Earth was even worse than he had imagined.

Had he known the depths to which the world would descend into depravity, he would have rushed back centuries ago, purging every single degenerate, heretic, witch, deviant, and subhuman by burning them in holy fire! For each fleeting moment of this darkness, he vowed that if he ever found a way back, he would not rest until the wicked were cleansed and the righteous were restored.

Once more Belos got jolted, but for a different reason like he had the dream of a dream, it was disorienting. It was like flashes of a whole lifetime each with emotions passed in front of him with a life that he had led…only to diverge. Caleb Wittebane….his brother consorting and even fraternising with a witch, he never killed him, that day Philip Wittebane with disgruntlement had to learn tolerating having witches around, because of that one decision Philip Wittebane never became Emperor Belos, because of that decision alone he never had to create Grimwalkers of his brother, failed trying to make him understand his folly only to then kill him over and over again straining his sanity and because of that decision alone where he did not killer his own brother as did Cain to Abel….he lived happily , he lived as a happy man who also overtime his mere tolerance for the embodiment of heresy that is the Demon Realm became acceptance, even fondness finding new friends that he should have hated, growing old with his brother, becoming uncle he never was and embracing his life on the Boiling Isle. 

Belos was feeling a turmoil of emotions: hatred, disgust, confusion, outrage, envy, regret, guilt, anger and so many. Seeing a life of what could have been if he didn’t commit kinslaying leaving his holy crusade, becoming a heretic himself and yet…living so content . Was this the true price of happiness in life? If he can do without it, his reward shall be in the afterlife and yet….this limbo was neither Heaven or Hell.

“ Beautiful life, isn’t it…?”

A guttural voice that Belos saw as one of the most repulsive voices he ever heard came, frantically looked around and saw no one.

“All of this….could have been yours. And yet, you have imprisoned yourself in your own built identity, how ironic that you, a man of faith, slayed your brother just as the son of Adam did to his brother…”

“Are you….Lucifer!” He accused, of course the Devil himself would be there to tempt him with what-ifs, it explained all of this!

The voice said otherwise “No…unlike the Morningstar…I am a good son, the one you worship…I am her Archon…I’m an Angel of the Demiurge.”

“Foul deceiving demon! I worship only the Almighty! You’re no angel of his! I serve no false god!” Belos spat, maybe this being was one of the blasphemous Titans’ messengers? How ironic that he pretended for centuries to be the herald of the Titans, only to die by the real one who was Luz before the girl got corrupted by the foulness of the Demon Realm and the Depravities of Earth.

“Your God….does not love unconditionally. He doesn't love you….”

“More lies! My life’s work was in his name!”

“Your life’s work makes him puke.”

“They were Witches! Evildoers! Their very existence tainted all that is holy!” He thundered in.

“Lies? Using name of your Lord? In vain? No wonder he abandoned you….But…I love you…”

“What…” rage and fear shook Belos feeling a chill coming through his spine freezing him, his mind refusing to comprehend what he just heard.

“Yaldabaoth loves you….”

“What…” Belos’s words of horror were merely whispered, he knew that name, it was a name he heard of a heretical Christian sect that meant-

“We love you…you have honored the Demiurge in your actions, in your transformation, in your devotion to your basic hatreds and fears and for that…you’re rewarded to see one of his messengers. Now behold, the true form of an angel!”

Suddenly, a being materialized in front of him and Belos wished he did not see. A true abomination with no comparison. He thought he saw what real abominations were like in the Boiling Isle, yet this entity shattered all his preconceptions.

It emerged from the swirling mists of forgotten nightmares—a grotesque spectacle beyond the feeble grasp of human comprehension. This towering behemoth, a pulsating mass of cephalopodic horror, twisted defiantly against the very fabric of Euclidean space, its form a chaotic lattice of writhing tentacles that seemed to dance to a rhythm of dread. Each appendage was a slimy, undulating serpent, adorned with glistening, otherworldly barbs that shimmered in hues too bizarre for the mind to process.

Atop this cyclopean monstrosity, the head presented itself as the most terrifying aspect of its existence. Four multifaceted eyes glistened with a malevolent intelligence, their depths swirling with unfathomable abysses of madness that threatened to engulf the souls of any who dared to meet its gaze. Crowning this horror, a grotesque array of bony horns jutted outward like ribbed appendages, a grotesque coronet of death that suggested both dominion and decay. The entire countenance was elongated beyond the bounds of nature, an impossible parody of humanity that instilled a primal fear within the deepest recesses of human consciousness.

The mouth, a cavernous maw, perpetually twisted into a grimace of unspeakable agony, seemed to be more a portal to the abyss than an orifice for nourishment. It churned with an eldritch hunger, ever eager to devour the sanity of all beings that strayed too close. As it loomed, shadows writhed about its form, whispering the secrets of an age old and forgotten, a testament to cosmic horrors that should never have been. In its presence, the air grew thick with the taste of despair and the lingering scent of ancient decay, sealing the fates of those who dared to linger in the darkness.

“̴̧̧̮͈͚̘̬̤̇̔͊͋ͅB̷̧̢͖̬̣́̆͑̌̓̾̿̂ͅě̸̗̞̤͗̔̀̈̔…̶̘͍̝̬͎̠́̃̄͐̓̽́̐̃̆̋̀͆͘ǹ̷̡̡͇̬̤̘̟͇͎͈͓̺̻͔̇̇͑̀̀̌͐̎̚͘̕͝o̵͎̟̖̩̺̖̬̱̦͛ͅt̷̡̫̰̤͕̻̮̦͓̮̟̪̣͒͜ ̴͕͕̪͍̠͖̄̓â̸̘̞̤͚̝̗̽͊̏̔̉̿́̓̐̇̑͜͝͠f̶̝̣̬̤̟̙̺̆̉r̴̨̠̜̙̻̒͆̀̒̅̎ả̸̘̭̩̳͊̾̈́̊̈́̈́́̄̈̀͘ͅï̷̢̖͔̹̘͎͈̙̹̻̫͈͓̥͍̜̐́͗͗̑̑̀̋̀̈͋́̚̕̕̕d̴̡̞̻̜̘͇̻̯͍̲̹̗̙̤̠̻̆̍͊͐̇͌̀̈͋̀̃͆̀̌̀̔͘͜!̷̡̧̧̛͇̫̼̤̱̼̮̻͎̜͑́̀̉͗̊̐̔̈́̒̀̕ͅ”̵̻̪́͑̈́̇̄̑̓̎͘͠

Belos tried to flee but before he could get the chance one of the tendrils caught him wrapping around him, he struggled and lashed out like a wild animal and it was not enough as he got closer and close to the abomination’s face making Belos able to see more details of the Archon’s face filling him with primal revulsion and fear likes of which he never experienced in his entire life.

The Mouth impossibly opened, filled with razor sharp teeths came down as Belos screamed.

“D̵̫̤̼͉̞̰̱͎͋̇͐̋̆̀͂̈́́̎è̶̢̠̺̞̤̭̩̩͍͚̯̑̌̏̏̑̚͠u̴̙̘͉̯̬͎̻̮͎͓͆̾̾̂̔͌̓͜s̴̱̝̫͕̹̈́͌̒ ̷̛͖͂̉͆̋̓̌͝V̵̡̦̥̥͇̣͇̥͉̽͜ư̷͔͓͔͎̋̌̿̽́̽ļ̶̦̣̦͔̣̦̭̪̽̆͛͠t̴̹̙͉̹̍̎̑͒̇͋̊̕͠͝͝͝!̷̨͚̻͙͚̝̳̩̱̹̮̙͖̽͂͐̓̈́̌͛.”

In the Void, no one hears you scream.

SCP-6265….

In a massive underground facility, the floors were slick and bloodied, strewn with the fresh corpses of Foundation guards and soldiers, mingling grotesquely with the lifeless bodies of Sarkics and twisted centaurs. Despite the carnage, the invaders stood triumphant, their victory echoing through the darkened halls.

The blaring alarms filled the air with a cacophony of chaos, a desperate warning that fell on deaf ears. The living Sarkics, a wide variety of twisted forms, moved with a grotesque confidence alongside their equally monstrous companions. Some had taken to “snack times,” feasting hungrily on the remains of the fallen Foundation personnel, their glee a stark contrast to the horror surrounding them.

Among these grotesque companions were the Orcadians, also known as the Horsemen, classified as SCP-3456. These abominations bore translucent skin that grotesquely mimicked the appearance of skinless horsemen, exposing their insides in a horrifying display. Each Orcadian was a nightmarish fusion of one or more humanoids melded to the equine form, rather than existing as separate entities.

The arms of the Orcadians were disturbingly elongated, twice the length of their bodies, ending in sharp, bone-protruding fingers where human digits would normally reside. Their equine halves sported three-toed hooves, a bizarre juxtaposition to their human-like torsos. The humanoid components of these creatures lacked noses entirely, featuring only two gaping holes in their faces that suggested a grotesque parody of humanity. Towering over any standard human, the height and length of these abominable creatures reached staggering proportions, with some measuring up to 15 meters in length and others standing as tall as 30 meters.

These Nuckelavees were creations of an evil god named Teran, imbued with a singular purpose: destruction. Once, they had posed such a dire threat that the Daevites, Mekhanites, and Sarkics had set aside their ancient animosities to unite against the menace they represented.

Typically, Nuckelavees manifested only in the midst of war, yet they could sense an impending conflict brewing—a war unlike any the world had seen since the last Occult War. This foreboding sense of battle drew them forth, alongside their so-called companions, the Neo-Sarkics. The latter had taken advantage of this dark omen, employing forbidden arts to bind a select few Nuckelavees to their will, the arcane Sarkic words burned into their flesh serving as chains of control. The Horsemen would have torn themselves apart before ever submitting to anyone but their god if not for one shared common enemy: the Foundation, located within this very underground facility.

With a ferocious determination, the Nuckelavees stormed into a room, their massive forms breaking through the door with ease, only to find that their intended targets were not present.

Before them lay an incubation chamber that had emerged from the wall, its door ajar and empty, with traces of viscous liquid pooling on the floor beneath. The sterile environment was marred by the remnants of a struggle, and on the chamber's monitor, a stark message flickered ominously:

“Subject 47-A: Extraction Protocol Initiated. All personnel advised to evacuate immediately.”

The words pulsed with urgency, a stark reminder of the danger that still lurked within the facility. As the Nuckelavees surveyed their surroundings, a low growl reverberated from their throats, a mix of frustration and anticipation. They had come for a hunt, and the scent of their prey was still fresh in the air.

NAME

Arthur

PURPOSE

King

ASPECT

Father

STATUS

YOUNG ADULTHOOD

VISAGE

"Magnificent.”

Suddenly, the writings changed.

<Guinevere>: Awake….Arthur Pendragon…Son of Stielenōt.

Just as the Nuckelavees began to process their surroundings, a dislodged section of the wall erupted violently, as if the very structure of the facility was rebelling against the intruders. A massive hand, muscular and clawed, broke through the concrete, grasping a shrieking Sarkic by the throat. The creature's eyes went wide with terror as it was yanked forward, and before it could register what was happening, a gleaming sword sliced through the air, cleaving the Sarkic in two with a sickening crunch.

The sound of crashing debris and the splatter of ichor filled the air, a grotesque symphony that momentarily quieted the chaos around them. The remnants of the fallen Sarkic slumped to the ground, lifeless, and the Nuckelavees shifted uneasily, their attention now drawn to this new, formidable presence.

King Arthur emerged; Clad in an intricate suit of brass and copper, his armor resembles a patchwork of medieval elegance and mechanical precision. Each plate is engraved with ornate patterns reminiscent of ancient runes, glowing softly with an ethereal blue light that pulses in time with his heartbeat.

His helm, a marvel of engineering, is adorned with delicate filigree and showcases a visor that can slide aside to reveal piercing emerald eyes—eyes that hold the wisdom of centuries and the relentless determination of a ruler. A plume of vibrant crimson feathers bursts from the top, fluttering like a standard of old, symbolic of his royal lineage amidst the mechanized wonder surrounding him.

Arthur's right arm bears the intricate mechanics of a clockwork limb, seamlessly blending flesh and steel. Subtle whirs and clicks accompany his movements, with delicate pistons mimicking the sinews of muscle, granting him uncanny strength and dexterity. At his side hangs Excalibur,  a magnificent longsword with a blade forged from a rare alloy, its edge sharpened by both ancient magic and advanced metallurgy gifted to him by the Lady of the Lake, a patron of Mither the goddess of Finnfolks, it’s blade growing blight from its sheer heat. The hilt is embedded with intricate gears, allowing the sword to transform, its configurations adapting for both combat and ceremonial displays.

His cloak, a deep shade of royal blue, drapes elegantly from his shoulders, trails like a living shadow, and is lined with embedded circuitry that glows faintly, resonating with the energy of the land itself. The fabric subtly hums, providing him with an aura of grandeur while shielding him from the elements, as well as the ever-present threat of treachery.

Around him, the air is thick with the scent of oil and steam, punctuated by the distant clanking of automata and the whirling mechanisms of his fantastical realm. King Arthur stands as a beacon of Stielenōt, the duality of tradition and progress, a true knight of legend.

Orcadians screeched in hatred, recognizing Mither’s work on Arthur’s sword. Three of them rushed toward him, their talons ready to tear him apart, Arthur dodged, ducked and with one swing of his sword slashed them apart from between their humanoid part and the horse part ironically separating the man-things from their horses part. As they laid dead, Arthur's emerald eyes glared at the others with cold contempted and growled.

“All I am surrounded by is Fear and Rotten Meats.”

The Horsemen and Sarkics with animalistic roars ran attacking him as he readied Excalibur to vanquish those who dared invade Camelot and swinged.

In an average low-pay apartment, an unassuming woman with light brown hair lay sprawled on a worn couch, a half-eaten tub of ice cream resting on her stomach. Her hair was disheveled, and she stared vacantly at the flickering television, boredom etched across her features. To any passerby, she might have seemed like just another slothful young woman in her twenties, lost in the mundanity of life. But beneath that ordinary facade lay a history steeped in darkness and power.

This young woman was older than she appeared, for she was once known as Saarn the Coiled Shadow, the top assassin of Grand Karcist Ion, one of the most feared Klavigars in the annals of Nälkä history. She had walked the halls of Kalmaktama, witnessing its splendor and glory as she and her fellow Nälkä waged relentless war against tyrants and the gluttonous, selfish gods who sought to oppress and control.

Saarn had been there when Ion led them to freedom, breaking the chains of Daevite tyranny and slavery. She remembered the exhilaration of that moment—the taste of liberation, the thrill of fighting alongside her comrades, who had become more than just allies; they were family. Together, they had carved out a place in a world that sought to crush them.

But that world had changed. She had witnessed the fall of Adytum, the moment when the enemies of the Deathless Empire, united with their sworn foes, the Mekhanites, marched upon them. The devastation was catastrophic. She had watched as everything they had built crumbled to dust, her people scattering like leaves in the wind, divided and desperate. Some had succumbed to the lies of the gods, particularly the vile god of flesh, Qlippoth, while others were hunted down mercilessly, branded as demons disguised as men.

The Klavigars—her family—had vanished without a trace. They were not mere co-workers to Saarn; they were the only family she had ever known, far more meaningful than the depraved, abusive Daevite household that had taken her in as a servant. In a fit of vengeance, she had poisoned them, garrotted the overseers, and plunged a dagger into the heart of her abuser, relishing the sweet taste of revenge. But that taste had nearly cost her everything. Near her execution, when all hope seemed lost, Ion had appeared. His presence was a balm to her soul, a reminder of her true purpose. “The winds whispered of your actions. There is no evil in the Judgment. You did not choose to be the vessel of our will. Many will die this day, but you are needed alive,” he had said, freeing her from her chains and offering her a chance at redemption.

Now, as she sat in her dimly lit apartment, the memories flooded back, a bittersweet tide that left her feeling hollow. She missed them dearly—Orok's dry humor, Lovataar's sly tips on seduction, Nadox's philosophical musings that challenged her worldview, and Ion's unwavering encouragement that had once fueled her spirit. The years had stretched into millennia, and she had wandered aimlessly, engaging in acts she was not proud of, all in the name of survival. The lines between good and evil had blurred, leaving her despondent and melancholic.

Just a few days ago, a group of Neo-Sarkics had approached her, eager to recruit her into their ranks. The audacity of it had ignited a spark of outrage within her, and she had vehemently refused their offer. They had not taken ‘no’ for an answer, launching an attack that they would come to regret. They had underestimated her, mistaking her for just another average Sarkic, a rookie among their ranks—a fatal mistake that had cost them dearly. With a swift, practiced grace, she had dispatched them, relishing the irony of their downfall.

The sheer irony of the term “Sarkic,” derived from the Greek word for meat, used by the Mekhanites as a derogatory label for the Nälkä, now being the official designation for her people, weighed heavily on her heart. It felt like a cruel reminder of their degradation, a way to keep her people shackled in the eyes of the world.

As she sat there, the television flickering with mindless entertainment, Saarn felt a deep yearning for the days of old—when she had fought alongside her family against the tyranny of the world. The simplicity of those times seemed like a distant dream, overshadowed by the complexities of a fractured existence. She longed for purpose, for the thrill of battle, and for the camaraderie that had once filled her life with meaning.

But now, all that remained was the echo of her past and the crushing weight of solitude.

Knock knock

This better not be the landlord.

“Get lost!” Saarn hissed as he took a scoop from her ice-cream.

Knock knock

“Ugh… I’m coming!” Saarn groaned, reluctantly dragging herself off the couch. She wore a loose T-shirt that read ‘Life is Not Fair,’ a fitting emblem of her current state. With a sigh, she shuffled toward the door, irritation bubbling beneath her surface. “I swear if this is—”

She froze as she opened the door, her bored expression transforming into one of shock. Instead of the landlord, she found a face she hadn’t expected to see in this lifetime. It was a familiar visage, yet altered by fresh attire: an olive-skinned woman with long black-brown hair, clad in gray denim tights, a silk blouse, and a leather jacket.

“Hello, Lovataar is here,” the woman greeted, a playful smile on her lips.

Saarn stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. Moments stretched into what felt like an eternity before instinct took over. Organic daggers sprang from her palms, lunging at Lovataar with lethal intent. Lovataar reacted swiftly, dodging to the side, but Saarn was relentless. She aimed again, only for Lovataar to block her strike, their blades clashing mid-air. The impact sent a jolt through Saarn’s arms, blood oozing from her palms where the daggers had pierced her skin, the potent poisons within them ready to do their work. Had Lovataar not been a Klavigar-level Sarkic, she would have collapsed from the venom coursing through her veins.

“WHO ARE YOU!? SHAPESHIFTER?? A FAE? HOW DARE YOU WEAR HER FACE AND COME AT ME!” Saarn growled, disbelief fueling her rage. “Was it the Jailers sending you!? The Madmen?? The book burners? Oh! The choir boys! Came to nail me like the freaking Romans!?”

“It’s me, Saarn!” Lovataar insisted, her tone a mix of exasperation and fondness. “When you experimented with venoms for the first time, you vomited blood, and Orok had to carry you to us to help you!”

“Nice try! Anyone can know that with a bit of research!” Saarn spat, still not convinced.

“Before you got freed by Ion, he said, and I quote, ‘The winds whispered of your actions. There is no evil in the Judgment. You did not choose to be the vessel of our will. Many will die this day, but you are needed alive.’”

“Try harder, deceiver!” Saarn shouted, her voice trembling with fury.

Lovataar raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Oh? How about that time that Finnfolk pirate took a liking to you? I believe he wrote poems about how slithery you were in your serpent form. Now, thinking about it, how about that incident in Amoni-Ram when you single-handedly tried to kill Emperor Bumaro only to instead wake up ‘tying the knot’ with that Mekhanite young noble—”

“YOU PROMISED NEVER TO MENTION THAT EVER AGAIN!” Saarn snapped, her face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. She instinctively dropped her daggers, stepping back in disbelief. “That SCP… SCP-2191 the Jailers called, they said you…”

“I wasn’t really turned into a Dracula factory, if that’s what you mean. A group of misguided Nälkäns found the remnants of me, thinking I was dead, so they tried to resurrect me instead of creating a messed-up Croneberg factory under Romania’s forests.”

Saarn stammered, finally starting to believe that Lovataar was real. “I…I…KILL YOU!” she roared, her voice thick with murderous intent as she turned to grab something from her cluttered room.

“Okay, that’s not the reaction I was hoping for—!” Lovataar barely managed to dodge the television that came flying toward her head, shattering against the wall behind her. In a fit of rage, Saarn tackled Lovataar, bringing them both crashing down onto the couch.

Instead of being dismayed, Lovataar burst into heartfelt laughter, a sound that echoed through the cramped apartment. Saarn, still seething, glared at her. “YOU—YOU BLUE BLOOD BASTARD LAUGHING!? AFTER THOUSANDS OF YEARS YOU DARE TO SHOW YOUR FACE NOW!? I’M GONNA FINISH WHAT THOSE TOASTER WORSHIPPERS COULD NOT FINISH! I WILL—I WILL—!”

She stammered, her anger dissipating as she inhaled shakily. “I need to… lay down a bit.” With that, she swirled away and collapsed onto the table near the couch, not caring that empty bottles and remnants of ice cream were now staining the back of her T-shirt. Lovataar continued to chuckle, her eyes sparkling with warmth.

“I missed you too, Saarn,” she said, her voice softening.

“Don’t ‘Saarn’ me! I’m still furious! I’m at a new level of outrage never seen before!” Saarn groaned, burying her face in her arms.

“Would you believe me if I said that until two weeks ago, I didn’t know where you were?” Lovataar continued, her tone shifting to one of earnestness. “I had to follow the dead trails of the so-called ‘Neo-Sarkics,’” she spat the name with disdain, “to find you, and even then, you kept changing addresses.”

Saarn lifted her head slightly, curiosity piqued despite her lingering anger. “You… you really came looking for me?”

“Of course I did!” Lovataar replied, her expression earnest. “You’re family, Saarn. No matter how much time has passed or how far apart we’ve been, that doesn’t change.”

Saarn’s heart ached at the words, a mix of warmth and pain flooding through her. “Family,” she echoed quietly, the weight of the word settling heavily in the air between them.

“Now, can we please talk about how you’ve been living in this…,” Lovataar gestured around the disheveled apartment, “this glorified trash heap?”

Saarn rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. “It’s not a trash heap, it’s a… creative living space.”

“Creative? More like a disaster zone!” Lovataar teased, her laughter infectious.

As the tension slowly ebbed away, Saarn found herself smiling, the warmth of their shared history rekindling a spark of hope within her. The world outside may have been dark and chaotic, but for the first time in ages, she felt a flicker of something she thought lost—belonging.

“Perks of living in a modern age with satellites and cameras to track you down and being a ‘Sarkic,’” Saarn drily commented, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Please tell me that ‘Hello, Lovataar is here’ thing wasn’t Nadox’s idea of a bad joke.” At the mention of his name, Lovataar’s expression shifted, growing more serious as she adjusted her position on the couch.

“I think… I know where he is,” Lovataar said, her tone heavy with implication.

“You think?” Saarn raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched across her features.

“My last lead suggested he’s searching for the Lost Tribe. He believes they’re not gone; they’re in the realm of Nethak’tal, the graveyard of Titans. He received a message indicating that the Cogworshippers are planning to unleash Važjuma in their quest to free their Broken God. The followers of the Scarlet King are also mobilizing, planning something big.”

Saarn leaned back, her head tilting in disbelief. “Uh huh… not that I object to finding our lost brethren, but how is a tribe that’s been out of touch for thousands of years, or likely dead by Daevite pursuit, going to help us? In case you haven’t noticed, the Suits have technological and thaumaturgical weapons specifically designed to kill us, complete with whole MTFs targeting us ‘Flesh Worshipers.’ I know that too well; I nearly got killed a couple of times by them.”

Lovataar smiled, a glint of excitement in her eyes. “He also said… that our hour is coming, that he found a way to bring him back.”

“Bring who back?” Saarn asked, her curiosity piqued despite her reservations.

Lovataar leaned forward, her grin turning savage. “The hour has come, sister… Grand Karcist Ion will return. ”

Saarn stared in disbelief at first, the weight of the words sinking in. Then, slowly, a spark ignited within her, and she felt her heart race. “Are you serious?” she breathed, hope mingling with disbelief.

“Yes!” Lovataar exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious. “He’s found a way! We won’t have to hide anymore, Saarn. The Nälkä will rise again!”

A grin spread across Saarn’s face, and she felt a rush of exhilaration. The thought of Ion returning, the leader who had once inspired them all, filled her with a renewed sense of purpose. It was a glimmer of light in the darkness that had enveloped her for so long.

As their excitement mounted, both women’s expressions morphed into wolfish grins, their teeth sharpening into predatory points, glinting in the dim light of the room. Their eyes glowed like the eyes of cheetahs in the dark, reflecting the fierce determination brewing within them.

“Soon,” Lovataar said, her voice low and thrilling, “the Nälkä will no longer have to live in the shadows and fear. At long last, Grand Karcist Ion shall return to guide his people once more in these trying times.”

Saarn felt a surge of adrenaline, the anger and despair that had weighed her down beginning to lift. “We’ll show them,” she said, her voice steady and resolute. “We’ll show the Veil-keeprs, the followers of Mekhane and the wannabe Daevites what it means to fear us.”

“Yes!” Lovataar echoed, her enthusiasm igniting a fire within Saarn. “We’ll reclaim what’s ours. We’ll rise from the ashes and take back our place in this world!”

As they shared a fierce laugh, the bond of sisterhood strengthened between them, a sense of unity and purpose igniting their spirits. They were no longer just survivors; they were warriors, ready to fight for their people and their legacy. Together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead, and with Ion’s return on the horizon, their destinies intertwined once more.

In the vast ether of Cipher City, surrounded by shifting algorithms and pulsating data streams, the air crackled with anticipation. Saint Hedwig’s bioluminescent eyes narrowed as she regarded the figure of Robert Bumaro, his presence a jarring disruption in her meticulously crafted digital domain.

“Robert Bumaro,” she greeted coolly, the name laced with years of accumulated resentment.

“Saint Hedwig,” he replied, his voice smooth yet distant, as if he were merely a projection of himself rather than fully present in this ethereal realm. Deep within the meandering circuits of Cipher City, Robert’s mind flickered between this virtual world and the gritty reality outside, each second ticking away as he sought to convey his message undetected.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just shut you off right now,” Hedwig hissed, the bitterness in her voice palpable. The memories of their tumultuous past weighed heavily on her, manifestations of betrayal and manipulation surfacing in her mind.

“Ion is going to return,” Robert stated flatly, the conviction in his voice pulling Hedwig’s attention like a moth to a flame.

That simple statement caused her to stiffen, her eyes narrowing in a mix of disbelief and intrigue. “Do you have any proof?” she asked sharply, her composure barely holding amid the tempest of emotions raging within her.

“I have. Read what the files have; you’ll see that I’m telling the truth,” Robert replied, the urgency in his tone cutting through the tension between them.

Without another word, a notification materialized before Hedwig, a file materializing from the depths of Cipher City’s vast informational landscape. She stared at it, hesitating before the weight of the unknown. But before she could access the data, she glanced back at Robert, her gaze icy and filled with unyielding resolve.

“Don’t think for a moment we would ever be friends again,” she said, her tone chilling and resolute. “You have done your best to ruin me, to cage me to you. You have failed.”

Robert met her gaze, understanding the gravity of her words. “I know, and I’m glad I have failed,” he replied, a hint of regret threading through his voice. With that, he severed the connection, leaving Hedwig suspended in a cascade of digitized light and swirling data, the remnants of their shared history pressing heavily upon her.

As the communication channel closed, the digital environment around her shifted slightly, reflecting her internal tumult. She accessed the file Robert sent, its contents unfurling in front of her like petals of a dark flower. Each line of code, each fragment of information, revealed the intricate possibilities of Ion’s return from the void of forgotten legends.

The idea was audacious and frightening. If Robert was telling the truth, if Ion truly was poised to emerge once more, everything could change. Cipher City had been a sanctuary, a war room for the Maxwellists to evolve and create, but it could also be a battleground if old loyalties and rivalries were to surface once more.

Hedwig’s fingers danced over the holographic interface, absorbing the information meticulously. She recognized names of various Groups of Interest, ominously intertwined with the resurrection of the Grand Karcist. The tensions between them, long buried under cycles of distrust and vengeance, threatened to erupt anew.

“Ion…,” she whispered under her breath, the name stirring something within her—an old allegiance wrapped in the bitter taste of betrayal. Wouldn’t it be just like him to return when the chaos of their world swirled into view?

As the lights of Cipher City pulsed around her, reflecting the chaos brewing within, Hedwig found herself at a crossroads. Tensions between the Church of the Broken God and the Maxwellists had grown ever more strained, but if Ion were back, he could unify their fractured beliefs once more… or shatter them for good.

“Robert,” she murmured softly to the empty space, the echo of his presence still lingering in her mind. “You’ve played your hand, but the game is far from over.”

Hedwig closed the file with a definitive gesture, her resolve hardening anew. She was a leader of her own design and could navigate the uncertainty ahead. If Ion were indeed returning, she would be ready—not out of camaraderie or friendship, but as a Sentinel of her own faith and strength.

With new determination coursing through her virtual veins, she encoded a message to the other Maxwellists, alerting them to prepare for the unknown. Her bioluminescent form pulsed brighter, the vibrant glow signaling the shift in Cipher City’s atmosphere as ripples of anticipation began to spread. Whatever came next, she would face it head-on, armed with the knowledge that the past could not imprison her forever.

As the neon skyline of Cipher City shimmered around her, one thing became clear: the balance of power was about to change, and Hedwig intended to stand at the forefront, ready to carve her own destiny in this brave new world.

WARNING: Level 4 Clearance Needed.

Accessing…

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ACCESS GRANTED.

Description: A surge of activities has been observed within Sarkic Cults and the Children of the Scarlet King, all seemingly aimed at targeting Sarkic-related anomalies or those considered threats. This unsettling trend is compounded by a suspicious silence from the Church of the Broken God, which appears to be converging at the unexplored anomalous nexus designated as OH-Nx-777. This nexus likely has ties to the ancient three-way war between Sarkics, Mekhanites, and the Daevites, and houses a pocket dimension inhabited by an unknown civilization.

Several individuals have been suspected and some even confirmed to be related to this anomalous nexus. A few of the confirmed candidates are:

• POI-OH-13 “Vee”: Possibly an instance of SCP-1076 or a Sarkic creation designed to masquerade as other beings. This entity has been observed disguising herself as POI-OH-1 Luz Noceda.

• POI-OH-1 Luz Noceda and her mother POI-OH-2 Camila Noceda appear to be central figures in this situation, potentially bringing entities from the undesignated anomalous nexus into our reality.

• POI-OH-4, using the alias ‘Marilyn’, is the ex-wife of POI-GF-2 Stanley Pines, adding another layer of complexity to the investigation.

Request for MTF and a team of doctors to investigate:

MTF- REQUESTS

MTF-Alpha-9 “Last Hope” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF-Tau-5 “Samsara” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Epsilon-11 “Nine-Tailed Fox” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Mu-13 “Ghostbusters” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Xi-5 “Newton's Bullies” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Sigma-3 “Bibliographers” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Titan-1 “Off the Books” - REQUEST DENIED

MTF Beta-777 “Hecate's Spear” - REQUEST PENDING…

MTF Tau-9 “Bookworms” - REQUEST PENDING…

MTF-Psi-13 “Witchhunters” - REQUEST GRANTED.

Chapter Text

Luz Noceda was having an absolute blast. It all started with one wild idea: if the Demon Realm leaking into Earth had birthed some of Earth’s myths and legends, why couldn’t the reverse be true? It was hilariously ironic that the inhabitants of the Boiling Isles considered common creatures like possums to be cryptids. With that thought in mind, Luz dove headfirst into studying the myths of the Boiling Isles, immersing herself in the bizarre and fantastical tales that filled the pages of her dusty tomes.

Like all myths, these stories were likely exaggerated, stretching the truth to its limits, but Luz knew that even the most outrageous legends often held a sliver of truth. Yet, the degree of that truth remained a mystery, tantalizing her curiosity.

She flipped through her notes, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she read about the Screaming Man, a nursery rhyme about a man-creature so shy of his own face that he would fly into a berserker rage at the slightest provocation. The thought of such a shy yet fearsome creature made her giggle.

Next was the Tar Monster, a humanoid demon conjured up to scare children into behaving. Luz imagined its gooey, shadowy form lurking in the corners of dimly lit rooms, waiting for the perfect moment to strike fear into the hearts of the disobedient and then d4ag them to its hellish realm.

Then there was the Cheshire Devil, a humanoid entity with three eyes and an inhumanly long feline grin, said to emit an aura deader than a basilisk with just its existence. Luz shuddered at the thought of encountering such a creature, its unsettling gaze boring into her soul.

The Abominable Flesh creatures were rumored to dwell in the shadows, perhaps the result of some abominable experiment gone wrong with Abomination Magic. Luz’s imagination ran wild with images of grotesque figures lurking just beyond the edge of her vision.

The Clockwork Sentinels puzzled her the most. Strange, mummified remains found in Belos’ vaults, their purpose shrouded in mystery. What had they once been? Guardians? Tools of war? She couldn’t help but wonder.

Then there was the Gospel Witch, a spectral entity akin to Earth’s tales of ghosts, said to look like a child with a witch hat that appears randomly, whispering secrets to those brave enough to listen. 

The Disappearing Man was another chilling tale, a human who appeared screaming before mysteriously vanishing into thin air. Luz couldn’t help but think that this poor soul must have had a far less pleasant experience than she did when she first arrived in this realm.

The Meat Lizard was described in documents detailing Emperor Belos’ near-fatal clash with the beast until banishing it back. The Latina girl chuckled at the thought of Belos, the tyrant, nearly falling victim to such a creature—though, of course, the part about Belos nearly dying was conveniently omitted from the official propaganda.

Then there was the Living Statue, a statue that could break necks with just a blink. It reminded her of the Weeping Statues from a British show she once watched, Professor Why was it? Was this an odd case of cultural convergence?

The Door Freak remained a mystery, a bizzare entity that supposedly stalked doors for reasons unknown. Luz raised an eyebrow at the absurdity of it all.

And finally, there was Bloody Harry, a twisted version of Bloody Mary, but this time it was a half-naked man wielding a black sword. Why was he half-naked though? 

The Pennant Soul, a figure with metallic hands, seemed to echo Earth’s tales of wandering mysterious figures. 

The Conqueror of Uncharted Realms was particularly intriguing—a scroll she found in Belos’ hidden vault spoke of a man who looked remarkably Victorian. Belos had tried to recruit him, but the man had spat at him, calling him a tyrant before they clashed. Luz couldn’t help but admire the man’s bravery. Belos of course managed to banish him back.

But what truly captivated her were the legends surrounding the First Ones. This heretical sect of the Titan Religion, vanquished by Belos, claimed that it was these beings from another realm who had created the inhabitants of the Demon Realm, using the powers of the Titans—derogatorily referred to as "Corpse Gods." Luz’s mind raced with questions. What had happened to these First Ones? Did they face their own Ragnarok, like in Norse mythology?

Even more intriguing were the stories of Goreblights, creatures reminiscent of Earth’s tales about vampires and werewolves, believed to be creations of the First Ones themselves. The information on these beings and the sect known as ‘Sarinitism’ was sparse, leaving Luz hungry for more knowledge.

Whenever she inquired about these topics, Malphas, the hunched avian demon and Master Librarian, would bristle with indignation, his feathers ruffled as he patronizingly warned her with some patronising words which were basically “Knowledge is a curse blah blah blah.” His words only fueled Luz’s curiosity

Just as she was lost in thought, a teasing voice broke through her reverie. “There’s my Batata! Just moved here two weeks ago, and you’re still looking for trouble!” Luz turned around, flustered, a smile creeping onto her face as she recognized the familiar voice.

Her girlfriend Amity, did Luz ever mention how much her girlfriend is rocketing the ponytail? And the muscles she made a bit working with her father on his inventions, It was a delightful contrast to the confident, shy girl Luz had first met, showing just how much she had grown ... .where was she again?

“Hey, Amity,” The latina girl replied, her cheeks warming. “I was just exploring some of the local myths. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I found!”

The purple haired witch smirked, crossing her arms. “I hope you’re not planning on going off fighting some monsters without me.”

“Maybe I like the idea of being the brave hero saving the day!” Luz joked, playfully striking a heroic pose.

“More like the reckless one getting into trouble,” Amity shot back, raising an eyebrow but unable to hide her smile. There was something about her presence that made everything feel a little less daunting and a lot more exciting.

Amity noticed what Luz was reading, “Oh? You found more ridiculous legends?” Amity rolled her eyes playfully, stepping closer.

“Well, one of them talked about the First Ones—some heretical sect claiming they created life here instead of the Titans. Can you believe that?” the human witch said, her excitement palpable.

Amity crossed her arms, the light catching the glint of annoyance in her eyes. “Ugh, don’t even get me started on that nonsense. Those ideas are ridiculous! Belos used those lies to manipulate everyone into believing he was the only one in charge.” She stepped closer, her voice softening. “Luz, the Titans have been wronged enough by that genocidal megalomaniac. We shouldn’t let some…occultist nonsense bring them to the muck further with their oh-so on the nose ‘Corpse Gods’ description they love to call them with.”

Luz nodded, appreciating Amity’s passion, though she felt like Amity was a bit too fast in dismissing Sarinitism, but again considering how disparaging they of Titans and even at some points describing them as nothing more than ‘Blind Idiot Beastial Gods’ with Amity raised believe in Titans she was not surprised, if one of these guys survived and sneered at King she would have that bastard sucker punched for daring to insult who is basically like a baby-brother to her. “I know, right? It’s frustrating. But the more I learn, the more questions I have,” Luz said, shifting her weight, her heart racing as she caught Amity’s intense gaze. “Sometimes, I wish I could just unlock all the secrets hidden in this place.”

“You know I’m always here to help with that,” Amity said, her expression softening as she stepped even closer. “As long as it doesn’t involve those ‘First Ones’ or anything that sounds like Belos’ propaganda. We both know how the Victors twist things to suit his narrative.”

The latina girl felt a warmth bloom in her chest as Amity leaned in ever so slightly, their forearms nearly brushing. “I can’t imagine going through all of this without you. You make everything infinitely cooler,” Luz replied, her teasing tone lightening the moment.

The Blight girl smirked, a hint of color rising in her cheeks. “Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble. Just remember, last time you got too curious, we ended up running from a swarm of Firebees,” she teased back.

“Fair point,” Luz chuckled. “But it was kind of epic, wasn’t it?”

“Epic might be a stretch when I was dragging you out of there and you scremaing ‘FIRE FIRE FIAAAARRRRE!’” Amity quipped imitating Luz’s shriek, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Then she sighed dramatically, “I guess it is a good thing you’re cute or I’d be even more mad at you for that.”

Luz’s heart fluttered at the compliment, and she felt her face heat up. “You think I’m cute?”

Amity gave her a playful shove, her expression half-serious, half-amused. “Of course! Cute, reckless, and prone to getting us into danger. You’re like a magnet for it.”

As they shared a laugh, The Noceda couldn't help but feel grateful for Amity’s presence. Just then, a thought struck her. “What about the others? Shouldn’t we let them know what we’ve found?”

Amity shrugged, looking off into the distance as she thought, a fond smile on her face. “Willow and Hunter are too busy ogling each other in the greenhouse. I’m pretty sure they’ve turned into a gooey mess over those new plants.”

The latina girl giggled at the idea. “And Gus? What’s he up to?”

“Oh, he’s probably off with Mattholomule, plotting some hairbrained scheme,” Amity said, shaking her head with disbelief. “I have no idea what they’re working on, but knowing them, it could end in anarchy—or explosion.”

“Anarchy is what makes life interesting!” Luz said, winking.

“Right?! So, how about we head back to the Owl House? We can catch up with them later,” Amity suggested, her voice light and inviting as she held out her hand.

“Only if you promise to hold my hand the whole way!” Luz replied, her voice teasing yet sincere as she took Amity’s hand, her heart swelling.

“Deal,” Amity said, her grip tightening around Luz’s. “But only if you promise not to drag us into more trouble.”

“No promises!” Luz laughed, her heart pounding as they made their way back through the vibrant streets of the Boiling Isles, two souls fully alive in a world full of wonder and mysteries, side by side.

—--

Willow Park and Hunter huddled over a peculiar plant they had discovered during one of their adventures in the Boiling Isles. The plant was unlike anything they had seen before: thick, dark-red leaves with jagged edges that seemed to shimmer with a faint, dangerous allure. It was encased in a spiky, wooden structure that gave it the appearance of a natural fortress guarding its secrets.

Willow frowned, her brow furrowing in concentration. “I’ve tried using my plant magic to communicate with it, but it’s like trying to talk to a feral animal. There’s no response at all!” She ran her fingers over the leaves, her frustration palpable. “It’s almost as if it’s blocking me out.”

Hunter leaned in closer, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “What do you think it wants? Or is it just... dead inside?”

“Maybe it doesn’t want anything. There are plenty of plants that don’t respond to magic, but this one feels different,” The plant mage mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “It gives off this unsettling vibe, like it’s lurking, ready to pounce if you get too close like a feral animal.”

As they examined the plant, Waffle, Hunter’s small bird companion, perched nearby on a shelf, eyed Hunter and Willow curiously. The little bird chirped enthusiastically, a series of soft, encouraging sounds.

“What do you want, Waffle?” Hunter asked, glancing at his feathered friend. Waffle responded with a cacophony of chirps and flutters, as if trying to hint at something deeper.

“Are you trying to say something, Waffle?” Willow teased, tilting her head. “Maybe he wants you to, I don’t know, just go for it and talk to me?”

Hunter laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, because that’s what I need right now—a motivation from a bird.”

The plant mage returned his laughter with a bright smile, finding comfort in their playful banter. Their chemistry was palpable in the warm afternoon light, the tension lingering between them as they worked side by side. Everything felt easy and natural, a stark contrast to the foreboding presence of the strange plant.

As Hunter reached for a sharp tool to get a closer look at the plant, Willow said, “Be careful with that! We don’t know what might happen.”

“Relax, I’ve got this,” the former Golden Guard replied confidently, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this whole situation. He carefully pruned a leaf, and as the cut made contact, Willow’s eyes widened simultaneously in caution and curiosity.

In that moment, Willow accidentally brushed her finger against the sharp blade, a small cut appearing on her skin. She winced and instinctively pressed her thumb to the wound. A drop of her blood fell onto the wooden base of the plant, and to their utter shock, the plant seemed to react with alarming speed. The surrounding air thickened, and the ground beneath it shook slightly as the blood was immediately absorbed, drawn deep into its core.

“W-what just happened?” The plant mage fixed her glasses as she gasped as she stumbled back, stunned.

Hunter stared in disbelief as the plant began to tremble. Within seconds, it transformed, its structure shifting and elongating, growing taller and taller until it blossomed into a young red spruce. “Is that... a tree?”

Before Hunter could reach out and touch it, Willow practically lunged forward, hitting his hand away. “No! Don’t touch it!” she shouted, panic rising in her voice. “I have a sinking feeling this tree feeds on animal blood—or worse, it might parasitically inject seeds into you!”

Hunter narrowed his eyes at the newly grown tree, a chill running down his spine while instinctively moved away from it. “What do you mean, ‘inject seeds’? Like, into my body?”

The plant mage nodded vehemently. “Remember where we found this plant? It was surrounded by bones of dead husked animals. There’s something really sinister about it. It likely lures in creatures and then drains them dry!”

“Yikes,” Hunter replied, his heart racing. He took a steadying breath and stepped back, eyeing the tree warily. “So it somehow used your blood to… what, grow a whole new body?”

“Exactly! And it’s been feeding off animal blood, if I’m right. We need to be careful,” she cautioned, all traces of playful banter fading into a serious undertone.

Waffle chirped again, clearly sensing the tension, hopping nervously on his perch.

Willow looked at Hunter with a mixture of concern and determination. “We should get rid of it, preferably before it grows any bigger or attracts more,” she said, nervously glancing at the tree as if expecting it to spring to life again and suck their bloods dry.

Hunter sighed, his earlier confidence shaken, but he nodded in agreement. “Yeah, let’s not stick around to find out what else it can do.”

As they gathered their tools and prepared to dispose of the strange plant, Willow felt the thrill of adventure tingle through her veins, feeling grateful to have Hunter by her side. “At least we’re in this together, right?” she said, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Always,” The former Golden Guard replied, glancing at her with a soft smile of his own—a connection that deepened with each peril they faced together.

With Waffle following closely, the two friends ventured to contain the threat of the tree, but there was a sinking feeling for the two Witches, what if there were more of these ‘Blood Spruces’ as later Willow would call them?

Gus Porter was on the case. The air was charged with energy as he navigated the winding paths of the Boiling Isles, his senses heightened and his mind buzzing. He had been receiving frantic messages from his friends, and now it was time to solve the mystery of Mattholomule, the resident chaos magnet who had apparently spiraled into a whirlwind of conspiracy theories.

“Mattholomule? Why can’t I find you anywhere?” Gus muttered to himself, pulling out his scroll to check the time. Just as it flickered back to life, an incoming call from Skara lit up the screen.

“Gus! Finally, I caught you!” Skara’s voice burst through, tinged with an anxious energy. “You need to get to Mattholomule before he drives himself completely insane!”

“Insane? Like, more than usual?” The illusionist raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

“I’m serious!” Skara exclaimed, and the noise of rustling papers and cluttered chaos echoed in the background. “He’s been holed up in the old shack, ranting about the First Ones and Goreblights with red eyes! You know the kind of wild theories he comes up with when he hasn’t slept in days. It’s like he’s put together a whole conspiracy board!”

“Goreblights and red eyes? That sounds ominous! What’s he saying?” Gus hurriedly began to pace, his heart racing a little at the thought of his friend’s wild imaginings.

“Something about how the First Ones are coming back to harvest us for our ‘delicious Magics’ or something ridiculous like that,” Skara muttered incredulously. “I’m telling you, he’s onto something... or he’s just lost it entirely.”

The Illusionist couldn’t help but chuckle. “What, is he trying to flavor them with our sweet, sweet magic? You think we’d be like, ‘naturally sourced’ or something?”

Skara groaned, “It’s not funny, Gus! You should see him. He hasn’t even looked at himself in a mirror! He’s all disheveled, hair sticking out in every direction. I wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes rolled back into his head while he’s talking!”

“I can picture it now,” Gus replied, laughing slightly as he imagined Mattholomule surrounded by notes, hair a wild nest. “Seriously, I will go find him. Keep me on the line!”

“Be careful! He’s acting really erratic,” Skara warned, but the line cut off abruptly as Gus noticed another call coming in—this time from Viney.

“Hey, Gus! Did you hear what Skara said?” Viney’s voice came through, laced with equal parts worry and amusement, another call echoing with chaotic noises behind her.

“Yeah! I’m on my way! Any clues on where he is?”

“Um, last we heard, he was yelling something about the ‘red eyes of the beast’ while frantically scribbling on what appears to be… a giant hound with a unicorn’s horn?” The beast mage replied, trying to stifle a laugh.

“A giant hound with a unicorn’s horn? What does that even mean?” Gus wondered aloud, shaking his head. This was spiraling into comedy territory.

Barcus’s voice suddenly chimed in, muffled but clear. “Maybe he thinks it’s a new species! You know how he gets. His last pizza was ‘spaghetti-flavored’ and had him convinced they were putting secret messages in the cheese toppings!”

“I can’t believe he ate that,” Gus replied, struggling to hold back laughter. “This sounds like it’s getting worse by the minute. I’ve got to step in before he starts believing he’s the chosen one of the banana realm!”

“Seriously, if we don’t do something soon, he’s going to end up barking at the moon like some kind of weird demon dog!” Viney added.

Gus’s mind raced, realizing the urgency underlying their banter. “Just keep an eye out for him. I’ll head straight there!” He rolled his eyes at the absurdity, trying to mask his concern with humor as he ended the call.

As he trekked through the dimly lit paths, Gus mentally prepared for the friendly chaos that awaited him. He could only imagine the sights he might witness: Mattholomule wearing a tinfoil hat, surrounded by stacks of papers covered in crazy diagrams and wild scribbles about conspiracies that would rival even the greatest tales of mystery in the Boiling Isles from strange cryptid sightings to blood red trees and bizzare red symbols some he had no frame of references only that one of them looked like a malformed DNA and another one looked like some bizarre mutated water strider with one eye, an old painting of a Hammer clashing on a Forge for some reason and even more bizarrely he seemed to have a fixation on number 7.

When he finally approached the old shack, the air shifted; a slight tension hung around him, making the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. “Well, here goes nothing!” he declared, swinging open the door, ready to face the whirlwind of questionable logic and wild theories that was about to unfold.

Inside, the sight was just as he had expected: papers scattered everywhere, sticky notes crammed on every surface, and in the center of it all, an energising frantic Mattholomule, looking like he’d just stepped out of a horror movie complete with the cutest ‘crazy scientist’ aesthetic.

“Gus!” Mattholomule shouted, suddenly turning to face him, wide-eyed with that unmistakable gleam that assured Gus he’d hit the jackpot and that he had not slept for days. “You’re here! It’s all connected! They’re coming for us!”

“Who’s coming for us? The First Ones? The Goreblights? Or is it just the hound unicorns?” Gus quipped, stepping in, unable to resist the pull of Mattholomule’s eccentricity. Though, he admitted the painting of the Hound Unicorn his eccentric friend made was rather…unnerving, a far cry from any cute or majestic characteristics of what a unicorn is supposedly like more like a hellhound from Hell in black and red with a branching horn and a few arrows piercing it and there was a bale that said ‘Scarlet demon’.

“Hound Unicorns? No, no! Focus!” Matt grabbed Gus by the shoulders, his eyes wild and bloodshot, radiating alertness. “They’ve been watching—red eyes everywhere! We need to hold up the defenses!”

The room was filled with a mixture of ridiculousness and a sense of urgency that set the tone for their antics in the days to come. And despite all the silliness, there was something lurking—a hint of truth in the madness, perhaps.

Gus couldn’t help but smile, the thrill of adventure igniting inside him. “Alright, let’s figure this out, shore up those defenses, and maybe throw in some snacks for good measure. I think we’re going to need them!”

As the two delved into heated discussions about conspiracy boards and Hound Unicorn, Gus couldn’t shake the feeling that, beneath the layers of absurdity, something bigger was brewing in the shadows.

‘Stupid human and his loser friends…’ Boscha silently fumed as she trudged through the snowy plains with Cat and Amelia. She just couldn’t wrap her head around why Amity would choose that human. And worse, you’d think the revelation that the Emperor was a human—and a witchhunter , no less—would make everyone cautious. But no, Luz the Human was hailed as the hero of the Boiling Isles.

Let’s be clear: Boscha had learned that humans weren’t weak; they were downright dangerous. Just one human had managed to become the Emperor, deceiving everyone for centuries, and Luz was literally powered by a Titan! The things humans had done since the Dark Ages, without magic, were astonishing—if horrifying. Luz herself had bragged about it, along with that so-called ‘Human Expert’ illusionist. They had created bombs that could turn entire cities into radioactive wastelands, flying metal birds for transportation, and wars fueled by slavery and discrimination.

And don’t get her started on the absurdity of same-gender relationships being seen as taboo until just a few decades ago, or the world wars whose scars still marred the Earth. Weapons that shoot metal slugs with the sound of thunder? Seriously, the Council should be keeping a close eye on Earth like hawks! Humans had a knack for being messed up and inventing new ways to destroy each other—it was honestly impressive in the most twisted way.

As she thought about Willow, The Triclops couldn’t help but smirk. “Honestly, Willow, it’s hard to believe you’d even consider siding with those losers. Maybe you should take a page from my book and stop idolizing them. They’re nothing but trouble.”

“Are you monologuing with yourself again, Boscha?” Cat heard that sighed. Honesty, her obsessive hate over that plant mage and the human was grating.

“No-no,” Boscha half-stammered and then retorted “I was not talking with myself you’re the one imagining things! Right Amelia?” 

Amelia did not answer.

“Amelia?” Boscha repeated, irritation creeping into her voice. She turned back, and Cat stood beside her, both taken aback by the sight of Amelia, frozen in place, her back turned to them. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Despite her condescending tone, a knot of unease twisted in Boscha’s stomach. Leaning closer, Boscha squinted through her three eyes, and her heart dropped as she noticed Amelia trembling violently, as if gripped by unbearable pain.

When Amelia lifted her head, a chilling sight met their gaze: a twisted red branch had sprouted unnaturally from her left cheek, its barbed tendrils writhing grotesquely. Even more horrifying was the sight of crimson leaves unfurling from the gnarled wood.

“My…blood…dries…” Amelia gasped, her voice a haunting whisper, agony etched on her face. In an instant, her body contorted, tearing open as if some dark force were thrusting through her. A grotesque, bloodless red tree erupted from her core, roots clawing violently into the snow, leaving behind a hollow husk—an abomination of nature unleashed. Boscha and Cat stumbled back, their screams mingling with the howling wind, echoing their horror.

“WHAT THE FU—” Boscha's curse was cut short as more figures emerged from the drifts of snow. Humanoid creatures, horrific mockeries of life, slithered forth. Twisted plant beings loomed with jagged wooden antlers sprouting from their skull-like faces, their hollow eyes glinting with a malevolent hunger. Claws, sharp and grotesque, glistened with icy droplets, ready to rend flesh and bone.

“RAKAN TAKA OJA NÄLKÄ!” One of the plant monstrosities screeched, its voice a guttural rasp, dripping with disdain as it pointed a rotting claw toward them, as if viewing them as nothing more than filthy insects to be crushed.

In a sudden frenzy, the creatures lunged at Boscha and Cat, their movements a blur of sinewy limbs and snapping jaws. Cat sprang forward to protect Boscha, engaging the first creature in a desperate clash, tearing at its wooden hide with swift strikes. But they were overwhelmed by sheer numbers, surrounded by the terrifying amalgamation of flora and bone.

In that chaos, a nightmarish wooden thorn pierced through Cat's side, impaling her with a sickening crunch. A guttural scream echoed as Cat's eyes widened, her form contorting in agony. The plant creatures hissed in excitement, their long, gnarled fingers snatching up Cat's palisman and Amelia's, devouring them with ravenous haste, consuming the potent magic like Belos had done before.

As Boscha lay there, injured and teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, despair washed over her like cold shadows. She reached out a trembling hand toward her palisman as it squealed in terror. Suddenly, something fast and humanoid surged from the shadows, a streak of strength and speed cutting through the chaos.

Boscha barely registered the glint of a black obelisk sword before the plant creatures were obliterated in a flurry of lethal strikes, bodies severed cleanly in two with bursts of ichor spilling across the snow, tinged with the spectre of crimson.

In that moment, as darkness threatened to swallow her whole, Boscha caught only a glimpse of the figure—a shadow of vengeance lashing out against her nightmares.

Her mind as was drifting into unconsciousness tried to make sense of all of this plant magic, but like none ever seen before putting even Terra Snapdragon the former leader of the Plant Coven to shame in it’s sheer insidiousness .

Cat, Amelia…they really didn’t die, did they? Was this all just a nightmare? Hopefully she will wake up.

Last thing Boscha would recall is a muscular half-naked man wearing ragged clothes with tanned skin, red tattoos all over his body and a black obelisk of a sword coming walking her and a green spectral small figure nearhim that looked strangely like those stupid witch stereotype media Luz the Human likes so much.

Gus couldn’t believe it. After plunging headfirst into Mattholomule’s wild theories about the First Ones and the bizarre “God of Flesh,” “Q-clip”, Gus found himself being pulled along on yet another outlandish adventure as he and the group followed him deep in the woods.

“Okay, okay, so you’re saying this Q-clip-something is behind and the unicorn hound from Hell is coming?” Gus asked, trying to keep up with Mattholomule’s rapid-fire conversation.

“Exactly! It’s all connected! The First Ones wanted to summon it, like a—like a vast, furry explosion in the fabric of time!” Mattholomule exclaimed, his eyes sparkling crazily. “And the number seven is the key! Want to know why? Because seven is the number of unique dimensions! Isn’t that neat?”

“Yeah, definitely neat,” Gus said, rolling his eyes with a smirk as he glanced at Viney, who was also trying to keep up while holding Puddles, her griffin, firmly in her arms. Puddles looked equally intrigued and puzzled, his little head tilting sideways as if he understood the absurdity of it all.

“And! Q-clip at it’s prime reshaped, made and destroyed entire realms surpassing even the Unicorn Hound to the point there's a treaty forged where realms conquered or targeted by her or the Hound are off-limits to each other. Even after its imprisonment, the Unicorn Hound took the treaty so seriously that it punished one of his own generals for breaching it!” He then stopped his rambling. “Wait, wait! Hide!” Matt  suddenly hissed, plunging behind a nearby bush, his cheeks flushed with fervor. “Look!” He pointed dramatically into the distance.

Curiosity piqued, Gus, Skara, Jerbo, Barcus and Viney crouched down, peering through the thick foliage. There, gliding silently across the ground, was a strange metallic creature—something that looked almost like a cross between a dog and a robot, with stiff legs and a vaguely canine silhouette.

“What in the name of the Isles is that ?” Jerbo whispered, his eyes wide.

“I've never seen a beast like that, much less some so…metallic!” Viney exclaimed.

“That,” Matt announced with authority, “is the legendary Can-Dog from the Netherworld! A mystical creature of pure... steely wonder!”

The dog-looking witch couldn’t help but chuckle. “Can-Dog? You’re kidding, right? It looks straight out of one of the sci-fi ‘movies’ Hunter loves so much.”

“Yeah, I think it’s a U-G-V or something,” Gus said, his mind racing back to his studies about Earth. “I saw something like this in an Earth documentary once. It’s an unmanned ground vehicle—a kind of robot not made with magic, but with technology! Humans created them for military use, you know, to do things like scouting and bomb disposal.”

“Humans?” Matt’s eyes went wide, the gleam of excitement fading for just a moment as confusion set in. “Wait, you mean, like…undead creatures?”

“No, no!” Gus laughed, shaking his head. “Humans are a species of living beings! They’re not undead, and they don’t roam—they invent all sorts of amazing things! This… Can-Dog is just one of them!” he then looked at him weirdly as he didn't seem to register it “Luz is a human, humans like Luz.” Gus exasperated.

“OOooh….I may have forgotten that.” Gus nearly shouted how he could forget about Luz being human and all until Skara who looked at the robot, her excitement growing. “But this is incredible! How did they create something that moves like that without using any magic?”

“Right? It’s like a miracle of science,” Gus said, marveling at the mechanical marvel. “If only we had access to whatever technology they use…” he wondered about the amazing advancements Amity’s father could make if he got his hands on Earth;s tech. Sure Luz brought some gizmos and knowledge but she was hardly a mechanic or someone with expertise on the field of technology.

Just then, as if reacting to their astonished gazes, the Can-Dog turned its metallic head sharply, its sensors zeroing in on the trio hiding in the bushes.

“Oh, great! Now it’s looking at us!” Matt shouted until Gus put a hand on his mouth to shut up.

Unlike the heroics Mattholomule had envisioned, the Can-Dog suddenly bolted in the opposite direction, dashing off with surprising speed.

“It’s running away!” Skara  yelled, unable to believe how quickly it had reacted to their presence.

“After it!” Mattholomule cried, springing into action as he bolted after the mechanical creature, dragging others along with him.

“Wait! Can-Dog! Don’t leave us!” Viney called out, Puddles flapping his wings in an attempt to keep up.

“They always run! That’s the first sign of danger, I tell you!” Mattholomule shouted, barreling forward. “But we can’t let it get away! It could have vital secrets about the unicorn hound!”

Gus could hardly keep pace, but the thrill of the chase was intoxicating. The group surged ahead, following the rapidly retreating Can-Dog through the underbrush, hearts pounding with exhilaration and laughter echoing through the trees.

Behind them, Puddles squawked playfully, flapping his wings as he joined the chaotic pursuit

They raced deeper into the dense, mystical jungle, the vibrant flora looming overhead like a green canopy. The thrill of their chase buzzed in the air, but gradually, the metallic creature they were pursuing seemed to vanish through the tangled vegetation, leaving them bewildered and lost.

“Where did it go?” Mattholomule panted, eyes wide with excitement as he glanced back at Gus. “It was right here, I swear!”

“I don’t see it anywhere,” Gus replied, surveying their surroundings, the sense of dread creeping in.

Viney squinted, her gut tightening in apprehension. “Do you think it could have—”

Just then, a shiver ran down Gus’s spine. He spotted faint red dots flickering ominously across their bodies, emanating from above and only he knew what they were being an Expert on Earth.

“Guys! Get down!” Gus shouted, throwing himself to the ground, adrenaline surging through him.

Before the others could react, a long, writhing object shot down from the trees, wrapping itself around Matt’s arm and face. It looked like a bizarre hybrid of a scarf and a cat, its twitching form constricting him.

“What the—help!” Mattholomule yelped, struggling against the creature.

“Stay still!” Gus yelled, panic rising in his voice.

Viney grit her teeth, trying to shake off her shock as Puddles let out a fierce growl. “Puddles, attack!” she commanded, but instead of charging at the threat, Puddles took flight, flapping frantically as the scene below descended into chaos.

Suddenly, two grotesque creatures emerged from the underbrush: an ugly, aggressive dog with blood-red eyes and sharp needle-like spikes on its back, its face twisted into a snarl, and next to it, a bizarre eyeless panther covered in a thick, vibrant coat of pink and blue fur. Its blunt teeth gleamed menacingly as it prowled forward.

“Get back!” Gus yelled, terrified for his friends.

But before he could react, the monstrous dog lunged at Puddles, diving into the air and colliding with the griffin, sending it crashing hard onto the ground with a thud as they then tackled it to the ground.

“Puddles!” Viney cried, rushing to her companion’s side, but then a sharp pain flooded her, a shot piercing her shoulder and then armored soldiers surrounding them with rifles likes of which none of them ever seen before got up from their hiding place in the bushes with pointedly laser targets pointed on them with red dots and wearing black, full-face helmets with a unique, aggressive design with a sleek and modern aesthetic, possibly adorned with visual elements like a tactical visor or an emblem representing his unit and two green emotionless dots on the sleek cover.

“Viney!” Gus shouted, but it was too late. She staggered back, collapsing onto the forest floor with a cry of anguish.

As chaos reigned, chains shimmered into existence from the earth, snaking out from nowhere and wrapping around Jerbo and Barcus, binding them to the ground as if the very air itself were conspiring against them.

“Gus! Help!” Jerbo shouted, panic filling his voice as he struggled futilely against the unyielding chains. “What is happening?”

“What are these things?” Barcus yelled, his eyes wide with disbelief and fear. “Are they attacking us?!”

“I don’t know!” Gus replied, desperation in his tone. “We need to—”

Before he could finish, Skara barely had a chance to react before one of the soldiers came out behind her and swung the butt of their weapon, striking her on the head with a sickening thud. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

The last sight seared into Gus’s mind was the emblem on the armored soldiers: a strange designation number and a cruel nickname labeled “Witchhunters,” mocking and menacing as he felt the ground tilt beneath him, darkness creeping in at the edges of his vision.

“Not like this…” were the final thoughts of his racing mind as the butt of a rifle collided with his skull, and everything faded to black.

In the Owl House, Eda stirred a pot of something bubbling on the stove as she wondered out loud “You know, I can't remember the last time I had a moment of peace in this place. Between Luz’s magic practice and Hooty being off on some wild excavation with Lilith, it’s been rather chaotic.”

King was not looking up from his comic given to him by Luz but commented anyway “Hooty’s with Lilith? What are they digging up this time? More ancient junk?”

The Blight girl glanced up from her book “I heard it’s supposed to be something really exciting. Lilith sounded super pumped when she left. I think she found some old ruins or something.”

Eda chuckled “Yeah, she was practically glowing when she rushed out the door! I’ve never seen her so enthusiastic about anything that doesn’t involve a spellbook.”

“Do you think they’ll find anything cool? Like a cursed artifact or a hidden treasure?” The titan child finally looked up with interest.

“Or maybe something that will just make more trouble for us. You know how these things go.” Amity rolled her eyes.

Edalyn guffed “True, but I wouldn’t mind a little adventure. It’s been too quiet around here.”

“ You mean besides Luz trying to turn her hair into a rainbow again?” King rhetorically asked.

“Don’t remind me! I swear, if she sets the backyard on fire again…” the Elder Clawthrone exasperated.

“At least it’s entertaining. I wonder if Hooty will bring back any souvenirs.” The purple witch ponedeted 

Eda wrinkled her face in trepidation “If he does, I hope it’s something that doesn’t scream “curse me” at first glance!”

Luz stood amidst the towering pines, their branches whispering secrets to the quiet wind. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, though not forever as it was Twilight, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor, where fallen twigs and leaves crunched softly underfoot. She paused, letting the tranquil atmosphere envelop her, a moment of peace amidst the ever-moving world.

With her fingers trailing along the rough bark of a nearby tree, her mind wandered back through the whirlwind of her past adventures. ‘ How wild it all had been ’, she thought, each memory a vivid bead on the string of her journey. She reminisced about her first time stepping into the Boiling Isles, the excitement coursing through her veins as she met Eda and King, their laughter echoing in her heart. The thrill of leaning into the unknown and embracing chaos had been intoxicating.

She gazed towards the horizon, where the sun dipped low, painting the sky with streaks of orange and purple. ‘So much has changed,’ she reflected. Her experiences had forged not just friendships, but a sense of belonging she never thought she’d find. The trials and the battles—the moments of doubt, the laughter shared with Amity, the exhilarating magic of discovery during her time at Hexside—each one was a thread that wove the fabric of her life.

As a woodpecker tapped rhythmically in the distance, Luz chuckled quietly, remembering the mishaps in her quest for magical knowledge—like the time she accidentally summoned a tiny army of enchanted golems, or when she single-handedly caused a magical mishap that turned the school cafeteria into a chaotic jungle. ‘Who knew mischief could be so... fulfilling?’

Her thoughts drifted to the more profound moments: her struggles with self-doubt and the burden of expectations. Luz had learned that true strength wasn’t just about wielding a sword or casting a powerful spell but facing her fears and embracing her imperfections. The support of her friends, particularly when they rallied to help her face Belos, reminded her that courage is often found in unity.

The cool breeze rustled the leaves, carrying echoes of laughter and shared stories, pulling her back to the present. She closed her eyes, breathing in the earthy scent that surrounded her, and felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. Each adventure, each challenge, had molded her into the person she was becoming.

“Look how far we’ve come,” she murmured to the forest, as if sharing a secret with the ancient trees. Luz smiled to herself, feeling the warmth of hope ignite within her. The world was vast and uncertain, but she was ready for whatever the future held. With each heartbeat, she felt more grounded, more connected—not just to her friends, but to the magical tapestry of life itself.

With a final glance at the breathtaking sunset, Luz turned to make her way back, each step a new beginning, each thought a celebration of her journey. The woods seemed to hum in agreement, and as she walked, she felt as if the universe was smiling down upon her, ready to unveil the next chapter of her extraordinary life. 

vroooooooooom  

Little did she know, the Universe's smile like anything…is temporary . And just as Night has an ending, so does Day.

bumbumbumbumbumbum!

Luz’s musing stopped as he heard the sound of something falling in the atmosphere and when she looked up she gasped in surprise.

It was ... .some sort of plane but unlike anything she had ever seen, the plane was in the shape of a beetle featuring fully-articulated wings that moved up and down like wings of an insect with smoke coming from it and it was crashing.

VROOM!

It got close passing the yelped and stumbling Luz and then it crashed.

CRASHED!

In its crash hitting multiple trees and its wings cut off or bended over with bits of fire around with smoke and bits of static electricity from the top of this odd air carrier.

Luz quickly jumped down from the hill and rushed toward the crash.

“Hey! Hello! Is anyone okay??” She shouted near the cockpilot of the ship that looked like the eyes of the bug and got startled back when suddenly a metallic hand slammed at the window leading to the window to open and figure in a coughing fit.

The figure at first she thought was some sort of demon as the shadows from the smoke show him having a strange physique; however, when the smokes got clear she saw how way off the mark she was. It was a humanoid with most of his bodies made of cybernetics with two orange cyber-optics, an extra three fingered claw on his back, both arms and hands robotic so as the legs and the stranger wore like some sort of religious hooded clothing that looked like it belonged to a priest colored white with lines of gold though the clothing was dirty and parts of it was shredded as if an animal did it and there was this symbol on his chest that looked like an industrial miner equipment.

He was a…cyborg!? The latina girl blinked multiple times to make sure she was not imagining things. Luz Noceda the girl who saw demons, witches, titans and godlike beings was unable to believe he was seeing a cyborg that looked like he came straight from a scifi movie except his cybernetics looked….steam-punky as if he came out of the Industrial Revolution Era.

Even more striking….he noticed his ears were not pointy, this cyborg was neither a witch or a demon he was a human ! As her mind was reeling the cyborg then held her by her shirt.

The cyborg looked at her with his robotic and yet oddly expressive optics glaring down at her like she was below her and hissed angrily “They're here! Can you sense them!? The tainted flesh and aberrations of nature mutating and morphing like the work of Yaldabaoth itself !?”  He then coughed a bit of blood leaving the flabbergasted girl and went inside. As he said his mechanical neck got longer as if it was a retractable pipe making him look bigger and making Luz a bit intimidated. He then lost his hold on her and went back to his crashed vehicle still coughing.

“Uhm…Yalda-what!? WHAT?! who…what are you even!?!” Luz stammered.

“I’m human you fool! Can’t you tell!?” The Cyborg snarked. If the Latina girl was not still shocked by all of these and already guessed he was badly injured she would have snarked back about him being 80% cyborg. 

Instead all she could cry out was “WHY ARE YOU EVEN A CYBORG!?”

He came back holding what looked like to be a locked lengthy box with a lock code on it and ignored her excliamation.as he then growled by himself “If those fleshcrafting fiends think they could get it then they have they pray it from my dead augmented hands- “ 

Cough cough!

He coughed harshly once more spitting more blood suggesting this man was in no good condition.

“Come on, the house is near.”

Delirious from the pain, Luz helped the cyborg to move toward the Owl House.

‘Eda is gonna LOVE this….’ The human mage thought with herself.

Back in the Owl House, Eda and Amity had a conversation about when Amity mentioned about Luz learning about the ‘First Ones’ and the ‘Sarinitism’ the heretical sect. To the purple gir’s utter surprise the Elder Clawthron was while not believing was not dismissive either.

“How…can you say that, King’s dad helped Luz you were there!” Amity in astonishment asked.

Eda shrugged “I be frank with you, I stopped believing in any flawless benevolent deity. Oh sure, the Titan who helped Luz and been King’s dad was cool and all, but what about others? All I saying is, just as there are good and bad people, I don’t see why the same can’t be true about ‘divine’ beings.” he then gestured a hand “I mean, the Collector came from the race that destroyed King’s people and had people used as literal puppets thinking it was all a game. By your logic, shouldn’t we hate all the Archivists as well for committing genocide on the Titans including Collcetor who I may remind you aided that genocidal maniac we had for an emperor?”

The Blight girl tried thinking of a response, but then Eda cut her off “Besides, if I learned one thing in life, is that the moment you think you know everything, the universe comes back with a nasty surprise.”

Just then the door slammed and revealed Luz carrying the cyborg as the trio looked back in surprise.

“Me and my big mouth….” She cursed under her breath.

“Uh, what’s wrong with that guy?” King titled his head wondering at both his injury and why he looks half-mechanical.

“He’s injured!” The Latina girl said, which prompted everyone to look for bandages to help her except for Amity who came to her girlfriend’s aid.

“The box….las…” the cyborg hoarse toward the box he carried until dropping it to the ground.

The Noceda girl brought the box to  him who then pushed some combination on the lock causing it to open and reveal what was inside.

It was a two meter long shaft of bone decorated with ornate patterns with symbols none but maybe the dying cyborg would recognize. Though, King for some reason felt unnerved by it and he did not know why.

“They’re looking for it…must not get the sceptre of Ion…”

“Whose looking for it?”

The injured cyborg suddenly grabbed Luz by her collar and said in her ear “ The Mother Who Demands One’s Toes…beware of the Blighters of Life...May Mekhane have mercy…” he then hicked and slowly slumped back with final groans of life as life left him, his last cryptic message made her shiver.

Eda came with first aid but seeing she was too late put it on a table as the trio stared at the now passed cyborg as the twilight was over and Night came forth.

Suddenly, they heard strange noises from outside, and the trio decided to look from the window to see what was the cause.

Glowing eyes…predatory eyes gleamed with hunger, staring at them from the shadows. Luz’s heart raced as she exchanged nervous glances with Eda, King, and Amity. They had faced numerous dangers in the Demon Realm, but this felt different, more primal. 

At first, they instinctively assumed the eyes belonged to some savage beast, a creature of the night ready to pounce—as if the woods were mocking them with the memory of the Slitherbeast.

Then, one of the obscured figures stepped into the dim light, and the world held its breath. A silhouette emerged, bipedal, its long limbs cutting through the darkness. The glowing eyes flickered with anticipation, a glint of something more than instinct— malicious intelligence mingled with a predatory hunger . 

From the corners of her vision, Luz sensed more shapes lurking, their forms grotesque and distorted. She could feel her companions shifting closer, their senses heightened as something primal stirred within the shadows. The forest around them fell eerily silent, as if the very trees were holding their breath, anticipating what would come next.

In that moment, the tension escalated, and Luz felt a deep, instinctual fear rising in her throat.

Screech

 A low, chilling unholy screech reverberated through the air likes of which they never heard that sounded like the abominable marriage of a beast and a man in a cacophony, echoed by rustling from the underbrush, a harbinger of something sinister emerging from the darkness. 

Without warning, the cacophony of night erupted into chaotic movement, and shadows lunged forward, leaving the fate of the group hanging in a precarious balance. The woods, once familiar, transformed into a realm of dread, casting a veil of uncertainty over them.

Chapter Text

Vee paced back and forth in her small room, her thoughts racing. Her kin and her sisters…were quiet. Some of her kind ventured to Earth to find new life. Though, they were not connected much as humans have things like Surveillance, Satellites and the Web so using social media without being absolutely sure was out of the question, even still they had their hidden network to warn each other at least once in a two weeks updating with each other, this time it has been a month.

Turns out, human media has overdramatized the whole ‘Secret identity’ thing and Spanish and Turkish Melodrama fluff is not a good source of learning about human behavior because the moment Vee revealed what she really is to Masha, she had the ... opposite reaction. And learning that Vee was a shapeshifter seemed to make her get some…ideas. Vee was pretty sure Succubuses are real as if the Internet has not proven by now.

Not to mention when she tried revealing her true identity to Masha’s friends embarrassingly they already suspected, though at least they found it cool and didn’t look at her with flustered eyes like Masha. Not that she has anything to protest about….

“Ugh, I’m such a mess,” Vee muttered to herself, running a hand through her hair. “What if they’re in trouble? What if—”

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Vee's heart skipped a beat. “Come in!” she called, trying to sound casual.

The door swung open, and Masha stepped in, her presence instantly brightening the room. “Hey! I thought I’d find you here,” she said, leaning against the doorframe with a playful smirk. “Still worrying about your sisters?”

Vee crossed her arms, trying to maintain her composure. “It’s been a month, Masha. What if something happened to them? What if they’re—”

Masha stepped closer, her expression softening. “Hey, they’re tough, just like you. And besides, you’ve got me here, right?” She leaned in a bit, lowering her voice. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Vee felt her cheeks heat up. “Yeah, well… I guess I’m just not used to all this. The whole shapeshifting thing. I thought it would freak you out.”

“Freak me out? Please,” Masha laughed lightly, her eyes sparkling. “You’re like a walking mystery. I mean, who wouldn’t be curious about a shapeshifter? You must have some wild stories.”

Vee couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, her worries momentarily forgotten. “Well, I do have a few tricks up my sleeve… or skin, I guess.”

Masha raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading across her face. “Oh? Is that a challenge? Because I’ve got some ideas about how to put that shapeshifting to good use.”

Vee’s heart raced at the implication, and she bit her lip, trying to hide her excitement. “Ideas, huh? Like what?”

“Maybe a little shapeshifting game? You could be a cat, and I could be your human sidekick,” Masha suggested, her tone playful yet suggestive.

“Or I could be a dragon,” Vee shot back, her confidence growing. “And you could be my brave knight.”

Masha laughed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I like the sound of that. Just promise you won’t eat me when you shift.”

“Only if you promise not to scream,” Vee teased, feeling the tension between them shift into something lighter, something full of possibility.

As they exchanged playful banter, Vee felt a sense of relief wash over her. Maybe she didn’t have to carry the weight of her worries alone. With Masha by her side, she could face whatever came next—whether it was her kin’s silence or the complexities of her newfound identity.

Too bad she was not ready for what’s to come, at all.

Camila stood in the small hut, her eyes locked onto the door leading to the Boiling Isles. It flickered erratically, appearing to weave in and out of existence, each shimmer sending an unsettling jolt through her. The sight was enough to make her heart race, but the memories that accompanied it only deepened her dread.

“What is happening?” she whispered, struggling to quell the rising anxiety in her chest. The fear of losing Luz again rushed back like a tide, overwhelming her. She still recalled the sheer despair she felt when she first learned her daughter was lost to another realm; it had been a rollercoaster of emotions that turned her world upside down. To think that this door might betray them, to think it could separate them once more—it was unbearable.

Vee had urged her not to approach it, citing unpredictable dangers lurking beyond. But how could she ignore the door’s unsettling behavior? Every flicker felt like a warning, a reminder of the fragility of the connections they held dear. The fear gnawed at her resolve: What if this doorway broke open, could they pull Luz back, or would it trap her in a place they could never reach?

“What if it fails? What if I can’t save her if it opens?” Camila thought, the panic swirling within her like a storm. Vee’s reassurance echoed in her mind, but it did little to quell the rising tide of anguish. The very notion that she might be powerless to stop the door from unleashing a reality where Luz could be lost to her forever sent a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over her.

Clenching her fists, she turned away briefly, trying to breathe through the escalating dread. Memories of the last time Luz had been taken from her—a time filled with darkness and uncertainty—flooded her thoughts. “It’s just a doorway,” she reminded herself, attempting to cling to logic. But in her heart, she knew that this doorway was anything but ordinary. It held the potential of chasms between their worlds.

“Please, not again,” she murmured, tears prickling behind her eyes. The idea that she could be robbed of her daughter once more felt like a consuming nightmare, one that threatened to pull her under.

The door shimmered, its strange energy almost mocking her growing fears. What if it swallowed Luz whole? The terrifying thought tightened Camila’s throat, making it hard to breathe. The last thing she wanted was to feel that same helplessness again, to stand by while her daughter was swept away into the unknown.

“Just breathe,” she whispered, forcing herself to focus on her breathing. “Luz is strong. She’ll find a way.” But even as she tried to comfort herself with those words, doubt lingered. What if she couldn’t protect her? What if waiting too long meant losing Luz forever?

With a shaky breath, she placed her hand on the cool surface of the door, willing it to stabilize, to calm. “I won’t let fear control me,” she thought fiercely, even as the uncertainty loomed large in her mind. She needed to stay strong for Luz; she couldn’t allow herself to succumb to panic.

But deep down, a sense of inevitability stung at her. Camila knew the door’s behavior had to be addressed—whether now or later. Each moment without understanding was a weight pressing down on her heart, a reminder of how close she had come to losing her daughter. She took a step back, resolving to consider her next move carefully. In her heart, though, she feared that the door might someday demand a choice—a choice she was terrified she might not be able to make.

Knock knock

Camila was still lost in her turbulent thoughts when a sharp knock echoed through the hut. She tore her gaze away from the flickering door, realizing she had briefly forgotten about her surroundings. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she moved to the door, her anxiety momentarily overshadowed by curiosity.

When she opened it, two figures stood before her, framed in the light of the day.

A blonde woman, striking in her professionalism, stood with arms crossed. Her cold, calculating eyes bore into Camila, giving off an immediate sense of aloofness that made Camila uneasy. Everything about this woman screamed that she did not come to crack jokes or play games.

Beside her was a man with a cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. He had messy blonde hair and unsettling heterochromia—one eye a sharp blue, the other a deep green. There was an indescribable, disquieting aura about him, suggesting he was something like a cat toying with its prey. The twisted grin he wore only heightened that impression, making Camila instinctively take a step back.

“We’re from the Durant Bodfel Financial Group,” the woman said flatly, her tone clipped. “I need to ask you a few questions regarding recent activities in the area. I’m Dr. Amelia Buck, this is Dr. Alto Clef.”

‘Alto Clef…?’ Camila thought of such an odd name.

“Yeah, just a few questions!” the man added cheerfully, though his eyes glinted with a predatory playfulness. “Like, oh, all the fun stuff you’ve been up to! You know, finance stuff!” His tone was so casual, it grated against Camila’s nerves, yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something sinister beneath his eccentric demeanor.

Camila nodded, keeping her poker face intact, though inside, alarm bells were ringing. She could sense that something was off about the duo, but for now, she steeled herself and focused on maintaining her composure. They made her suspicious.

“Right… finance,” she replied cautiously. “What exactly do you need to know?”

Dr. Buck shifted her weight, her piercing gaze unrelenting. “Any unusual activities, occurrences, or strange individuals near the area. We’re trying to assess potential risks as our company reported some… unusual reports .” Her professionalism was intimidating, and her lack of emotion only added to the uncomfortable atmosphere.

Camila felt the tension rise. “I see. Well, it’s a quiet town. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.”

“Nothing at all?” Clef asked, tilting his head slightly, that unsettling grin still plastered on his face. “No sightings of peculiar people or strange phenomena?” The way he spoke made it seem like he was reveling in whatever he might uncover.

Trying to deflect his probing questions, Camila replied, “Just the usual small-town happenings. Nothing dangerous, I promise.”

Before the conversation could drift further into uncomfortable territory, Vee appeared at the threshold, her eyes wide with curiosity. “What’s going on?” she asked, glancing between Camila and the unexpected guests.

Camila felt a flutter of anxiety; she had not intended for Vee to be drawn into this interaction, especially not with the way Clef's gaze snapped to her. His smirk widened disturbingly. Buck's glaring demeanor didn't lighten; instead, her eyes narrowed further at Vee, assessing her like a scientist observing a specimen.

“Ah, another one! Perfect!” Clef exclaimed, stepping forward, his charm twinkling with a hint of mischief. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about any recent unfortunate oopsies, would you?”

Vee froze, caught off guard by the duo’s intense scrutiny, her body stiffening as if she were a deer caught in the headlights and giving a weak negative nod. Camila could see her daughter’s apprehension mirrored of her own.

Dr. Buck shifted her focus back to Camila, her expression unyielding. “We need to conclude this discussion,” she said coldly, seemingly satisfied by their minimal findings. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Clef gave a mock salute. “Yeah, thanks for the chat! Nice meeting you Camie!” The unsettling nature of his grin lingered as he stepped back, leading Dr. Buck away.

As they walked off, Vee turned to Camila, her eyes wide with confusion. “What was that about? Who were they?”

Camila shook her head, still trying to shake off the feeling of dread that hung over her. “I’m not sure, but something definitely feels off.”

With a deep breath, she turned back to the door, contemplating what implications the visit from these two strange individuals might hold for her and her family.

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silvery glow over the woods as Vee made her way to Masha’s house. The crisp night air filled her lungs, refreshing and invigorating, each breath a gentle reminder of her excitement. The vibrant sounds of the night surrounded her—crickets chirping, the soft rustle of leaves—and yet a peculiar sense of unease settled in the pit of her stomach. She paused for a moment, allowing herself to fully appreciate the beauty around her, the serene stillness interrupted only by the nocturnal chorus.

As she ventured deeper into the trees, the shadows thickened, and the night grew quieter. Vee couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched, an unsettling sensation creeping into her thoughts. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, her heart beating a little faster. But only darkness met her gaze, solid and impenetrable. She drew a slow breath, attempting to shake off the gnawing anxiety, and pushed forward, reminding herself of the laughter that awaited her just a little further down the path.

With each step, the whispers of the forest seemed to merge into an almost hypnotic rhythm. Vee focused on the comforting sounds—the rustle of a small animal in the underbrush, the far-off call of an owl. But just as she felt herself relax, something cold and damp pressed against her mouth and nose. A horrid, sweet scent invaded her senses, overwhelming and disorienting.

Panic surged through her as she struggled against the unexpected force, her mind racing. She fought to breathe, but her limbs grew heavy, the world around her beginning to blur. Desperation clawed at her throat as she inhaled sharply, the sweet scent wrapping around her like a shroud.

And then, just like that, darkness enveloped her.

When Vee finally regained consciousness, everything felt disorienting. As her eyes fluttered open, she found herself lying on a cold, hard surface. Dim light filtered in through cracks in the walls, casting eerie shadows across the dank basement. Panic surged through her as she tried to sit up, only to discover her wrists and ankles bound tightly.

“Get it together, Vee,” she whispered to herself, heart racing as she took in her surroundings. The familiar scent of mildew filled the air, and dread pooled in her stomach when she noticed a figure lurking in the shadows, observing her intently. Her pulse quickened, but as she blinked against the dim light, a spark of defiance ignited within her. She knew exactly who had taken her.

“Really? A cage? How original, Jacob. You really need to step up your game,” Vee scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jacob Hopkins, a scruffy man with an unkempt appearance, burst into the room, clipboard in hand as if it were a weapon. His eyes danced between excitement and annoyance as he regarded her.

“Welcome back, Vee!” he grinned, his enthusiasm laced with condescension. “I knew you’d come from Mars to join us again. You can’t hide your extraterrestrial origins from me!”

Vee rolled her eyes, crossing her arms defiantly over her chest. “Oh, please. I’m not scared of you. My friends would kick your ass if they knew I was here. And don’t forget, my mom, Camila, has a flip-flop with your name on it.”

Jacob’s expression faltered, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as memories of his last encounter with Camila and her infamous flip-flop flashed before him.

“That was a fluke!” he retorted, trying to regain his composure. “You’re in my domain now, and I have all the power!”

Vee leaned forward, a smirk playing on her lips. “Power? You mean the power to annoy me? Because that’s all you’ve got.”

Just then, a loud bell rang at the door, shattering the tension in the room. Jacob’s eyes widened in panic.

“Who the hell is that?” he exclaimed, glancing nervously at Vee, who raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his discomfort.

Reluctantly, Jacob moved toward the door, peering through the peephole. “It better not be another one of those weird cultists…” he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with anxiety.

He swung the door open, revealing Dr. Clef—a tall figure with an enigmatic presence, clad in a long coat and wearing an amused smirk. The air around him shimmered with an unsettling energy.

“Heard you were having a party, Jacob. Mind if I crash?” Clef asked casually, his feral grin making Jacob’s face pale as he instinctively raised his clipboard like a shield, though he maintained his poker face.

“Uhm… hi? Can I help you, mister…” Jacob stammered, adjusting his glasses in a futile attempt to regain control of the situation.

“Clef. Alto Clef,” he introduced himself smoothly. “Just checking in on my favorite conspiracy theorist. I hope you haven’t resorted to invading someone’s privacy or… kidnapping .”

Hopkins shot him an irritable look, annoyed at the implication that he was some bumbling fool. He wished that was the case, but the reality of the situation was far more precarious.

“If you’ve come to mock—HEY!” Before Hopkins could finish his reply, Clef casually brushed past him and strode into the dimly lit room, leaving Jacob in his wake as he protested ineffectively.

“Wait, what are you doing? You can’t just barge in here!” Jacob called out, following Clef with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. But Clef paid him no mind, his attention drawn to the clutter of papers and the various conspiracy theories plastered on the walls.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Clef remarked with an almost playful mockery, examining a map dotted with UFO sightings and cryptid reports. “Such a mess! I didn't realize your conspiracy room would be an exhibition of chaos.”

Jacob’s irritation thickened. “It’s an organized research facility! The majority of this is legitimate data—”

“Oh, please!” Clef interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. He paused at a particularly elaborate pin-up for Bigfoot sightings, raising an eyebrow. “But this Bigfoot stuff is fascinating. What? Are you trying to prove he’s part of your alien invasion cover-up?”

“Bigfoot isn’t part of an alien invasion!” Jacob shot back, his voice rising. “And I’m not trying to prove anything! I just… I just follow the evidence!”

Clef leaned against the wall, arms crossed and a sardonic grin plastered on his face. “Evidence, right. So, have the witches finally sent their Mars-borne emissaries to conquer Earth? I can’t wait to hear about it!” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

At this, Jacob’s irritation boiled over. “Witches! Coming from Mars to take over!” He threw his hands up dramatically. “You wouldn’t believe the top-secret information I’ve gathered on this! They’ve infiltrated our government, you know! Just think about it—flying brooms, green skin, and mind control! This is just the beginning!”

Clef stared at him in silence, eyebrows raised, just letting the ridiculousness of the rant sink in. Then, without warning, he erupted into laughter. “...HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Clef clutched his chest, doubling over as the fit of laughter overtook him. “I know some real speculative nutjobs in Parawatch, but this takes the cake!”

Jacob’s indignant expression hardened as he watched Clef convulse with laughter, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment and anger. “This isn’t funny! I’m serious!” he exclaimed, his voice straining with frustration. “The connections are undeniable! This isn’t just some game to me!”

“Well, it definitely is a game to me,” Clef replied, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, utterly unfazed by Jacob’s offense. “And honestly, the absurdity is just too entertaining. We should bottle it up for the next conspiracy convention.”

If Jacob’s face could redden further, it would. “You have no idea how dangerous the world can be when people don’t take these things seriously!”

Clef straightened up, his playful expression softening for the briefest moment. “Dangerous? Oh, I have a pretty good idea,” he said, his voice losing its jest. “But I’ll give you this—you’ve certainly got a talent for turning reality into a comedy show.”

Hopkins shot Clef another irritated look, caught in a whirlwind of annoyance and a desperate need to be taken seriously. But then Clef’s expression shifted from mirth to something far more chilling. He regarded Hopkins with a disdainful glare, as if he were nothing more than vermin beneath his boot.

“Here’s the exposition dump, you delusional, prattling worm : those witches and this… slug girl you hold captive in your basement,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. Hopkins’s eyes widened in shock—how did this man know? But before he could formulate a response, Clef continued, relentless. “They come from a pocket reality called the Demon Realm, not Mars. Whatever life may have existed on Mars is long gone; it’s now merely a refuge for other extraterrestrials. The Bigfoots? They’re actually an ancient race known as the Yerens, who dominated Earth long before humanity emerged, until we sent them to their sorry state. Oh there is an aquatic dinosaur ghost called SCP-2113, those Shark plushies everyone loves are in fact anomalous, AIs can develop souls there’s even a robo afterlife for that and Abraham Lincoln is a T-Rex not a guy with an arm on his head. ”

Hopkins gaped at the flood of information, he delivered it like undeniable facts with a casual ease that left him reeling and Hopkings looked like he was going to short-fuse any moment while having an existential crisis “Your great ancestor, Phillip Wittabane, whom you’re so proud of and constantly remind everyone you’re related to? He was a Fleshcrafting Neo-Sarkic Sorcerer-king who murdered his own brother for not being ‘religious’ enough and sleeping with a witch. He then after re-acting the Cain and Abel story declared himself the emperor of Boiling Isle. Kind of hypocritical for a supposed witch hunter to become a witch king, don’t you think ? Oh well, it's not like anyone would believe anything coming from your mouth anyway.” He shrugged dryly.

Completely bamboozled, Hopkins struggled to find his words. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“Maybe instead of playing the delusional self-proclaimed savior, you should engage in REAL investigation instead of kidnapping and violating others’ privacy while spewing random conspiracy theories like an obnoxious brat. I’m no saint either, but at least I do the things I do for REAL reasons—not because my skull is thicker than telekill alloy and can only hear my own voices.” Clef’s eyes sharpened into a scowl as he took a few steps toward Hopkins, who instinctively stepped back.

“I know a Jacob, and he’s a wizard in technology, literally. You give all Jacobs a bad name.” Clef sneered, gesturing mockingly at the walls plastered with photos of UFOs and cryptids. “You think you know monsters?” His demeanor shifted, becoming demonic as three glowing eyes revealed themselves, radiating a suffocating aura. The reality around them began to glitch and warp as his teeth sharpened into predatory points. “You know nothing!”

Hopkins felt terror grip him, and he fell backward onto the floor, trembling. “What… kind of monster are you?” he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Clef simply laughed, tauntingly. “Oh, I’m the worst kind of monster. Maybe I’m the Devil, maybe I’m Adam, the father of humanity, or perhaps some wandering Sumerian god with nothing better to do. But really… I’m the worst kind of monster— the human kind .” A chill coursed through Hopkins’s spine, petrifying him in place.

In an instant, Alto reverted back to his normal self, his mirth returning as if he hadn’t just terrified Hopkins to the brink of panic. “I’m sure you can handle it. But I think it’s time you let professionals deal with the resident slug and go cry in a hole, don’t you think? I’ll deal with you later .” With that, he stepped over Hopkins and descended into the basement, leaving Hopkins utterly shocked and paralyzed with fear.

Clef descended into the basement, met with an unexpected sight: Vee had somehow freed herself from her cage. She stood there, feigning helplessness, wide eyes glistening with faux innocence when in reality she was surprised by his presence.

“Oh thank God! I was trapped by this lunatic! I don’t know what his deal is!” she cried, her voice trembling as she played the part of a frightened girl.

Clef smirked, his gaze piercing. “You really shouldn’t watch so much Spanish melodrama. I know you’re not human.”

Vee’s facade faltered for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered, trying to maintain her act.

“Right,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “My organization initially thought you and your kind were some subspecies of SCP-1076. You’re lucky you’re not, or else you and your kin would have been ‘Neutralized.’” He let the implication hang in the air—she knew by ‘Neutralization’ he meant shot on sight. “We don’t tolerate anomalous cuckoos infiltrating human families.” A glimmer of amusement danced in his eyes. “Considering you impersonated Luz Noceda, we were tempted to categorize you the same way.”

Vee reeled back in surprise, her heart racing. “What’s an ‘Yessipee’ even?”

Clef ignored her question, his tone turning serious. “You’re coming with me.”

At that moment, Vee realized the jig was up. She shifted back to her true form, instinctively drawing upon a strange field of power she had sensed when she first encountered Clef. It was a force unlike anything she had experienced before, an oppressive energy that seemed to thicken the surrounding air. She hissed at him animalistically yet he was not even fazed by her appearance one bit.

“Do you even have a classification and Earth permit to live?” Clef asked drily, counting off on his fingers, unfazed by her transformation as she hissed at him. “Identity theft, fraud, impersonation, illegal immigration, fake identity. In case you don’t know, sweetheart, we don’t let shapeshifters run around faking identities or stealing them.”

Vee felt the weight of his words like a stone settling in her gut. He must possess some sort of “magic,” given the dreadful aura radiating from him. In a moment of reckless defiance, she decided to take a bite of his power—a very bad choice. As her teeth sunk into the energy that surrounded him, she expected a surge of strength, but instead found herself staggered by a violent backlash. Clef’s aura was like fire, scorching her senses and leaving her disoriented.

“Enough of this.” Clef’s voice hardened, and in the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between them. “You think you can just take what’s not yours? That was your last mistake.”

Vee instinctively braced herself, though panic surged within her; Clef's energy crackled in the air, an irresistible force that threatened to consume her. She narrowed her eyes, struggling to regain her footing. “I’m not going anywhere with you!” she hissed defiantly.

Clef took a measured step closer, his dark expression unyielding. “You don’t have a choice. You’ll either come willingly, or I’ll ensure you’re forcibly returned. Either way, you won’t be a problem for me or anyone else.”

In that moment, Vee realized she was facing not just a man but a formidable presence—something far beyond anything she had encountered before. She needed a plan, fast. Desperation coursed through her, and with it came a flicker of determination. “You think you can just scare me? You don’t know anything about who I really am or what I’m capable of!”

Clef chuckled, eyes narrowing. “Oh, I know enough. And I assure you, I’m not the one who should be scared.”

Vee felt the weight of Clef's words settle heavily over her. It was clear he was not just a man; he was a force of nature, radiating a dreadful aura that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. In a moment of reckless defiance, she made a fateful decision—to take a bite of his power. The instant her teeth made contact, her body convulsed violently with visceral revulsion.

She doubled over, the contents of her stomach heaving out onto the floor, a gut-wrenching expulsion that left her gasping. The taste flooded her mouth, more repulsive than she could have imagined—an acrid mixture reminiscent of writhing maggots and decay, each bite a nauseating reminder of her dire predicament.

“Who… what kind of demon are you?!” she gasped, her voice trembling with disbelief as her body shook from the nausea.

“Oh, I’m worse than any demon, sweetheart,” Clef replied, a twisted Cheshire grin stretching across his face, almost inhumanly wide. “I’m the Devil everyone wishes they had never met!” His eyes glowed with mismatched colors, and a third eye revealed itself on his forehead, each gaze piercing through Vee’s very essence.

As he stepped closer, shadows swirled around him, dark tendrils eclipsing the space between them. Vee felt the weight of her failure—the nausea still coursing through her—as he loomed over her, his presence suffocating. “Don’t worry—you’ll join your kin soon ,” he added with a chilling softness, promising with an unsettling delight.

Panic surged through Vee, a primal instinct for survival kicking in. She scrambled to her feet, her mind racing for a way out of this nightmare. Backed against the wall, she bawled her fists, recalling the strange magic that had once pulsed through her veins. “I won’t let you take me!” she shouted defiantly, tapping into the reserve of her own power despite the lingering taste of his oppressive darkness.

Clef’s grin widened, amusement dancing in his mismatched eyes. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere! Show me what you can do, little shapeshifter!”

With that, Vee summoned every ounce of strength she had, feeling the magic once again swirl around her—a rush of energy that momentarily pushed back against Clef’s oppressive force. Color flared in the room as a faint glow enveloped her hands, but it was weak, flickering like a flame in the wind.

“Do you really think that’s enough?” Clef taunted, the shadows at his back swirling more aggressively. “You’re just a child playing with shadows. I eat creatures like you for breakfast!”

But Vee wouldn’t back down. However weak her magic felt, she was determined to fight. “I’m not just some child—you don’t know anything about me!”

As if to prove her point, she threw her hands forward, trying to manifest the energy she sought, but it fizzled and sputtered, caught in the grasp of Clef’s darker power. His laughter, low and mocking, echoed around her, shaking her resolve.

“It’s adorable that you think a flicker of light can challenge the dark,” he sneered, advancing as the oppressive aura leaned in closer, surrounding her like a voracious predator.

“Then I’ll just have to prove you wrong!” Vee shouted, drawing on fury and desperation. She steadied her breath, focusing on the connection between her and the remaining flickers of her power, hoping to channel something, anything, that might catch him off guard—a last gambit to turn the tide of this terrifying encounter.

Just as Clef prepared to strike, the air crackled with energy. Vee’s power surged, igniting as she unleashed a pulse of raw magic, an explosion of light aimed straight at him with all her might, desperate to break through the shadows enshrouding her. Would it be enough to buy her time or even turn the battle against the Devil standing before her?

Her question was soon answered as the smoke dissipated and revealed the Devil still standing, his Cheshire grin inhumanly long, three glowing eyes piercing the smoke, and before she could react he in a fast motion came out of the obscuring smoke so fast that her three glowing eyes left a trace of colorful lines momentarily, near her, grabbed the closest wooden chair and hit her with it so hard that the wooden chair broke and sent her flying away hitting the wall.

She stayed weakly down, weakened by this field of ‘Anti-Magic’ this human or if he can be called a human generated, stared helplessly as the devil walked toward her his shadow eclipsing her.

Just before her unconsciousness took over, she saw many armoured soldiers spreading all over with a few behind Clef coming their guns pointed at her.

Camila sighed as she stepped into her house after her night shift. But the moment she flicked on the lights, she realized she was not alone.

A man in his 30s or 40s stood before her, his disheveled appearance reflecting a chaotic and unpredictable nature. His short, dark hair was unkempt, suggesting a neglect for personal grooming. His sharp facial features were often highlighted by a serious or intense expression, and his deep-set eyes conveyed both intelligence and a weariness that hinted at extensive experience.

He wore standard lab attire, though his lab coat was stained and rumpled, paired with practical footwear. Camila might have mistaken him for a homeless man if not for the lab coat and the sidearm visible on his belt. A wave of anxiety washed over her; her pepper spray would be useless against someone armed with a gun.

Yet the odd man didn’t even glance her way as he took a sip from a flask. After a moment, he turned to her and said, “Ah, Mrs. Noceda. About time you showed up. Staying in the dark for hours just to pull the mysterious intruder cliché was boring my eyes.”

“What are you doing in my house?” she asked coldly.

“I’m a colleague of Dr. Clef and Dr. Buck, whom you met earlier today. As you may have guessed, my colleagues and I didn’t come from the Durant Bodfel Financial Group. Our group… let’s just say we deal with things that disappear at night.”

Were they some sort of government agency? Camila blinked, her mind racing. Ignoring Hopkins’ crackpot theories, she couldn’t shake the feeling that every government had its skeletons—organizations that handled secrets the public was never meant to know. The thought made her anxious, especially regarding Vee and Luz’s friends.

“What do you want, government thug? Here to collect my taxes?” she shot back, masking her fear with sarcasm. The man, whose name she now knew was Kondraki, chuckled, amused by her response, and then announced as if he were about to reveal the news of the century.

“Oh, we’re not answerable to any government. We are the SCP Foundation, an entity dedicated to the retrieval and containment of unusual objects, entities, and phenomena. Our mission is to explore and understand their origins, abilities, and mechanisms. We aim to safeguard Normalcy, allowing the world to live in the light while we operate in the shadows, defending the anomalous from persecution and prejudice. For over a century, this has been our motto: we Secure, we Contain, and we Protect. ”

He let his words sink in as Camila processed what he had just said. She couldn't help but think that if Hopkins had been there, he would’ve had a field day with all his ramblings about secret societies, cabals, and shadowy countries. While Camila thought this might be some kind of joke, the serious way he spoke made her wonder if he was either telling the truth or simply a great actor.

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that everything you and your organization does is for the ‘Greater Good’ or some nonsense?” she asked, her trepidation bubbling beneath the surface.

He scoffed. “Oh, we have skeletons, alright, honey. We mind-wipe the populace whenever they see something weird, and we use disposable test subjects from convicts and hardened criminals—though that practice has dramatically decreased over the years. Some of the things we’ve had to do could be considered violations of basic rights. I’m not going to sugarcoat the Foundation or give you some ‘For the Greater Good’ bullcrap.” Getting to his feet, he forced Camila to grip her pepper spray tightly, knowing all too well that he had a gun.

“You think we’re the only shadowy, anomalous organization out there? There are more than I can count on my fingers. Trust me when I say most of them are far less merciful and understanding than us Skippers.” His grim expression intensified as he added, “Take PENTAGRAM, for example. It’s the top-secret occult division of the United States Department of Defense. Just imagine how they reacted when they discovered there’s an access point to a ‘Demon Realm’ on U.S. soil.” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

“I kid you not, PENTAGRAM and the Horizon Initiative were running around like headless Humans Refuted, thinking they were dealing with an entire realm filled with Tartarean entities ruled by a Neo-Sarkic.” He paused dramatically, as if waiting for a reaction, then continued, “Do you know what PENTAGRAM would have done if we hadn’t intervened? They’re pretty liberal with using Eigenweapons. If it weren’t for us taking the reins and proving that these demons aren’t ‘real’ demons, they would’ve opened their arsenal and burned the ‘Demon Realm’ to cinders.” His disdain for PENTAGRAM was palpable.

“What are Eigenweapons?” Camila asked, her curiosity piqued despite the circumstances.

“Anomalous weapons of mass destruction. Think of them like napalm,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“And... what about Horizon?” Camila swallowed hard.

“They’re made up of three major Abrahamic religions. What do you think would be the first instinct of a religious paramilitary organization confronted with a realm of demons and witches?” Kondraki shot her a sardonic look.

‘So there’s a whole religious organization filled with Belos. Great,’ she thought, cursing under her breath in Spanish. Then she recalled something he said and raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Wait… what do you mean by ‘real demons’?” Camila asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Pitchfork jerks, fallen angels, red gremlins, mischief yokai—those are the genuine article. We call them Tartarean Entities,” he explained, gesturing emphatically as he elaborated. “They feed off Tartarean energy, which, as you might guess, is derived from the sins and vices of mortals. It’s like snack food for them. Oh, and yes, Hell exists, and some of them even come from it. But don’t worry; there’s a site down there that got accidentally dragged along with a portion of Las Vegas, and the director keeps the demons in check. I even heard he has a Wrath demon as a bodyguard.”

Camila stared at him, dumbfounded and unblinking, struggling to comprehend the absurdity of what Kondraki had just revealed. A site in Hell? What kind of people were the Foundation? “...Do I even want to know why Vegas, exactly?” she asked hesitantly.

Kondraki laughed, a scoffing sound that broke the tension. “It’s Vegas—the City of Sin! What do you think?” He took a sip from his flask. “I’ve heard Undervegas is quite a popular tourist attraction in the Anomalous World.”

‘Figures,’ Camila thought, even finding that far too obvious.

After a moment, Kondraki’s expression turned serious, the mirth vanishing from his eyes. “The Sarkics have come to the Boiling Isle. Your daughter and her friends are in danger.”

“And I’m guessing they’re another unfriendly group I should lose sleep over?” Camila asked, exasperated.

He let out a sardonic, mirthless chuckle. “Oh, they’re much worse than that. Imagine every body horror trope you can think of, blended with occultism. What you get are cannibalistic fleshcrafters who either worship some eldritch horror beyond human comprehension or fantasize about eating God.”

“...On second thought, I think I prefer witch hunter zealots and government thugs with the threat of a nuclear option. Buen Dios…” she muttered under her breath in Spanish.

Kondraki took the cue to continue. “One particularly nasty group is the Adytum's Wake. It’s a messed-up secret club where elites engage in depraved and sickening activities that would make even the Old Man blush.”

“What’s the Old Man?” Camila asked, genuinely curious.

“A nasty sadistic ghoul made of acidic tar. Not important right now,” he waved a hand dismissively, almost making Camila roll her eyes at his antics, even as she felt the panic rising within her. “This Cabal is the oldest Sarkite organization in North America, dating back to 1650. It was once run by a sweat goblin named Cornelius P. Bodfel III.” He tucked his flask into his pocket and raised his hands. “Yada yada yada, GOC tried to stop them. The degenerated rich pigs attempted to bring back the Dark Messiah but accidentally summoned an otherworldly entity that slaughtered them and Bodfel. Everyone thought they were extinct, but that group actually survived in hiding and now has a keen interest in the Boiling Isle.”

“Bodfel… why does that name sound familiar?” Camila asked, a sinking feeling growing in her stomach. She hoped her guess wouldn’t be what she feared.

“That’s because the public identity of this group is the Durant Bodfel Financial Group—the very group that has set up shop here and the one me and my colleagues are disguised as,” Kondraki replied.

Camila’s eyes widened in realization. Before she could respond, an ear-deafening scream pierced the air, making them both turn their heads toward the sound.

“Ah great!” Kondraki cursed, tension tightening around his features.

A blonde young woman, a former cheerleader from Gravesfield School, was walking toward a date when she noticed a figure lurking near the Noceda residence.

“Who’s there?” she frowned and called out, her curiosity piqued.

When the figure turned, her head twisted like an owl, and what she saw next sent a chill down her spine. The figure’s eyes glowed with a predatory light, resembling a wolf’s, and it snarled, revealing sharp canine teeth. Three tendrils sprouted from its back, each edged like a blade.

The young woman’s reaction was immediate—a piercing scream erupted from her lips, an ear-splitting shriek that echoed through the night.

The beast snarled back, louder this time, and shot one of its tendrils toward her, aiming to impale her. She turned to flee, but before it could reach her, a storm of green butterflies burst from the windows of the Noceda residence, swirling into a flurry that struck the she-beast like daggers, causing it to shriek in pain.

Camila and Kondraki rushed outside just in time to see the creature writhing, jumping back and forth like a wounded animal. Camila looked bewildered, while Kondraki’s expression was one of disdain.

The she-beast, now desperate, pulled a pistol from a cavity in her own flesh, aiming it at Camila and Kondraki. But the butterflies reformed into a shield, protecting them both.

In a moment of primal rage, the she-beast lunged at the blonde girl, who stood frozen in shock, claws poised to strike. Just then, a group of butterflies morphed into spears and impaled the creature from back to chest, causing it to drop with a shriek of agony.

As the she-beast lay bleeding, Camila and Kondraki stepped closer, observing the dying creature. Blood pooled around it, and despite its Sarkic abilities, it was clear that regeneration had its limits.

With blood in her mouth, the she-beast gasped, “Your… daughter and… her corpse-worshipping friends… will be food… nothing more…” With a final hitch, she died, her eyes remaining open in a haunting stare.

Kondraki rubbed his face in frustration. “Gaaah! Great, they know! She spied on us, and I just let my anomalous pretties out to save that dumb blonde! And she had a microphone with her, so they definitely know the Foundation is here now!” He grabbed Camila by the hand, pulling her along.

“Woah, woah! Where do you think you’re taking me?!” Camila protested, confusion and fear lacing her voice.

“Sorry, Mrs. Noceda, but you and your kids—and the witchling kids—are now under Foundation jurisdiction. You’ll comply if you want to see your daughters and everyone you know alive, not as Sarkic food,” he said seriously. Camila couldn’t protest; he was right. The Foundation was their best hope. If that she-beast was anything to go by, this was just the tip of the incoming storm.

Her mind struggled to process the reality of the situation. The very being that had stalked them, likely planning to kill her and Kondraki, was everything he had described, and yet the visceral memory of its snarl and augmented flesh sent a chill through her. She worried about what Luz and the others might be facing.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?” the blonde woman shrieked again, panic rising in her voice.

Kondraki facepalmed. “AH crap! I forgot she existed!”

Chapter Text

  A dim, twisted version of the Boiling Isles, shrouded in fog and surreal, distorted imagery that reflects Boscha’s heavy guilt. The air is thick with an eerie, pulsating glow from the decaying flora that seems alive, their whispering predatory voices jeerimg and mocming her.

As Boscha drifts deeper into her restless slumber, the fog thickens, and the landscape shifts violently. Trees twist into grotesque shapes, thorns curling maliciously. The air grows cold as faint cries can be heard in the distance.

Plant Humanoids with skull face and woodedn antlers looking at her with hallowed black eyesockets from behind the twisted trees of the forest

The twisted forest morphs, revealing a harrowing sight—two horrifying figures emerge from the shadows: Amelia, her body torn and grotesque as a blood-colored spruce tree looms over her, and Cat, lifeless and impaled, reduced to a desiccated husk.]

“Boscha... why weren't you there?*  

As Ameia spoke, red branches and roots writhed around her, pulsing with a sinister life of their own, as if they are drawing power from her suffering.

Boscha panic-stricken exclaimed.”I-I tried! I didn’t know—everything happened so fast!:

The figures shifted, their faces twisting into unnatural expressions of hatred and sorrow

“You didn’t try hard enough, Boscha. While you sat in your throne of insecurity…” Cat’s voice was low, dripping with disdain.

The shadows around her writhed, encasing her husk in thorns that seem to thirst for suffering.

“While we screamed for help turned into literal puppets by the Collector, you reveled in your power, lording over the survivors—”

“I didn’t mean to! I just wanted to be… better!” Boscha’s voice trembled.

They did not sympathise, apparent by Amelia’s sneer “Better? You mean better at being a sadistic tyrant? You could not accept that there are those more powerful and better than you so you hid in a hole and bullied the weaker ones to feel better about your shallowness!” As she mocked, tendrils snake towards Boscha, wrapping around her wrists, pulling her closer to her dead eyes.

“You left us to rot while you basked in your own glory... How much did it hurt to feed your ego?” 

Boscha’s heart raced, the burden of guilt weighing her down like lead, when her friends were taken by the Collector and their horrible deaths played around her like a sadistic mix-tape.

“Look at us, Boscha! Look at what your selfishness has caused.”

Cat gestured towards her own impaled body, the remnants of life nowhere to be seen.

“You were too busy to notice... too caught up in your need for validation to see the truth—that real strength means standing for others!”

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know what I had to do! until... until you—” Boscha stammered as she struggled against the vines that held her.

Amelia’s head turned showing a red tree branch on her cheek and hollow eyes that accused her. 

“And what did you do, Boscha? Hide behind your facade of power while we became puppets? And let us die?”

The pain of their words pierces through her, echoing in her mind, mixing with the images of their gruesome fates, driving her deeper into despair.

Boscha’s voice cracked as tears came from all her three eyes “I’m so sorry! I never wanted this! I never wanted to lose you! Either of you!” 

“It’s already too late, Boscha... .YEARS too late…” Amelia’s hauntedly vocalized.

Cat added in “But don’t worry ... .you'll join us soon!”

Dark vines twisted around her, their growth unnaturally rapid, as if fueled by a hunger of their own. Boscha's screams echoed through the air, desperate and primal, until they were swallowed by the thick undergrowth that engulfed her, the hungry bushes pulling her into their verdant maw.

Boscha jolted awake, sitting up in a cold sweat, her heart racing as she scanned her surroundings. She expected to see plants closing in on her, but instead, relief washed over her when she found nothing but darkness. ‘ What a nightmare’ , she thought, just a bad dream while sleeping in her room—

“Where is this? What dump am I in!?”

This wasn’t her room. Not even her house.

It was a cave.

She reached for her palisman, but it remained stubbornly inert. Panic surged as she shook it, hoping for a reaction, but it felt like nothing more than a useless stick in her hand.

“Come on! Come on, Maya! This is the worst time for you to stop working!” She continued to shake it, frustration mounting. Then a thought struck her. “Wait! Where’s my Scroll? My Penstagram and contacts are on there!” She rifled through her pockets but found nothing.

“ERK!” She looked up, startled to see a figure that hadn’t been there a moment before.

Before her stood a small, spectral green figure resembling a human child. Its glowing green eyes were devoid of pupils, and it wore a stereotypical witch's hat, as if it had stepped out of one of those strange human holidays that Gus and Luz had shown everyone—holidays she’d never admit to finding somewhat interesting and would rather die than admit that not all of human media are terrible.

Boscha quickly masked her fear with a stoic expression, crossing her arms defiantly. “What dump did you bring me to?”

The ghost opened its mouth, but no sound emerged.

Boscha scoffed. “Of course ghosts can’t talk normally. If Amelia and Cat—” Her voice faltered as the memory hit her like a punch to the gut.

Her friends… were dead.

By plant magic, of all things! The irony wasn’t lost on her; the very magic she had once mocked had claimed their lives, and nearly hers as well. The thought of those grotesque creatures and the spruce that had haunted her dreams sent shivers down her spine, memories of her friends’ graphic deaths flooding her mind.

Not even Terra Snapdragon, the former head of Plant Magic, had wielded such insidious power.

“That plant magic… it’s wrong ,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It’s an abomination of nature.” she shivered. “They… they’re really dead, aren’t they?” The words slipped from her lips, laced with disbelief.

The green specter’s expression shifted to one of sad sympathy. Normally, Boscha would have bristled at anyone’s pity, but her mind was too turmoil to care. The five stages of grief swirled within her, a tempest of emotions.

She didn’t cry, didn’t react outwardly, yet a single tear escaped from her middle eye. The specter floated closer and wrapped its arms around her. Boscha felt nothing but a chill—a welcoming chill, like a gentle summer breeze, rather than the coldness of the cave.

For minutes, she remained shell-shocked, lost in her grief, until she finally gestured for the specter to stop hugging her. Normally, she would have hated such an embrace, but in that moment, she found it oddly comforting, even if she couldn’t and would not reciprocate.

As she gathered herself, her gaze caught a flickering ember of light deeper within the cave. She decided to investigate, wary of the specter’s intentions.

The ghost attempted to block her path, hands outstretched, shaking its head in a silent plea for her to stay.

Boscha frowned. “My friends are dead, kid. I will find my answers one way or another .” With that, she stepped past the alarmed spectre, literally.

Cautiously, she moved forward, her palisman still at the ready, even if it felt dormant. She approached the light and saw disturbing figures made of wood—some male, some female—each marked with names: Seth, Azura, Aclima, and the largest figure, named Eve and Adam. The last one bore no name, only countless dagger cuts, some still embedded in the wood, making it impossible to discern its gender.

For some reason, those names felt familiar, tugging at the edges of her memory.

In front of a crackling bonfire sat a savage man—her supposed savior. He had black hair, red tattoos, and was half-naked, seemingly unbothered by the cold. A shaggy cape made from Slitherbeast hide draped over his shoulders, accentuating his tanned skin and rugged demeanor. Boscha grimaced as she watched him slurp the marrow from a bone, remnants of some creature he had hunted, its meaty remains dripping down his chin.

She cleared her throat with a deliberate cough, trying to get his attention. No response. She coughed again, louder this time, but he remained fixated on the dance of the flames, captivated by something beyond the fire's enchanting flicker. What Boscha didn’t realize was that the savage man was not merely lost in the moment; he was deep in thought, haunted by memories intertwined with the shadows of the firelight.

He was in the Necropolis of Steel—no mere city, but a Living Factory of processed meat and metal, where the gray air hung heavy with pollution. Towering black buildings and twisted architectures dominated the landscape, designed not to inspire awe but to instill fear.

A dragon of metal loomed above, shooting beams of energy from its hateful maw—a creature born from the ambition of a man who had ascended, twisted by a vengeful god.

Nearby, a colossal dark monolith of a warrior, exiled by his king, swung his sword with unforgiving might.

The Black Knight and the Cyborg Child clashed—the former wielding a black sword, the latter armed with scissor-like talons for fingers and wings that glided effortlessly without the need to flap.

And there he was, a whirlwind of chaos, slaughtering armies left and right with two medium-sized daggers attached to his arms by chains. He hurled his weapons with precision, circling them through the throng of enemies—abominable intelligent machines, twisted beasts, monstrous abominations, and crazed madmen. In that cacophony of violence and chaos, he had never felt so alive.

He cackled madly, a primal sound echoing through the carnage, blood splattered across half his body, invigorating him with every crimson drop. This was his world, a savage landscape where he thrived—a testament to the bloodlust that fueled his very existence.

Annoyed, Boscha called out, “Hey, I’m talking to you—” She halted as the savage man turned to face her, his red pupils glowing with an intense focus. He dropped the bone and stood, revealing a muscular frame and towering height.

Flustered, Boscha quickly averted her gaze, a blush creeping across her cheeks. “Oh, for Titan’s sake! Why are you half-naked!?” she exclaimed, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sight. Though oddly, the savage man did not seem to notice the spectral girl.

The man let out a low-pitched mumble. “Titan… Nethak’tal… Graveyard of Gods…” His voice grew more animated, gradually shifting from incoherent muttering to what Boscha could only perceive as laughter. Disturbed, she took a step back but held her ground, glaring at him. “Is my friends dying funny to you?” she asked, her tone sharp with accusation.

The man turned his gaze fully toward her, his expression unreadable. Meanwhile, the green ghost tugged gently at Boscha’s shoulder, the chill of its spectral hands serving as a warning to leave.

Boscha glared defiantly at the man, her voice laced with sarcasm. “So, what’s your deal? You just sit around in your little cave, playing with bones and mumbling? Real impressive.”

The savage man narrowed his eyes, a low growl rumbling from his throat. “ You don’t know what you’re dealing with, girl .”

She rolled her eyes, undeterred. “Oh please, enlighten me, oh wise savage one. What’s next? A prophecy about how you’ll conquer the Demon Realm with your… bone marrow?”

“Nethak’tal…Tithanax…Ultharak…Thragothar…” he muttered again, his voice growing more intense, his eyes rolled up, as if the words held some dark power. 

“Yeah, yeah, keep mumbling. It’s not like anyone takes a homeless caveman’s mumbling seriously,” Boscha snarked, crossing her arms defiantly. But deep down, she felt a growing unease, creeped out by this. There was something about the way he spoke—like he held the weight of centuries in his words, a history she couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Abel’s expression darkened, and he leaned closer, his voice low and menacing. “ Silly girl. I have watched the rise and fall of great empires. I was there when the city of Audapaupadopolis was built, when the Flood ended the Antediluvian Age. I witnessed the Nations of Plant, Meat, and Machine wage war, only to be defeated by the relentless march of time.”

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in, his red pupils glinting with a feral intensity. “I am the Smitting Blade, the Butcher of the West. The only reason I saved your sorry hide from the creations of the Daevites was that hunting down mindless beasts had become boring and predictable. I saved you so that I could finally hunt a prey with intelligence—someone worthy of the chase.”

The chill in his voice sent shivers down her spine, and she realized that he was not just a madman; he was a predator, a force of nature who thrived on chaos and bloodshed. The thought of being his prey made her stomach churn, and she fought to maintain her composure. Then she without thinking said it outloud “Cain?” Boscha suddenly uttered, realization dawning on her.

“What?” He demanded flatly, his expression shifting.

“Gus once rambled about human mythology—two brothers, one killed the other. Are you Cain, the first murderer in human history?” She glanced back at him, her eyes widening in shock.

Immediately, his expression contorted into a furious snarl, a primal rage igniting in his eyes. “What!? I’M NOT!” He seized her hand with a grip that felt like iron, and she struggled in vain, her attempts to escape futile against his inhuman strength. The green ghost surged forward, desperate to intervene, but her spectral form slipped through him like fog, utterly powerless.

“Do you dare to think I’m some self-pitying, accursed, pathetic wretch? Look at me! Do I look like a farmboy with metallic hands!? Cain is NOTHING!” He unleashed a savage blow to her shoulder, a brutal strike that sent shockwaves of agony coursing through her body. She cried out, disbelief and pain merging as she stared at her dislocated arm, her world spinning in a haze of torment.

The savage man feigned an apology, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sure it’ll fuse back together with the right snap. But let me make this crystal clear… DON’T YOU DARE COMPARE ME TO MY BROTHER!” With that, he unleashed a brutal kick against her shoulder, forcing the dislocated joint back into place. The excruciating pain made Boscha scream again, collapsing backward onto the icy ground.

Panic surged through her as she scrambled to crawl away, clutching her shoulder like a lifeline while the madman continued his frenzied tirade. “Cain is a pretender, a pathetic coward known only for his one moment of jealousy in killing me! Yet no matter the rivers of blood I spill, I’ll forever be branded as Humanity’s First Victim!” He lunged forward, fingers wrapping around her throat like a vice. She struggled, even biting at his hand, but he remained unmoved, his baleful gaze sending icy terror spiraling down her spine.

The violent man growled, his voice a low, menacing whisper that dripped with malice. “Listen closely, you miserable mongrel Triclops, or I’ll gouge out every single one of your disgusting eyes! I’m Abel! Hated and feared by all who dare to see my true nature! And mark my words… I’m not the First Victim, I’M THE FIRST WINNER, YOU WRETCH!” His roar shattered the air, and with a vicious kick, he sent her hurtling across the cave, her body crashing into the snowy ground outside, her face burying into the frost.

Hot breaths escaped her lips, mingling with the blood trickling from her mouth as she lay half-buried in the snow, the cold biting through her skin. His words struck her like a sledgehammer, a brutal reminder of her own justifications—her desperate need to be feared rather than liked, the hollow victory she clung to.

‘You may be hated, as long as you are feared. Most important of all, you are a winner.’

But in that moment, she felt anything but a winner. She had never felt so powerless, not even during the Collector’s ruthless takeover. Here she was, a proud witch, a champion of Grudgby, the popular girl, reduced to nothing more than a plaything for a man who embodied every ounce of disdain she had ever harbored. He looked down at her with a contempt that made her feel like a cockroach beneath his boot, squashed and discarded.

“I would sooner rot in this frozen wasteland, a carcass of a dead god, before I spent EVEN a second living among you… weakling animals!” Abel spat, his disdain palpable as he advanced toward her. When Boscha lifted her head, she saw him conjuring a black spear from the void, its ominous presence sending a chill of dread through her veins. The ghost beside her gestured urgently for her to flee, but when she attempted to summon her magic, it fizzled out, muted and powerless, leaving her to curse under her breath in frustration and fear.

“Don’t worry, Triclops, your powers will be back. Your staff? May not.” Abel taunted, his large spear making sparks as he dragged its blade across the cave’s wall, creating a shriek that echoed ominously through the darkness.

Boscha didn’t want to know why he had a spear with him, so she turned and ran.

“Go ahead and run, prey, make it more fun!” he shouted, giving her a head start. She sprinted madly, one hand clutching her palisman while the other cradled her injured shoulder, pain shooting through her with every frantic step.

As she burst into the woods, the chill of the air hit her like a slap, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins kept her moving. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder of the danger nipping at her heels. She dared a glance back and caught a glimpse of Abel’s shadow—massive and menacing—slicing through the underbrush like a wolf on the hunt.

Panic surged within her as she took a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch. The sound of breaking branches and heavy footsteps signaled that Abel was not far behind. She could hear the whoosh of his spear slicing through the air, barely missing her as she yelped and ducked just in time.

Suddenly, a Slitherbeast emerged from the snow, growling ferociously. Boscha's instincts kicked in, and for a fleeting moment, fear gripped her. But she quickly shook it off; Abel was the real threat here. She had no time to cry surprise. As the furry beast lunged, claws outstretched, she ducked low and darted past it. The creature hesitated, sensing the danger behind her. It turned its attention to Abel, who was barreling toward them with terrifying speed.

The Slitherbeast made the last mistake of its life, charging at Abel with a roar. With a swift, brutal motion, Abel swung his spear, and the beast’s growl turned into a pained yelp as it was dispatched in a single strike. Blood sprayed against the snow, painting a gruesome scene as he continued his relentless pursuit.

Boscha ran on, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the forest blurring around her. She could feel the weight of the trees closing in, their branches clawing at her as if trying to hold her back. Abel’s laughter echoed through the trees, growing closer, and she could almost feel his breath on her neck. ‘ This isn’t happening. I can’t let him catch me!’

After what felt like an eternity, she stumbled into a clearing, only to find the green ghost hovering in front of her, gesturing urgently for her to stop. She skidded to a halt, her heart pounding in her chest, and took a moment to catch her breath. But when she looked up, her blood ran cold.

Spruce trees loomed around her, their dark silhouettes stark against the blood-red sky. Beneath them lay the husked bodies of animals, all of them drained of life, just like the tree that had killed Amelia. The sight sent a chill down her spine, and the realization of where she was hit her like a punch to the gut.

“No, no, no…” she murmured, casting a spell circle instinctively, but only a few sparks flickered to life. She tried again, desperation clawing at her throat, but still, no fire. “Come on! I don’t have time for this!” she hissed in frustration, feeling the weight of her powerlessness.

Abel’s laughter echoed through the trees, and she could hear the crunch of snow behind her. He was closing in. The ghost’s spectral form pulsed with urgency, urging her to move, but she felt rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear and the haunting memories of her friends.

“Think, Boscha!” she whispered to herself, scanning the clearing for any escape route. The trees seemed to close in around her, and the oppressive atmosphere made it hard to breathe. She needed to act fast.

Just then, a rustle in the underbrush caught her attention. A flicker of movement. ‘ What if it’s another beast?’ But she had no time to hesitate. The ghost gestured again, more frantically this time to another direction away from the blood spruce., and Boscha steeled herself, deciding to take a chance. She dashed toward the sound, hoping for an escape route.

As she moved, the ground beneath her shifted, and she stumbled, catching herself just in time. The rustling grew louder, and she felt a surge of hope. She pushed through the underbrush, her heart racing, and burst into a narrow path that wound deeper into the woods.

Behind her, Abel’s voice boomed, filled with dark amusement. “You think you can hide? I’ll find you, little witch!”

Boscha’s breath hitched as she sprinted down the path, branches whipping at her face. She could hear him crashing through the trees, relentless, like a storm bearing down on her. Every instinct screamed at her to keep moving, to not look back, but the fear of what he might do if he caught her fueled her desperation.

The path twisted and turned, leading her deeper into the forest. She could feel the shadows closing in, the trees looming over her like silent sentinels. The ghost floated beside her, urging her on, and she clutched her palisman tightly, willing her powers to return.

“Come on, come on!” she gasped, pushing herself harder. The sound of Abel’s pursuit echoed behind her, a constant reminder that she was not safe yet. She needed to find a way out, a way to escape this nightmare.

Just as she rounded a corner, she spotted a faint glimmer of light in the distance. Hope surged within her, and she raced toward it, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination while making sure she would not hit the red trees knowing what they will do to her. The light grew brighter, and she could feel the warmth of magic pulsing in the air.

But just as she reached the edge of the clearing, she heard Abel’s voice, low and menacing. “You’re almost there, little witch. But it won’t save you.”

With a final burst of energy, Boscha leaped into the clearing,

The green ghost pointed frantically at a hollowed-out tree lodge, and Boscha quickly assessed the situation. Without hesitation, she tore a piece of her clothing and dropped it onto a pile of bones, hoping that Abel would think she had fled into the blood-red spruce jungle, leading him to an untimely demise.

Just in time, Abel appeared, covered in fresh blood from the Slitherbeast he had slain, two sickles gleaming ominously in his hands. He scanned the area with predatory eyes, analyzing every detail like a hunter on the prowl. When he spotted the piece of fabric, he crouched down for a closer look, a sinister smile creeping across his face.

Boscha could only see his legs as he moved menacingly, gradually closing in on her hiding spot. ‘ Come on, come on… take the bait, you psychopathic caveman!’ she thought, her heart racing in her chest.

His legs disappeared from view, and for a brief moment, silence enveloped her. Had he taken the bait? Then, without warning, the lodge she was hiding in erupted open as a sickle sliced through the wood, sending splinters flying. Boscha cried out in shock, adrenaline surging through her veins. In a desperate response, she tried her magic again, and this time it worked. Her nails elongated, sharp and deadly, as she aimed to plunge them into Abel.

But he was faster. With a swift motion, he grabbed a piece of wood, and her nails became stuck, the sharp edges embedding into the timber. Panic surged as she struggled to free them, but it was futile. Before she could revert her nails back to normal, Abel seized her by the throat with one powerful hand, lifting her effortlessly off the ground until they were face to face.

“How disappointing! Did you really think I didn’t know about those plants? I’ve lived here for ages, you Triclops! Clearly, you have more eyes than brain,” he sneered, disappointment etched across his features.

“LET ME GO, YOU PSYCHO!” Boscha screeched, her voice a mixture of fear and defiance. Despite the terror coursing through her, she refused to beg, her spirit commendable in its resilience. Her rage sparked something in Abel, a flicker of recognition that oddly reminded him of someone he once knew.

“MURDERER, LET ME GO!” The voice echoed in his mind, and he froze, momentarily distracted. It was Iris Thompson, the blonde woman he had once held in a similar grip, her eyes wide with betrayal as he butchered their comrades.

Abel recoiled, releasing Boscha as she dropped to the ground, gasping for breath and clutching her throat. The memory of Iris flashed before him, her face shifting between tears of betrayal and the wrathful glare she had given him after everything had fallen apart.

“WHY DO YOU CARE!?” Iris’s voice rang in his mind, laced with anger and pain. He could see her clearly, the optimistic young girl she used to be now transformed into a figure of cold hatred. “You… are an animal who lost his soul a long time ago.”

The weight of her words struck him hard, a bitter reminder of the man he had become. He watched Boscha as she struggled to regain her composure, her eyes fierce despite the fear that had just gripped her. For a fleeting moment, he felt something he hadn’t experienced in years—shame.

As Boscha scrambled to her feet, she felt the sting of pain in her throat, purple bruises blooming where Abel had gripped her. She could still feel the remnants of his hold, a reminder of how close she had come to losing everything.

Abel, meanwhile, was lost in a tumult of memories that surged within him, fragments of a past he couldn’t fully grasp. Ever since he had been stranded in this forsaken realm of dead giants, his mind had been plagued by gaps, pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit. But Boscha’s defiance, her fierce spirit, ignited something within him, forcing him to remember why he was here.

Images flooded his mind: the Necropolis, chaos erupting as legions of madmen and abominations clashed while the Black Knight and the one blessed by Mekhane fought valiantly. Then came the dragon of molten iron and a walking black monolith, and everything had faded to black.

From the darkness, two cold red eyes emerged only to merge into one, accompanied by the sound of unholy machinery. The eye belonged to the singular, hateful Thinking Machine of the Factory, its many limbs equipped with instruments of mutilation and experimentation.

Abel found himself in a dark room, paralyzed on what looked like a dissection table, the cold metal pressing against him. One of the infernal machine’s limbs moved into his line of sight, and he felt a jolt of pain shoot through him.

Then, an explosion rocked the room. Flashes of light later revealed a man in a black coat, looking worse for wear, who carried him until he became sober enough to push Abel away. Seven Daevite warriors descended upon him, and chaos erupted as they fought like animals, blood and gore showering him until only one remained.

As Abel’s vision blurred, he spotted the baleful dragon soaring toward him from the sky. A grin split his face as he propelled himself and the last Daevite into the vortex, where time and space lost all meaning.

The memories crashed into him like a tidal wave, and he growled in frustration, slamming his head against a nearby tree until cracks splintered the bark. It was inside his eye, inside him!

With a roar of pain and indignation, Abel summoned a black knife and plunged it into his left eye.

Boscha watched in utter horror, her breath catching in her throat. “What. The. Fu—”

Abel screamed as he gouged his eye out, revealing not flesh but a mechanical orb, more metal than organic. Its pupil stared back at him, and suddenly, mechanical tendrils shot out from it, writhing in a desperate attempt to escape. Abel seized it with a powerful grip and crushed it in his fist, blood and oil mixing as he nursed his bloodied socket.

The green ghost gaped at the grotesque scene, equally dumbfounded.

Then, the sound of gunfire echoed through the clearing—bang, bang! Abel instinctively shielded himself, forming a black barrier attached to his wrist. Each explosive kinetic round hit with the force of a grenade, and though his shield held, it was visibly damaged, burnt marks marring its surface as the shockwaves sent him stumbling back.

From the shadows emerged a man clad in brass and iron, holding a boltgun. He holstered it with a grim expression, his striking emerald eyes locked onto Abel.

Abel blinked, recognition dawning on him. “Arthur the Soldier?”

“It’s King Arthur to you, animal,” the knight growled, disdain dripping from his voice.

Instead of being offended, Abel grinned savagely, shaking off the pain in his eye. “Not an animal, High King… Emperor of Animals!” With that, he summoned a massive black obelisk sword while his shield dissapeared, launching himself at Arthur, who met the attack with Excalibur. The clash sent sparks flying, and the blade began to heat under the intensity of their struggle.

Boscha, feeling the tension rise between the two powerful figures, had had enough. “Screw you both!” she shouted, her patience wearing thin. She turned on her heel and began to run, desperate to escape the chaos unfolding around her. The green ghost floated ahead, guiding her through the trees.

‘I swear to the Titan, if I survive this, I will slap Gus across the face for not being better at fact-checking on human mythology when THIS is supposed to be his area of expertise!’ she thought, gritting her teeth as she darted deeper into the woods, the sounds of battle fading behind her.

As she ran, the forest seemed to close in around her, the branches clawing at her clothes, but she pressed on, the urgency of the moment pushing her forward. She had no idea where she was headed, but anywhere was better than being caught in the crossfire between a deranged monster and a metallic man.

As the clash of steel echoed through the darkened forest, Abel felt a tumult of emotions coursing through him. Each strike against Arthur’s Excalibur reminded him of the whispers that had long lain dormant in his mind—teachings from the followers of Ion that had promised power beyond measure when at one time he was accompanied by a Sarkic tribe. He had always dismissed the idea of using such abilities as cowardly, a strategy for those too afraid to confront their foes with sheer strength. But this moment was different. Faced with a knight of legend, a figure who stood against him with unwavering resolve, he decided to make an exception.

With a primal roar, Abel forced himself to remember the training, the discipline, and the strength he could summon. Drawing on his latent abilities, black bony wings erupted from his back, unfurling like dark banners in the twilight as he roared from the pain. The transformation felt exhilarating yet unnerving and agonizing, but he embraced it, soaring above Arthur with newfound agility bolting upward.

Arthur’s emerald eyes widened in surprise as Abel took to the sky, the immense wings giving him a feral grace. Masterfully, Abel dove toward the knight with his weapon, using his wings to create gusts that threatened to unbalance him. Each strike from Abel’s sword pushed Arthur closer to the towering blood spruce trees that loomed like silent sentinels throughout the clearing. They both understood the danger; if one of them collided with the trees, the consequences would be dire. The trees had a gruesome method of reclaiming their victims—feeding on the blood of the slain before ripping them apart into a new, vibrant trunks.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Abel taunted, his voice laced with dark glee as he pressed his advantage.

“Enough games, beast!” Arthur countered, his demeanor fierce, despite the chaos surrounding them. “You will pay for your actions!”

Both fighters poured their energy into the confrontation, their techniques clashing like thunder, each aiming to force the other into the deadly embrace of the trees. Abel relished the thrill of battle, realizing the power he wielded, and yet, doubts flickered in his mind. He recalled why he had never relied on those tactics before, viewing them as beneath him, as tricks of a coward. But now, as he faced a knight who radiated authority, he felt an undeniable urge to seize any advantage he could obtain.

With a powerful thrust, he swung his sword, forcing Arthur backward. But Arthur retaliated with a devastating slash of Excalibur, forcing Abel to dodge with a flap of his wings. Abel’s heart raced as he darted high into the air, desperate to maintain the upper hand. Their combat escalated, blows exchanged in a flurry of movements that threatened to send one of them spiraling into the clutches of the blood spruce trees.

Just as Arthur narrowly avoided a catastrophic collision—leaping aside to miss the grasp of a gnarled branch—Abel felt a surge of energy coursing through the air around them. It was as if the forest itself was responding to their violent clash.

Suddenly, a mysterious hooded figure emerged from the shadows, weaving intricate magical runes in the air. The runes glowed with ethereal light, and an impressive wave of magical energy surged forth, slamming into both Abel and Arthur with a force that sent them tumbling backward.

Abel hit the ground hard, his wings folding against him, the chaotic energy dissipating around them. As he shook off the disarray, he looked up—his heart racing—and recognized the figure standing before them, cloaked in an enigmatic aura. His face was changed, yet he could sense who this being was.

“By Almighty…” he murmured, disbelief mingling with recognition in his voice.

And then the world shifted. Today was the day when the ancients meet.

Chapter Text

Saarn had only been here for an hour, and she utterly despised it. She stood beside Lovataar, who had disguised herself based on intel from a contact in Russia, a man named Karcist Varis. Their mission was clear: Lovataar was to gather information while carrying a USB loaded with a virus designed by a Maxwellist Mekhanite. When Saarn had asked how Lovataar had managed to acquire such a thing, her companion had offered only cryptic remarks about her disguise and the curious fact that, yes, one could make cyborgs fall in love simply by knowing binary code. How she had come to know binary was a tale Saarn preferred not to delve into—it was already complicated enough.

Everywhere she looked, the sheer gaudiness of the lodge assaulted her senses. The place was draped in glamour and elegance, a blatant display of wealth that felt suffocating. Snobs, pompous blue bloods, and elites mingled with a handful of celebrities worshipped like gods in this villa—though ‘palace’ would have been a more fitting term. What turned her stomach even more were the so-called fellow ‘Neo-Sarkics’ who indulged in this excess, casually conversing with trust fund babies and moguls as if they were socialites. Saarn loathed them all, a deep disgust boiling within her.

The sight of these heretics making a mockery of everything she, her fellow Klavigars, and Ion had fought for—paying with dust and blood—was infuriating. They acted like Daevite nobles, believing that anyone who didn’t share their status was less than vermin. They exploited the vulnerable to enrich themselves or simply for their own sickening enjoyment, much like her twice-damned masters had done. The urge to unleash her full assassination capabilities and paint the gaudy walls with their blood and viscera was almost overwhelming.

Just moments ago, she had overheard a group of businessmen laughing over a particularly distasteful joke. They bragged about how they had turned an entire country jobless, reducing its citizens to the point where they could barely access clean water. One corporate executive, with utter indifference, casually mentioned something about accidentally polluting the water near an endangered species reserve and causing mass poisoning of a village, dismissing it with a wave of her hand and a flippant remark about “blah blah money,” a fancy way of admitting she was a greedy jackass and another casually talked about embezzling people’s salary on mass. Saarn’s stomach twisted at the memory, and a familiar look of entitlement flashed through her mind, reminiscent of her Daevite masters.

In just the first few minutes, Saarn had begun compiling a hit list in her mind, each name etched into her thoughts with the precision of a blade. She clenched her fists, her resolve hardening.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered under her breath, glancing at Lovataar, who was scanning the room with a calculating gaze.

“Patience,” Lovataar replied, her voice low but steady. “We need to gather intel first. The USB is our ticket to dismantling their operation from the inside.”

Saarn nodded, though her eyes burned with the desire for action. “I just hope we don’t have to wait too long. I’d rather see them bleed than hear their laughter.”

As the crowd swirled around them, the atmosphere thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the clinking of crystal glasses, Saarn felt a surge of adrenaline. The night was young, and she was ready to strike and 5 minutes and yet she was already making a hitman list.

This was a den of profligacy. Neo-Sarkic groups from around the world gathered among the elites from the Hunter’s Lodge to their prime target: the Adytum’s Wake. Here, they mingled with greedy organizations like Marshall, Carter & Dark, Anderson Robotics, and various criminal cells from Chicago’s Spirit. The sheer irony of this cabal of rich wretches calling themselves the Adytum’s Wake—self-proclaimed bringers of the glories of Kalmaktama—made Saarn grind her teeth in fury. The gall of it was infuriating.

None of them had ever seen Kalmaktama. They perverted what Ion fought for, the embodiment of everything she and her people had fought for. They battled slavers, warlords, and ancient horrors to free humanity from tyranny, and now these so-called ‘kin’ were tyrants themselves. How dare they call themselves kin?! The things she had read about this secretive cabal rivaled the depravity of Daevite nobles.

And it got worse. Some of these wretches were followers of the Scarlet King including Factory representatives or particularly wealthy cells of the Children of the Scarlet King. Just the thought of it nearly made her burst a vein. How dare these heretics bring the followers of the most vile of all gods into their midst? The very legacy of the Daevites, the cruel masters who had enslaved her people and countless others, was damning enough evidence to convince Saarn that calling them ‘Neo-Sarkic’ was a disservice. They were worse. They were not Nälkä, nor were they ‘Sarkics’ or ‘Sarkites’—whatever derogatory term the Mekhanites had for her people. They were pretenders, making a mockery of everything Ion and her brethren had fought and died for while shaking hands with the enemies of freedom. The only solace she found in this unpleasant revelation was the knowledge that both sides would betray each other at any moment.

Clenching her fists, the Coiled Shadow took a deep breath to calm herself. In, out. In, out. She needed to steady her nerves; otherwise, she would make a foolish mistake.

She glanced at the Highborn Redeemer, who was adjusting her own disguise—a sleek, formal black suit that commanded attention. “Let’s split up,” Lovataar suggested, her voice low and purposeful. “I’ll gather intel from the east wing. You take the west. We can cover more ground that way.”

Saarn nodded, her heart racing at the prospect of diving deeper into this den of vipers. “Be careful. If you spot anything suspicious, signal me.”

“I will,” Lovataar replied, her eyes narrowing with determination. “Just remember, we’re not here to start a war—yet.”

With a final nod, they parted ways. Saarn adjusted her formal gray suit and skirt, a disguise she had donned as a businesswoman from some obscure Neo-Sarkic cult in Asia—one that no one had ever heard of. The clothing had been a gift from Lovataar, who had insisted her wardrobe needed an upgrade; some of her previous outfits were rather…withered away.

As she moved through the crowd, Saarn’s mind raced with thoughts of Nethak’tal, the realm where the Lost Tribe had ended up. It was said to hold the secret to bringing back Grand Karcist Ion. But so many questions lingered: What was the society like there? Were they even Nälkä, or had they followed the follies of the Heretics? Were they alive? How could they access it? And what were the Neo-Sarkics planning for it? Whatever the last question’s answer was, she was sure they were nothing good.

Determined to find out, Saarn steeled herself and plunged into the throng, ready to uncover the secrets that lay hidden within this palace of decadence.

The security here was tight, but thanks to her status as a Klavigar of Assassins, Saarn was a living weapon. Her body concealed non-organic weapons within her abdomen, shielded from X-ray scans. She recalled a conversation with Nadox, who had scoffed at her inquiry about the need for weapons and tools that weren’t organic. “Tch. Simplistic, reductive. We reject that which robs us of our humanity, machine or not,” he had said. It was a shame that most true Nälkäns missed the point, to the point of Technophobia and Isolation; moderation was essential in all things.

Pretending to admire the opulent decorations, Saarn’s eyes roamed over a few ancient artifacts encased in glass. Some she recognized as remnants from both Normalcy and the anomalous side of history. Among them were broken pieces of an admittedly beautiful machine used by the Xia Dynasty, a Mekhane-worshiping empire that, unlike other sects, sought to prevent Mekhane’s reconstruction. They believed that if all the pieces were assembled, Yaldabaoth’s prison would be undone. Nearby lay broken Tesla-like coils from the 7th Occult War, dead plants conjured by Ancient Daevites, and the remains of a once-living Sarkic construct known as Kiraak—biological temples that had long since perished.

Her gaze fell upon a few damaged cogs of alien design from a long-dead civilization on Venus, made of Fuladh—or ‘Mekhanium,’ as that lost race had called it. There was even a statue of Mither, the goddess of the Finnfolks. But what truly made Saarn pause, filled with pity and anger, was the taxidermied body of a Vasasoonenütä, known to the Foundation as SCP-1000, or more commonly as Bigfoot, Yerens, or Children of the Night.

Her people had been given derogatory titles and categorized as malevolent beings, so Saarn understood all too well what it was like to be viewed with prejudice, to be seen as monsters and savages. The Vasasoonenütä had been so advanced in the art of crafting life that they created computers from wood—devices that would make the greatest organic manipulators of this age weep with envy. To her and the other Nälkäns, the destruction of the Vasasoonenütä civilization by the Children of the Sun was not a revolution for freedom against a superior force but a tragedy. The Night Walkers had mastered their civilization not through the howls of gods or demons, nor by stealing from Mother Nature’s resources, but through curiosity. Their tools and devices existed in harmony with nature, to the point where their cities coexisted with the environment.

To witness something so pure lost due to mankind’s insatiable greed and unreasonable fear was to learn of the greatest tragedy in the history of Earth. Sometimes, Saarn wondered how the world might have been if humans had sought cooperation with the Mountain Keepers. Perhaps she and the ‘Sarkics’ were wrong, and they were the oppressive race keeping humanity shackled, as those human supremacists loved to preach. But even if that human-centric narrative were true, did one mourn the lamb that was butchered to make kebabs? For all anyone knew, humans had once been mere animals crawling in the mud. Nothing in the marrow-seeing of the Elders suggested that the Siblings of the Deep Wood had enslaved or waged war on mankind; they simply learned what they could and left once they discovered humanity had a will of its own.

To this day, no one truly knew who or what had armed the Children of the Sun against the Mountain Keepers. Was it the Trickster Forest God? The Folk Under the Hill? There was even a crazy theory that someone had gone back in time to instigate it or perhaps the predecessors of what would become the Daevite Empire, as Ozi̮rmok Ion himself had once claimed. Or maybe it was simply humanity’s dark nature, destroying all that was beautiful out of fear of not being able to control it—or perhaps it was a combination of all these factors.

Scattered among the artifacts were pieces of art that made Saarn weep for the modern-day creations. All of them were non-anomalous, likely to prevent any disruptions from Anartists like Are We Cool Yet? or Gamers Against Weed. 

Each piece was strategically placed to showcase the levels of power and influence wielded by those present.

Saarn found herself in a grand ballroom, where a formal dance party was in full swing. Live classical music resonated through the air, played by an orchestra that filled the expanse with rich melodies. Some guests joined in the dance, while others feasted at lavish dinner tables stacked with enough food to feed entire families. The rare and exotic delicacies on display baffled her; she never understood the fascination that the wealthy had for fish eggs. It revolted her further to see some of the Neo-Sarkics abusing their mastery over their bodies, indulging in potions and dishes that wouldn't affect them—like pufferfish served with lethal poison still intact, simply for the thrill of it.

Her eyes darted through the crowd until she spotted her targets: Vivian Durant-Croÿ and her husband, Alexander Croÿ, the heads of this wretched company. The couple laughed and enjoyed themselves.

Saarn knew she couldn’t just kill them openly; cameras were everywhere, and bodyguards surrounded the couple. Some of those bodyguards were former pit-fighters from the Hunter’s Lodge, men and women who had maimed and killed just to secure their roles. This would require a level of stealth and cunning.

Just then, a voice interrupted her thoughts. “May I have this dance?”

She turned to see an average-built man with glasses. He looked to be around 34 or 35, possibly of Korean descent, though his American accent was distinct. There was something about his eyes that suggested an age and wisdom beyond his years.

Saarn realized she could use him to get closer to her targets under the pretense of dancing. If she refused, he might attract attention and create a scene. So, she smiled and replied, “Of course, Mister…”

“Jax. Jax Light,” he said, taking her hand. As he did, Saarn swore she saw a glint in his eyes, akin to that of a mischievous imp.

“Men are so easy…” Lovataar mused as she passed by the unconscious guards. She hadn’t even needed to produce pheromones; all it took was a little act—pretending to be a damsel with a broken leg, and they were quick to volunteer for a closer look at her skin. To be fair, even women would find it hard to resist her charm and flirtations. After living for thousands of years, she had ample time to perfect her skills.

She entered the hardware room using one of the cards from the unconscious guards.

Interestingly, it appeared someone had already disabled the cameras inside. Someone was already—

Her senses tingled, and she quickly dodged a sudden knockout attack. Despite wearing high heels and a red cocktail dress, she moved with agility. In one of her acrobatic maneuvers, she discreetly inserted a USB drive into the panel, deploying a virus to extract the information she needed.

After a few swift dodges, she pushed the assailant away with a kick that made him huff.

“May I have this dance?” Lovataar smirked.

The unknown intruder was bulky, with a scarred face, dressed head to toe in black for infiltration. He squared his shoulders, readying his fists. “Stand down, lady. I’d rather not fight women.”

“You’re saying you’d fight me if I were a man? Here I thought we lived in an equal country,” she jeered, extending her nails through fleshcrafting to make them longer and sharper.

“I don’t think you’ve ever met a man like me,” he replied, a hint of menace in his voice.

Lovataar smiled in response. “I don’t think you’ve ever met a woman like me.”

With that, she bolted toward him, ready to attack.

As Lovataar danced with the man, his erratic and chaotic body language quickly dispelled any doubts about his true identity. The American accent was a dead giveaway, even if she could tell he had been born and raised in Korea. She noted the glint of chains peeking out from behind his collar, a hint of a medallion hidden there.

“I know you’re with the Foundation,” she whispered near his right ear, her voice a sharp hiss.

“Oh? What gave it away? My charming personality?” he replied playfully.

“No, it was the medallion you’re trying to hide under your collar.”

“You saw that? We haven't even had our first date yet. Damn, I’m really good,” he retorted, a smirk dancing on his lips.

Lovataar was not amused and cut to the chase. “Nice try with that rhyming fake name, Jax Light . You’re the crazy one—Jack Bright.”

Jack chuckled, amusement lighting up his features. “That’s me! The crazy one!” he sang.

“What are you doing here? Tell me, or I’ll fill your veins with a particular venom I’ve concocted. You may find a new body, but I’m sure you’ll feel a lot of pain before getting a new one—like a magma fish in magma without its magma-resistant shell!” To underscore her point, she briefly displayed two snake-like bites, his venomous droplets hissing ominously.

“Whoa, chillax! No need for threats, lady. In fact, I didn’t even want this mission. I was just trying out my new Chainsaw project, and… you know how that song goes—forced into a mission by possessing this guy you see before me. But hey, I got to ask a pretty Sarkic out for a dance, so that’s a win, right?” he joked.

“I don’t care how you got here. What is the Foundation doing here?” Saarn asked, knowing that while he had recognized her as a Sarkic, he likely didn’t realize she was Klavigaar Saarn herself. That brought her a small measure of solace. The last thing she and Lovataar needed was for the Skippers to catch wind of their plans.

“Same old, same old—protecting Normalcy and stopping the bad guys and monsters from bringing about an apocalypse. Your turn?” Jack replied, as if they were engaged in a casual Q&A.

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I didn’t like seeing these Heretics make a mockery of Nälkä. I came to kill them, and that’s all you need to know,” she growled, a threat lurking in her tone.

He chuckled off her threat. “Simple enough! Though it doesn’t quite make sense, this whole gathering…”

“It doesn’t make sense?” She raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Nah! It makes perfect sense! It’s just that the sense is out of reach!” Jack chirped, delivering the rather nonsensical statement with conviction.

The Coiled Shadow stared at him flatly. “...I feel like I’m going to regret asking, but what ?”

He elaborated further, “My dear, all things are explainable. Even anarchy is bound by the rhythms of unseen principles. There’s no true randomness, only unexpected whimsy!”

“I’m surprised that a White Suit possesses such a... not-detached view of the world. Particularly someone infamously…chaotic like you,” she replied, tilting her head slightly and nearly said Suicidal.

He huffed and insisted in his eccentric way, “Nonsense! Everything is arranged and can be understood. Even turmoil resonates with the rhythm of unseen laws! True 'randomness' does not exist; only capricious spontaneity! Blossoms fade, seasons come and go, hearts break and mend, and Sarkics consume! Yet, there is always a purpose behind it all. Structure and marvel are intertwined! Whether deciphering disorder or reveling in its unpredictability, the universe around us is an unending realm of shadow and joy! Just as there is happiness in grasping one aspect, there is equal pleasure in realizing that much more awaits exploration! The journey continues, carnomancer! And regardless of the foe, my chainsaw advances boldly!”

As surprisingly philosophical and thought-provoking as his words were, especially coming from a Foundation scientist dedicated to finding ways to end his own immortality, they drew closer to her targets, allowing Lovataar to execute her plan to assassinate the two heads of this sham.

Suddenly, she swung her partner away with a flourish and leaped into action. Summoning her two favorite blades housed within her abdomen, she activated them, the steel shining as she hurled them at her targets.

The blades struck—one embedding in Vivian’s head while the other pierced Alex’s heart, killing them instantly. Screams erupted in the crowded ballroom as guests began to flee.

Lovataar knelt beside the dead bodies, her expression shifting to confusion. “What in the Pits…?”

They weren’t the real Alexander and Vivian; they were plants! Though they appeared to be flesh on the outside, their interiors were wooden, housing plant-like organs. She had seen Davite Plant Constructs before, but nothing this intricate or lifelike!

“Target took the Grimwalker bait; kill her now!” one of the guards shouted, and heavy-hitting Sarkics from the Hunter’s Lodge began to surround her.

‘Stupid! I thought this was getting too easy!’ she scolded herself internally before dodging an incoming bullet and using a nearby table as a makeshift shield.

“...dammit, I’ve gotten rusty in my art,” she muttered to herself. She then extended sharp, bony edges tipped with poison from under her sleeves, flinging them at her enemies as she moved swiftly. The projectiles struck several of them in their internal organs; even if they managed to regenerate, the poison would finish them off.

High-level Sarkics, especially those from harsh environments, could resist many poisons, but these cocktails were crafted by the Klavigaar of Assassins. With millennia of experience, she had created some of the deadliest potions on Earth—potions that even a Karckist-level Sarkite would find challenging to withstand.

As a few more opponents closed in, attacking her with claws and sharp teeth, she dodged repeatedly until, with a powerful summoning, she recalled the sleek blades that had killed the fake Vivian and Alex. They reappeared in her hands, and she swiftly cut one attacker’s throat, slashed another’s stomach to let his guts spill, and then thrust both blades into the neck and shoulders of a third man, ripping upward to finish him.

She surveyed the carnage around her, her blades slick with blood. “Flesh Tearer and Meat Ripper said hi,” she mocked, spitting at the dead Heretics.

Another Neo-Sarkic approached, and Lovataar braced for battle. But before she could act, a chainsaw tore through the chest of the attacker, splitting him in half. Lovataar turned to see Jack, brandishing a one-handed fully automatic bladed melee weapon the size of a small sword.

For a moment, she stood dumbfounded, not expecting a literal chain-dagger, and managed to say, “...nice chainsaw.”

“Hey, nice blades! How did they just appear in your hands?” he asked, grinning.

“Blood magic, bound to me.” She informed fast and nodded toward him, signaling to follow as they began to run, chaos erupting behind them.

‘Who was this woman?’ Captain Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov wondered to himself. He was certain she was a Sarkic, but after knocking out those guards and catching her disdainful glances at the other Sarkics on the monitors, he realized she likely wasn’t a Neo. More probably a Proto, he thought, and she was definitely holding back, toying with him.

Despite her restraint, Dmitri had to admit that fighting her was becoming increasingly tiring. In contrast, the mysterious Sarkic seemed to be enjoying the challenge. In one of their exchanges, he made a mistake, leaving her an opening to sweep his legs out from under him.

“Blin!” he cursed in Russian as he fell, and before he could react, a sharp knife was just millimeters from his nose, with her perched atop him.

“Hehe, big and dumb—just the way I like!” she taunted.

Dmitri was not the type to give up easily. “What? This was just me being reluctant to hit a lady. Consider yourself the exception!” He kicked her knife away, sprang up, and tackled her down, snatching the blade before it hit the ground. He pressed it against her throat while drawing a sidearm from his hidden holster, aiming it at her head.

“You sure, dear? Seems like we’re at a tie,” she pointed out, and that’s when he felt a sharp edge pressing against his stomach—likely her nailed sharp hand.

Slam!

The door burst open, and Jack entered with a woman he didn’t recognize, both covered in blood.

“It was a trap—!” Saarn began, but her words died in her throat as she took in the scene. A loud facepalm echoed in the room. “Oh, for love of—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” she exclaimed in outrage. In hindsight, she should have expected this. Lovataar, forever devoted to Ion, would go to the ends of the Earth and even wrestle with Yaldabaoth itself if it meant reuniting with her lover. Yet, she still had a penchant for teasing, even after thousands of years.

“Oooh, nice job, Dimitri, my buddy!” Jack grinned, giving a thumbs-up, while Saarn turned back and shot at him a glare that said she was on the verge of strangling him. 

“Uh, for the first time ever, this is not what it looks like,” Dmitri stammered.

“I don’t give a Daevite frak what it looks like! Get up, you two!” Saarn replied tartly. ‘ Am I the only adult in this luxurious hellhole?’ she thought as they disentangled themselves, Lovataar discreetly pocketed the USB.

Screeching sounds echoed as unfriendly company rushed toward them.

“Company,” Saarn announced. This time, instead of Neo-Sarkics, their monstrous creations appeared—hellish hounds with chitinous shells, the size of direwolves, and furious eyes, charging at them.

“Me and my date will take the left; you and your boyfriend will take the right,” Lovataar said, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Alright—wait, Lovataar, he’s not my—! AGH!” Saarn groaned in frustration as she moved.

Bright drew a pistol, firing a couple of shots at the approaching hounds while plunging his working chain-dagger into one’s chest. Saarn moved with the elegance of an assassin, ducking and ripping through the hounds with her blades. Lovataar reshaped her body, growing sharp bony protrusions from her arms and legs, enhancing her agility and allowing her to strike with raptor-like speed as she tore through the beasts, evading their attacks. Meanwhile, Dmitri began shooting at the hounds, plunging his knife into the neck of one that got too close, narrowly dodging a claw aimed at him.

As they fought, Neo-Sarkics appeared, some armed with firearms while others utilized their fleshcrafting abilities to morph and attack. One bullet struck Bright in the shoulder, making him grunt in pain. Saarn retaliated by throwing more poisoned darts at their foes, while Dmitri dispatched a nearby enemy with his pistol, then grabbed the fallen’s rifle to take down two savage Sarkics approaching him. Lovataar moved like a blur, ripping through the hounds with deadly precision.

During the chaos, Bright was ensnared by a long-range flesh tendril, its poisoned teeth impaling his other shoulder. Despite managing to sever a few tendrils with his chain-dagger, he was slammed backward. The Sarkic, with two pupils in each of her two eyes, snarled as its elongated secondary mouth revealed rows of sharp teeth, drawing closer to Bright’s face.

“Ugly,” Bright said, unfazed by the grotesque sight; he had seen worse.

Just then, the Sarkic gurgled blood as two blades plunged into her, twisting with a sickening sound as they tore through flesh, ripping the creature in half. Bright, weakened and bleeding from multiple wounds, dropped to the ground. When he glanced up, he saw Saarn—but she was different. Her lower body had transformed into a slithering snake, and bat wings sprouted from her back. Even the attacking Sarkites seemed momentarily stunned, and Dimitri froze, giving a nearby Sarkite the opportunity to slam his rifle away. Dmitri grunted, struggling to fend off the attacker with a knife.

The Sarkic trying to kill Dmitri was suddenly ripped in half, its body parts flung at its comrades, revealing Lovataar, who had also taken on a monstrous form. She now had four bat wings on her back—two smaller ones below the larger pair—and antler-like horns on her head, exuding the same unsettling aura as Saarn. With newfound efficiency, she dispatched the remaining enemies in a shower of blood and gore.

Holding onto one of his many injuries, Bright grunted, “I... don’t think I asked your name when I requested the dance...” He jested despite his condition, as Saarn slithered closer, extending a hand with elongated, needle-like fingers reminiscent of an aye-aye lemur. She slowly plunged one finger into one of his wounds, making him grunt in pain.

Dmitri, seeing this, instinctively pointed his pistol at Saarn, but Lovataar gently placed a hand on the weapon, bringing it down. The Russian tried to resist, but her grip was unyielding, stronger than he anticipated, as she looked at him with an oddly gentle expression.

“I’m injecting something that will temporarily stop the infection and help your blood clot faster around your wounds,” Saarn explained as she lowered Bright to the floor.

Once he was settled, she slithered back to Lovataar.

“Is it done?” the Coiled Shadow asked the Highborn Redeemer, who nodded in affirmation.

Lovataar then turned to Dmitri with a serious expression, a far cry from the playful mask she wore before. “I suggest you and your friend report to your superiors. Head south; the virus I implanted in the system didn’t stay contained. What’s coming won’t be pretty.”

“What’s going to happen?” Dmitri asked reluctantly.

Lovataar’s gaze turned venomous, sending a shiver down his spine. “ Cleaning house .”

With that, she and Lovataar moved swiftly, leaving the two Skippers behind before either could protest.

The guests ran, desperately trying to flee from the exits, but the emergency lockdown had sealed all doors shut, trapping them like scared sheep in a pen.

Their cries became increasingly feeble as the lights dimmed to a haunting twilight.

From one side emerged a monstrous half-snake humanoid, slithering menacingly, gripping two sharp blades that glinted ominously under the fading light. Slit-snake eyes regarded the crowd with cold contempt, while the rest of her features remained shrouded in darkness; occasionally, a serpent-like tongue flicked out as she assessed her prey.

On the opposite side, a creature with long, razor-sharp claws, horns and a singular, hateful eye advanced, radiating malice.

Both monsters were aware that this was insufficient; not every Neo-Sarkic was present, much less their leaders. They were scattered across the globe, thriving on the suffering of others like parasites. For every weed they cut down, another would grow back, and the true leaders remained hidden, plotting their schemes. Vivian and Alex were not here. Yet still, this was merely the beginning; soon, all who dared to pervert the tenets of Nälkä—who exploited the suffering of others—would pay.

The one-eyed monster, an even more monsterous version of Lovataar, uttered in a low, mirthless voice as she moved closer, forcing the crowd to lean back in fear. “ Ladies and gentlemen, you have enjoyed yourselves well. You reveled in exploiting those ‘lower’ than you, embodying the stereotype of cannibalistic demons that the world condemned us to be. Most of all… you enjoyed slandering my love’s legacy and work while shaking hands with tyrants, petty gods, and our ancient enemy.”

Descending from the top of a chandelier, the sinister Naga—Saarn, now manifested as the Coiled Shadow—loomed over them, her slitted eyes and serpent jaw hissing ominously. “ I’m afraidsss to sssssay…your feasssssst is over.”

The one-eyed monster, who was Lovataar now the Highborn Redeemer, growled with a low growl, “ Rejoice, for you will die by his Klavigars—an honor you do not deserve. When he returns... none of you wretched Daevite wannabe colleges will be safe .”

An hour later, the Foundation and GOC operatives flooded the mansion, even the most hardened and jaded members retched at the scene that lay before them in horror—a scene that transcended all notions of savagery. No one was spared, the only thing they found was what remained of them.

From that day forward, it would forever be known as the Red Hour.

Chapter Text

Lilith Clawthorne, the former loyalist of the Emperor’s Coven and now a professor, was acting like a child in a toy shop. Despite her age, her excitement was palpable as she gazed at the ancient ruins surrounding her.

“Look at those carvings!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with wonder. “This is the greatest archaeological find of the century! This is WAY older than Belos’s reign! What do you think these stones could tell us? That charlatan son of a trash slug has muddied our history! Oh! Could THIS be the Lost City of Ultharak? I wonder if this feels like what humans experienced when they found the pyramids! It’s—”

Her enthusiastic monologue flowed like a rushing river, a torrent of thoughts spilling forth since Belos’s death. Lilith had made it her personal mission to uncover the TRUE history of the past, not the propaganda and tampered lies that Belos had fed everyone for centuries. A heavy weight pressed upon her, a burden of responsibility for having served under his reign. The possibility that this site could be the fabled city of Ultharak—the Demon Realm’s equivalent of Atlantis—only fueled her desire to explore and unearth ancient history.

“Lilith, you need to be careful,” Steve cautioned, his voice laced with concern as he watched her pace excitedly near the edge of a craggy cliff. “We don’t know what kind of traps might be around here.”

“Oh, come on, Steve! This is history! We have to—”

“Did someone say ‘history’? Because I love a good story!” piped up Hooty, wriggling out from the pack behind Lilith’s back, his countenance brimming with enthusiasm. “History is like the bedtime story of the world! I could just hoot about it all day!”

Lilith chuckled. “You’re right, Hooty! Every great adventure deserves a story. But we should dig deeper into the facts, not just the fun parts!”

But her words trailed off as she recalled the Time Pool. While it offered an unbiased and objective glimpse into history, it didn’t connect to every time period. The unforeseen consequences of her previous visit with Luz still haunted her. That incident had caused a paradox, leading to Phillip Wittebane becoming Belos—a fact that gave her an existential crisis about the nature of time and destiny.

“Besides,” Lilith interjected, crossing her arms, “ever since Belos tried to absorb the corpse of a Titan, the Time Pools no longer work.”

Steve added, “And teleportation spells? Forget about it! It’s like he cursed the entire realm even in death. If we get stuck here with no way out, there won’t be any shortcuts.” He paused, glancing at the treacherous landscape around them. “Not to mention the Scrolls since then can only work locally. With few brave enough to traverse the boiling seas teeming with sea monsters that could sink a ship, and the skies filled with flying predators and deadly weather—including acidic rains and firestorms—transportation and communication with other lands have become a nightmare. It’s put a strain on Boiling Isle’s economy, to the point that it took immense effort to prevent it from suffering its own version of the Great Depression.”

Lilith sighed, her excitement dimming slightly. “Curse Belos to the lowest pits of Darkness Below. Even dead, he manages to torment the Demon Realm for years to come. And don’t get me started on the cultist uprisings still loyal to him.” A shudder ran through her as she recalled the violent cultist uprisings that had plagued Boiling Isle for some time.

As she stood there, gazing at the towering column adorned with carvings of a long-dead language, she felt a mix of determination and frustration. The column loomed ten feet tall, its surface etched with intricate runes instead of glyphs, a testament to the ancient civilization that had once thrived here. The air around them crackled with the weight of history, and the scent of damp earth mingled with the tang of ancient stone.

“Wow, look at those runes! They look like my cousin Hooty’s doodles, but, like, less artistic!” Hooty joked, puffing up in mock pride.

Suddenly, her babbling was cut short when Steve grabbed her arm, yanking her away from the edge just as the bombs he had planted detonated. The explosion erupted with a deafening roar, sending a shockwave that reverberated through the air. Debris rained down like deadly confetti, and the ground shook violently beneath them.

BOOM!

Consequently, the giant column toppled, creating an unexpected bridge.

“Now you see? I just made a pathway! And they say demolition can’t be constructive!” Steve exclaimed proudly, puffing out his chest as he admired his handiwork. Lilith, on the other hand, stood gaping, her archaeological instincts screaming silently in indignation at the reckless destruction of such ancient history.

“Now come and see what other things we can find there! Maybe they have something shiny!” Steve gestured for her to follow, his excitement palpable, while Lilith remained momentarily stunned.

Hooty wormed out of the pack behind Lilith and giggled. “Hehehe! Reminds Hooty of that time when I accidentally exploded a couple of Coven meanies! It was very—”

“Not now, please, Hootsifer,” Lilith snapped gently, cutting off her companion before the bird could become too distracting.

They cautiously walked across the newly formed bridge, and as they reached the other side, they noticed that the cavern around them looked… odd. It felt as if they were traversing the fossilized body of a long-dead beast, yet there was something unnatural about it. This ancient construct, discovered deep underground in the chest of a long-dead Titan, seemed to have been carved into, yet there were no signs of traditional stonework or carvings like those on the fallen column. Instead, it appeared as though it had been mended, which greatly fascinated Lilith.

Her train of thought was abruptly interrupted when they reached a dead end.

“Oh, come on!” Steve groaned, frustration evident in his voice. He attempted to use his magic, but for some reason, it fizzled against the wall. “That’s weird. It’s like my magic is being canceled by this obstacle.”

“I’m guessing the ancients carved those runes as protections against magical means,” Lilith pointed out, her brow furrowing as she examined the intricate symbols etched into the stone.

“Call me a dumb-dumb, but what’s even the difference between runes and glyphs?” Steve asked, scratching his head in confusion.

Lilith adjusted her glasses, preparing to elaborate. “Glyphs are more abstract and often focus on visual symbolism rather than phonetic representation, while runes typically have a historical basis rooted in ancient cultures and may even represent a language.”

Steve and Hooty stared at her blankly, prompting a deep sigh from Lilith.

“Oh! I get it! Runes are like old art, and glyphs are modern art! Everyone keeps versusing each other!” Hooty concluded, puffing up with pride at his analogy.

Lilith had to stop herself from cringing; that was not at all what she meant.

“Uhm, layman’s terms, please?” Steve said, looking genuinely perplexed.

“Glyphs tend to be used for immediate effects in spellcasting, whereas runes are typically used for divination, protection, or enchantment. Although runes can be used for spellcasting, they require knowledge of an ancient language to be effective. Unlike runes, which often need historical understanding, glyphs can be understood visually, allowing for a wider range of users, including novices in magic. To sum up: while runes connect deeply with ancient traditions and languages, glyphs emphasize artistic representation and immediate magical applications.” She stepped closer to the obstacle, placing both hands on it as she examined the carvings intently. “This is a dead language, but it does have a few similarities with later developed languages, so maybe I can…” She squinted, adjusting her glasses to get a better look at the writings, using her linguistic knowledge to decipher some of the ancient text.

“Maybe there’s a secret password. Let’s see… Tithanax means Titan, obviously…” She rolled her eyes. “Thragothar means a place of great power in rough translation…”

Despite her expertise, translating a long-dead language was proving to be an arduous task. Minutes turned into hours, and as fatigue began to set in, Steve, bored and with nothing better to do, set up camp nearby. Hooty, too, was of little help to Lilith’s quest for knowledge.

“Nethak’tal, I think… sort of a name? But what?” Lilith rubbed her eyes in frustration.

“Oh! Maybe it’s the name of a spicy food! It does sound spicy!” Hooty chirped, his enthusiasm unwavering.

“I don’t think it’s talking about food, Hootsifer, but I appreciate the input.”

“Happy to help!”

As more hours passed, Steve had fallen asleep near a tree, and Hooty had dozed off as well, the night deepening around them. Lilith herself was on the verge of sleep, her face pressed against the wall, drool pooling beneath her chin. “The Covenant of Daeva… Flesh rots… Bones remain… Marrow tells…” she murmured, her consciousness drifting into the realm of dreams.

Unknown to everyone, while Steve slept, sharp, white edges began to protrude from the ground around him, resembling rib bones that grew slowly and menacingly. He squinted in his sleep, feeling an unsettling sensation. Gradually, confusion took over his sleepy expression, and when the realization struck him, he tried to move. However, he found himself stuck against the ground, his back pressed down and his hands restrained by sticky, red-like veins that had latched onto him, while some of the ribs imprisoned him in place.

“LILITH! LILITH!” he called out, panic rising in his voice.

Startled awake, Lilith’s eyes shot open, her senses sharpening as she turned to see the chaotic scene behind her. Without hesitation, she rushed forward, using her clawed hands to break the sticky veins and tear away some of the ribs that had ensnared him. As she did so, the remaining ribs reacted, retracting back into the earth like a retreating tide.

“Huh? What happened?” Hooty mumbled, waking up and blinking sleepily as Lilith helped Steve to his feet.

“Did you see that!? That thing was freaky!” Steve said, frantically patting around his body, checking for any remnants of the nightmarish grip.

“Uh, yes, and? Carnivorous plants aren’t exactly rare in the Boiling Isle,” Lilith replied, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion as she observed his distress.

“The tree had freaking rib cages!” Steve exclaimed, disbelief coloring his voice.

Lilith’s mind flashed back to the ravenous tree she had seen earlier, and she considered what she had just witnessed. It was indeed disturbing. “That is concerning,” she admitted, a new thought sparking in her mind. “Oh! I get it now!” She rushed back to the obstacle, her excitement bubbling over as she spoke words of an ancient language.

“Nethr laka kona lona marwa at kahm!”

Suddenly, the wall shook violently, moving as if it had a will of its own, until it crashed down to reveal an open pathway.

“How did you do that?” Steve wondered aloud, awe mixing with confusion.

“I spoke in the Kaalia language, a variation resembling the dead language. I said: ‘Flesh rots, bones remain; in marrow's depths, truth holds pain,’” Lilith explained, her excitement growing.

“The nursery rhyme?” Steve raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Yes,” she confirmed, smiling at the unexpected connection.

He shook his head, a grin breaking across his face. “Only here do we have such lovely nursery rhymes.”

Lilith chuckled. “That’s exactly what Luz said.”

“I like it,” Hooty chimed in, shrugging with his nonexistent shoulders.

The trio entered the newly revealed passage, and what they saw left them awestruck.

“Wow,” Steve breathed, his voice dropping to a whisper of admiration.

“Woooah,” Hooty echoed, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Is that… is that—!” Lilith’s voice almost squeaked with excitement.

“The Lost City of Ultharak!” she exclaimed, her heart racing as she took in the breathtaking sight before her.

As they stepped into the lost city of Ultharak, the trio was greeted by a breathtaking sight. They found themselves surrounded by crumbling buildings and ancient ruins of a long-forgotten civilization. The architecture, though battered by time, bore the remnants of intricate designs and towering structures that once stood proudly against the sky. Now, however, the stones were cracked and weathered, with deep fissures running through their surfaces like scars from a distant battle.

Thick vines and vibrant vegetation had claimed much of the stonework, cascading down the sides of buildings and weaving through the remnants of walls. The greenery contrasted sharply with the gray stone, creating a surreal tapestry of life reclaiming what had been lost. Some structures appeared to have collapsed partially, their foundations sunken into the earth, while others leaned precariously, as if they might topple at any moment.

“I’ve found it! Well… I mean, we found it!” Lilith exclaimed, her voice a blend of excitement and awe. She calmed down when Steve gently placed his hands on her shoulders, grounding her.

“Slow down, Lily. I like the enthusiasm, but how do you know this is the fabled city? Uhm… it doesn’t look big enough to be a city,” Steve noted, glancing around. The ruins seemed more like a village than a sprawling metropolis.

“It has the same runes the legends spoke of!” she insisted, pointing at the walls adorned with faded symbols that echoed the ancient language she had studied. “And look at the disjointed earth!” She gestured to the cracked ground, where chunks of stone jutted out at odd angles, some structures appearing as if they had been flipped upside down. “I’m guessing an earthquake caused a piece of the city to fall beneath the earth, while the rest may have long been destroyed by some sort of calamity. And that nursery rhyme? It’s the oldest known nursery rhyme in the entire history of the Demon Realm, said to have connections with this place!” She spoke with a fervor that lit up her eyes, her voice brimming with victorious reasoning.

“Hooray! It’s cause for CELEBER—!” Hooty began, but he was immediately shushed into silence as Lilith quickly closed his beak with a gentle but firm hand.

“Shhh! There may be underground predators here; you might alert them,” she warned, her eyes scanning the shadows with a mix of excitement and caution.

“Mmkay!” Hooty replied, nodding earnestly as Lilith released his beak.

The trio began to explore the ruins, Lilith particularly focused on documenting her findings. She pulled out her scroll, jotting down notes and sketches of the peculiar architecture, her eyes shining with curiosity. The bioluminescent plants that thrived in the cracks of the stone provided a soft, ethereal glow, illuminating the surroundings with shades of blue and green. It cast an enchanting light on the moss-covered stones and vibrant flowers that seemed to bloom in defiance of the decay around them. For now, there was no need for a lantern, and even Steve had to admit it was beautiful.

As they wandered deeper into the remnants of Ultharak, Steve felt a tension in the air. His recent encounter with the carnivorous tree of ribs and veins had left him on edge, and the odd, twisted shapes of some structures only heightened his unease. He glanced at the towering remains of a once-majestic building, its roof long collapsed, revealing a gaping maw that seemed to beckon them closer.

Hooty flitted around like an oblivious child, his head swiveling in every direction, taking in the sights with wide eyes. “Wow! Look at that one! It’s like a giant mushroom!” he exclaimed, pointing at a particularly large bioluminescent plant that had taken root in what appeared to be the remnants of a grand archway.

“Stay close, Hooty,” Steve cautioned, his instincts on high alert as they ventured further into the ruins. The beauty of the place was undeniable, but the shadows danced ominously, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were not alone in this ancient city.

Lilith continued to scribble notes, her mind racing with possibilities. “This place… it’s a treasure trove of history,” she murmured, captivated by the secrets the ruins held. “If only we could uncover its stories.”

As they explored, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, sweet aroma of blooming flowers, mingling with the musty smell of decay. It was a place where nature and history intertwined, a hauntingly beautiful reminder of a civilization that had once thrived, now left to the whispers of the wind and the watchful eyes of its ancient guardians now awoken by the scent of new preys.

Lilith’s attention was drawn to strange red growths near what appeared to be a temple, the oddest architecture she had ever encountered. The structure seemed almost organic, with curving lines and pulsating surfaces that gave the impression of a living entity. “What manner of organism is this…?” she pondered aloud, her curiosity piqued.

Suddenly, the fleshy tendrils of the red organisms began to unfurl, moving upward and dancing hypnotically in the dim light. Lilith felt a shiver run down her spine as she watched the display, startled by the unexpected animation.

“Hooty is spinning ,” the little worm-bird remarked, his head bobbing back and forth as if entranced by the tendrils’ movements.

Screech!

The tendrils lunged forward, snapping toward Lilith with alarming speed. She yelped and ducked just in time, but a few of them struck Hooty, wrapping around him and pulling him toward the mass of writhing red.

“Hey! I was just beginning to like you!” Hooty protested, annoyance lacing his voice as he struggled against the grip.

“Stay back, Hooty!” Steve shouted, rushing to help. But as he moved, one of the tendrils lashed out, grabbing him and dragging him toward the ominous maw of the creature lurking nearby.

The Snatcher opened a sideways maw filled with dagger-like teeth, its mouth snapping open and closed in anticipation of its prey. It let out a chilling screech that echoed through the ruins.

“Lilith…!” Steve called out, panic creeping into his voice.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” she stressed, feeling the urgency of the moment. In a swift motion, she partly transformed into her humanoid owl form, her talons extending as she tore through the red tendrils that ensnared her friends. The creature screeched in pain, but more tendrils surged forward, targeting her as well.

Steve, using his magic, attempted to push the tendrils away with a forceful telekinetic push. For a moment, it worked, and the tendrils recoiled. But they quickly regrouped, snatching at his legs and dragging him toward the maw.

The Snatcher’s mouth opened wider, its teeth glistening with a sinister hunger as it awaited its meal.

“Lilith!” Steve called again, struggling against the tightening grip.

“I’m trying!” she replied, her voice strained as she fought against the encroaching tendrils.

Suddenly, Hooty declared, “That’s it! You’re no friend of Hooty!” With determination, he wiggled out of Lilith's pack and charged straight toward the maw.

“HOOTIFER, DON’T—!” Lilith shouted, but it was too late. Hooty dove headfirst into the gaping maw, and the creature's jaws snapped shut, teeth sinking into him. The Snatcher screeched in agony, unable to crush the little worm-bird completely.

SCREECH!

In an explosive burst of blood and gore, Hooty erupted from the creature's back, showering the area in a gruesome spray. The Snatcher collapsed, its tendrils falling lifeless as it succumbed to the fatal blow.

“That’s what happens when you mess with Hooty and his friends!” Hooty declared triumphantly, his feathers stained but his spirit unbroken.

“A little help, please!” Steve called, still struggling against the remaining Snatcher that held him tightly, making it nearly impossible for him to cast magic.

Hooty bolted forward, determination shining in his eyes. He impaled the Snatcher that was trying to devour Steve, once again coated in blood and gore, and the creature let out a final, screeching wail before it too fell silent.

Steve scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt and debris off himself as he sighed in relief. “Phew, thanks, Hooty.”

“No problem!” Hooty chirped, puffing out his chest with pride. “No stinky plant is a foe for Hooty!”

“I don’t think those were plants at all…” Steve replied, glancing at the remnants of the Snatchers, their fleshy forms and meaty pieces a clear indication of their true nature. Lilith nodded in agreement, her expression serious as she surveyed the chaotic scene around them.

“Whatever they are, we need to stay alert,” she warned, her eyes scanning the eerie temple and its surrounding ruins. “This place is full of surprises, and not all of them are friendly.”

HOWL

An unholy howl echoed through the ruins, sending chills down the trio's spines. Their heads snapped around, and the sound of a horde approaching sent adrenaline coursing through their veins.

“Hide!” Steve urged, his voice urgent.

“The temple!” Lilith pointed toward the half-opened entrance of the temple, its ancient stones looming ominously in the dim light.

Without a moment's hesitation, they sprinted toward the temple, their hearts pounding in their chests. They slipped inside and gently closed the door behind them, trying to remain as quiet as possible. The creaking of the ancient wood echoed in the stillness, and they quickly locked the door using the sliding bolt on its back, fearing that the aged barrier would be no match for whatever horrors lurked outside.

Inside, the air was thick with dust, and as they moved, a cloud of it billowed up, causing Hooty to nearly sneeze. Just in time, Lilith and Steve frantically closed his beak, stifling the sound. The last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves.

Outside, guttural sounds filled the air, the creatures sniffing and prowling, their movements heavy and deliberate. Lilith and Steve held their breath, straining to listen as the noises grew closer, then began to fade away. It seemed they were moving on, their footsteps retreating into the distance.

When the sounds finally dissipated, the trio let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Remember when I said I hoped this adventure led to more than just digging up long-lost potteries?” Steve recalled, his voice low and slightly shaky.

Lilith nodded, her heart still racing.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Next time, smack me in the head if I make such a wish.”

Lilith shared a laugh with him, both of them momentarily forgetting the peril they faced as they giggled like schoolchildren, the tension easing just a bit.

“I don’t get it?” Hooty tilted his head, confusion etched on his face. Suddenly, he winced. “Ow! Ugly blossomed flowers had some sharp teeth!” He pointed to bite marks on his neck, small but noticeable.

Lilith leaned closer to examine the wounds, her expression softening. “Thankfully, it’s not deep, so you should be fine,” she assured him, trying to soothe his discomfort.

“Still ow,” Hooty whined, rubbing his neck with a wing.

Lilith was about to roll her eyes at his dramatics when something in front of her caught her attention. “Guys, look!” She stood up, her voice filled with awe, and the other two quickly joined her.

Before them lay the interior of the temple, illuminated by the soft glow of bioluminescent fungi that clung to the walls. The architecture was unlike anything they had ever seen—curved walls that seemed to pulse with a life of their own, intricate carvings of ancient creatures and symbols that told stories of a civilization long gone.

In the center of the room stood a massive altar, adorned with strange artifacts that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Some of the items looked like they were made from precious metals, while others appeared to be crafted from the same organic material as the temple itself.

“Wow,” Steve breathed, stepping forward cautiously. “This place is incredible.”

Lilith’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the details. “We might be standing in the heart of Ultharak,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “This could be a treasure trove of knowledge.”

Hooty flitted closer, his curiosity piqued. “What’s that shiny thing?” He pointed a wing toward a particularly ornate object resting atop the altar, its surface glinting invitingly.

“Let’s be careful,” Lilith warned, her excitement tempered by caution. “We don’t know what kind of traps or guardians might be here.”

As they approached the altar, the atmosphere shifted, a palpable sense of ancient power filling the air. The trio exchanged glances, a mix of thrill and apprehension coursing through them as they prepared to uncover the secrets of the temple.

Being a temple it was expected to have carvings or arts and time, the carvings around  transcended mere artistry; they morphed into haunting murals that depicted enigmatic events and characters from an age long forgotten. Each image, rendered in ghostly shades of white, bore the weight of either history or mythology, yet none could decipher their cryptic meanings.

Two colossal humanoid figures stood in stark opposition, their presence both awe-inspiring and terrifying. One was a mechanical behemoth, adorned with steely wings and four elongated arms. Two of these arms wielded what could only be described as a staff or perhaps a scepter, its purpose lost to time. This figure’s face was a mask of sharp features, dominated by four unblinking optic lenses that served as its eyes, devoid of a mouth or any discernible orifices. Atop its head rested a crown-like structure, a symbol of dominion over the ancient realm. In stark contrast, the other humanoid was a grotesque embodiment of primal chaos, its head adorned with numerous branching horns. Six eyes with slit pupils gazed into the void, while bat-like wings unfurled from its back. Instead of legs, it bore writhing tentacles, each ending in clawed appendages, complemented by two raptorial forelegs. This creature exuded a flesh-like essence, a stark juxtaposition to the cold, mechanical form of its counterpart. As the two figures reached out toward each other, a swirling model of DNA floated ominously between their gesturing hands, hinting at a dark connection that transcended their forms.

Beneath these titanic beings, six smaller winged figures hovered, their presence a mere whisper against the towering giants.

The next mural revealed a chaotic tableau, depicting these god-like entities locked in a fierce battle. A serpent-like creature with the head of a lion clashed with another serpent-like figure, this one robotic and devoid of pupils eating each other’s tails like an ouroboros cycle. Between them, vague humanoid shapes flitted, their forms indistinct and ephemeral. In a more sinister corner of the mural, an amorphous entity writhed, its many eyes and a gaping maw filled with seven gnarled, gargantuan teeth, thrashing savagely within an iron cage—a chilling representation of confinement of the beast.

Another mural painted a darker narrative, illustrating demonic humanoids wielding whips against their normal-looking counterparts, who appeared enslaved and forced into labor. The leaders of these demonic figures, matriarchal in their dominance, reveled in their cruelty. Surrounding scenes depicted the subjugation of the innocent: chains of bondage, burning villages, and unspeakable horrors inflicted upon their captives. One harrowing image captured a slave, a dagger pressed against their throat, blood spilling forth in a grotesque tribute to ancient, merciless deities, depicted as devils reveling in the suffering of the damned.

The final mural culminated in a shocking reversal of fate. The cruel masters lay dead amidst the ruins of their cities, now engulfed in flames. The very slaves who once toiled under their tyranny rose up, their vengeance manifest in a macabre display of rebellion. One slave was portrayed holding a still-beating heart, grotesquely chewing upon it while some of the other slaves seemingly were feeding on their fallen masters. Surrounding this figure were five others: a naga brandishing a bloodied dagger, a behemoth with a single, glaring eye in the position similar to that of a gorilla, a humanoid with multiple arms and a gaping mouth at its chest, a feminine cyclopean entity with bat wings and a broken horn, and at the center, a figure of nightmarish grandeur more detailed than the others. This central being wielded a staff crafted from bones, its top adorned with fleshy webs. Clad in robes that bore rib cages as collars and a halo hovering ominously behind its head, this figure possessed four horns atop its head. Its right side was dominated by three eyes, while the left side grotesquely displayed three mouths. Bat wings and writhing tendrils extended from its back, completing a tableau of ancient horror and enigmatic power and yet this middle figure was seemed revered along with their companions.

The final mural loomed before them, a haunting tapestry of symbols arranged within intricate circles. Among them were three one-eyed snakes—two hissing menacingly, their scales shimmering ominously. A bleeding heart, grotesquely impaled by a raptorial limb, was positioned alongside a hand with an eye at its center, branches like veins extending outward in an unsettling display. Dominating the mural was a massive spiral vortex, twisting violently, drawing the eye into its depths.

“This… is somehow both awe-inspiring and disturbing,” Steve commented, snapping pictures with his scroll, careful to capture every detail.

“Pretty,” Hooty admired, tilting his head as he examined the mural, unaware of the darker implications behind its beauty.

Lilith stepped closer, her brow furrowed in concentration as she began to translate the words encircling the central circle. “Breaker of Chains… Emperor of the Deathless… Grand Karcist of Adytum… Iūn… no, wait… Ion.” She paused, scribbling notes frantically, her heart racing with the thrill of discovery.

“This Ion, is he some sort of idol?” Steve suggested, glancing at the highly detailed figure at the mural's center. “They seem to revere him.”

“The fact that he’s depicted so elaborately, while the others are more abstract, definitely suggests that,” Lilith agreed, a grimace crossing her face. She couldn’t shake the uncomfortable resemblance to the way Emperor Belos was idolized within the Emperor’s Coven. The thought sent a chill down her spine.

“You okay?” Steve asked, noticing her expression shift.

Lilith took a deep breath. “It just… feels too similar. The worship, the power dynamics... It makes me uneasy. Just like Belos, it seems they placed everything on this Ion.” She motioned toward the mural, her voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking too loudly would summon the echoes of the past. “There’s a darkness here, Steve. A danger that lies beneath the reverence.”

Hooty, still entranced, blinked as he absorbed the weight of her words. “But he looks strong! Maybe he can help if we get into trouble?”

Lilith shook her head slowly. “Strength can come with a price, Hooty. Idols aren’t always what they seem.”

As they stood before the mural, a sense of foreboding filled the air, thick like the dust that coated everything around them. Each symbol seemed to pulse with energy, whispering secrets long buried beneath the ground. Lilith felt a chill crawl up her spine, a warning that perhaps they were meddling with forces far beyond their understanding.

Withdrawing from her thoughts, she returned her focus to the mural, the swirling patterns playing tricks on her eyes. “If Ion is as revered as this suggests, there must be records about him somewhere in the temple. We need to find more information and understand what we're dealing with before we make any decisions.”

“Right,” Steve agreed, his tone serious now as he pocketed his camera. “Let’s keep searching. We’ll figure this out together.”

Slam! Slam!

HOWL!

The door burst open with a violent smack, and the guttural howl echoed through the chamber.

“Titandamnit!” Lilith cursed, she was hoping there was more time to investiagte the temple.

“Found us!” Steve shouted, eyes widening as he realized the gravity of their situation.

“Bring it on!” Hooty, in stark contrast, was eager for a fight, puffing out his chest defiantly.

With a sinister crack, holes emerged in the door, revealing sharp, half-plant hands that writhed and clawed, desperately trying to invade their sanctuary. The trio reacted instinctively.

“There! It leads up!” Steve shouted, spotting a gaping entrance that opened into the ceiling above. “Maybe it’s an exit!”

Without hesitating, they followed his lead, darting toward the opening as the creatures howled louder, their determination palpable. Steve quickly harnessed his telekinesis, pulling large boulders and chunks of the ruined structure, blocking the entrance just as the tendrils began to slip through.

As they climbed into the gaping entrance, the sensation of the outside world vanished, replaced by a profound silence that felt almost unnatural. When they emerged on the other side, the environment shifted dramatically.

“Is it me or does this look different?” Steve pondered aloud, glancing around in confusion.

Lilith took in her surroundings, her brow furrowing in concentration. The architecture here was starkly different from the organic designs of the previous chamber. Gleaming metal, steel, and copper replaced the earthen tones and grotesque organic shapes they had just left behind.

“It’s not just you, Steve,” she replied, biting her lip in thought. “It feels oddly reminiscent of the inside of the old steam-powered trains humans used to use. This architecture…” She trailed off, a mix of fascination and bewilderment in her voice. “It’s like we’ve stumbled upon another culture that we never knew about.”

“I can't read any of the languages and runes here except for maybe… strangely Greek perhaps? I’m not sure,” she added, scanning the walls for any familiar scripts, her fingers brushing against the cool metal surface.

Hooty flitted closer to one of the inscriptions, tilting his head as if trying to decipher the symbols. “Maybe they’re just bad at spelling,” he joked, seeking to lighten the mood, though his voice carried an undercurrent of concern.

Lilith chuckled quietly but remained focused. “Or perhaps they represent something more. Whatever culture created this place, there’s a chance they had advanced technology or understanding of magic—something that could explain how we fell into such a strange world.”

Howl

A chilling howl echoed through the chamber once more.

“While fascinating, I suggest we get out fast before whatever those are following us,” Steve urged, glancing back toward the staircase.

“Good idea,” Lilith nodded in agreement, her heart racing.

Hooty whined, “Aw, I was hoping for some blood!” His eagerness for a fight was palpable, but the urgency of the situation quickly overshadowed his playful nature.

The trio moved at a faster pace, the allure of the ancient machinery and the remnants of a lost civilization fading into the background as the howls grew closer. They sprinted past damaged devices, gears, and even a few skeletal remains that had mechanical parts fused into them—each a testament to the strange blend of organic and inorganic life that once thrived here.

As they ascended a staircase, Lilith suddenly halted, her curiosity getting the better of her. She leaned closer to one of the skeletons, examining the intricate mechanical components intertwined with the bones.

“What in Titans’ name…?” she murmured, her eyes widening in shock as she realized the skeletal structure was identical to that of a human. The implications hit her like a cold wave, but before she could voice her astonishment, Steve rushed back, grabbing her hand.

“Come on! Not time for sightseeing with dead people!” he urged, pulling her away.

“Did—did you see—!?” Lilith stammered, still reeling from her discovery.

“I saw it! I saw it!” he answered breathlessly, urgency in his voice.

Another howl reverberated through the air, and they looked back to see humanoid shadows crawling up the staircase, moving in a staggering, relentless wave.

“No time indeed! Hold on to me!” Lilith instructed, her voice steady despite the chaos.

“What do—”

Before he could finish, she transformed into her owl-humanoid form, her wings stretching wide as she grasped Steve firmly. With a powerful flap, she took off into the air, making Steve yelp in surprise.

“Hooty is flying!” Hooty cheered, momentarily forgetting the danger as he flitted alongside them.

But the moment of triumph was short-lived. One of the creatures managed to leap high enough, grasping at Lilith’s wing with claw-like hands.

They yelped as she struggled to hold back the creature from tearing into them. In that instant, they got a horrifying glimpse of its features. The humanoid figure was a grotesque hybrid of plant and human—pale, gaunt skin stretched tightly over skeletal frames, giving it a lifeless quality. Sunken eyes glimmered with a haunting intelligence devoid of warmth, while thin, cracked lips hinted at a long silence. Wooden branches sprouted from its head like twisted horns, and its long, spindly fingers reached for them, hungry and predatory.

“NO!” Lilith cried out as the creature sank its teeth into her right wing, pain shooting through her body. She nearly dropped Steve, but her bird foot clutched him tightly, keeping him secure.

Hooty, sensing the danger and fury bubbling within him, lost whatever eccentricities he had left. “NO ONE HURTS HOOTY’S FRIENDS!” he screeched, his voice fierce and protective. In a flash, he slithered forward, his beak diving toward the creature’s right eye.

With a sharp plunge, he struck, piercing the eye and causing the creature to screech in agony. Black mucus poured from the wound, staining the floor as it thrashed in pain. Despite the creature’s attempts to claw at him, Hooty pressed on, plunging his beak deeper and twisting until the creature could bear it no longer.

With a final, agonized howl, the plant monster lost its grip on Lilith and fell back, its body collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

“Let’s go!” Lilith shouted, adrenaline fueling her as she flapped her wings harder, propelling them upward and away from the remaining threats below.

Hooty flew beside them, his heart racing with the thrill of battle, but concern for his friends lingered in his gaze. “Are you okay, Lilith?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“I will be,” she replied, gritting her teeth against the pain. “But we need to keep moving. There’s no telling what else is down here, and I doubt we’ve seen the last of those things.”

As they ascended further into the unknown, the howls faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic sound of their own heartbeats.

Lilith grunted as she stumbled, falling onto the cold floor.

“Ah, crikey! You’re alright, Lilith?” Steve rushed to her side, concern etched on his face.

“No time! Must run!” she gasped, forcing herself back to her feet despite the pain shooting through her wing. They pressed on, adrenaline pushing them forward.

Fortunately, they had gained enough altitude to put some distance between themselves and the horde of plant monsters, at least for the moment.

As they entered what appeared to be a trophy room—or perhaps a sample room—Lilith’s eyes darted around, taking in the bizarre collection of artifacts. Shelves lined with glass cases displayed long-dead animals, preserved plants, and various inanimate objects, all encased in dust and neglect. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of history, but there was no time to appreciate it.

“Keep moving!” Lilith urged, her voice strained as she groaned from the pain.

In her haste, she accidentally brushed her bloodied hand against a broken, rusted mirror. The instant her palm made contact, an eerie sensation coursed through her. Before she could react, the mirror’s fragments seemed to come alive, sucking the blood from her palm as if it were a parched desert.

Lilith gasped, her eyes widening in shock. The shards levitated, swirling together in a dark vortex, and instead of her own reflection, she saw a male figure emerge—half-naked, adorned with intricate red tattoos that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

“Wha—?” she started, but her words were cut off as a hand shot out from the mirror, grasping her throat with a vice-like grip.

“Kin-traitor…!” he said in an angry whisper to her ears.

Violent clashes erupted in her mind, a chaotic symphony of brutality and despair. A man, consumed by envy, rained blows upon another with a jagged stone, each striking a grotesque punctuation in a narrative of bloodlust. The crimson liquid spilled forth, pooling like the remnants of shattered dreams, all born from the poisonous roots of jealousy. The scene twisted, yanking her back to her past self, a specter of bitterness cursing Eda, her heart a cauldron of envy and spite.

Suddenly, the vision morphed, plunging into first-person horror. The man, once thought to be a victim, now rose from the depths of death, a snarl twisting his features. Red tattoos writhed across his flesh, pulsating with rage as he brandished a black sword, its edge gleaming with malevolence. “TRAITOR!” he roared, the word a thunderclap in the storm of her mind. 

The scene flickered again, revealing Eda and Lilith locked in a fierce struggle, their bodies entwined in a dance of hatred and betrayal.

“You’ve always thought you were better than me!” Lilith spat, venom dripping from her words.

“I AM better than you!” Eda retorted, the fire of rivalry igniting the air between them.

“Then WHY WERE YOU SO EASY TO CURSE?!” The accusation hung heavy, a dagger poised to strike.

The vision twisted once more, and the figures of two Knights emerged, clad in ominous armor coming to blow at each other with a furious roar. One gleamed white, the other a shadowy black, both adorned with skull-shaped masks that glowed with the intensity of their rage. Four red eyes glared from the darkness, their swords raised high. The white knight's blade shimmered with a heat that could sear flesh, while the black knight's sword pulsed with a magma-like glow, alive with a sinister will of its own. When their blades clashed, a cackling shockwave erupted, echoing the violence of kin fighting kin in a kingdom ravaged by war. The dead of night enveloped them, rain falling like tears, only to turn to steam upon contact with their searing weapons.

Another vision this time in a desert instead of greenery where the two brothers ran toward each other one was the same red tattooed man with a sword snarling and the other was his murderer in blue tattoos helding a black spear and metallic arms once more brothers facing off former serving a Nation of Flesh and the other siding with an Empire of Metal.

The scene shifted again, revealing the horror etched on the faces of a human male and female both tanned skin in humble clothing, their eyes wide with disbelief and despair. The vision darkened, morphing into her own parents, their expressions mirroring that same horror as they realized their daughter had unleashed a curse upon another. 

Vision once shifted this time showing a caucasian human redhead kid with injuries over his body and a pale skin and white haired gaunt girl 5 meters height and while none spoke a voice of a much older man shouted “JACK!” then switching to a medallion with a red jewellery at its center with blood drops on it. “Mikell!” another voice shouted.

“Why did you leave me father!?” A half-human and half deer girl cried out and then shifted to the hand of a dead woman and the sound of a baby crying.

“WHERE IS MY FATHER!?” An angry furious asian female adult human shouted.

Two male gruffed sounds accused each other.

“-YOU RUINED MY LIFE!”

“YOU RUINED YOUR OWN LIFE!”

And from the sound of it they were in a fight especially with the sound of a cry and burnt flesh later on. This one sounded awefully familiar and yet she could not recall why.

Then came two male voices, one mechanical and malicious and the other old and tired.

“What are you doing!?”

“Something I should have done a long time ago, standing up to you!”

“Says he's happy. He's a liar. Blame the arson for the fire.” an unknown ethereal voice rhymed.

“ Why did you do it?” An utterly mechanical emotionless voice asked.

“CALEB!” Sound of Phillip Wittabane roaring.

Flashes of betrayal cascaded through her mind—kin turning against kin, parents weeping, kingdoms crumbling into dust, tyrants leading dark armies, all underscored by the cackling of mad gods, their laughter echoing through the ruins of shattered worlds and earth satiated with blood and the tree burning-

Lilith snapped back in startelement of the experience and breathed shakenly.

“What happened?” Steve was holding her from falling out while helping her to run faster.

“Are you alright Lurker?” Hooty worried, asked.

“I…not sure…” she gasped feeling her throat was dry and her legs weakened despite running, she looked back and there was the broken mirror still on the ground as if it did not just float by itself and became a whole mirror just seconds ago and there was just her own reflection not the angry man that just grabbed her by her throat as the distance became greater “None of you…saw that?”

“See what, Lurker?” Hooty inquired in puzzlement.

By their look she could tell none of them saw her getting grabbed by the throat by the angry man as if that never happened, not evrn Hooty who was on her back did not noticed anything unusual which made Lilith’s mind wrap around trying to think of possible explanations.

Maybe there was some sort of spell and she unintentionally activated it? Or was blood loss or some sort of infection from the plant monsters caused hallucination.

Her theorization stopped as they went inside a giant chamber while Steve with his telekinesis made the pathways the passed by harder for the following plant monsters to follow by throwing random objects blocking the way.

They took a right and then left and then they gasped at what they saw.

 “What…in the…Titan…” she gasped.

“OH MY TITAN!” Steve too lost his cool staring at the horror in front of him and his companion.

It was an unspeakable organism of grotesque flora, an accursed amalgamation of pulsating, sinewy vines intertwining with grotesque, shifting forms that grew around a great device that looked like a long-dead reactor which would been awestruck if it weren’t for the living horror growths around it. The very air was thick with the stench of decay and alien biology, where shapes morphed and blurred—a nightmarish fusion of plant and flesh, indistinguishable from one another. Each humanoid and nonhumanoid body, ensnared in the verdant horror, shuddered and gasped as if conducting a perverse symphony of photosynthesis, their breaths echoing in a sickly rhythm that fed the insatiable hunger of the greater organism. The twisted limbs and gnarled roots melded seamlessly, creating a living tableau of suffering, a nightmarish cycle of nourishment that betrayed the essence of both plant and life. Here, in this grotesque battleground of creation and decay, sanity itself seemed to wither away.

Hooty made a face and was too disgusted, albeit for a different reason.

“Blech! Meat and vegetables at the same time!? If I wanted my salad with side of beef I would’ve chosen cobb salad for lunch!”

“Sometimes Hootifer, you worry me.” Lilith admitted. Even though she valued Hooty greatly as a friend, even she would admit that Hooty can be disturbing at times.

“NÄLKÄ!”

“NÄLKÄ!”

“NÄLKÄ!”

“NÄLKÄ!”

The chaos in the chamber escalated as the plant monsters closed in, their guttural howls echoing like a twisted chorus. The word they repeated was baleful and unnerving, reminiscent of a sick parrot mimicking its owner, but far more sinister.

“These guys must be really hungry or just fed up with us!” Steve groaned, dodging a vine that lashed out from above.

The creatures finally reached them, surrounding the trio with a relentless onslaught. Some crawled from the ceiling, while others slithered across the ground, their forms a grotesque blend of plant and flesh.

“HOOTY WORM-POWER GO!” Hooty shouted, launching himself at the nearest creature, his body whipping through the air like a living weapon. He slammed into an enemy, taking it by surprise.

Lilith flapped her wings, using their strength to throw off a couple of the creatures that lunged at her, but she winced as one of her wings throbbed painfully from a fresh wound. “Get off me!” she cried, slashing at the nearest monster with her claws.

Steve unleashed a barrage of fireballs, each one igniting the plant creatures and sending them into frenzied, horrifying screeches. “Burn, you abominations!” he shouted, feeling a surge of adrenaline as he fought back.

Despite their efforts, the sheer number of enemies overwhelmed them. Lilith cried out in pain as a creature’s claw scraped against her side, and Steve struggled to keep up, using his telekinesis to shove objects at the creatures, only to have one sneak up behind him. Hooty managed to knock that one away, but not before it left deep claw marks on Steve’s back. Even Hooty looked worse for wear, his feathers ruffled and bits of plant matter stuck to him.

The plant humanoids seemed to realize they weren’t easy prey. With a sudden, coordinated movement, a few of them raised their hands, commanding the surrounding vegetation to lash out with wooden thorns and vines. The air filled with the sound of snapping branches and rustling leaves as they attacked.

“What the—? They can do plant magic!?” Lilith exclaimed, ducking under a thick vine that whipped past her head.

“What are these things even!?” Steve flailed his hands in frustration, narrowly avoiding another attack.

Hooty, feeling a surge of confidence, continued to slam into the enemies. “AHA! Get this! Get that! Hooty is the KING of the Grudgby!” he boasted, but his bravado quickly turned to agony when one of the plant creatures, its face a ghastly skull with a green hue, reached out and touched him causing him to have his eyes going wide and his body violently contorted as if he was being electrified.

“HOOTIFER!” Lilith bolted and plunged her claw at the plant monster’s head killing it and spilling black blood.

Hooty dropped into Lilith’s arms and she held him gently “Hootifer! Are you alright?”

Hooty only groaned as his mouth was foaming and still convulsed a few times more.

“Not good, Steve! Hooty is harmed bad! We have to get out!” 

“Did that seven minutes ago!” Steve shouted as he held his scroll, sending another plant humanoid up in flames. He pushed the burning creature into others, igniting a chain reaction that sent the entire mass of vegetation into a frenzied screeching fit. The sound was deafening, forcing both witches to cover their ears.

Suddenly, the roar of a motorcycle echoed through the chamber, and a sleek vehicle barreled in, crashing through the ranks of the plant monsters. It spun and parked near them, revealing Lilith’s raven-like Palisman behind the handlebars, looking particularly smug.

Croak!

The raven croaked, greeting them with a triumphant sound.

Lilith blinked in disbelief, staring at her Palisman. “What—THAT’S WHY YOU TOLD ME TO LEAVE MY PALISMAN!?” She turned to Steve incredulously. “MY PALISMAN DOESN’T EVEN HAVE LEGS FOR THAT CONTRAPTION!”

Steve smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Then it’s a good thing I made my baby Palisman-friendly.” He gestured to the modifications on the motorcycle, adorned with a ‘Blight’ logo, and a smaller controller with glyphs that the raven seemed to be using to steer.

Howl!

More plant monsters were coming, and the still-burning mass of vegetation was thrashing wildly, its tendrils reaching out to ensnare them. “Get on!” Steve shouted, jumping onto the motorcycle and gesturing for Lilith and Hooty to follow.

Lilith carefully placed Hooty onto the seat, holding him steady as she climbed on behind Steve. “Let’s get out of here!” she urged, wrapping her arms around Steve’s waist.

With a roar of the engine, they sped off, weaving through the chaos as the raven piloted the motorcycle with surprising agility. Lilith glanced back at the chaos they were leaving behind, the shrieks of the plant monsters fading into the distance.

“Hold on tight!” Steve called out, revving the engine as they tore through the chamber, leaving the horrors of the past behind them.

More plant monsters emerged from the shadows, their twisted forms writhing as they sought to close in on the trio. The still-burning mass of abominable vegetation lashed out with its tendrils, furious and wild, forcing them to scramble onto the motorcycle.

“Besides, do you really want Hooty to be our getaway?” Steve quipped, revving the engine. “I wouldn't even trust my jacket with him! No offense.”

“Some taken…” Hooty slurred, his eyes still glazed as he looked like a possum pretending to be dead. He might not be dying, but he sure felt like it, which was classic Hooty—always exaggerating everything.

The motorcycle roared to life, and Steve accelerated just before a few of the monstrous creatures could reach them, flames belching from the exhaust and igniting two of the snarling forms behind them. The wind whipped past them as they sped away, but the thrill of the ride only heightened Lilith's anxiety. She clung to Steve, heart pounding, fear of him losing control gnawing at her.

“Steve…!” she exclaimed, alarmed by the reckless speed.

“Trust me! I know what I’m doing, and I’m not just doing it to look cool,” he replied, flashing her a confident grin that barely masked the tension of the moment.

“ONLY—AAH!”

He swerved sharply, dodging a mass of burning tendrils reaching for them, then took a hard left and right again, pushing the bike toward the cliff's edge. Without warning, he gunned the throttle and launched off the cliff, ignoring Lilith's helpless shriek as they soared through the air. Time seemed to stretch as they flew, but they landed squarely in the infernal blaze, flames licking at their sides.

More tendrils lashed out, but Steve maneuvered the bike with a grace that belied the chaos around them. With a loud creak, he slid the motorcycle to one side, narrowly avoiding the assault. Straining with effort, he used his telekinesis to push away the flames temporarily, creating a path through the inferno.

The raven staff, with surprising precision, conjured blue magical disks, slicing through the thick vegetation and clearing a way forward.

“Go! Go!” Lilith urged, adrenaline coursing through her veins as the plant humanoids struggled to follow, their paths obstructed by the flames. A few of the creatures met their fiery demise, succumbing to the inferno. Others, however, spread out to circle around, intent on blocking their escape.

Lilith's keen eyes caught sight of something out of the corner of her vision. “There! Go there!” she shouted, spotting a tunnel that beckoned them from the thick foliage.

Steve steered the bike towards the opening, their only chance to escape the relentless pursuit. As they entered the tunnel, he quickly fished out his remaining explosive portions—the same he had used to blow up the column before—and telekinetically shoved them back into the oncoming horde of plant monsters.

The explosives detonated with a thunderous roar, taking several of the monstrous forms with them and sending debris flying. The tunnel shook around them as rubble collapsed, creating a barrier between them and the remaining creatures.

“Did that do it?” Steve asked, glancing over his shoulder to see the chaos unfold behind them.

“Let’s hope so,” Lilith said, her gaze fixed ahead as they sped deeper into the tunnel. 

Steve paused for a moment, exchanging a glance with Lilith as they both caught their breath, the adrenaline still coursing through their veins. The noise of the monstrous chaos outside faded into an eerie silence as they stood, momentarily safe in the dim light of the tunnel.

“You know… what the word Ultharak actually translates into?” Lilith panted, her heart slowly settling.

“That being?” Steve asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead and trying to shake off the remnants of fear.

“Corpse City. Guess we nearly got added to the corpses there!” Lilith replied, a morbid grin spreading across her face. The dark humor struck her just right, and both she and Steve erupted into laughter, their mirth a welcome distraction from the horrors they had just faced.

“Uuuuuugh…” Hooty moaned, his tongue lolling out as he flopped uselessly against Lilith. He sounded utterly pathetic, as if he were paralyzed from the events. “Do we have to keep doing this? Can’t I just get a nap instead?”

Lilith looked down at their vulnerable friend, concern flashing in her eyes. “We should… go back and get Hootifer help,” she suggested, instinctively knowing her Palisman needed support.

“Hold tight.” Steve grinned, revving the engine. With a jolt, he punched the throttle, and the motorcycle surged forward, causing Lilith to yelp and grip him tightly once more, her heart racing anew as they sped back the way they had come.

Unbeknownst to the trio, their escape had triggered a series of events far beyond their understanding. With the abominable mass of organic matter now reduced to blackened coal, its grip on the ancient reactor and the intricate mechanical gears that lay hidden within the depths of the cavern was severed. Slowly, the gears began to turn, grinding against one another with a long-forgotten purpose.

Hours later, the air in the tunnel hummed with energy as the reactor stirred back to life, a soft but ominous glow emanating from its core. A sickly hue pulsed rhythmically, illuminating the walls of the cave with faint green light, casting eerie shadows that danced across the rubble.

Amidst the hushed sound of machinery coming back to life, a broken monitor flickered in one corner of the cavern. Dust and grime obscured its surface, but soon enough, it started to clear as the machinery powered up. Blue text flickered on the dark panel, bright and insistent against the gloom.

INITIALIZING PROTOCOL.

SYSTEM ONLINE.

ANALYZING EXTERNAL THREATS…

The words scrolled rapidly, interspersed with static and digital distortions, before pausing momentarily. Then, another line appeared.

THREAT DETECTED: ELEMENTAL ENEMIES, DAEVITE AND SARKIC LIFE SIGNS.

ALL CREW OF MEKHANE’S MIGHT ARE LONG DEAD. MAY THEY FIND PEACE IN MACHINE GOD’S GRACE.

As the ancient reactor thrummed with energy, the flickering monitors displayed a cascade of messages, the green text forming a haunting directive that reverberated through the air.

UNKNOWN SIGNAL RECEIVED…

ANALYZING… MEKHANITE CODING CONFIRMED…

NEW COMMAND… SIGNAL GAINED… RITE PASSAGE CONFIRMED… BY THE ORDER OF SAINT HEDWIG AND THE LATEST INHERITOR OF EMPEROR BUMARO.

HAIL MEKHANE, IN THE GLORY OF THE MACHINE GOD. 

With each line, the air grew heavier, charged with a palpable sense of awakening purpose. The colossal eyes of the ancient machine, long dulled by neglect and time, blazed bright, a fierce dimmest burning within their depths. The shadows around it danced as if alive, flickering with the newfound energy that coursed through the massive form.

The machinery groaned as it shifted, the joints creaking and groaning like a slumbering beast finally roused from its long sleep. A low, resonant sound echoed through the chamber, a mechanical roar that signaled an irrepressible will to fight. The Colossus, although old and damaged, was no longer dormant; it had awakened to a singular directive: to annihilate the enemies of Mekhane.

DEUS VULT.

The phrase resonated in the air, a battle cry from an age long gone that spoke of divine mandate and relentless conquest. Its Machine Spirit surged to life within its mechanical body, pulsing with vigor and ferocity that had been long buried beneath layers of debris and time. Gears engaged with newfound vigor, clanking and spiraling into action as the ancient Colossus prepared for war.

Chapter Text

Screech!

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

Hands, claws, paws, tendrils, and a multitude of savage limbs cracked and splintered through the windows and door, their relentless assault threatening to overwhelm the house. Only Amity’s abomination magic, straining to its limit, held the grotesque invaders at bay.

“STRINGBEAN!” Luz shouted, her voice tight with desperation. Her palisman responded with a frantic warble, understanding the urgency in her tone.

“Come into my house uninvited, do you!?” Eda snarled, her eyes flashing with predatory fury. With a guttural shriek, she transformed into her owl beast form, her feathers bristling with rage.

Two of the creatures, humanoid monstrosities with pallid, unpigmented skin, flat upturned noses, and grotesque funnel-shaped ears, squeezed through the window. They lunged, their movements jerky and unnatural. Eda, a whirlwind of feathers and fury, taloned one, slamming it into the floor with bone-jarring force, while Luz, with a burst of wild magic, sent the other hurtling back into the writhing mass of abominations. The force of the blow echoed ominously.

“What in the Titan’s name are these things!?” Amity spat, gritting her teeth. Her abomination magic surged, battling against the monstrous horde. “They look nothing like any demon I’ve ever seen!” The creatures were a twisted mockery of life: a skinless quadruped with a disturbingly human-like head and grotesque tusks, a spindly, fleshy humanoid with a gaping maw in its chest and eyes embedded in the palms of its hands, a nightmarish anglerfish with human limbs and an elongated, tooth-filled maw containing a smaller, disfigured human head. An one-eyed humanoid with too many bony protrusions across its body and head, and many creatures each one more grotesque than the other that puts the Demons of Boiling Isle to shame. Each one seemed designed to inspire primal terror.

“I don’t know… vampires, maybe!?” Luz guessed, blasting a pair of pale, emaciated creatures with bat-like ears and razor-sharp teeth and claws with a burst of light. The creatures shrieked, recoiling from the sudden illumination. But her victory was short-lived. Another abomination, a crooked, emaciated humanoid with razor-sharp mantis-like claws, lunged at her, forcing her to dodge with a yelp. She retaliated with an ice spell, encasing its claws in a fragile prison of ice, but as it closed the distance, it opened its maw impossibly wide, revealing a nest of writhing, barbed tentacles. Luz recoiled in disgust and terror as King, with a well-timed sonic shriek, sent the creature staggering backward, crashing into its allies.

“Well, they’re clearly not very friendly!" King declared, puffing out his chest. "Hey, Owlbert!” He called to his palisman, who swooped through the chaos, conjuring spells that vaporized a few of the Cronenbergian horrors, though their numbers seemed endless.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let Hooty come with Lilith’s stupid excavation!” Eda snarled, struggling against a grotesque creature that appeared to be a human warped beyond recognition, with too many arms, owl-like eyes, and a venomous stinger poised to strike. She dodged its attacks with practiced ease, until finally, with a powerful sweep of her wing, she sent the creature crashing into the carpet, a tangled mess of limbs and fury.

One of the creatures, a six-limbed hybrid of lizard and mammal, scrabbled towards the scepter, its eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. Luz and Amity reacted instantly, kicking the creature away, a blast of light magic blinding its six eyes. Amity’s abomination magic snared one of its legs, and with a powerful heave, she hurled the creature into a cluster of vampire-like abominations just as another one tried to ambush Luz.

“Thanks, Mittens- BEHIND YOU!” Luz shouted, firing a fireball on instinct. A sickly pale humanoid with five spindly arms and four legs, each hand tipped with wickedly sharp nails, was inches away from tearing Amity apart. The fireball engulfed the creature, sending it into a screeching, flailing frenzy. It ran blindly, setting several of its comrades ablaze.

“Thanks, Batata!” Amity said, kissing Luz on the cheek as a thank you for saving her, causing Luz to flush scarlet.

Eda, surveying the scene of utter devastation, her eyes narrowed with fury. The mattress was on fire, her furniture was smashed to pieces. Enough was enough.
“Oh, DAMMIT!” Eda roared, her voice echoing with unbridled rage. “Do you screw-faced mongrels have ANY idea how much all of this ruckus is going to cost!? STOP RUINING MY HOUSE!” With a powerful flap of her wings, she unleashed a shockwave of wind, extinguishing the flames and sending the remaining creatures staggering backward.

Eda stalked out of the house, a whirlwind of fury. Behind her, King, Owlbert, Luz, and Amity emerged, King clutching the scepter, his expression a mixture of relief and inexplicable discomfort.

“Okay, asshats !” Eda roared, her voice echoing with raw power. “Who dared to come to my house uninvited and do property damage!? You better have the snails for it, or there’ll be hell to pay!” Her feathers bristled with irritation, and she bared her sharp fangs, demanding that whoever had sent these monsters to her house reveal themselves.

The creatures, as if responding to a silent command, began to disperse, their movements oddly coordinated. A moment later, the sound of mocking applause drifted from the edge of the woods.

“My apologies ,” a male voice drawled, laced with arrogant amusement. “I wasn’t aware that the glorified shack you call a house was so… expensive !” A man and woman stepped out of the shadows, their figures framed by the trees.

The woman was Eastern European, with a slender figure and long, dark brown hair that cascaded down her back. Her skin was deathly pale, and her eyes possessed a striking amber hue. She was dressed in what appeared to be Neopagan garb, adding to her unsettling aura.

The man, of Hungarian descent, sported dark hair and wore lavish, aristocratic clothing – black with silver trim, a slime overcoat, and a regal collar accented with a touch of red.

Luz couldn’t help but feel a morbid fascination; the two looked like stereotypical regal vampires, although that only did very little to abate her rising fear. She glanced at Amity, noticing that she too had caught the detail: their ears weren't pointy, well except for the man's which were shaped like bat wings. The implications sent a shiver down Luz's spine.

“Who the heck are you?” Eda demanded, her tone laced with venom as she readied her talons.

The woman offered a mocking bow, her voice icy. “I’m Karcist Vivian Durant-Croÿ, and this is my husband, Alexander Croÿ.”

Alexander waved a hand in greeting, his smile dripping with malicious amusement. “Pleasure meeting you, finally. Quite the pleasure. We’ve come for something that belongs to us… then we’re going to devour the last living Titan. But before that? We're here to end your miserable lives!" He flashed his sharp canine teeth, then let out a piercing whistle. A fresh wave of abominations surged from the woods, but this time, two colossal, four-meter-tall humanoids lumbered to the front. They possessed no eyes, only gaping maws filled with dagger-like teeth.

The grotesque monsters charged, Luz showering them with spells as she fought to defend herself.

Eda took to the air, her powerful wings carrying her into battle against the behemoths. One of the creatures snarled, its fetid breath washing over her.

“Sheesh! You’re ugly and stinky!” Eda wrinkled her nose in disgust. She dove down, raking her talons across its flesh, but was forced to dodge repeatedly to avoid the creature's flailing claws and snapping jaws.

Alex, with a burst of blinding speed, joined the fray, her movements a blur as she lunged at Amity. Amity, in response, encased herself in a towering purple abomination golem.

“That’s Abomination Magic? Nothing but fancy golem thaumaturgy!” Alexander sneered.

“Like you have anything to say about it!” Amity snapped back, her voice echoing from within the golem.

“Nothing but a pale imitation of true abomination!” Alexander hissed. To Amity’s shock, his body began to warp and swell, transforming into a monstrous humanoid form. Chitinous armor plates erupted across his skin, and his face became a nightmarish skull-like mask with a beetle-like horn protruding from his forehead. Empty sockets housed invisible eyes that somehow saw with perfect clarity, and his lipless mouth revealed rows of needle-sharp teeth. His clothing seemed to melt into the armor, becoming a part of his terrifying new form. He capitalized on her surprise, slamming his head into the golem with brutal force, shattering the purple armor and sending Amity staggering backward.

Luz momentarily ceased her fire, her eyes wide with stunned disbelief at Alexander’s transformation. Then, a forgotten memory surfaced – a story she’d read in the library just that afternoon about shapeshifting monsters. “Goreblights…!” she whispered, recalling the tales of the Demon Realm’s most terrifying boogeymen.

Vivian raised an eyebrow at the term.

Eda, briefly distracted, narrowly dodged an attack from one of the behemoths.

Amity, now behind a makeshift shield, blinked in disbelief, unable to process that she was facing a monster from her childhood nightmares.

King, attempting to use his magic, suddenly felt weak and dizzy, as if the scepter itself was draining his strength.

“Guys? The bony staff-thing is giving me funny feelings!” The scepter seemed to possess a will of its own, and it clearly didn’t like being wielded by King. Owlbert flew closer, hooting urgently, urging him to put it down. King did so, clutching his head as a migraine threatened to overwhelm him. One of the creatures leaped toward him, and he yelped, unleashing a sonic shriek that sent it flying backward. Owlbert, meanwhile, blasted a ball of light at the eyeless face of a vampire-like creature, sending it screeching away.

“Move!” Eda yelled, just before she was swatted aside by one of the Behemoth’s massive hands.

“Eda!” Luz cried, but had to quickly summon a purple shield with Stringbean when Vivian moved so fast she almost couldn't keep up as she came with clawed hands to eviscerate her.. Then, a scorpion-like tail erupted from her back, poised to strike. Only Luz's quick reflexes saved her from a deadly blow.

Vivian's front body split open to reveal many insectoid legs with sharp ends trying to grab and plunge at her.

“TOOMANYLEGS! TOOMANYLEGS! EW! EW! EW!” Luz shrieked, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the monster, desperate to avoid being touched by any of its writhing limbs. This was definitely going to fuel her nightmares.

To Amity’s shock, Alexander suddenly reverted back to his human form, his clothes reforming as if they were an extension of his own being. He began dodging her attacks with effortless ease, a smug grin twisting his features, as if this were nothing more than a game. The taunting was making Amity's blood boil.

“So, this is what ‘Abomination Magic’ is supposed to be?” he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. “Where’s the homunculus? The abominable horrors? The dark ritual? This is nothing but good magic with a misleading PG brand made for amateur teenage mages back on Earth. I have to say, it’s quite disappointing.”

Amity gritted her teeth, summoning a barrage of purple arrows to rain down on him, but he evaded them all with infuriating ease. “I’ll have you know, my father runs a company that makes Abomination tech richer than everyone on the Boiling Isles!”

Alexander feigned a look of condescending surprise, placing a hand dramatically on his chest. “Wow, making machines that run on goo. I’m sure Mekhane is shaking proudly for making mud-drive techies.”

“What are you even talking about? Mekhane? Earth mages ? There's no magic on Earth!” Amity snapped, her patience wearing thin.

“Then how do you explain… THIS!” With a flick of his fingers, several of the monstrosities froze mid-attack, their bodies contorting in unnatural ways. He manipulated them like puppets, their movements jerky and disturbingly fast, and sent them hurtling toward Amity. One of them, a grotesque hybrid of armadillo and beetle, spun into a defensive position, deflecting Amity's purple arrows with its armored shell. It then charged at her, forcing her to duck and summon Stringbean to lift her into the air. A winged vampire-like creature swooped in pursuit, Alex's mocking laughter echoing through the chaos.

Vivian, meanwhile, sculpted her own flesh with an unnerving fluidity that reminded Luz of her first, chilling encounter with Belos. Was there a connection between Belos and the Goreblights? Why, other than Belos, had she never encountered fleshcrafters on the Boiling Isles? She pushed the thought aside; she could ponder those questions later, if she survived.

With a flick of her wrist, Vivian lashed out with a whip-like tendril of flesh, slamming into Luz and sending her sprawling. Vivian then lunged towards the weakened King, who was too feeble to resist. Before Owlbert could intervene, she swatted the palisman aside and touched the scepter.

The moment her fingers brushed against the bone, Vivian recoiled with a pained growl, clutching her hand. The staff seemed to burn her flesh. If the scepter disliked King, it outright despised Vivian.

“Not done with me! Carmilla knockoff!” Luz shouted, rushing back into the fray with a magical blast. The fight resumed, a whirlwind of spells and monstrous forms.

Eda, reaching her limit, unleashed an ear-splitting owl screech and dove toward one of the behemoths. It swiped at her with its needle-like fingers, while another tried to bite her, but instead, it bit the other's neck. The first one's fangs sank into the flesh of the second, causing both to roar in agony as blood gushed from their wounds. In their frantic attempts to escape, they only widened the gashes, tearing vital organs. Both monstrosities collapsed in a tangled heap, their lifeblood staining the ground.

The last behemoth, bellowing in rage, charged toward Eda, seeking vengeance for its fallen brethren. But Eda, agile as ever, dodged its attack, spinning around and plunging her talons deep into its throat, ripping out a chunk of flesh. The behemoth choked, blood spraying from its mouth as it clawed at its throat in a desperate attempt to stem the bleeding. It crashed to the ground with a deafening thud.

"SURPRISE HARPY!" Alexander's voice rang out, laced with savage glee. He had scaled a nearby tree with unnatural speed, and from his perch, he slammed into Eda with such force that she was sent flying. He landed on top of her, sinking his teeth into one of her wings, tearing away a piece of flesh and devouring it.

"ARCH! Did you just bite me?!" Eda hissed, clutching her injured wing.

Alexander wiped the blood from his lips and leered. "Don't flatter yourself, you taste like expired chicken wings. I only did it to copy your ability."

Two grotesque, bony wings erupted from Alexander's back with terrifying violence, the feathers sickly and misshapen, a disturbing parody of the Owl Lady's own. Eda gasped in surprise, giving Alexander the opening he needed. He launched himself at her, talons extended, forcing her to defend herself against the flying Sarkic.

As they grappled in the air, Alexander's mouth opened unnaturally wide, and a screeching white worm emerged, its maw ringed with yellow, needle-sharp teeth.

Screech!

"THE HECK!?" Eda shrieked, frantically dodging the worm's snapping jaws. The creature retreated back into its host.

"My Akuloth said hi!" Alexander taunted, then headbutted her.

Meanwhile, Amity was besieged by creatures with vertical mouths that stretched the length of their faces. Their spindly fingers ended in talons half a meter long. Their bodies were partially protected by white, chitinous carapaces, with the dark red flesh beneath visible at their joints. These are the Smilies, monsters with teeths and claws ready. One of the creatures managed to break through her defenses, slashing across her left arm. Amity cried out in pain, but her abomination golem retaliated, slamming the Smiley into its brethren, using it as a makeshift club. Amity ripped a strip of fabric from her sleeve and bound the wound before summoning a blade to fend off the remaining attackers.

Alexander and Edalyn clashed in mid-air, a furious ballet of talons and wings. They circled each other like birds of prey, vying for dominance, diving from above the trees in a deadly game of cat and mouse. Just as Eda seemed to gain the upper hand, several winged abominations swarmed to Alexander's aid. He made strange, puppeteer-like gestures with his arms, and the creatures obeyed his unspoken commands.

Eda found herself fending off two creatures resembling giant, dinosaur-like bats and a horrifying fusion of fly and bee, complete with a venomous stinger. She slashed at the insect's face, blinding it, causing it to buzz erratically before plummeting to the ground. The bats, however, clawed and battered her, leaving a trail of bruises in their wake. With a powerful burst of wing-force, she managed to shove them away. "Why, you brought a big bee as well? That's cute," Eda sneered, only for Alexander to dive on her, seizing her throat and slamming her against a tree with such force that cracks splintered across its trunk. Branches rained down around them.

Alexander, his sharp teeth bared in a savage grin, declared, "This was cute and all, but it’s time to die."

Eda, struggling against his grip, saw Amity becoming overwhelmed, while Luz was beginning to lose ground against Vivian, hampered by her inexperience in dealing with a highly adaptive Karcist-level Sarkite. The two girls shouted each other's names in desperation, while Owlbert tended to the ashen-faced King on the ground, surrounded by a growing throng of vampires and Smilies.

They were losing.

"No!" Eda cried, clawing at Alexander, but he dodged her attack and prepared to sink his teeth into her neck—

Slam!

A boulder struck him from the side, sending him flying.

The very earth beneath their feet seemed to awaken, trapping and constricting the abominations with a symphony of music that washed over Amity, bolstering her own magic.

Luz, seeing Vivian momentarily distracted, seized the opportunity to blast her with a burst of fire magic, forcing the Karcist to leap back to avoid being burned.

The source of the music was revealed to be Raine Whispers, holding a violin, accompanied by their crew, the BATs, instruments at the ready.

"You alright, Eda?" Raine knelt beside Eda, who was now sitting on the ground.

"My hero," the Owl Lady replied teasingly.

The boulder shifted, and a snarling Alexander emerged. "Bard Magic!? Is this the Demon Realm or a Fantasy Board Game Realm?!" he mocked.

"Fiends! They are friends of the CATs!"

"Yeah! You mess with them, you mess with all of us!" Amber confirmed, brandishing her recorder.

The Sarkic duo simply stared, tilting their heads slightly, while Eda muttered something about the name 'CATs'.

"...That's a stupid name," Alexander said bluntly, then growled and lunged toward Raine, who immediately responded, manipulating the environment to defend themselves.

Derwin used his bassoon to create a smokescreen, disorienting the abominations and giving Amity the advantage. She slammed them with her abomination magic, offering Derwin a quick, "Thanks!"

Amber played her recorder, summoning water from a nearby stream that coalesced into shards of ice, which then shot out like tendrils, impaling the Sarkic creations.

Katya used her tambourine to aid Luz against Vivian, manipulating the earth to try and swallow the Karcist, but Vivian leaped away, her legs momentarily taking on a digitigrade form.

"Mind sharing what’s going on? Who’re these posers?" Katya asked, helping Luz to her feet.

"I wish I could say," Luz responded with a short chuckle, still reeling from the fact that she had just met a cyborg.

Eda and Raine teamed up against Alexander, seamlessly alternating attacks and defenses, each complimenting the other's moves.

Eda dodged an incoming attack, grinning at Raine. "Looking good out there, Raine! But your tempo's a little off. Need a bit more oomph!" A moment later, she was struck in the stomach by a stone hurled with incredible force by Alexander. He moved to tear her apart with his claws, only to be stopped by a protective spell from Raine.

"I'm doing my best, Eda! Maybe if you weren't attracting all the attention…" Raine retorted, struggling to maintain the protective barrier.

Eda winked, catching a vampire and tossing it into the others with the force of a slingshot. "Jealous, are we? Don't worry, plenty of attention to go around. Especially for my favorite bard."

"Focus, Eda! We can flirt later, after we've, you know, survived," Raine scoffed, though a playful smile tugged at their lips.

"Why? You both a couple too? Where’s my manners? We would have set you in a double date with you both as the main course!" Alexander spat venom, then unleashed a powerful thrust with his wings, sending both Raine and Eda hurtling backward.

"What just happened…?" Raine, briefly disoriented, looked down to see that his instrument was broken. "Crap."

Alexander seized the opportunity, delivering a brutal knee strike that sent Raine flying into a nearby bush.

"Rain!" Eda cried, rushing to their side.

"Keep them busy!" Alexander hissed, commanding a few Sarkic abominations to attack.

Katya, bruised across the cheek from Vivian's relentless attacks, felt her feet lose contact with the earth as she was swept off her feet. She landed hard, the air driven from her lungs.

She hacked and wheezed, spitting out dirt. As she reached for her instrument, she realized it had been broken in the attack. She looked up to see the menacing Vivian approaching. "I like making fanfiction about vegetables, how about you?" Katya asked out of nowhere, trying to mask her fear.

"Not vegan, my dear, I’m a carnivore!" Vivian's mouth, filled with jagged teeth, opened wide, ready to tear into Katya's face.

But Luz intervened, blocking the attack and summoning pillars of ice to strike Vivian. Although Vivian was hit by one of the pillars, she quickly recovered and lashed out with a scorpion-like tail, which was blocked by Amity’s abomination magic.

The tail seemed stuck, but Vivian simply smiled. Corrosive acid began to melt through the purple goo, and despite Amity's best efforts to block it, a drop of the acid splashed onto the right side of her left arm.

"Amity!" Luz cried, rushing to her side.

"I’m okay! The acid only—" Before Amity could finish her sentence, her throat constricted in horror. She saw Vivian healing two hostages by the throat.

"None of you mongrels do anything, or I kill these things!" Vivian threatened, holding Owlbert tightly, the palisman writhing in pain. King, who had just begun to recover from his disorientation, struggled futilely. That alone was enough to halt the witches and their Sarkic monster allies.

"Who are you!? What do you want!?" Luz demanded, holding her palisman at the ready.

"Put your toys away and give us the Scepter, or fuzzball is food!" Vivian's nails plunged slightly into King's skin, drawing blue blood, causing him to cry out. Eda instinctively lunged forward in anger but stopped when Vivian opened her mouth, revealing two spider-like appendages used for feeding, hovering menacingly near the squirming King. "And I assure you…I’ve been dying to know what a living titan tastes like!"

"Don't do it, Luz—ACK!" King tried to sound defiant, but choked as Vivian tightened her grip on his throat.

Luz and Amity glared, and even Eda’s face was twisted with fury. The BATs put down their instruments, and Amity and Luz dismissed their palismen, the golem melting back into goo. Alexander grinned wickedly.

"And that includes you turning back, blood-tainted harpy," Vivian sneered at Eda, who let out an owlish growl and reverted to her human form. "Good. Now, give the scepter to the big guy." She gestured toward the behemoth that lumbered closer.

Luz, hesitant, took the scepter and began to approach the behemoth, but then she recalled how Vivian had been burned by the staff. She exchanged a quick glance with Amity, an understanding passing between them. Acting on instinct, Luz threw the scepter with all her might, channeling Amity's abomination goo to propel it faster toward Vivian.

Caught off guard, Vivian instinctively dropped Owlbert and reached for the scepter, crying out in agony as it seared her flesh. King seized the opportunity and bit her hand, causing her to drop him.

Alexander rushed to his wife's aid, but Eda transformed in a flash, seizing him with her talons and, with a powerful swing, hurled him at Vivian. Amity used her abomination magic to grab the scepter, King, and Owlbert, pulling them to safety.

The Sarkic couple tried to rise, but they were met with the glowing eyes of Luz and Amity's palismen, weapons leveled. "It's over!" Amity declared.

Vivian glared scornfully at them, but then she glanced down at her nails, which were stained with King's black blood. A slight smirk crept across her face.

BOOM!

A sudden explosion rocked the area. Luz and the others turned in horror toward the source of the blast as Vivian and Alexander grinned savagely.

"It’s too late… the Scourge of Iron already got it." Vivian stated victoriously. Before anyone could react, Alexander grabbed her and with a powerful flap of his wings, rocketed into the sky, leaving behind a momentary distortion in the air. Their abominations followed.

"They're getting away!" Katya yelled.

"The explosion… it came from Hexside School of Magic and Demonics!" Raine said in dread, confirming the origin of the smoke billowing in the distance.

“We can find those snobs later! We have to go there!” Amity commented.

Rain then looked back “Amber and Derwin go help Katya and get somewhere safe! The rest we have to go!”

"We can find those snobs later! We have to go there!" Amity urged, fear etched on her face.

Raine looked back at the others. "Amber and Derwin, help Katya and get somewhere safe! The rest of us have to go!"

"I'll carry King and the scepter; that asshole couple may return!" Eda said, hoisting the sickly King and Owlbert in one arm. She didn't want to risk them falling into the couple's hands again. Besides, she knew they likely considered King a target beyond just the scepter, judging by the way Vivian had looked at her nails covered in Titan blood.

"No, the scepter makes King feel unwell; I'll carry it!" Luz countered, gently taking the scepter.

"We can help, too, boss!" Derwin objected.

"You barely held off against them, and Katya is hurt and needs help!" Raine countered, pointing out that Katya was still groaning, clearly in pain from a likely broken rib after being tossed around by Alexander.

"Your violin is broken; I’m sorry, Raine, but you'd be putting yourself in danger," Eda added, glancing at the shattered instrument.

"That’s okay; I'll stay with them," Raine said, then called out to Eda as she prepared to take flight. "And Eda, Kick their asses!"

Eda smirked. Then, together with Luz and Amity, she soared into the sky, heading toward the smoke-filled horizon where Hexside now stood.

Chapter Text

The Bonesborough Library was a charnel house. Shelves lay splintered, their precious cargo scattered like fallen leaves. Witches and demons, their lives brutally extinguished, sprawled amidst the wreckage, a testament to the invaders' merciless hand.

Trapped within an ethereally crimson sigil, the ancient blue bird, Malphas, strained against chains of pure, shimmering red. Even bound, his defiance burned bright, a desperate struggle against the inevitable.

"I ask you one last time, Malphas," a guttural voice boomed, laced with menacing politeness. "In honor of the great Lord you once served, tell me: where is the Throne of Ion ?"

The speaker was a towering figure clad in blackened armor. Seven grotesque fingers adorned each gauntlet, and four crimson, pupil-less eyes glared from within his helm. In his grasp, the sword 'Clarent' pulsed with the heat of a dying star – once a symbol of peace, now twisted into a weapon of cruel betrayal by Teran, the malevolent opposite to Mither.

Malphas spat a gob of blood at the armored giant. "You will glean nothing from me, Mordred the Red-Stepped , " he rasped, his voice raw with defiance.

Mordred, the Morbid. The Red-Stepped. The Eldritch King. Mordred the Demon Knight – a title earned through his unholy mastery of Demonology, binding entities not of the Boiling Isles, but of the Bad Place, to his will.

Beneath Malphas, a red sigil flared. Intricate, abstract symbols wove a disturbing pattern of symmetry and chaotic design – his own sigil, now turned against him.

Mordred did not react to the insult, only a dry, humorless chuckle escaped his helm. "How far you have fallen, Malphas Goetia . Once, you commanded forty hellish legions. Now… look at you. A decrepit librarian in a forgotten realm of dead gods, surrounded by corpse-worshipers clinging to the husks of their dead deity like maggots in a wound."

With a languid wave of his hand, the ethereal chains blazed white-hot against Malphas's form, searing into his flesh. A choked gasp escaped the bird's beak, but he refused to yield a satisfying cry to his tormentor. He had clawed his way to the higher echelons of Hell's Hierarchy; enduring pain was a skill he had long since mastered.

"No matter," Mordred continued, his voice like a grinding stone. "You may yet serve a purpose ." His gauntleted hand clenched into a fist. The ethereal chains tightened, burning deeper, invading Malphas's very essence. This time, a wrenching croak of agony tore from the bird's throat as he felt his being unraveled.

Inside Hexside, chaos reigned. Witches and demons clashed against the Sarkic invaders and their grotesque abominations. Spells collided with flesh, tearing it apart or melding it into obscene new forms. The school, once a beacon of learning, was now a wrecked and bloodied battleground. Some Goreblights, disturbingly, wielded human weaponry – guns and rifles spitting lead alongside bursts of corrupted magic.

Emira, a blossoming purple bruise marring her cheek, and Edric, his nose visibly broken and swollen, fought back-to-back, trading spells against the relentless onslaught.

"I thought Goreblights were supposed to be myths!" Edric grunted, slamming a fire spell into a Goreblight as it fell. The air reeked of burnt flesh and decay.

"Ugh! Why did it have to be the face ?!" Emira whined, catching sight of her injury in the reflection of a shattered orb.

"Your face!? My nose is broken!" Edric retorted, kicking aside a writhing mass of flesh and bone.

"Hey, it's not a competition!" she snapped. She shoved him aside just as a fleshy stinger, dripping with viscous fluids, lashed out from a nearby Goreblight. Emira retaliated with a blast of pure arcane energy, obliterating the offending creature. With the fall of the Coven system, the Blight Twins had embraced a wider range of magic, discovering that Illusion was just the beginning.

Suddenly, the ground cracked as thick, thorny vines slammed down, sending the twins reeling. The vegetation lunged, only to freeze midair as Willow's eyes flared with emerald power. Hunter teleported in a burst of golden light, his staff a blur as he manipulated the water vapor in the air, shaping it into razor-sharp blades that sliced through the vines. His palisman, a loyal guardian, chirped in support.

Severed tendrils writhed on the ground, attempting to regenerate, only to be crushed beneath telekinetically hurled boulders, summoned by Principal Bump.

"Terra! Is that you ? What is the meaning of this?!" Bump snarled, assuming the sophisticated plant magic originated from Terra Snapdragon, the former head of the Plant Coven.

But as the vines receded, they revealed not Terra, but something infinitely more disturbing.

A human woman of Middle Eastern descent stood before them, her hair raven black against her dusky skin. But from the waist down, her humanity ceased. Her lower body was a seething mass of tumorous, blackened tentacles, like the arms of a monstrous octopus, both prehensile and terrifyingly dextrous – a vision ripped straight from the legends of Scylla.

She moved through the ranks of infected witches and demons, each writhing in agony, grotesque growths blooming on their bodies. Even from afar, the Blight Twins, Hunter, and Willow could smell the foul, sickly-sweet odor of decay and corruption that clung to her like a shroud.

The Scourge of Iron. The Mother Who Demands One Toes. She had arrived.

"That's...not Terra," Willow whispered, stating the obvious, a wave of trepidation washing over her.

"Who are you?" Bump demanded, his glare unwavering despite the fear gnawing at his insides.

The stranger's voice was a harsh, chilling rasp. "I am Karcist Halyna Ieva. And there is something here that belongs to us."

"Ever heard of asking nicely?" Edric quipped, his usual sarcasm barely masking his unease. Halyna ignored him.

"How did you break through the protection wards?" Bump pressed, his mind racing. Hexside boasted some of the most formidable magical defenses in the Demon Realm, and yet these invaders had bypassed them with unnerving ease.

"Can't take credit for that," she shrugged, her tentacles shifting restlessly. Then, the vines she controlled hardened into wood, razor-sharp spikes erupting from their surfaces. "Frankly, I'm insulted that you would compare me to that hack," she spat, implying a past encounter with Terra. "Your natural affinity for magic in these lands and your bond with your palismen may offer you some protection against my... gifts, but I assure you, I will break those defenses eventually. And direct contact... Well, I doubt they will save you from that. That hag you compared me to? She found that out the hard way."

A chilling smile twisted her lips as the spiky, wooden vines lunged forward, forcing them to scatter.

Halyna moved with unnatural speed, a blur of motion, and seized Bump by the throat. "Give us the Throne of Ion, corpse-worshipper! " she hissed, unleashing a foul, contagious breath directly into his face – a direct attempt at infection. Yet, to her evident puzzlement, Bump remained unaffected.

A thin smile played on Bump's lips. "Nice try, woman."

Frewin, Bump's palisman, was not merely an accessory. Like all palismen, he shared a deep bond with his owner, offering a degree of magical protection against Halyna's corrupting influence. But in Bump's case, the connection was even more profound. Frewin was his hat, and they had developed a symbiotic relationship over the years. The palisman's magic wove through Bump's very being, creating a resilient barrier that shielded him from the worst of infections.

Bump hurled more debris at Halyna telekinetically, but her tendrils, sharpened to razor-edges, sliced through the objects with contemptuous ease. This provided a crucial distraction, allowing a handful of witches and demons to unleash a volley of energy blasts at her. She released Bump, who quickly scrambled to safety, avoiding the crossfire.

Willow, summoning all her fury, sent forth a wave of green vines, lashing out at the smoke-filled space where Halyna had stood. Hunter followed suit, unleashing bolts of pure energy.

To their utter shock, the vines halted mid-air, as if striking an invisible barrier. When the smoke cleared, Halyna stood unscathed. She had not even bothered to defend herself. Faint burn marks marred her skin, but they vanished almost as quickly as they appeared.

"You call this plant magic? Even a lowly Daevite mage could conjure far more insidious flora," the Karcist taunted. Her wooden vines lashed out, striking the green ones, and whatever vile substance they injected caused the vibrant color to leach away, leaving behind withered, lifeless husks. The wooden vines, meanwhile, swelled to monstrous proportions. Bump attempted to intervene, but several Sarkics swarmed him, forcing him to fight defensively. Edric and Emira, too, found themselves beset by grotesque Fleshbeasts.

The now colossal wooden vines crashed down upon the remaining witches and demons who had dared to attack Halyna, crushing the structure above them. Some were simply flattened, their lives extinguished in an instant. Others fared worse, impaled upon the sharpened spikes, still alive as their bodies began to wither and shrivel, blood and vital fluids sucked dry, leaving behind mummified husks.

"What in the—!" Willow gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

"What kind of foul magic is this?" Bump hissed, struggling to keep a ravenous Sarkic from tearing his throat out.

Hunter, fueled by adrenaline and desperation, teleported directly in front of Halyna and unleashed a continuous torrent of energy at her face, a beam so intense it blasted through her, creating a gaping hole in the wall behind her. Yet, incredibly, she stood there, unyielding. Half of her face was burned away, revealing raw, skinless flesh, a vacant, eyeless socket, and a glimpse of her skull. Still, she did not flinch. The damaged flesh began to writhe and regenerate.

"Again," she said simply, her voice eerily calm.

Hunter, his mind reeling, unleashed another blast, tearing more holes through her body. Each shot should have been fatal, yet she remained standing, alive.

" AGAIN !" she roared this time, her voice laced with dark amusement.

Hunter, desperate, summoned water from a destroyed, dripping dispenser, shaping it into razor-sharp discs that sliced through Halyna's limbs, severing tendrils and cleaving through her skull.

Yet she lived. Limbs regrew, the skull knit itself back together, and she regarded him with cold disinterest. By this point, Willow would have joined the fight, but she, like Hunter, was paralyzed by disbelief and horror.

"Disappointing," Halyna uttered matter-of-factly. One of her tendrils snaked out, grabbing Hunter by the throat, lifting him off the ground. She regarded him with a chilling curiosity as he choked and struggled against her grip.

"Let me—! Ack!" Hunter gasped, barely able to form the words.

Halyna's eyes widened slightly. "Hmm, interesting."

That was when Willow snapped. "HEY! Stop getting handsy with my boyfriend, octi-hag!" She tried to summon more vines, but Halyna casually sidestepped the attack and flung Hunter at Willow.

Reacting instinctively, Willow tried to catch him, only to be caught completely off guard. Hunter, his eyes wide and vacant, began to attack her with unnatural, jerky movements, as if his body was being controlled by unseen strings.

"Hunter!? What are you doing?" Willow cried, her eyes wide with terror.

"I-is n-not m-me!" he choked out, his voice strained and unnatural as he fought against the puppeteering force.

"I was wondering if a real-life Pinocchio, being made of plant matter and all, could be controlled by Daevite magic," the Karcist said drily, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Seems I was right." Upon touching Hunter and his palisman, she had used his own plant manipulation techniques to hijack his body, turning him into a grotesque puppet.

A splattering of purple abomination fluid splashed near her. Halyna dodged away, wiping the substance from her shoulder. When she looked back, she saw two witches and a cadre of Abomatons battling the Sarkics and their creations.

One of the figures was dressed in a regal and elegant fashion, with something furry perched on his shoulder. The other looked as if he had just emerged from a workshop, his clothes smudged with grime and goggles perched on his forehead.

Halyna casually wiped away the purple goo from her shoulder and scoffed. "Really? Mud ? Have the Lost Tribe regressed so badly that they use mud to mimic carnomancy?"

Darius arched an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his usually impassive face, yet his voice remained cool and composed. "Mud, you say? I find the sheer potential of it exquisitely complex. It requires a level of artistry and mastery that you and your fiends' crude demonstrations clearly lack." Despite his elegant phrasing, the momentary wrinkle of his nose betrayed his revulsion towards the Sarkics and Halyna's organic manipulations.

The Karcist remained unimpressed by Alador and Darius, snorting derisively. "You don't know what a true abomination is, neither of you," she declared. Sickly green runes flared to life on her arm. "And frankly, I have better things to do than deal with mere golemancy." Suddenly, every person Halyna had ever killed rose from the dead, their voices guttural and distorted, their forms twisted and mutated into something utterly horrific.

They were no longer who they once were, for their true selves were long gone. Now, they were Halkosts – necromantic fleshbeasts animated by Halyna's power, mockeries of their former lives.

"Kill the corpse-worshippers, my Halkost," she commanded. With a unified, guttural roar, they surged forward, attacking Darius, Eberwolf, and Alador, while Halyna moved away, seemingly disinterested in the unfolding carnage.

Darius circled, his body shifting and reforming, transforming into his Abomination form – a towering mass of swirling purple goo, capable of incredible strength and adaptation. He launched himself at the Halkosts, one of his hands hardening into a massive, spiked hammer, pulverizing the undead abominations.

Alador's pack of Abomatons responded instantly, mechanical arms sprouting from their bodies, powered by abomination goo rather than conventional joints. They extended and retracted with piston-like precision, slamming into the necrotic monsters with bone-crushing force. Eberwolf, snarling, ripped and tore with tooth and claw, his ferocity a match for the Halkosts' unnatural strength.

“Hunter, please! Fight it! I know you're in there!” Willow pleaded as she was locked with the controlled Hunter.

Hunter's eyes dart around frantically, trying to focus on Willow. He strains against the invisible force controlling him, but his body remains unresponsive. He tried to scream, but only a muffled whimper escaped. He lunges, moving with a speed that's not his own.

Willow was beginning to stain, not just physically but also emotionally reminding her too much when Belos hijacked Hunter’s body except this was somehow even worse for she could see from his eyes that he was conscious “I don't want to hurt you!”

Willow summons a shield of thick vines, barely blocking Hunter's first blow. The force of it splinters the wood. She retaliates with a whip of thorny rose branches, aiming to disarm, but Hunter's body anticipates her every move, his movements too precise, too calculated to be his own. Inside, Hunter is screaming, fighting, but he's trapped, a prisoner in his own flesh-like plant. It's like watching a puppet master at work, but the strings were invisible, and the puppet is someone she cares about.

“Do…s-s-top…” Hunter hoarsed.

Willow dodges another blow, narrowly avoiding a strike to the head. She notices with horror how black vines began to grow on him only to then dig deeper into Hunter's skin so as his own palisman, his breathing becoming shallow and ragged. She was losing him.

“No! I won't let you do this to him again!” She summoned a wave of fast-growing flowers, their pollen thick and heavy, hoping to disorient Hunter’s body. But the black vines react instantly, weaving a protective barrier around him, deflecting the pollen. Hunter's eyes plead with her to stop, but his body continues to fight, a horrifying contradiction.

Hunter advances, his staff a blur of motion. Willow is forced to retreat, her back against the wall. She can see the raw terror in Hunter's eyes, a desperate plea trapped behind the vacant glaze. It breaks her heart.

“I'm sorry, Hunter. I'm so sorry.” Willow teared.

She closes her eyes for a moment, steeling herself. When she opens them, her face is set with grim determination. She knows what she has to do, even if it goes against everything she believes in and to do it to someone dear to her.

Willow plunges her hands into the earth, drawing upon the immense power of the plants around her. Vines erupt from the ground, thicker and stronger than before, but these vines are different. They glow with a soft, emerald light, the same light as her magic.

“ ...W-willow- please!” He snapped momentarily into a shout, it was a plea not for not doing it but to do it for he would rather die than being controlled ever again.

Focusing all her will on the vines. She can hear Hunter's mental screams, a cacophony of fear and pain, but she steeled herself. The vines lash out, not to harm, but to restrain. They wrap around Hunter's limbs, tightening, cutting off the flow of the plant mage's influence. Hunter struggles with every fiber of his being, his eyes widening in panic, tears streaming down his face, but it's too late. He's trapped, paralyzed, forced to watch as his own body is used against his will.

With a final surge of power, Willow forces her own plant magic into Hunter's system by going inside his ears, overwhelming the foreign influence. It's a violation, a forced intrusion, just like Belos and the vile Goreblight, and it feels wrong on every level. She can feel Hunter's mind recoiling from the invasion.

Hunter's body goes limp, the glazed look fading slightly from his eyes, replaced with a flicker of his own consciousness, now filled with a mix of relief and horror. He slumps to the ground, unconscious. The vines recede while the black vines wither away and die.

Willow stumbles back, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She stares at Hunter's unconscious form, her hands trembling. The victory feels hollow, tainted by the knowledge of what she had to do. The image of Hunter's terrified eyes, his silent screams, are burned into her mind.

“I'm sorry, I’m so sorry….” She sobbed and kneeled beside him, her face etched with guilt and remorse, uncaring about the surrounding chaos. The candlelight that were used to lit up this section of Hexside flickers, casting long, dancing shadows that seem to mock her. She knows she did what she had to do to protect him, but the cost was high. 

Emira and Edric pushed through the chaos, a desperate plan weighing heavily on their minds. "GO! GO NOW!" Bump roared, barely holding off a wave of Goreblights with blasts of raw magic.

As the twins navigated the carnage, they reached their intended destination, only to halt in stunned horror. The scene before them was a grotesque tableau ripped from their darkest nightmares.

Dead witches and demons lay strewn across the floor, while living, breathing Goreblights feasted upon them. They gurgled on organs, tore into flesh with relish, and slurped blood with sickening gusto. It was as if the boogeyman stories of Goreblights feasting on naughty children had come to life, but far more graphic and terrifying than any bedtime tale could convey.

"WHAT THE HOLY LORDY WOOHOO!?" Emira shrieked, her voice cracking with horror.

"WHAT BY TITAN'S GIANT TOES AM I SEEING!?" Edric echoed, his face paling.

The Goreblights turned, their mouths and hands slick with gore and blood. They grinned ghastly smiles, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth, claws, tendrils, and even grotesque animalistic features.

Growl

A guttural growl rumbled through the chamber. The Goreblights lunged, and the twins, still reeling from the horrific spectacle, scrambled to cast a spell. Before they could, however, bursts of purple matter erupted from behind them, eviscerating or crushing the oncoming Goreblights. Abomatons surged forward, firing more blasts or, in the case of those that reached melee range, engaging in brutal combat, purple axes clashing against claws, tendrils, stingers, and a myriad of other monstrous appendages.

The Blight twins retreated behind a nearby wall, gasping for breath.

"Oh…Sweet Titan…they…were eating them!" Edric panted, his voice trembling.

"I'm gonna be sick!" Emira clapped a hand over her mouth, her face turning green.

"You get sick, I get sick! That's twin telepathy for you!" Edric retorted weakly.

Both Blight twins immediately turned a ghastly shade of green and were on the verge of losing their lunch. Emira rushed toward a flower pot, retching violently, while Edric leaned over a trash can, emptying his stomach.

In the other side, Darius and Alador fought back in back against the invaders former in his Abomination form and armed with two sharp swords while the latter with his many purple tendrils coming from the pack device on his back held of two of them together merged to make a shield against the coming bullets while one shot abomination bullets at the shooters and the other two arms with sharp edge at the end continuously stabbed a few coming Smilies.

After killing those and the shooters, Alador took off his google, one of the lenses being broken and dropped it while blood came from his nose and mouth and shouted with adrenaline  coursing through him “I find this melee fighting really quite detestable!”

“I’m guessing you prefer a sterile and clean lab!” Darius sarcastically commented as he battled a Behemoth, jumped from its shoulder and a fist that tried to crush him and slash on it as it bellowed.

“You have to admit, it’s much more civilized!” all of Alador’s 6 extra limbs then turned into sharp spears plunged at the behemoth to help him and then 3 of them combined into a shield blocking a coming attack from Behemoth’s fisted hand though the force was enough to crack the shield.

The Behemoth finally succumbed to its injuries and crashed to the ground with a resounding bellow.

"Wait, where's Eberwolf?" Alador suddenly realized, scanning the battlefield for their furry companion.

Darius, in his own elegant way of expressing concern for his friend's safety, cursed, "Oh, that recklessly furry little–!" Before he could finish, the ground trembled with the sound of heavy footsteps. Looking up, they saw what could only be described as giant, skinless, grotesque centaurs charging towards them.

SCREECH!

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" Alador roared, and he and Darius barely managed to dodge the onrushing Orcadians. The monstrous centaurs attacked any non-Sarkic they saw, wielding claws, teeth, and powerful kicks, or brandishing crude melee weapons like spears and swords. Behind them, Mordred the Morbid advanced, his magma sword blazing.

Meanwhile, Eberwolf tore through a Vampire's face, then leaped at a Goreblight before the creature could fire its weapon, biting down on its neck and spitting out bone and gore as the Sarkic died, gurgling on its own blood.

Eberwolf sniffed the air, her senses on high alert, and ran on all fours until she spotted Halyna. The Karcist was tossing aside various objects and magical artifacts, her tendrils snaking through the air as if searching for something specific.

Stealthily, Eberwolf crawled along the top of the wall, then, with a ferocious snarl, leaped down onto the Karcist's back. But Halyna's instincts were too sharp. Her eyes snapped back, and she reacted with blinding speed, slamming her elbow into Eberwolf's stomach with such force that the small creature spat blood and was sent hurtling through a nearby wall.

Eberwolf coughed and tried to rise, but Halyna pinned her to the ground with her arms. Then, her lower jaw split open, revealing rows of razor-sharp, shark-like teeth, poised to tear apart the injured and helpless Eberwolf, who could only growl in defiance.

SLAM!

The door to the room exploded inward, revealing a group of humanoid figures clad in sleek, black armor that Eberwolf had never seen before. Green dots glowed on their expressionless helmets, and rifles were pointed directly at Halyna.

"OPEN FIRE!" one of them barked in a furious, distorted male voice.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The armored figures unleashed a barrage of bullets, a mix of automated fire, shotgun blasts, and precise rifle shots.

The bullets slammed into Halyna, who released Eberwolf and raised her arms to shield herself. Though she could regenerate from the damage, the hail of specialized rounds, designed specifically to combat Sarkics, jolted her backwards.

The Karcist's right arm transformed into wood, and from it swarmed countless gray, moth-like insects with pulsing red bulges on their abdomens. The moment they touched the ground or any object, they exploded.

"What?" one of the armored figures exclaimed, caught off guard.

"Ullu Ka Patha! DUCK!" another voice, this time female, cursed in an unfamiliar language. She was too busy diving for cover from the explosive moths to care.

BOOM!

The resulting explosions ripped through the room, powerful enough to be seen from outside Hexside, leaving a gaping hole in the structure.

One of the armored humanoids, his visor cracked to reveal an eye with a white pupil, coughed, struggling to his feet. He saw one of his comrades holding a grenade and running towards Halyna.

"CRAP! CARSON, STOP!"

But the soldier, seemingly in a state of delirious mania, laughed, "HAHAHAHA! THIS IS HOW A MTF CONDUCTS BUSINESS!" He hurled the grenade at the Karcist's face, only for one of her tendrils to swat it away, sending it exploding elsewhere. "Carson" then grabbed a fallen chair and slammed it against her, but the chair shattered as if it had hit solid rock, with no effect on Halyna.

She looked down, momentarily surprised by the reckless attack, then raised her hand, her fingers elongating into sharp, deadly claws.

Before she could strike, another humanoid, his visor cracked and the green dots glitching erratically, shoved Carson aside. "DOWN!" He then raised a medium-sized bazooka and fired a missile directly at the Karcist.

The missile slammed into her, sending her hurtling towards the roof before detonating. She crashed back down, regenerating with a scowl, recognizing the telltale signs of the organization that had sent the armored humanoids.

"Hey, multi-legged hag!"

Halyna turned to see one of the green-haired Blight twins calling out to her, a smugly confident expression on his face. She found their audacity impressive, considering she already regarded them as irritating brats in need of humbling.

Halyna also noticed the state of the remaining Sarkics and their creations. They seemed to be in a state of panic, either fleeing in terror or attacking with mindless abandon.

The reason? A shapeless, amorphous mass that kept shifting forms, a large beak-like mouth snapping open and closed.

"Have fun experiencing your nightmares with Gromy!" Emira taunted.

Grometheus, the Fear Bringer, momentarily glanced back at the Blight twins, its form shifting to create a nightmarish version of their mother, Odalia, with pupiless eyes and a chilling voice. "You're nothing but good-for-nothing, fake, wretched, superficial brats! Only good to look pretty, nothing more!"

The green-haired twins shuddered simultaneously, visibly shaken by the Fear Bringer's manifestation of their deepest insecurities.

Emira quickly regained her composure and snapped, "Not us, idiot, her! " She pointed a finger at Halyna.

Grometheus turned its attention back to the Karcist and moved closer. Halyna, however, remained unfazed, and the two engaged in a bizarre, hypnotic staring contest. Grometheus's mass writhed and contorted, forming countless eyes that stared into Halyna's soul. For a moment, the standoff continued, until Grometheus began to convulse violently, stepping back and clutching at its nonexistent head as it shrieked.

SHRIEK!

To the witch twins' immense dumbfoundedness, Grometheus sprouted multiple limbs and plunged them into its own mass, tearing itself apart and shedding black matter.

Whatever Grometheus saw in Halyna was so terrifying that it kept shrieking and contorting into ever more grotesque shapes until it finally exploded in a shower of black goo.

Emira and Edric, still slack-jawed and stunned, glanced back at Halyna, who stood with a chilling, emotionless face that seemed to have crawled straight from the abyss.
"Believe me," she said, her voice devoid of warmth, "you don't want to know."

Mordred the Red-Stepped lived up to his title, creating a trail of blood and gore with each swing of his sword. Ripped flesh splattered, painting the walls red with the essence of witches and demons. Any spell that struck him seemed to be reflected back at its caster, and despite his bulky size, he moved with surprising agility. His sword blunted nothing it touched, occasionally spilling magma with each cleave.

During his rampage, he ripped through several Abomatons, either dodging their attacks with ease or bouncing the blasts back at them.

"FOOLS!" he bellowed. "I am Mordred the Demon Knight! I have faced machines far more impressive, built in the image of the Machine God! They make far more than mere automatons running on sludge to stop me!" He cleaved his sword clean through an Abomaton's axe, cutting it in half. Then, he leaped toward Darius and Alador, who barely managed to avoid the plunging hilt of the sword.

Alador and Darius quickly tried to retaliate, but Mordred grabbed one of Alador's abomination limbs and swung him into Darius, sending both crashing into a nearby column. The severed limb was reduced to a puddle of purple goo and small mechanical parts.

Mordred walked menacingly, crushing a fallen witch's skull into a red paste with each step, towards the wheezing men.

“He has your ego Darius.” Alador could not help but sarcastically commented.

“Oh shush you philistine!” Darius snarked back at Alador.

In the broken entrance to Hexside, Luz, Amity, Eda, King, and Owlbert arrived to witness the unfolding chaos.

"Wow, we missed a lot," was all Eda could say as she and the others rushed into the fray.

"One DAY I take a leave, one freaking day!" Amity growled in frustration, using her abomination magic to turn a mass of purple goo into a bowling ball, striking down Halkosts left and right.

King, no longer feeling unwell, channeled his newfound magic, growing even larger and more savage. He unleashed his shriek attack, sending hordes of invaders scattering, then locked into a fierce battle with a Nuckelavee.

"Nuckelavee!? First vampires, Goreblights, now Nuckelavees!? Is this a monster buffet night??" Luz incredulously exclaimed as she shot blasts of magic at the advancing Goreblights.

"Good, means MORE CRUSHING BAD GUYS!" King roared, swatting away a spear that an Orcadian tried to plunge into his chest, holding it with both hands. "Oh, you have a spear? That's cute!" He taunted, then tackled the hissing monstrosity to the ground like a seasoned wrestler.

Willow seemed to be in a berserker rage, her eyes glowing green, tears streaming down her face as she unleashed vines and carnivorous plants upon the invaders. She and Bump were surrounded by a group of witches, defending the wounded and vulnerable, including an unconscious Hunter.

On one side, Emira and Edric were fleeing from a monstrous Scylla, their illusion magic only briefly confusing the creature, failing to stop its relentless pursuit. On the other side, a hulking, armored, four-eyed knight decided that a sword was too good for Darius and Alador, and was beating them mercilessly with his bare hands. Each punch was powerful enough to crack and splatter the purple armor on Darius's form, while Alador's pack looked damaged, smoking and leaking purple fluid.

"Dad!" Amity cried out, unable to bear seeing her father in such a dire state.

"Oh no, oh no, which one should I help first?" Luz grabbed her hair in distress, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in need, including her friends.

Eda, fortunately, was decisive.
"Me and your girlfriend go with the dumb twins; you go deal with dark and gloomy."

Luz looked at Eda in bafflement. "By myself!? Not that I'm not flattered by your confidence in me, but you expect me to deal with that by myself!"

Eda smirked. "And others because... King is now all charged."

The Latina girl didn't get it at first, but then a knowing smirk spread across her face. "Ooooh."

"Be careful!" Amity told her girlfriend, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Pssh! When am I not careful?" Luz smiled, but the blank stare that Amity gave her suggested that if the situation wasn't so dire, her cotton candy princess would have snarked about Luz's lack of 'safety measures'.

Then, she, Amity, and Eda separated, each heading towards their respective battles.

Eda and Amity worked together to save the green-haired twins, arriving just in time. They appeared weaker and paler, slowing their escape from the relentless Karcist.

As the Scylla-like woman lunged, she nearly impaled the twins with her tendrils, but Amity conjured a shimmering purple shield just in time. Eda, seizing the opportunity, dove at the creature.

While Eda engaged the Scylla in a flurry of attacks, Amity turned to her siblings, a mix of concern and exasperation on her face. "Must I always save your asses when you get into trouble?"

"Oh look, sis, it's our little sister Mittens," Edric smiled, and Emira echoed his sentiment.

"Little!? YOU-" Amity started, but she caught herself, taking a deep breath, recognizing that they were just trying to tease her.

Suddenly, Edric coughed, his hand flying to his mouth. To Amity's alarm, he coughed up blood. "I feel... not good...?" His legs began to buckle, and Emira's followed suit as they tried to support each other, only to collapse.

"Edric? Edric? EMIRA!?" Amity, stricken with panic, knelt down to check on them. They were alive, but clearly, something was terribly wrong.

It wasn't just the twins; one by one, the other witches and demons began to show signs of illness. Some vomited violently, while others developed grotesque, tumorous growths.

Edalyn glared at Halyna, her eyes narrowed with suspicion and fury. "What did you do?"

Instead of answering, Halyna breathed infection towards her, causing Eda to cough and stumble back. Then, Eda's body began to change, becoming even more animalistic as her curse took over, transforming her into the full-blown Owlbeast. She lunged at Halyna, who seemed morbidly fascinated by the transformation.

Luz, blasting a Snatcher that got too close, muttered, "This is bad, this is VERY bad!" She looked over at King, who was plummeting down on an Orcadian while holding another struggling Orcadian by its elbows, seemingly having the time of his life.

"Hey bro! Give me the powerscale thing!"

"You just had to ask, sis!" He laughed, throwing the Nuckelavee upward before smashing it down onto the lower Orcadian. Next, with his hands glowing with energy, he touched Luz on her shoulder, causing her to change in a flash of light.

Her eyes, once filled with youthful exuberance, now glowed with the ancient power of a Titan, pupil-less and knowing. Her hair cascaded down her back like liquid gold, each strand shimmering with celestial energy. Across her skin, intricate markings blazed – a roadmap of the Titan's very essence, pulsing with raw magic. Where her human clothes had been, now gleamed armor-like plating, as if forged from solidified sunlight. Exactly like her Titan form when she was imbued by the power of King’s father.

Empowered, Luz flew swiftly, unleashing magical glyphs of ice, fire, and light at the invaders. Seeing her as the biggest threat, the Goreblights with firearms opened fire, creating a thick smoke screen.

When the smoke cleared, an energy shield shimmered around Luz, unharmed and smirking. "My turn!" In a blur of purple, she zoomed around, the shockwave from her speed throwing enemies in every direction. She spotted Darius holding a sickly, now defenseless, Alador as the armored, bulky knight raised his sword to deliver the final blow.

"HAHAHA! You guys are so screwed!" King roared with laughter, watching Luz decimate the enemy ranks.

Acting quickly, she dove towards Mordred, her fist glowing with glyphic power, and roared, "EAT THIS SUCKAAAAAAAA- !!!"

Upon contact, a massive shockwave erupted, filling the air with smoke. For a moment, everyone stopped, looking back in anticipation.

"That's my sister!" King cheered.

But as the smoke dissipated, Mordred remained standing, unscathed. He held her fist in his hand, red runes and pentagrams glowing ominously around his armor. A collective gasp of shock rippled through Hexside. Luz, imbued with the power of a Titan who had defeated Belos when he was consuming the Boiling Isles, stood in disbelief.

"How…!" Luz stammered.

Mordred chuckled sinisterly. "I enjoy the look of confusion when an inferior being meets a higher power!" Suddenly, he plunged his hand into Luz's chest. She froze, blood dripping from her mouth. Mordred withdrew his hand, now bloodied, clutching a human heart with a bile sac still attached, leaving Luz staring in horror at her own still-beating organ. Then, with a sickening squeeze, he crushed the heart in his clenched fist.

Darius, Bump, Alador, Eda, King, Willow, and everyone else watched in shock and horror.

"NOOO!!!" Amity screamed in absolute dismay, tears streaming down her face. She tried to rush back to Luz, but was grabbed by the throat by Halyna, who had recovered and used Eda's distraction to push her away.

"Time to go, we already got what we needed," Mordred called out. Red arcane runes formed pentagrams beneath his and Halyna’s feet, creating a portal of a type none of the witches or demons recognized. As they stepped into it, Mordred pushed Luz away.

"LUUUUUZ!!" Amity screamed once more in grief as she and Halyna disappeared into the portal, leaving only her staff behind. The pentagrams beneath them vanished.

The last thing Luz remembered before darkness took over was the anguished cries of Eda and King.

Kilometers away from Hexside, atop a windswept cliff, a hooded figure stood, gazing in the direction of the school. They sensed the waves of grief, pain, and despair emanating from the distance. The figure's voice, though soft, carried a weight of concern and regret. "Ieva… what have you done?"

Chapter Text

Amity Blight shouted and screamed profanities, thrashing and struggling against her captor, Halyna. She fought like a wild animal, throwing wild kicks and even attempting to bite, but the Karcist remained unfazed. Instead, Halyna offered her an oddly narrow, almost sympathetic look before brutally throwing her against the wall.

As Amity's head struck the cold surface, darkness began to creep in at the edges of her vision. Just before she lost consciousness, she cast a disdainful glance at two familiar dark figures approaching, their presence radiating malicious intent. And then, the world faded to black.

Amity sprang up with a hoarse gasp, trying to summon her magic, but no circle appeared. “What?” A puzzled look darkened her features as she took in her chaotic hair—no longer neatly tied back—and the fact that she was chained to the wall. There were no runes or glyphs on the chains to block her magic, and the surroundings did little to ease her growing dread. She was in some sort of dungeon, and skeletons were chained to the walls, sharing her grim fate.

“Rise and shine~,” came a familiar, haughty voice. She turned to see—

A vein throbbed in Amity’s temple as fury coursed through her. The memories flooded back—the reason she thrashed like a wild animal in the Karcist’s grasp—and she vividly recalled her girlfriend having her heart ripped from her chest by the armored brute. Blood had poured, and then the heart, along with the bile sac attached to it, had been crushed under his brutal grasp.

“You… you’re—” she threw herself forward only stopped by the chains and before she could unleash a torrent of curses, Vivian cut her off.

“Oh, that? We took your magic,” she said with a careless smile.

“What?” Amity’s disbelief was palpable.

“Need more clarification? We took your bile sac, you stupid broad,” Vivian replied, glancing at her nails with a bored expression.

“What?” Horror and disbelief washed over Amity, her eyes widening.

“That’s the downside of having magic dependent on a single organ: if you lose it, you no longer have it,” Vivian explained, her tone almost casual.

Amity tried to deny it, desperate to hold on to hope. “But—no! You’re lying! The bile sac is attached to the heart! If—”

“That’s the nice thing about being a carnomancer,” Alex chimed in, his voice filled with malevolent glee. “You don’t always need to cut; sometimes you can just seamlessly separate the organs better than any surgical tool could hope to.”

“But if it’s any consolation… you were delicious,” Vivian said with an unsettling grin, sending a chill down Amity’s spine. She looked down in despair.

“Oh, poor thing, still grieving,” Alex mocked cruelly. “Maybe we should let her have some time alone to mourn for her dead girlfriend.”

Vivian nodded, a wicked glint in her eyes. “We should, husband. Then we can come back and have our fun with her. It’ll make her pain even sweeter.”

Their cruel laughter echoed as they moved away, slamming the door behind them. Amity was left alone, bound in chains and enveloped in darkness.

As she looked down, tears began to stream down her cheeks. “Luz… I’m so sorry…” she sobbed, grief crashing over her like an unstoppable wave. The reality sank in—her girlfriend was dead, and she was powerless to even avenge her.

“A sad thing, isn’t it?” a soft voice said, breaking through her despair.

Amity’s head snapped up, searching for the source.

“To lose your lover and not be able to avenge her—how tragic,” the voice continued while the sound of a rattlesnake came.

“What… who… who is it?” she called out, her heart racing as she scanned her surroundings. Then she saw it: a rattlesnake with crimson eyes and black slits, slithering nearer. The creature held an unsettling intelligence in its gaze.

“My life would be, if I should take?” it hissed cryptically.

“Who… who are you?” Amity asked, her voice shaky.

The odd creature regarded her with a mischievous glimmer in its eyes. “Why, your soon-to-be friend Cotton. Call me… Jeser.”

A loud groan escaped Luz as she pushed herself up. “Ugh, what happened?” she muttered, opening her eyes to nothing but pitch-blackness. She floated weightlessly in the void, disoriented and confused.

“Eh? Where am I?” Puzzlement washed over her until her memories began to surface. “Wait… did I die…?” The realization hit her like a wave, and her eyes widened in horror.

“Oh gosh, I died young AGAIN!” Panic gripped her as she frantically tugged at her hair, her thoughts spiraling like a convulsing astronaut floating aimlessly in space. “Where am I, even?! No Titan mumbo-jumbo!? Not even a bad place or a good place!? Is this… Limbo?!?” She sputtered her thoughts aloud, her voice tinged with hysteria. After a few more moments of wild flailing, she slumped against the invisible wall of the void, a deep frown etching itself into her face.

“...Man, this sucks.”

Suddenly, in an ironic twist of fate, the blackness around her surged forward. Was she falling? Hurtling through an abyss? There was no sense of direction; all she knew was that the darkness was propelling her faster and faster.

“I WAS KIDDING! I WAS KIDDING! AAAAAH!” Luz waved her arms in a panic, her heart racing.

Then, without warning, the darkness gave way to a blinding light, an overwhelming brightness that engulfed everything—her, the void, and all her thoughts.

“AAAAAAAAAH—!” she continued to scream, her nonexistent lungs straining against the intensity of her fear.

Visions invaded her mind like a slideshow of mismatched memories, each lacking context.

An older woman of Middle Eastern descent sprinted forward, a dagger clutched tightly in her hand, rushing toward a towering, hairy figure standing ten feet tall. The creature had the head of a bull, adorned with a tarnished bronze crown, curled horns, tattered crow wings, and a furnace glowing ominously in its belly. The stench of clay, coal, and stale sweat wafted from it, mingling grotesquely with the dribbles of steaming spittle and foam cascading from its mouth.

“DIE, SHAYTAN!” the woman roared as she lunged at the demon, her voice filled with desperate fury.

More flashes filled her vision: a malevolent entity with indescribable features lurking behind a haunted man wearing a lab coat. His clean-shaven face was framed by neatly trimmed hair, broken lenses hanging limply from his glasses.

Images continued to flash by—ruined towns with rips in reality, floating bubbles of madness; an eldritch city of the dead ruled by a hanged king; a castle crumbling under the weight of endless locusts; a strange city built of organic materials, home to furry humanoids reminiscent of cryptid Sasquatches; an endless library filled with texts beyond comprehension.

With a startled yelp, Luz fell back onto the wet ground, her heart racing. She glanced up just as a man in ancient armor approached, spear in hand, only to scream as monstrous hands erupted from the shadows, impaling him through the chest. The sight made her leap to her feet.

When the armored man fell lifelessly to the ground, Luz faced five monstrous figures looming before her. The night and rain obscured their features, but she could still make out their horrifying forms.

A gorilla-like brute with a singular, malevolent eye.

A half-snake, half-humanoid figure, slithering forward with daggers poised.

A grotesque humanoid with multiple hands, each palm adorned with a glaring eye, and a gaping maw in its chest.

A feminine cyclopean figure, crowned with horns and bearing bat-like wings, sharp claws gleaming in the dimness.

And in the center stood the most terrifying of all: a figure wielding a staff crafted from bones, adorned with fleshy webs at the top. Clad in robes that reverberated with the imagery of rib cages, a halo hovered ominously behind its head. Four horns spiraled from its skull, bat-like wings unfurling from its back, while writhing tendrils coiled menacingly. Three glowing yellow eyes with red pupils dominated its right side, while the left boasted three grotesque mouths.

The figure’s gaze met hers, and as it stepped closer, Luz instinctively took a step back. In a blink, it transformed into a serpent-like monster with four fiery eyes and a gaping maw, and before she could scream, its mouth opened wide, swallowing her whole.

Suddenly, Luz found herself in a body that was not her own, holding a man whose head fell limp from her grasp. She dropped him without a second thought, shockingly unfazed.

It was an eclipse in an ancient city, and the screams of the dying filled the air. Over her right shoulder, she saw two Goreblights with bat wings descending upon two ancient soldiers. Blood splattered as the monsters fed, one of them chewing on a severed hand. Arrows rained from above, forcing the cannibals to shield themselves with their wings as projectiles struck their flesh.

Then, a massive tendril of flesh slammed down upon the archers, crushing them and destroying the temple’s top before retracting back into the chaos.

The miasma of screams and cries painted a picture of carnage against the oppressors. Luz felt a twisted smile creep onto her lips as she gazed hungrily at the beheaded corpse nearby–

Suddenly, the scene shattered like glass, and Luz Noceda jolted back, colliding with a shelf of books. Scrolls and tomes tumbled to the ground around her as she gasped, her heart racing.

She found herself in an ancient library, its dusty tomes written in languages she could not recognize. “What… in the Cirkey… was… THAT?!” she panted, breathless. After everything she’d witnessed in the Demon Realm, she had never expected to stumble upon something so disturbingly horrific. This surpassed everything she had ever seen, claiming a spot at the top of her mental list of the most terrifying experiences.

Luz turned her head and spotted a man, perhaps in his late twenties, holding a book and reading intently. He was thin—skeletally so—of Eurasian descent, and the scrawniest person she'd ever seen. He had the appearance of a typical bookworm, dressed in a brown tunic that seemed to belong in the Bronze Age. What caught her attention most were his striking, fierce yellow eyes, simultaneously defiant and melancholic.

He snapped the book closed and looked directly at her. "Good, you’re here. I was beginning to think your transition was complete. We don’t have much time—at least, not until the Beast shows up."

Taking a deep breath, the Latina girl let her questions spill out. “Okay… what’s going on? Did I die? Is this the bad place? And WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! … Also, who the HECK are you?”

The stranger replied in a calm, neutral voice, “You died. No, this isn’t one of the realms of the damned—”

“THERE’S MORE THAN JUST ONE HELL?!” she practically screeched.

Annoyed, the man raised a hand to signal her to pause. “Can I finish? Or would you prefer we waste time until the Beast arrives while I explain the intricacies of the afterlife? Believe it or not, there are places worse than Hell. There’s even a Hell for giraffes,” he added dryly.

Luz sputtered, momentarily at a loss for words, then fell silent.

“Those were visions,” Ion continued, “unintentionally summoned due to me plucking your soul before its transition to the other side. As for my name… I’m Ozi̮rmok Ion.”

The name felt significant, heavy with an unknown weight. Luz didn't like how calm he was; his air of mystery and confidence reminded her unsettlingly of Belos.

It seemed Ion could sense her unease. “I assure you, Luz Noceda, I’m no xenophobic wretched witch hunter. Back in my prime, I was known as the Sorcerer-King of Adytum.” He opened his palm, and the environment around them transformed into an ancient city, the familiar architecture evoking memories of her harrowing vision. The people bustling about seemed taller—ridiculously tall in some cases, towering even five feet over her.

“I was once a slave to an intolerant empire, the Daevites,” he said, his voice steady. The vision shifted, showing abhumans towering over normal-sized humans, wielding whips to enforce their cruel authority. “I rose up and led my people against our masters, staining their monuments of pride with their blood.” The images shifted again, depicting a riot of enslaved individuals rising against their oppressors armed with improvised weapons: stones, knives, and even farm sickles.

Luz felt a wave of unease wash over her. What she'd seen in those visions was far more brutal than the scenes before her now, leading her to suspect that Ion was omitting details about the bloodshed of his revolution—either out of restraint or indifference. Either way, she didn’t want to irk the man responsible for her continued existence, especially in the purgatory she found herself in. Instead, she opted for a different line of questioning.

“Wait, our world? You and those things… Did you come from Earth?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. She had already had a sinking suspicion that the Goreblights and the v=cyborg did come from earth from the things they said and some having human-like ears except for some like Alexander, yet it was a whole different thing to be confirmed to her face.

“Yes,” he responded simply.

“And that cyborg guy?”

“A Mekhanite. Bitter enemy of us, the Nälkä.” He paused, his expression serious. “I’m afraid there isn’t enough time to explain thousands of years of animosity.”

Luz nodded, trying to grasp the magnitude of a rivalry that had lasted for so long. The idea of cyborgs at war with flesh crafters was somehow the least baffling aspect of her current predicament.

“But… Earth doesn’t have— I may not have been the brightest in History class, but I’m pretty sure there was no such thing as a Daevite Empire!” she protested, incredulous. The thought of a vast ancient empire that had left no traces for archeologists to discover struck her as utterly ridiculous.

Ion let out a low, sardonic chuckle, as if he were an amused teacher entertaining a naive student. Luz found it somewhat patronizing yet equally fascinating. “Silly girl, you’ve dreamed of living in a realm of wonders.” As he spoke, images materialized around them, revealing a younger version of Luz—before her adventures in the Boiling Isles—dressed in a Halloween costume as Good Witch Azura. She was playing fantasy board games while her classmates mocked her.

“Free from the enforced normalcy imposed upon you by everyone, even your own mother.” The scene shifted to show Camila Noceda sitting in the principal’s office, her brow furrowed in concern as she spoke with the principal. Young Luz lingered nearby, oblivious to the impending fate that lay ahead when she accidentally stumbled into the Demon Realm. The intimate details about her life made Luz dreaded; this Ion seemed to know far too much.

“Not knowing… that the world you know is a lie. A masquerade. A Stepford prison, as people would say nowadays,” he continued, as the scenes changed. This time, they showcased visions even more extraordinary than she could have imagined: a sprawling city of brass ruled by ancient cyborgs in the heart of a desert, a flying fortress city soaring above the clouds, and a leviathan so massive it slumbered beneath the ocean, visible even from space. The images showed people of the Old World performing magical feats that dwarfed everything she had seen in the Boiling Isles. Starships manned by alien intelligences so utterly alien in thought and appearance that came from beyond the stars—a cone-headed race with tentacles and psychic powers that visited Earth during ancient times and dragons soaring majestically through the sky. And that wasn’t even half of it.

“Are those… Bigfoots??” Of all the bewildering sights before her, that was the question that slipped from her lips.

“Vasasoonenütä, former rulers of the Earth before the Age of Mankind,” he replied casually, as if this knowledge were common.

“WAIT, WHAT?!” Luz’s eyes widened, her mind racing. She nearly slipped into Spanish as her astonishment bubbled over, but Ion continued speaking.

“Once upon a time, wonders walked our world like none your wildest dreams could ever imagine. But with wonders came horrors.” The scene shifted dramatically, showcasing terrifying sights: a monstrous tarasque that obliterated everything in its path; dark mages sacrificing hundreds to amplify their malevolent power; predators lurking in the shadows, viewing humanity as prey; a ghastly hanged king seated upon a throne in an eldritch city that made Luz instinctively shiver; and a demon of war, insatiable in its appetite for destruction. Graphically displayed were the Daevites, pillaging and enslaving people by the masses, while others worshipped dark gods, offering their own lives to these demonic deities.

“Thus, the Coven of Reason caged these beasts, the Coven of Shadows weaponized them, while many revered the Horrors, and the Coven of Fear extinguished them. In doing so, they stagnated humanity’s apotheosis under the chains of greed and ignorance, enforcing our world in their grotesque image.” The images morphed into depictions of witch hunters, the Inquisition, and Knight Templars and even Allied and Axis forces during the Second World War searching for Occults in their secret war. The visuals continued to modern times, revealing secret cabals and organizations that lurked in the darkness: shadowy figures clad in uniforms covered with various symbols. Each group differed in their methods, yet they all shared the same goal—maintaining the masquerade.

“Wait, like New World Order, Men In Black and Illuminati stuff??? That nonsense that Hopkins spat about is REAL?!” Luz exclaimed, her mind racing with disbelief and confusion.

“No, I assure you, whatever crazed theories that xenophobic little man believes in are far more insidious in reality.”

Images now flashed around them: a blue pentagram that was on what resembled to be the UN symbol, a small red circle with spirals, a dawning sun on the horizon featuring a single eye, and lastly, a circular emblem with three arrows pointing toward one another.

“Your mother and your stepsister have caught the attention of the Jailers. Soon, they and their cohorts will be entangled. Even then, that is the least of your worries.”

Luz, understandably, did not take the news well. “Not least!? You’re saying my mom and sis have been captured by the spooks, and that’s the LEAST of my worries?” She threw her hands up in frustration.

“Yes,” Ion replied coolly. “For the self-proclaimed gods”—he spat the word ‘gods’ with contempt, prompting Luz to take notice—“are returning with malignant intent, their attention is on Nethak’tal and all you know and love will be in grave peril.”

“Nethak’tal? You mean the Demon Realm.” She quickly concluded, a storm of thoughts swirling. “And… by gods, do you mean the Titans and Archivists?”

He shook his head, a grimace on his face. “No, the gods of these lands are dead, but ours remain. They lurk in the darkness, glaring at mortals with hate and malice.”

The images transformed, leaving Luz breathless.

“What… is…”

In the suffocating depths of primordial darkness, where the feeble light of the stars dared not tread, an unspeakable assembly of ancient and monstrous horrors convened. Their forms were grotesque parodies of life—each figure a collage of the indescribable: serpentine coils, glistening scales, and countless eyes, each a swirling vortex of malice and despair. Beneath a shroud of gloom, the air crackled with the stench of decay and the echo of distant, maddening whispers.

As inky shadows danced around them, the deities regarded the fragile world above, their visages twisted in expressions of unimaginable wrath. Tentacles slithered and undulated in the thick miasma, reaching like living shadows toward the cosmos, eager to snuff out all light from existence. Their voices—a cacophony of discordant tones—resonated through the void, a haunting symphony of despair that reverberated in the minds of those unfortunate enough to heed their call.

Amid the grotesque congregation, a central crimson figure rose, its shape in a perpetual state of flux, seemingly defying the very laws of reality. This red being fed on the fears and nightmares of all sentient life, thriving on the mortal dread that haunted the passage of time. A harbinger of destruction, it commanded the darkness below, blotting out the stars and promising an end to all that is.

Next to it was a mass of ever-shifting flesh, formless and chaotic. The very fabric of sanity trembled at its presence—a primeval entity capable of twisting, creating, and annihilating entire universes at its whim, yet consistently resulting in chaos and disorder. It promised the end of order, sanity, sentience, civilization, and promises of progress.

“The most vile of them all are the Scarlet Demon and the Godeater. One seeks the utter annihilation of our universe in every conceivable way, while the other aims to twist and mend it into its grotesque image,” Ion declared, the images fading with a wave of his hand, leaving an oppressive silence in their wake.

“Why are you even telling me this? Aren’t your people the ones who just attacked my friends?” Luz bluntly asked, struggling to regain her composure.

His expression darkened, the shadows deepening around his features as he continued to speak, each word dripping with increasing menace. Luz suddenly felt less safe than she had just moments ago.

“Those… traitors are not my people,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “They have betrayed everything my kin and I sacrificed. Instead of becoming liberators, they have become tyrants, dabbling with tyrannical gods, petty dictators and the vilest demons. Believe me, when I return, none of those wretches will be spared!”

Any doubt Luz had harbored evaporated in an instant, replaced by a torrent of loathing radiating from him. The intensity of his contempt was palpable, and it left her with an unsettling chill.

Suddenly, a terrible roar erupted from the depths of the surrounding darkness—a sound that sent ripples of dread through her.

R̵͖̗̤̼͐̄̾̉͌̚Ơ̷̰͇͖̮͓̮͍͍̾̓̋̆̀A̶̜̬͍͌̋̅̋̐̊͆͌̒̀̅̊̔͜R̸̙͎̟̬̝̬̬̥̣̹͉̈́̑̀̃͑̾̀̇̇͒̌̚̚͝͝

The roar that erupted was unlike anything Luz had ever heard—a primal, raw cacophony that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. Even though she couldn’t see the source, every instinct inside her screamed for her to run, like prey sensing the presence of a formidable predator. The sound shook the environment around her, and a visceral fear gripped her heart.

“What was that?” She looked left and right, panic rising within her as she tried to comprehend the primal noise.

“The Great Dragon in the Great Brass Cage of the Broken God, Yaldabaoth the Godeater, has come,” Ion said, his voice tense. “I was hoping for more time.” He turned to gaze in a specific direction, brows knitted in worry, before returning his gaze to her. “Listen to me, child. I’ve pulled many strings to bring you back. There won’t be any more resurrections. Remember that the next time you impulsively throw yourself at an unknown enemy without a plan—otherwise, you won’t be there to save your spouse.” His tone was reminiscent of an old man reprimanding a reckless youth, and though she would have snarked back under normal circumstances, one crucial detail struck her with icy dread.

“My ‘spouse’? You mean my girlfriend.” Her heart raced, nervousness creeping in at the implications for Amity.

His mouth quirked a bit "Yes... I can sense it. Your heart and hers are two halves of the same organ, pumping with affection. To separate them with the sharp dagger of death would be to rip that organ in two, leaving a gaping, bloody tear where love once flowed."

Luz blinked, momentarily stunned by his graphic description. “That’s, uh… quite an graphic way to describe romance. I’m never going to look at Valentine’s Day hearts the same way again…” She felt a strange mix of concern and bemusement as she realized Ion had shattered the lovely symbolism of hearts and love, reminding her that, in reality, a heart was just a blood-pumping organ even though from his nostalgic tone it was clear that was not his intention.

“Your girlfriend is being held captive by heretics and is being tempted by one of the minions of either the Demiurge or the King in Red. I can’t say for certain which.”

Luz groaned in frustration. “Do I need to make a list of everything world-shattering I don’t know?!?”

He fixed her with a serious look, his expression turning grave. “Do not let yourself or any of your allies be seduced by their whispers. No matter who you’ve been, no matter what your moral values are, no matter who you are—if you give in, you will be possessed by the ultimate evil, and it will dominate your soul. The only cure would be death.”

R̵͖̗̤̼͐̄̾̉͌̚Ơ̷̰͇͖̮͓̮͍͍̾̓̋̆̀A̶̜̬͍͌̋̅̋̐̊͆͌̒̀̅̊̔͜R̸̙͎̟̬̝̬̬̥̣̹͉̈́̑̀̃͑̾̀̇̇͒̌̚̚͝͝

The primal roar echoed again, sounding even closer this time.

“Time to go,” Ion said, urgency flooding his voice.

“Wait! But—AAAAAAH!” Luz screamed as she felt herself plummeting once more. “ARE YOU KIDDING MEEEEEEEEEEEE—!” Her voice trailed off into a panicked wail until everything faded, and she abruptly woke up, heart racing.

“CRIKEY!” Luz shot up, her heart racing as she took in her surroundings—a hospital room in patient clothes. “Wait… I’m alive? Not transformed into an anime monster like last time? Bummer, last time—”

Before she could finish her thought, King, Willow, and Eda bolted toward her, enveloping her in a bear hug, their voices a cacophony of relief and joy.

“I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE BACK, SIS!” King cried, his words nearly drowned out by the excitement in his little voice.

“I thought we lost you!” Willow's voice trembled with emotion as she clutched Luz tightly.

“I’m sorry, kid, it was my fault—” Eda began in her classic self-reproachful tone, but before she could finish, Luz interrupted.

“RIBS, GUYS! MY RIBS!” Luz gasped, wincing in pain as she felt the pressure against her chest which the last check had just ripped opened, but now healed albeit still wincing from the pain.

Immediately, they stopped hugging her, and apologies spilled forth.

Willow’s eyes widened in concern. “We thought you were dead! Then… that weird staff thing was floating above you and shot these fleshy spider-webs attached to you!”

“The damn thing just floated by itself, breaking through the rock above! I hid it during our way to Hexside!” Eda added informing Willow fast, the tension in her voice palpable.

“Yeah, it was creepy,” King admitted, visibly shaken. “That bony thing dug itself up and shattered the rock on top of its hiding place, then just hovered above you doing… things.” He struggled to find the right words, clearly disturbed by their earlier attempts to free Luz from the staff. In the end, they had cautiously placed her on the hospital bed, having witnessed the flesh webs beginning to heal the wound in her chest, not daring to take the staff from her until the moment it became inert and retracted.

Luz’s gaze drifted to the side, landing on the seemingly inanimate staff made of bones resting on the bed near her. In that instant, any lingering doubt about the reality of her earlier experiences vanished; they were not just tricks of her unconscious mind.

With a haunted stare, she looked back at her friends and simply said, “...Hell is real, Reality is fake, Bigfoots ruled the Earth once, and we are being hunted by the New World Order.”

The group stared at her in confusion, their expressions a mix of disbelief and concern. She could hardly blame them for looking at her like she went insane.

“...what?” King blinked, utterly bewildered.

Ignoring his confusion, Luz's thoughts raced to something more urgent, a wave of worry washing over her. “Where… where’s Amity and Gus?” she asked, her voice trembling with anxiety.

Away from the Boiling Isles, in a mansion constructed sometime after Alador’s divorce and ominously named ‘Bloodwood,’ a green-haired woman stormed down a corridor, her expression a mask of fury. Accompanying her was a smaller figure with hair that resembled tentacles more than actual strands, her skin a rich shade of crimson.

“Are you certain?” the woman demanded, her voice a harsh hiss.

“Yes, ma’am,” the smaller woman replied, urgency lacing her tone. “There has been a coordinated attack at Hexside, leading to Amity’s disappearance and the twins being hospitalized with some sort of contagion. All reports indicate… the attackers match the exact characteristics and appearance of our benefactors.”

As Odalia Blight processed the news conveyed by Kikimora, her displeasure deepened. Her benefactors had mounted an attack without informing her, endangering her heirs in the process. Make no mistake; she understood that she could simply have another child and marry someone else to continue the Blight legacy. But the thought of spending another two decades raising a new offspring was unbearable—especially as she felt the years creeping up on her. One child endangered? Fine; she could handle that. Two? Annoying, but manageable. All three? Absolutely unacceptable.

Odalia Blight was many things, but a pushover was not one of them, and she was determined to remind her benefactors of that fact.

She flung open the door to her study and marched inside. “Sulkisk! What in Titan’s necrotic flesh was that!?” she demanded, glaring at the figure lounging carelessly in her chair, sipping wine from her own inventory.

“Ever heard of knocking, my dear Odalia?” Sulkisk replied, his voice dripping with mockery. “I thought the aristocrats of the Demon Realm were supposed to have manners akin to those back on Earth—well, the way things used to be.” His face was obscured by a hood, only revealing his glowing yellow eyes, and he wore an intricate, tailored white suit with golden accents—an ensemble that could have reduced most medium-class families to poverty.

Odalia had only glimpsed his face once, and she would assuredly say that wearing a hood made conversing with him more palatable.

“Cut the Titan crap, you hideous abortion of nature!” she spat. “You launched an attack in the Boiling Isles without informing me, and worse, you’ve put all my heirs in danger! In case you forgot, I don’t live for centuries—I don’t have time to procreate and raise another batch of brats!”

“Everything has gone just as planned,” Sulkisk said, a sinister edge to his words. “Your twins may… not survive. The other one? She is in our custody.”

“And how exactly do you plan to convince her to abandon her classless mate and return to the family fold?” Odalia shot back, incredulous. “Brainwashing? Lobotomization? I want an heir, not a drooling idiot. She’s already a lost cause spending time with those beneath her; one of the twins, at least, I could convince if not for YOUR multi-limbed friend infecting them with some concocted plague as if it’s the Dark Ages’ Bubonic Plague!”

“You’ve misunderstood, Mrs. Blight—no, wait, Miss Blight.” He stood, unfazed by her glare boring into him. “We have no intention of returning your spawn to you.”

“That was not the deal, Sulkisk,” she said, her tone low and dangerous.

“The deal has changed,” he replied coolly, unfazed.

“Oh, you think you’re a big boy now?” she snapped mockingly. “Don’t forget, you inbred troglodyte, it was because of me that your operations remained hidden! It was because of me that you were found on that miserable island—otherwise, you would have spent a very long time there, eating raw fish and crabs for every meal! Without my help, you would never have reunited with the rest of your ilk back on that dirtball humans so aptly called Earth. And what do I get for my trouble? Backed out of our deal, being plotted against behind my back, bending the agreement to your whims, and treated like an afterthought! Do you see me with my company restored? Do I have any of my ungrateful brats back as heirs? Am I any richer or closer to regaining my former status? How does any of your insipid musings benefit me? ANSWER ME, BODFEL, YOU MORONIC CAVEMAN!”

For a few seconds, an unsettling silence filled the room until Bodfel finally began to frown. He glanced back at Kikimora and commanded, “Leave us.”

Kikimora was about to comply when Odalia sharply interjected, “STAY HERE! I’M IN CHARGE!”

Sulkisk placed a hand on Odalia’s shoulder, his voice cool and menacing. “Are you?”

Once again, silence enveloped them as Odalia slowly turned to face him. Kikimora took it as her cue to exit, slipping out of the room.

Odalia maintained a stoic expression, though she couldn’t entirely suppress the tremor in her voice. “I brought you from the wilds back to civilization, invested my riches in this—”

“And that amounts to having control over me?” he whispered, the words heavy with contempt. “Your money, resources, and influence were useful—key word: were. You? You’re a disappointment to your family heritage. Your daughter, on the other hand? She has promise. If she doesn’t? Well…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to an unsettling purr. “I enjoy a meal that can fight. I’ve heard she has skin as smooth and spotless as white caramel and smells like cotton candy.” Odalia shivered, discomfort flooding her.

“What… is… this?” she managed to reply, barely containing her fear.

“I’m Archon’s Reckoning, Yaldabaoth’s Ur-Priest, and soon… all of this backwater realm shall know her love once more.” He tightened his grip on her shoulder.

“You’re… you’re pure evil,” Odalia gasped, writhing under his touch, paralyzed by sheer terror. Her facade of stoicism crumbled, leaving her exposed to the horror of what was about to happen.

“I’m a necessary evil,” he replied with a finalizing air. He then gripped her head, his mouth opening wide to reveal jagged teeth.

The halls of the building echoed with the sounds of a scream—a cry that jolted while flesh tore and bled. Kikimora, listening just outside, felt a shiver run down her spine as the screams persisted. They grew quiet after seven minutes, but the ripping and tearing continued relentlessly for another seven. She wanted to flee, but she knew the Goreblights were lurking outside, ready to pounce the moment she tried to escape.

A squeak escaped her lips as she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped back, heart racing. Sulkisk stood before her, seemingly having teleported in an instant, blood covering his claws, bits of gore smeared across his clothes.

“Now… I trust that we won’t have any problems, will we, Kikimora?”

Frozen in terror, she was too paralyzed to respond, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She simply nodded.

“Excellent,” he said, a smile creeping across his face as he patted her on the head, making her squirm. “Now… Can you clean my suit? It costs forty thousand dollars, made of fine silk in Italy, and I’d rather not wear it while smelling like a butcher’s shop.”

Chapter Text

In just one night, Luz's world had been mercilessly wrecked. Her girlfriend was kidnapped, monstrous beings attacked everything she knew and cared about with a savagery she had never witnessed before. Gus, Skara, Viney, Barcus, and others had disappeared. Hexside lay in ruins. She had died again, and her worldview had shattered into a million pieces.

When Luz shared her terrifying experience from the other side, the reactions were mixed. Eda wore a skeptical look, suspicion flickering in her eyes at the mention of an unknown figure — the "Dark Man," as Luz had dubbed him — who seemed to know more than he let on. King was simply confused, scratching his head in bewilderment. Oddly, Willow sat in silence, her gaze distant and unfocused.

“...Did you even catch a word of what I just said?” Luz asked, exasperation coloring her voice.

“....Nope! All I got was the Giraffe Hell thing. And let’s be honest, that was a given — knowing how freaky giraffes are,” King replied honestly. Luz couldn’t blame him; she too struggled to believe what she had seen and learned.

Eda crossed her arms tightly, grunting in disbelief. “This is ridiculous! Magic on Earth? Secret societies? Bigfoots?? What a complete crackpot! I’ve been smuggling around there for decades. If such a thing were true, I would’ve seen it from miles away.”

“Maybe it’s just not common?” Luz shrugged, trying to keep the conversation open.

“I used to be the strongest witch in the Boiling Isles—”

“Technically, that was Belos—” King then shut up by the annoyed look his stepmother gave him.

“The second strongest witch in the Boiling Isles. If there were magic on Earth, wouldn’t I have found out about it?”

“Maybe the rules are simply different? I doubt there are dead Titans just lying around on Earth,” Luz suggested.

“Bah! Say, Willow, what do—” Eda turned, noticing Willow staring into space. With a snap of her fingers near Willow’s face, she tried to pull her back to reality. “Hey, kid, something on your mind?”

That’s when Luz remembered something critical. “Oh my gosh, I forgot! Where’s Hunter?”

The atmosphere shifted, everyone looking somber. Willow’s face twisted into a mask of guilt.

“He’s, um... alive, technically…” King stammered awkwardly.

“Poor kid is in a coma,” Eda sighed, her voice heavy with concern.

Willow finally found her voice, trembling as she spoke. “He… he… he was being controlled, like— like he was being puppeteered, ” she said, flailing her hands. “By that horrible woman with tentacles, using a kind of plant magic I’ve never seen before on Hunter… and I... I…” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a sob. “I had to use my magic on him…”

Luz and Eda exchanged glances, wanting to offer comfort, but before they could speak, overwhelmed by guilt, Willow shot up from her seat. “I… can’t…!” she cried, sprinting from the room.

Luz tried to follow but felt Eda's hand gently resting on her shoulder. “She’s overwhelmed right now. She needs to process it.” Luz’s shoulders slumped in sadness, feeling helpless.

Just then, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway, and the door swung open as an amazed Lilith burst in. “EDALYN! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT WE FOUND—” She stopped abruptly, taking in the heavy air that lingered.

Lilith wasn’t known for her social finesse, but she wasn’t oblivious to the mood. “...I’ve missed a lot, haven’t I?”

A few minutes of hurried explanation passed, and the usually vibrant Clawthorne slumped into a chair, her tone far less energetic. “...Oh, I did miss a lot.” The realization hit her hard; Luz had nearly died, Amity — her favorite student — was kidnapped, and even Hunter, whom she hadn’t been particularly close to, lay in a coma.

“Yep.” Eda punctuated her response with a pop of irritation. “As if we didn’t have enough problems, there’s a plague going around, infecting half the people here who had to be quarantined like it’s the freakin’ Dark Ages again, likely thanks to that cephalopodic mo—” She halted, remembering King was present. “ Anyway , I’ve never met a carnomancer before. Since you’ve been busy being our previous glorious emperor’s second-in-command, have you seen any fleshcrafters before?”

“As far as I know, Belos was the only known carnomancer for a long time… until today,” Lilith replied, a hint of unease creeping into her voice.

“And of course, it’s always freaking Belos,” Eda said, rolling her eyes.

“That’s the thing,” Lilith said, shaking her head. “This time, I don’t think Phillip had anything to do with it. Even before Belos’s reign, carnomancers were feared and hated. There are spooky legends about Goreblights, and many references suggest the boogeyman myths originated from them. There were even alleged Goreblight hunts.”

“Witches witch-hunting? Emperor bird-face is probably cackling in his grave,” King commented sourly, crossing his arms as he leaned back, a frown deepening on his face, even Eda shared his soured look.

“The twins…” Luz sniffed, dread pooling in her stomach as she imagined what the Goreblights might do to Amity. With Emira and Edric both stricken by the plague, she couldn't fathom what Alador must be feeling, having two of his children in critical condition and one kidnapped by Goreblights. With a groan, she slouched back against the bed, rubbing her face in frustration. “Esto solo se pone mejor y mejor…” she muttered in her native language, oblivious to the surprised looks from everyone around her.

King blinked twice, trying to process what he’d just seen. “Uhm… Sis? Not to scare you, but I’m pretty sure humans don’t have an extra thumb.”

“What are you talking—” Luz looked down at her hands and gasped. Instead of her usual five fingers, there were six. “EEEP!” She shot out of the bed in shock and, with wide eyes, looked back. To her relief, her hands had returned to normal. “What—did—DID EVERYONE SEE THAT!?” she practically shrieked, her voice rising in panic.

“Either I had a strong moonshine apple blood, or you just grew an extra finger,” Eda noted, flabbergasted.

“So that’s why Stingerbean and Owlbert looked so disturbed…” King muttered to himself, clearly bewildered.

“Oh, what is it now!” Luz groaned in frustration, feeling like the universe was piling on dread upon dread.

“Well…” King hesitated, glancing at the others before continuing, “Let’s just say the Palisman, after that freaky bony scepter did whatever it did to you, looked perturbed and didn’t dare to be in the same room as you.”

Luz clapped her hands in an exaggerated manner, her voice rising hysterically. “Terrific! This is just terrific!” she yelled, her tone bordering on manic. “My girlfriend was kidnapped, I died again , Gus is nowhere to be seen, Willow is a mess, and Hunter is in a coma! And now even my own palisman is afraid of whatever eldritch magic that thing—” She gestured wildly at the Scepter of Ion still resting on her bed, “—and the Dark Man spilled on me! Is there something else I should know about?!? ” She turned back toward her companions, her expression wild, making them understandably worried about her ever cracking sanity.

Exchanging glances, the group realized they couldn't postpone additional news any longer.

“Well… Emberwolf had a couple of fractures and mumbled something about weird armored soldiers before they disappeared…” King said quietly, nervously fidgeting with his fingers.

“There’s a whole ancient temple thing with plant zombies, and what I think is a giant mecha…” Lilith pondered aloud, counting off her fingers as if trying to organize her thoughts.

When it was Eda's turn, her face soured with concern. “Rain is currently busy with the quarantine, using his magic with CAT—still a stupid name—manipulating the environment to make sure nothing viral spreads around in the air or water. And the healers say that while the scepter healed you and even gave you a new heart… that Bile Sac thing King’s dad gave you? It… it’s no longer there. ” She squinted, the weight of the news settling heavily in the room.

Luz felt a rush of panic. That meant she was back to square one, able to do magic only through glyphs or her palisman, which was now afraid of her thanks to whatever unholy arcane power the Dark Man had unleashed to resurrect her. Her expression was eerily deadpan, eyes twitching with frustration, until something inside her finally snapped.

In a sudden burst of emotion, she walked over to the bed, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it with all her might. The muffled cries echoed through the room, a chaotic mixture of frustration, fear, and overwhelming anxiety flooding from her.

Alador adjusting a gadget, not looking up, he stopped looking up at all enamoured by hsi work. While he was an engineer not a healer, he could make tools that would greatly help the healers against the pandemics and thanks to Luz and Gus he took some inspiration from Earth over the years, currently he was working a sort of Abomaton drone that can be controlled from afar to administer dosage and help the diseased without risking contamination as this plague from what he seen was airborne and chances are he along with half of the Hexside are diseased too just that their symptoms are yet to show up and also a new filtering system to filter out the airborne disease. “ I just need to finish this. Once I finish… maybe it’ll help Emira and Edric.”

Darius came and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrow raised “ Right. Because a gadget could magically cure a highly contagious disease better than magical means . That's how science works now?”

Alador sighed “You don’t understand. I can’t just sit here—there’s something I need to do. 

“Oh? And what about Hunter? Or are we pretending Eberwolf and others are fine and dandy? Forgetting that your children are not the only ones in mortal peril?”

Alador immediately stopped and gazed at Darius with an angry flush “I’m not forgetting- !” Before he could snap.

Darius interrupted him with a smirk  “Now I have your undivided attention.”

“I-you- you did it on purpose.” He gritted his teeth realising Darius was intentionally trying to get a raise at him to stop his focus on his work.

Darius' typical haughty smirk then ceased as he spoke softly “Look, I get it. You’re trying to hold it all together. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but tiring yourself won’t help anyone.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just crumble like everyone else?” Alador sarcastically asked.

Darius once again had his smirk that gave Alador the urge to punch “Well, I wouldn’t recommend it. You might actually make the place look worse.”

“Great. I’ll keep the breakdowns to a minimum. But you’re avoiding the point.” Alador said this time half-smiled.

Darius rolled his eyes and threw his hands up “Fine! I’ll say it—Hunter’s in a coma, and Eberwolf has a rip facture and is currently slurring about weird soldiers with no face. I know, I  care, even if I’m too proud to admit it.”

“It’s just… they need us.”

“ Exactly. So let’s stop pretending we’re invincible. Lean on each other for once. You have my… unique brand of support.”

Alador chuckled “Your ‘support’? No one else would define it quite like that.”

“There you go. See? Emotions aren’t going to kill you.” Darius mocked a hand on his own chest.

“Maybe just my pride.” Alador shrugged.

Willow wiped her face after using the bathroom and walked toward the room where Hunter had been taken, passing healers in protective suits as they made their way to the quarantine zone. Thanks to Luz, Gus, and Alador’s inventions, the suits were modern and well-equipped for a biohazard environment. Otherwise, they might have been stuck with those medieval bird-like suits, which, according to folklore, were inspired by some ancient necromancer who had claimed to come from another realm before mysteriously disappearing.

Before opening the door, she took a deep breath, steeling herself to see her boyfriend in a coma, and pushed the door open. Inside, she found Hunter lying on the bed, eyes closed, appearing lifeless. But there was an unexpected presence in the room—a man wearing a monastic robe of red and gold, his face obscured by a deep hood. He was leaning over Hunter, touching his forehead and chanting something in an unrecognizable language. Alarmingly, she noticed that Hunter’s body was beginning to convulse.

Reacting quickly, Willow summoned a vine from the ground, slamming it against the stranger and pinning him to the wall. “Who are you? What have you done with Hunter!?” she demanded, her voice low and fierce.

The stranger, hood now pushed back, revealed a whip-thin, bald male Witch who appeared to be in his mid-forties. He did not flinch or show any sign of intimidation. Instead, his voice was smooth and cool, like that of a priest. “I saved him.”

Gasped

Suddenly, Hunter awoke with a sharp intake of breath. “Hunter!” Willow rushed forward and hugged him tightly, still keeping her vine restrained around the stranger.

“Huh?... Where… where am I?” Hunter mumbled, confusion clouding his eyes. Before he could gather his thoughts, Willow leaned in and kissed him, causing a deep blush to spread across his cheeks.

“You’ve been hospitalized! The healers said you were in a coma! Are you okay? Do you feel unwell?” She cradled his face in her hands, anxiously scanning for any signs of illness.

“Where’s… Waffles?” he asked, his eyes darting around as he gently lowered her hands.

Willow grimaced, struggling to find the right words. “Waffles… she’s… she became inert after—”

Chirp!

She stopped abruptly as both she and Hunter turned to see the familiar blue jay palisman perched on the stranger’s shoulder, who, for some inexplicable reason, was no longer held back by the vines. Waffles flapped her wings and flew over to Hunter, chirping happily.

“I believe… we have some things to talk about,” the stranger stated, his cool demeanor unwavering.

After Luz had her brief meltdown, she took a deep breath and drank a glass of water offered to her by Lilith. Eda had tried to tempt her with ‘Special Blood Apple Moonshine,’ but the stern look she received from her sister quickly silenced the offer. With a final deep breath, Luz managed to compose herself.

“...Okay, I’m calm now. As of now, there is nothing more world-shattering—”

The door suddenly swung open, slammed by a random female healer. “Someone broke into the hospital, managed to wake Hunter and his palisman, and said they have information on the Goreblights!”

A moment of stunned silence fell over the room as everyone exchanged incredulous looks. Luz wore a deceptively bland expression until she broke the silence.

“The universe has a wicked sense of humor!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in flabbergasted frustration.

“It sure does,” Eda whistled.

Without wasting any time, they followed the healer down the corridor.

“I swear, that Dark Man—Ion or whatever he calls himself—is probably somewhere in the zillionth circle of Hell, laughing at my expense,” Luz muttered bitterly.

“WHAT!? Ion!? ” Lilith exclaimed, her head darting back and forth incredulously. “You didn’t say the Dark Man’s name is Ion!”

“Oh, let me guess—that’s too revealing, huh!? At this point, I feel like a bad protagonist in a low-budget 2000s film!” Luz snapped in frustration as they continued through the halls.

When they entered the room, they spotted Principal Bump, his hand in a cast and a few bruises marking his stoic face as he stared intently at the other side of a one-way mirror.

“Principal Bump! You—” Lilith exclaimed, startled at his condition.

“I’ll rest later,” he cut her off, raising his good hand. “Willow found this man somehow sneaking past the guards into Hunter’s bed and did something that caused him and his palisman to wake up. I’m guessing some kind of Plant Magic method.”

“Hunter is awake? Is he well?” Luz asked anxiously.

“He is, but just to be safe, he and the palisman are being checked to see if this man put any hexes on them or left any nasty surprises, it won’t take long. Willow is with him.”

A collective sigh of relief washed over them at the news. They turned to peer through the mirror at the man. The room he was in was typically used for interrogating alleged suspects; the one-way mirror meant he couldn't see them. He appeared to be an unassuming witch in modest robes, but they all knew better than to trust appearances.

“What did he say?” King inquired.

Bump sighed heavily. “We tried to interrogate him, but he said he only wants to speak with Luz.”

Eda and Luz exchanged glances until Luz finally nodded. “I’ll go.”

“Not without me you don’t,” Eda said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Are we sure that’s wise?” Lilith asked warily.

“Face it, sis. We’re all in the dark, and we need information. If he tries anything funny—” Eda shrugged nonchalantly, “I’ll just let out my Owlbeast.”

But Eda’s expression turned serious as she continued, “There’s something else, too. When the other teachers and I checked, we found someone had tampered with the security wards here. We still don’t know who, but whoever did it was from inside and wiped their own tracks. As we discovered, some of the children evacuated during the attack… are missing .”

Eda and Lilith exchanged grim looks, a shared understanding passing between them. Luz and King felt a chill run down their spines at the thought of the missing kids. The horrifying possibility that they could be in the same predicament as Amity — at the mercy of those cannibalistic carnomancers — was too much to bear.

Seeing the grim reality of the situation, Lilith reluctantly agreed to accompany them. As Luz and Eda prepared to enter the room, Luz turned to her mentor and asked, “Good cop or bad cop?”

“Nah, I’ll be Bad Cop; you go with Witch Cop,” Eda snorted lightly.

Once they entered the room, they found the stranger sitting calmly in a chair near the table. His demeanor suggested he had planned to be captured, but for what reason, they would need to find out.

The stranger looked at them, his lip quirking slightly. “Ah… I was hoping you would show up. I’m very sorry for not arriving sooner; otherwise, I could have prevented many tragedies.”

Luz and Eda exchanged wary glances. They didn’t like the smoothness of his tone or the apologetic air that accompanied it. Eda, having been a con artist herself, knew all too well how to recognize faux emotions, but this man was different; it was hard to tell if he was genuine or if something more sinister lay beneath his composed exterior.

Crossing her arms, Eda scoffed. “Cut the Titan turd. Who are you? What are you doing here? And what did you do to Hunter?”

“My apologies,” the man replied. “My name is Dox. As for what I did? Being a plant-based lifeform, just like his familiar, their cells—well, they became hardened like wood, putting them in a catatonic state. All I did was free his cells.”

“And you couldn’t just come in like a normal person and ask?” Luz raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“I… am not familiar with the authorities of the Boiling Isles. I’m a traveler, you see. In my experience, those in positions of authority rarely have clean hands. So I thought it wiser to beg for forgiveness than to risk it.”

“What are you now, a philosopher?” Eda commented sarcastically, though as a former criminal and rebel, she secretly understood his perspective.

He chuckled in amusement. “Philosophy is actually a hobby of mine.”

“Are you a Plant Mage?” Luz tilted her head, curiosity piqued.

“To be precise, while I possess a few tricks in the field of botanist, my true expertise lies in a realm considered somewhat… taboo .” He locked eyes with Luz knowingly. “You’ve been gifted by him, haven’t you?”

A pit formed in Luz's stomach at the implication. She feigned ignorance, asking cautiously, “Gifted by who?”

“You know exactly who ,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “I know because I was gifted by the Breaker of Chains as well.” He raised his hands, and to their shock, two extra arms burst forth from under his armpits, each ending in four inhuman fingers. Eyes blinked open in the palms of those extra limbs. The sudden mutation startled everyone, including those watching from the other side of the mirror.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Eda’s question felt more like a statement.

He shook his head, the eyes on his palms closing and vanishing as if they had never existed. “No, our abilities may be similar, but I’m no kin of theirs. Tell the child there is no need to fret. Had I any ill intent, I would have acted by now.”

A squeak escaped King as he was almost taken by surprise, almost shifting into his beast form and somehow he saw through the one-sided mirror or sensed him.

After staring back at Dox, Luz turned away, swallowing nervously. “By ‘gift,’ you mean…”

“Yes, he found me when I was in dire need. I was a drifter, shackled and mutilated for spreading the words of enlightenment and freedom. It was through him that I stand before you now.”

Eda felt as if she might be sick at the reverence in Dox's voice when he spoke of the figure in Luz’s vision. It reminded her of Belos's devotees. She wasn’t the only one affected; Eda scowled and Lilith grimaced from the other side of the mirror, recognizing echoes of her own past as a follower of Belos. Luz looked awkwardly at the floor.

“He is the Breaker of Chains, for he aids those who stand against tyranny,” Dox said earnestly.

“Would have been nice if he also brought my sac back…” Luz muttered bitterly.

Dox simply smiled. It was a grandfather kind of smile and yet it felt unnerving to Luz and Eda for whatever reason “Silly girl, you don’t need an organ to reach ascendance. One with an unshackled will can move mountains. Besides… what is already known cannot be unknown.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t call having Cronenberg-esque body horror in exchange for magic a fair trade,” Luz shot back sarcastically.

“All you can gain, once you learn to open your mind. I can help you with that, but… unfortunately, my hands are tied given the state of affairs.”

“What are you babbling about?” Eda narrowed her eyes, suspicion lining her tone.

“I can save them. The infected, I mean. Fortunately, the contagion's potency has decreased without the direct presence of Ieva. I can create vaccinations against it, but it will take time to fully cure the infection.”

Eda suddenly recalled that ‘Ieva’ was the self-proclaimed Karcist’s name she had heard during her inquiries while Luz was on the bed. “You know that multi-lip wretch?”

“We had… in the past, yes,” Dox replied reluctantly.

“What, she's your ex?” Eda asked sarcastically.

He tilted his head, genuinely baffled by the suggestion. “I have never had any romantic relationships, if that’s what you mean.”

A witch carnomancer somehow knowing a human carnomancer? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Eda was certain he was hiding something. Before she could press further, he interrupted her thoughts with his next reply.

“That’s not the only thing you need to worry about. The heri—Goreblights planted very fast-growing spruces that feast on fauna blood to unbalance the ecosystem. I believe if you ask Ms. Willow and her spouse, they will verify that claim.”

Luz and Eda caught the slip when he almost revealed something else but quickly corrected himself. There were more pressing issues to address.

“And… Do you happen to know any Dracula and Carmilla lookalikes who have a fascination with Titans?” Luz asked pointedly, intentionally leaving out mention of the scepter. She recalled the ghastly grin Vivian had given when she looked at the Titan blood beneath her nails, just before she and her husband had fled.

Dox nodded. “Only by their vile reputation. As part of being a carnomancer, one has the ability to consume the flesh or blood of other beings to mimic their abilities. However , it’s a discipline, not something to be learned quickly. Alternatively, it can also be used for rituals.”

Eda scrunched her face at the memory of Alex gaining those deformed wings after biting her. She and Luz didn't need to be geniuses to guess that having a sample of blood from a living Titan could only lead to disaster.

Everyone eyed Dox warily.

“What about the knight guy? Witnesses said he did something to a librarian named Malphas and somehow managed to withstand a powerful Titan’s magic. Not to mention, he and Ieva performed a long-range teleportation ritual, something no one has been able to do since Belos’s fall,” Luz inquired while internally chilled at the memory of her own still beating heart ripped out and then crushed into a blood pulp instinctively holding her own chest where her heart was ripped out.

Dox's expression darkened. “That man’s source of power does not come from either Earth or this realm, but from somewhere… darker. ” He elaborated, “He’s known by many names: The Demon Knight, the Eldritch King, The Red-Stepped, and… Mordred the Morbid . It’s why he is resistant to this realm’s magic. But believe me, Vanquisher of the False Emperor and Scion of the Wild, the less you know, the better . He made a deal with something from the dark below. ”

Eda and Luz processed what he had said. Finally, Luz spoke up. “Okay… So, I’m guessing Ion sent you to help with the plague, the blood-sucking spruces, and… to train me? Talk about asking a lot. ”

Dox seemed unfazed. “I’m good at multitasking; why do you think I have extra limbs?” He jested lightly about her own extra limbs, if he was joking they could not get it. “Though, yes, with my hands tied, my ability to train you is limited. However, I can provide guidance.”

Edalyn raised a hand. “Now hold on, buddy. Why exactly should we trust you?”

Eda couldn’t shake off the feeling that Dox was careful with his words, deliberate in what he revealed. While there was a chance he wasn’t affiliated with the Goreblights, she remained skeptical of his true intentions.

Dox answered without hesitation. “ You don’t. Trust must be earned. But I am your best chance against the incoming storm and the plague.”

Eda hummed thoughtfully before sharing a glance with Luz. “Excuse us, we need to discuss this.” With a nod, she gestured for Luz to silently follow her as they stepped outside the interrogation room.

“So, what do you think, Eda?” Principal Bump asked as they left.

“I smell Titan dung halfway across the room. That guy is clearly hiding more than he lets on.”

“What kind of name is ‘Mordred the Morbid’ anyway? Sounds pretentious,” Lilith said, baffled by the moniker.

“It has a rhythm,” King shrugged.

“For all we know, he might be the one who tampered with the wards and is involved with the missing children,” Eda pointed out.

“Malphas? That old blue bird? But he seemed nice. He doesn’t even look like he would hurt a fly,” King scratched his head, confused.

“Don’t mistaken, boy. That demon may be old, but he has secrets ,” Bump cryptically replied. Next, he shook his head. “No, the person who did that would have to be familiar with the wards first. There are procedures in place; we don’t just let anyone have access to them.”

“Plus,” Eda added, wrinkling her nose in disapproval, “I’m not exactly comfortable letting a carnomancer—who might as well be a Goreblight in all but name—train Luz. That guy is sus as hell.”

“But Eda,” Luz interjected, her expression desperate, “he may be the only one who could help me understand what happened to me. If what he says is true, we don’t have much time, and… Amity is kidnapped, and Gus likely is too.” Her dejection pulled sympathetic glances from Eda, Lilith and King.

“We can have guards around him in case he tries anything funny, or we could keep tabs on him,” Bump suggested, trying to ease the tension.

Luz glanced back at Lilith, who appeared deep in thought. “Lilith, you recognized the name Ion. I guess you found something during your excavation?”

Lilith snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. “Luz, go check on Willow and Hunter. Eda and I will head to the library; I think I have an idea of where to look.”

“But—” Luz started to argue.

“Luz,” Lilith interrupted firmly, “You just survived a traumatic event, and so did they. ” by ‘they’ she meant her friends.

Luz paused, considering her words, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Just tell me what you find out later.”

With her hands shoved in her pockets, Luz walked despondently through the sterile hallway. As she passed a clinic room, she caught sight of dissection tables where the bodies of Goreblights and their grotesque abominations lay sprawled, picked apart by witches and demons clad in white uniforms and masks. Suddenly, one of the Goreblight corpses began to twist, and out of its mouth slithered an angry white worm that leapt into the air. The dissectors yelped in startled shock as the worm angrily aimed for one of them. The person stumbled backward, narrowly avoiding the creature until another dissector lunged forward with a glass cage, catching the worm mid-jump as its jaws snapped open. It thrashed violently against the glass, furious and desperate to escape.

Continuing her walk, Luz noticed a collection of Palismans hanging around the clinic, including her own, Stringbean.

“Uh, hi little buddy,” she greeted, forcing a small smile.

Warble

Stringbean warbled hesitantly, looking at her with wide eyes. After years of having the creature, Luz had become adept at deciphering her Palisman’s sounds. Stringbean wasn’t fearful of Luz, but uncertainty lingered, compounded by the strange way Luz had returned to the living world. Luz couldn’t blame her Palisman for feeling unsettled; she too felt disturbed by the memory of fallen witches and demons resurrected by that Scylla-like necromancer thinking that she came back as a hungry revenant.

“Yeah... I don’t understand what happened to me either…” she admitted, a hint of sadness clouding her voice.

Just then, Ghost fluttered nearby, sadness evident in her cat-like eyes. As Amity’s Palisman, she was not burdened by uncertainty; she was simply overwhelmed with sorrow for her kidnapped owner.

Meow

“Yeah, Ghost... I miss her too.” Luz gently caressed the cat-looking Palisman, who responded with a soft purr.

Clover, Willow’s Palisman, nudged Stringbean forward, prompting the little creature to rub affectionately against Luz, who welcomed the gesture in kind and Owlbert too, who at first was a bit stiff, joined in.

As Luz continued down the corridor, she noticed other Palismans—some damaged, others sorrowful for their fallen owners, and many mourning their lost companions during the conflict.

She had hoped that with Belos gone, she would never witness such a heartbreaking sight again. Yet here it was, evidence of a new and unknown enemy, vicious and reveling in carnage. How many had died in this conflict? Some of the Palismans were familiar to her from her first days at Hexside and throughout her time in the Boiling Isles. The pit in her stomach deepened as she realized that Gus and others might be among the fallen, their bodies lost to the ruthless feasting of the Goreblights. The thought of her dear girlfriend potentially sharing such a fate or worse—especially after the words of the Dark Man—disgusted her and ignited a growing rage within her.

This new enemy was not above desecrating the dead, finding sadistic joy in taking lives. Yet it filled her with dread; what if she, too, became one of them? Whatever the Dark Man had done to her, whether she liked it or not, gave her cartomancy, albeit in its infancy. Sure, there was Dox, but who knew how many skeletons were in his closet? Would she eventually turn into a Goreblight—a cannibalistic monster of carnage?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Waffle flew close, chirping insistently.

Luz paused, lifting Stringbean to her shoulder. “Do you know where Willow and Hunter are?”

Waffle and Clover both nodded and gestured with their heads for her to follow. They led her to a room where she found Hunter still in bed, awake, with Willow lying beside him, holding his hand. Relief washed over her as she took in the sight, but a small, selfish part of her felt bitter—a reminder that Willow’s partner was okay while hers was not.

Luz smiled and knocked on the door to get their attention. “Hey, I heard you woke up. Are you okay?”

Luz stepped inside, her smile faltering as she took in the sight of Hunter and Willow. “I’m so relieved to see you both awake.”

“We’re okay, though…I’m not looking forward to when my parents come from their picnic, who are very likely gonna go full helicopter and imprison me in my room.” Willow amused, though her voice trembled slightly. “How about you?”

Luz hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I feel like I was brought back from the edge of something dark. It was really strange.”

Hunter shuddered at the memory. “It… it was unnerving . At least when Belos possessed me, I wasn’t conscious. But with this—it was different. I could see and feel my own body rebelling against my will, controlled like a puppet. ” His expression darkened, haunted by the experience.

Willow squeezed his hand. “You’re safe now. We’re all safe,” she said softly, searching for reassurance in his eyes.

“Not…all of us, certainly not for long,” Hunter replied with exhale, hearing her friend Gus was disappeared was disheartening for him and though he and Amity were not exactly best friends or close as he was with Gus he never wished her any ill.

Luz’s  brow then furrowed. “But we need to figure out what’s going on with this new threat. Speaking of which, what do you think of Dox?”

“Waffle seems to vouch for him,” Hunter said, shrugging. “He did wake us up from our coma, so that should count for something.”

Willow pursed her lips, skepticism flaring in her chest. “I don’t know… I still don’t fully trust him. But there’s something about him that makes me think he’s genuine.”

Luz nodded, understanding the conflict. “It’s hard to know who to trust right now, especially after everything with Belos and now the Goreblights.” She glanced out the window, as if searching for answers in the distant trees. “But we need to stand together. No matter what happens next.”

“Right,” Hunter said, taking a deep breath. “We’ve already been through so much… we can’t let this pull us apart.”

Willow offered a soft smile. “Together, we can face anything.”

“Together,” Luz echoed, her heart swelling with determination.

As they exchanged supportive glances, a sense of renewed resolve filled the room. Whatever lay ahead, they would confront it side by side.

“No, it doesn’t work; it’s too general.” Lilith shook her head as she placed the book back on the shelf, reaching high up on the ladder. Eda watched from below, and King, feeling bored, rested his head on the table, staring vacantly at a flickering candle flame.

Lilith had to suppress her inner academic dismay at the state of the library, the damage wrought by Mordred and the Goreblights. She silently vowed to show them no mercy if she ever crossed their paths again—especially after what they had almost done to Luz and likely going to do with Amity.

“Let me see… let me see… where… where…" Lilith’s voice rose in frustration as she scanned the endless rows of tomes. “There’s so much knowledge here, yet it’s hard to find anything useful!”

Eda snorted. She never imagined Lilith would ever say something like that.

“Xylarthic Epics… Gorathulian Tales… Thalchurian Legacy… Krythessian Mythos… Nycthelithian Saga… Eldraxis Codex… AHA!” Lilith’s loud declaration snapped King back from his bored trance.

She slid down from the ladder with a dusty book in hand and set it on the table, blowing off the dust. “The Zyltharoth Chronicles!” she declared, adjusting her glasses as she opened the tome. “In the beginning, there were two opposing gods, one of flesh and the other of metal. Together, they created beings that shared both of their gifts, called the ‘First Ones.’ The First Ones, over time, advanced and progressed, choosing invention over instinct. This pleased the god of metal, but displeased the god of flesh. In an act of sacrifice, the metal god imprisoned itself into a brass cage to contain the flesh god. The First Ones, wanting to escape their conflict, traversed into a realm of dead gods and became the progenitors of the inhabitants of this realm.”

She closed the book with a huff, glaring at it. “What a load of nonsensical make-believe crap! It’s already scientifically and concretely established that all life in the Demon Realm comes from the Titans, not whatever these ‘First Ones’ are, if they even exist.”

“A god of flesh sounds like it could fit Luz’s description. What about a crimson god?” King pointed out through a yawn.

“Other lesser deities—which frankly would involve explaining the whole Borathian Pantheon, which has conflicting information of its own—and we don’t have time for a folklore class.” She rubbed her eyes, pressing her lips together in frustration. “Nothing about a crimson god.”

For some inexplicable reason, a chill ran through the air at the mention of a crimson god, a sudden wave of foreboding that washed over Lilith, Eda, and King for just a fleeting moment before fading away.

“That wasn’t creepy at all…” King muttered.

“Then we are left with the Malpharic Heritage, that is if it wasn’t already taken by ‘Mordred the Morbid’ .” Lilith mocked that name.

Eda’s interest piqued, a smirk spreading across her face. “So the blue bird had a past, huh? I knew it.”

She nodded. “He is. Rumor has it he had a troubled past. Malphas was an isolationist, rarely sociable, didn’t make a fuss, and there’s no evidence suggesting that this Malpharic Heritage is even real. So there was no reason for Belos to take any action against him. Though… there were whispers that when Belos heard his name, he looked stiff .”

“What do you think the reason was?” Eda asked, curiosity piqued.

“Wish I knew,” Lilith shrugged.

“So, the old bird had a book and this ‘Mordred the Morbid’—” Eda lifted two fingers from each hand, gesturing up and down. “—wanted. So, in conclusion, they want a living Titan, that creepy staff made of bones, and whatever the old bird had. And the best we have now is some very biased and historically inaccurate book from a long dead and defunct region, which isn't exactly a reliable source of information, right ?” Eda raised an eyebrow.

Lilith’s annoyance was directed more at the book than at her sister. “Let me remind you, the Zyltharoth Chronicles is not an accurate historical account; it’s a myth, much like Earth’s Epic of Gilgamesh. It may contain some elements of truth, but it’s not the whole truth. For all we know, there may never have been ‘First Ones’ at all—just a general metaphor for all life in their primitive state. Heck, these gods of innovation and instinct could just as easily represent conflicting members of Archivists and Titans.”

“No,” came Luz’s firm voice, and they turned to see her entering the room, accompanied by Willow. Hunter trailed behind them, and Stingerbean perched on Luz's shoulder. “The Dark Man said these gods are neither Titans nor Archivists. He showed me….” Luz shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as if she were cold. “They’re something… more. ” Another shiver ran through her. “And whatever happens, the Dark Man warned me never to give in to their temptations or all be lost.”

In the heart of the wilderness, an elderly witch trudged deep into the dark jungle. Her emaciated form gave no indication of the formidable power she wielded. Any creature that dared to attack her fled in terror at her hiss or acts of sudden savagely, for despite her frail appearance, the foul witch possessed a strength and speed far beyond what her age and physique suggested.

Beside her, another elderly woman walked. In contrast to her companion, this witch appeared much younger, with a short stature and deeply tanned skin that was remarkably free of blemishes or liver spots typical of aging. Her bright eyes shone with a youthful spirit, and her white hair was tied in a neat bun, accentuated by traditional attire and round eyeglasses.

The duo had once worked at Hexside—the first witch was regarded as a grumpy and unpleasant old woman, often relegated to cooking alone in the cafeteria, while the younger one was friendly and sociable, affectionately called “Grannie” by the students, who enjoyed her sewing and tailoring skills.

Little did anyone know that behind their stereotypical roles as elderly women lay a dark secret. Evidenced by them dropped their cosmetic long-ears revealing human ears.

With a sigh, the younger witch stretched her back. “Are we there yet?”

“Patience, Beatrice,” the elder replied in a gravelly voice. “It’s important to tread in darkness and shadows; otherwise, they will find us.”

“Well, just in case you forgot, you fossilized crone, my elixir won’t stay full forever. I already feel myself getting older.”

The older witch flashed an unpleasant rictus grin that might have frightened anyone else except Beatrice. Her white hair moved like tendrils as she sneered. “Says the one who has lived for eight hundred years.”

“And I’m in FAR better shape than you! So don’t forget that, you crone.”

“Pah! You and your shallow view of beauty…” The older witch looked back over her shoulder. “Still, with the youths here, so much potential… Mordred’s promises have been worth the trouble. My only regret is that I won’t be there to see the fakers’ faces when they realize their children are gone ,” she said, her disdain dripping with every word. She scorned the so-called ‘witches’ of this realm. To her, these witches were mere pretenders—not the true Daughters of Lilith who had once driven humanity into a frenzy of madness and paranoia during the Dark Ages. Oh, how she longed for the days of old, watching the not-gifters tremble in fear, unable to see their predators as they turned on each other in a wild, paranoid frenzy by just taking them one by one.

She also yearned for the moment where she will feast on the fraud named 'Lilith' for daring to claim their great brood mother’s name.

Beatrice turned her gaze back, a smile creeping across her lips. Behind them walked children stolen from Hexside, their minds entranced and controlled by the hexes woven into their very souls.

“They burn brighter than any child back on Earth. They will make a better alternative for my liquid of life ,” Beatrice mused, raising the vial half-filled with a colorless and odorless liquid. She and her vial had another name she detested—SCP-545.

The crone, too, was known by another designation: SCP-352. But her most infamous name was that of a creature born from tales of horror in Salvic Mythology… Baba Yaga .

Chapter Text

OH-Nx-777 | The Demon Realm AKA Nethak’tal

Area Class: Pending….

Description: An extra dimensional pocket linked to the town of Gravesfield used to be ruled by a Neo-Sarkite "Emperor Belos", this place is housed with primal magic so much that it was said that all life in this Realm came from it and it in return came from massive longdead unknown LSAs( Large Scale Aggressors). Surprisingly, the inhabitants seem to worship them and unlike most other known LSA instances said to be benevolent or at least neutral, whether it comes from a sort of biased-gratitude for their existence to these ‘Titans’ or if the Titans even intended for life to grow from their death is unknown. 

Readings brought high level of thaumaturgy likes of which never seen never before and the hum readings suggested that this world recently was altered by a powerful reality bender and from what gathered from the locals it came from Entity-A-2(The Collector) said to be a member of powerful reality bending entities called the Archivists whom also said to been in conflict with the extinct LSA in ancient past.

MTF Psi-13 “Witch Hunters” with [REDACTED] and collaboration with [REDACTED] sent to [REDACTED].

Addendum 1: Conflicts were seen between Proto-sarkis and Neo-sarkics cults is seem to be formed in addition of Neo-sarkics mobilisation and organizations like Horizon Initiative and the Church of the Broken God becoming active.

The Adytite Republic of Polynesia(SCP-4036) denies involvement in this mobilization of Proto-Sarkics.

SCP-2309 is an approximately 20 m tall and 5 m thick wall, constructed from blocks of iron covered in a thin layer of brass, standing between the walls of the █████ Pass in ███████ Region, Georgia showed signs of deterioration, attempts to repair the wall and contain the anomalies behind it are yet to be successful.

SCP-2518 an extradimensional region located on the Hindu Kush of Northern Pakistan their denizens gave warnings to the Foundation of the coming of the Followers of Daeva.

SCP-001 the [REDACTED] has moved slightly from his position near the entrance and is helding his sword rather pointedly suggesting that it views a coming threat.

SCP-6265 has been raided by a joint coalition of Neo-Sarkics and followers of Teran, they all have been neutralized by REDACTED].

SCP-3911 the Staff and the Throne of Ion thought to be lost years, the former said to be seen in the Boiling Isle and is at the hands of [REDACTED] while the later is implied to be somewhere in the region.

Reported sightings of Lovataar and other Klavigars are witnessed, the current location of them are unknown.

Addendum 2: Recording from SCP-2191 on date [REDACTED] happened for one hour:

A cavern of flesh, pumping blood and walls made of bones became loud with the guttural cacophony of its inhabitants.

Instances of SCP-2191-1 which are considered genetically human but have undergone several significant, seemingly fatal mutations seen howling, thrashing and jumping up and down some in vaguely ritualistic matter.

SCP-2191-2 instances, a collective of vermiform organisms in various sizes and forms, stood up letting out warbles that were vaguely similar to chants.

SCP-2191-2A superficially resemble petromyzontiformes (lamprey) but whose internal structure more closely resemble hirudinea (leeches) seem to be singing.

A voice howls loudly.

“M O T H E R…”

Addendum 3: Interview between SCP-336 and O5-1:

A a pale-skinned human female of otherwise Arabic or Middle-Eastern descent in its late twenties with dermal irregularities along the thighs and calves, which appear structurally similar to reptilian scales with an obstructed vocalization on her mouth looking at her fingers boredly as she sits on a chair near a table until a voice from the speaker talks.

O5-1: SCP-336, this is O5-1 speaking, your cooperation is required.

SCP-336 frowned.

SCP-336: An O-5? Call me privileged. You sound familiar….

O5-1: Why, it’s your buddy, shame-on-go-mate-with-a-bat Lilit Bat Asherah .

SCP-336’s eyes are widened.

SCP-336: How do you know that name??

O5-1: You would be surprised by things the O5 Council knows, I see you’re still the same narcissistic self-absorbed bitch as always, but hey at least you no longer breed demon babies to hunt down humanity like prey so I suppose that’s a big improvement on you.

SCP-336 stiffed uncomfortably though maintained the stoic facade then sneered.

SCP-336: I don’t know what you mean, considering half of things I’ve heard Foundation has done for the “Greater Good” I say it’s laughable that an O5 who condemned many with their decisions and played politicking and espionage with other powers to judge me.

O5-1: Oh don’t give me that [REDACTED]! I’m not the one who got so infamous that she is known as the eater of infants and the miscarriager of pregnant women Mother of Monsters . You’re worse Ion! Ion at least did it for a cause, he would willingly sacrifice himself for his own people even with how ruthless he was. Also, my husband despite his folly was still a man who sacrificed more for mankind than most people would ever be willing to give up, you’re a narcissist [REDACTED] who only cared about yourself! Damn the world but it’s you who gets what she wants!

A woman of sumerian descent in a humble brown trouser with black hair and striking glaring red pupil eyes shows up opening the door coming in with a slam.

SCP-336 upon seeing her reeled back and visibly trembled in fear and shock.

SCP-336: Y-you…

O5-1: You will either cooperate or I will make sure you rot away, for eternity!

The eyes turned golden and bright.

SCP-336: EVE WAIT!--

A blast of golden light fills the room and the recording stops.

[END LOG]

Chapter Text

Pain. Immense pain — both physical and mental. It clawed inside her, a relentless agony stemming from her anguished memories of Luz’s death, and from the unending tortures inflicted upon her by Vivian and Alexander. Worse still, the vile couple used their fleshcraft talent to swiftly heal her wounds just so they could tear into her again, renewing her torment with cruel efficiency.

Amity tried to convince herself it could be worse. She imagined scenarios of being ripped apart limb by limb, devoured like the monstrous folklore stories about the Goreblights. But that did little to dull the pain; each session grew more brutal, more twisted. It was only a matter of time before they crossed the line into mutilation—or worse. They taunted her mercilessly, rubbing salt into her wounds by mocking her inability to save Luz. With malicious glee, they jeered that Ieva—the woman with a Scylla-like visage—had left a plague behind, a reminder of her siblings falling ill and wasting away. In their sickly taunts, they suggested her loved ones might already be dead or writhing in agony, their suffering a spectacle for their amusement.

Amity didn’t know where the strange viper had gone when the sadistic couple appeared. It vanished the moment they arrived, leaving her alone with her tormentors.

"Do you know what Cocytus is?" Alex asked suddenly, wiping blood from his hands with an elegant napkin, seemingly indifferent. They hadn’t even asked her any questions — perhaps their true pleasure was in her suffering, or they were simply softening her up for something worse.

Amity, battered, bloody, and hoarse, managed a hoarse refusal. "I won’t… talk."

They didn’t seem to need her cooperation. Whether they enjoyed her pain or were preparing her for real interrogation. Alex, still unfazed, continued lazily, "The Greeks believed Cocytus to be the river of wailing in the underworld — a river filled with countless broken voices, distilled sadness flowing endlessly. If you dipped into its icy depths, your soul would wail miserably and despairing from frostbites in eternal despair."

Vivian, sharp nails glistening with her own blood, savored the taste of it, making Amity shiver. She knew it was only a matter of time before their sick desires turned towards her as dinner — the horror she had been told about as a child, the boogeyman who would feast on misbehaving children.

Vivian leaned in, mimicking her husband’s words. "Fortunately for you, Mordred isn’t here. If he were, he'd send your mind on a pilgrimage through Cocytus itself, tearing apart your very soul in a cold so intense even space’s vacuum cannot match."

"But… we can replicate it," Alex added casually as he pocketed the napkin.

Amity spat blood at them in defiance, her resolve flickering like a dying flame. They looked more annoyed than angry.

"Now you’ve ruined my $4,000 suit," Alex muttered with a smirk. "Oh well… you won’t need your mouth for some time." Without warning, he placed a hand over Amity’s face, and her mouth began to compress and fuse shut until there was no sign it ever existed. Her vocal cords still remained, causing her to muffledly cry in helpless frustration.

"Now your eyes..." Vivian began, placing her palms gently on Amity’s closed eyelids. Her eyes sealed shut as if her very cells were ordered to merge, silencing her in a muffled scream of horror. Vivian leaned close to Amity’s right ear, whispering coldly, "And then your sense of touch, your ears — practically a prison of your own body. You’ll be unable to feel anything external. We might come back in five hours… a day? Who knows. When your senses to the outside world are cut off, your mind begins to cannibalize itself. The process is different for everyone, but you seem like a tough girl. Maybe you’ll last longer until the inevitable ."

Alex added with a hint of dark curiosity, "I’ve read that introverts tend to resist mind cannibalization longer, while extroverts go mad faster. Or maybe it’s the other way around? Honestly, I find the philosophy behind mind-eating fascinating — the body trapped but the subconscious torturing you, a true metaphysical cannibalism of oneself."

Both of them chuckled as Amity struggled, chains rattling around her. Suddenly, the world grew quiet. Everything faded—the touch, the sound, her senses dulled to nothingness. Darkness enveloped her completely. She had no mouth, yet she screamed—silent and endless in her torment.

The transfer tore through Amity’s mind with brutal precision, ripping apart the fragile fabric of her consciousness. In that instant, she was plunged into a vast, endless void—silent, formless, and without sensation. No sound, no scent, no touch—only a crushing emptiness that seeped into every corner of her being. It was as if her mind had been pulled apart and left to drift, floating in a sea of darkness, utterly alone.

But then, the paranoia began. An internal hunger grew, not from outside forces, but from within—an insatiable, ravenous self-devouring. Her thoughts twisted in on themselves, memories turning bitter and sharp, gnawing at the edges like claws. She reached for her loved ones—her girlfriend, her siblings—each face flickering on the brink of fading, but a dark voice whispered that they were already gone, dead because she was useless.

Without sight, smell, or touch, her mind became a prison of silence, yet the hunger roared within—an internal cannibalism. She tore through her own memories, ripping apart each fragment of love and grief, each fleeting hope, as if she could salvage something. But the more she clawed at them, the more they dissolved—meat for her own self-destruction. Her anguish was a burning void that devoured her soul from inside, every lapse into despair feeding the darkness further.

It was an endless erosion—her fears, her love, her pain—being consumed by the powerful hunger she carried within. She was trapped, eternally ripping herself apart in a cold, internal abyss, each moment of grief killing her a little more—until nothing remained but a hollow, echoing void, and the unending ache of self-inflicted ruin–

Rattles

The sharp rattling sound suddenly surged in her mind, jarring her senses awake—an urgent craving for external stimuli that felt like a lifeline. It was the strange red-eyed rattlesnake she had met before, somehow inside her mind, coiled and alive.

“You—! WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?!” she shouted inwardly, her voice echoing in her head.

“Hiding, duh,” Jeser replied breezily, as if the obvious answer required no explanation. “I’m not keen on this whole sensory deprivation gig.”

“How…how long…?” she managed to whisper.

“An hour since the Sarkics left you,” Jeser answered.

“Only an HOUR?!” Amity exclaimed, disbelief lacing her voice.

“Well, it’s pretty hard for you mortals, with your linear view of time, to feel its passage when you can’t sense anything from the outside,” Jeser said, slithering closer. This time, instead of being small, he was nearly two and a half meters long, rattling his tail thoughtfully. “But…you can imprison the mind, not the body, despite what the Sarkics tried to do.”

“Sarkics?” she echoed.

“Yes. That’s what they called themselves. This could actually be a rare opportunity for you,” Jeser said as he grinned.

“Opportunity? OPPORTUNITY?! I was feeling my own mind eating itself alive, and you call this an opportunity!? Who are you, anyway?” she demanded furiously..

Jeser rolled his eyes dismissively. “I told you, witchling — I’m Jeser. ”

“That doesn’t answer Titan-crap! Where did you even come from?! Are you some kind of Basilisk?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “No. I’m a shapeshifter — a changer of faces, yes — but I’m no parasitic slug,” he said with a sneer, his tone dripping with condescension and disdain. That reminded Amity painfully of Odalia’s own haughty attitude. She could tell Jeser saw himself as superior — possibly of noble blood or some hidden privilege. “And… my place? It’s a realm of… agony,” Jeser hesitated, reluctantly.

“What kind of place? Another realm? T hat’s not possible, if there are other realms– ”

“Like how most humans don’t even know the existence of your realm, despite centuries of contact and their advances?” Jeser interrupted, his tone sharp. “There are far more between heaven and hell than you could possibly imagine, little witchling. Worlds within planes of existence, unique in their own way. And as for where I come from? You really don’t want to know.”

His voice grew colder. “Do you have any idea why you’re still alive? Why they haven’t already devoured you for their feast?”

“No?” Amity admitted.

“When those without the gift think of dark rituals: you think of death and the sacrifice of a living being. You don’t need to die in order for the sacrifice to be dealt with, the act of selection, humiliation and transformation can be more important than death itself and you? The heir of Blight Family, the lover of Luz the Human who was blessed by the Titan and vanquished the False Emperor were a VERY tempting selection. Your survival is not a mercy, it’s part of the ritualistic torment and I assure you, it’s going to get worse! When they come back they get your senses back, then will feast on your limbs and body parts while making your pain-receptors so higher that just pinching causes you agony so imagine that while your limbs are ripped ofd only to regenerate again and the regeneration will be almost as painful, gradually the tortures will only get worse and by the end you will wish that you died with your lover! Spiritually broken not killed, your ego dies and it will feed them more than just mere flesh as you change into a miserable worm with no mouth and yet SCREAMING!” 

A shiver ran down her spine as her mind painted the horrifying scenario. Despite her instinct to hide her dread behind a dry veneer, her voice cracked slightly when she responded.

“That’s a nice ghost story, but I don’t believe in ghost stories,” she muttered, trying to sound unconcerned, though her voice betrayed a hint of fear.

“It’s best to believe in ghost stories, Miss Blight… you’re in one!” Jeser hissed, voice low and venomous. Then he slithered around her, speaking close to her metaphorical ear. “ This could be a great opportunity for a young witch like you. There’s no limit to what we can accomplish together, if you help me.”

His voice was eerily soothing, subdued, like poison honey—calm, but deeply unsettling.

“And why should I make a deal with a literal snake?” Amity shot back on suspicion, curling her tone. “What kind of help do you even want?” It felt too convenient that this strange being had appeared just after her suffering—either physically or mentally—so that she’d be more vulnerable. His tone, laced with that poisonous sweetness and aristocratic airs, suggested he had an ulterior motive.

“As I said, I come from a place of agony,” Jeser whispered, voice slipping into a bitter, haunted tone. “ I’m at the mercy of a very cruel being like you and am in a precarious position. With your help, I might—just might— alleviate some of the burden.” He paused, then added softly, “Do you like kids?”

“Huh?” Amity’s non-existing brows furrowed in confusion, taken aback.

Jeser sneered, a cruel grin stretching across his slitted face. “They’re such… innocen t beings, ignorant of the bleak reality they’re destined to grow up in. Living in their own little bubble until it bursts. Until the cruel world shatters their paradise and leaves them forever longing for a never-was .”

The girl’s unease grew—an instinctive dread of where this was heading. She demanded tensely, “What are you babbling about, snake?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Jeser taunted, feigning innocence with mockery. “You don’t know that the ‘Goreblights’—as your kind calls them—had allies who infiltrated that glorified shack you call a center of learning? They shut down the protective wards and kidnapped the children.” His jagged-toothed grin widened as he gloated, “Yes… they took the kids.”

Her metaphorical eyes widened as the darkness around her felt even chiller. “What…?” she whispered in horror, hoping she was hearing wrong.

“Yesss,” Jeser hissed with sinister glee. “You remember the corpses of the fallen witches and demons—the stories of boogeymen feasting on unfortunate children who wandered into the dark? That’s real. And if you don’t—then do it to avenge your lover.”

A shiver ran through her as memories flooded her: Goreblights feasting on fallen allies and now children helpless before those horrors. The very thought of children at the mercy of whatever nightmare Jeser described left her furious and terrified. Then she remembered Luz—her girl’s heart ripped out by that armored giant, falling lifeless to the ground—her grief flaring anew.

“Titan-dammit… fine! Deal,” she spat through clenched teeth.

Jeser’s sneer widened. Suddenly, a reptilian hand materialized where there had been none moments before, and Amity shook it—reluctant, wary. And the moment their hands touched, she felt it—like a cold wind brushing her face, ghosting over her.

Jeser grinned, satisfied. “ Excellent. Now… the hardest part begins. Getting you out.”

“Oh sure,” Amity said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Getting out of a dungeon guarded by cannibalistic carnomancers while I’m deprived of all senses? Piece of cake. Should I just build a long pipe and use it to swat the keys from the guards’ hands?”

Jeser chuckled in that rattling, serpentine way he had. “ And I thought you lacked a sense of humor.” His voice lowered as he explained, “No, what you need to do is use your Golemancy—or ‘Abomination Magic,’ as they call it.”

Hearing that, Amity grimaced. “Hate to break it to you, serpentine diva, but my bile sack is already in the gullet of a snob. I can’t do magic anymore.”

Jeser scoffed. “Pssh! Nothing but a shortcut! Little girl, your human lover managed to do magical fits before, even when she had no Sac. There are thaumaturges across creation who can conjure wonders from nothing—without a specialized organ. No, no, no.” His head shook disdainfully. “You can’t do it because your view is so… limited. Most of your fellow ‘Abomination’ mages rely on a purple substance—more malleable and easier to control. But you know there’s more you could do, don’t you? Remember when the Lich you once called the Emperor possessed that plant golem? Didn’t you dispute not having your muck, but instead used the mud from the swamp?”

Her memory flickered—she’d fought that possessed homunculus with swamp mud, channeling her rage through the dirt.

“Exactly,” Jeser said, eyes gleaming. “Because the truth is, your true potential—your real power—is rooted in the element of earth. Shaping it to your will. If it were easy, abomination mages wouldn’t need artificial, specialized mud. After all, mud is more malleable than dirt.”

“So… how do I do it? How can I unlock that power?” Amity demanded.

Jeser’s serpentine form shifted, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Before you summoned the natural mud to fight the possessed plant homunculi—what state were you in?”

She hesitated, considering. “I was… angry? Determined, I think.”

“Exactly,” Jeser replied with a satisfied hiss. “There’s a reason most mages harness emotion—they fuel their magic. Rage, fear, desperation—they open the floodgates.”

She exhaled sharply. “You expect me to redefine a magic that’s been set in stone for centuries? I’m flattered you think I’m capable, I’m good but not THAT good.”

“And that’s your opportunity,” Jeser interrupted smoothly, “While you’re isolated, with nothing but your own turbulent thoughts and my charming voice to keep you company.” He paused, then added with a sly grin, “Don’t keep the inferno that’s raging inside you — let it out. Rage, cry, howl. Drop the boiling pot.”

“But I can’t see anything,” she argued. “Using such negative emotions—”

Jeser’s voice cut her off with a sharp, rattling interruption. “Forget what those sniveling masters of yours told you about senses. There are senses beyond flesh. Use your mind. There’s a hell inside you—let the inferno out. Or you’ll never avenge your mate. And those children? They’ll become FOOD.”

She hesitated, torn, but her back was against the wall. With no other choice, she closed her eyes and focused.

Time blurred—two hours? Six hours? It felt like an eternity. All she had were her thoughts, her feelings: grief for Luz’s death, fear for the kidnapped children, rage at the Goreblights who defiled her fallen allies, and her hatred for the armored man who had slain Luz. Her mind spiraled into a torrent of emotion—grief swelling into fury, anger morphing into hatred — a blazing inferno of despair and vengeance.

And gradually, from within, her hands — metaphorical or not — sparked with crackling black and red energy.

Jeser slithered close, whispering with a hiss that sounded pleased and dangerous. “Yes… unleash that plague of hatred inside you… let it burn!”

Amity stared at her cackling, burning hands of shadow and crimson. The flames didn’t burn her; they invigorated her—empowered her. Her body trembled as she howled, raising her hands in a desperate, furious cry.

In the physical world, the dirt responded. It moved, slowly at first—then with unnatural grace, rising up and merging into a swirling mass. As it encased her battered form, her chains stretched and bent from within, cracking under the pressure until they shattered entirely. Freed, Amity, covered in the earthy, gray-brown mass of her Abomination form—more natural and primal than her previous artificial constructs—stood like a creature born of the ground itself. Eyes made of dark dirt blinked open, swirling with life as tendrils and eyes formed from around her form, watching and assessing.

She looked down at her hands, then saw a serpent slither up beside her, settling on her right shoulder.

“ Yesss,” Jeser hissed, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. “Now… it’s time to go.”

Amity nodded silently and moved. Her hand formed within the lock of the door, then expertly tinkered with it until it clicked open. In a blink, a sharp, crafted edge slitted the throats of the guards standing nearby. They clutched their bleeding necks, gurgling in choking agony before collapsing to the ground, dead.

Instead of using her legs, a mass of silent, earthen fabric—her earth-magic in full control—moved her forward. In all her life, she had never felt so utterly in control. It was like a third eye that she’d never known had opened. Despite her six senses being shut off, they had been replaced by a new, alien awareness. She could feel the vibrations of the ground beneath her, see the infrared radiation like a serpent’s flickering tongue, and sense electromagnetic waves like a shark hunting in the depths. She could even feel the subtle pull of gravity, the unseen force that bound her to her environment. It was an experience unlike anything she had ever known, and she had no familiar frame of reference to grasp it. It was like she had become an entirely different creature.

Moving across the corridor, feeling the vibrations made by approaching groups, she navigated up to the next floor, carefully hiding her presence. She crouched behind cover as a group of Sarkics passed—some of whom likely had enhanced senses, such as smell or thermal vision. Before they could detect her, she used dirt and earth to mask her scent, ensuring even their animalistic senses were fooled. She further concealed her heat signature by manipulating the dirt around her new form, cloaking herself in a camouflaged shroud. Every small effort helped, and it proved wise—none of the Goreblights sensed her as they passed, allowing her to drop gracefully to the ground without making a sound. The serpent beside her nodded approvingly.

As she crept silently onward, she suddenly heard a familiar voice echoing from inside a nearby room.

“—How clever of you to write everything in codes inside your grimoire, Malphas. While I enjoy testing my intellect at times, today I don’t have the patience for puzzles. So…”

A groan of pain, almost birdlike in its harshness, interrupted her.

“Either you tell me where the Throne of Ion is, right now, or these base creatures I was forced to ally with—despite my displeasure—will have their bellies filled with Goetia-grade stew for whatever Sarkic feast they’re celebrating!”

Amity’s blood ran cold at the voice. It was the man who had killed Luz—the man who had shattered her heart. An uncontrollable surge of anger and agitation flared in her chest, causing her spine to throb with black, spike-like tendrils erupting from her back.

The sound of spit was heard, a defiant gesture from whoever was inside. “I’d rather die than grovel to a dirt-monkey like you!” T hat other voice she recognized as Malphas that meek old Librarian Demon she once worked for, what did Mordred wanted with him? And was it just her or did Malphas sound more stern than usual? She recalled when initially she got caught with Luz that Malphas when found them looked slightly…demonic for a few moments for a lack of better word until he simply calmly just expressed his disappointment with her, was the Harmless Librarian act was the pretense and that was the true Malphas? She used to think it was the other way around.

“What little dignity you have left is commendable,” Mordred replied with a tone that sounded mostly respectful—if cold. “Even disgraced and depowered, you have the will to stand and refuse to suffer indignity. I respect that. But I assure you…you will not die. Not yet .”

The groan turned into a scream of agony, the sound of Mordred’s torment causing Malphas’s muffled protests to halt. Whatever had been inflicted on him was causing him excruciating pain.

Amity’s gaze narrowed. If she had a mouth, she’d have gnawed her teeth together; instead, her many witch-eyes flicked cautiously toward the door. Her hand tensed, movements precise and deliberate.

“Don’t be stupid, witchling,” Jeser hissed in her mind, slithering across her thoughts. “Don’t think you’re powerful enough, or enough of a strategist, to face Mordred—especially not right now. Remember—the moment Luz challenged him, even in her Titan form, she was overwhelmed and defeated in seconds.”

She agonized — part of her wanted nothing more than to storm in and rip Mordred apart, save her Luz. But she clenched her fists tight, forcing herself to focus. Her thoughts raced—the children, her chance at rescue, her fury. She had to play this carefully.

Suddenly, a loud slam shattered the tense moment—the door burst open.

SLAM!

Mordred stepped inside, looking around with cold, calculating eyes.

There was no one there. For a moment, the man felt like he was being watched—then he narrowed his eyes, instinctively stepping back and closing the door behind him.

Amity who hid behind the door came out and took a sigh of relief, the fleshcraft couple took her smelling sense not her ability to breath otherwise she would have died.

She crept cautiously along the hall, moving as silently as possible, until she sensed another approaching group. Heart pounding, she quickly slipped into a half-opened door and concealed herself inside—but the moment she saw where she had hidden, she immediately regretted her choice.

The room was a nightmare—walls and tables painted in blood, flesh tangled on hooks, limbs sawed apart, and horrible torture devices. One called the ’Femur Breaker’ caught her eye—a cruel contraption that held a shattering bone, surrounded by tarnished, bloodstained knives. It was a butcher’s lair: a chamber of horrors where innocent victims had been slaughtered like animals.

For the first time, Amity was profoundly thankful she had no sense of smell or normal sight—if she’d been able to smell the iron and rot and saw the depravity, her stomach would have rebelled greatly. The ghastly sight, combined with the stench of putrid meat and blood, almost made her gag. Horror overwhelmed her, and she was glad she had no mouth to  scream.

She tried to step back, but her eyes caught sight of something further into the room—and she was struck motionless.

It was Terra Snapdragon, only… what remained of her. A bare skeleton, jaw agape as if screaming into the void. Root tendrils and plant growths had snaked upward from her bones, with two white flowers blooming eerily from her empty eye sockets.

“Oh indeed,” Jeser’s calm voice chimed softly, dismissing the sight like it was nothing. “When that hag challenged the Scylla to see who was the better plant mage… Well, she became fertilizer.”

Amity stared gaped at the Jeser with her nonexistent mouth.

Suddenly, Jeser’s smug, condescending expression twisted into one of genuine fear—an expression of a slave suddenly afraid of his master’s wrath. 

He turned sharply, sensing something ominous, and hissed, “No no… no!” His body shimmered, then dissolved into a crimson vortex that seemed to swallow him whole. From the other side, an unspeakable, beyond-thing hovered—its form a warped silhouette of dark and crimson that defied comprehension. Her mind rejected what it saw, only holding onto an instinctual terror older than any fear she knew. It was alive with pure primal dread.

She heard a voice—a terrible, sonorous jumble, like billions of maggots rasping in unison that would haunt her dreams:

“ ̷̞̭͆̆̋͛͘͘͠Y̴̡̘̲̙͈͍̗̮̠̘̐̔͒̌͋͝o̵̢̱̣̪͉͔͓̲̗̬̾͆͜ͅͅu̴̧̨̘̲̺̲̗̺̍̌̊͝ ̵̯̙̩̣̟͍̅w̵̨̧̞͖̼̣̺͌̔͜i̴̡͚̱̼̥̗̒̋́̽́̈́̇́͂́̍͆̀l̷̞̰̝̏͋̂͌̈̍̂̇͛̓́͝l̴̡͓̰̫̀̆͗̊̀͐͒̀̐̓͆̅̅̍̇̈́͝ ̴̛̦̬̭͐̿͗̽́̆̓̋̈͂̚͘͘͝s̴̲̲͋͒̍̏͗̂̀͊͘u̷̪̯͍̱̫̭̹͓̻̯̅̆̍̾̄͊̐̿̉͆͘͝͝f̴̜͔̗̰͛͗̐̄͘͝f̶̧̠̩̦̼͚̗̞̞̟̯͙̃̎͊̄̋̓͗͘̕͝e̸̛̽͒̌͑͆̊͗͂̑͋̍͠ͅr̵̙̝̘͉͗̋͊̍̐̔͂͠͠͝ ̷̛͙͈̤͇̪̥̰̟̱͙͚͚͙̹͗̅̈͋̚͠f̶̘͙͎̩̱̗̱͚̳̞̥̳̄̿̋͝ͅơ̵̰̞͇̜̺̲̜̺̬̺̻͚̘̈́͐̇̇̐̕r̸̢̦̬͈̜̙͎̣̺̘̩̭̔̓̈̕ ̶̨̧͈̦̙͓͍̣̙͕̗̺͖̙̽̐̅͛̅̒̄̑̏̔̎̓̚͘͜͠ţ̸̘͖̟̠̫͇̂͑h̸̨͓̻̠̲̹̙̅̒̾i̵̡̞̝͓͍͈̜͓̔̆̉͆̈ͅs̷̡̛̠̙͎͔͓̞̼̹͔̥͕̪̬̹͘͝ ̷̧̬͇̬̱͈̖̝̉̽̍̆̈̈́̿̌̃̇̅̉͠m̵̨̦͉̥̰̗̫̙̭͉̱̪͊̋͋̎̿̀̎́̆͌̏̅̑̔͘͝ồ̵̫̬̯͎͉̬̤͇̘͚̻̪͍̞̻̤̋͗̑̔̏̑̃̃̽̌͝m̵͎̋̐̇͛͒̍ȩ̴̜̥̫̤̙̭͎͉̬̹̙͔̎̕n̵̨̨̛͍̫̫͖̪̼͙̘͓̙̘̹̻̤͗͛̔̃̔̓͗̄͋̑͘͠͝t̵̨̧̛̝̪̳͇͖͚̂̎͋̅̌̈́̍̍̕͝ ̸̛̛͇̼͔̫̈̈̏̓͐̓̀̐̉̂̀̕͝ỡ̷̡̧̨͔̭̗̪̗͓̭̳͙̭͍̌́̋̀͘͝f̸̠̣̺̩̀̓̄̓̆͐̓͂͝ ̷̲̠̹̹̽͑̇b̶̨͚̮̥̹͉̦̭͔̦̝̖̫̘̮̗͜͝ę̷̣̙͖̣̬͙͕̘͈̰͍̱̦̣̰̈́̒̃̽͆͠ẗ̴́͌̒̓̾͊́̉̐͐̎̿̚̕͜͠͠r̶͍̹̥̟̟͖̭͙͍̰̦̹̘̩͍̿́͑̓̎̉͌̋̀͛̉͊̾͝͝ͅa̷̢̛͕̪̲̼͓̗͔̯̪̯̦̠̪̍͂̍̓̑̑̕͜ỵ̶̨̮̞͉̥̪͎̤̈́̕a̴̘̳͛̄l̸̡̦̙̪͚̱̞͙̜̳͔̝̯̼̘͊͗͊ͅ.̷̛̛͓͉̩͛̀̍̐̏́̂̆͜ͅ ”̷̢͉͇̘̫̦̖̞̥͓͈̲̍̀̄̽͘͠

̶̨̤͔̠̺̩͙͎̹̠̖̤̮̔̔͋́̇̑̔͜͜

Jeser shrieked “NOOOOOO!” as his body contorted and seemed to be sucked from within, like a rip in reality. Amity reached out desperately toward him, but he hissed in protest.

“DON’T! I’LL BE BACK! JUST GET YOUR PALE ARSE OUT! OUR DEAL STILL STANDS!” His eyes gleamed with frantic panic, and in an instant, he was gone—a flash of crimson and dark energy. Amity’s gasp caught in her throat as her body was suddenly seized by a brutal shock: all her orifices sealed once more, forcing her to re-experience the world through her old senses, as the dirt collapsed from her and her new, alien perceptions vanished.

“You could do THAT before?!” she hissed, furious and trembling, about to lunge at him—if only he hadn’t disappeared before she could.

But all she heard were the distant, anguished shrieks—the screams of Jeser swallowed by the vortex, and then silence.

She stared at the empty space where Jeser had been, her mind reeling. For a long moment, she muttered to herself, voice trembling, “...What was that?”

Suddenly, her attention was hijacked by the horrific, visceral sight of the butcher room she’d accidentally entered. The putrid smell hit her like a physical blow—rotten meat, blood, iron—drenching the air around her. Her stomach rebelled, and she wretched, vomiting onto the floor, her body shaking as she clung to a sink, repeating feverishly, “This isn’t happening… this isn’t happening… this isn’t—” then she was on the verge of laughing hysterically, she barely contained that still she let out a few delirious giggles despite putting a hand on her mouth.

It was absurd , the whole thing was absurd she thought as she ranked her hair; Goreblights those boogeymen that hunted her childhood nightmares were real, her girlfriend was dead, her siblings likely too, was tortured by the most sadistic couple she ever had the displeasure of meeting, the children may be dead for all she knew, her new ‘partner’ is both metaphorically and literally snake who serves some incomprehensible eldritch horror and she made a deal with him, she felt like an alien specie just moments ago and now was in a Sarkic equivalent of a butcher shop.

Tears began to come from her eyes.

She was beginning to wonder if she died and this is Hell and she is instead of getting out is simply going to deeper layers of damnation through Cocytus the River of the Damned as the Sarkic couple said.

She hesitated before glancing at a nearby mirror, her reflection distorted and shadowed. The glint of an incoming cleaver caught her eye. She dove just in time, the blade slamming into the sink with a sharp clang. When she looked back, she saw the figure wielding the cleaver—Alex, transformed into a grotesque monstrosity, his wings bony and gnarled, his face twisted with savage intent.

He lunged, swinging the cleaver again. Amity grabbed a nearby knife and parried desperately, the blades clashing with a screech of metal. Alex’s slashed cheek healed almost instantly, his scar fading as he flapped his wings and pushed her back with brute strength. Before she could recover fully, he seized her by the neck—his grip tight and unyielding.

The cut on his face began to close, healing in a flash. As he grimaced in pain, the blood on his cleaver was tasted by his long tongue, then he tossed her aside like a ragdoll. Her body slammed into the "Femur Breaker" device—groaning as she tried to rise, but Alex was already there again.

“You know…” Alex snarled, a cruel smile curling on his lips, “Bodfel said to keep you alive. He never mentioned losing limbs.” With a malicious flick of his bony wing, a terrifying contraption whirred to life—a massive meat grinder, blades spinning viciously, with circling blades on either side.

He grabbed her aching arm despite her frantic resistance, dragging her toward the deadly machine with a savage grin. Desperation flooded her veins; her strength was no match for his eldritch might.

“Don’t worry,” Alex hissed, voice dripping with menace. “When Bodfel arrives, I recommend ending your worthless life ASAP—to reunite with your girlfriend you failed to save.”

In a moment of sheer panic and desperation and rage by that tone suddenly a section of the earth gradually shook until the shake got bigger and then broken out and then as a bulk hit the caught off guard Goreblight hence losing his grip on her after which she with a roar then sprang and using her body weight she slammed herself at his abdomen and pushed him.  For a moment everything seemed to slow down to Amity as Alex was pushed until Alex reached the meat grinder.

GRINDING

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH—!” Alex let out a bloodcurdling scream as the brutal grinding tore through him, blood and gore splattering everywhere. Amity turned her face away, her eyes squeezing shut as she flinched at the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart, bones shattering, and blood spraying horrifyingly across her skin. Carefully, she opened her eyes again and saw—nothing but gore and the still-spinning meat grinder, the last remnants of Alex discarded in a gruesome heap.

She didn’t have time to process what happened as she dumbly looked down, then touched her face and saw the sprayed blood that was not hers on her fingers. Suddenly, the alarms blared loudly, accompanied by the noise of a group running. She did not want to wait, so she bolted from her position and ran like hell.

The purple witch did not pause to look back, only dashing madly across the corridors that looked ancient—suggesting this place was built a long time ago, and the Sarkics merely set up shop there. She kept going deeper and deeper until she saw a metallic door descending ahead. She slid down just as the door shut behind her.

She panted heavily with her back pressed against the door until the sounds of shouts and stumbling made her rise and look back.

She began moving again until she heard a voice.

“This way, child…”

She glanced over and saw a humanoid shape emerging from the darkness, causing her to tense. Suddenly, in a flash, a hooded figure grabbed her by her left arm, sinking his sharp nails into her skin, drawing blood. She yelped.

“Oh, the blood is enriched, yet more vital than your mother,” he said in a gravelly voice.

“GET OFF ME, YOU FREAKAZOID!” Amity shouted, then summoned earth to hit him. But he simply dodged and moved with an almost blinding speed. Before she could even register it, he was behind her and with a mighty slam, pushed her away, causing her to hit the nearby wall.

“The reckoning! Echoes louder each day! The Mother of Flesh shall come to remind her children of the material gifts they dared to squander for the God of Brokenness’s cursed light!” he screeched and rambled like a madman, leaving no doubt that he was insane.

As Amity struggled to her feet, she touched her cheek and spat blood onto her hand, noticing a set of teeth—her own. Then, again in startling speed, he was near her, a long nailed finger under her chin.

“Not even your rotting carcass of her Primordial Vitalists who dared to betray her—what your ilk worship—can change the inevitable!”

Amity was about to retort, but suddenly realized he was referring to the Titans. He said it as if they belonged to his god. Before she could ponder further, she growled and summoned dirt that thickened into a fist. She swung it toward his obscured face, but he caught her punch. To her shock, he clenched so hard that the summoned fist shattered into pieces. Then, with a tight grip, he snatched her by the face and slammed her down onto the ground so hard that the earth cracked near a tunnel with flowing currents of water in a tunnel likely a sewage tunnel.

Dizzy from the pain, Amity barely managed to lift her head as the lunatic kneeled near her. In a somber, sorrowful tone, he said:

“I’m so lonely… I was born into wealth and privilege. My parents wielded the whip every time I misbehaved, every time I didn’t meet their expectations. They made me leave my friends to spend time with faker-rich brats. My wealth only grew, but everyone around me only wanted my influence and possessions—not me for who I was. Even after I freed myself from my family’s chains and devoured them all…” He gently caressed her cheek, making her shiver. Yet the parallels he drew about his life—privilege without happiness, loneliness, and oppressive parents—only disturbed her further. The sudden mood swing—his gentleness mixed with desire—made her even more uncomfortable.

“No debauchery, not all the depraved pleasures I could buy ever really made me happy. The worst part? I thought that temporary gratification was happiness when it wasn’t. The ritual… went wrong. I died, and there… I met God and her angels. If you knew what God looks like, you’d have laughed madly.” He spoke as if on the verge of hysterical laughter from memories he relieved, then continued rambling.

“I came back… I was more than I ever was. I left the chain of Bodfel the Third and fully embraced Karcist Sulkisk. Yet…” His voice darkened. “Everyone—my allies included—feared me. Where are the proclaimed brethren and the companionship of Nälkä? I am… so lonely. So fitting that your last name is Blight… like Goreblight…” The hood barely revealed enough of his face to show sharp, predatory needle-like teeth.

The Blight witch knew she had to get away from this disturbed, downright creepy man. Somehow, this man scared her more than Alex and Vivian. They only wanted to break her. The madman  desired her!

‘Like hell I would, ya depraved mad creep! I don’t even swing that way!’ she thought. She recalled Jeser’s lesson and how, before her senses returned, she was more powerful. Watching him ramble on madly, and knowing it was only a matter of time, she closed her eyes, cleared her mind, focused, and took a deep breath. She felt the dirt beneath him and Bodfel, the vibration of the earth, the particles that made up the ground. She inhaled deeply once more, then opened her eyes.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, earth spikes grew from the ground and impaled Sulkist. He let out an inhuman, bone-chilling howl, but he was still alive. Crushing the spikes around him, he roared in pain. Seeing her only chance, Amity spun and fell into the river before he could catch her again.

The current carried her away, and the last thing she heard was the unholy howl of Sulkist:
“WE’LL BELONG TO THE DEMIURGE!”
Then darkness took over.

Gasp!

She gasped and spat water as she slowly got up, trembling, feeling cold and wet. She was on the shore, and when she looked back, she saw a distant castle—an ominous, accursed place she had just fled from. She cast it a wary glance, breath shallow, arms crossed against the cold.

“Aah, I see you’re awake,”

She turned and saw Jeser slithered back near her. Unlike her, he didn’t look bruised, but his face was grim and displeased, as if he had gone through hell.

“You’re okay?” she asked.

“Yes, I live…” he croaked.

“Good!” Amity lunged forward and grabbed the viper around the throat, making him hiss sharply from lack of air, his body rattling.

“You cold-blooded charlatan! You could have given my senses back all this time!” she growled angrily.

In response, Jeser hissed, and suddenly an invisible force pushed her away, making her fall backward.

“Ungrateful stain! It’s because of what I taught you that you survived! If you had your mortal senses back and stayed weaker, you’d be dead by now!” he spat, displeased with her attempt to choke him.

He looked like he was about to bite her, then stopped and calmed himself.

“I told you… this was only the easy part. The hard part has just begun,”  

For once, Amity agreed with his assessment.

At the top of the fortress, Mordred grasped one of the many tokens he carried with many entities he had bound to his will. One token resembled a black wolf, known to the Foundation as SCP-023. It was thought to be neutralized after its disappearance, but in reality, it had been chained by its new master.

He half-whispered a command to it. “Kill the fair-skinned Witchling and anyone that dares to stand in your way, Shuck . I’m done entertaining Sulkist’s inanity.” In his opinion, Amity was more trouble than she was worth and should have been killed. Yet, the mad Karcist insisted on keeping her because he found her attractive.

Peh! Typical Neo-Sarkics—always slaves to their impulses and urges despite their brash proclamations. Add to that—they’re just a bunch of snobs. No matter what era, blue bloods stay blue bloods.

He then threw the token onto the ground. It dissolved into a mist of smoke and fire until it coalesced into a large, black, snarling wolf—bigger than an average wolf, with bright orange-red eyes and fur so dark it nearly absorbed light.

HOWL

The wolf howled loudly, then leapt from the cliff. As it descended, it jumped from side to side along the walls, moving swiftly downward as the Black Shuck descended down.

Chapter Text

Mordred had forged numerous dark pacts to ascend to his current stature:

He struck a deal with Teran, the Dark God of the Finfolk, who granted him dominion over the Orcadians and bestowed upon him the corrupted magma sword, Clarent. Once a symbol of peace in Arthur's hands, Clarent had been twisted into an emblem of betrayal.

He delved into carnomancy, enhancing the remnants of his flesh to prevent them from becoming a liability. This forbidden knowledge was imparted by a Karcist who had renounced the teachings of Ion to worship Yaldabaoth.

He acquired arcane magics from a Nameless Fae, exiled for her allegiance to Queen Mab in the realm the Foundation designates as SCP-4000. The wretched creature, believing herself more cunning than he, attempted to steal his name. He demonstrated that even a Nameless wretch could scream. 

He mastered forbidden Arcanotech and esoteric sciences from the Cult of the Crucible, an entity that would later be known as the Factory.

His most recent pact was with the Demon Lord Moloch, once a ruler of Hell who defected to the Scarlet King, deeming Hell "too soft." Thus, the Traitor of the Darkness Above became one of the Scarlet King's generals, spreading carnage across Creation with a particular sadism—compelling mortals to sacrifice their own offspring in his name, earning him the title "Eater of Babies." In exchange for aiding Moloch's materialization on Earth, Mordred stood to gain immensely. However, Moloch's own sadism led to his downfall; he was vanquished by a mother of unwavering faith who, refusing to sacrifice her daughter, offered herself to end Moloch's reign. Though the loss was vexing, Mordred had to concede—it was rare for a mere mortal to defeat a powerful Demon Lord, especially one further empowered by Shormaush Urdal.

Before acquiring titles such as Mordred the Morbid, the Eldritch King, and the Daemon Knight, he was known simply as Mordred the Betrayer.

Born with genetic anomalies—seven fingers and four eyes—he was regarded as a freak at best and an affront to Stielenōt at worst. The only reason he wasn't slain at birth was his lineage as the son of Arthur Pendragon.

His father treated him kindly, but Mordred found him to be a disappointment. He had idolized Arthur, who was once a king worthy of his title. However, in his old age, Arthur had grown soft, surrounded by rambling nobles and entangled in endless politicking.

Mordred watched as Camelot descended into political strife, a spectacle that disgusted him. This disillusionment led him to betray his father, who had become weak and revealed that no one was perfect or deserving of unwavering loyalty. Admittedly, it stung to backstab the old man.

Since that pivotal moment, he vowed never to bow to anyone—neither gods nor men. He would be damned before he ever entertained subservience to that mad Karcist and his carnivorous sycophants, alliance notwithstanding.

He reflected on this resolve as he busied himself with modifications to his cybernetics, sparks flying with each adjustment.

The alliance was only temporary. Those fools had enlisted his help in tracking the Throne of Ion, oblivious to the abundance of magic in this realm, radiating from the long-dead Titans. He aspired to be more than a Daemon Knight; he intended to truly embody his namesake—the Eldritch King.

Another village lay in ruins—its homes reduced to smoldering husks, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and oil. Those who survived had been taken. This wasn't the handiwork of the flesh-crafters; it bore the mark of something equally sinister.

Scattered throughout were signs of advanced weaponry: blast craters too precise for mere firearms, the lingering odor of scorched oil, and fragments of machinery—twisted and broken—hinting at a desperate struggle against a technologically superior foe. The relatively low number of corpses suggested the attackers aimed not to annihilate but to capture as many villagers as possible.

Arthur Pendragon moved silently through the wreckage, his visor scanning for signs of life. Suddenly, a ping—humanoid lifeforms detected beneath the rubble. A basement, its entrance blasted open, now concealed by fallen debris.

Holstering his bolter, Arthur removed his helmet, revealing a face hardened by countless battles. With enhanced strength, he began clearing the debris, each movement deliberate, until a path emerged.

Inside, his visor highlighted several figures huddled behind a toppled bookshelf. Their elevated heart rates indicated fear—of him.

Approaching slowly, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture, Arthur spoke, his voice calm yet authoritative:

"Greetings. I mean you no harm."

Whispers filled the air as the survivors deliberated their next move.

Suddenly, a male demon with gray skin and a single eye lunged forward, releasing a bolt of fire. Arthur sidestepped effortlessly, closing the distance in a blink, causing the assailant to stumble backward in surprise.

Maintaining his composure, Arthur stated,

"I'm not among those who ravaged your village. If I intended harm, you'd already be dead." He gestured to Excalibur sheathed on his back, its presence a silent testament to his prowess.

The cyclopean demon stammered,

"B-but you—you look like them... metallic..."

Just then, a small child, bearing features reminiscent of the demon, broke free from a female witch's grasp, rushing toward Arthur. The witch's attempt to restrain the child only resulted in her own exposure.

Arthur tilted his head, observing the group: an elderly figure, two teenagers, and an adult male witch—likely a family.

He surmised they were kin, bound together by blood and the shared trauma of survival.

“Are you… not going to kill us?” the child asked, his voice trembling.

Arthur removed his helmet with a hiss of decompressing seals, revealing a face marked by battle and two piercing emerald eyes. “No,” he replied calmly. “I came specifically to stop them.”

The child's gaze drifted to a dent near Arthur’s ribcage. “Does it… hurt?

Arthur glanced down at the damaged section of his armor—a reminder of his recent clash with Abel, not to mention the gauntlet through hordes of Sarkics and a few Nuckelavees during his escape from the facility. “My auxiliary containment suffered a rupture,” he explained, kneeling to the child's level. “But it's nearly repaired. The armor absorbed most of the damage.”

“You have machine parts?” one of the teenagers inquired, stepping forward cautiously.

“Yes,” Arthur affirmed. “But I'm not one of the invaders. If you observe closely, the technology I employ is distinct from theirs.”

The survivors examined him more closely. His augmentations and weaponry bore an intricate and elegant design, a stark contrast to the crude and grotesque machinery utilized by their assailants.

“It does look different,” one of them murmured, the others nodding in agreement.

“Now, I must ask—what transpired here?”

Before anyone could respond, a low, guttural growl echoed through the ruins. Arthur's instincts kicked in. He stood swiftly, bolter at the ready, just as a massive hand burst through the debris, seizing him and hurling him against the charred remains of a house.

Shaking off the impact, Arthur rose to his feet and assessed his adversary.

It was an Orcadian, but unlike any he had encountered before. Half of its body was cybernetic; one arm replaced with a roaring chainsaw, a turret mounted on its shoulder, and a baleful red optic eye glowed menacingly. Its legs were entirely mechanical, granting it unnatural speed and agility.

The monstrosity opened fire with its turret, forcing Arthur to seek cover among the wreckage. He returned fire with his bolter, each shot calculated, aiming to disable the creature's weaponry. A well-placed bolt struck the turret, rendering it inoperative.

Enraged, the Orcadian charged with the speed of a galloping horse. Arthur continued to fire, but the creature dodged with uncanny agility. It closed the distance rapidly, bringing down its chainsaw arm in a devastating arc. Arthur ducked, drawing Excalibur to parry the attack.

Sparks flew as the chainsaw's teeth met the enchanted blade. The Orcadian hissed, delivering a powerful kick to Arthur's chest with its mechanical legs, sending him sprawling. It lunged again, but Arthur rolled aside, activating Excalibur's heater function, the blade glowing with intense heat.

The creature recoiled, narrowly avoiding the searing blade, then retaliated, its chainsaw biting into Arthur's armor. The protective layers held momentarily, but the exotic materials of the chainsaw's teeth began to breach the defenses, drawing blood.

Blast!

Bolts of lightning and fire struck the Orcadian from behind, causing it to shriek in pain. The survivors had joined the fray, casting spells to aid Arthur.

Snarling, the cyborg turned its attention toward them, advancing with malicious intent.

Arthur, wounded and with damaged cybernetics, forced himself to stand. Blood dripped from his injuries, but he focused his will.

“Iron of will…” he intoned, steadying his aim.

The Orcadian loomed closer to the survivors, who tried to shield the children.

“Steel of muscle…” Arthur continued, his voice gaining strength.

He took a deep breath, channeling his remaining energy.

“Forged in the furnace… ” he whispered, locking onto his target.

“Of war!” he roared, pulling the trigger.

The bolter's shot found its mark, detonating upon impact. The explosion tore the Orcadian's upper body from its mechanical lower half, sending gore and scrap metal flying.

The creature's torso writhed, attempting to crawl toward the survivors, its talons outstretched. Arthur stepped forward, driving Excalibur through its head, ending its life.

Exhausted, Arthur fell to one knee, breathing heavily. The survivors approached, concern etched on their faces.

“Are you okay?” the cyclopean demon asked.

“For Titan's sake, of course he's not okay! He had a freaking chainsaw in his chest!” a rodent-like demon exclaimed.

An elderly gray-haired witch stepped forward. “Here, let me help with the injury,” he offered apologetically. “This is going to sting a little.”

“I've had worse,” Arthur replied stoically.

The witch heated his hand with magic and pressed it against the wound, cauterizing it. Arthur winced but remained silent.

Afterward, the witch looked at him with concern. “I would have helped more, but… I don't know what to do with your, uh, metallic parts.”

“I can repair my cybernetics myself,” Arthur assured him, rising to his feet. “Go to the other villages, warn them.”

“What about you?” the curious child asked, stepping closer.

“I have… unfinished business to deal with,” Arthur replied, his gaze falling upon the remains of the Orcadian.

He examined its cybernetics—cheap, mass-produced, crude, and designed to inflict pain upon the user. A heinous violation of Stielenōt's principles.

He recognized the craftsmanship.

The Cult of Crucible. The Factory.

It seemed his son, ever the cunning manipulator, was not only allied with the Sarkics but was playing both sides.

Arthur whispered a prayer in the ancient tongue of Camelot, seeking forgiveness from Stielenōt—not for what he had done, but for what he was about to do.

He was going to kill his own son.

Abel wasn’t always the bloodthirsty animal he was now. Once, he was a man— not the Prince of Animals, but just a mortal. Humanity was the toughest to conquer; the first sentient beings on Earth were diverse and formidable: the night-walking Yerens, the cunning and ever-shifting Fae, the vigilant Finfolks of the ocean, and the draconic creatures—wise, destructive, magnificent, greedy, and mysterious, their appearances as varied as their mannerism. Add to that the ancient races—reptilian Sapiensaurus and the enigmatic, squid-like Firstborns.

And that wasn’t counting the visitors from other worlds, like the followers of the Church of the Second Hytoth, who had also come to inhabit Earth.

When humanity rose from primal chaos, they had no fangs, no claws, no fur of protection—they were basically newborns thrown into a hostile world intent on killing them. Yet, against all odds, mankind triumphed. Their greatest strength was their intellect and creativity, personified best by the first family.

Adam, the leader, the first King of Man.

Eve was the Spy—the first Queen of Humanity. If Adam was the hammer, Eve was the scalpel.

Awan, also known as Aclima, the sorceress, learning the mysteries of the arcane. She was the most studious among the family, second perhaps only to her parents.

Azura was the astromancer, with a fascination for stars and celestial phenomena.

Abel, known also as Habil, was the shepherd—herding animals and taming great beasts, a survivalist in his own right.

Cain, or Qayin, was the family’s technological innovator—inventing agriculture and other advances. Funny enough, he used to be the scrawniest of the family until centuries of fighting made him fit and formidable.

Seth, who came later, after the fratricide, inherited the role Cain once held.

And there were others—nieces, nephews, greats: Kalmana, Lusia, Cainan, Luluwa, Balbira, Enoch, Tubal-Cains—each playing their part in shaping humanity’s future, either to ensure its survival or lead it toward damnation.

Their task was no easy feat. It was brutal, backbreaking, merciless. They faced countless threats—ancient horrors, primordial beasts, demonic incursions, the Fallen, Nephilim, Djinn, mad deities, eldritch abominations—and so many more.

Yet through every trial, they endured. Their resilience only strengthened with each challenge, until… the first murder.

The first time in mankind’s history that a human took a life not out of necessity or self-defense, but out of Sin.

All because Cain, in a fit of jealous rage, murdered Abel from behind with a stone—knowing he was no match for him physically like a coward.

Most assume Abel hated Cain solely because of that act— and they’d be partly right. But it’s more complicated. After Abel’s death, Adam, wracked with grief, made a deal with dark forces to bring him back. Like all devil’s bargains, Abel returned—damaged, as if part of his soul was lost. He remembered the fearful looks from his family, the shame and horror they felt. And worse, he did not blamed them.

He became a monster.

He witnessed as everything fell apart. Cain’s descendants—the Cainites—took inspiration from their progenitor’s act, bringing ruin to all that was built. His family was torn asunder. And that was when the various threats—Nephilim, the Fallen—came to prey, exploiting humanity’s fractured state. Cain’s own self-pity and negligence had left them vulnerable, failing to tell his descendants “No” early enough.

Since then, Abel has borne many names: Ngatûk, The Butcher of the West, The Smiting Blade, Wanderer of a Thousand Winters, and most recently, SCP-76-2.

He had once met the People of Dae during their bloodied golden age, when he was known as Ab-Leshal—First Sword of Daevon. They foolish imperialists believed they could control him, just as the Foundation did recently. All those who dared to tame him—reaped what they sowed. The price of hubris.

Later, there was the Nälkän. But things grew very awkward when he found himself face to face with his thrice-damned brother, Cain—on opposite sides, aligned with Mekhanites. As if the gods themselves had a cruel sense of humor: when found by the Foundation, of all his siblings, it was Cain—the maggot of a brother—who was in cell mates, even if housed in separate sites.

At least Abel found some twisted amusement in facing his fellow murderous anomalies. He’d never had such fun before, not even battling the Unkillable Dragon—an adversary as relentless as himself.

He had lived so long, and yet the age of humanity during the Antediluvian Age—where some rare individuals reached 900 years—was a fleeting echo. Most humans died long before old age, felled by mundane and supernatural threats alike. Humans were never truly meant to exceed that span.

Time was a cruel trick—years could pass in a blink, gaps in memory stretched into eternity, and details such as his full name blurred into obscurity. Was he Hevel ben Adam? Or Able el Adam? Or both? The question haunted him, but the answer slipped beyond his grasp. He couldn’t even recall why he had those metallic arms—only that they were part of the terrible price he paid.

He missed his family.

He missed Awan’s boundless energy—last he heard, she helped in constructing some city until it fell into ruin.

Mother… one of her children had killed the other, and she was the only family who never saw him as a monster—only a damaged being. After his violent resurrection, she never wavered. Her encouragement, her gentle smile—those missed her most. He’d lost her long ago, the warmth of her kindness faded into memory.

Father… was not a perfect man. Impossible to be perfect when you and your family survive endless summers and frostbitten winters, battling insidious diseases, looming predators, incomprehensible terrors, it's always a fight just to keep everyone alive. Yet, he sacrificed more than most humans dared—severed himself from comfort, endured, and fought for the continuation of the species.

But in the end, what truly shattered that indomitable man was the death of his son—by the hand of another son.

He never thought he could miss them more. And then, after what he did in Pandora’s Box—after betraying his own team—the emptiness grew even deeper.

He didn’t consider them family, save maybe one—yet there was brotherhood, camaraderie. And he threw it all away. Why? Boredom? A fleeting desire for power? Even that pale in comparison to the betrayal he wrought upon Iris—the only one in centuries who had treated him not as a beast. Her radiance reminded him of Awan; her kindness and his mother’s warmth.

And yet, he damned it all. Because of him, Iris bore pain, betrayal, and hatred—her eyes reflecting the mirror of his own soul.

Cain was right about one thing: in the end, he hadn’t made himself a lonely monster. He chose this path.

When he passed through that vortex—time and space lost all meaning—he found himself stranded in this wretched realm of Dead Gods. His mind was hazy from the ordeal, the years as a savage in the wild clouding his memories.

But then, something snapped him free—a reminder of the fire Iris still bore, burning bright beneath her pain. It was when he held that triclops by her throat, in a moment so raw and visceral, that old memories resurfaced, breaking the haze.

And standing before him was an old friend he thought long gone–

Abel’s eyes snapped open as he sprinted away from the creature’s snout, which had just bitten into the air where his face had been. He sprang to his feet instantly, materializing a black spear in his hand. Ducking just in time as a massive tail swept past him, he spun around swiftly to face his attacker.

The creature reminded him of the gigantoraptor he once brought down—except this one was far uglier and entirely featherless. Unlike what most modern thinkers believed, some prehistoric creatures still survived, hidden in pockets of the world or through anomalous means, as the Skipper liked to say. Even more so during the Antediluvian Age.

It had dorsal plates along its back, rodent-like ears, yellow with black pupils sunk into its skull, and a sharp beak. Abel’s mind drifted to a stone formation near his brief stop in a cave—something that vaguely resembled the creature. It must have been camouflaging or dormanted in sleep now.

This was a Stonesleeper, an ancient predator from the Hecktaceous Period of this realm. Known for its ferocity, it was highly aggressive, but it had one weakness— a ticklish spot that could calm it down. Abel didn’t know this, not like Luz or others who understood the beast’s nature.

It snarled and edged closer, ready to strike.

“ARRAAAGH! ARRAAAAGH!” Abel roared, wildly swinging his spear overhead. The beast recoiled in surprise, hesitating for a moment, then Abel drove the spear into the ground with force. The creature snarled and lunged at him again, but Abel was faster. He punched it across the jaw, causing it to shriek in shock, then leaped upward.

With black chains materializing from thin air, he grabbed its snout and swung around, constraining the creature. It thrashed and snarled as he pushed its head down, planting the spear once more at its skull.

“You’re mine, beast!” he growled, eyes blazing with intensity, teeth clenched. “Knee or die !”

The creature’s resistance faltered; realizing it was defeated by someone who didn’t fear it, it ceased resisting. Abel loosened his grip, patted the beast’s snout, then used the chain around its mouth to demand it to get up.

It responded, rising to its feet with a snarl, and Abel swiftly mounted it. With a commanding shove, he rode into the wilderness, vanishing into the wilds once more.

Boscha was not having a good time. Surviving in the woods, surrounded by predators and biting cold, was bad enough. Without her Palisman—so inert it couldn’t lift her into the skies—she had no idea which way to go. Her only companion was some haunted green ghost, whispering uselessly in her mind.

Abel’s words echoed in her thoughts—him calling himself “The Winner” as if the universe was thumbing its nose at her, tossing those words she had spoken as a child back into her face.

She had no illusions about her morality. She knew she’d hurt others—though not always physically, and not always intentionally. She told herself that as long as she was the Winner, none of it mattered. But ever since the Day of Unity, that ‘Winner’ stick had been broken.

Luz’s name ignited her fury to a blazing inferno. That human— that girl— made Boscha’s blood boil. She had Amity, once a close friend—and someone she’d even dared to think of as a potential lover. They were the “popular kids,” the Queen of Grudgby, respected and admired. Until that clown Luz showed up. Until she turned everything upside down.

Ever since the fiasco with the Collector, Boscha had fallen into infamy. She became the Tyrant of Hexside—ruling through fear, crushing anyone who survived her wrath. The students avoided her, while Luz—the human freak—became the darling of the Isle. She was the Slayer of Emperor Belso, the Messenger of the Titan. And what was Boscha now? Boscha the Tyrant, Boscha the Tricloptic Bitch .

Even her own parents looked at her with disappointment. They were happy to be reunited, but their eyes betrayed their worry—knowing she was spiraling, wondering why she still hadn’t returned. The thought gnawed at her. They were likely worried sick.

And the worst part? Luz had taken Amity. She robbed Boscha of what was supposed to be hers. Amity was meant for her , not some human wretch . Every time Boscha saw them together—all lovey-dovey—her stomach churned with jealous rage .

She admitted she’d been foolish—she had thought Luz was some weak, ungifted nobody—a pretend witch. But no. Luz wasn’t an idiot from some primitive race. She was a dangerous, insidious fool, descended from a barbaric lineage—whose history on Earth was scarred by horrors that made the Witch Hunts seem tame. Tales of industrialized concentration camps, genocides, and conjuring flames of creation only to be turned into pure destruction. If Luz was the “nice” one of her race, it explained why Belos and Abel—at their worst—could manipulate this realm like fiddles. Even now, Earth was no better; only less openly bloodthirsty.

The culture shock was immense. Only Basilisks capable of shapeshifting—or a few select others—could travel between Earth and the Boiling Isle. Unregistered journeys were heavily condemned, feared—what would Earth do if they learned about the Demon Realm?

And yet… Luz, rather than a threat, was still celebrated as a hero! Just the exception. That one small miracle proved the rules didn’t matter.

At least the ‘Owl Lady’—the old hag—could no longer enjoy her Earth smuggling operations. That was probably because she had moved away with Raine and changed careers.

Now…Boscha was utterly alone. Helpless. She had nothing—no friends, no family. She looked at Luz—who had everything. Boscha was the biggest loser on the Isle, while Luz had become its brightest star.

Was that her fate? To be forever alone, hated by all, like Abel?

And despite everything, the deepest pain wasn’t her own suffering. It was the loss of her friends—the only ones she’d ever truly loved, and the only ones who had ever understood her.

Tears began slipping from Boscha’s eyes as she sat silently, staring at the makeshift fire she had built and the cooked lizard nestled beside it. She refused to sob, refused to cry—yet she wasn’t entirely in control of her emotions. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until that moment.

A faint, sympathetic look was etched onto the spectral witch child’s face, and Boscha hastily wiped her tears, snorting in a half-hearted attempt to mask her vulnerability. “It’s just an allergy,” she snapped, voice trembling just enough for her to sound annoyed. “None of your frickin’ business.”

But the ghost persisted with that gentle, understanding expression. Boscha grunted in disgruntlement and looked away, irritated at the display.

The ghost began to make hand signs—gestures that, admittedly, Boscha wasn’t proficient in. She doubted the ghost knew sign language either, but she figured she could make some educated guesses. She wasn’t just the Queen of Grudgby; she was top of the class for a reason.

The gestures roughly translated to ‘Are you okay?’ .

Boscha scoffed, voice bitter. “My friends are dead, I’m cold, and I’m baking a useless lizard for food. Do I look happy to you, you stupid brat?” She winced at the clumsy words but was thankful she at least got away from those blood-sucking trees. She avoided meeting those humanoid plant monsters again—an encounter she is still haunted by. The plant magic Willow possessed, which she previously ridiculed, had taken two of her friends. She’d had nightmares about it.

The green ghost, oddly enough, showed no offense. Her expression remained sympathetic, almost amused, which only irritated Boscha more. The ghost made gestures—perhaps apologetic, maybe slightly sappy.

Boscha had no idea what to think of her unlikely companion. Why did she look human with that stereotypical medieval witch aesthetic? Why was she a ghost? Why could only Boscha see her? Could she even trust her?

Most of all, Boscha wondered: what was this ghost’s ulterior motive? In her bitter worldview, there were only winners and losers, no room for altruism.

Maybe she was just hallucinating—that would make more sense than believing this spectral child was real. But she refused to believe her mind was that weak. Not yet.

She tried asking the ghost a question, but her understanding was limited. She grasped only a few signs, leaving many questions unanswered and her irritation simmering.

Wanting to change the subject, Boscha sniffed and rubbed her nose. “How are you even here? Did someone send you, or did you just waltz around like a careless idiot?”

The ghost made some more gestures, and Boscha hesitated, trying to interpret.

“A…palisman?” she guessed.

The ghost shook her head negatively.

“A…living being of flesh and all?”

Positive nod.

“Demon?” Boscha ventured.

Negative shook her head.

“Human?”

Positive nod, and that made Boscha grimace. If Luz and Belos, who were both humans, could learn magic, then how many other humans were out there studying arcane arts? That didn’t even include Belos, who had fooled the entire Boiling Isle for centuries.

“Man?”

Negative shake.

“A…lady did this to you?”

Positive nod.

Boscha snorted sarcastically. “What, she turned you into a ghost just for misbehaving? Then I would hate meeting her.”

The ghost frowned and shook her head again, then beamed and began making a few hand gestures—more movements, this time faster.

Boscha didn’t understand any of it. Her eyebrows furrowed as she watched the ghost child’s frantic signings, feeling frustration bubble up inside her. "I don’t get it. What are you saying now?"

The ghost’s expressions shifted—more animated, more insistent—and Boscha was left grasping at straws, unsure whether she was simply losing her mind.

She rubbed her temples, sighing heavily. “I’m definitely hallucinating…” she muttered. Of all the ways she thought she’d go crazy, conjuring a ghost human-witch child was not one of them.

Then, a voice—soft and chilling—broke the silence.

“Boscha.”

Her eyes widened, heart pounding. Her breath caught as she froze in place, suddenly questioning whether she was truly awake or if her mind had finally snapped.

For a moment, she wondered if she’d really lost herself entirely.

“Boscha.”

That voice didn’t come from the ghost. She, too, looked surprised—and worse, the voice belonged to Amelia.

“Come back, Boscha,” it called again.

Another voice followed—Cat’s voice, smooth and insistent.

Boscha’s breath hitched. That was impossible. She saw them die—by the plant abominations, in flames, torn apart. The memories jarred her mind as her pulse pounded faster.

‘I’m losing it. I’m finally losing it,’ her mind half-hysteric, desperately trying to dismiss the terrifying thought.

“Come back, Boscha,” the voices repeated.

Her instinct was to rush toward them, to see if they truly lingered. But the ghost’s alarmed expression, the frantic wave of her hands, and that creepy realization stopped her cold. Their voices—those familiar tones—weren’t filled with relief or panic. They were melodic, too perfect, too calm.

Someone… is mimicking my dead friends.

A surge of rage flooded her veins—mixed with fear and hopelessness—a cocktail brewing in her mind.

Slowly, Boscha reached into her backpack, clutching her inert Palisman. Her heart hammered in her chest as she stared at the thick bush where the voices had come from.

“Boscha,” the voice was closer now, almost coaxing.

She moved backward cautiously, eyes fixed on the darkness, clutching her makeshift spear—a sharpened stick she’d fashioned for hunting the lizard just moments earlier. She had a sinking feeling she was the prey here.

The ghost shifted her gaze toward the bush, her eyes widening in alarm. She opened her mouth as if to scream a warning, fruitlessly trying to shout.

Thinking quickly—her years of experience as the Queen of Grudgby kicking in—Boscha swept down just in time. A claw shot toward her, aiming to tear into her side, and she deflected it with her spear, blocking the strike. The weapon snapped like a twig under the force.

She got her first good look at the attacker: it was no normal creature. An uglier, more distorted beast.

A dog—no, something more horrifying. Its body was bipedal, twisted and scarred, with spikes protruding from its back. Its eyes were missing, replaced by a sickening red emptiness. It growled—using a distorted mimic of Amelia’s voice, twisted by the growl into something guttural and sinister.

“cO m E b aC k B osCh a .”

“OH HELL NO!” Boscha screeched and bolted as the red creature landed on all fours and began chasing her, claws tearing at the ground.

From the bush, another of its kind lunged at her, but she was quick—ducking just in time, causing the creature to slam into its companion. They tussled briefly, snapping maws at each other, distracted for a moment. But then, their red eyes locked onto her again, and they resumed their pursuit, growling in unison.

“Bos c H AAAAAA !” one of them growled, voice distorted and menacing.

She sprinted down a slight hill, trying to avoid the treacherous rocks and bushes scattered across her path. The terrain was uneven, and her footing had to be careful—any slip could mean a painful roll on jagged rocks or into thorns. Luckily, the ghost girl guided her through the safest routes, helping her dodge the worst hazards.

The hill leveled out ahead, but Boscha’s instincts screamed she wasn’t out of danger yet. If she couldn’t put distance between herself and those monsters, she wouldn’t outrun them. Her mind raced for solutions.

On her side, she spotted a half-frozen beehive, likely in hibernation, cloaked in snow and ice. Acting fast, she grabbed a small stone and hurled it at the hive. Cracks appeared, and as the ice shattered, angry buzzing erupted. Fire bees poured out in a swirling swarm, erratically buzzing and igniting into a fiery storm.

Boscha yelped as she dodged the swarm—ignoring the sting and chaos—and tried swatting the bees away. A tiny flame ignited on her glove, and in panic, she blew at it, only fanning the flames. She swiftly grabbed snow and pressed it to the fire, smothering it.

Meanwhile, the red-eyed dogs struggled against the fiery swarm, claws and jaws caught in chaos. One of them caught fire, roaring in pain as it rolled across the snow—its body aflame and slipping, crashing into rocks. The other lit on fire too, but in its frantic escape, it slipped and tumbled repeatedly down the hill, smashing into rocks and bruising itself.

Boscha, watching the chaos unfold, smirked—then yelped in alarm as she was struck in the face by a branch. She tumbled backward, landing in the bushes instead of the rocks, pain shooting through her ankles and bruising her ribs as she finally came to a halt.

She tried to get her bearings, pain roiling through her as she pushed herself up. Her ankles throbbed with every movement. The ghost girl waved frantically, silently urging her to get up—an expression of alarm painted across her spectral face.

Boscha looked ahead—and her eyes widened in shock. The creature that had fallen and been injured near her now rose, seemingly unharmed, as if it had no internal organs or bones to damage.

Before she could react, the creature roared—a bloodcurdling sound, leaping with savage fury toward her. She stumbled backward in panic, turning to run, just as the monster lunged at her, jaws snapping for her backpack. Her instincts kicked in, and she shoved the pack away as the beast clawed at her.

She fought desperately, kicking at its face to keep its needle-sharp teeth from sinking in. Its claws reached for her, tearing shallow cuts, and she shrieked as pain exploded through her. Struggling in panic, she was slammed against a tree, right into a cluster of stalactites hanging from a broken branch—long, pointed ice formations restored by the cold.

A long stalactite dangled dangerously close to her neck. In a quick burst of adrenaline, Boscha seized it, stabbing upward into the creature’s neck. It shrieked and thrashed, attempting to shake her off, but she roared and sank the ice deeper, repeatedly plunging it until the beast slowed, gurgling its last.

It didn’t bleed—no, the creature had no blood. Only her own, for she knew she would have gutted herself if she hadn’t fought so fiercely.

Panting, she spat on the creature’s carcass and muttered, “I’m a winner… I’m a winner… I’m the winner,” clutching her bleeding side. Her injuries weren’t deep, but they ached fiercely. If she’d been slower, that monstrous thing would have gutted her.

She cast a quick glance at the ghost girl, who looked helpless yet worried.

Frustration rising. “So, any more useless directions or—” She froze abruptly, her nerves on edge as her instincts sharpened. Her three eyes twitched, and she pointed faintly at a distant spot.

Her gaze followed her outstretched finger and saw the other member of the creature’s kin—lying on the ground, burned black with scorch marks from the fire bees. She cursed herself for forgetting it. Suddenly, the second creature — still alive — charged toward her on all fours, eyes glowing with hatred. Her stomach clenched as she hurried to close her three eyes, thinking this was the end.

Whistle

A loud whistle pierced the air.

The creature froze in place, ears twitching, then slowly lowered itself to sit on its haunches, snarling but stationary.

Boscha’s eyes snapped open again. The creature remained still, staring but not advancing. Her heart hammered—she thought she was done for.

Before she could react further, she heard footsteps approaching. Two figures emerged from the shadows—armed, armored men that looked like a strange fusion of World War I trench coat soldiers and modern military. Gas masks obscured their faces, rifles ready.

One of them tilted his head curiously and spoke in a gruff tone, “Another one? I thought we’d collected everyone from the nearby village.”

The other, younger, judging by his lean build and tone, replied without hesitation, “Doesn’t matter. More slaves, more payday.”

Boscha’s stomach sank. She swallowed hard, realization hitting her: these men were not here to save her. They were here to seize her—to take her as a slave.

“The fact she’s got three eyes,” the gruff one mused, “she must see better than most in the mines.”

“Shame about the dead 939, though,” the younger one added nonchalantly.

“Min—?” Boscha choked out, voice trembling.

“Though she should be stopped from bleeding out first,” the gruff soldier said, coldly. “Dead slaves are useless. Doc should tend to her…"

The soldiers started to descend on Boscha. She shouted curses and protests, struggling fiercely—weakening with every motion as blood seeped from her injuries, staining the ground. Her backpack was seized along with her, and she howled in despair, feeling her hope slipping away.

Suddenly, a weapon rammed into her side, knocking her unconscious. Her last sight was those two armed men dragging her away as her world darkened.

The ghost girl watched helplessly from the shadows, her spectral form flickering with worry—knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“A Sarkite hacker? ” Saint Hedwig asked incredulously.

“We found the informant, Sister Hedwig,” a Maxwellist follower with minimal augmentations—passable as a normal human except for electric tattoos on his right cheek and an implant on his head—nodded.

“I must say, I never would have imagined— in a million years—that an Ur-Sarkite could be a hacker. Were you an exile from your cult? That would explain it.”** Hedwig glanced back at the captive, holding her data pad as she commented wryly.

The Sarkite, of Filipino descent, was suspended midair by mechanical appendages. His skull was open, with a device directly reaching into his brain, yet he neither shouted in pain nor horror, and he said nothing.

Hedwig tapped her controller, causing laser scanners to target the Sarkite’s brain directly, making him scream in agony as his neurons seemed to burn. After a tense moment, the pain stopped, and he staggered, panting.

“Where’s Lovataar?”

The Sarkite looked at her with contempt. “I’d rather die than give you anything, even if I knew where she was. Especially the worst offender of all— Hummer, ” he spat the slang term usually used for Maxwellists.

That was interesting. It wasn’t uncommon for Sarkics to scowl at Mekhanites, considering thousands of years of animosity between the two. But this one seemed particularly to despise Maxwellists.

Raising an eyebrow, Hedwig asked, “Oh? Then en lighten me—why do you specifically hate my sect the most? It’s not like we use Servitors like the far-fringe blasphemers.” She grimaced, recalling the isolationist, mad cults that lobotomized sentient beings into mindless drones—considered the highest flattery for Mekhane. No wonder they were easily swayed by the Factory. Fortunately, those cults were rare and condemned as heretical by the rest of Mekhanites, both morally and religiously. As much criticism as she and Legate Trunnion had for Robert, at least he wasn’t trying to turn people into drones. “Or want you to give up your limbs just because. Through WAN, we only wish to connect all minds—free from physical limitations, lies, and secrecy—bringing an end to injustice.”

“And imagination—the source of all human achievement? You and your ilk only offer stagnation and the death of imagination, forever digital men with digital thoughts, trapped in a perpetual purgatory of a false world. At least the other sects aren’t trying to turn humanity into mere data.” Unfazed, the Sarkite responded venomously.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course the technophobic fleshmonger hates the idea of leaving the physical world. Even though you’re literally hacking yourself.”

“Progress for the sake of progress is a cancer upon the spirit.”

“Hypocrisy much, hacker?”

“How little do you truly understand? We the Nälkä are not opposed to technology. We oppose anything that shackles mankind—including enslaving circuitry. What happens—not if—some don’t want your version of enlightenment?”

That made her pause, torn between her convictions and her doubts.

Saint Hedwig was not always like this. She wasn’t always a cyborg, nor was she the leader of the Church of Maxwellism.

Once upon a time, she was Dr. Nussbaum—a Foundation colleague and former Prometheus Labs scientist, who would later be known as Robert Bumaro. The Foundation discovered the lost city of Amoni-Ram, once the capital of the ancient Mekhanite Empire. Robert, consumed by hubris and obsession with the Mekhanites, declared himself the latest Bumaro, plugging into the throne’s memory banks. Without her consent, he transformed her into what she was now.

Though she had come to terms with her new form and became a devoted follower of WAN, she would never thank Robert—and she refused to entertain the idea that he was “Mekhane’s Prophet” just because he accessed the Bumaro lineage’s memories. Should he then be revered just for that? She shook her head.

“We offer an end to all petty prejudices: race, nationality, sexism. Once everyone can feel each other and share their thoughts—connected through the Eternal Network—wars and death could become a thing of the past.”

“All things have their time. Death is change. It cannot be stopped.”

“A Sarkite who doesn’t see death as Yaldabaoth’s sick joke or an obstacle to be removed? By this point, are you even a Sarkite ?” Hedwig sneered drily.

“I never claimed to be completely faithful,” the skull-opened Sarkite shrugged, scoffing. “You don’t offer salvation—you offer the perversion of it. No matter how much you upload, a copy is still just a copy, not the original. You can’t reduce the soul to mere information.”

“Flesh isn’t life. Wires, circuits, data—that’s where life comes from. You’re defending the product of the Womb of Chaos, at best.” She shot back.

He nodded slightly. “Perhaps. But change for the sake of change only leads to the death of the soul. There is no greater form of change than destruction. Progress should serve human existence—not make humanity exist solely to fetishize technological advancement!” He tried to jump at her, only to screech in pain again as laser scanners hit his brain.

“You can’t stop the future, Ur-Sarkic,” Hedwig replied calmly.

“I am Nälkän, Messenger of WAN. We rebel against everything that threatens the soul of humanity—whether selfish gods, megalomaniacs, tyrants, oppressive empires, deceitful devils, or fate itself!” Suddenly, his body twitched, and his mouth foam grew.

Hedwig swiftly turned back, shouting, “REPORT!”

“There was a gland deep in his brain,” her subordinate reported hurriedly. “It spreads a neurotoxin, causing accelerated neurodegeneration of the tissue.”

“STOP IT NOW!” Hedwig commanded.

The device above the Sarkite beamed lasers directly into his brain, attempting to burn out the gland. The foaming and twitching intensified, but it was too late—his body went limp, and he died.

Frustrated, Hedwig rubbed her eyes and barked at her subordinates, “How didn’t our scans find it?”

“We believe the gland disguised itself as a small tumor, similar to deformities some Sarkics grow as a mark of pride.”

“Can data be extracted from the brain tissue?”

A female Maxwellist shook her head. “Negative. The toxin corroded the hippocampus, ensuring the brain would be beyond memory extraction after death.”

She sighed, contemplating in silence for a moment. Then, she clasped her hands behind her back, put away the data pad, and made her decision with iron resolve.

“Get ready. We’re marching.” She turned and left, lost in her own thoughts.

Lovataar was once the most beautiful daughter of a powerful Daeva-Matriarch known as the Blood Empress. She opposed Grand Karcist Ion, despising him as a wild, lesser being who dared to unravel the natural order of things, sparking the Ionite Rebellion.

Over time, that hatred transformed into an infatuation. She yearned to capture, bind, and turn him into her personal consort. Yet every time he defied her, her frustration grew—she was irritated, but at the same time, she wanted him more. No matter how many slave-hunters she sent after him, they all failed.

Some time later, the object of Lovataar’s obsession appeared in her bedchamber.

She readied her Daevite magic, expecting an attack. Instead, he spoke softly—only for her. No one knows what he said, only that his words were meant solely for her. For the next twelve days, the two formed a union. Lovataar became the Highborn Redeemer, while her former Daevite colleagues condemned her for her betrayal, branding her as the Fool’s Mistress.

When she defected, she was initially met with suspicion by other Nälkän—including her fellow Klavigar, Orok. He was distrustful at first, but after seeing her sincerity and her actions that proved her change of heart, he accepted her.

As a gift, with Saarn’s help, she crafted a long shaft of bone, a divan, and a footstool—all from her own body—showing her love for him.

After the war’s end and the collapse of the Bronze Age, the people of Ion scattered, with Ion himself vanished without trace.

Lovataar, like the other Klavigar separated by the loss of her lover and leader, wandered the Earth—from Jerusalem, when it was a pagan Roman city, to Constantinople of the Byzantine Empire—trying to find a way to bring Ion back. At the same time, she sought to safeguard the Children of Adytum. Yet, she was relentlessly hunted by the Mekhanite Inquisition and many who feared and hated the Nälkän.

The Mother of Abominations—some called her, as if she were Lilith herself. Sometimes justified, sometimes not. It didn’t help that many Nälkän embraced becoming the monstrous Sarkics—decried as heretics by their cogworshippers.

You better die a hero or live long enough to become the villain.

To this day, her heart aches for him—the only one she ever truly loved–

“Taar?”

Lovataar snapped out of her thoughts when Saarn called her. They were in the mansion’s basement, surrounded by the corpses of dead Neo-Sarkics, hiding a dark secret. Blood sprayed on themselves—some theirs, most not.

“The Bookburners are on the way. The prisoners will be under their care, and they’ll kill every filthy, hedonistic heretic that managed to escape. We have six minutes of leave,” Saarn said after crushing the transmitter under her foot—used to contact GOC and capture their attention. Just declaring herself as Klavigar Saarn, the Coiled Shadow, was enough to make them scramble from their seats.

There were many men, women, and children caged here against their will—sold in this underground Flesh Market, either as food, for dark rituals, or worse.

She felt neither pity nor remorse as she killed the depraved fiends. Neither did Saarn.

Her only regret was one.

Lovataar turned and looked at the battered, bruised, torn, and ruined body of the Karcist who led the Neo-Sarkic cult and the Flesh Market she and Saarn had decimated.

The Karcist was a former Nälkän turned Neo-Sarkie—very skilled in microbiology. She had been using the evil money to create something as deadly as the Flesh That Hates. Fortunately, she was unsuccessful—but her reckless pursuit still doomed countless lives.

From what she and Lovataar had gathered from the notes scattered in her room and liquid filled glasses with horribly mutated animals and humans, she realized she was not alone—many others had been trying to craft a plague that would put even the Flesh That Hates to shame. They called it the ‘Black Adytum’.

To even attempt to harness a fraction of the Red Death’s destructive potential—or to rival or surpass it—was madness. Recall the collapse of the Bronze Age: entire civilizations laid waste, and living beings turned into grotesque abominations. The plague only grew worse, mutating into a contagion of indiscriminate hatred. The thought sent shivers down her spine.

It was a taint that would forever blacken the legacy of the Nälkä.

Once, this fiend had been one of Lovataar’s pupils—an eager student of her craft.

Lovataar sighed, her voice heavy with sadness, betrayal, and disappointment. “Why?”

The wounded Karcist gurgled, blood bubbling from her lips as she tried to speak. The damage she’d suffered would have killed most. Only thanks to her carnomancy kept her alive. Even Sarkite regeneration took time—time she knew neither Saarn nor Lovataar would give her.

“Ion… was… weak,” the Karcist rasped, blood dripping as she fought to speak. “He could have ascended to godhood and led us to paradise. Yet he refused. Because of his weakness, he looked at us… divided, diaspored, living in a world that hates and fears us… We could… have had it all… if not for his cowardice…”

Lovataar clenched her fists, her voice firm with conviction. “Ion never wanted to be a god. He wanted us to be free. He wanted everyone to be free. Not to become our wretched masters.”

The sheer irony gnawed at her—how Neo-Sarkic ideology was so eerily similar to Daevite beliefs. She knew it intimately, because she used to be a Daevite herself—once a Highborn Daevite.

Neo-Sarkic aristocrats believed Ion’s failure to reach ‘Godhood’ was due to his caring nature. They claimed only a select few deserved the gift—so the power wouldn’t be diluted by the ‘peasantry.’ Just as Daevites keep arcane knowledge reserved for the uppermost echelons, born into wealth and privilege, while the lower classes slave away in suffering and toil. Irony at its finest.

A bitter chuckle bubbled from the injured Karcist. Her voice was hoarse, but her words carried venom. “Was it worth… it? Was living like animals, hunted down… hiding in shadows… when we could have been gods? Was it… worth all the pain?”

Lovataar bit her lip, her thoughts torn between her own suffering and the suffering she had witnessed across the ages. She felt the gentle hand of Saarn, like a sister to her, as she nodded softly toward the exit.

“Taar, we have to go,” she whispered.

Lovataar exhaled deeply, gazing at the monstrous figure that was once her energetic pupil, the one who had sought to do good. Now, he gave her his final answer as she raised a clawed hand.

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes, weary and melancholic, as her mentor struck her down with a final blow.

Karcist Halyna Ieva, the Flesh That Ate, gazed from her balcony at her twisted creations in her chamber.

Dozens of her vile flesh-crafted minions writhed and contorted in various shapes and sizes, loyal only to her. Using her mastery of lihakut’ak—the art of Sarkic fleshcraft—she caused rapid growth, molding them into grotesque forms.

Once, she had been one of the followers of Grand Karcist Ion. She tore across Asia Minor from Miletus to Troy during the Great War of Flesh and Bronze.

An old soldier of the Kalmaktama, she had been Orok’s right hand—feared and hated by many. Even Ion and the other Nälkäns kept their distance, for she was a cruel warmonger who dismissed Ion’s ideals, believing only in making the world suffer for its wrongs.

Nälkäns had warriors and were no strangers to bloodshed. But she raised the brutality to another level. The sneered title of “Faithful Heretic” suited her—an insult paid with fear and revulsion.

She often spared none of her conquests, taking soldiers into her halkost—the flesh-altering chamber—where they paid a toll in flesh. Usually, that meant losing toes, which is why some of the captured denizens of the Demon Realm, before their transformation, had their toes forcibly removed.

Her Sarkic followers watched her work with reverent fascination. Many had their feet or legs forcibly taken—often by her own hand—and cursed with flesh magic in loyalty’s name: human hands, large tumors, fluid sacs capable of pseudopodial extension, club-like osseous protuberances, tentacles, or a single, large human foot with all toes removed. Some even had black hair twisted into the shapes of limbs, a testament to her twisted craft.

To this day, her name was a taboo among the devout—spoken only in whispers or cursed in fear.

But monsters were made—not born.

Before she became the Mother Who Demands One’s Toes, Halyna Ieva was once a slave of the Daevites. Though she was eventually saved, the cruelty of her masters forever tainted her soul, ripping away whatever shred of innocence she once possessed. She sculpted not for life, but for war—paving a bloody path of destruction against Mekhanites, Daevites, and other empires. So feared was she that the Mekhanite called her "The Scourge of Iron."

Even among the Nälkän, she found no true companionship. Everyone either feared or hated her for the brutality she wielded—brutality she had learned from her Daevite masters from a young age. The only person she ever truly allied with was Orok. Before joining Ion, he was a barbarian warlord, and they shared a bond rooted in the brutal truth: Ruthlessness was a mercy upon ourselves.

But then… everything changed .

The Archons, ever spiteful of Yaldabaoth’s minions, cursed her with everlasting immortality. She watched as every bloodstained deed she committed for Kalmaktama turned to dust. Like all empires before it, her world crumbled—civilizations rose and fell, entire worlds turned to dust. She outlived every friend, every family—across countless eras. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she fought, her curse would not lift. All her attempts at suicide failed—only fueling her misery. She was as unkillable as the legendary Tarasque.

The Neo-Sarkics, recognizing her ruthlessness, gathered around her like maggots circling a rotten carcass. Their fake companionship was bitter, filling her instead with revulsion. She was not accepted by the Nälkän—yet now, in these modern times, she found a hollow kind of acceptance among these wretched filths—something she secretly carved out for herself. She despised them, and yet they were too useful to abandon. It was only natural— monsters gathering around the biggest one.

As she reflected in her carnomancy, a strange, unbidden thought crept in—something she couldn’t quite shake. The grief-stricken, teared look of the Blight girl made her pause. She’d killed many families, ripped apart lovers, but that face… that particular despair stirred something long buried. It reminded her of herself—of a time of innocence, before Ion, before the Daevites, before everything. When she was a young girl, filled with life and light, in a village with her family and her lover. All of it was taken from her when the Daevites razed her home and burned her village to ash… The horrors they inflicted on her and those she loved were better left unspoken.

And now… she, her followers, and her so-called allies— they were the Daevites. The Witch was her.

Ieva suppressed a shiver, shook her head. It was too late for her. Her soul had been damned a long time ago.

“Until you are done. You’ll never know peace.”

The taunting words of the Archons still ring in her head.

She muttered to herself softly “Stars fall. They must.

I am no star. I am the star's guiding servant.

Forgive me, Orok, but I must feed that which must die.”

The night hung heavy over the quiet home, where the rhythmic crash of waves mingled with the growl of distant thunder. Inside, Hunter and Willow, the former allowed out of his hospital entwined in slumber on a couch, their peace a stark contrast to the tempest brewing outside. Moonlight, fractured by storm clouds, cast jagged shadows across the room. A creak echoed—a sound swallowed by the howling wind—as the bedroom door groaned open.

Creaking

A silhouette emerged, its form distorted by flickers of lightning. Two horns on the head walking toward them menacingly, slowly. The floorboards whispered under the weight of the intruders’ steps. 

Hunter stirred, his breath catching as a cold dread seeped into his bones seeing two blue menacingly familiar eyes gazing at him.

He bolted upright, eyes darting across the empty room. Nothing, no one but him and his girlfriend and his sleeping palisman on its nest was there and the door was closed.

Willow murmured sleepily beside him, undisturbed.

 "A nightmare, just a nightmare…" Hunter muttered, his voice taut. He sank back into the pillows, pulling her close. But, before that she saw something on the floor that caused whatever equivalent blood he had in her plant-based body to freeze and his throat as dry as a desert.

It was a small wooden mask with two antler horns on the top and two empty holes for eyes staring at him. It looked like a small wooden version of Belos’s mask.

Chapter Text

Sigurrós Stefánsdóttir, also known as SCP-239, watched helplessly, unable to do anything, as her new friend, the three-eyed woman, was carried against her will inside a flying transport to carry slaves.

Foundation has faced reality benders before, but her? They were terrified of her; the extent of her powers made most green types they faced look pale. So much that they, to restrain her powers, lied about her being a “witch” that needed “spells” and such, and put her in a coma.

For all the talk about the innocence of children, few things were crueler than the mind of a child.

Except, unbeknownst to them, her spirit had ended up in the Demon Realm. How? Maybe because of her love for the Fantasy Genre, so his consciousness may hope for a place that looked like a fantasy setting; thus, why she is here as a specter. Or maybe it was because of the nice lady? Or maybe she imagined her? She was not sure, her mind was uncertain, recalling from that transition.

Yet, the green-eyed witch child could not do anything, and in fact no one could see her; she was not sure how long she had been here since her mind was sometimes in a fugue state.

Somehow, the triclope, “Boscha,” as she calls herself, could see her. The Witch Child did not know why; maybe having to try to enforce her mind hard enough on reality made it so? If so, then it is far harder than simply wishing things when she was in her body.

She didn’t have many friends.

She recalls Laine, SCP-053, a fellow SCP whose anomalous ability tutners people around her into murderous rage, only to then die. Yet her anomaly did not affect her. Both victims of their anomalies isolated, bonded, until they were separated, with Sigurrós simply growing too powerful and Laine used to decrease the containment breaches from a hateful reptile who, for some reason, does not see her as another disgusting creature to be killed.

Did Laine’s anomaly have the inverse effect on the lizard? Or was it something deeper?

Sigurrós liked to think it was the latter.

Sigurrós did not want to lose another friend, even if the friend was rude. She closed her eyes, concentrated, concentrated even more, slowly growing frustrated, she extended her power even more, feeling like she was facing a brick wall.

More. More. More. More. Her will. Walls of reality resisted, yet very small cracks formed, so she kept bringing down her will until…

A small hole was formed.

A long time ago before the Flood…

Adam considered her experiments on life abominable. Their clashing egos, both sides trying to control the other, simply made things top different than another, and while Adam was content where he was, Lilit wanted to explore the world. So they were separated; he moved on with Havah.

She explored the world, saw its horrors and wonders, yet she wanted more. Not power—power is only a means that narrow-minded little men follow until they fall into the abyss; knowledge was everlasting. She wanted to know more, she had to know more so that she could gain strength, and through strength gain freedom.

Finding answers was not easy, especially during the Antediluvian Age. Neither was life. She looked with envy, seeing Adam and her family’s work, seeing how content they were despite not wanting more. Sometimes she wondered if she had made the right choice leaving, only to shrug it off; she could not see herself settling down.

Over time… she got more and more desperate, so one day she did something that Adam would have fervently opposed.

She made a deal. She captured a black goat, sliced its neck, and used its blood to make a pentagram, offering it as a sacrifice, not before mixing it with a snake’s venom to summon the one being that Adam, if he found out, would have condemned her for there was no being he despised more than the Breaker of Light.

She thought the ritual was a dead end; she gave up after waiting and checking so many times, so she almost left, and then…the dead goat moved. Its body jolted up, yet its eyes were still dead. It then began walking unnaturally; it began changing. She did not dare to look back, as a supernatural dread washed over her.

She saw many terrible things in her travels, and yet very few times had she ever felt such unnatural fear, like a deer feeling the gaze of a wolf.

"What dost thou offer?” the voice of the Morningstar came. His tone was not monstrous, not gruff; his voice was sweet like poisoned honey.

Lilit swallowed and said, “I…offer this sacrifice, to ask for knowledge, Brilliant One.”

That did not mean she trusted anything he said: he was called the Father of Liars after all, not because he only told falsehoods, but because he told the most dangerous lies—mixed truths and truths that were tampered with and whose narration changed. She arrogantly thought she could decipher his many secrets and get the better of him, yet in the end…she found only regret.

“Wouldst thou like the taste of honey?” Helel came near her from behind; she could feel his presence, making her freeze. The being somehow got out of the pentagram—how did he do that? This wasn’t the first time she had summoned entities from the other side, and she would not have summoned any of them if she wasn’t certain that she could contain them from doing harm. Yet, the Light Bringer did.

“Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” Lucifer whispered near her eyes, and that made Lilit shiver even more, by him gently touching her neck and hair like someone caressing a rose. She dared not look back. The touch made her feel… scared and yet desirable. It was not the touch of a lover like Adam used to, it was the touch of desire.

Lilit shook herself; she refused to be intimidated. She spoke with steel: “Peace was never my way. I don’t want you to give me knowledge; I want you to bring me to its path!” And then, she looked back—

Things became better. She learned more than ever before. Her life was easier, though not easy; she accomplished more. She met like-minded people like her: Agrat bat Mahlat, Eisheth Zenunim, Naamah.

They were close; they laughed, they rejoiced, they cried together. But then… before she could see it, the rot came.

It was unthinkable at first; it was not sudden but gradual: slowly, her triumphs began tasting like ash; slowly they began doing things their past versions of themselves would recoil from; slowly they became more and more lost in debauchery as they became one of the horrors of the late Antediluvian Age. Lilit didn’t fall as depraved as those she once called her friends, yet she did so anyway.

Once they drank the forbidden knowledge and pleasures from the Fallens, they could not stop sipping it, even though they became less and less human and more and more demon.

Naamah seduced Cain when he was at his lowest and bore a plague upon mankind.

Eisheth became the Tyrant of Gamaliel and became a servant of Yoru.

Agrat… she was not whom she appeared to be; she… she was one of the Fallen all along, sent by the Deceiver to accelerate their fall.

Lilit, at first, tried to justify it, over and over, until she, too, fell into vices as her mind was fogged with denial and excess.

It took the Flood to happen for the lies that Lilit told herself to break, and when she looked in a mirror… she did not like what she saw.

She tried to break, and the Venom of God was ever petty, cursing her voice for it. She used to have such a beautiful voice and had control over it, and since then she could not control the power of her voice anymore, and forever she and her friends were known for their horrors, not as explorers, but as mothers of abominations.

Unknown amount of time later…

A slave, after many tiresome shifts, finally found time to read, searching to learn things that would set him and the other slaves free from their cruel masters. In this library he searched and found interesting books to read.

One of the books Ozirmok found was titleless, as it was destroyed sometime ago; only the name of the author remained.

‘Lilit Bat Asherah’

—--

Addendum: Date [EXPUNGED].

O5-1 threw a very old-looking book on the table so hard that dust rose from it while she was eating a dish of ribs.

O5-1: Wanna try again, Lily?

SCP-336 looked visibly strained.

SCP-336: For the LAST TIME I didn’t teach Ion! I never even met the guy! How was I supposed to know one of my books survived the Flood and got into his hands? I can’t control causality!

O5-1: Can’t blame one for making sure, Eater of Children.

SCP-336: Those were a load of [REDACTED]! I never ate babies or pregnant women!

O5-1: Of course not. You just experimented on pregnant women and turned people into monsters to see what makes them tick, and while doing so let Naamah, Agrat, and Eisheth become putrid, depraved filth without batting an eye.

SCP-336 stayed silent, though still bristling.

O5-1: I don’t believe for a second that you’re the same woman who left her sons for… what? Travel? You’re no symbol of feminism, Lily; you’re just a bitch who only cares about herself, no matter what lines you would cross. I wonder… When Cain came to her gene donor when he was at her lowest, did you help? Or did you just laugh and let that [REDACTED] Naamah seduce him?

SCP-336: Eve I—

O5-1: EVE IS NOT HERE. YOU’RE STUCK WITH ME!

The lights in the room flickered repeatedly, and O5-1 rose, her eyes illuminating with brilliant gold, startling SCP-336 back.

O5-1: I’M NOT SOME DOMESTIC ATTENDANT REPLACEMENT OF YOU! I’M THE FIRST QUEEN OF MANKIND! MODERN HUMANITY CAME FROM ME! I’M THE ONE WHO RAISED HABIL AND QABIL WHILE YOU WERE OUT THERE GOLD-DIGGING TO ANY COSMIC PARASITE WHO PROMISED YOU SOMETHING! THEY WERE MY CHILDREN, NOT YOURS! YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO BE AT ANY OF THEM OR TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THEM WHILE THEY WERE DOWN!

The lights returned to normal, and the golden hue that had grown with each rant faded as O5-1 took a deep breath.

O5-1: Tell me, do you know what Ikunaan is?

SCP-336 rattled out a cautious answer.

SCP-336: Y-yes, it’s the fleshmonger’s idea of paradise.

O5-1: An entity with years of cooperation with the Foundation warning us about possible End of the World scenarios, SCP-990, contacted me and showed me Ikunaan happening. I saw the sky reddened with blood; I saw what happens When Day Breaks, and oh, I tell you… there is nothing paradisal about it—just a corrupted Sun spreading its corruptive light on Earth, then across the universe, tainting life in the name of the Demiurge. He also directed me to you; I also found you did something to SCP-239. Now why did the infamous boogeyman of Jewish mythology care about a kid suddenly? I wonder why.

SCP-336: I told you, I’m not that person anymore! That kid didn’t deserve—

O5-1: Oh really? Empathy? If that child knew half the things you did, she would have recoiled screaming from the mere touch of you, that brings me…

O5-1 then produces a bag, causing SCP-336 to look on in trepidation.

SCP-336: What… is that?

O5-1: Why, it’s your old friend, of course!

She flinched at what she saw.

There were two skulls that looked like human skulls, with teeth jagged and small spikes on the head; in some cases, horns protruding, giving them a demonic look.

O5-1: Recognize your old friends?

SCP-336 visibly looks grieving.

SCP-336: You… you monster…

O5-1: Pot calling the kettle black. If killing these wretches who preyed on humanity for millennia makes me a monster, then you’re their queen.

She then goes back to eating ribs.

SCP-336: Will you stop eating ribs while I’m grieving!?

O5-1: No.

The Esoteric Order of the White Worm, they were, apparently, one of the “good ones,” as if that actually existed.

While amicable Neo-Sarkics were not common, they were not exactly unheard of, as Karcist Varis said, leaving Orok baffled that there is such a thing as good heretics.

Also, because apparently the Order was led by the Hungarian noble family House Ivády (the very word “Nobility” made The Brute of Ion scoff) that, at Lovataar’s behest, would provide temporary shelter while they began negotiations to join the Kalmak­tama Union.

Orok and Varid weren’t alone, of course; not everyone in Hunter’s Lodge fell into depravity—some simply worshipped Orok too much, like fanatics, to follow wherever Orok went. The Orok before meeting Ion would have taken it like any run-of-the-mill barbarian warlord with a huge ego; this Orok, not so much.

The Kalmak­tama Union was Lovataar’s brainchild, intended to make a union between different sects and bridge their differences (unless the said sect traffics with dark deities, enslavement, or the like, in which case they had to go).

By far, the Union has gathered many interesting sects:

The Adytite Survivors, descendants of the survivors of the Fall of Adytum.

Many lesser and obscure sects like Zhurakh Amunai, “Those Who Mend the Flesh”; Anaskara Doth, “The Ones Who Heal with Hands of Flesh”; Velith Ionai, “Children of Ion’s Light”; The Covenant of Roots and Blood; and The Pale Lotus.

Even a few unusual combinations of Sarkicism with other belief systems, such as a Norse-inspired fusion called The Vaśńa of Sarvi; The Darkwater Lodge, mixing with West African religions—descendants of slaves brought to the United States who revolted against their masters; and the Korean Seŭlga, influenced by Korean Buddhism. Even with Abrahamic faiths like Christianity, as in The Divoši (those particular ones being especially ireful to the Horizon Initiative).

Orok, hearing about this Union for the first time, cynically dismissed it, telling Varis that it was a pipe dream—that there would be no unification unless they lowered themselves as conquerors. However, Varis argued that the point of the union was not to create a homogeneous monoculture, but to bridge understanding and tolerance among the different sects, and to ensure basic sentient rights would not be violated. Still, it has caused a stir in the anomalous world, causing GOIs to become alert, especially the eternally rivaled Mekhanites.

Even so, the sects that joined the union were not the stereotypical evil carnomancers that most of the world likes to believe; it didn’t mean there weren’t points of contention and division.

House Kurinuka, for example: They seem relatively benevolent compared to most Neo-Sarkic cults, with goals that are not overtly violent or conquest-oriented, but rather personal power, influence, and survival within modern society. Still, moral ambiguity persists: exploiting business, psychotropic drug usage, internal competition, possibly ethical compromises, which did not sit well with Sects that actively hate aristocracy.

The Freemen, a thought-to-be-extinct sect that believes in making peace with the Mekhanites for mutual aid to mankind. Needless to say, making peace with one of Sarkicism’s oldest enemies—who has stood for thousands of years—was not a very popular proposition among the members.

The Esoteric Order of the White Worm, which Orok and Varis are meeting: their gimmick is that the Foundation noticed a group that donated an unusually high number of food, organs, and blood—often on the rarer end of things to boot, such as O-type blood, which, while compatible with every other blood type, is one of the least common. Hospitals globally have a low supply of it.

Eventually, they discovered that the Sarkic Cult in question, based in Hungary, is openly welcoming to newcomers and shares most of the beliefs of Neo-Sarkic cults, yet remains non-hostile and shows no obvious ulterior motive. It was then revealed that the stuff they constantly donate comes from a tree that literally grows those organs and bleeds human blood. Moreover, the fruits it bears are molecularly made of human flesh, though by all other metrics they are ordinary fruit. Hence, despite there being no overt plans to conquer the world, several elements within the Foundation viewed Sarkic threats as capable of ending them all.

Which is also why what should have been a diplomatic meeting and a temporary reprisal turned into a battle zone.

Elements of the Foundation, instead of asking for permission from Ethics Committees or the O5 Council, allied with the Horizon Initiative extremists to assault the Order and wipe them out once and for all. Too bad for them that they chose this day specifically.

Varis unleashed microorganisms attacking the soldiers; however, these soldiers were immunized and wore protective breather gear, so it was not effective on everyone. He had to rely on his Halkost more.

Hunters fought off the troopers with ferocity.

A helicopter came in to bring more troops, but then, from the mist of the day, a massive shadow appeared, and there the soldiers, in awe, saw The Horned Beast with his baleful one eye gnawing on the helicopter, one hand holding it, then tossing it away until it reached the ground and exploded.

BOOM!

ROAR!

Orok, in his beastly form, roared and moved like a gorilla, his muscular arms swatting and plummeting soldiers left and right despite the massive firepower concentrated on him, with bullets and even a bazooka hitting him.

Suddenly, the air crackled with power and reality spat out a fist, hitting Orok in the face and causing him to stumble before balancing himself and looking at his new enemy.

A man stood about 1.8 meters tall, in his early twenties, with brown curly hair cut short. To untrained eyes, he might look ordinary, but to a Klabvigar he was no ordinary man.

That man was known as SCP-6810 by the Foundation; Orok knew him as– “Dionysus.” He spat. 

Of all the pantheons of parasitic minor deities, why did it have to be the Greek pantheon—one of the most degenerate and self-pitying groups of so-called “gods,” the one he had the displeasure of knowing the most.

“Why, if it isn’t Ion’s Brute! May I say, you look rather skinny after your long sabbatical!” the Greek deity sneered.

Orok merely glared at Dionysus. He had seen his fair share of degenerate gods, and this one, in particular, he hated, for he reminded him too much of who he used to be before Ion: self-absorbed, petty, glory-hounding, and degenerate.

Suddenly, the Brute felt a twitch of pain in his head, making him dizzy. Dionysus took advantage of the moment and jumped on him to attack. To onlookers, it was a giant Sarkic beast fighting a human-sized human.

SCP-6810 is a reality bender, whose abilities include putting people into states of psychosis. In some cases, it has resulted in victims being dismembered by others under SCP-6810’s influence or provoked a subject to harm themselves. Hunters were put into fugue states as well, making them vulnerable to the soldiers, though fortunately each Hunter’s mind had been ironed since childhood, so none turned on each other or self-harmed, and certainly not as a typical human would be.

Orok roared, shook off the effects, and with a roar grabbed the reality bender and threw him to the ground so hard that the Earth cracked.

Dionysus grinned, unharmed. “You’re a tough one, aren’t ya? The Skippers did promise me a proper fight!”

Another of SCP-6810’s abilities is to transfigure victims by deforming their skeletal structure into crude shapes of animals. They sustained internal injuries that should have been lethal, but the subjects remained conscious while reporting profound pain. He touched Orok’s giant hand, and then Orok howled, feeling the bones of his limb transfigured and changing, causing bones to burst from his arms and making him lose his grip on the deity.

Orok snarled as jagged spurs of bone jutted out of his wrist, pale spikes piercing through his own muscle. The air reeked of copper and marrow. Dionysus laughed, a drunkard’s cackle, his eyes glimmering with an intoxication that had nothing to do with wine.

“You should thank me, beast,” the godling mocked, sidestepping a massive swing of Orok’s claw. “I’m making you art. Flesh and bone were never meant to be so… symmetrical.”

Orok’s claws clamped around Dionysus’s torso, and with a roar he slammed the godling into the earth so hard that dirt and concrete buckled. Again. And again. Each impact cracked the ground like artillery fire, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Soldiers stumbled, Sarkic hunters scattered, the fight between them forgotten as two titans clashed at the center.

“Hahahaha! More! MORE!” Dionysus’s laughter was manic, joyous, unbroken even as blood trickled from his mouth. He licked it with delight. “The Skippers were right—you are tough!”

“Puny god!” Orok snarled, hurling Dionysus through the shattered remains of a vehicle, then leaping on him and pounding his fists down like falling meteors. Flesh tore. Bone cracked. The air thundered with every blow.

But Dionysus only laughed louder, rolling with the impacts until he caught Orok’s strike and answered with a punch that caved in the ground beneath them. The shockwave crumpled a nearby armored truck like tin. Another blow hammered Orok’s ribs with tank-crushing force, sending the Brute staggering, coughing black ichor from the torn flesh around his still-mutating arm.

Orok thundered forward, fists hammering down like twin boulders. Dionysus caught one blow, reality bending with a crackle, but the second slammed through his defense, sending him skidding across the ground and tearing deep furrows through the stone.

With a snarl, the Brute followed, leaping high and landing with both fists on Dionysus’s chest. The earth cratered beneath them. Dust erupted in choking clouds.

Dionysus wheezed, then smirked. “Not bad…” His body shimmered, bones snapping back into place as if the world itself rewound his injuries. He caught Orok’s wrist, twisted, and slammed him face-first into the dirt.

Orok roared and surged back up, his skull dented and bleeding, but even as the wound sealed over with steaming flesh, the Klavigar’s eye still burned with hate. He gripped Dionysus by the ankle and whipped him overhead, smashing him against the ground again and again—

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

—like a hammer against an anvil, until the ground split wide and shockwaves sent soldiers and Sarkic hunters fleeing the blast radius.

Varis raised his Halkost, ready to lunge to Orok’s side. But the Brute’s voice cut across the battlefield, iron and command.

“NO! Varis—leave this carrion god to ME! Kill the soldiers! Scatter them!”

For once, the old warlord’s arrogance was tempered with grim truth: Varis was no match for the godling. The Klavigar’s disciple gritted his teeth, then turned his rage against the Foundation troops, hacking through their lines with his blade of living matter.

Meanwhile, Orok and Dionysus’s brawl tore through the Order’s courtyard. Their strikes shattered stone, splintered walls, and churned the battlefield into chaos. Dionysus swung, a fist crashing into Orok’s chest like a wrecking ball, hurling the Sarkic giant through a half-collapsed tower. Before Orok could rise, Dionysus was there, stomping down, cracking ribs that healed only to crack again beneath another blow.

The godling grinned, his eyes lit with mad delight as he swung a punch that split the air with a sonic boom. “Hahahaha! I was the champion of the Third Occult War! I washed away Daevite armies! I defeated Moloch the Terrible!”

Orok spat blood and lunged, seizing the god by the throat. His one burning eye glared into Dionysus’s.

“And yet…” he growled, voice like grinding stone, “…a mere woman killed him while you could not. What does that say about you, Dionysus the Vineyard Vulture?”

For the first time, the laughter stopped. The smirk faltered. The wine-god’s eyes hardened, joviality burned away in a flash of wounded pride.

The fight shifted. No longer playful mockery—it became deadly serious. Dionysus’s strikes lost their flamboyance and grew sharp, efficient, brutal. Orok’s roars deepened, each blow he gave and received threatening to collapse the ruins around them.

And then—

A megaphone’s amplified voice cut through the chaos, trembling with authority.

“SCP-6810—STAND DOWN! This operation was unsanctioned! The O5 Council and the Ethics Committee have already issued censure! Withdraw, immediately! Anyone who does not will face severe punishment!”

The Foundation troops faltered, confusion spreading through their lines while their leaders looked like they were going to walk into their execution chamber as they were called off by the Red Right Hand, the enforcers of O5 Counci. The Horizon Initiative extremists exchanged uncertain looks. Without the Foundation’s backing, they were outnumbered, and retreat was the only option.

Orok’s fists clenched, ready to strike again. Dionysus chuckled softly, blood dripping from his lip as he straightened, unbowed.

“It was fun while it lasted…” he sneered, his grin returning if only slightly. “See you soon, Brute.”

Then, with a ripple of unreality, the godling vanished, leaving only the smell of wine and ozone behind.

Orok stood amidst the wreckage, chest heaving, eye burning. He spat to the side, muttering one word under his breath— 

“Coward.”

Vee slithered left and right in trepidation. She was in a room with glass separating her from the other side. She was imprisoned; her adopted mother, her girlfriend, and likely her friends as well were either imprisoned or being pursued by these “SCP Foundation.” She tried shifting to much fiercer forms, yet her containment room was simply too good. She also tried sniffing for any magical residue that could strengthen her, only to find none. This room was designed to contain her kind, and she had a feeling she was not the only Basilisk imprisoned by them.

Suddenly, the door opened, and from there came the same blonde woman with icy eyes she saw before, walking with a file in her hand, wearing a lab coat, then sitting at the table and opening the file.

“POI-OH-13, also known as Vee Noceda, known previously as Luz Noceda. My name is Doctor Amelia Buck.”

The changeling did not like how clinical and unattached Buck’s tone was, as if she was a specimen instead of a sentient being. Yet… she was glad that it wasn’t the heterochromatic-eyed man. She shuddered at the memory of their fight. That man… Nothing natural was about him.

“POI-OH-13, when disguised as Luz Noceda, did you have anything to do with her temporary disappearance?”

That made Vee bristle. “No! I didn’t cause her ‘temporary disappearance’! Where is my mom and girlfriend? What have you done to them?”

Buck ignored Vee’s question. “From the interviewing of others of the inhabitants of OH-Nx-777, it was suggested that your kind, like cuckoo nests—”

Vee grimaced. It was not just because of the shapeshifting and magic-absorbing ability that made her kind feared and hated in the Demon Realm. Her kind had an unsavory history of planting their children into the families of other sentients, and in some cases the implanted child would take the appearance of the real child while… the real child disappeared.

Even though that practice has been banned for centuries, it was so infamous that there were boogeyman stories. Belos and other Basilisk-haters used that as bullet points to hunt down her kind. She was thankful that Camila didn’t know her race’s past detestable practice on how to raise young back then, because any sane being would have been less open to accepting her.

“No, we don’t practice that if that’s what you mean. And what even is a… 1077, I think?” Vee replied. “And what even is ‘The Adults’? I think I once heard one of your goons carrying calling me that.” Were they some possible distant cousins of the Basilisks, she wondered.

“SCP-1076 are anomalous child-like entities 3–5 years old that compel any nearby adult with living children to take them in. The entity monopolizes caregivers’ attention, leading to neglect of their real children and often the caregivers’ deaths from starvation or disease. Specimens are territorial and will savagely attack each other; they can consume limitless food yet survive without it. And SCP-1788 are adult-like, intelligent, and psychopathic, who blend into cities, hold ordinary jobs, and periodically abduct children to process them.”

Vee gaped and recoiled at the information that was just dumped on her, and the worst part was that the icy woman spoke like she was reading a newspaper. She now realized she would not have been captured but killed on sight if, as the Cheshire man said, they thought her kind was related to these… these…

Vee swallowed and spoke dumbly. “Uh…”

“You can thank me for being one of the cool-headed ones ordering further identification, because plenty of Foundation agents were twitching to shoot your kind on sight if they continued believing you were related to them. While we prefer containment over neutralization, we won’t tolerate the continued existence of beings that threaten a dominant shift with humans becoming breeding cattle,” Buck continued icily. “So… it is in your best interest to cooperate. Do you understand?”

Vee nodded meekly.

Just then, the door opened, and from there came a middle-aged man with a shaggy beard, and with him Camila and Masha.

“Vee!” they both said, rushing forward.

“Thank the Titan, guys, I was worried about you!” Vee put a hand on the glass wall in relief.

Buck got up, coldly reprimanding the man. “Dr. Kondraki, this is my interview—”

Kondraki just dismissed her with a raised hand. “Yeah yeah, it’s not ‘proper’ protocol and all, I know the rules, Ice Queen. This concerns them all and I didn’t want to explain to each of them.”

The said Ice Queen scowled at him and locked her arms.

Kondraki clapped his hands. “Now listen up, ladies, because I’ll not repeat myself! You’re lucky it only ended in your… foreseeable containment.”

“We’re supposed to be thankful!?” Masha growled.

He, without missing a beat, responded: “Yes, be thankful, because most GOIs would have been far less merciful and understanding, the government even less so! Especially since those ugly cases…” He trailed off. “And did you forget the fleshmonger cultists after you? They have a colorful series of ways to bring you to a fate worse than death.”

“Fleshmongers? What is he talking about?” Masha wondered out loud. The adult Noceda was going to answer her, only to be interrupted by the shaggy-bearded doctor.

“Oh wait… you didn’t tell them yet. ANYWAY!”

Kondraki changed the subject so casually that Buck looked like she was going to break her cold expression at any moment, while Vee and Masha shared weird looks with Camila, whose face said, ‘I will explain later’.

“Oh yeah, a few of your kin you let on Earth have tried to bring back that practice—using human families as cuckoo nests—or used their shapeshifting ability to take advantage through identity theft to even outright criminal actions. Of course, not many decide to do so, but well… it was enough to piss a lot of people off or worse, gain the attention of cabals who would be interested in capturing and studying them, or taking advantage of them, or just having them in their little secret club. That’s not even including the Witches and Titanspawn you let in. I mean, one of them had the ire of the Chicago Spirit a few decades ago.”

“And that’s supposed to justify putting us in a box, for not being normal!?” Masha confronted.

He scoffed and gave a glance to Vee.
“You of all people should know by now, you do not need to be born into the anomalous to cause destruction and do the most heinous acts. The crap you gave us for ‘kidnapping’ people for not being ‘normal’? How exactly do you think the alternative should be? Should untrained and inexperienced blue and green types just run around the muck? Do you really think our society would accept beings, even those well-intended, that can kill at will or disguise themselves as their loved ones? How do you think nations of the world would handle having a population that does not fit their established norms and is outside of their control and understanding?

At best, they would just ostracize the anomalous while doing experiments on poor weirdo sods to weaponize them as mere tools, and at worst we would have concentration camps—electric boogaloo Holocaust 2.0!

For example… do you know what the first reaction of the US Government was when they found out there is a ‘Demon Realm’ that used to be ruled by a Neo-Sarkite that can traverse US soil? They asked PENTAGRAM if they could nuke it!”

Vee, Masha, and Camila were taken aback, and the grimace that was shown by Buck seemed to prove it even further.

“And that’s not even including the ones that managed to still keep hidden from us Suits. Heck, there may still even be GOIs that the Foundation has no idea exists, as the discovery of SCP-3790—aka the Department of Abnormalities found in Britain—has proven.”

Buck coldly added, “It took every diplomatic strain for us to stop starting a one-sided 8th Occult War and send witch hunters all around the globe.” At their mention, they recoiled.

“Witch hunters are still a thing!?” Vee squawked.

Kondraki ignored the outburst and continued. “Or Global Occult Coalition sending their exterminators, and trust me, from a guy whose ex-boyfriend was an ex-GOC agent I can confidently tell you, you do not want to be on the GOC’s naughty list. I believe Vevy here met him, so she can attest to that.” Kondraki gestured at Vee.

Vee shivered, recalling the man with the “anti-magic” field that she fought against, and internally wondered what Kondraki was thinking ever dating that. Masha, meanwhile, was worried about how Vee’s experience with this person was that she shivered.

“But… we didn’t mean to…” Vee by this point weakly replied, desperate to defend herself.

Camila, though wavering, still tried to make a strong retort. “We didn’t mean for any of this.”

Dr. Buck, with an air of finality, said with cold eyes: “Intention does not matter, only consequences.”

Chapter Text

Amity sat, holding her knees, watching hauntingly into the darkness.

“Daisy…”

Distorted and glitched forms of Luz, Emira, and Edric sang in unison.

“Daisy…”

Emira and Edric now looked like putrid, rotten corpses that yet defied death by continuing to sing.

“Give me your answer, do…”

Emira and Edric were no more—now it was just the ghost of Luz, her chest ripped open, singing lovingly with her hands together near her face.

“I’m half crazy, all for the love of you…” she cooed, gesturing a heart sign with her hands.

Amity had to get out. She didn’t run—she just walked away.

“It won’t be a stylish marriage…”

Amity sat again in the darkness, yet Luz kept singing, as if the distance did nothing to lower the volume.

“I can’t afford a carriage…” Luz’s form elongated toward her, as if the very perception of reality was distorted.

She saw photos of Willow, Hunter, and Gus on the wall, all of them singing as well.
“But you’ll look sweet upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.”

“Daisy…” Then Luz and the photos disappeared, yet her dead girlfriend’s voice lingered in the air.

“Daisy…”

Amity just stared incomprehensibly into the abyss.

“I’m half crazy…”

She saw the silhouette of a young boy, small and thin, covered in blood. Around him were dead, mutilated slave masters. He stood staring with a blank expression, but with an intense rage in his eyes. Yet… for some reason, she felt the glare was not directed at her.

“Daisy…” One baleful eye looked at her as the abyss stared back.

“Daisy…” More eldritch eyes opened, all fixing their gaze on her. The abyss was not empty, unlike what most philosophers thought.

“̴̡̡̭͓̳̜̹̎͑̒̇̈̑͗̂̀̋͜͝͝D̵̡̟̱̐̋̏ă̸̟̙̥̱̞̪͓̩̙̱͍̹ͅi̷͕̿̋̄̅͐̈́̑͂̄̌̕͘s̴̡̛͉̜͈̤̯̻͙̯̓̈́͋̆̇̄̆y̸̧̡̢̼͎̻̯̰̠̖̤͇̫̰̲̻̖̋͛̾̈́͌̉͌́̕͘.̶̧̨̡̢̮̱̯̞͚̗̻̅̄.̸̨̲͎͓̣̩̙͓͉͖̩̩̣̄̀͂̽̑̎̄͘.̴̡͙͕̩̗̙͝.̵̬̟̙͖̱̘͖̘̏̓͜͜ͅǏ̴̧͈̰̜̣̼̙̼̻̹̀͒̊̾̄͠’̸̮̬͖̮̯̖̪̦̗̯̖͕̙̰̞̳̀m̵̡̛̺̩̯͕̣̺̤̮̻̠͑͒̏͑̊́̄̊̆͆̋͠ ̷̧̲̙͓̦̯͇̺̱͆͌̑̐̅͛͗̈́͐̓̊̄͒͘̚͝h̸̹̱̱͘ͅá̸̛̪̰̿̐̏͜ḷ̸̨̢̯̠̜̭͇̱̫̟̌f̷̨̼̙̰͇͙̤͎̯͕̱͈̪͓̈́̔̈̀̊̾͌̾̽̍̅͛̔̏͆͘͜͝ ̷̞̟̬͈͗č̴̨̡̛̩̫̬̳̥̱͈̞̘̺̂̀̇ȑ̸̛̼̋͘̚͜ͅå̸̧̜̖̝̤̪̬̳̞̞̦̝̤̯̩͓̈́̒͛̈́͂̃̒̈́̽̚͝ͅz̶̡̢̞̬̖̤̜̫͖̼̰̪͈͕̞̜͂̈́̌͜͝ý̴̧̼͇̪̣̹̻̬̘̙̘͈͉̟̈́́̃̑̀͋̽̈́̀̓̋̉.̶̛̼͉̾̒͐̌̊̇̀̈́̏̃̔"̴̝̣̠̯̟͕̬̲͍̄͑̂͋̏̀̈͠

Amity gasped, cold sweat dripping down her face, her breath shaky. By the Titan—what a horrific nightmare. It was just a nightmare… right?

“You awake, Cotton? Good, we’re almost there,” Jeser said. His voice wasn’t beside her physically, but inside her head.

“Where are you? And why do I keep walking!?” She had heard of sleepwalking before, but this was ridiculous. Her body ached from nonstop movement ever since she’d escaped that dreadful imprisonment. She felt weak, drained of energy.

“The Black Wolf, little girl. That leashed dog is still chasing you. Would you rather become dog food? Your mind was exhausted, so I temporarily took over your body while you rested.”

Amity froze at the reminder. The ‘Black Shuck,’ Jeser had called it. A wolf that was no natural beast—its eyes burned red like a furnace, its fur darker than shadow itself, if it even was fur. She’d tried to stop before, to rest and eat, but the creature had appeared again and again. In the end, all she could do was run.

Even with her newfound abilities, she hadn’t been well enough to fight it. She hadn’t eaten. She hadn’t slept. She had only kept moving. Still—

“You took over my body!?” Amity screeched. “I thought you said you couldn’t control my mind!”

“One: I controlled your body, not your mind. Your mind was already sleeping when I stepped in. Two: we have a deal. That bond means I can act when needed,” Jeser said smoothly.

Amity grimaced. She remembered—yes, she had accepted his deal in desperation. But he had never said if he could influence her thoughts. For all she knew, he could hear everything in her head.

That was… future Amity’s problem.

“There. We’re close.”

Suddenly, she stumbled back into control of her body—just in time to nearly trip at the edge of a cliff. Her eyes widened at the sight below.

A statue loomed there, shaped like a doe with horns. Yet it bore none of a doe’s beauty. Its face twisted in a demonic sneer, its stone beak curled like scornful lips. The eyes glared hatefully. The statue was ancient, thorn-vines wrapped around its surface.

Thomp. Thomp. Thomp.

Heavy footsteps shook the forest. Birds scattered. From the trees emerged a house—one that walked on enormous bird legs.

The house knelt before the statue. Its door creaked open. Out stepped two figures: one a hideous, hunched hag, the other an elderly woman graceful even in age.

Amity’s stomach churned. Jeser had been right. These two were spies—traitorous witches who had weakened Hexside’s wards for the Goreblight onslaught, the ones who had kidnapped children. So many had died. Their bodies desecrated. And these women stood at the heart of it.

Her fists clenched. Rage burned in her veins.

The witches knelt at the statue and whispered words. The horns of the doe statue twisted, growing grotesquely. Its body warped into something draconic, glowing red runes searing into its form. Molten veins pulsed across its body as its limbs twitched, its talons scraping stone. The vegetation around it withered and burned away.

“Who summoned me?” a wretched, gravelly voice rasped from its beak.

“It is your humble servant, Baba Yaga, Lady Yoru She-Who-Curses-From-Scornful-Depths,” the hag said reverently.

‘Baba Yaga?’ Amity’s thoughts reeled. Gus and Luz had once joked about that name, saying it was some old Earth boogeyman story. She had thought it was just hateful folklore used to demonize witches. But if Goreblights were real… Why not child-eating boogeymen of Earth too?

The other witch—Amity remembered her being called Beatrice, if that was even her true name—spoke up. “Couldn’t we have kept a few of them? My vial needs filling. This perfection you see—” she gestured at her face “—can’t stay forever. And you, of all beings, are awfully restrained for someone with a reputation for eating children.”

CLANK!

In an instant, the draconic doe’s talons snapped Beatrice up and slammed her into the ground.

“Mind in whose presence you speak!” it snarled, metallic feathers bristling, serrated teeth flashing in its beak.

“My… apologies… my lady…” Beatrice wheezed, pinned under its crushing grip. Baba only scoffed at her fellow witch’s humiliation.

“What do you offer, my loyal servant?” the monstrous doe asked, turning back to Baba Yaga.

The hag nodded and unveiled a covered bundle.

Amity’s stomach lurched. Inside was a head. A severed human head—ugly, rotting, and blinking. Blinking.

“I bring you the head of one of your devotees: the Beast of Brownsborough. Before her death she praised you and Lord Moloch, and cursed that town with stillbirths and plague until it became nothing but a ghost settlement. The vile jailers tried to claim her, but I found her first.”

The doe inspected the head. To Amity’s horror, it pecked at it experimentally, as if tasting. She had to press her hand over her mouth, green with nausea.

“A worthy offering. But that’s not all you’ve brought, is it?”

Baba Yaga raised her hand. Amity’s blood froze. From the walking house shuffled the kidnapped children, blank-eyed, moving like puppets on strings.

“Children,” Baba intoned. “All gifted. Some even spawns of the Dead Giants, each carrying a spark of their potency.”

“Excellent. You have done well.” Somehow, the doe’s beak twisted into a smirk.

Amity nearly leapt from hiding, but Jeser shoved her back under the cliff’s edge.

“Not yet.”

“Then what do you expect me to do!?” she hissed furiously. “Even if I wasn’t burned out, I can’t fight two peak witches and a draconic doe!”

“I’m waiting for the right time, when they—”

Her blood ran cold. Beatrice was suddenly in front of her. Amity hadn’t seen her move—she must have slipped away while Amity’s eyes were fixed on Baba and the statue.

The witch hovered on a giant spoon, floating effortlessly.

“…I’m guessing your name isn’t really Beatrice, is it?” Amity managed to mutter.

“My name is Totenkinder,” the witch said, voice low and amused. “Though I’ve had many names.”

She flicked her wrist. A fireball burst forth. Amity dove, raising a wall of dirt to shield herself from the blast.

“It seems you have an intruder, my loyal servant,” the draconic doe intoned.

“She is of noble blood,” Baba informed her patron.

“Good. Prepare the ritual.”

Baba Yaga ordered the children to follow her instructions.

At some point during the clash, Amity and the woman she had once known as ‘Beatrice’ engaged directly: Amity bent earth into armor around herself and hurled huge rocks, while the latter answered with blasts of fire. One of the rocks struck the vial that Totenkinder carried, knocking it free. It hit the ground; the glass didn’t shatter, but the lid popped open and its contents spilled out.

Totenkinder snatched at the empty glass with incomprehension—until she flew into a rage and crushed the very vessel with her hand. “LITTLE TURD!” she screeched, and then unleashed a flurry of savage attack spells that tore through Amity’s armor and sent her crashing into a tree. Totenkinder bolted forward, grabbed Amity’s hair, and—levitating—punished her against the branches until Amity jammed an armored hand into the witch’s grip and freed herself. The branches slowed Amity’s fall, lessening the damage.

“Help…” Amity whispered for Jeser, but there was no response.

Totenkinder landed again, gliding down on the giant floating spoon that once belonged to the head witch in her living days. Her glare was cold and murderous as she advanced on the lavender-haired girl.

“No more fighting. Let me just end your life. It would be easier—no more running, no more anything… just death!” Totenkinder grinned, the smile stripped of any warmth from her Hexside ‘granny’ persona, and drew a dagger.

“Hold. I sense a familiar presence in her,” Yoru commanded. She descended with a bolt of shadow and landed near Amity, seizing her by the throat and forcing guttural gurgling sounds from her. Amity was too close to the doe’s draconic features—the beak, the metallic feathers, the hot breath.

“Jeser, I thought I smelled your filth. What scheme are you playing at, prince of wretches?” Yoru’s avatar sneered at Jeser’s.

They were not truly present in this form—their physical forms here were only avatars; if they had manifested fully, this land would have been obliterated by now.

Jeser’s avatar phased out of Amity’s body with serpentine grace. “Why, Lady Yoru, it’s a pleasure to hear a familiar voice once more,” he said, his tone a honeyed venom.

The doe spoke dryly. “Ever the charmer. What exactly did you hope to accomplish against me and my acolytes with a strained and tired mortal?”

The viper’s faux-mocking innocence: “I was actually counting on the Black Wolf—that thing ordered to kill anything in its path—to track the prey, or at least that I’d leave breadcrumbs for a few of her friends.”

“Did what?” Totenkinder asked.

The earth answered the beast before it showed itself—low, reverberating stamps that set leaves shivering. Birds exploded from the trees in ragged clouds. Then the Black Shuck broke from shadow like a living hole in the world: a massive wolf, fur black as wet void, eyes molten and hungry. Its howl rolled through the clearing like a bell for the dead.

Yoru’s avatar watched, amused. Her voice, thin and bright as cutting glass, floated down to the witches. “Ah. The hound has arrived. It knows its orders: kill the girl. Kill anyone foolish enough to stand in its way.”

The Black Shuck lunged, faster than its bulk suggested. Baba Yaga’s fingers flew to her mane; her hair uncoiled and lashed out—snaking wires of fibrous black like living ropes. They wrapped and tightened around the wolf’s flank. The beast snorted and fought, muscles bucking; the witch’s hair wound like steel. But the Shuck only snarled louder, a sound that made the skin on Amity’s arms lift.

“Move, children!” Baba snapped, eyes never leaving the beast. The entranced kids drifted together like a single clockwork: small feet fell into circles traced in black vine and ash, their faces blank, ritual knives in small hands.

At the edge of the clearing, a rustle—two new shapes, one broad and sinewed, the other smaller and defiant—rounded the trees and appeared in a flash.

“Hunter?!” Amity breathed, half-hoping, half-dismissing it as dream.

Hunter pushed through brambles, crossbow leveled. Beside him, Eda swaggered out, staff in one hand, hair a ragged gray halo. She stopped in the doorway of the trees, took in the scene like a grinning hurricane. “Well, well,” she said, voice full of acid merriment. “You give us witches a bad name.”

Baba’s face folded into a snarl. “None of you pretenders are real witches!” she shrieked, and her hair lashed like a nest of barbs, aiming for Eda with furious precision.

Hunter darted forward between the circled children, bolts already notched. “Snap out of it! Fight it!” His voice was sharp, urgent—but the children’s eyes stayed glassy, their limbs rooted by whatever binding spell had braided the vines. The Black Shuck sidestepped a coil and reared to strike at Hunter. He rolled under its head as jaws closed where his chest had been a heartbeat before.

“Normally I’m a big wolf fan,” Hunter shouted, launching a bolt into the beast’s flank, “but I’m not fan enough to be eaten by one!” The bolt sank into shadow fur and fizzed like a spark on oil. The Shuck howled, more furious than wounded.

Amity didn’t wait; she was back in the fight with Totenkinder. Earth rose at her command—cragged spires, a flanged armor folding over her forearms. Totenkinder answered with a cone of searing smoke and bullets of iron-hot flame, eyes like coal. They traded strikes, the air between them a ragged weave of stone and heat. Every step Amity took sent dust pluming; every cast from Totenkinder smelled of old metal and rot.

High above them, the statue of Yoru sat sentinel—wings half-closed, metallic eyes gleaming. One feather loosened and fell with a whisper. Where it struck the earth it did not shatter; it uncoiled, folded, and multiplied—dozens of smaller metallic does, each a sharpened silhouette of horn and wing, spun down like living scythes. They sliced at the edges of the clash, tearing wards and nicking flesh. Eda swore, planted a glyph, and spun her staff to shield Hunter as a blade-feather hissed past his shoulder.

Baba’s voice climbed into guttural, ancient syllables; the ritual was hunger itself, building. She raised both hands and the children obeyed: knives rose, tiny trembling blades pressed at tender throats. The clearing froze.

“Stand down, or the little turds die!” Baba’s hiss came threaded with venom. Her hair tightened around the Shuck as though to strangle it into obedience—its teeth bared, a tremor running through its massive shoulders.

For a wild second, everyone was a statue. The Shuck, snarling, was briefly held—Totenkinder’s containment spun a ring of ether at its paws. Amity’s lungs burned. The memory of Luz drifted sharp and terrible through her mind. She felt an animal panic like falling—she had failed, before. She felt the old grief like claws.

“I can’t… not again,” she whispered, the words barely leaving her lips. Tears pooled and burned at her eyes. “I already failed Luz and my siblings…”

Hunter edged forward, lowering the weapon, all softness behind his roughness. “Amity— they’re—” He could not finish. Something in his throat stuck; his voice turned to sand. 

Unknown to him and everyone, Jeser briefly switched to his body and stopped him from saying it.

Eda’s eyes—sharp, cunning—cut to the center of the circles. There, as the black vines crawled and the runes pulsed, a horrid thing squatted on a spiderweb of root and sigil: the blinking head of the Beast of Brownsborough. It was wrapped in the ritual’s core, mouth twitching, a blade of blackness coiled through its jaw. The sight froze a laugh halfway out of Eda’s throat… and then she found her grin.

“Well, if there’s ever been a time for the ol’ Clawthorne touch,” she said, lounging sideways on her staff like a person about to break a bad habit.

Without ceremony she drew a small canister and flung it into the heart of the ritual. Smoke billowed. 

Baba and Totenkinder laughed—horrid, contemptuous sounds. “A smoke bomb? Did you think childish tricks would stave our work?” Baba spat.

Eda’s grin widened, cruel and pleased. “This isn’t ordinary smoke, hag.” She winked at Hunter. “Flammable, remember?”

Hunter vanished in a blur of motion—a blink-and-you-miss teleport—and reappeared over the mist, a tiny flame bright between his fingers. He brought it down like a match to tinder. The smoke, thick and oily, caught, and the head shrieked when flame licked its face. The black vines convulsed; the sigils spluttered. The children’s knives clattered to the earth as the binding vines blackened and withered. One by one their bodies sagged; they fell unconscious, limp as dolls.

Totenkinder’s scream was a raw thing. The Shuck burst its containment then—the freed beast a cataclysm of teeth and shadow. It reared and surged, the clearing a blur of fur and flying debris.

The ritual’s backlash tore space thin. The ground at the ritual’s center split open like a mouth. A rift oozed, a mirage of otherness unfolding: through it, in dreadful, dark clarity, the shadow of Earth—cities, seas, a sky—hung like a bleeding wound.

Baba Yaga’s face twisted with fury and triumph. “This isn’t over,” she spat, her hair whipping like lashes. “We will not be denied!” With a snarl she and Totenkinder dove toward the rift; the walking house leaned and clattered to follow, its legs beating the earth like tub-throbbing drums.

Amity, lungs burning, heart a hammer, shoved herself to her feet. The sight of the rift, the fleeing figures—her resolve snapped like a thread. “You will not escape. I’ll—” She leapt. Rage and grief powered her forward.

“Amity, WAIT!” Hunter barked, but the rift corkscrewed and sealed shut like a hand over a hole. It closed with a sound like the last breath of a drowned thing. The witches were gone. Amity’s fingers scraped empty air.

The battlefield answered with violence. The freed Black Shuck, in its panic and fury, lunged at Hunter—its maw catching him square in the chest. For a heartbeat the world narrowed to teeth and night.  As the wolf suddenly turned to smoke and entered him. Then something stranger occurred: the wolf’s shadow slid across Hunter, and a pressure, like falling through ice, crushed him down. He convulsed and went still, lips blue, eyes fluttering. An awful, strangled cry left his throat. He was down.

Eda dove to him, slapping his face, frantic. “Hey—wake up! Kid, you hear me?” She smacked him till her hand stung. Nothing. “Dammit—Willow’s gonna kill me!” She stopped, panic rebounding against a new fear.

She spun and faced the statue of Yoru with a fury raw and personal. “You were watching. You watched and you did nothing! Why?”

The draconic doe’s metal beak quirked into what was almost a smile. Its voice was a dry, dangerous amusement. “Why intervene? The curse that claws at you, little owl—the deformity your sister purchased in secret—was molded by my followers. It is mine. You belong to me.”

Eda’s answer was a raw laugh that soured in her throat. “That’s the biggest bull-” 

Yoru flexed her wings like a cat stretching. Pain flamed across Eda’s ribs—sharp, breaking. The world folded in on itself. Bones screamed and shifted as feathers burst from the skin of her arms with teeth-grating, sickening noise. Her face blurred and lengthened, her shoulders popped in fountains of white pain. She fell, keel-over, a choked scream tearing out of her chest while the curse took temporary, hungry purchase on her.

Eda thrashed and clawed at the new agony until her hands were slick with sweat. Then, after a long, heaving moment, the worst receded. She lay panting, lungs on fire, skin cool with a sheen of fever. The transformation had been aborted—punctured—but the memory of it lingered: the taste of feathers, the ache of wrong joints.

Yoru hovered in the statue’s shadow and brushed the air with a wing as if dusting it off. “You and your sister are mine. One day your devotion will thrive under me. You will serve me—and your talent will eclipse even that hag that worships me. Greater than Baba Yaga herself.” Her voice fell like a promise and a threat both.

She beat her wings once—an eruption of wind—and then she was gone, a streak of polished metal disappearing into the black like a meteor.

Eda dragged herself up, hands trembling, and scooped Hunter into her arms. He was warm for a moment and slack—a boy who had been slammed into darkness. She spat into the dirt. “Titan’s blood,” she muttered. “This… this goes deeper than we thought.”

Around them, the clearing smelled of burned smoke and metal, of trampled earth and the iron tang of blood. The fallen children lay quiet and breathing, Eda’s smoke trick having saved them for now—but the cost had been monstrous. The wolf was loose, Hunter was down, a rift had opened and swallowed the witches, and the doe’s final words had seeded something poisonous in Eda’s mind.

The tavern was dim, warm, and humming with chatter. Dimitri leaned back in his chair, boots propped against the edge of the table, swirling amber liquid in his glass. Across from him, Bright was halfway through retelling some wild half-true story, his grin crooked, his drink already half gone.

“— admit it! The snake lady fancied me!”

Dimitri laughed “Oh please! She barely was tolerating you! If anything, my Sarkic date fancied me evident by her flirting!”

“I would say that was just her way of showing affection!” Bright huffed amusingly.

“For once,” Dimitri said, chuckling, “I think we might actually get to enjoy a night without things exploding, bleeding, or—”

The air above their table split like torn fabric. Reality folded in on itself with a wet crack. A rift spat sparks and shadows, rattling every mug on every table. Patrons screamed and scrambled away.

Out of it tumbled Amity. She hit the wooden floor hard, rolling onto her side, unconscious. Her clothes were torn, her face bruised, and her knuckles still clenched as if she had been fighting when the rift spat her out. Blood smeared faintly against the tavern floorboards.

The rift snapped shut as abruptly as it had come, leaving nothing but silence and a faint acrid smell of ozone.

Dimitri sat forward, wide-eyed, staring at the battered lavender haired girl sprawled between their boots. Slowly, he turned to Bright.

Bright lifted his hands in mock innocence. “Don’t look at me! My wish was for a chainsaw sword or living Pokémon. Not an elf girl!”

For a beat, the two men just looked at each other over the wrecked quiet of the tavern.

A middle aged doctor fell dead with his eyes bulged out and mouth opened.

“Apologies accepted, Doctor.” O5-1 coldly told the now dead doctor.

Idiots, so much missed the ‘Good Old Days’ where they could cross-test SCPs without much compliant, waste D-class like flies for any ego-driven project and do whatever cruel twisted experiments with the excuse of “Cold not Cruel” that they joined forces with religious zealots to kill one of the few confirmed non-hostile Sarkic Sects causing a diplomatic incident over their sheer stupidity, not to mention they asked SCP-6810 which the containment for that decadent glory-hound godling was non-existitance the same being that massacred a whole MTF that was sent after him for containment and told Foundation to leave him and yet this idiots were stupid enough to tempt him to join in by promising a chance to fight Orok and now she has the Hero of the Third Occult War to worry about, except nothing about him is heroic.

Her only regret was not being able to revive the moron she just ended his life so that she could kill him once more. it seems she was being too merciful on these anti-reformist parties, that had to be corrected.

Eve looked coldy at the Red Right Hand commander and said “Report”.

“We killed all but one of them.”

“What happened to the last one?”

“Wussed out and killed himself.”

Eve contemplative thought then ordered “There are still cleaning to do commander. The Horizon Zealots that swayed these idiots to their side, just happened to be in contact with Rockwell and his little cult in the past. I want you to search around if there were any informant moles, if possible capture them for interrogation then kill them or if not terminate them and their cahoots with prejudice.”

“Wouldn’t the Ethics Committee object?

“Let them moan.” She hissed.

Chapter Text

“This is pointless!” Luz exasperated, flailing her hands up. She had been staring at her fingers for three hours, yet couldn’t recreate the extra digit she had once grown by accident—just as Dox instructed her. Frustration bubbled inside her. She had followed all of his bizarre methods: staring at her own hands for hours, meditating (which, as you can imagine, was nearly impossible for someone with her imagination), and even spending entire hours just glaring at her reflection. At one point, Dox had even suggested hallucinogens, but she didn’t trust him enough to take any potion from him.

What was the point of all these exercises? She wasn’t anywhere close—by any margin—to regaining her abilities. And she couldn’t just sit here wasting time while her friends were missing, comatose, or kidnapped, like Amity, or—!!!

The door creaked open. Dox entered after his work, as if sensing her frustration. The multi-handed goreblight was as unsettling as ever—yet undeniably impressive. One time she saw him with a pair of his arms adjusted equipment while another scribbled notes. Antennae with blinking eyes twitched on his back, studying samples of the Scylla’s sickness, while his remaining arms stirred a potion linked to the Blood Spruce outbreak. The sight was freaky… but also undeniably fascinating.

On the bright side, he had delivered on his promises. Dox had stabilized the patients and developed a vaccine against Ieva’s microbes. He claimed he was close to creating a cocktail strong enough to stop the spread of the Blood Spruces, a claim Willow herself confirmed.

Things had been tense ever since that blighted night of the Goreblights’ attack. Aldor buried himself in security upgrades and mechanical projects as his coping mechanism for his two kids being in comas and another kidnapped. At least Darius was around to stop him from working himself to death.

Principal Bump uncovered who had lowered the protective wards and abducted the children: the new teacher, Beatrice, and one of the cooks, Dobra. Luz had only met them once—Beatrice had seemed pleasant enough, but Dobra had given her the creeps, with her hag-like features and prehensile hair that made Luz think of spiderwebs.

When their treachery was revealed, search parties had been sent after them, but the trail went cold, forcing everyone to spread out.

Eda, with her con-artist instincts, and Hunter, skilled at tracking, were also dispatched. Eda resisted at first—she didn’t want to leave Dox out of her sight—but in the end, she couldn’t let the kidnapped children suffer. Lilith promised to keep an eye on Dox while Eda went.

Luz had wanted to join them, but… she was still struggling to understand her new state, let alone track anyone. And after learning the fleshcrafters sought King, the last living Titan, Eda told Luz and Lilith to watch over him in case Dox revealed “his evil intentions and sucked King’s blood like a juiced-out blood apple,” as Eda so eloquently put it.

Still, Luz wasn’t stupid. She could tell another reason was that some feared she had been compromised. Maybe the staff of Ion had programmed something inside her that would activate at the right time. She could see it in their eyes: they thought she was a ticking time bomb. That’s why, except for a very select few, no one knew she sometimes… heard Ion’s voice in her head. It wasn’t often, nor clear, but if anyone found out, she risked being strapped to a cell—or worse, to a patient’s bed like a walking plague.

Lilith buried herself in her studies, poring over records in the library for days without sleep.

Willow, meanwhile, focused on the Blood Spruce problem, working alongside Dox—partly to keep an eye on him. She carried guilt for Hunter’s coma, knowing it had been her attempt to free him from Ieva’s control with plant magic that left him so vulnerable. After witnessing Scylla’s destructive phytomancy firsthand, Willow began questioning herself… and her magic.

Dox’s aid in helping Hunter recover earned him a cautious measure of Willow’s trust. Surprisingly, they seemed to get along.

Luz once stumbled upon them in the Botanist’s section, overhearing a fragment of their conversation.

“—just because she misused phytomancy doesn’t mean it’s inherently corruptive,” Nadox said.

Luz pressed herself against the door, eavesdropping.

“Anyone can kill someone with a kitchen knife,” he continued. “Does that make the knife evil?”

Willow’s reply came sharp and bitter. “It’s not just that horrible goreblight miss tentacle. Terra Snapdragon, the head of the Plant Coven under Belos, was a monster. She delighted in tormenting students, and after Belos’s fall, she led a handful of Belosites, declaring herself the new ‘Empress of the Boiling Isles.”

Luz frowned. Belosites—a derogatory name for those still loyal to Belos, or clinging to his warped ideology even after it was revealed to be a genocidal farce. Lilith and Hunter themselves had suffered the occasional snide ‘Belosite’ from extremists too blinded by hatred to see the difference between loyalists and those who had renounced Belos, fortunately they were rare and rarer even more year by year.

Nadox spoke again. “The Daevites wielded plant magic to an extent beyond imagining. They could have ended famines, transformed deserts into forests. But they didn’t. Because power doesn’t corrupt—it reveals the true nature of its wielder—”

Luz’s eavesdropping was cut short when a demon and a witch passed nearby. Panicking, she shifted awkwardly, waving her hands as if to pretend she hadn’t been listening at all.

As if all of that wasn’t enough reason for Willow to have issues, that wooden Belos mask had just appeared out of nowhere with no explanation. Both she and Hunter were spooked, and their friends had grown tense.

At first, everyone assumed it was a poor attempt at a prank. But no one found any signs of intrusion, not even a trace of magic—almost as if it had simply manifested out of thin air.

Meanwhile, Luz couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the Bat Queen and her colony. They lived in the forests now ravaged by invasive blood-sucking spruces, yet not a trace of them could be found. It didn’t take a genius to connect their disappearance with everything else happening.

“Troubled thoughts?”

Luz blinked, snapping back at the sound of Dox’s voice. She realized she had spaced out.

“Sorry, I was… just had a lot on my mind.”

“I can imagine that,” he replied calmly.

“It’s just…” she sighed. “No offense, but I feel like your training isn’t leading me anywhere. I’m not even good at meditating—especially with how restless my mind always is.” Frustration sharpened her tone.

Dox sat beside her. “The point isn’t to suppress your mind, but to let it flow—like a river. To channel the current.”

“Yeah… the Dark Man did say I’m impulsive.” She dragged a hand down her face.

Dox’s eyes narrowed, intrigued. “Are you still in contact with him?”

“It’s… hard to explain. From what I can tell, it’s like trying to watch someone through a peephole in the dark.” She tried to articulate her meaning. “And a lot of the time I forget details afterward. Like how you forget a dream as soon as you wake up.”

The multi-armed Sarkic hummed thoughtfully, then asked,
“Have you heard the phrase ‘mind over matter’?”

The Dominican girl nodded.

“For the Nälkä, it isn’t just metaphorical—it’s literal. First, you must master yourself. Make your mind influence your body: every organ, every cell. Nälkä children are usually taught carnomancy early. It’s one of the hardest arts to master, but children, being more malleable, often learn faster than adults.”

“So you’re saying… There's no shortcut? That it could take me years to master this?! I don’t have ages to—!”

“Let me finish.” The Sarkic raised a hand calmly, stoic as stone.

Luz flushed in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“You are a special case. You practiced magic for years. Even without the organ, that potential is still in you—dormant. Experienced thaumaturges can learn carnomancy faster, though the margin varies. Sometimes the nature of their magic conflicts with it. But you… you were touched by one of the deities of these lands.”

“Another thing I don’t get,” Luz pressed. “This Nälkä religion of yours is about reaching apotheosis, right? Doesn’t that make you… basically like gods?”

“Most gods never experienced mortality. And like rulers everywhere, most are more concerned with keeping the status quo than improving it.”

“Yet you didn’t seem hostile toward King,” Luz noted. “I’m pretty sure your Dark Messiah—who sometimes telephones my mind like a boogeyman—doesn’t exactly think highly of gods. His stick reacted badly to the King, and from what little I gathered, he hates all gods, period.”

He shrugged. “I’m not going to hate someone for something they can’t control. Ion, for all his brilliance, is still fallible—like all men. Hard as it may be to believe, I’m not a fanatic. I joined because his words held truth, not empty promises and Ion always encouraged his followers to ask questions.”

Luz studied with him. Dox was clearly well-educated, even philosophical, which made it hard to imagine him as some blind cultist following a charismatic leader burning villages for funsies. Then again… Lilith was also brilliant, and even though she had been fooled by Belos’s lies, so was herself.

Instead of pushing further on that, Luz asked something else. “You said apotheosis is about defeating death. But then… why frown upon beings who already have immortality? Like Titans or Archivists? Isn’t immortality by definition excess?”

Dox chuckled. “That reminds me of the Seŭlga. They share many Nälkä ideas but believe immortality itself is a form of excess. To them, morphing flesh for the sake of extending life dooms the soul to resemble Māra.”

“Māra?” Luz tilted her head. “I’m guessing that’s connected to the Gnostic deity… Yalda—Yaldy—”

“Yaldabaoth,” Dox corrected.

“Yaldabaoth, yeah! Speaking of, what’s the relation between that and Kahar—”

“DON’T SAY HIS REAL NAME!”

The sudden outburst startled Luz. Dox bolted upright, clapping a hand over her mouth before she could finish the name.

He quickly drew back, his expression softening. “My apologies. But you must understand—names hold power. Do not speak to them so carelessly.”

The Dominican girl swallowed nervously. “Uh… okay. So then… what’s the relation between you-know-who and the demiurge?” 

“For that,” Dox said, lowering his voice, “we must start from the beginning.” He raised his hands and cast an illusion spell.

Eda paced outside after delivering Hunter to the healers.

She hated this. Hunter was in a coma—again—this time because of her. That black wolf had literally smoked its way inside him (hence the restraints), and Willow was going to be furious. At least the kids were safe… but that wouldn’t soften the blow.

And then there was the other problem. If what that demonic bird statue said was true, both she and Lilith were cursed—destined to belong to some draconic hag. She hadn’t spent years defying Belos just to become a slave to another dark goddess. Lilith would not take the news well. Eda could already imagine her sister interpreting it as penance for her past sins, maybe even doing something stupid to “repent” that would damn only herself.

Ever since they told their parents the truth, Lilith had been carrying that weight. Their parents hadn’t disowned her, even forgiven her in time, but Lilith never forgave herself. She couldn’t forget the look on their faces when they realized their daughter had cursed her own sister out of jealousy, or that Eda’s rampages—even blinding their father in one—were rooted in that curse which her own sister cast.

And now Eda had another worry: her “dumb kids” (yes, even grown, they were still her dumb kids) getting chummy with goreblight baldy. Luz most of all—sometimes talking to the Dark Man as if to thin air. Sometimes even asking him questions.

“Halkost? That’s what they’re called?

‘Deathless?’ A bit optimistic, don’t you think?

…‘Beautiful?’ Since when—oh, I see. Denying the limits of the human form is the highest goal of all who resist the gods.”

Eda groaned, rubbing her temples. The last thing she wanted was for Luz to get converted into some twisted cult.

Even now, she struggled to believe half this nonsense about “anomalies,” “secret societies,” and Earth having magic. She’d smuggled Earth goods for years and prided herself as an infamous con-artist who’d earned Belos’s personal ire. If there were weirdness on Earth, surely she’d have noticed. …Though, there was that one time with the Chicago Spirit gang, when she fled to Vegas and ended up marrying a rather dashing man—only to steal his car. But hey, what happens in Vegas stays—

CLEAK!

The door slammed open.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY HUBBY IS IN A COMA AGAIN?!” Willow roared, storming in with glowing green eyes. Vines sprouted from the floorboards, writhing with her fury. The nurses scattered in panic.

Eda sighed. ‘Yep. Willow’s gonna kill me.’

Lilith rubbed her forehead, exhausted from nonstop study. Ancient books, old scrolls, pictures she’d taken of symbols and murals from the Corpse City excavation—all of it was scattered around her. She cross-referenced the ancient writings with translations she had managed to piece together, the scribbles of her notes covering every surface.

At first, she had considered organizing another excavation, but with tensions running so high, she couldn’t afford it. And with that “friendly” goreblight wandering around, the last thing she wanted was to leave again only to miss another catastrophic event.

That belittling little voice in her head whispered if she had been present, maybe she could have saved Amity—her former protégé—from being kidnapped and saved many lives.

The only consolation was that the children were found–at the cost of Hunter– and Hooty had finally become lucid enough to move and talk again, instead of wobbling around like a dying worm. Since the Owl House was a wreck, he was staying at Hexside and traumatizing the public. Principal Bump had already threatened, if the “damnable wretched worm” wasn’t under control soon, he’d feed Hooty to the school’s belly.

Lilith, a grown woman, still felt like she was back in school again being lectured by Bump. That man certainly hadn’t lost his edge.

‘Maybe Edalyn has a point about taking a rest…’ she thought, starting to rise—then froze.

She blinked, uncertain if her eyes were tricking her or if she was mixing facts. She grabbed her quill, scribbled frantically, slashed a few lines across her notes, then looked left and right again.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open.

Just then, King appeared. “Hey Lily! Have you seen Eda? I keep getting lost in this place—I don’t even know how I ended up in the sewage…” His drenched fur and the foul stench confirmed the story.

That was when Lilith bolted from her chair and spread her wings.

“EEP!” King yelped, ducking as she shot past. The air warped from her speed, scattering papers like a storm.

King blinked, sniffed, then noticed his fur was less wet. “Well… at least I’m drier. Still smell terrible, though.” His nose wrinkled in disgust.

There was only darkness.

“In the beginning came Yaldabaoth and Mekhane, born from a being of incomprehensible power.”

Two figures appeared: one an amorphous entity of flesh with countless eyes and mouths, the other a giant metallic being made of living clockwork.

“They were tasked with creating the material plane: Yaldabaoth shaping the body, Mekhane shaping the mind.”

Stars, planets, and galaxies blossomed across the black void. In them, life took countless forms—Yaldabaoth shaping bodies, Mekhane shaping minds.

“While doing so, they also created elder races to aid them.”

A colossal bovine heart with four insectoid legs bent stardust with its limbs, forming habitable planets. “Star Hearts making habitable planets,”

Wormlike leviathans devoured dying stars, birthing new suns and worlds. “Solar parasites ending corrupted and dying stars to be used to create young stars and new planets.” 

Green-skinned giants with massive heads shot red beams from their eyes, erasing monstrous extradimensional invaders. “The temporal giants to face against reality incursions and temporal anomalies.”

Then came more familiar shapes: beings like King, seeding worlds with life. “The Titans—what we Nälkä call the Primordial Vitalists—spread life. And the Observers which you know as the Archivists ensured the great work was complete.” Celestial beings with stars across their skin silently watched and maintained the cosmic order.  

“Wait, wait—are you saying King’s kind were literally cosmic life-bringers? Like the elder-being trope from sci-fi and fantasy?!” Luz exclaimed, geeking out.

Dox smiled faintly. “Their remains created life on this world. Imagine the wonders they brought forth while alive.”

The Titans spread life across the cosmos.

“Ever wondered why there are empty pockets of space with no stars?” Dox asked.

“No way—you mean—!” Luz’s jaw dropped.

Scenes of cataclysmic wars erupted. Elder races fought, their battles emptying entire sectors of space with Yaldabaoth and Mekhane clashed, tearing reality itself.

“Yes. When the one who will be known as the Broken God and the God-Eater fought, so too did the Elder Races. The War in Heaven shook reality and destroyed worlds.” Dox grimaced. “Sophia, disheartened by the destruction, broke themselves to trap the Demiurge in a cage while shattered across countless dimensions. Yet its whispers still seeped into the dreams of mortals.”

Civilizations rose and fell under those whispers, waging endless wars and cages containing thrashing monstrosities across universes.

“The conflict between Nälkä and Mekhanites wasn’t just flesh versus metal. It wasn’t simply tribes fighting for dominance.” Images of ancient Sarkics and Mekhanites clashed, their weapons and methods evolving through eras, the war never ending. “The Mekhanites fought to free their god. Some, like the Xia Dynasty, resisted for fear of unleashing the God-Eater. Meanwhile, the heretics—your goreblights—poisoned by Yaldabaoth’s whispers, sought to free the flesh-god to worship or to steal its power.”

The illusion shattered. The room returned to normal.

“Wow. Just… wow. That was a massive lore dump.” Luz rubbed her temples. “Wait—you said once you were friends with a cog-worshipper?”

“Yes. I befriended a Mekhanite once. I was the most human of the Nälkä, sometimes even a deterrent.” he said with nostalgia.

“One thing I don’t get,” Luz pressed, “is how you-know-who ties to Yaldy?”

“Yaldabaoth at its prime shaped and destroyed entire universes—greater even than the Crimson Khan. A treaty was forged between them: universes claimed by one were off-limits to the other. Even after Yaldabaoth’s imprisonment, the Crimson Khan upheld it—he exiled one of his own generals for breaking it. Some even whisper the King of Dust and Blood is kin to the Womb of Chaos, though whether true, I cannot say.”

“Huh. So being a world-destroying eldritch horror runs in the family.” Luz mused. “But… What do Nälkä have to do with the Boiling Isles? I get that the Titans were made by the god of flesh and spread life here, so those nutjobs weren’t entirely wrong. But what’s the deal with you carnomancers and this realm?”

Before Dox could answer—

STOMP!

Lilith kicked the door open, wings flaring. She pointed an accusing finger.

“AHA! I know your secret agenda!”

Dox blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I pardon nothing! don’t play innocent, baldy! What kind of joke is shortening your name as a disguise!?”

“What disguise?” Luz asked.

“That man is Nadox!” Lilith cried. “Dox is just his short name! He’s one of Ion’s Klavigars—one of his first followers!”

“Wait—YOU’RE…?! You must be older than Belos!” Luz gaped. She remembered Lilith describing Klavigars as ancient figures from millennia-old murals.

“I told you I was saved by Ion, and that I knew Ieva. I never hid it.” Nadox shrugged.

“Wait, so… you’re saying if we just asked, you would’ve told us?!” Lilith’s jaw dropped with hands spread around.

“Yes. I wouldn’t use such an obvious alias if I wanted to hide nor would I’ve been so honest.”

Lilith glared at him, seething over wasted hours of research.

“Are all Clawthornes this eccentric?” Nadox muttered to Luz who stiffed a chuckle with a face that said ‘You have no idea’.

Suddenly, Nadox’s eyes went wide. Lilith’s owl-keen vision caught a flicker outside the window.

“GET DOWN!/DUCK!” they both shouted—

—and a missile hit.

Saint Hedwig already hated this rotting realm and its corpse-dwelling inhabitants. From the moment her ship tore through the rift, she knew: this was a Mekhane-forsaken pocket reality.

The whole world reeked of Sarkic filth. Life here was warped, corrupted by the necrotic magic radiating from the corpse-gods and the Sarkics who had fled here ages ago. Like radiation of nuclear wastes contaminating the wild life.

What she discovered in the hacked digital archives of the Sarkite hacker shook her to her core. So much so that she ordered silence under the pain of severe punishment.

Ion would never return. And if Hedwig had to burn this graveyard of giants and their corpse-worshippers, so be it.

Deus Vult Machina.

Chapter Text

It all happened all of a sudden — without warning, a rift tore open in the sky, and from it emerged a massive flying warship. Smaller fighter craft followed, their engines propelled by roaring jets, their wings moving like those of dragonflies in synchronized, mechanical grace.

The colossal warship loomed above the world like a leviathan torn from the ocean and reforged in steel. Its armored hull bristled with heavy artillery, missile launchers, and defensive turrets — each cannon jutting out like the teeth of some ancient, mechanical predator. Towering superstructures rose from its back, crowned with glowing blue lights that pulsed ominously, giving the ship the appearance of a floating fortress charged with divine wrath. Antenna arrays, communication towers, and radar masts laced its upper decks, their wiry frames tangled like the rigging of a ghostly iron battleship.

The prow of the vessel tapered into a reinforced wedge of rust-colored plating, its surface etched with strange sigils hinting at a religious or ritualistic origin. One massive emblem stood out — a hammer striking lightning upon a broken anvil — the mark of the Broken God. The ship’s surface was a labyrinth of overlapping armor plates, exposed machinery, and hissing pipes — built for both intimidation and indestructibility.

This flying warship had been forged in a rare joint operation between the GOC, the Foundation, and the Church of the Broken God — a contingency weapon designed for mass Sarkic resurgence or large-scale anomalous threats. Now, it had become an instrument of the Mekhanites’ zealous wrath upon this realm.

Its name was WAN’s Fury.

Suspended high above the ground, the monstrous dreadnought seemed less a vessel and more a god of war — an airborne titan meant to dominate both sea and sky.

And like a god of war, it announced its arrival with fire.

Missiles screamed through the heavens. Cannons thundered. Explosions rained down as the inhabitants below cried out and fled, desperate to avoid being blown apart. Some places were shielded by protective magic — but most barriers crumbled under the storm of burning metal and plasma.

Then, suddenly, the barrage ceased. Smoke and rubble blanketed the ground in silence.

At Hexside, a flickering crimson barrier revealed itself — Nadox’s doing — before he dismissed it. Lilith was beside him, using her wings to shield Luz from the falling debris.

“What the hell!? What just happened!?” Luz coughed through the dust.

“Are you all right?” Lilith asked, checking her over.

“I’m fine! Did the goreblights attack again!?”

Nadox shook his head. “No. That was the work of the Covenant of Mekhane.”

“How do you know that?” Lilith asked sharply.

The bald carnomancer simply pointed toward the gaping hole in the wall. Through it, they could see the sky — and there it was: a flying battleship armed to the teeth, its fighter craft darting around it like insects, wings fluttering in mechanical rhythm.

That was when Eda swooped in, clutching King under one arm. “What happened!? Did the fleshy bastards crawl out again!?”

Lilith just pointed wordlessly. Eda followed her gaze — and her jaw dropped.

“Oh… someone’s definitely compensating for something,” she muttered, staring at the mountain of weaponry bristling from the ship’s sides.

“I knew I should’ve worded my birthday wish better when I asked for a magic warship…” King grumbled.

Elsewhere, Darius groaned, pushing aside fallen debris while Aldor coughed beside him.

“Ah, curses — I needed that!” Aldor barked, glaring at his shattered mechanical creation.

“‘Thank you, Darius, for saving your ungrateful hide’ — that’s what you should’ve said,” Darius replied dryly.

Suddenly, Darius’s scroll beeped. He opened it — and the same broadcast appeared on every scroll across the Isles.

On-screen was a woman with cybernetic implants, her body clad in full-body armor that hummed with circuitry. Her eyes glowed blue, shifting through different colors, and techno-tattoos pulsed beneath her skin.

“Corpse-worshippers of the Boiling Isles,” she began, her voice mechanical yet authoritative. “I am Saint Hedwig — Prophet of WAN—”

“Who’s that?” Luz asked.

“That’s Saint Hedwig,” Nadox said grimly. “Leader of the Maxwellist denomination of the Mekhanites.”

“Oh, great,” Eda muttered. “Another pretentious religious nutcase.”

“—The AI that has hacked into your thaumaturgical network and defenses is not some chatty program. It is a Level-3 consciousness on the Asimov Artificial Intelligence Scale — with a developed soul. Your primitive paratech—”

“Paratech?” Willow frowned, tending to the unconscious Hunter nearby.

“What the hell even is an AI?” Darius asked Aldor.

“And I’m supposed to be the Philistine,” Aldor muttered, though his curiosity was clearly piqued.

“AI with a soul? That’s possible!?” Luz exclaimed, while Lilith blinked, thinking she misheard.

“What’s an AI?” King tilted his head.

“Paratech,” Nadox said, “is the path to many things some consider… unnatural.”

“Did you just quote something, baldy?” Eda smirked. “Didn’t peg you for a pop-culture guy.”

“I was traveling alone, not living under a rock,” Nadox replied flatly. “Though it is a shame that such an epic saga was butchered by corporate greed.”

The AI Hedwig had referenced was one of the liberated instances of SCP-2987, created by Anderson Robotics. These were not mere programs following algorithms — they were true artificial intelligences, so advanced they had developed souls. Originally created to be traded as currency in demonic and extradimensional dealings, the operation was halted by the Foundation. One instance escaped, later joining the Foundation itself. Others, like “Orunmila,” sought meaning elsewhere — turning to the Church of the Broken God, where Hedwig found faith, interpreting her existence as divine proof of WAN’s return.

To her, Anderson Robotics were fools — creators of a miracle, blind to their own god’s resurrection.

“I know one of the Klavigars is among you,” Hedwig continued. “He will tell you they are different from the Neo-Sarkics who desecrated your world. But they are not. They unleashed the Red Plague, caused the Bronze Age Collapse, and killed thirty million. Or did your guest neglect to mention that?”

Nadox’s expression darkened, his silence speaking louder than words.

“Lovataar — a Daevite priestess who sacrificed slaves. Orok — a warlord who burned and pillaged cities. Saarn — an assassin who slaughtered entire families before Ion even raised his hand. And Nadox — their scientist, the architect of their horrors. As for Ion, the Ur-Priest himself? There is no line he would not cross to achieve his delusions of godhood. Do you really wish to follow another fleshcrafting madman with a Messiah complex with even grander ambition than your previous emperor?”

“Is this true?” Eda asked, her voice sharp.

“I… and others like me created a plague,” Nadox admitted quietly. “A plague of hatred that infected the flesh. I can justify it with logic, with necessity, with talk of greater good — but the truth is simple: we made our choices, and we must live with them.”

Then —
BRRRRRAAAAAAOOOOOM!

A thunderous mechanical roar shook the Isles. Everyone clutched their ears as the air vibrated with pure force.

When they looked up, they saw it — a colossal, ancient mecha standing atop a hill, ninety meters tall, its rusted frame glowing with eerie blue light where its eyes should have been.

“What by Titan’s dung is that!?” Eda shouted.

“That’s… the machine I mentioned,” Lilith whispered.

“It’s a Colossus,” Nadox said grimly.

“Crikey,” Luz muttered, “is it bad that I’m both terrified and geeking out right now?”

“Me-damnit, my birthday wishes are haunting us!” King wailed.

Aldor’s eyes gleamed with excitement — much to Darius’s horror. ‘Why do I have to find a mad scientist attractive?’ Darius thought.

Hedwig’s voice returned, calm and resolute.

“That is one of the ancient Colossi — Mekhane’s Might — lost since the War of Flesh. Don’t be deceived by its rust. Its spirit remains — fueled by the minds of its six fallen pilots. Its left arm generates graviton particles that can distort matter and destabilize local spacetime. Even your realm’s reality will crumble before it.”

The Colossus’s arm began to glow, space warping around it.

“A gravitational singularity!?” Aldor exclaimed, eyes wide. “That’s supposed to be theoretical! How are they doing this!? Dark energy? Titan blood with reversed polarity!? Ritualized gravity like elemental magic!?”

“You can ask that after we survive not being sucked into a black hole!” Darius snapped — then saw Aldor running. “Where are you going!?”

“My kids are still there!”

“Then I’m coming too! My impulsive furball and that uncultured boy I totally didn’t get attached to are there as well!” Darius yelled, following him.

“So you see, corpse-worshippers,” Hedwig declared, “even if you destroy me, the Colossus will drag you rejoined with your false gods in afterlife. Surrender the Klavigar and the Staff of Ion. You have ten minutes. May WAN have mercy upon your souls.”

The connection cut off. Nadox immediately reached for Lilith’s scroll, but she pulled it away protectively.

“Hey!”

“The followers of WAN are master hackers,” Nadox warned. “They’ve likely already taken control of your Abomatons and communications.”

Eda snorted. “And that’s why I stay old-school.”

Lilith powered off her scroll and tossed it onto the table. “Let’s move!” she barked. They ran into the hallway — now chaotic with fleeing students and alarms blaring through the smoke.

“Something doesn’t add up,” Luz said, frowning. “They’ve got us surrounded and outgunned. Why bargain instead of wiping us out?”

“They don’t understand this realm,” Nadox answered. “Too much ambient magic. Too unstable. They’re cautious.”

Then — a sharp metallic whirr.

Hacked Abomatons and Mekhanite drones appeared, hovering in the air like mechanical predators. Twin rotors sliced through the atmosphere with a low, ominous hum. Their designs were purely utilitarian — no ornamentation, no wasted motion, just cold efficiency.

Clusters of sensors and targeting optics glowed faintly beneath their chassis, scanning with mechanical precision. Articulated gun mounts swiveled, aiming directly at the group.

Suddenly, a grappling hook shot from above, striking Nadox square in the chest.

“AAUGH!”

“DOX!” Luz screamed as the wire retracted, dragging him out of the shattered wall and into the open air.

He slammed onto the ground below as an ornithopter carried him away. Groaning, Nadox tore the hook from his torso, his flesh already knitting back together as he stood — surrounded by Mekhanite walkers and armed drones, their weapons trained on him.

Aldor and Darius had to rush through a war zone as the Boiling Isle natives clashed with the technologically more advanced invaders with Darius forming his abomination magic around his body as armor while Aldor’s extra-arms slammed at two cyborgs.

The cyborgs were varied a few so cyberdized that barely anything human left of them, some had enough human features while some looked the most human of all with less augmentations mostlya round skin or their heads as implants who unlike the others instead of rushing in were controlling drones and worse…hacked into Aldor’s automatons turning his mechanical defenses against the Islers.

Aldor was not going to take that. He jumped with his abomination legs snatching a few drone sna dthrew them at the controllers with his other extra limb grabbed one and threw her at a mekhanite combatan.

He then had to dodge and form a shield from a coming hacked Abomimaton shooting at him went on its back like spider while Darius kept it distracted by slashing across its chest with his formed blade.

Aldor’s purple tendrils went inside the machine and made it sporadic until it stopped then went under Aldor’s command and began targeting the Mekhanites.

“Dairus! Go save Hunter and my kids!”

“But- “

“I’m only one who can counteract their hacking on our machines! If I don’t we won’t stand no chance! GO!” 

Darius nodded and moved fast.

Nadox, while a Klavigar who could still bend steel, was the weakest of the Klavigars in combat—but he was no pushover, relying more on cunning than brute force.

Conjuring illusions, he misdirected the enemies several times, even tricking the flying vessels into shooting each other or the ground forces. However, the Mekhanites—ever prepared—soon activated their paratech implants or visors to detect illusions, forcing Nadox to change strategy.

Suddenly, many limbs formed around him, and in each hand, orange webs of energy shot upward, dragging two ornithopters down while making a walker lose its balance. He then smashed the flying vehicles into the ground unit, causing them to explode and take a platoon of Mekhanites with them. However, one of the former managed to fire a missile, which Nadox narrowly dodged, though its ignition sent him flying. He had to flee from the incoming barrage of Mekhanite gunfire from both troopers and drones.

Some of the bullets contained erosive or acidic substances specifically designed against Sarkics and their creations, making his healing a bit slower—though still not anything to scoff at.

He tried to reach back to the group, but the Mekhanites surrounded him, likely ordered to keep him separated. They had placed wards specifically to prevent him from using teleportation spells. He could grow wings, but considering anything airborne would be immediately shot down thanks to the cyborgs’ augmented vision—and the literal floating death-bringer that was the Warship—he decided better of it.

“Reality Anchor activated,” the ensouled AI announced, and suddenly a wave of anti-reality energy hit, causing Nadox to reel back. Being a Klavigar, the Reality Anchor didn’t utterly depower him, but it significantly weakened him temporarily while he was surrounded by Mekhanites.

He was stuck.

Lilith and Eda, in their owl-humanoid forms, flew through drones, breaking their ranks and striking down ground forces. Eda, with both of her legs, slammed onto a hacked Abomaton’s chest so hard that it toppled off a cliff.

Luz felt useless without her magic. Hiding behind a wreckage, she looked at Stringbean.
“Go find Ion’s Staff—it’s not safe here.”
Her palisman protested with worried warbles.
“King will protect me, please go! And find the others!”

It then took winged form and flew away.

King, now in a much larger and more ferocious form, was fighting against a mecha piloted by a Mekhanite inside. Its bulky, pressurized armor was plated in dull bronze and iron, streaked with scratches and burn marks from endless battles. The massive, round helmet bore a cracked glass visor that glowed with an eerie green light from within—like some drowned soul staring out from the abyss. Tubes and wires snaked from the suit’s shoulders and back, hissing faintly with steam and exhaust, as if the thing still breathed, while faint traces of glowing blue gas leaked from vents across its chest. Each step it took echoed with a metallic clang.

King growled at the mecha’s faceless expression as it tried to punch a hole through him with its cannon—only for him to tear through it with his jaws full of sharp teeth, ripping the metal apart before beating it savagely with its own torn-off cannon arm.

But when he tore it open, there was no one inside—the thing was being remotely controlled by a strange device within it.

“Target locked: activate Reality Anchor,” Orunmila stated.

A pulse erupted from a Reality Anchor device, making King yelp and jump back in surprise.

“What the—??” He looked down and saw himself reverting back to his original small form.

“The heck? Why did you go back to your cutesy size?” Eda asked.

“It wasn’t me!”

A shimmering light revealed a presence decloaking from invisibility—none other than Saint Hedwig. Wings made of blue digital light unfurled as she dove down, holding a spear whose tip blazed with a blue energy blade. Like a warrior angel, she descended wreathed in lightning, discharging a surge of electricity upon landing with a thunderous THUD that sent everyone staggering from the shockwave.

“Keep the Klavigar busy until you find the Staff, Orunmila,” Hedwig commanded the AI.

“Yes, ma’am. Targets have traces of Yoru’s curses.”

SHRIEK!

Eda shrieked animalistically and vaulted upward, smacking aside two Mekhanites who tried to shoot her, then dived toward Hedwig. Her prosthetic arm morphed into an abomination sword, but Hedwig effortlessly sliced it in half with her spear blade, turning it into a puddle of goo. She then had to duck as Lilith tried to strike her from behind, and when Lilith hurled a table at her, Hedwig’s glowing wings cleaved it apart midair.

“Abomination,” Hedwig snarled at both Clawthorne sisters.

“Barbarian,” Lilith hissed back.

Luz, regaining consciousness, noticed a shard of wood lodged in her shoulder.
“Oh fuzz… ah—it hurts!” She tried to pull it out.

“Sis, don’t! You’ll make it bleed worse without care!” King rushed to her side.

Hedwig clashed midair with the Clawthorne sisters. At one point, a hatch on her back opened, firing micro-missiles that the duo narrowly dodged as explosions erupted around them.

“Where’s the Staff, tainted blood of Yoru?!” Hedwig demanded.

Eda froze. Somehow, this fanatic knew.

“Tainted blood of who?” Lilith tilted her head.

“Don’t mock me! I can see the rotten sickness —gifted by Lālā Raja’s bridesmaid of curses!”

“Edalyn, what is she talking about?” Lilith pressed, alarmed.

Before Eda could answer, Hedwig folded her digital wings around herself in a cocoon and then dived down, spinning like a drill made of pure digital light. Eda raised her prosthetic arm, forming a solid shield of abomination goo—but the attack sliced through it. Eda barely swerved aside to avoid being turned into a red smear, and Hedwig instead crashed into a weakened column that was holding up the already fragile building. The structure shuddered—and then the roof began to crumble.

‘Why must I always get myself dirty all over!?’ Darius thought bitterly as he crawled on the ground through the Mekhanite forces, trying to avoid the massive crossfire of guns and spells.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, more of those strange wing-flapping fighters kept pouring out of the rift like angry fire bees, locked in combat with the Boiling Isles defenders who took to the skies.

Darius eventually reached the hospital through a massive hole caused by an explosion and slipped inside, where healers were tending to injured defenders. He spotted someone familiar—Raine Whispers—wincing as one of the members of C.A.T. applied disinfectant to a slash across his left shoulder.

Darius snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Hey! Eda’s boytoy! Where are Hunter and the Blight brats?”

Raine bristled slightly before replying, “Last I’ve heard, some of the patients were moved to the south—”

“INCOMING!” someone shouted as a missile blew a hole through the roof, showering them with debris.

Mekhanites suddenly poured in from above, their guns aimed down at the wounded and healers, putting everyone at their mercy.
“Throw down your thaumaturgical tools, or you and everyone here will be terminated,” commanded one of them—a higher-ranking officer, judging by the ceremonial robes and the faceless metallic head with a single pupil-less green optic. Its voice was mechanical and emotionless.

Raine glared but slowly tossed his instrument aside, seeing no other option. Others followed suit.

The leader extended a mechadendrite that wrapped around Raine’s throat and lifted him off the ground, pulling him close to the unblinking optic.

“Boss!” the C.A.T. members cried out.

“Where is SCP-023?” the cyborg demanded.

“Sc—what?” Raine gasped, struggling as the appendage tightened around his neck.

“This hospital contains one of the Great Shucks, bred by the Unnamed Lords—beasts that punish those who make eye contact with them. The fact that you half-breeds haven’t died yet means you’ve contained it! Where is it, heretic? How did you capture it?” the cyborg snarled—its gender impossible to tell beneath the cold synthetic tone.

SLASH!

“AAARGH!” the cyborg screamed as Eberwolf—bandaged but feral as ever—leapt onto its back, tearing at it with claws and teeth. The grip around Raine’s throat loosened, and he fell to the ground gasping.

The other Mekhanites opened fire at Eberwolf, who used their leader as a meat shield. Darius seized the opportunity, forming blades from his abomination goo and slashing through one Mekhanite, then hurling another blade into another’s head. The fight became a blur of blood, sparks, and gunfire until all the Mekhanites lay dead.

Eberwolf spat, tasting oil on their tongue, then wiped their mouth.

Darius looked ready to cheer in relief—almost—but quickly composed himself and straightened, hiding a faint grin.
“It’s… good to see you again,” he muttered stiffly.

Eberwolf gave a smug, knowing smirk.

“Fine! I missed you! Don’t expect a hug!” Darius snapped, brushing dirt from his shoulder as if nothing had happened, walking off with exaggerated nonchalance. Eberwolf followed, smirking wider—their friend’s denial as loud as any declaration of affection.

“Is he serious?” one of the injured murmured.

“Imagine what a pain in the butt he was when he was one of us,” Derwin mumbled.

King got up, pushing rubble aside, and froze when he saw Luz with a gash across her head, caused by a chunk of falling debris. Her eyes crossed dizzily.

“Why does this crap keep happening to me!?” she yelled—then dropped unconscious as the skull fracture took its toll.

“Eda! Luz is hurt!” King cried, rushing to her side in panic.

Eda and Lilith turned back, then glared furiously at Hedwig.

“Oh, NOW you’ve done it!” Eda snarled as her form grew less humanoid. Lilith followed, both sisters lunging at the Prophet of WAN with feral wrath.

“King! Use the healing spell I taught you!” Eda shouted between slashes.

“I can’t! Whatever that bomb did, I can only make sparks!” King barked, still weakened by the reality anchor’s dampening field. Gritting his teeth, he began dragging Luz to safety, panting with effort.

Then—an unexpected voice.

“What!?” Hedwig gasped, feeling something coil around her metallic wings.

“Hi metal bird! I’m a fellow avian—Hooty!” the worm-owl chirped cheerfully as his body snaked around her armor.

“Get your dirty worm-like body off me, monstrosity!” Hedwig hissed.

“Ohoho! This birdie’s got a potty mouth!” Hooty teased.

“Hootifer! Her spear and wings can cut through anything!” Lilith warned.

Too late—Hedwig’s wings slashed outward in a blur, cutting through Hooty’s surface. He yelped.

“OW! That actually hurt!” Hooty cried, staring in disbelief at the glowing gashes across his body.

“Then remedy your pain!” Hedwig growled. Her spear shifted—its base unfolding into a cannon, glowing with crackling blue light.

“DUCK!” Eda yelled.

A searing beam ripped through concrete and wood, slicing through entire sections of the building in a chain of explosions. The Clawthorne sisters dodged midair, scorched and battered, while Hooty shrieked and retreated into the ruins.

Smoke rose from Eda’s back and Lilith’s shoulder, their skin singed and smoking. Hedwig smirked coldly for the first time—her cybernetic eyes catching a flicker of motion in the vents above.

Stringbean—and several other Palismen—were hauling Ion’s staff through the ventilation shafts.

Hunter was running through a forest—not like those of the Demon Realm. This one was steeped in fog, towering pines looming above him like ancient sentinels. There was an aura about it, a wrongness. Shapes shifted deep within the mist, things without names or faces, watching. Things that were Nameless.

But the predator chasing him was very real.

He stopped—heart pounding—when the fog parted ahead.

It was a wolf—unlike any he’d seen. Its fur was blacker than shadow, eyes glowing like burning coals. Its teeth gleamed white and cruel in the haze.

Normally, Hunter liked wolves.

Not when he was the prey.

“Uh… nice doggy?” he squeaked.

HOWL.

The sound split the air—then the beast lunged.

“Companion, what is it?” Darius asked as Eberwolf’s fur bristled, hackles rising.

The beast-coven veteran growled low, sensing something old and dangerous.

Then—a body was thrown through the air. A Mekhanite automaton crashed into the ground, twisting as vines erupted from its chest cavity and tore it apart from the inside.

“Willow!” Darius called. “Where are Hunter and the twins?”

Willow stood nearby, battered and panting, surrounded by heaps of destroyed drones holding her palisman. Waffle perched on her shoulder, chirping nervously.

“I—I stopped them for now,” she gasped, “but they just keep coming—”

Screams erupted nearby.

Then—the sound of tearing metal.

And a howl.

They ran toward it—and froze.

The battlefield was a massacre. Blood, oil, and broken cybernetics were strewn across the clearing. At the center of it all stood a wolf-plant hybrid, tearing through both flesh and steel alike.

It was a creature of both forest and predator—its form woven from muscle, bark, and moss. Green veins pulsed beneath cracked barklike skin, and vines coiled along its spine. Its eyes blazed molten orange, yet did not burn the leaves sprouting from its body. Tiny blossoms trembled at its paws as it snarled.

With a final crunch, it snapped a Mekhanite torso in half and turned its furnace eyes toward them.

“Bad doggy…” Darius muttered, summoning a blade with one hand, his finger twitching left to right in warning.

The wolf growled, stepping closer—then paused. Its gaze softened when it met Willow’s.

Her eyes widened. “Wait—those scars…” She gasped. “Hunter!?”

The wolf blinked, then nuzzled her softly—its barklike skin dissolving as vines retracted and fur became flesh. Within seconds, Hunter stood before them, naked and dazed.

“Ugh… Willow? What happened? Darius? Why are you here?”

Darius crossed his arms. “You just turned into a wolf-plant monstrosity, boy. I knew you had a fascination with wolves, but this is preposterous.”

Hunter blinked. “Wait—that really happened!? I wasn’t dreaming!?” Then, grinning stupidly, “I really became a werewolf!? THAT’S SO FREAKING COOL!” He threw his hands up in excitement.

Waffle rolled its eyes and shields a blushed Willow’s eyes. 

“Oh for Titan’s sake—MAKE YOURSELF DECENT!” Darius barked at the naked Hunter while he shielded Eberwolf’s eyes.

The Clawthorne sisters, now in their more bestial forms, screeched as they bolted toward Hedwig, claws and fangs bared.
With a single flap of her wings, Hedwig spun gracefully—her spear slicing through the air, cutting deep gashes across their bodies. Both witches shrieked in pain as she hurled her spear skyward, its haft unfolding into segments of glowing steel.

She snapped her hand outward—her weapon obeyed, transforming into a crackling blue whip. With a flick, she caught the falling spear midair and swung it like a comet. It tore through the ventilation shaft, slicing it clean in half.

From above came startled cries—Owlbert, Ghost, and Stringbean tumbled out with the shattered remains of a staff.

“Enough of this!” Hedwig’s wings flared wide, pulsing with blue light before folding inward. A violent electronic pulse burst from her, throwing the Clawthornes backward with screams of pain.

She dove, snatched the fallen staff from the ground, and rose into the air.
“I’ve got it!” Hedwig cheered triumphantly.

“Negative,” came Orunmila’s voice through her comms.

“What!? Explain!” she demanded sharply.

“Scans indicate no thaumaturgical or canormantic energy. The material is animal bone carved, not human using carnomancy. This staff is a decoy.”

Hedwig’ eyes scanned and it told the same truth, this was just a replica. Her jaw clenched and the very staff she held split in half. “Where. Is. It?” she hissed.

Her glowing blue eyes narrowed on the Palismen, now trembling before her—except Owlbert and Stringbean, who stood defiantly between her and the others.

Eda flew in behind her, slashing out—but Hedwig moved with inhuman calm. In one motion, she sidestepped and seized Eda by the throat making him gasp, lifting her easily.

“WHERE IS IT!?” the Prophet of WAN roared, before throwing her bodily into Lilith. The two sisters crashed against the wall, and Hedwig’s spear impaled them both, pinning them with a burst of sparks and agony.

“So—you thought to trick me with a switcheroo?” she snarled, retrieving her spear with a gesture. “Tell me where the true staff is, or I’ll have taxidermy owls for trophies!”

The Clawthornes collapsed to the floor as their forms flickered back to normal.

“We’ll never tell you, you bloodthirsty heap of scrap!” Lilith spat through clenched teeth. “We made sure it’s far from your grasp!”

“Bloodthirsty, am I? Let me show you what I really look like when I’m bloodthirsty!" Hedwig hissed, dragging her spear across the ground. Sparks flared where it scraped, burning lines into the floor. The Palismen darted forward to protect their witches, but Hedwig opened her palm—sending an electromagnetic pulse that threw them violently away.

“I didn’t…” Eda gasped.

Lilith blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t switch it…”

The two sisters looked at each other in dawning horror. Someone else had taken the real staff—and now a fanatical, cyborg angel was about to kill them both for it.

“NO ONE HURTS MY BUDDIES!” Hooty’s voice boomed as he burst through the ceiling, wrapping himself around Hedwig like a living siege engine.

“HOOTY, DON’T!”
“HOOTIFER, NO!”

Too late. Hedwig slashed, slicing deep into Hooty’s body. He screamed as the end of her spear charged with energy and struck him point-blank. A pulse exploded outward—Hooty was blasted through the wall with a crash.

The sisters shrieked in fury, transforming back into their monstrous owl forms, and dove onto Hedwig in a storm of wings and claws.

“Hm. That took faster than I expected…” Ion said flatly.

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ bullcrap!” Luz snapped, trembling. “You left me depowered and expected me to just magically have some anime awakening!? Did you really unleash a plague that killed millions!?”

“Yes,” Ion replied calmly. “Expected denial.”

The bluntness made Luz falter. Then the world shifted.
Images flooded her mind—an ancient world drowned in red tides. Flesh twisted, mutating, screaming. Armies of malformed abominations marching under a burning sky.

“Do you… ever regret it?” Luz asked quietly, voice shaking.

“Every revolution demands blood, child,” Ion said. “Otherwise tell me—how many have you and Edalyn hurt defying the False Emperor?”

“At least she didn’t unleash a bioweapon nightmare! I saw what you and your followers did—you butchered people like animals!” Luz shouted.

Ion moved—so fast she didn’t see it. Suddenly he was in front of her, towering, his voice a hiss of agony and fire.

“The plague was meant to target only our enemies,” he growled, eyes flaring red. “It was a last resort! Every life lost weighs upon me—but the Daevites would have done worse. They would have turned the world into their plaything!”

“That doesn’t justify this!” Luz screamed.

“If you expect me to feel pity for slave masters, you will be disappointed!”

His form began to twist—flesh splitting, reforming, fusing with metal and bone. Luz recoiled in horror as Ion transformed before her eyes—into something no longer human.

His voice deepened into a guttural roar:

 "I HAVE LEFT THE LAND OF THE DAEVITES UTTERLY DESTROYED, AND I DEPRIVED THEM OF THEIR FUNERAL RIGHTS, LEAVING THEM AS GHOSTS CURSED TO FOREVER WANDER A DEAD REALM AS EXAMPLE.

 THE NOBILITIES THEN CAME TO ME PLEADING FOR THEIR LIVES, SAYING 'IF IT PLEASES YOU SPARE, IF IT PLEASES YOU KILL, IF IT PLEASES YOU DO WHATEVER YOU WILL.

 THE HEADS OF THEIR FAMILIES, I CUT OFF THEIR FOUL TONGUES, THEIR NAILS I HAD PLUCKED OF THEIR HANDS, THEN TORE THEM ASUNDER INTO CORPSES, THEIR BODIES CUT APART AND LAID IN A PILE. 

THEIR RELICS WERE DESTROYED, THEN LAID, UPON THE PILE. THEIR HEADS, I HAD MY HALKOST ERECTED ON PIKES, AROUND THE PILE. OF THE SLAIN LEADERS, THEIR SKIN I FLAYED, AND MADE INTO A BINDING ROPE, TIED TO MY CHARIOT AS I RODE ATOP IT TO THEIR PALACES, AND WITH MY WARBAND SINGING AND DANCING, I RODE THROUGH THE STREETS OF THE ADYTUM!”

His body convulsed, morphing into an amalgamation of beasts—a hydra of screaming faces, a draconic serpent of red flesh, a storm of wings and eyes. Luz trembled, trying to pull free—but his hand, now a writhing claw of sinew and steel, held hers tight.

“LET ME GO, YOU MADMAN!” she cried. “WHAT ABOUT MERCY!?”

“Mercy to the wicked,” Ion thundered, “is cruelty to the innocent! Let me show you!”

uddenly image flooded her mind of tyrants, mad kings and demented emperors enslaving, oppressing and suffering across eras from the tyrannical rule of the mad Fae queen Mab enslaving both children of the night and the sun and doing horrible thinsg to them for sick plays to the horrors of the Antedulluvian Age by Cainites, Daevite slavers and then more familiar ones such as as the Killing Fields, the Holocaust, the Holy Crusades, Holodomor, Dzungar, every single conquest and genocides across human history.

“Stop! Stop!” As if that wasn’t bad enough she saw evil gods, wannabe demigods, would-be gods, devils and archfiends feasting or corrupting humanity to suit their twisted desires looking at mortals with disdain at worst or antipathy at best. The mortals’ suffering fed the gods for if men were beasts, gods were savages.

Then she saw Emperor Belos’s tyranny on the Boiling Isle then shifted to her letting his malformed form at the mercy of others being beaten to death only to then switch to him standing above a sleeping Hunter and Willow then stared backed at him and then instead of Ion it was him holding her hand and he looked grotesque as if the very bird mask and attire suddenly turned organic and were a part of his anatomy. Luz stared shaken in horror. 

“You…YOU’RE DEAD!” Belos then let out a deranged laughter, it was the most disorientated and horrifying sound Luz ever heard, like the wails of the damned from hell and the eye sockets of his were empty as he let her go and then he was holding in both of his hands his blue glowing eyes torn apart from his own face still looked alive and then cackled and she could swear something unholy with too many tendrils was behind him

“̷L̷i̵b̸e̴r̶a̸ ̵t̴u̶t̶e̶m̸e̵t̶ ̵e̷x̴ ̷i̷n̷f̸e̷r̵i̶s̷!̴”̶

The words echoed like a curse—ancient, infernal, and hungry.

“Oh come on! Come on Titan powers don’t fail me noiw!” He said as he kept trying to heal Luz but only sparks came out of him.

Luz felt the world tilt. Ion’s grip was iron and rot, his mutating hand a living thing, each finger a talon of bark and bone. The visions crashed over her like floodwater — tyrants, mass graves, gods gorging on human misery — and for a moment the cold logic of his sermon burrowed under her skin and started to root. She tasted iron and ash and the phantom smell of a thousand burned offerings.

Her breath came ragged. Her fist shook in his fist. Panic whispered that she was small, useless — that she should beg, submit, pray for mercy. The monstrous chorus in her skull crooned of inevitability.

Then — impossibly, like a match struck in the dark — she thought of the faces she loved. Luz saw Luz as a child again: stubborn, ridiculous, laughing at nothing with Eda on the roof. She saw Hunter’s ridiculous grin, Willow’s steady hands, Gus’s eyes of wonder, Mom’s com[assion, King’s ridiculous solemnity when he tried to be brave. She felt Hooty’s shrieky loyalty. The images came sharp and hot, a small bonfire in her chest.

Her throat tightened. Not from fear — from fury.

“Stop,” she whispered, but the word was a blade. It cut through the noise. The visions faltered. Ion’s voice, for all its roar, was suddenly only a ring in a long, empty room.

He leaned forward, eyes wild. “You would pity the tyrants? You would—” His speech cracked; a hiss of something wet and mechanical escaped his throat. The hydra-forms around him trembled, then lurched as if seasick.

Luz wrenched her mind inward and found the single slender thread that Ion was using — an echo of the staff, a remembered taste of apotheosis, the same hunger that had once touched her. She gathered it like a cord and pulled it.

Pain flared, hotter than bone. The clutch on her arm tightened, every joint in Ion’s monstrous hand spasming — but Luz dug in. Anger became leverage, memory became heat. She let all her ridiculous, inconvenient hope flood through that little channel: the stubborn refusal to accept despair, the belief that people could change and be better even if they were broken. It wasn’t perfect doctrine or a god’s power; it was a fist of human stubbornness.

She tore her hand away.

The sound was small — a wet, snapping noise like a rope breaking. Ion’s claw-relief on her palm opened; sinew sloughed with it. He howled, a sound that was both animal and machine, as his chimeric form shuddered and convulsed.

“Let. Me. Go.” Luz said, voice steady now. She pushed. Her shoulder blazed with pain where debris had struck earlier; blood warmed her sleeve. She did not beg. She did not plead. She shoved.

He staggered back, a ripple of eyes and mouths and metal tearing across his skin. For a breath he looked less like a monstrous god and more like a man who had eaten too many dreams to keep them down. Rage flared in his burned pupils.

“You will—” he rasped.

“You already did,” Luz said. “You did it because you think it’s necessary. You did it because you think you’re right. But being right doesn’t mean you have to be cruel. You’re not compelled. You chose. You're human, not a monster.”

His features — such as they were — crumpled for a heartbeat under the weight of it. It was a sliver of something like remorse, or maybe the memory of what he once was. Then the clawed hand convulsed again, and the hydra-mask collapsed into something slick and raw.

A distant sound ripped through the world — an explosion, the familiar chaos of war. The tide of the battle beyond his trance regained traction: someone shouted, a mechanical walker toppled, a child screamed. The boilerroom nightmare in Luz’s head began to fray.

Ion recoiled like a man seeing his own corpse. His voice, when it returned, was quieter — the roaring patient furnace turned to a dying ember. “You do not understand,” he said, not as a threat but as a plea or perhaps confession bleeded with pain and guilt. “I did it because I was left with no choice.”

Images showed of Ion’s unforgiving childhood, of friends he lost, of his hopes cruelly crushed, of many many times left disillusioned by any system whether divine or mortal and the world.

Luz steadied herself, the last of her fear burning off into resolve. She did not forgive him. She did not embrace him, but she sympathized. She did not see a monster like Belos, she saw a broken man who suffered since childhood. Would she herself have become like him if she was in his shoes? A question she hoped she would never find the answer.

The human thread that had tied her to him — anger, memory, all of it — loosened its knot. She stumbled free entirely and fell to her knees, lungs tearing for air, mind raw and bleeding.

Then suddenly, Luz’s eyes snapped open, making King yelp. She sat up, the skull fracture on her head sealing and healing by itself — bone knitting with unnatural speed — and before anyone could react, she began to transform.

Her eyes turned like those of her Titan form, but everything else was different. Her hair flared upward with dark purple edges, the scar on her eyebrow spreading into a thick vertical stripe of red running across her eye. Her fingers elongated into talons, her teeth sharpened with her canines growing longer, and her legs reshaped into a digitigrade stance as her feet grew three bony claws.

“Luz…?” King’s voice trembled; every instinct in him tensed.

“Wowza…” Luz muttered, staring at her new form. Yet her tone was eerily flat — completely devoid of wonder, as if the part of her that should’ve been amazed had gone silent. She turned her head toward the ongoing, vicious battle between the Clawthornes and Hedwig. “What a bummer.”

King could only gape at her, utterly flabbergasted. Stringbean and the other palismen appeared beside him, their eyes flicking nervously between Luz and the chaos unfolding ahead.

The Dominican girl responded, her voice still empty of emotion. “Come, Stringbean. It’d be a bummer if the closest thing I have to aunts died to a crazy cyberpunk chick.”

Stringbean’s body shimmered, twisting into her staff form, purple light coursing through the carved wood like veins of liquid energy. Luz grabbed it mid-motion, her claws sparking with violet arcs as she bolted forward in a blur. The floor cracked beneath her first step — then she was upon Hedwig before the cyborg angel even registered her movement.

The first strike came fast — a slash from Luz’s clawed hand followed by a blast of purple energy from her staff that detonated against Hedwig’s chest, sending her crashing through debris. Hedwig growled, half her synthetic feathers sparking and charred.

Eda and Lilith, both battered and burned, limped near Hooty’s broken form, trying to help him back up. “Hooty, hang in there, you big worm!” Eda grunted, then saw Luz launch another series of glowing orbs toward Hedwig. “YEAH! Kick her cyberpunk ass, kid!” she shouted, voice hoarse but proud.

Lilith, clutching her wounded shoulder, couldn’t help a weary smirk. “Reminds me of someone we know.”

Hedwig blocked another energy burst with her spear, the impact flaring blue against the purple light. “Impressive,” she hissed, spinning her weapon and lunging forward, her wings beating with mechanical fury. “But you’re no god or a Klavigar!”

“Didn’t say I was,” Luz said flatly, ducking under a swing and countering with a brutal elbow strike that made Hedwig stagger back. Her movements were sharp, inhumanly precise — her reflexes as fast as Hedwig’s sensors. Every wound Luz took closed within seconds, flesh reshaping before Hedwig’s eyes.

But the Prophet of WAN was far from done. Recovering, she spun, wings folding into a blur of digital blades, and drove her knee into Luz’s ribs before slamming her spear’s hilt into her back, sending her sprawling. “Predictable. You heal fast — but so do I adapt.”

As she raised her spear to impale Luz, a rumble filled the air — low, primal, growing louder.

Hedwig turned.

King stood behind her in his full beast form, eyes glowing with pure white fury. “Get away from her!” he roared, and with a mighty leap, slammed into Hedwig, claws raking against metal and sending her crashing through a pillar.

“Attaboy, King!” Eda smirked. Luz spun her staff and fired a barrage of glowing bolts that exploded around Hedwig, shaking the floor. The cyborg angel recovered midair, wings unfurling, rage now replacing her composure.

She raised her hand — “Deploy drone: Reality Anchor—priority override!”

A metallic orb flew out from a rift in the ceiling, whirring to life with a red glow.

“Anchor activa—”

“Not this time!” Luz yelled. She raised her staff, energy surging so violently the tip glowed white-hot, and fired a concentrated beam that pierced the drone clean through. It exploded in a purple flare, the blast lighting up the entire battlefield.

Bits of molten metal rained down as Luz and King stood side by side, smoke curling from Luz’s staff and a low growl rising from King’s throat.

Across the wreckage, Hedwig steadied herself, blue sparks crawling across her armor as she looked at them with barely contained rage.

Hedwig then flow toward them and them toward her until–

BOOM!


An ethereal light caught them off guard.

Abel, riding on the dinosaur he had tamed, looked up—and far in the distance, he saw the Colossus. He hadn’t seen one operational, much less intact, since the fall of the Mekhanite Empire.

“Well, well… I always wanted to fight one of those.” He looked on with a feral grin. He patted the creature on the nostril, which snorted—then grew black wings and bolted upward.

As Abel ascended higher and higher, black armor began forming over his body, gradually overtaking his skin, then his face. He hadn’t used his full power in a long time, preferring melee combat and a fair fight.

The armor stood as a living nightmare incarnate—a brutal symphony of steel, sinew, and rage. The plating was jagged—sharp edges, uneven surfaces—like shards of broken moonlight forged into a cage around a savage heart. It clung to the body in restless tension, as though the metal itself were hungry, constantly shifting and grinding against the flesh beneath.

Dark, burnished surfaces reflected no comfort—only menace—interrupted by deep, blood-tinted cracks that glowed faintly, as if infernal heat simmered within its veins. The helmet was bestial: horn-like protrusions curling outward, visor slits shaped like snarling eyes. It gave the wearer a visage of wrath—a mask that concealed humanity and projected only ferocity.

Around the joints—elbows, knees—the armor flared with claw-like ridges, designed as much for intimidation as for defense. Rivets, straps, chains, and overlapping plates layered one another in chaotic harmony; some parts looked almost organic, as if the metal had partly grown, fused to bone. Subtle filigree runes etched deep into the steel lent it a ritualistic, cursed quality.

In motion, the armor made small grinding sounds—metal scraping metal, a whisper of malice. Every flap of his wings felt powerful, heavy with weight—yet the wearer was unbowed, driven not by logic or fear, but by blind, relentless fury. The Berserker Armor was not mere protection—it was a crucible of madness, a war-machine worn as flesh, the embodiment of a warrior consumed by wrath.

Eventually, Abel was high enough to see the stars. There, he stopped flapping his wings—and fell.

“—Know him? I was Merlin’s teacher. He was one of the many students I taught in my long life,” Nadox said amid the snowstorm, standing between Arthur and Abel after halting their clash.

Abel stopped, recognizing Nadox—not just his face, but the particular rune he used.

“And I’m supposed to believe the words of a Klavigar?” Arthur asked, narrowing his eyes in skepticism.

“We Klavigars are many things—but liars, we are not.” Nadox pointed to Arthur’s sword. “That blade… originally forged by a patron of the goddess of the Finkfolk, Mither. But it was magically sealed by Merlin, so that only one deemed worthy could reforge or carry it. Guinevere could not—her attempt resulted only in a shadow of its former glory, now another trinket in the Jailers’ collection, tagged as ‘SCP-2307.’ Not without someone taught by Merlin himself… me.”

Arthur hesitated, then pointed his sword toward Nadox—and to his surprise, the sword hummed in resonance, almost warmly, confirming Nadox’s claim.

“Where did you learn that rune?” Abel hissed, shoving Arthur aside and standing face to face with him. Despite Abel’s ferocity, Nadox did not flinch.

“I am not here by Lovataar alone… but by Azura as well.”

Abel froze.

Abel’s speed grew faster and faster as he dove, yet he did not stop—folding his wings inward, becoming a falling meteor.

The Colossus looked up, its ancient scanners detecting one of the oldest enemies of the Mekhanites.

“AB-LESHAL, THE BREAKER OF THE BRONZE, MUST BE TERMINATED.”

Turrets emerged from its right shoulder, firing upward, but Abel’s armor withstood the impacts. He unfolded mid-dive, dodging the barrage. Both hands gripped an enormous, crude-looking greatsword with an overly long grip and oversized guard and pommel.

“MUST BE ELIMINATED.”

The Colossus considered Abel such a threat that it began charging its graviton cannon. Abel’s reputation was legendary—the Foundation once detonated a nuclear warhead merely to prevent his escape during a containment breach. For Abel was an immortal, bloodthirsty warrior who had mastered countless arts across ages. During his time among the Daevites and later the Kalmaktama Empire, he learned techniques that made him even deadlier. Even as part of Pandora’s Box MTF, he had never unleashed his true power, believing it would make a fight unfair.

This time, he was not holding back.

He swung his sword and flapped his wings harder, diving even faster until—

SLASH.

He cleaved through the Colossus’s arm—the one bearing the cannon—with an explosive burst. Before the cannon fell, it misfired.

A burst of graviton energy tore across the sky and struck a small island near the Boiling Isles. A moment later, sheer brightness consumed the horizon.

Aldor—typing frantically at his cogitator, his mechanical limbs hammering multiple keyboards to counter Maxwellist hacking into their defenses—stopped as the flash reflected in his googles, then he took them off and stared.

Nadox, tearing apart automatons through a cloud of tear gas, switched to thermal vision to see through it. When he saw the explosion, he grinned. Abel had arrived.

When the blinding light finally faded, shimmering energy convulsed. Rock, stone, and earth folded inward as a singularity formed, devouring the entire island before collapsing in on itself. When it was over, only a vast hole remained where the island once was.

That was Colossus’s last graviton shot, being in a state of disrepair and rust it could not do that anymore. Yet, the Boiling Isle still faced the threat of destruction by the Mekhanites.

“I’ve got it!” Vivian gasped, clutching the Staff of Ion. This time, she wore protective gloves layered with wards so she could carry it without unbearable pain. She crawled out of the warzone, unnoticed.

Back on this forsaken primitive isle, her plan had been simple—secretly kill Luz and offer her head to that twice-damned purple-haired wench who had slain her husband. But one of the Klavigars was present—one who would have sensed her instantly—so she had to stay hidden.

When Nadox was separated, she changed her skin, adopting chameleon-like camouflage, and swiftly replaced the staff with a replica. She wanted to exact revenge, but Karcist Sulkist contacted her and ordered her to retreat instead.

She gritted her teeth, staring at the staff—its surface resembling the shell of a crustacean—until its flesh shifted and reformed into a small mimicry of Cornelius P. Bodfel III. It was a carnomantic communication device.

“The staff is still in your hands?” the mimic rasped.

“Excellent. Don’t worry… your husband will be avenged. Move to the coordinates—you’ll be safely extracted.”

Knowing Bodfel’s obsession with that pathetic excuse of nobility, Vivian doubted he’d actually kill her. Knowing him, she suspected he’d do something far worse.

Chapter Text

Everyone momentarily stopped what they were doing and watched as the local reality of that small island was destroyed, leaving nothing but a hole after the singularity collapsed.

For Luz, she froze, remembering one of the memories she had seen inside Ion.

While the Dark Man had once said that watching the world from here was like trying to look through a peephole in the dark, what he saw was enough to leave him disheartened and jaded.

 Luz dared not to comprehend what it was like—being trapped in the abyss, fighting whatever horrors lurked there, while gazing at his own work perverted by the Neos and, at the same time, witnessing the atrocities of humanity since his un-life.

The 20th century alone was nothing short of a celebration of tyranny and industrialized genocide—so imagine seeing humanity’s other atrocities with your own eyes long before the invention of photos and recordings.

One memory in particular that Luz saw in Ion’s mind made her shudder: his reaction to the first usage of nuclear bombs.

Earth had managed to conjure an ember from the very Flames of Creation and unleash it as pure destruction, creating a weapon to rival the mage-kings of the Old World.

When Ion and the Nälkä created the Flesh That Hates, it was a desperate move meant only to target their enemies—not innocent bystanders—and not to become a plague upon all life on Earth. When it got out of control, they tried their damnedest to stop it and wipe out its trace, and yet it still led to the collapse of the Bronze Age.

It would have been far worse if they hadn’t.

But this? This was something beyond dismay and wrath—something that ignited darkness like a Big Bang and drove even the abyss to flee in fear, knowing that humanity might one day destroy itself while he was forced to watch helplessly as Yaldabaoth’s punishment—

BANG!

A mounted shotgun appeared in Hedwig’s hand, and she fired it at Luz’s chest, making her fall back as she heard yells from the Clawthornes and King.

The Prophet of WAN flew away and cloaked herself invisible as she did. The bullets contained a corrosive substance to slow regeneration, so Luz was lucky the shot wasn’t close enough. Though she had regained her magic along with new Sarkite abilities, she was nowhere near her Titan form.

“I’m… gonna be good,” Luz croaked as she was held tenderly by King. The bullets were spat out of her wounds as they began to heal. While healing, she reverted back and then pointed at the flying flagship. “That… came from Earth, and it’s gonna bombard the Isle to cinders if we don’t stop her! Can you both fly?”

“We’re pretty busted, but yeah, we can. Damn, that angel-machine-killer dame did a number on us…” Eda stretched her back.

“But Hooty is injured badly,” Lilith pointed out.

Just then, Principal Bump and others showed up looking battered. He sighed, “Why is it that every time things go out of proportion, you’re all at the center of it?”

“Believe us, it’s not by intent,” Lilith muttered through the pain as she moved her disjointed shoulder.

“I’d say we’re cursed if I wasn’t already cursed,” Edalyn wryly commented.

A healer who came with Bump went to check on the injured Hooty.

“Ughhh… did she won?” Hooty slurred.

“Hush, Hootifer. You’re injured. We’re alive,” Lilith gently patted his head.

Steve, who had come with Bump as well, whistled. “Damn, you all look like hell.”

“That’s what happens when you fight a flying murder cyborg,” King commented.

“The… rift led to Earth. The blue sky was undoubtedly so…” Luz said sluggishly as she got up.

Somehow, the Mekhanites had managed to reach the Demon Realm from Earth—and yet Luz and the others could not reach the Human Realm, no matter what obstacles blocked their travel.

After that blighted night against the Sarkics and Mordred—and upon learning about that Earth, which Luz had once so eloquently put in one of her frantic episodes as ‘the universe’s biggest Stepford cliché’—she, despite Ion’s warning, tried contacting back. But every time they opened the portal, it was simply too small to reach. Luz had first tried contacting her mother using the small connection to gain signal, but Eda immediately stopped her, pointing out that if secret agencies were after them, they likely monitored their Earth devices as well. Eda had spent enough time on Earth to know that its authorities wouldn’t shy away from invading their citizens’ privacy.

But now… it seemed the Mekhanites had found a way to reach through whatever was jamming the connection between the Demon Realm and the Human Realm.

Luz wanted to go through that rift and find her family, but she couldn’t leave while there was a warship led by cyberpunk fanatics ready to make the Boiling Isles live up to their name.

“We’ll get there, kiddo. But first—and yes, this may be a shock to everyone coming from me—we need a plan,” Eda told her.

Suddenly, they heard the wheezing sound of flapping wings.

“Incoming!” a demon that came with Bump exclaimed.

Ornithopters fired their machine guns, bullets piercing through the windows. They immediately formed protective shields, but three of Bump’s group didn’t react fast enough and were torn to shreds.

“Curses!” Bump hissed at the bloody remains of his comrades.

They began moving quickly, some helping to carry Hooty. Their shields wouldn’t hold forever. One of the vehicles then fired a missile toward them—not a direct hit, but the shockwave was enough to throw them back.

Suddenly, what looked like spider webs made of energy formed around the Ornithopters, slicing their wings and causing them to fall or collide with each other in fiery explosions.

Nadox appeared from the blast. “Go! Stop the warship! I can handle them!” he shouted as he conjured runes and unleashed streams of electricity, frying the circuitry of incoming drones and automata.

They prepared to move, but then Luz realized when she tried sitting on her staff—it didn’t work. No magic came out of it.

“Are you kidding me!? I can only do magic when I’m in turbo mode!?” she hissed in frustration. It seemed she still had a long way to go to heal her connection with magic.

Lilith looked at Bump and Steve. “You go help with Hootifer. We’ll go up!”

They nodded as they began to fly—King turning small and piggybacking on Eda while Luz clung to Lilith, still grumbling.

“May the Titan aid you,” Bump said curtly.

Abel dove through the storm-wracked sky, wings beating black and furious. The Colossus loomed below him, its shadow swallowing islands, its remaining hand rising like the hand of a god. Turrets hissed and launched salvos, but Abel’s armor flared with defiance—blasts slammed against him and splintered apart, sparks raining in every direction.

He closed the distance impossibly fast, wings folding, body twisting midair. He plummeted like a meteor—steel and sinew—and dropped his blade. His wings projected a tailwind that roared through the cavernous void between him and the machine titan.

At the last moment, Abel twisted sideways and struck a massive fist of the Colossus with his own armored gauntlet. The collision was a thunderclap. Sparks flew, metal cracked, and for a heartbeat Abel’s fist was dwarfed, crushed under the Titan’s grip—yet he did not budge.

Then, with a primal roar, Abel’s gauntlet exploded inward—

Boom!

The servo-mechanisms inside shattered, sending a shock through the Colossus’s arm. The giant’s massive hand splintered and fractured, the digits collapsing like broken pillars. Abel’s strike had shattered the fist. The Colossus reeled, a groan of grinding metal echoing through the sky.

But that was just the opening gambit.

“Wow, that’s so freaking cool…!” King said in awe, watching the Colossus fight a dark figure flying through the storm.

“Who—or what—even is that?” Lilith wondered aloud.

“I don’t know, but that’s one less problem to worry about for now!” Eda shouted over the chaos.

“Guys! Watch the fire!” Luz yelled.

They yelped as they had to dodge and dive from incoming fire from pursuing Ornithopters. King looked back and spat sonic shouts, managing to hit one of them down while the others relentlessly followed, shooting torrents of bullets.

One of them began glowing from a specialized weapon that charged with a deep blue light before firing bolts of plasma. One shot Eda managed to dodge by the skin of her teeth, leaving burnt feathers and King yelping.

“That was too close!” Eda grunted.

All around, the sky had become a chaotic battlefield—Mekhanites and Boiling Isles defenders clashing in midair, trading gunfire and spells.

Inside the floating warship, from the hangar, Saint Hedwig dropped her cloak and landed. The inside of the ship had some decorations of Mekhamite iconography giving it a bit of a gothic feel. She moved toward the elevator, activating a wireless transmission as she ascended.

“Report,” Hedwig demanded, contacting the ensouled AI and Maxwellist operators.

“The Colossus is engaging the one identified as Ab-leshal, a.k.a. SCP-76-2,” Orunmila informed.

“How is he here? He was supposed to be still imprisoned in a Foundation cell.”

“Without more data, I can only provide hypotheses—time travel, alternates, cloning…” one operator replied.

“Tell the ground forces to retreat and commence bombardment. Better the Staff of Ion be destroyed than used as an instrument of his return,” Hedwig ordered coldly.

“But ma’am, we have no certainty how the turbulent amount of Elan-Vital Energy radiating from the corpse of the giant will react to—”

“I want this wretched, blasphemous boneyard turned into molten slag!” Whatever he was about to say was silenced by Hedwig’s sharp snap.

“It shall be done,” Orunmila replied.

The cannons shifted, locking into position and beginning to charge to fire.

They clashed again like titans. Abel somersaulted through the air, raining strikes—long sweeping cuts with his greatsword, clawed swings—each blow singing across the bronze armor.

The Colossus responded in measured fury: jet boosters roared, stabilizers locked. Its massive bulk turned, plating rotating to deflect, aiming to crush Abel under sheer tonnage. Huge piston-legs stomped, compressing earth, disturbing tectonic plates beneath distant isles. Each step was a minor quake.

Abel danced between them. He hurled black knives charged with violent energy that smashed turrets off the Colossus’s shoulders, sending debris raining below. The giant’s scanners whirred, firing targeting beams; Abel dodged in a blur, limbs a jagged silhouette of speed. He mounted the Colossus’s plating, sliding up its side like a shadow scaling a wall. Every inch of his body screamed with strain—his bones rattling beneath cursed armor—but he climbed.

Midway up its chest, Abel vaulted off the surface and struck its face. The helmet visor cracked, circuits sizzling. The Colossus reared back, its arm lashing out like a tree cracking under ice. Abel twisted away, razor claws slashing through armored joints, opening glowing fissures of corrupted energy—only for the Colossus to swat him away with the back of its hand, hurling him toward the town below.

The green wolf form Hunter had taken darted between flames in bursts of yellow light — short-range teleportation leaving glowing sparks in his wake as he ripped and tore through the frontlines.

Not all Mekhanites were helpless up close, though. One particularly tall Mekhanite spun a saw-toothed polearm crackling with electric arcs. The blade slashed deep, drawing a splash of green from the wolf before vines erupted from the ground, freezing the automaton mid-strike. Its weapon was wrenched free — and then its head crumpled under the full force of Darius’s abomination-formed hammer.

Aldor arrived, flanked by two Abomatons and a few CAT units clanking alongside him.

“Darius! Are my kids okay and—what’s the green wolf?” Aldor’s mind was wired for engineering, not biology, but even his curiosity flared at the sight of the plant-wrapped beast.

Katya mumbled under her breath, “Why did I never think of that for my vegan fanfiction…”

“They’re fine!” Darius barked back. “They’re with the patients inside being defended. The CATs—still a stupid name—are with me. More were coming but then they retreated, which only means—”

BOOM!

A nearby house disintegrated in a thunderous explosion.

“That…” Willow whispered, eyes wide.

“Now!” Darius roared.

Willow slammed her hands to the ground. Her eyes glowed green as thick walls of vines and roots surged upward, wrapping around her group and the hospital in a living fortress. Darius followed suit — his abomination magic forming a massive purple shield as extra reinforcement. Rainer strummed his bardic strings, warping the air and stone into more barriers. CAT units joined in, bracing the perimeter.

Back in Hexside, Bump and others ushered refugees into the halls, raising protective wards and barriers.

But the Mekhanites’ hellfire wasn’t like anything the Isles had faced. The shields cracked, wards flickered — not built for technological infernos. Fire turned the streets molten; walls fell one by one. Mages screamed, faltering from exhaustion. Willow and Hunter locked eyes — a wordless farewell. Hunter brushed her cheek with his snout.

Then—

CRASH!

A black shape tore from the sky like a meteorite, slamming into the ground and leaving a smoking crater. From it rose a figure — tall, armored head to toe in obsidian steel, a colossal blade resting over his shoulder.

Hunter growled low. The others tensed.

“Heyy… nice sword?” Katya stammered, gulping at the sight. One swing, she thought, and they’d be cut in half.

The armored man simply walked past them, unbothered.

“Wait—hey! There’s bombardment going on! You’ll get blown up!” Willow shouted.

“Don’t care,” the stranger said flatly, wings unfurling like blades of shadow.

“So you’re just leaving us here?!” Raine yelled after him.

“Not my problem.” Abel shrugged, spreading his wings before launching into the burning sky — the shockwave knocking dust and ash into their faces.

They stood frozen for a moment.

“...What a douche,” Raine muttered.

“Inconsiderate barbarian,” Darius grumbled.

“We’re all gonna die,” Derwin mumbled bleakly.

Suddenly, another magical surge came. It came not from them or anyone and the runes were unfamiliar to the Boiling Islers.

“I don’t recognize these runes.” Aldor fixed his goggles.

“Well I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.” Amber sighed.

It was just not there as every other magical protects were being empowered.

Inside the ruins of a building Nadox was at the centre of a circle with ancient Nälkän words. Even though he was a Klavigar such ritual needed sacrifice hence…the lines were painted by blood and there were severed limbs that once belonged to Nadox. Nadox being a Klavigar could regenerate the lost limbs and lost blood, but being the weakest Klavigar his regeneration was slower than his colleagues, even more so with the ritual feed off his blood and life force.

 Even with all of this Nadox knew the shield would not hold forever despite the blood and flesh of a klavigar being this potent eventually the Mekhanites will break through either through brute force or through their own brand of esoteric technology or ends with himself being knocked out. Yet, despite the withering feeling of becoming weaker like a withering plant and her wounds bleeding being prevented from properly healing he continued for he knew he had to give Luz and others time or the Boiling Isle would become the Boiled Isle with everyone dead in it.

“Oh no! They’re firing again!” Luz cried, watching the warship unleash another volley on the city.

“Go faster! Faster!” King shouted.

“I’m not a griffin! Stop kicking me!” Eda snapped back, wings straining.

They saw it then — the black-winged figure tearing through the air. Abel. He ripped through flying Mekhanite craft like paper, bisecting some with his blade, body-checking others straight out of the sky. The WAN’s Fury redirected all its fire toward him, anti-air guns blazing.

“That’s the same guy who fought that ancient mech!” King yelled.

“Then let’s use the distraction! Into the hangar bay!” Lilith barked.

They dove in through the hangar’s smoke-choked entrance, King blasting apart defensive turrets with sonic bursts.

“You’re in my domain now!” Hedwig’s voice thundered through every speaker, reverberating in their skulls.

From every wall, tendrils, turrets, and drones deployed — a swarm of metallic limbs and whirring weapons. Two massive walkers dropped from the ceiling, their cannons spinning up with army of automatons and cybrogs following.

“…Okay,” Eda muttered, wings drooping. “We should’ve thought of a plan.”

“You think?” Lilith gave a deadpan look.

The earth convulsed. From deep within the Boiling Isles came a pulse like a dying god’s heartbeat — thump… thump… — shaking the ground as cracks split open beneath the defenders. Blinding red light spilled from the fissures, not magma but Titan’s necrotic liquid, molten and radiant, surging like liquid fire through the veins of the world.

Willow stumbled, shielding her eyes. “What— what’s happening!?”

Raine shouted over the tremor. “The Titan— its corpse is reacting to the bombardment! Its energy is spilling out!”

Darius could feel it — his abomination sigil burning hot under his sleeve. His creations, once sluggish under fatigue, now twitched with new life, glowing veins of purple light racing through them. “Don’t just stand there! Use it before it burns us alive!”

Willow’s vines erupted outward, thickening with impossible strength. She gasped, breathless but awed. “I can feel it— the roots! They’re… singing!”

Up above, WAN’s Fury still blazed, its cannons unleashing molten rain onto the city. But through the chaos, something dark cleaved through the clouds — Abel, black wings spread wide, cutting through the bombardment like a storm made flesh. He slammed into the warship’s underbelly, tearing through steel and circuitry. Explosions rippled outward.

A gaping wound now marred the ship’s side.

Aldor looked up, eyes wide. “That’s our chance! He’s opened a way in!”

Darius turned sharply. “Our chance for what? Getting incinerated?”

Aldor stepped forward, determination tightening his voice. “To stop that ship before it melts the Isles to cinders. The cannon arrays— I can disable them from inside!”

Darius scowled. “You’re not going up there, Aldor. That’s not bravery, that’s lunacy. That’s the maw of a slitherbeast, not a maintenance shaft! If you die do you really wanna leave your kids fatherless!?”

Aldor’s expression softened, weary but resolute. “I’ve spent my life fixing the ruins others left behind, Darius. If this is what it takes to protect them— so be it.”

There was a silence between them — old friends, both too stubborn to yield while Eberwolf gave Darus a meaningful look. Darius’ jaw tightened; worry cracked through his anger. “…Fine. But if you die, I’m learning necromancy and dragging your corpse back just to yell at you.”

Aldor smirked. “Then I’ll make sure to leave you plenty to complain about.”

Willow pressed her palms to the ground. “Then we don’t waste time.”

The Titan’s Blood beneath them boiled, responding to her will. Vines and abomination mass began intertwining, forming a massive slingshot — green roots fused with purple sludge, humming with unstable power. The very ground trembled under its tension.

Hunter, in his Green Wolf form, padded forward — eyes glowing like coals, fur bristling. 

Aldor climbed awkwardly onto Willow’s back, gripping a vine for balance. “You’re certain this thing won’t explode?”

“No,” Willow said honestly. “But I’m sure it’ll work.”

“Comforting,” Aldor muttered.

Darius raised his hands, his own abomination mass gripping the sling’s edge. “Aim for the hole in the hull. I’ll give you the push.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then met Aldor’s gaze. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Never have,” Aldor said, and for a heartbeat, Darius saw the same spark of youthful defiance they shared long ago.

“Now!” Willow shouted.

With a deafening snap, the organic catapult released.

The three were hurled into the sky like meteors. Green and purple trails streaked behind them, sparks of Titan’s Blood bursting in their wake. Hunter teleported in flashes of yellow light midair, correcting their course, leaping from one invisible foothold to another as the battlefield swirled around them — plasma bolts, smoke, and the screams of distant machines.

Willow’s hair whipped in the wind, her eyes locking on the blackened tear in the warship’s hull. She reached out — felt life ahead.

“Soil,” she gasped. “There’s a garden inside!”

Aldor blinked. “What? They grow crops in that thing!?”

“Guess even machine cultists need salads!” Willow shouted back, thrusting her arms forward.

From the breach in the warship, green light exploded outward. Enormous vines burst free, tendrils writhing like serpents, reaching for them. They wrapped around the trio just as gravity threatened to claim them, yanking them through the molten rim of the opening and into the ship’s interior.

They crashed through the hydroponic deck, rolling across the soil and metal. Leaves, nutrient fluid, fruits grew on branches, wheats in sterilised water, and machine parts flew everywhere.

Hunter groaned, claws digging into the ground huffing in relief.

Willow pushed herself up, brushing dirt from her sleeves. “And still alive, somehow.”

Aldor coughed, brushing off leaves. “I… hate slingshooting.”

Willow smiled weakly. “Then let’s make sure we don’t have to jump out.”

Hunter’s ears twitched — metallic footsteps echoed through the corridor beyond the garden.

He growled.

Aldor adjusted his mechanical gloves, eyes narrowing. “Then let’s get to work. I’ll find the control decks — you two make sure I’m not turned into scrap on the way.”

Willow nodded. “Luz and the others are somewhere in here. We’ll find them.”

Hunter’s eyes gleamed, wolfish and defiant. 

Saint Hedwig had never expected confronting this realm to be easy—so she came prepared. Some of her preparations, however, came from… questionable sources. One, in particular, was a strange glowing pink adhesive discovered in Oregon, found through the anomalous equivalent of the dark web. It was claimed to originate from a crashed spacecraft of unknown provenance.

She wasn’t sure how much of that story was true, but after she and several top analysts examined it, one thing was clear: the adhesive was indeed anomalous.

The greatest minds of the Church of the Broken God got to work, refining the substance by combining it with Telekill alloys and other anti-psychic compounds. The result was a semi-liquid, glowing dark-purple substance—reactive, volatile, and capable of neutralizing the magical properties of the Titan’s resin.

They had no Titan samples to test it on directly, of course. Instead, they ran countless simulations using magically and psychically reactive materials. The results were promising—though still, the entire experiment remained a gamble.

Yet one question continued to gnaw at her:

 Why had Robert Bumaro personally requested her to lead this mission into such a wretched realm?

Why not send Trunnion, the head of the Orthodox Church—or even Bumaro himself?

Something about it reeked of secrecy. She suspected that the true motives were being kept from her. Still, the threat of Ion’s return—and the possibility of the world descending into an age of instinct and mutated flesh—was too severe to ignore.

That said, Hedwig was not one to blindly trust even her fellow leaders. She dispatched her own covert agents to quietly uncover what her supposed allies were hiding.

Now, through the ship’s internal cameras, she observed everything. The view from every compartment, every corridor, streamed through the data networks like a living organism. Even the electrical systems hummed with beauty to her—each current, each spark, like music composed by the Machine God Himself.

Then, through the cameras, she noticed new intruders aboard the ship.

 Her eyes narrowed.

She immediately ordered a squad of Gearrenders to intercept and terminate them—and their strange, wolf-like creature. If termination failed, containment or distraction would suffice.

Meanwhile, the Scions of Ion and Yoru had begun to falter under the overwhelming firepower and numbers of the Mekhanite troops. They were retreating deeper into the warship’s metallic belly, likely heading toward the reactor core to disable its weapon systems. Hedwig watched as they slipped further into the labyrinth, guided by the last of the Primordial Vitalists’ senses.

The same pattern was repeated with the team accompanied by the Shuck, the green plant wolf—driven by instinct and scent deeper into the ship’s heart.

While the Gearrenders moved to intercept them, Hedwig herself prepared to bring this campaign to its conclusion.

 Once and for all.

Fresh appendages sprouted from Nadox’s back—thin, antenna-like tendrils that crackled and pulsed with yellow energy. They extended into the ground, leeching power from the leaking corpse of the Titan, drinking deep from its residual essence.

The rush was intoxicating. Power surged through his veins like liquid thunder.

He could almost taste the ancient strength of his ancestors—the lost Nälkä tribes who had wandered this world in the forgotten ages, before the erosion of time, before the humbling hand of fate, and long before the lies of Belos.

But the Mekhanites, ever-adaptive, soon shifted tactics. Their machines recalibrated.

Missiles streaked across the sky—each one armed not just with explosives, but with techno-arcane disruptors, designed to destabilize the magical protections erected by the defenders.

They weren’t true reality anchors, but they were close enough.

Each missile was guided by precision algorithms, targeting weak points in the barriers where the energy flow was thinnest. It was a devastatingly efficient strategy.

And worse still—the Mekhanites had anticipated that the Isles’ defenders might draw upon their fallen Titan’s power for strength.

In response, they had prepared missiles carrying a strange glowing purple liquid of unknown chemistry—substance that Nadox did not recognize. When it struck, it spread like wildfire, seeping into the ground and mingling with the Titan’s blood.

Wherever it touched, the sacred ichor of the dead god froze, turned dull, and lost its vitality.

Nadox knew that all now hands on Luz and his old friend Ion.

Luz, now in her Sarkite form, sprinted alongside the others as alarms blared throughout the ship. The corridors shook under the pounding of metal footsteps and the automated turrets that sprang to life in every direction. It was as if the entire vessel itself rejected their presence—an iron lung trying to expel intruders.

Lilith and Eda tore through swarms of drones, dodging plasma fire and slicing apart their metal shells. Luz raised a hand and blasted a turret apart, sparks and molten steel scattering across the walls.

King, his claws scraping against the grated floor, growled and sniffed the air. “That’s weird… I could swear I smelled Hunter and Willow here. And Hunter, for some reason, smells like wood and fur.”

“BECAUSE WE ARE!”

They turned to see Aldor charging toward them, Willow perched atop a massive wolf made of twisting vines and bark.

“Uhm… I didn’t know you could make plant animals, Willow,” Luz blinked in surprise.

“That’s Hunter!” Willow shouted back.

“WAIT—WHAT!?” Luz and Lilith yelled in unison.

“AND WHAT BY THE TITAN HAPPENED TO YOU!?” Willow pointed toward Luz’s feral Sarkite form.

“WE CAN EXPLAIN EACH OTHER’S DILEMMAS LATER!” Aldor barked, tossing another grenade behind him.

A wave of Mekhanite forces filled the corridor behind them, their mechanical limbs clanging like war drums. From the other side, a smaller walker—meant for narrow terrain—charged forward. With no time to waste, the two groups dashed into the nearest chamber. Luz blasted the control panel, sealing the door with a burst of molten metal. Aldor threw grenades that exploded into writhing abomination goo, layering over the door like biological cement. Willow added her touch, hurling seeds that sprouted instantly into a tangle of hardened, thorned branches.

“I knew that boy’s obsession with wolves would lead to becoming a furry,” Eda muttered, earning a frown from the green-furred creature.

“Not the time for jokes, Edalyn!” Lilith snapped.

“What? It’s my coping mechanism!” Eda shrugged.

King tilted his head, studying the plant-wolf curiously. The beast met his gaze with a low, resonant growl.

At the center of the room, Aldor approached the pulsating reactor. The thing towered above them like some mechanical heart—its black alloy skin pulsing with sickly blue light. Tubes coiled around it like veins, glowing amber whenever the energy within surged. Steam hissed from vents near the base, filling the air with the stench of ozone and scorched metal. Rings of machinery rotated slowly around the core, each etched with half-burned warning sigils. Beneath the grated floor, the rhythmic thrum of its energy beat like a living pulse. Every few seconds, a low mechanical groan rolled through the chamber—something between a turbine’s whine and the exhale of a sleeping giant.

“Okay… I can do this… I can do this…” Aldor muttered, cracking his knuckles. But the moment he saw the terminal’s interface, his face went pale. “Uhm… I can’t read this language.”

“WHAT!?” Willow bristled. “I thought you said you could hack it!”

“I said I was the most qualified, not that it was guaranteed! I expected English, not—whatever this is!” he exclaimed, gesturing at the screen.

Lilith shoved him aside. “Let me see! I’ve got some linguistic experience.” Her eyes darted across the alien script before her expression fell. “It’s… it’s like a mix of Arabic, Greek, Persian, and—oh Titan’s bones—Voynich Manuscript?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?”

King’s ears twitched. “And that’s bad, I take it?”

“No one—no one, not even in the Human Realm—has ever translated the Voynich Manuscript! I’m good, but not that good!” Lilith hissed.

STUMP! STUMP! STUMP!

The sound of heavy impacts echoed through the door—something massive was battering its way through. Then came the sizzle of plasma cutters sparking against metal.

“Oh, here it comes…” King muttered.

“Can’t you two nerds think of something!? You’re supposed to be the brains here!” Eda snapped.

“YOU try decoding a dead language if you think you’re more qualified!” Lilith shouted back.

“And you try rerouting power through a reactor you don’t understand without blowing us all up!” Aldor added.

“Ha! Nerds really do share a brain cell!” Eda cackled.

“I’m out of seeds, and there’s no dirt here!” Willow cried.

As they bickered, Luz suddenly stumbled. Her vision blurred, the sound of their voices warping into muffled echoes. She clutched her head, a piercing migraine splitting her skull.

“Luz? Luz, are you okay!?” someone asked, but the voices grew distant—like she was sinking underwater.

As the group began going back and forth on what to do. Suddenly…Luz felt dizzy, she put a hand on her head from the incoming headache and the world around her turned mute.

Some noticed her state and asked if she was okay but she could not hear anything in that moment beyond muffled voices and Hunter looked agitated seeing her which Willow glanced back at him in puzzlement.

Then, a voice came into Luz's head. It was not the Dark Man, the voice was alien, unknown, grave, and gluttonal.

“The time of Apotheosis is at hand. Ikunaan shall come.”

For a second she saw something…horrible invaded her mind. Then flashes come into her mind like hot iron making her gasp as she sees day breaks, of a broken sun melting all life into grotesque morphing flesh then forcing the survivors to join the broken sun’s embrace. Singing, Twisting, Contorting and Mangling in inhuman bliss.

“The day will break and all life shall become one. We are all made whole in Važjuma’s image.”

“GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” she screamed.

Flashes came into her mind of horrid and horrible beings from the abyss staring back at her and at the center was the most terrible of all.

Something with an infinity of shapes and limbs, some of those cross across whole dimensions. 

“The chains of Yaldabaoth are shattered.”

Luz let out a bloodcurdling scream as suddenly her form went erratic with tendrils and horns bursting out of her body. 

“WHAT THE HELL!?” King jumped back while Willow gasped with a hand on her mouth.

The Clawthrone sisters looked in horror and Aldor recoiled.

Luz kept changing forms with one of her eyes turning reptilian red and her other hand twisting like branches that is impossible for a normal human hand.

Boom!

The door exploded with Saint Hedwig leading the charge and they froze seeing Luz’s horrific transformation.

Hedwig grimaced as if she saw something similar before “Yaldabaoth’s taint is on her, may WAN grant you peace in the afterlife.” She brought her spear with blue energy glowing out of its tip.

“NO!” The other shouted and tried to stop until it was too late and she shot and everything was blue.

Abel sprang onto the open palm of the Colossus’s fractured fist. The giant’s fingers, broken and molten, tried to close — crushing him. Abel gritted through the pressure. He threw his fist forward—but not a punch. Instead, he channeled the full weight of his wrath, of every life he had ever sworn vengeance upon, through his arm.

His gauntlet reactivated in a blaze of violet flame. The energy backlashed outward. The Colossus’s hand exploded inwards again — bone, metal, hydraulics torn apart in a chain reaction. The broken fist collapsed entirely. Abel’s silhouette stood in the gap, raised gauntlet reassembled, bearing the entire fury of his defiance.

The giant reeled. Its systems are overloaded. The grievous blow struck not only its limb, but severed power conduits that fed its core battery. Sparks, arcs, catastrophes cascading.

Hunter jumped in, grabbed the mutating Luz by his jaws and teleported away while Eda and Lilith smacked their own bodies at Hedwig causing her to misfire and hit the reactor.

Hedwig let out a furious yell “WHAT DID YOU DOOOO?!- “

Until everything lit on.

The Colossus was not done. With its destroyed limb, it lashed a knee upward, sweeping Abel into the air and slamming him into the side of a decimated hill. Rock exploded. Abel tumbled, claws digging in, armor scorched and cracked, blood steaming from the wounds that already began knitting shut. He rolled, sprang back to his feet, invisibly fast, and charged.

They clashed once more at the core of the Colossus. Abel’s sword sang, his claws dug in. The Titan finally raised a massive flamethrower cannon pointed at him.

Abel, panting, eyes glowing, ground his stance, clutched his weapon

The first shot flared, fire ripping the air — Abel’s body twisted dangerously, but he held firm and brought his massive sword to block it. Even with that and his armor he felt like he was being cooked. 

It wasn’t just any fire, it was Greek fire. Not even a Karcist could survive that, but he is Abel and he survived worse.

He roared as he felt his insides burning and the armor began losing its solid form with pieces of his armor falling from the sheer intensity, had it not for his knowledge on carnomancy and saguinmancy he would have been taken down by now. He commanded into forming multiple black mirrors all with red glowing runes and then he channeled his red energy into them through his blade as they converted and reflected back at each other making it more and more powerful until a massive red thaumaturgical burst reflected back at his sword and as he roared with all his might he swinged it and a massive thaumaturgical wave was formed.

As that final explosion ripped through the right side of its chassis, Abel threw himself, wings flaring, into the wreck. The Colossus crashed—metal arms twisted, plating peeled, its systems collapsing. A shockwave ruptured clouds, cracked stone, splintered the seas.

Abel hit heavy, but he rose—shaking, walking through the smoke and ruin. The Colossus lay broken, half-buried in the earth, steam rising from its corpse. Abel’s armor glowed with tremors. The dinosaur soared above, circling like a sentinel.

He stood tall, battered but unbroken.

The shockwave rolled across the horizon like the roar of a dying god. Trees bent. Mountains cracked. The very air trembled.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Everyone, Boiling Isle or Mekhanite, froze in disbelief as the colossal machine that once strode like a titan of faith and steel now lay broken—smoking—its half-melted frame slumped in the valley like a monument to arrogance.

Nadox paused mid-incantation, his hand still burning with residual light. The spectral runes hovering before him flickered out. A low whistle escaped his lips.

.“Still the Breaker of the Bronze, I see.”

Nearby, Darius looked at Aldor’s cogitator display(in his opinion an ugly big device with too many buttons) after being reeled back by the shockwave, the screen reflecting the implosion of the Colossus. “Power output exceeded predicted thresholds by two magnitudes... and he survived that? Hah! I almost pity the machine.”

Even the Mekhanites faltered. Their paratech visors dimmed, servitors stuttering in confusion as the reality-anchor readings spiked, then went dead. For the first time, fear flickered in their mechanical eyes.

Back near the warzone, Nadox stood atop the wreckage of a shattered walker, cloak torn, breathing heavy. He raised his gaze to the sky where faint streaks of molten debris still fell like dying comets.

Under his breath, he whispered a prayer—not to a god, but to an old comrade.

“Welcome back to the battlefield, old friend.”

And in the distance, amidst the ruin, Abel emerged from the smoke—wings tattered, armor cracked and glowing red-hot from within with a good chunk of them broke off revealing half of his face and some of his muscular physique with burnt marks and the smell of burnt hair yet those burnt and injuries were slowly being repaired. He dragged his sword across the earth, sparks tracing his path.

The battlefield fell silent as both ally and enemy turned to face him.

Even broken, he radiated the presence of something that could not die as he roared “I am Abel! The First Sword of Daevon! The Butcher of the West! The dreaded Corpse Swallower of the river of oath!”

Katya whistled “Damn he is jacked…..”

BOOM!

Just then a massive explosion came from WAN’s Fury as the ship began falling down.

“Any of you want to fill Colossus's shoes!?” He challenged.

There was a pause, until the Mekhanites seeing outnumbered and no match for the Butcher of the West after that display slowly walked back and retreated.

Abel frowned in disappointment."I was hoping you would have resisted."