Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For some context on why this is included in the story. I believe that the use of syntax for a written story can help readers like yourself to not only know who is speaking but also how that form of speech should be interpreted depending on the characters themselves and how they portray their words as well as thoughts. Especially when you have characters that can express power through their voice or have a more demonic tone with their voice. Or a character who has a warped-sounding voice or a collection of voices that speak all at once. Within writing, this is a lot harder to display in comparison to manga and comics. Their advantage is the art style of the speech bubble. Movies, Cartoons, Anime, and Video Games can use the voice actor and some tech stuff to display this as well. Yet, this is a lot harder to accomplish when you lack artwork or voice actors to display this form of unique dialogue. Here are the types of syntaxes to expect within the series going forward. Hope this helps with the story!

Chapter Text

It has been eight months since Earth was hit by the EMP Blast and all forms of technology have been forced to shut down by the effects. The death toll was too great to count. All forms of transportation were abruptly forced offline, crashing into all population centers. Hospitals had lost their means to treat the sick and wounded. Nuclear power plants experienced power failures and left devastation in their wake upon their inevitable meltdowns. Despite the powers of those associated with V.I.R.T.U.E, to say that damage control was a hassle is an utter understatement of the chaos left behind. Though power was eventually restored to Midgard, the damage was already done. From this event, three groups arose as terrorist groups of unparalleled power. Two of these groups, the Templar Order and Clodius Gang, announced their involvement in Camelot's Invasion with a new group, The Dark Thralls, claiming the EMP was their doing. Spawning the first waves of a war growing from Camelot's destruction, fanning the flames that strained relationships between Humans from the rest of Yggdrasil. A relationship that was already fragile from the Shattering of the Veil Event two years prior and despite all of these disasters. The symbolic element that The V.I.R.T.U.E. Agency was a beacon of hope that unity between Realms was still possible in the end and was still shining brightly amongst these dark times. Their actions to save all that they could, train those who could not handle their abilities as things spiraled out of control, and much more solidified their importance in this new Age. 

However, it was not made easy for this newborn Agency due to the interference of both the Dark Thralls and the Templar Order. Despite Leon's public declaration of his organization, the Clodius Gang, involvement with the Invasion of Camelot. The Templar Order was able to draw the attention of many who held anti-Mythic ideals among other humans. Adding more warriors to their ranks on their crusade to exterminate this race due to their religious teachings spoken by Noble Myles Oliver. In contrast to the Templars stood the Dark Thralls and their Heralds, who spoke against humans. These Speakers of the Dark Thralls' ideals that humanity was too great a danger to all Nine Realms were Kizeno, Báigŭjīng, and Merlin. Creating more tension and obstacles for the V.I.R.T.U.E. Agency to maintain peaceful unity between Humans and Mythics. Thankfully, these grievances did not leave Midgard for the time being. Allowing containment efforts from the Ethereal Council to be much easier while they began debating on what must be done with Midgard.

Among the many rules put in place for the Divine, their passive influence over Midgard's growing chaos was not something viewed positively among the Realms and their Mortal inhabitants. Although many did not understand why they could not directly influence the affairs of Mortals due to their immense power. Many argued it was their passivity that had made them detached and unable to truly understand the struggles of Mortals that they watched over and governed. Nivoxus Alméras's ascension under the noses of the Ethereal Council, a Midgardian who had managed to develop power equivalent to the Divine themselves, was seen as a display of their arrogance and detachment. After all, how could those like Horus or Heimdall not notice the progression of Nivoxus into a terror so great that many Mythics saw him as a Force of Nature that could not be stopped? Yet, unknown to the general public of the Nine Realms, the subtle operations and manipulations of the Dark Thralls were another example of this detachment. 

Another chilling aspect of what was happening across Yggdrasil, though it was not spoken out loud by many. These events were viewed as the progression towards Ragnarok, the end of all days. However, the true depths of this foretelling were not truly understood. Many depicted this apocalyptic tale across Myths, Legends, and even Religions. Yet, there was no true unified telling of this cataclysmic event destined to take place. Though there were specific details that had been shared through each depiction of Ragnarok, which were signs of its impending arrival. Details such as the Death of Baldur, the Destruction of both Sun and Moon, as well as the arrival of a being born from Darkness. One of these aspects was universally seen as the start of Ragnarok, a War that will engulf creation in burning embers and reduce it to ash.

Then there were the concerns that some would take advantage of this growing chaos on Midgard. Many had pointed toward Emperor Ryequar of the Zhēngfú Dynasty in the Ryūgū-Jō Realm when this concern came up among the Realms. It was not a secret that this Draconic Warlord craved to conquer Midgard for himself. Submitting many, many requests to invade the Human Realm to expand his empire. Thanks to both Shattering of The Veil and Kizeno's EMP Blast throughout Midgard. Other Realms grew wary that this would embolden the warlord and his thirst for conquest. Another who was seen with this concern was Queen Raena due to her craving for more wealth in this growing descent into war. Already this corrupted Dökkálfar Queen from Avalon was brewing the means to provide the weapons, bullets, transports, and bandages to gather this profit to enrich herself. If either wanted to turn the internal affairs of Midgard into their petty goals for conquest. It would turn this isolated conflict into a war across all Realms of Yggdrasil, drowning it in war.

Making objects of immense power, such as Arcane Crystals, Divine Relics, and Cursed Items that many will fight for in their efforts to claim for their means to take control. Items such as the Book of Thoth that served as a source of infinite knowledge, the Uaithne Harp that could manipulate the minds of those who heard its music, or the Caduceus Staff that was known for its incredible healing abilities could almost cure all known illnesses. The well-known exception was Necrosite as it was not something that afflicted the body, but poisoned the soul to hollow out the afflicted person to create the mindless Wraith under the control of Nadruk, Valerie, and now Princess Esmeralda. A development that left many stunned by her newfound ability. Yet, as powerful as these Divine Relics were, Arcane Crystals were also valuable to all as an energy resource. None of them could compare to the destructive influence of Cursed Items. Due to their uncontrollable nature, one Cursed Item could be a devastating bomb of sorts to enemy forces. Tearing apart from within by merely being around these malevolent objects. Though it was possible that some of these items could bestow positive effects upon their users. The drastic consequences of these items were too much of a danger in the wrong hands. In essence, they were a Mythic Equivalent of a mass weapon of destruction like a nuclear warhead. 

Throughout all of this, one race saw this as a means to develop due to their Warrior Culture. That was Demon Kind as those present on Midgard were eager to exploit this conflict for themselves at any means. It was due to their love for battle and how their culture viewed war itself. To Demon Kind, War was an expression of love. Conflict in any form was to encourage growth and to challenge your opponent was to see them improve. To see if they were worthy of existence and become better or to die forgotten. It may be a strange view on war, but it was not a malevolent one at its core. Another race of Mythics that shared this odd perspective on the nature of conflict was Wulvers, Garudas, and Cobrivites. They were not a Warrior Race like Dragons, Khnums, or Demons. Crobrivites, Garudas, and Wulvers were instead examples of Hunter Races, those who seek strength and glory through the hunt. To these Mythic Races, hunting was an art form that was to be respected, and those who were able to take down dangerous quarry such as monsters like a Nuckelavee, Wendigo, Troll, or Uktena brought fame and honor to them. Yet, among these Warriors and Hunters. It was only the Demons who desired to take advantage of any form of conflict to develop as a species. A concern that had uncertain aspects to the greater elements at play in Midgard.

However, there was one universal agreement among all those who bore witness to the start of this conflict. Whichever Faction was to win this battle would be the one who gets to reshape it. Earth was already showing these signs due to the influence of those like Prime Minister Sophia Foster and Senator Dobryin Ruslan. They brought down the current governmental systems of Midgard due to the evidence that these systems were so corrupted and outdated that they could not deal with Modern-Day problems. These systems were ineffective and what was considered much worse was that they enabled these events to happen by their reliance on corruption to prosper. Companies like Cryptix Energy were not held accountable for their inhumane methods because in the end. Too many people were relying on the products that Bethany Burton could create and even funded the efforts to produce them. Figures in power that were meant to help the people that they governed were too corrupted by bribery, selfish intention, lust for power, and their bigotry to serve the roles that they were in. It was those systems that had fostered the events that led to Kizeno's World Wide EMP and the mass loss of life that followed it. If people truly desire for things to improve, as they argued at the last meeting of the United Nations, they must tear down the broken system completely and rebuild things from scratch. It was only then that things could start to heal from the destruction and start anew. In its own cruel way, this was what the growing conflict truly represented for Yggdrasil. As a Phoenix would die to be reborn from its ashes, this battle was the death of a corrupted system to give rise to a new one that would fundamentally change things for the better or the worse. In the end, a truth of the world was that ideals of what was right or wrong did not truly determine what was the correct path. It was simply a mixture of Power and Conflict that determined which Ideals were the Right Ones to establish a new World Order.

It has been eight months since the EMP Blast crippled Earth, bringing all forms of technology to a grinding halt. The death toll defied calculation. Planes fell from the sky, vehicles crashed into city centers, and hospitals lost the ability to treat the sick and injured. Even nuclear power plants failed catastrophically, unleashing devastation in their wake.

Despite the best efforts of those affiliated with the V.I.R.T.U.E. Agency, calling their attempts at damage control a “hassle” would be an insult to the chaos that followed. Though power was eventually restored to Midgard, the damage had already been done.

From the ruins, three new terrorist factions emerged, each with unparalleled power and a hunger for control. The Templar Order and Clodius Gang claimed responsibility for the Invasion of Camelot. A third, more ominous group known as The Dark Thralls, declared themselves the architects behind the EMP, triggering the first waves of a war that would soon consume Yggdrasil.

The invasion didn’t just destroy Camelot—it fanned the dying embers of unity between Humans and Mythics, already strained since the Shattering of the Veil two years earlier. In these dark times, the V.I.R.T.U.E. Agency stood as a symbol of hope—proof that cooperation between Realms was still possible. Their efforts to save lives, train the unstable, and restore order cemented their importance in this new age.

But peace was never going to be easy.

Both the Dark Thralls and Templar Order sought to dismantle the fragile foundations V.I.R.T.U.E. had built. Leon, leader of the Clodius Gang, publicly admitted his group’s involvement in the attack, but the Templars gained traction among human supremacists. Guided by the teachings of Noble Myles Oliver, the Templar Order grew into a militant religious force determined to exterminate the Mythic race.

In opposition stood the Dark Thralls and their Heralds—Kizeno, Báigŭjīng, and Merlin—each preaching that humanity was too dangerous to coexist with the rest of the Nine Realms. Their message added fuel to the fire, making V.I.R.T.U.E.’s efforts to bridge the divide increasingly difficult. Thankfully, for now, the conflict remained contained within Midgard. The Ethereal Council watched closely, quietly debating the fate of Earth.

The Divine were barred from directly interfering in mortal affairs—a law long upheld across the Realms. Yet their passive observation had drawn increasing criticism. Many mortals began to question whether this detachment was born from wisdom... or arrogance.

The rise of Nivoxus Alméras, a Midgardian who achieved power rivaling that of the Divine, proved just how blind the gods had become. That beings like Horus or Heimdall failed to notice his rise—and his transformation into a force of destruction—was seen as proof of their irrelevance. Few knew, however, that Nivoxus's growth had been subtly manipulated by the Dark Thralls all along.

And so the whispers began—quiet fears that these events heralded the beginning of Ragnarök.

Though the myths varied across cultures, certain signs were shared: the death of Baldur, the destruction of the Sun and Moon, and the rise of a being born from darkness. Yet no prophecy told the full story. Only one certainty echoed across every telling—a war that would consume all of creation.

As Midgard burned, opportunists stirred in other realms.

Emperor Ryequar of the Zhēngfú Dynasty saw an opportunity to conquer Earth. The draconic warlord had submitted countless petitions to invade Midgard, seeking to expand his empire. The chaos wrought by the EMP only strengthened his case.

Meanwhile, Queen Raena of Avalon, a cunning and corrupt Dökkálfar monarch, schemed to profit from the war. Her kingdom funneled weapons, supplies, and transport to fuel the rising conflict—caring little for which side won, only that her pockets were filled.

The fear was growing: if either ruler made their move, the war on Earth would spill into all of Yggdrasil.

What made this coming war even more dangerous were the Artifacts of Power that still existed—Arcane Crystals, Divine Relics, and Cursed Items that could tip the balance for any faction.

• The Book of Thoth, said to grant infinite knowledge.

• The Uaithne Harp, which could manipulate minds with its melody.

• The Caduceus Staff, a relic that could cure almost any illness—except Necrosite, a soul-rotting affliction that turned the infected into mindless Wraiths under the control of Nadruk, Valerie, and now, shockingly, Princess Esmeralda.

But nothing compared to the danger of the Cursed Items. While some granted great power, the cost was often insanity, possession, or worse. In the wrong hands, they were the equivalent of nuclear weapons—uncontrollable, and catastrophically destructive.

Among those who thrived in chaos were the Demons.

War, to their kind, was not destruction—it was love. Conflict was sacred, a test of worthiness, a way to grow. Though their view may seem brutal, it was not born of cruelty. Other hunter races like the Wulvers, Garudas, and Cobrivites shared similar ideals, viewing the hunt as a noble pursuit. But it was the Demons alone who actively sought to prolong and escalate war for their own evolution. A dangerous appetite.

Amidst all this, one truth became clear to every Realm:

Whoever wins this war will reshape the world.

Earth was already shifting under new ideologies. Leaders like Prime Minister Sophia Foster and Senator Dobryin Ruslan dismantled outdated governments that had failed their people. The old systems—riddled with corruption, greed, and apathy—had enabled companies like Cryptix Energy to act with impunity. No accountability, no justice. Just profit.

Bethany Burton’s inventions may have been revolutionary, but they were funded by suffering. Politicians meant to protect the people were too consumed by bribes and power to act. It was this world—not Kizeno’s EMP—that had caused the deaths of millions.

And at the last meeting of the United Nations, a dark yet necessary conclusion was reached:

The system must be torn down completely if anything is to be rebuilt.

In this way, the growing conflict represented not just destruction, but transformation. Like a phoenix rising from its own ashes, this war could birth a new order. For better… or for worse.

Because in the end, morality does not shape history.

Power does.

Chapter Text

To say that VIRTUE was running rampant across Midgard would be nothing less than a drastic understatement of Yggdrasil's Fourth Age. Even if Abigail would not admit it aloud while she monitored the agency's efforts to help whoever they could from the devastation caused by Kizeno's EMP blast. She did not regret her choice to give Kizeno the knowledge needed to perform such a potent EMP that engulfed the entire planet. In her mind, Abigail saw it as a necessary step to better the world. The only regret was failing in her attempt to put her "mother" down like the vile beast she was due to the Templar's Grandmaster. 'Still can't believe that such a powerful being was working alongside her in the first place...' Abigail thought to herself with her arms crossed against her chest and leaning against her desk. Looking up at several screens that display the agency's operations playing out. Ensuring things were being handled by the book that VIRTUE wrote for itself while operating as the real-life version of SHIELD, as Tyrik put it when this idea was originally pitched. Abruptly, Abigail's attention was drawn to the sound of her office door being knocked on aggressively. Sighing in minor annoyance, the Director of VIRTUE turned off the computer screens and stood up straight. "Come in." She simply stated as her eyes closed and began to rub the bridge of her nose.

Upon this declaration, Valencia and Sarah made their way into her office. Expressions of frustration and disbelief were plastered on their pair's faces. "Are you kidding me?!" Sarah started as she threw her arms into the air. Anger ridden within her words as they were spoken, "Why the hell are we being sidelined when we can help with all of this craziness?!" Sarah questioned as she glared at Abigail. "Do NOT tell me it is because we are kids either! Because that is complete bullshit!" Declared the gothic genius while placing a hand onto her hips. "I'll have you know that I and Novitiates are roughly in our late teens!"

"That makes us at least qualified in terms of age to assist. What is the point of being trained to use our abilities if we don't get to share the risk of our Senseis?" Valencia added to Sarah's grievances as she crossed her arms. Her posture displayed the same frustration that Sarah had regarding this unnecessary coddling.

Abigail’s expression remained unreadable as Sarah and Valencia stood their ground. Then, at last, she spoke. Her voice sharp, cold, and absolute.

"Yes. It’s because you are children," she said flatly. "None of the Novitiates are truly prepared for what will be demanded of you if you were to take on the assignments I give your Senseis."

Her tone, steely and final, made both girls flinch. There was no warmth in her words, only the brutal edge of truth.

"You are far more likely to make mistakes. And those mistakes will cost lives. You may think you're ready, but you have no idea how deep the cruelty runs in this world, what it will demand of you. And worse, what it will leave behind."

She gave them no space to argue. Her decision wasn’t an open conversation, it was a decree.

"Even if you’ve proven yourselves capable. Even if you want to play hero. Like Luna, you don’t yet understand what being a Superhero truly means. Tyrik and Luna may share a love for superhero media, but Tyrik isn’t naive about what that life entails."

Her eyes narrowed, voice growing colder still.

"It’s not about glory. Not about beating the bad guys. It’s about sacrifice. Constant, unforgiving sacrifice. Pressure that breaks you piece by piece. And when you face the kinds of enemies we do, they won’t care how old you are. They won’t hesitate to kill you simply because you got in their way."

While Sarah backed away from Abigail in shaken conviction, Valencia did not waver and even approached Abigail. An action that caught the Director off guard as Valencia stood before Abigail on equal footing. "You may have very valid points with this." The Hawaiian Tomboy began as she carefully selected her words, "It does not take away that we have a degree of responsibility that those with the power to help should help. None of us should be doing anything less than what we can in this current state of crisis. As Tyrik would put it: A true hero will always stand against the tide, no matter what, in the effort to protect and save anyone that they can. Regardless of risk to one's self." Valencia declared with confidence and certainty in her words. Making Abigail pause and reevaluate her decision subtly as her expression became unreadable once more. "You say that we will make mistakes, but who doesn't make mistakes? No one is perfect, but we can all do what we can to help those who have gotten caught in the crossfire from The Dark Thralls' Declaration of War as well as whatever the Clodius Gang and Templar Order are planning." She concluded as Abigail returned her gaze to meet Valencia in the eyes.

"My answer remains the same, Valencia." Declared the Director without comprise, making the pair more angered than before. Yet, Abigail still found herself reflecting on what Valencia said in response to her decision. It was stunning to her, even with Abigail's grey sense of morality, that Valencia was able to make herself question the choices she made as the Director of VIRTUE. Reflecting on how Tyrik was just as capable of making herself question the beliefs that she had due to being the daughter of Cryptix Energy's CEO. Abigail was selected by Tyrik and backed up by Lin, as well as Khonsu, about how she was the best qualified for this job. Tyrik reasoned that because Abigail stood in the grey in the morals of right and wrong. Abigail was more than capable of making the hard decisions that not many could make. As the leader of an Agency that deals directly with Superhumans and other beings that hold incredible powers. A person with a sense of grey morality is one best equipped to deal with matters that could be on the tip of a blade on whether an entire country would live or die.

Abigail's internal deliberations were abruptly interrupted by the sound of Khonsu’s cane tapping rhythmically against the floor as he entered her office.

"I assume the Novitiates aren’t exactly zrilled about your choice to hold zem back?" Khonsu asked dryly, tilting his head slightly to glance at her from the corner of his eye.

Abigail gave no response. Instead, she turned silently toward the monitors, resuming her surveillance of VIRTUE's operations across the globe. Her silence spoke volumes.

Khonsu chuckled, clearly amused. "Zought so. Zat girl, Valencia, she’s wise beyond her years. No wonder Esmeralda chose her to be Tyrik’s Novitiate."

Abigail turned to face him, a flicker of curiosity in her gaze. She didn’t speak, but her eyes clearly asked him to explain.

"Ah! I knew zat would get your attention," Khonsu said with a sly grin, adjusting his tie while still gripping his cane.

"Ze Sensei–Novitiate system is older zan most of ze institutions you’re familiar wiz. The Ezereal Council has used it for generations to train zose blessed, or burdened, by a connection to the Arcane Energies and ze ability to channel Mana."

He paused, a knowing smile creeping onto his face.

"Ze Sensei guides the Novitiate in mastering boz magic and inherited abilities. But zere’s a deeper intent to ze bairing. Zhe Novitiate is chosen not just for botential, but because zey mirror ze Sensei’s strengths and flaws. It forces ze mentor to confront zeir own demons. Because whatever darkness ze Sensei carries, ze student will inevitably reflect."

Khonsu’s gaze lingered on Abigail as she absorbed the weight of his words, processing the layered implications of Esmeralda’s decision, and perhaps, her own.

"In a sense..." Abigail began as she held a finger up to her chin in deep thought, "It allows both teacher and student to teach each other in their journey to master magic? Clever, if I don't say so myself." Abigail remarked as she couldn't stop herself from growing a smile of admiration at this system.

Elsewhere within the headquarters of the VIRTUE Agency, Esmeralda was training with her scythe in hand to vent her growing anger due to Queen Raena becoming a thorn in her side once more. The Scythe spiraling within her hands as Esmeralda wielded the weapon is elegant and fierce precision that slices through training drones. Pushing herself to be faster and more proficient with Azalea Severance in her Dökkálfar Form. Though as she continued with this training, Esmeralda scared herself as that blackened crimson energy manifested in her scythe as it tore through the drone. Cutting through it with potent magic that came from Nadruk himself. In fright, Esmeralda threw Azalea Severance away from herself. The metal crashed onto the floor with a metallic ringing, denting the blades on both sides of the polearm as she tried to process what was happening to her. Though, this panic towards herself was short-lived as another fear sparked. Hearing the chilling laughter of The Elusive right behind her. Esmeralda used her wings to fly away from Vimofrea and faced her with a fierce determination to fight off this Asura Queen if she had to.

"Glad to see you and this Agency of yours thriving despite all that has happened within these chaotic eight months." Vimofrea began as she calmly walked about the training room that was made by Anthony Gibbs. "Especially with the aid of Anthony Gibbs in his overwhelming guilt for what transpired at Camelot. Never seen such a vicious..." Pausing to figure out the proper words to speak in this moment between two descendants of Royal Blood, "Crash out as this generation would say. It was fascinating to watch Anthony destroy all of the weapons he had made personally with his armor. If only the Glacier Juggernaut shared his sentimentality regarding powerful technology being used by warlords." She continued with cryptic words as Vimofrea picked up Azalea Severance. Examining the craftsmanship of this powerful scythe that belonged to the Dökkálfar Princess.

Yet, this Title was unfamiliar to Esmeralda, but she did know this individual was powerful as those who bear Titles were extremely powerful in their own right. Like the saying that names hold power, Titles were displays of how utterly powerful an individual was. The more titles one held, the more dangerous they were. "Who are you talking about? I know that you didn't just drop a title for the sake of it, Asura." Esmeralda demanded with the authority that came with being a warrior princess, yet this ended up enraging Vimofrea as the surroundings grew colder as The Elusive unleashed her greater level of Mana.

"Watch. Your. Tone. Child..." Vimofrea simply threatened as she glared down at Esmeralda with the weight of an entity wielding massive power hidden deep within. "I would have told you who this person is regardless. No need for disrespect and I advise you to refrain from that." She declared with venom in her tone due to the blatant disrespect Esmeralda displayed. Taking a brief moment to calm herself, Vimofrea handed Esmeralda her scythe as a gesture that she would need it for events to come. "I speak of Ryequar's greatest Jötunn Occultist, Einn Úlfr. Like the Midgardian who builds impressive technology like the Nightsteel Armors. Einn builds an Occultronics power armor that he dubs as The Siegemonger Warsuits. Though the young Jötunn is a mere child who craves validation for his..." Pausing once again as Esmeralda cautiously took Azalea Severance from Vimofrea, "Unorthodox approach on Occultronics, his Warsuits are not something to scoff at." Warned Vimofrea with a sincere tone within her voice regarding this form of Mythic Technology.

Esmeralda took a moment to figure out why the Asura Queen was telling her about this. However, she was unable to figure out what was so important about knowing about Einn Úlfr. "Why are you telling me about this guy anyway? You're acting like this Jötunn is gonna make some power play..." The Dökkálfar Princess asked in confusion until she realized that was why Vimofrea spoke about Einn Úlfr. "Wait... Where and when?" Esmeralda followed up with a worried expression forming quicking on her face while she grew pale. However, as those questions left her lips. Esmeralda immediately grew very cautious about the information. Doubting if it is valid intel or just another form of deception from The Elusive. Thrusting her scythe towards Vimofrea's throat, the blade was merely inches away from a vital artery. "Why are you even telling me this? What are you trying to achieve? You seriously think that a Mythic from another Realm would be reckless enough to pull off a stunt that could spread this crisis to the rest of Yggdrasil?" She questioned with narrowed eyes. Making it very clear that she was more than willing to kill Vimofrea if she did not speak plainly.

Vimofrea laughed briefly with amusement towards Esmeralda's reaction as a claw tauntfully wrapped around the scythe's blade. With only two fingers, Vimofrea effortlessly pushed the weapon away from her throat and slowly twisted the weapon within Esmeralda's hands. The pain that was sent through her body as Esmeralda tried to fight against The Elusive Asura's greater strength as Vimofrea twisted her arm. Making Esmeralda being forced to drop Azalea Severance as Vimofrea leaned in closer to Esmeralda with a sinister glare. "O princess mine. You are quite bold to threaten me like that. Remember that I am protecting you because of our deal. In exchange for my protection from forces hidden within the Shadows, you will master your dormant power. To master Necrosite that is within you." She said in cold declaration that Esmeralda was not in control of this situation, "I can easily snap you in half if I so wanted to, Princess. Start treading around me with the appropriate respect that I deserve or I will force you to watch me slaughter everyone that you care about before I end you." Vimofrea promised as she grabbed Esmeralda's throat and slightly clenching it to ensure that the Dökkálfar would squirm in her hands. This was a display of her power that Vimofrea intentionally kept hidden within her, a facade that she was easy prey when it was far from the truth. Seeing Esmeralda nod in acceptance of Vimofrea's threat as she struggles to break Vimofrea's grip on her throat. The Elusive Asura throws the Dökkálfar Princess to the ground aggressively before folding her arms behind her back. "Now to the question of why." Vimofrea began once she had regained her composure, "It is because desperation for validation and recognition can make someone utterly careless and reckless. Even it is their tactical brilliance that earned them a title of an unstoppable force. Einn plans to show off his Armor's capabilities against a Midgardian military base soon. Unlike Kizeno and his allies within The Dark Thralls, Ryequar sees this as an opportunity to examine how powerful Midgardians are in this modern age." She explained simply as Esmeralda rubbed her throat to soothe the pain caused by the claws that gripped her throat. 

At one of VIRTUE and US military bases, located roughly around Thebes of Egypt, Agent Robert Torres was assisting the military in regards on locating a potential base of The Dark Thrall Cult. Due to their operations with frequent attacks on human population centers, VIRTUE saw them as one of the high-priority targets during the crisis. Yet, their attempts to locate where they held a base of operations had been made quite difficult due to their lack of understanding of the nature of Magic. Even though there were elements that some humans could understand, much of it was far too advanced. It was akin to a scientist trying to explain complex terms to the standard person. Much of how Magic works went over a lot of heads. Walking over to his fellow VIRTUE Agent, Andrew Smith, who was working in one of the main computer facilities within the base. "So... How are things with the sensors? Are you picking up anything?" Robert asked in defeat. A reaction to how long these efforts to track the movements of The Dark Thralls have been left fruitless. 

Andrew typed on the keyboard of his laptop as the soldiers kept themselves busy with their duties. However, it was clear that Andrew was not able to find anything of use as he shook his head to the question. "Whatever we detected earlier... It has seemed to fade a long time ago." He admitted bitterly as Andrew crossed his as a means to vent his frustration. "Strange how all we picked up was some minor Bifröst Anomaly just to come up with nothing..." He pondered aloud to the strange disturbance that had brought their attention to this area. Despite their inability to truly grasp the understanding of Magic, they did understand that Bifröst Energy was used for Inter-Realm travel. This anomaly implies that someone or something had traveled between Realms recently. The Problem was that as quickly as this flicker of energy manifested, it just as quickly vanished without a trace.  

"I agree with you on that, Agent Smith..." Replied Robert as he tried to put together what may have happened to create this Bifröst Anomaly. Suddenly, the entire room flickered in and out. The lights are experiencing a power failure and the computers are glitching subtly. This easily left everyone within the base utterly confused as this strange occurrence went throughout the entirety of the base. Not just this computer room which acted as the information center and radar systems. Robert looked around with confusion written over him while reaching for his pistols that were on his belt, preparing himself for a potential attack. "Okay. What was that?" He simply asked in a manner to display as an order. 

Swiftly, Andrew attempted to pull up the base's radar system only to find them disabled. Next, he tried to access the communication systems to report this strange occurrence. Yet, this was too jammed and left useless to all within the base. "Radar has been jammed and our communications are disabled?" He said aloud as the tension grew more as the VIRTUE Agents and Military Officers realized that they were shut off from the rest of the world.

Someone did not want this base to radio for reinforcements and soon the reason why was revealed when the sounds of explosions began to go off. Rushing outside to see what was going on, Robert and Andrew with their gun readied, saw an eighteen-foot-tall giant mech that enough weapons to be a heavy tank. The mech had been built with missile launchers, heavy mini-guns, energy blaster gauntlets, and a metal frame to put the strongest of Anthony's Nightsteel armors to shame. Upon the mechanized armor, multiple Jötnar Enhancement Runes were engraved onto the metal plating. Granting this power magical enhancements that made it more dangerous. The army and VIRTUE Agents were trying to fight off this mechanized Jötunn, an assumption made by the humans who fought it due to the runes. Yet, none of their weapon even scratched this mech suit as it tore through the base defenses like they are tissue paper. Whoever was piloting this warsuit, they were destroying their opposing forces with such tactical precision and brutality that it was like they saw siege warfare as an art form and they were a master with the brush. Each round fired had a tactical purpose, each energy blast targeted stronger artillery, missiles focused on tanks, planes, and other vehicles that could provide either stronger firepower or could grant escape. Robert was nearly hit by one of these energy blasts, if it wasn't for Andrew tackling him to the ground. The blast fired overhead and annihilated an MH-53 Pave Low helicopter in a single blast. Causing shrapnel to fly all over the place as the mech continued its onslaught on the base with deadly precision. Robert quickly got onto his feet and rushed for cover to a group of soldiers as well as VIRTUE Agents that took shelter behind some crates. 

"What the fucking hell is that thing?!" Robert shouted due to the destruction being caused by this mysterious Mythic attacker, "It looks like a type of Nightsteel Armor!" He added as the Latino VIRTUE Agent took a chance to gaze back at the mechanized warsuit. Andrew joined with the squad of seven, four soldiers and three VIRTUE Agents. These VIRTUE Agents were Robert, Andrew, and Judy Joyce. Joining as the operations Magic expert despite the protest from the humans who were not thrilled with the idea of a Kitsune being around. A notion caused by Kizeno, a Umi Kitsune. 

"Well, your judgment call is accurate!" Shouted the three-tailed Jikan Kitsune as she tried to protect herself from the debris and shrapnel being thrown about. All the results of the destruction caused by the Mythic Power Armor, using her Iyashino-Me Glare to get a better look at the machine and gain an idea of who was piloting it. "You Have To Kidding ME!? That's Einn Úlfr?! Why is the Glacier Juggernaut attacking this place?!" Judy shouted in utter disbelief as the others looked at her with confusion about who this person was. Though, she quickly picked up on this and turned to them with a serious demeanor. "He's a Jötunn Occultist, basically a mythic tech guy like Anthony, who is one of Emperor Ryequar's best Siegemasters. Hell, the guy even built his power armor to make him better at it and gave the tyrant some of them." She clarified as Judy's fear became clear to the others who heard her speak about Einn. "We need to get out of here before we are next to be made into a red paste in the desert! We won't be able to fight him like this!" 

However, as they made their escape. Little did they realize that this was what Einn wanted as he caught sight of them escaping. Grinning with delight as his plan to test Midgardian's military prowess was going as he wanted it to. The decimation of the base was nothing more than to gain the attention of Midgard's warriors. Forcing them to respond to a Mythic Threat with their own weaponry. Allowing the group to escape was another step in this test. Once he was finished destroying this pathetic base. The Glacier Juggernaut would next test the response time of human military communication systems and deployment of reinforcements to save survivors of a base attack. All was useful data to gauge the future invasion that Ryeqyar was preparing for. Yet, throughout all of this destruction, Einn paused for a moment when his Siegemonger Warsuit picked up the energy signature of a Wraith, and when he spotted the Wraith. His moment of terror that Nadruk was close by had quickly converted to confusion. The Wraith was not the infamous Cobalt Blue of Nadruk's Wraith. It was a form of purple and it perplexed Einn as this meant there was a new user of Necrosite. A potential tool that would aid his father figure, Emperor Ryequar, in his conquest of Midgard.

Chapter Text

Anthony sliced through the sky in his Nightsteel Armor, a silver-blue blur against the endless sea of clouds. Up here, above the world, the wind roared around him like an ocean storm. One that was cold, biting, almost cleansing. He usually found comfort in these solitary flights, the altitude giving him space to breathe and think. But today, no matter how thin the air or how far he climbed, he couldn’t outrun the shadows trailing him. Images of Camelot’s burning spires and crumbling walls haunted him, each memory a brand seared into his mind. His technology, twisted and repurposed to raze an entire city. The guilt clawed at him from the inside, a gnawing, acidic guilt that made every breath feel heavier. The knowledge that he had, even indirectly, enabled Kizeno’s catastrophic worldwide EMP weighed on him like an anchor around his neck. A debt in blood he could never repay.

A sudden crackle snapped in his ear, tearing him from the spiral. “Yo, Void-Lance! You still alive up there, or did you pass out from your own brooding monologue?” Luna’s voice burst into his comms, sharp and obnoxiously cheerful.

Anthony let out a slow, controlled sigh, the sound carrying all his barely-contained irritation. “What is it, Luna?” he muttered, his voice flat, a subtle edge cutting through each word. Luna’s grinning face blinked into view on his helmet HUD, the tag “Ace-Shot” flashing beneath.

“Wow, someone’s cranky today. You sure you don’t want me to start writing my corporate takeover speech? Gibbs Industries could use a real charmer at the top,” she teased, her laughter echoing in his helmet. Then her tone shifted in an instant, her eyes sharpening. “Anyway, remember that joint base we set up with the U.S. military? The one tracking those spontaneous Bifröst anomalies?”

Anthony’s brows furrowed, utilizing the helmet's HUD systems to pull up all information regarding this particular base. “Yeah. What about it?”

A pause, hearing her loading a fresh cartridge into her hand cannon, the metallic click reverberating. “We just lost all comms with them. Total blackout,” she said, her voice stripped of jokes for a moment. “Your tech doesn’t just shut off, so this isn’t a random glitch.” Anthony’s eyes hardened behind his visor as he pulled up live diagnostics and threat assessments. “You’re closest,” Luna continued, slipping back into her characteristic playful taunt as if she couldn’t help herself. “Mind checking it out for us while you float around playing sad, tortured sky poet?”

A humorless exhale. He recalibrated his trajectory, the suit’s engines thrumming with barely leashed power. “Fine. I’ll handle it.” Anthony said, his voice low and certain, a blade rather than a question. He shifted forward, the armor roaring to life in a surge of raw energy. In a blink, he tore past the sound barrier, leaving a sonic boom echoing across the stratosphere. The clouds ripped open around him like paper, the horizon already shrinking behind the burning contrail of his flight.

Among the desert sand, Robert, along with Andrew, Judy, and three soldiers who survived Einn's attack, were trying to find their way to some form of population center. Their current objective was to find a means to contact the VIRTUE Agency or the US Military before the Jötunn could locate them. Yet, the questions that went through Robert's mind were not those that placed their predicament in a positive light. Ultimately, this attack from another Realm only pointed to a deliberate attack on humans. That information meant that whoever sent Einn in his Warsuit desired to do much more than simply destroy a military base. Despite this grim realization, one other question had left Agent Torres confused by the methods of Einn. 'Why did the guy demolish the entire base for no true objective in mind?' Robert pondered as the desert's heat made travel difficult for him and the others, 'The giant thing in the mech suit was clearly a master of the raid that he conducted on his own. Yet, he didn't try to gather any intelligence through our computer systems or cripple our means of attack...' Robert analyzed in his thoughts as the playback of the attack repeated within his mind. These sentiments weren't exclusive to Robert as Judy had kept her Iyashino-Me Glare active since they had escaped the destruction of their military base. "Any signs of the mech suit?" Asked Robert as he checked the assault rifle in his hands. Making sure that it was both functional and fully loaded in case of another encounter with the Jötunn.

"Nothing so far..." Answered the three-tailed Jikan Kitsune as the group allowed themselves a moment to relax, even if it was for a brief moment. "Out of all things that Ryequar is capable of," Began Judy as she pulled her goggles onto her eyes to shield them from the desert heat and intense light from the sun, "I was not expecting him to send Einn to decimate a Midgard military base..." She concluded as Judy tried to understand what the Dragon Emperor was trying to achieve with this strike. It was foolish to believe that Ryequar would authorize such an attack without any purpose behind it. "I am not fully aware of the Jötunn myself, but Einn Úlfr is not some random guy either..." Judy rambled aloud as she reviewed her knowledge on Einn. "But one thing I am aware of is that he is the son of Hrímthurs, Builder of Walls." She spoke aloud while sorting her thoughts.

One of the human soldiers perked up at the mention of this name, bringing forth a memory regarding Norse Mythology. "Isn't that the same Giant who made the Walls of Asgard? Ya'know... Before Loki got freaky with Svaðilfari to ensure that Odin got his fortifications for free..." He finished and wondered why the Trickster of the Aesir took this lewd approach. 

Judy nodded to confirm this assumption as Andrew's radio started to pick up a frequency that broke through the static. Anthony's voice managed to become audible as he attempted to check on their status. Andrew quickly grabbed the radio and pressed the comm-link to speak to Void-Lance, "This is VIRTUE Agent Andrew Smith speaking." He answered simply as he looked up to the sky. Trying to figure out where Anthony was. But before a response could be made, the radio was demolished by an energy burst from behind. Causing Andrew to scream out due to pieces flying into his face and hand upon its destruction.

All turned towards the direction from which the blast came. Seeing that Einn's armor was decloaking itself due to firing the blast. Yet before Einn could press his assault further, Anthony flew directly into the Jötunn Occultist and knocked the towering Warsuit into the sands. Dragging him across the surface and leaving a trail behind. Einn grunted as he tried to collect himself as Anthony commanded the nanites in his suit to form his gunlance and shield. Bashing Einn's helmet to ensure that he could not react fast enough, and following this up by jabbing his gunlance into Siegemonger Warsuit's chassis. Unleashing a powerful blast of Bifröst Energy that tore through its reinforced plating. Bits of metal and circuitry were flying from the damaged plating, but Einn retaliated by wrapping his arm around the unique weapon to lock it firmly in place. Throwing a hailmaker punch at Anthony and causing him to be launched across the desert. While Anthony was sent flying, Einn activated the targeting systems of his armor. Firing a barrage of missiles at the armored warrior. However, these missiles were soon frozen in place thanks to Judy's temporal abilities that were rooted in her being as a Jikan Kitsune. Seeing this resulted in the Jötunn Occultist burning with fury as he began to activate the runes that were engraved into his armor. Consuming the gunlance into his armor to repair the damages caused by Anthony's attack. Anthony soon crashed into the sandy terrain, the human soldiers beginning to open fire upon the Siegemonger Warsuit with their firearms. Though, the ammonium was not capable of piercing through the armor. Bullets ricocheting off the armor in random directions upon coming into contact. Einn held up his left arm to briefly block the gunfire and approached the soldiers with heavy footsteps that created small bursts of sand being flung into the air. With long heavy swings of his arms, the human soldiers felt their bones scattering upon impact. Not just from being hit by metal, but also the sheer force of Einn's superhuman physiology as a Jötunn. Their fragile bodies being thrown like ragdolls in Einn's fury. More gunfire from Einn's Warsuit began to be unleashed while Robert and Andrew did their best to avoid the onslaught. Agent Torres is forced to throw his assault rifle away to move quickly and draw out a pair of Geiger GRPs. Knowing that all he could do was to buy time for Anthony to recover. Robert began to do all he could to give Anthony that time, firing his pistols with tactical precision to make each shot count. 

Unlike the blind firing done by Andrew and the other soldiers, Einn witnessed that Anthony's shots were strangely targeted at vital areas of his Siegemonger Warsuit. Causing systems and mechanisms to start failing swiftly as each bullet hit their marks. This revelation left the Glacier Juggernaut speechless. A mere Midgardian couldn't bring down his armor with such ease, especially when this was their first encounter. Using the systems within his Warsuit, Einn scanned Robert Torres to figure out what gave him such an edge. Yet, the scans came up as strange. What Einn saw in the data displayed that Robert was something akin to a Midgardian, but did not share the complete chemical make-up that Midgardians had. On top of this strange oddity, Einn caught sight of a brand that pulsed with ancient magic. This brand had a strange shape as it pulsed subtly on Robert's neck, an enigmatic sigil pulsated with an otherworldly resonance. Its stark, angular geometry hints at a forgotten language of the ancients. As if designed as a cipher whispered only in the deepest shadows of existence. The diamond crown above suggests ascension or an unseen eye, while the inverted triangular structure evokes an endless descent into the abyss of hidden truths. It perplexed Einn as he analyzed the strange brand before aiming his gauntlet, attached with powerful energy blasters on the wrists, to fire several bursts of energy. They flew at Robert faster than he could react as Robert's eyes widened with terror. Yet, Anthony managed to utilize his shield to block the blast. However, the impact shattered it due to the overwhelming firepower that the Siegemonger Warsuit had in comparison to Anthony's Nightsteel armor.

As the battle outside roared with the rage of clashing titans, another, more insidious operation unfolded under the cold, calculating orders of Emperor Ryequar. Deep within the sterile labyrinth of a Cryptix Energy black-site — a place already tainted by the screams of the company’s unwilling subjects — a darker presence had slithered into the shadows.

This was not Einn’s siegecraft, nor the thunderous might of war engines. This was the silent poetry of annihilation, carried out by the Camazotz's Melaina — masters of fear sculpted into living nightmares. One of five squadrons under Emperor Ryequar's command as he strives for conquest. At their forefront moved Zander Ezgon, the Night Talon.

Zander was no mere assassin. He was dread incarnate, an artisan of terror whose every movement felt like a whispered omen of death. His scales shimmered with an unnatural, deep blue luster, shifting between the shadows like liquid midnight. His crimson eyes glowed faintly, burning with a predatory intelligence and a smoldering fury that seared into the minds of those who dared meet his gaze.

Jagged, dragon-like fins framed his head and spine, twitching subtly as he listened to every tremor, every hushed sob. His tail, segmented and tipped with a wicked blade, curled and lashed behind him like a serpent tasting the air. Armored plating hugged his powerful frame, each matte-black segment catching stray sparks of light like distant stars, while crimson ribbons tied at his wrists and ankles whispered in the darkness like the trailing petals of a poisonous flower.

His black, high-collared scarf masked part of his monstrous visage, allowing only his glimmering fangs to catch the light when he grinned — a smile sharpened into something beyond human comprehension. Every piece of his tech armor was designed to enhance the silent horror he became: reactive plating that shifted noiselessly, claws infused with dark alloy, and sensors that pulsed with the living heartbeat of the facility itself. As he slipped deeper into the labyrinthine corridors, the building seemed to decay under his influence. Lights flickered, sputtering like the final gasps of a dying man. A soft electrical hum crawled beneath the skin of every scientist and guard within. Then, without warning, bulbs burst in sharp, echoing pops — glass shards rained down like crystalline rain, catching crimson reflections from his eyes.

Through the hallways of the facility, Captain Dreyer steadied his rifle, sweat rolling down the back of his neck. The flickering overheads gave only fleeting glimpses of twisted shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. Suddenly, the emergency lights snapped off entirely. In that suffocating darkness, he heard the scuff of claws against the floor — soft, deliberate, playful. A pair of glowing crimson eyes ignited ahead of him, closer than he could have imagined.

Then came a soft, rumbling laugh. A sound like thunder trapped inside a cavern. Dreyer fired blindly, muzzle flashes strobing over the monstrous silhouette. Between bursts, he caught glimpses: gleaming fangs, the sinewy tension of a coiled predator, the edge of that sinuous tail arching like a scorpion’s stinger. Then silence. A single claw tapped on his helmet visor, slow and rhythmic. With a strangled cry, Dreyer ripped off his helmet — only to feel the cold steel of talons close around his throat. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the gleaming grin of the Night Talon.

Inside one of the experiment chambers, Dr. Vemora, her glasses smeared with sweat, barricaded herself inside a storage room filled with broken medical equipment. Every tiny metallic clang sounded like approaching footsteps. Suddenly, the overhead speakers crackled to life. A distorted voice, gurgling and layered, whispered her name. She pressed her hands to her ears, rocking back and forth. But the voice only grew louder, a chorus of twisted echoes. A sudden scraping outside the door made her breath catch. Through the crack beneath it, she saw a long, segmented tail slide by the fin-like edges twitching, dripping black fluid. Then the door creaked open, impossibly slowly. She looked up into the darkness and saw nothing at first, until two burning crimson eyes flared above her. She tried to scream, but the darkness leapt forward, swallowing her voice as a clawed hand closed gently over her mouth, silencing her forever.

Private Jalen sprinted through a maintenance tunnel, each echo of his boots bouncing back like mocking laughter. His rifle clattered uselessly at his side, magazine empty. As he stumbled into a service chamber, he fell to his knees, gasping for air. He turned and saw a shape. Towering, broad-shouldered, armored in segmented plating that shifted and creaked like a living exoskeleton. A scythe was being dragged against the floor, creating a sound of metal scraping against stone that added to the horror. 

The monster tilted its head, as if curious. Jalen stammered, raising a trembling hand. “P-please… I don’t want to die…” The figure stepped forward into the flickering emergency light, revealing a nightmarish grin of curved fangs. Zander’s clawed foot pressed forward silently, almost reverently, as though savoring the space between heartbeats. Then, with a flicker, the light died completely. The last thing Jalen felt was the cold, impossibly strong grip lifting him from the floor before the darkness crushed every sound from his lungs.

A lone technician huddled beneath a console, staring at the endless lines of code on his tablet as if they might shield him. He watched helplessly as internal cameras flicked between corridors filled with dismembered bodies and smears of blood. Suddenly, the camera feed switched to his own hiding place. He blinked in disbelief. Seeing his own terror-stricken face looking up. A deep growl reverberated through the room, vibrating the wires above. He turned slowly, tears streaming down his cheeks. There, inches away, those infernal crimson eyes glowed in the dark. The last command on his tablet read SHUTDOWN: ABORTED, forever frozen as claws slid across the screen and then his throat. In these final moments, the facility transformed into a twisted gallery of fear, each soul a canvas painted in crimson, each scream an aria echoing through cold hallways.

Zander Ezgon, the Night Talon, was no longer merely a shadow. He was the crescendo of dread itself, a living myth sculpted in claws, fangs, and silent death. He moved through the wreckage as though floating, the glint of his armored scales and blade-tipped tail catching the dying lights like stars falling in a moonless sky. And when all was done, when the last heart stilled and the last terrified breath fled, he stood amidst the carnage, crimson eyes flickering like candles in a storm. Holding what he was sent to obtain, Cryptix Energy's Ändern Elixir, while his scythe lay at his side. For a brief instant, there was a tremor in those eyes, a memory of the boy he once was before being torn away from his family. Before being sold away by Bakasura to the Dragon Emperor. Before Ryequar sculpted him into this living weapon. Then, without a word, he turned and vanished into the shadows once more, his silhouette dissolving into the cold darkness. A ghost, a god of terror, leaving only silence and the echo of his final, perfect performance.

Chapter Text

Belina Casali, now a member of VIRTUE after being dismissed from her research position at the White Star Corporation, was collaborating with an unexpected ally from Aokez’s Milo Gang: Shelketh Ryrothe, a serpentine demon woman who radiated both arcane mastery and dangerous allure. Shelketh’s sleek, white-scaled skin was smooth and almost luminous, hinting at a cold-blooded elegance that set her apart from other demonkin. Her elongated face and sharply angled snout gave her an otherworldly beauty, further accentuated by piercing icy-blue eyes that seemed to gaze straight into one’s soul. Elegantly curved, horn-like ridges swept back from her head, echoing both her demonic lineage and her serpentine heritage.

Large, powerful black wings with white-tipped feathers arched gracefully behind her, suggesting both swift mobility and an imposing presence whether she entered a room or a battlefield. She dressed in a flowing emerald-green robe that draped sensuously over her lithe, coiled form, secured with golden harnesses and enchanted sashes shimmering faintly with protective runes. The layered, asymmetrical design blended ceremonial sophistication with practical utility. Fitting for an apothecary mage. Intricately engraved golden armor pieces adorned her shoulders and arms, balancing alchemical precision with combat readiness.

Her belt featured alchemical sigils and tiny vials of luminous liquids, poisons, restorative elixirs, and arcane catalysts, always within easy reach. Her clawed hands were deft and expressive, accustomed to both delicate potion-making and channeling destructive spells. Her overall bearing conveyed quiet confidence and subtle menace: a master of elixirs and toxins, versed equally in healing and curses. Instead of legs, her lower body was a thick, muscular reptilian tail that she used for movement. At present, she carried a bladed scepter in her right hand as she reviewed Belina’s research notes on her newly formed biology as a Slaminor, the unexpected result of a laboratory accident during a Los Duendes Academy field trip to White Star’s headquarters.

Shelketh, once one of Ryequar’s Influenza Harbingers, was now one of Aokez’s most skilled bio-chemists and a renowned Apothecary Mage. While Melaina of the Camazotz employed terror tactics to break enemies psychologically, the Influenza Harbingers specialized in bio-warfare — crafting poisons and diseases to rot armies and corrode fortresses from within. Their expertise in mythic weaponry, occultronics, magic, enhanced soldiers, and combat alchemy was refined and unleashed during Ryequar’s war against the Minotaurs, reshaping the Ryūgū-Jō Realm’s military and driving their adversaries to extinction. Yet it was precisely that brutal annihilation that caused Shelketh to abandon Ryequar and reject his ascension to the Draconic Throne. Now, she dedicated herself to helping Aokez improve the living conditions in the Demon Realm. Together, they developed the Māttugr Galdr, a serum that enhanced a Mythic’s biology to better withstand the realm’s harsh environment.

Currently, Shelketh and Belina were studying a new species accidentally created when Ethan Jackson tampered with Belina’s equipment during the Los Duendes field trip. Thanks to Shelketh’s aid, Belina, who struggled to maintain a stable form and often collapsed into a magenta puddle, was able to function more coherently despite her slime-like physiology. Unlike Ethan, who had rapidly adapted to his biology, Belina found it difficult to sustain solidity. Their tests revealed that Slaminors contained traces of silicone, gelatin, Daou energy, and, unexpectedly, Aswang DNA. After digesting this revelation, Belina turned to Shelketh, curiosity lighting up her expressive, goo-like features. "What is an Aswang exactly? I’m not familiar with this Mythic race…"

Shelketh closed the notebook gently and handed it back, her wings flickering with tension and curiosity. "In Midgardian terms, Doctor Casali," she began, "they are a race of vampiric shape-shifters from Filipino mythology. They consume the life force of their victims and can transform their forms at will. But their true origin is far older than folklore would suggest." Shelketh paused, her icy gaze sharpening. "Aswangs were forged from a shadow-like liquid during the First Age, born of Chernobog and Tiamat’s love before the Primordial of Water’s untimely demise. This act of creation was a symbol of their union — a legacy abandoned by the Titans, who refused to take responsibility for their indulgence in mortal affairs." Belina listened with wide-eyed wonder, her entire gelatinous form quivering with fascination. "This unique biological makeup explains your mutable state," Shelketh concluded. "Your body mirrors the Aswangs’ shifting nature, which they inherited from their shadow-forged origin."

Belina Casali, now a member of VIRTUE after being dismissed from her research position at the White Star Corporation, was collaborating with an unexpected ally from Aokez’s Milo Gang: Shelketh Ryrothe, a serpentine demon woman who radiated both arcane mastery and dangerous allure. Shelketh’s sleek, white-scaled skin was smooth and almost luminous, hinting at a cold-blooded elegance that set her apart from other demonkin. Her elongated face and sharply angled snout gave her an otherworldly beauty, further accentuated by piercing icy-blue eyes that seemed to gaze straight into one’s soul. Elegantly curved, horn-like ridges swept back from her head, echoing both her demonic lineage and her serpentine heritage.

Large, powerful black wings with white-tipped feathers arched gracefully behind her, suggesting both swift mobility and an imposing presence whether she entered a room or a battlefield. She dressed in a flowing emerald-green robe that draped sensuously over her lithe, coiled form, secured with golden harnesses and enchanted sashes shimmering faintly with protective runes. The layered, asymmetrical design blended ceremonial sophistication with practical utility. Fitting for an apothecary mage. Intricately engraved golden armor pieces adorned her shoulders and arms, balancing alchemical precision with combat readiness.

Her belt featured alchemical sigils and tiny vials of luminous liquids, poisons, restorative elixirs, and arcane catalysts, always within easy reach. Her clawed hands were deft and expressive, accustomed to both delicate potion-making and channeling destructive spells. Her overall bearing conveyed quiet confidence and subtle menace: a master of elixirs and toxins, versed equally in healing and curses. Instead of legs, her lower body was a thick, muscular reptilian tail that she used for movement. At present, she carried a bladed scepter in her right hand as she reviewed Belina’s research notes on her newly formed biology as a Slaminor, the unexpected result of a laboratory accident during a Los Duendes Academy field trip to White Star’s headquarters.

Shelketh, once one of Ryequar’s Influenza Harbingers, was now one of Aokez’s most skilled bio-chemists and a renowned Apothecary Mage. While Melaina of the Camazotz employed terror tactics to break enemies psychologically, the Influenza Harbingers specialized in bio-warfare — crafting poisons and diseases to rot armies and corrode fortresses from within. Their expertise in mythic weaponry, occultronics, magic, enhanced soldiers, and combat alchemy was refined and unleashed during Ryequar’s war against the Minotaurs, reshaping the Ryūgū-Jō Realm’s military and driving their adversaries to extinction. Yet it was precisely that brutal annihilation that caused Shelketh to abandon Ryequar and reject his ascension to the Draconic Throne. Now, she dedicated herself to helping Aokez improve the living conditions in the Demon Realm. Together, they developed the Māttugr Galdr, a serum that enhanced a Mythic’s biology to better withstand the realm’s harsh environment.

Currently, Shelketh and Belina were studying a new species accidentally created when Ethan Jackson tampered with Belina’s equipment during the Los Duendes field trip. Thanks to Shelketh’s aid, Belina, who struggled to maintain a stable form and often collapsed into a magenta puddle, was able to function more coherently despite her slime-like physiology. Unlike Ethan, who had rapidly adapted to his biology, Belina found it difficult to sustain solidity. Their tests revealed that Slaminors contained traces of silicone, gelatin, Daou energy, and, unexpectedly, Aswang DNA. After digesting this revelation, Belina turned to Shelketh, curiosity lighting up her expressive, goo-like features. "What is an Aswang exactly? I’m not familiar with this Mythic race…"

Shelketh closed the notebook gently and handed it back, her wings flickering with tension and curiosity. "In Midgardian terms, Doctor Casali," she began, "they are a race of vampiric shape-shifters from Filipino mythology. They consume the life force of their victims and can transform their forms at will. But their true origin is far older than folklore would suggest." Shelketh paused, her icy gaze sharpening. "Aswangs were forged from a shadow-like liquid during the First Age, born of Chernobog and Tiamat’s love before the Primordial of Water’s untimely demise. This act of creation was a symbol of their union — a legacy abandoned by the Titans, who refused to take responsibility for their indulgence in mortal affairs." Belina listened with wide-eyed wonder, her entire gelatinous form quivering with fascination. "This unique biological makeup explains your mutable state," Shelketh concluded. "Your body mirrors the Aswangs’ shifting nature, which they inherited from their shadow-forged origin."

Belina's childlike wonder caught Shelketh off guard; she had not expected such earnest enthusiasm from a Midgardian — a race typically known for their arrogance and supposed dominion over nature. "That is so cool!" Belina exclaimed, bouncing excitedly as her chubby, jelly-like physique wobbled with each movement. Suddenly, she paused, her expression shifting to curiosity. "Wait… if Aswangs are basically vampires and Wulvers are basically werewolves…" Before she could finish, Shelketh burst into hysterical laughter, leaving Belina blinking in confusion.

After a moment, Shelketh managed to compose herself. "Ah… your pop culture has filled your head with those ‘vampires vs. werewolves’ tropes from media such as Underworld, The Vampire Diaries, that nonsense," she said, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "In truth, Aswangs and Wulvers get along quite well. The real rivals of Wulvers are the Cobrivites and Garudas. Their enmity stems from their roles as Hunter Races, much like the deep-rooted rivalries between Dragons, Demons, and Khnums." Belina stared, starry-eyed and amazed as Shelketh’s laughter subsided, eager to learn more about a world far richer and more complex than any fictional depiction. "On this particular note, among my new allies within the Milo Gang. I happen to know a Wulver and an Aswang, who have a strong bond with each other. Aokez's foster daughter, Alabaster, and his top Bard Mage, Jeronimo Dennis." She concluded as Shelketh returned her thoughts regarding the Slaminor Biology and how Ethan had a far better mastery of his new biology while Belina lacked this. It was a perplexing mystery to her, but there was no true way to explore this. Since Ethan had disappeared roughly a few days after the founding of the VIRTUE Agency.

The scene shifted to Ethan Jackson during the weeks after The Shattering Of The Veil. Due to the confession made by Stella regarding his ruthless treatment of her, Ethan's entire life was destroyed. The Scholarship, his potential NFL career, and his circle of friends were gone in an instant. His reputation was ruined by the worldwide news broadcast and the torment from his abusive father worsened. Hatred brewed within Ethan for the events that came with the formation of the VIRTUE Agency. Through his newfound powers as a Slaminor, Ethan used the new slimy biology to drain the life from his father. Tendrils sprouting from his body and impaling that monster in a human's body to suck him dry until there was nothing left behind. To his surprise, Ethan's ability to drain the Mana of others was so potent that when he was done "feeding" on his scum of a father. Ethan saw that there was no body left behind. Only the remnants of his father's clothing were any signs that a body was even there to begin with. Despite the satisfaction of murdering his abuser, Ethan was now terrified of himself and left wondering aimlessly. Yet he knew that there was no point in seeking aid as no one would acknowledge him as anything more than a vile monster. Leaving Ethan trapped inside an endless cycle of torment. However, Ethan was yanked out of his despair by the distorted murmurs and growls approaching him. Twisting towards the sound, he came to see a small swarm of amethyst Wraiths making their way to encircle him. Fear consumed Ethan as he ended up tripping over himself to escape the ghostly entities that surrounded him. 

"No need to worry, kid." Declared a woman with orange hair and covered in various Aesir runes that pulsated with power. Her eyes glowed with the same Amethyst Purple that the Wraiths luminated, "They won't hurt you. They are all bound to my will, but no need to delve into that aspect. After all, I am more interested in you, Ethan Jackson." She explained with her shadowy hand petting one of the Wraiths as their body twitched in a jagged manner. "You and I have been hurt by the same set of people who are at the heart of that Agency. Even more fitting is that I was once Los Duendes Academy's Cheerleader captain before..." She paused to determine what her next words should be as Ethan came to recognize that the woman before her was Valerie Adier. "An unfortunate set of events played out... Like you, I saw my life being utterly dismantled by those so-called 'Heroes of The Age' as the public claimed." Valerie continued as Ethan was captivated by her charismatic demeanor and honeyed words that she spoke. The tone of her voice reflected a semblance of empathy towards being neglected and cast aside by society.

Ethan slowly and cautiously got onto his feet as Valerie looked at the teenager while placing her left hand onto her hips. "What do you mean by that exactly?" Questioned the newborn Slaminor with fear causing his voice to shake as each word was spoken. Valerie smiled as she saw that Ethan was starting to relax. "You speak as if you can understand what it is like to be unseen by those who are supposed to be the saviors of people like me..." He pressed as his hands slowly clenched into fists as his rage and resentment for the VIRTUE Agency began to boil over. This was something that Valerie was intentionally doing. It was easy to peer into Ethan's mind and understand what was going through his mind for Valerie thanks to a power that she had inherited from Heimdall. The power of Foresight, allows her to predict the movements of her enemies and read the thoughts of others. Even granting her immunity to Illusions and resistance to Telepathic abilities. 

"That’s right," she purred, stepping forward with a measured, almost regal grace. "I am Heimdall’s daughter, though to him, I have always been invisible. A phantom child. My mother saw me as a stain on her perfect life, an inconvenience to be hidden. And my beloved… he cast me aside for a shallow echo of affection, chasing whatever sparkle pleased his eye that day. Throwing me aside for some damn dark elven bitch with larger tits..." She lifted her chin slightly, as if addressing an unseen court, her eyes gleaming with an ancient, imperious light. "But even as they discarded me, they left me with something far greater than their approval: they left me freedom. Freedom to see the truth of this world. To understand its rotting heart and its false shepherds." Valerie extended her wraith-marked hand, almost as though offering Ethan a coronation, not an alliance. "We who have been broken, truly broken, are forged into something beyond mortal comprehension. While they preen atop their ivory towers, we have learned what it means to claw our way up from nothing. We have earned a clarity, a right to shape fate itself." Her lips curved into a smile both warm and chilling, as if she saw in Ethan not just an ally, but a knight kneeling before her. "Tell me, Ethan… is it not only just that those who have tasted the deepest despair should rise to reign above those who have never known real darkness? That we, not they, should choose who deserves salvation and who shall be forgotten?" She took one graceful step closer, her aura almost luminous with predatory majesty. "Join me. Let us build a kingdom where no child is ever left sobbing in the dark, where no one is ever forced to kneel before unworthy gods. Let us claim the thrones that were denied us, and create a new order, one that finally honors what we endured."

Chapter Text

Among the wilderness of Scotland, Lois scrambled about as she tried to grab hold of themselves as the Quantus Phoenix's AI tried to take control once more. However, Lois was not making it easy for the program to rip their mind from control. Yet neither this AI, Bethany, nor Nivoxus took into account Lois's willpower and intelligence as it clashed against the Quantus Phoenix, despite the difficulty of arresting control from the AI and adapting to their new augmented body. She was not willing to be possessed once more by anyone. It was because of the White Bone Blight, Báigŭjīng, why Lois found themselves trapped within this modulated body of organic and mechanical mesh. The drive to make the Demoness suffer for the torment that Lois found herself was one of the grounding aspects that kept them in control. Another aspect of what allowed Lois to remain in control was the strange fragment that had been infused in their chest. Even now, it pulsed with unfathomable magical power. That power allowed Lois's mind to link with their army of Wyvern Shìnbīngs. A mechanical hand with metallic talons slowly approached the prismatic wood embedded within their body as she panted from exhaustion. Both physical and mental from the conflict that occurred within Camelot as well as the consistent mental struggle against the Quantus Phoenix within their mind. However, Lois soon found a moment of rest as the murderous robotic voice slowly faded. "Uuugghhh..." Lois groaned as she took this moment to evaluate their current state, "How... How did this..." She began before clenching her metallic hand, the sounds of clashing metal upon itself ringing out as sparks flew about. Their voice rendered into a robotic monotone as the words came out glitchy as they spoke with fierce determination. "No. That does not matter... I need to..." She continued before going into thought. Pondering the possibility of their robot frame being able to grant them access to the internet. This might overwhelm their already fractured and unstable mind, but the amount of information Lois could pull from would be beneficial to their current situation. Humming for a brief moment as Lois attempted this while using the prismatic piece to alter her body.

Through its vast magical power and her understanding of elemental properties in their surroundings. Lois pulled the earth around her and reshaped it into a form of armor. Its appearance takes on a golden coloration while becoming a form of metal that was far stronger than steel. This armor formed around their clothes while a helmet manifested around their head. The helmet crafted a visor molded by a glass-like compound that was both durable and capable of using red lighting to express herself. Hiding the damaged organic flesh beneath. All was being done as Lois used their newly acquired connection to Earth's internet data and used all forms of electronics that possessed either a mic, a camera, or both to search for Báigŭjīng. Unable to truly shake off the main function of the Quantus Phoenix’s AI to destroy any Mythics. This was the AI's sole purpose that had been coded into the program by Nivoxus Alméras himself. As the new armaments were fully formed and attached to their body, Lois smiled with sinister glee. "Giggle... Might as well use this new body to my advantage. I will have to figure out how to rid myself of that irritating AI inside of my head... But for now," She declared as she held out one of her hands to bring forth the remaining Wyvern Shìnbīngs and, to even their own surprise, created more from the environment due to the power of Yggdrasil's Fragment within their chassis. It drew from Lois' imagination to craft each Shìnbīng's frame before using their knowledge of the materials that would be needed to draw these drones from the Shíjiān Găizào Simulations that allowed her to alter reality. In a way, Lois's powers through the combination of the mechanical body, Quantus Phoenix's AI, and Yggdrasil's Fragment granted them a form of digital magic that gave them immense power to reshape reality to their liking. "I want to find that creature who ripped me away from everything and make her suffer." Lois declared before being hit by Kizeno's EMP. Causing them and the Wyvern Shìnbīngs to shut down against their collective will under Lois's command.

In the present day, Ruhak emerged from his meditative trance, having glimpsed a moment from the past. One of his ears twitched at the sound of approaching footsteps—measured, deliberate. Midgardian. He slowly opened his eyes and tilted his muzzle slightly to regard the man approaching. "Is there something you require, O'Hara?" Ruhak asked, his tone calm but edged with thinly veiled annoyance.

Leon O’Hara, leader of the Clodius Gang, halted a few paces away. Arms folded behind his back, his glowing cybernetic eye flickered with restrained energy. He didn’t respond to Ruhak’s tone—there was no need. Their alliance had never been one of friendship. Only convenience. "Who exactly are the Dark Thralls?" Leon asked coldly. "They claim to have formed after the events in Camelot eight months ago, but I suspect that's only part of the truth." Ruhak’s posture subtly stiffened. He didn’t speak immediately, but Leon noticed it—his trained senses caught the brief irregularity in the Khnum’s heartbeat. The name had struck a nerve. "You're more familiar with them than you let on," Leon pressed.

Ruhak hesitated. His gaze drifted, scanning the nearby shadows as if ensuring none were listening. When he spoke, his voice had dropped to a whisper, heavy with caution. "That is not an answer I can give easily, O'Hara. The Thralls have ears in every shadow. I fear them. And they are far older than they pretend to be. Kizeno, Merlin, Báigŭjīng, and Izanami may wear the crowns of leadership…" He said, pausing deliberately, “… But they are merely figureheads. Decoys to keep attention away from what truly moves the Cult." Leon remained silent, studying the tension in Ruhak’s voice, the haunted way he chose each word. The fear behind the composure was unmistakable. "I was once apprentice to their most powerful Inquisitor," Ruhak continued, voice tightening with restrained fury. "Until Morgan Le Fay defeated me. Broke me. My Master cast me aside. Only then did I begin to understand what the Thralls really served." His eyes turned to Leon now, unblinking. "There is something behind the Cult, older than the Divine themselves would ever admit. Its will is the true law they follow. It offers the Nine Realms an eternal peace... Through absolute subjugation. I only realized its presence when I felt it watching through my Master long ago."

Leon absorbed the words in silence, his expression hardening. "And now you want to use my resources to stop them," he said, calculating. "If even one of their followers could cripple the entire world in a single strike... What exactly are we up against?"

Ruhak gave a small, grim nod. "Something that can not be freed from the depths of Tartarus. And if She does, she will bring forth Ragnarök with no one capable of opposing her." As these words came to their finish, Ruhak's ear twitched in agitation as he reflected on events that were currently taking place. The Khnum saw some of these events through his connection to Daou Energy, the manifestation of Time itself. He knew the machinations of the Zhēngfú Dynasty which were taking place at this moment. Knowing that Emperor Ryequar Zhēngfú would unintentionally end up aiding the schemes that were performed by the Dark Thralls. 

Esmeralda arrived just in time to support Anthony, Robert, Judy, and Andrew as they struggled against the towering mech, an iron juggernaut bristling with enough weaponry to level a fortress. A missile screeched from its forearm, shifting mid-flight into a stream of high-caliber gunfire. Esmeralda’s eyes widened; she couldn’t react fast enough. But Anthony did. Channeling the Bifröst energy that powered his Nightsteel Armor, he projected a void-infused barrier. The storm of bullets dissolved upon impact, leaving only scattered sparks in the air. Esmeralda let out a breath of relief and nodded her thanks. Dark energy pulsed around her as she shifted into her Dökkálfar form. Plates of organic chitin rippled across her skin, wings unfurled with a snap, and elegant horns curled upward like a crown of dread. Into her hands manifested her weapon, Azalea Severance, a wicked, obsidian-edged scythe with a gleaming crimson core that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air around it seemed to recoil. Esmeralda surged forward, gliding beside Anthony as he braced his gunlance and shield. Their target: Einn, the Jötunn Occultist inside his monstrous Siegemonger Warsuit. The giant suit locked onto them both. A new salvo of missiles was launched, followed by pulsing waves of radiant energy. Explosions rocked the field, but the two pushed forward through the firestorm. 

Then the tide shifted. A shimmer of shadow rippled beside Esmeralda, Crimson Wraiths emerged, swirling protectively around her like phantom sentries. Their presence caused Einn’s systems to spike with warning alerts. He froze. He had miscalculated her danger level. One scratch from a Wraith meant enthrallment, and that was a gamble Einn refused to take. He initiated emergency withdrawal protocols immediately. But even in retreat, something gnawed at his mind. Two others commanding Wraiths? It defied everything he knew about Necrosite.

Inside his Occultronic Warsuit, Einn opened a direct channel to the Dragon Emperor. The hologram of Ryequar emerged, his reptilian eyes flickering with amusement. "I’ve completed my assessment of Midgard, Emperor," Einn said, tone clipped and clinical. "Their technology is formidable but not a true threat. It’s their champions, their so-called 'heroes', who pose the greater danger."

Ryequar chuckled. "How quaint. Go on." 

"There is more. During the assault on a VIRTUE research camp, I encountered two distinct Wraith variants, outside of Nadruk’s control." Einn told the Dragon Emperor.

Ryequar’s amusement faded. "Explain."

"Simple. Nadruk’s Wraiths are cobalt blue. Esmeralda commands crimson red Wraiths. But I also witnessed a third variant, amethyst purple." Einn explained simply.

Ryequar narrowed his gaze. "Another user of Necrosite? And not the one Raena failed to warn me about?" The bitter anger within the Emperor's voice barely contained as a snarl escaped his muzzle. Making a mental note to visit the queen on a later date about this detail.

Einn gave a nod. "Yes. I couldn’t identify them, but unlike Esmeralda or Nadruk, this one could be turned. They’re unaligned, and therefore can be swayed to our side if done properly." The Jötunn said with simplicity in his words. Always preferring to be straight to the point when it came to matters like this one.

A slow, hungry grin spread across Ryequar’s face. "Excellent. Zander has completed his mission and retrieved the Ändern Elixir from Cryptix Energy. I’ll dispatch Xathrun Beromort to sow chaos in Midgard. While the Defiler distracts their defenders, you, Zander, and June will track down this third user. I want them alive."

Einn hesitated. "Emperor... Are you certain that unleashing Xathrun is wise?" He asked carefully. "The Defiler isn’t just unstable, he’s a walking calamity. His campaign led to the extinction of the Minotaur race. If you turn him loose, the collateral damage will be beyond control, possibly even irreversible." Unable to fully grasp the tactical use of unleashing the brutish Oni, one who enjoyed the slaughter of his victims more than achieving any objective assigned. 

Ryequar leaned forward, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Precisely. The Midgardians must be made to understand that they are no longer the apex species. Let them witness the end that once consumed the Minotaurs. Who better to deliver that truth than Xathrun Beromort, the Defiler?" Einn’s throat tightened as the Emperor’s words sank in. He offered a shallow nod, but a chill traced down his spine. For when the Defiler arrives in Midgard, this Realm will be drowned in blood and fire.

Chapter Text

Within the Realm of Avalon, Kathleen was deep within the archives of the Ravenna Royal Family in Svartálfhiem. Svartálfhiem is best described as one of the continents among Avalon. Among the Dökkálfar homeland existed Álfheimr, Elfame also known as Faerie, Slievenamon, and Hyperborea. However, Kathleen had a specific goal among these records. As Esmeralda's connection to Necrosite grew stronger, the Mori Wulver grew more curious to figure out how she had obtained this connection. The best theory that she could come up with was wrapped in the mystery of the Dökkálfar Princess's father. Yet, the implications of the Wraith Conjuror being tied to Esmeralda were a disturbing one to her. However, at the same time, it did not make sense to Kathleen. Queen Raena had hired her to watch over Esmeralda to separate herself from the child that Raena deemed a disappointment, but why would Raena discard her daughter if she did have genetic ties to Nadruk? Necrosite, to any conqueror, would be deemed the ultimate weapon to dominate any enemy. That was the primary function of this spiritual poison and it was best displayed by the very nature of Wraiths themselves. They were beings that CAN NOT act without a greater will commanding them. "Why wooehld dat Dark Elf Gahbdaw throw Esmeralda away if she 'ad a cahnnection to Necrahsite? It joehst doesn't seem practical fahr Raena to throw away soehch a powerfoehl cheld... [Why would that Dark Elf Gobdaw throw Esmeralda away if she had a connection to Necrosite? It just doesn't seem practical for Raena to throw away such a powerful child...]" Declared Kathleen under her breath as she flipped the pages of a book that was extracted among others. "Foehrthermahre, an individual o' Nadroehk's stature wooehld inevitably draw attention while in Avalahn. A demahn o' 'is kend wooehld likely be poehrsued by de media wit de same fervahr as prahminent actahrs frahm Medgard. [Furthermore, an individual of Nadruk's stature would inevitably draw attention while in Avalon. A demon of his kind would likely be pursued by the media with the same fervor as prominent actors from Midgard.]" She added under her breath as Kathleen soon found a set of articles speaking of Queen Raena and an unnamed Asura. Though speculation was made about the identity of this Asura. The set of events was well correlated to the eventual birth of Esmeralda until something resulted in the Queen's former flame to vanish without a trace.

The Mori Wulver blinked in disbelief, two of her four tails flicking instinctively, echoing the confusion rising in her chest. As she sifted through the tangled web of information, a quiet disquiet settled over her. One trail led to the Asura occupation in Svartálfheim, the other to an escalating series of anomalies in Midgard. Though they seemed unrelated on the surface, a faint, almost imperceptible string appeared to bind them, only for both to unravel without a trace. She stared down at the scattered articles, each one recounting another bizarre development: the resurgence of Arcane Crystals under Gibbs Industries, unnatural Wendigo hybrids, the erratic migration of monsters, and the chilling reports of the Armored Sorcerer who loomed behind these unnatural experiments. Holding one of the papers up, her jaw hung slightly open, eyes narrowing with unease. She rubbed her paw against her canine muzzle in thought, ears twitching as the echoes of a past conversation resurfaced.

“Are you as blind to what is happening around you as the Ethereal Council?” Tyrik had recalled the Sorcerer saying. “Or do you see what is happening within the Shadows of the World?"

The words unsettled her more now than they had then. She glanced again at the notes before her, piecing together the disparate clues, her gut gnawed by a quiet dread. “What is yooehr endgame, Vimahfrea? [What is your endgame, Vimofrea?]” she whispered, almost to herself. “Why do Esmeralda and Tyrek matter so moehch to you? What do you see in dem dat de rest o' oehs dahn't? [Why do Esmeralda and Tyrik matter so much to you? What do you see in them that the rest of us don’t?]”

Meanwhile, at Navan Fort—the stronghold of the Druids belonging to the House of Ulster on Midgard—Vimofrea stood alongside her children, Loxtrom and Zhazdel. They were in the midst of negotiating with the Ulster Druids, seeking a crucial transaction. The elusive Asura sought to obtain a significant cache of Daou Crystals, while the Mythic Mafia Family aimed to acquire a supply of Vèl Automatons. Though Vimofrea was not their creator, she was one of the few with the power and authority to distribute these machine soldiers.

Since the attack on Camelot, Mythics across Midgard had suffered occasional assaults from Wyvern Shìnbiāng Drones. The Phoenix's Alcahest AI, capable of assimilating human technology and organic beings alike, could not manipulate machines of Occultronic origin. That made the Vèl Automatons incredibly valuable to those who wanted to defend themselves from an ever-adapting threat.

Representing the Ulster Family were two formidable women: Madam Ceana Loudain, a direct descendant of the Celtic champion Cù Chulainn, and Sìleas Thyia, the current reincarnation of Atalanta—the legendary Greek heroine raised by bears.

Ceana Loudain strode with the pride of a lioness and the weight of ancient lineage in every step. Her crimson hair blazed like wildfire, braided thick and adorned with leather cords, bone charms, and bronze beads etched with ogham symbols. Her muscular frame, shaped by both battle and ritual, radiated strength. She wore a fusion of druidic garb and Norse raider attire—earth-toned layers of wool, leather, and fur, fastened with antler- and raven-shaped clasps. Glowing runes curled across her forearms and collarbone, pulsing faintly with her druidic power. Around her neck hung a pendant of a stylized hound—a tribute to her heroic ancestor.

At her side stood Sìleas Thyia, younger in appearance but no less formidable. She was elegance wrapped in primal force. Platinum-blonde hair framed her face in intricate braids and wild waves, crowned with bone charms and silken ties. Her ice-blue eyes shone with both intelligence and untamed ferocity. Her ceremonial robes blended Greek meander patterns with Celtic knotwork, glowing faintly with nature's magic. Bear-fur pauldrons rested on her shoulders, a nod to her mythic origins. Sacred runes glimmered across her skin, etched with divine purpose—symbols of Artemis, guardian beasts, and the laws of the wild.

Vimofrea turned a teal-green Daou Crystal in her clawed hand, its energy pulsing faintly. "I'm surprised Drake Ameranth possessed such a trove of these," she said, placing the gem on the table between her and Ceana. "Obtaining them from the Ethereal Council is no easy feat, especially given their tensions with the Jade Emperor. Even if they're considering adding that smudged, arrogant bastard to their ranks."

She folded her hands, a sly grin forming. "As for the Automatons, we can agree to a trade substantial enough to supply a platoon. Effective against both that mechanical murderer and those zealots fueled by blind hate."

Ceana tried to maintain her composure under Vimofrea's piercing gaze—a stare that felt like daggers probing her soul. She had heard tales of the Metallic Methuselah and the carnage left in his wake. And with the rise of the Phoenix's AI, her house could not afford to be underprepared.

With a sigh and a brief moment of reflection, Ceana gave a subtle hand gesture. Sìleas nodded in understanding and departed to retrieve the Daou Crystals.

"What are you planning to use them for?" Ceana asked, her Scottish accent sharp and wary. "From what I know, Daou Crystals aren't exactly practical."

Vimofrea let out a quiet laugh. "You underestimate them. Arcane energy responds to understanding, not brute force."

She picked up the crystal again and infused it with her Mana. Glimmering emerald threads emerged, stretching from her fingers into the air. With a flick, she sent the string toward a nearby vase, slicing it in half effortlessly. The shards fell to the floor in symmetrical, diamond-cut fragments.

"To wield Daou energy is to control the threads of fate," she said calmly. "It cannot be dominated, only danced with. That truth is lost on beings like Odin who try to cage every aspect of reality."

She placed the crystal back down. "Strife is inevitable. But how we move forward—that is where our power lies."

Ceana remained silent, stunned by the unexpected depth behind Vimofrea's words.

Aboard the Meili Garðar, deep within the pulsing heart of its engine bay, Zhazdel perched cross-legged on a floating crystal platform. Her four arms were folded across her chest in layers, and leyflame sparks glimmered through her teal-blue hair like angry stars.

“Are you going to glare into the void all day, or finally admit you’re smitten?” Loxtrom's voice slid in, slick and amused.

Zhazdel’s right eye twitched as her twin approached, his jade-tinted frame catching the eerie neon light. His cybernetic arms clanked with each exaggerated step. “I’m not smitten, you sputtering forge-born glitch,” she growled, flicking a crystalline drone out of the air.

“Oh, absolutely,” Loxtrom said, slinging a mechanical arm around her shoulder. “Her voice is clearly a tactical weapon. The way she walks? A coordinated effort to destabilize your threat assessment.” The Asura Cyborg remarked as he continued to mock Zhazdel.

“I will peel your neural dampeners with my teeth...” Zhazdel snapped, shrugging him off.

Loxtrom chuckled. “Come on, sister. Admit it. You, an Asura-born blade dancer of Vimofrea’s blood, got tongue-tied because a sylph in golden threads looked at you funny. Four arms, and not one brave enough to hold her hand?” Turning to face Zhazdel with an arrogant smirk to further enrage Zhazdel.

Zhazdel’s cheeks burned a stormy teal. “She’s infuriating.”

“She called you ‘graceful’ after you gutted that Uktena, and you short-circuited like a startled Chrono-Koi.” Loxtrom pressed while watching Zhazdel's temper starting to boil over.

“I did not,” she snarled.

“You did. Then you ‘accidentally’ split that warforge in half before it could even glance at her. Classic Zhaz.”

Zhazdel turned away, tail lashing. “I’m four-foot-eleven. Not a gnome.” Her Rage manifesting around her body due to anger that was building from Loxtrom's teasing

Loxtrom scoffed at the comment, unwilling to allow his sister to best him with mere words. “Sure. And when she kisses you, will she need to kneel?” Loxtrom remarked as he glared at Zhazdel from the corner of his eyes.

“I swear by mother’s war altar, I will silence you for a century.” Blue flames flickered to life in all four hands.

“Worth it.” Loxtrom remarked as he towered over his prodigal twin with fangs displayed through his grin.

A soft voice called from above. “Zhazdel? I wanted to thank you again... You moved like poetry set aflame.” Sìleas descended the spiral ramp, her robes shimmering with micro-runes. Her eyes held a warm, flirtatious gleam as they settled on Zhazdel. The demoness stiffened.

Sìleas gave a gentle bow. “You never said if you liked the incense I left.”

Zhazdel blinked. One arm slowly scratched the back of her neck. “It... was acceptable.”

Loxtrom bit his knuckle, snickering.

Sìleas raised an eyebrow. “Is this the brother who gave you grief over my compliment?”

“Relentlessly,” Zhazdel muttered through gritted teeth.

The sylph smiled at Loxtrom. “Be kind to her. Her strength isn’t just in her blades.”

Loxtrom feigned a smirk. “Oh, I’ll be kind. Eventually.” His voice made the bitterness he held for Zhazdel out on display. 

As Sìleas drifted away, her scent lingering like sandalwood and charged air, Zhazdel exhaled slowly. Her arms fidgeted and crossed again. "She smells like a storm at summer’s end,” she murmured.

Loxtrom grinned. “Gods, Zhaz. You’re doomed.”

At the VIRTUE Agency's headquarters, Valencia sat in a dimly lit data room, hunched over a monitor as blue light flickered across her face. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up files on Zander Ezgon—the mysterious Bat Demon she’d encountered not long ago. There was something about him. Something raw and distant. Familiar.

He reminded her of herself before Rowan.

Back then, she’d built walls. Not just emotional ones—fortresses. Brick by brick, she'd crafted a persona: untouchable, disinterested, cold. A mask forged to keep people from getting too close, to keep herself from being betrayed again. That shield had been necessary, especially with a mother whose love felt more like a responsibility than a comfort. But Rowan… Rowan had cracked that mask with nothing but empathy, awkward loyalty, and a refusal to give up on her. Like a dumb golden retriever who didn’t know how to leave a wounded creature alone—even when it growled.

Because of him, she’d started letting people in.

And now, looking into Zander’s file, Valencia felt that same pain reflected back. She could sense the facade. He wore a mask too—maybe not out of pride, but necessity. Like he didn’t know how to be anything else.

She leaned back, letting out a slow breath. Her black-painted nails tapped against the desk, frustration bleeding into thought. The Zhēngfú Dynasty… she didn’t know everything about them, but what she did know was enough to make her stomach twist. Power-hungry, authoritarian, mythic in scale. And at the center of it: Emperor Ryequar, the bastard who had hurt Rowan. Whatever his goals were, they weren’t just cosmic politics, they were personal now. 

Reading over the reports of Ryequar’s reign, her skin prickled. Systemic purges, Realm conquests, whispered experiments. It was more than ambition. It was domination. And Earth was next. But Zander had been a part of it. Or maybe trapped in it. If she could find him—reach the real him beneath the armor and attitude, maybe he’d help them. Maybe he was looking for a way out. If she could bring him in, or even get him to align with Earth’s defense, it would give the Agency the upper hand. It was a long shot, sure. But if anyone understood how it felt to be caged in a role you never asked for, it was her. She leaned forward again, her eyes sharpening as she began compiling a digital trail. She’d track him. Find him. Maybe even save him from himself. And if she failed? Then she’d make damn sure the Dragon Warlord never reached Earth alive.

Chapter Text

Robert Torres was working on his recovery after the onslaught brought on by Einn. The bruises and burns that marred his body were nothing compared to the mental weight pressing upon him, the unnerving realization of how easily a Jötunn warrior clad in Occultronic Siegecraft Armor could obliterate a human in moments. This was not a mission he had envisioned when he joined White Star Corporation's Secret Division to combat the hidden Mythic Underground long ago. He knew gods and monsters existed, yes. But now, as an Agent of the VIRTUE Agency and facing one in the flesh, feeling the presence of power beyond comprehension, he had elevated his understanding of the world to a terrifying new level.

There were benefits, to be fair. The merging of Realms had advanced humanity in ways previously thought impossible. Science, technology, medicine, they had all leapt forward in remarkable, almost uncanny ways. Yet every advancement had its shadow. The dangers accompanying this new world were often invisible until they struck, and Robert had learned the hard way that being prepared meant more than physical skill.

He was good at this. Somehow, against odds that should have left him crippled mentally and physically, he had adapted. It was almost as if he had been shaped to exist here, in a world populated with beings who could flatten cities or erase regions with a flick of their will. Kizeno who had generated that EMP which plunged the world into chaos after the Templar's Invasion of Camelot. Then there were oddities that involved the likes of Abigail Burton, Ashley Dean, Isbeil MacNiocail, Nora Harrer, Trent Williams, and Zach Rogers. Each bore the scars of Cryptix Energy’s experiments, yet each had survived, adapted, thrived. And Robert? He was still trying to understand why he felt as if there was a connection with him and Project: Fáfnir. Two separate aspects with no connection could explain this strange tie. Deep down, he knew there was a reason, something beyond comprehension. A purpose hidden in the chaos of this new existence, tied to forces he could not yet see.

As he approached Abigail’s office within the VIRTUE Agency headquarters, he sensed it before he saw it: the sudden, unnatural stillness in the room. His boots made no sound as he stepped closer, yet the hairs on his arms prickled with tension. And then he saw her. Abigail was frozen, weapon on the floor, facing a figure whose presence dominated the space entirely.

The figure was clad in armor that seemed alive, organic chitin woven into a terrifying exoskeleton. Black, pale bone white, and crimson ran across its surface, highlighting the curves and angles of its design. The helmet, shoulder plates, and chestplate shimmered with a bioluminescent ruby glow, casting flickering shadows across the office. It was more than protection, it was a statement. This was cruelty made manifest, a suit of power meant to inspire terror and awe simultaneously.

The helmet’s ridges arched like a crown, asserting nobility while masking the deadly intent beneath. The mask itself, an imitation of a predator’s snarl, suggested amusement at those it hunted. In his left hand rested a saber sword, a fusion of classical forging and mechanical augmentation. Its curved blade spoke of elegance, yet the serrations hinted at sadistic intent, capable of slicing with precision or tearing flesh with violent, deliberate force. Every angle, every curve, radiated artistry, but artistry in cruelty. He was a living paradox: refined, yet terrifying. A humanoid mantis, the embodiment of a predator’s patience and the artisan’s eye for torment.

The figure tilted his head toward Robert as if measuring the newcomer’s worth. The sword lowered to his side, an almost casual gesture, yet carried menace in every millimeter. A low, cruel chuckle escaped him, followed by the deliberate removal of the helmet.

Beneath it, the face revealed echoes of what both Robert and Abigail recognized: traits reminiscent of Esmeralda. Skin that resembled the exoskeletons of cicadas or dragonflies, yet sharper, harder. Horns, smaller than those of a Dökkálfar, hinted at lineage without duplicating it. No wings were present. This was a Ljósálfar, a Light Elf of Avalon, but not one meant for ethereal beauty. This Elf’s elegance was deadly, his form a testament to lethal refinement. Long black hair flowed freely, but his amber eyes were predatory, gleaming with malevolent delight, a killer who relished the suffering he orchestrated.

"Right on time, Midgardian," the Ljósálfar intoned, each word a mixture of regal smoothness, rasp, and subtle menace. It was a voice that demanded attention, calculated and refined, dripping with amusement. The saber drifted over Abigail’s semi-automatic rifle, a hybrid of human and Mythic Occultronic engineering, without touching it. "Do not act rashly, and I will share what I carry: secrets of your enemies, the schemes they weave. But know this, every choice you make here may cost you dearly."

The tension in the room thickened, palpable enough to taste. Robert’s pulse accelerated, yet he noticed the tension in Abigail drain slightly as the room’s dynamic shifted under Myrdin’s command. A slow, predatory smile spread across the Elf’s face.

"I am Myrdin Kahrkei," he murmured, each word simultaneously a caress and a blade. "Prince of the Ljósálfar. The Foreseen Blade. Carver of Moonlight Agonies. Architect of Radiant Torment. Titles befitting one who paints cruelty upon the tapestry of Destiny, shaping Light and Darkness alike. Every act, every pain, every joy, a brushstroke on the canvas of History." His amber eyes glimmered with a sinister amusement as they swept over Robert and Abigail, promising that what he had seen, and what he would sculpt, was already in motion.

"Okay… You are not what I would expect from a species dubbed as Light Elves…" Robert’s attempt at levity came out bitter, sweat tracing his temples. Abigail’s glare silenced him instantly, and he knew the reprimand was justified. Even now, the Elf’s presence made casual conversation impossible. Myrdin’s helmet was set gently upon Abigail’s desk, each motion precise, deliberate, theatrical, a master of presentation even in minor gestures.

Twirling his saber with a predator’s grace, Myrdin’s arrogance seemed woven into every movement. "You are still new to Yggdrasil's whole, yet this organization threads strongly through the tapestry of History. You are one of four players in the grand theater in which we all participate, willing or not." His lips curled into a smirk, revealing an amusement that was sharp and calculated. "Which of these Four will command our futures eludes even my visions through Seiðr. Still, I am here to play my part, to illuminate events that will push your group forward, alongside the Templar Cyborg drowned in a sea of hatred, the Aesir Demi-Goddess who requires guidance to her greater purpose, and the Winged Shadow biding its time."

Robert and Abigail shared a glance. Confusion mixed with awe. The warnings were cryptic, yet undeniably weighty. "One group will seek to eliminate new Mythic Guardians and those augmented by Cryptix Energy around the ruins of a city once made from polished gold. Meanwhile, an Elusive figure seeks to forge a weapon using the power of Daou. These events will unfold in the weeks following my arrival." Myrdin’s wicked glee escalated for a moment until a surge of raw magic collided with his consciousness.

Air was expelled from his lungs as if struck at the core, and visions slammed into his mind. A Hawaiian Lieutenant Colonel uncovering the pieces of a scheme orchestrated long ago. An Oni, paralyzed by terror at the power of the Aesir Demi-Goddess who had prematurely inherited a throne. Masses of warriors scattered across Yggdrasil, suddenly forced to kill allies they had fought alongside for years. Myrdin staggered briefly, fatigue coursing through him like fire, and Abigail’s narrowed gaze tracked him cautiously.

Slowly, she moved toward a hidden control, preparing to trap him within the building. "My part to play here is done, Director Burton," Myrdin declared, regaining perfect composure. "No effort to detain me will succeed; it is not part of my script. If you wish for me to leave unscathed, tell Princess Esmeralda Ravenna that her future suitor will see her soon." He approached Abigail and retrieved his helmet. "Even if you doubt my claims, Abigail Burton, you will verify whether my visions are fantasy or reality. You cannot escape the role scripted for you by your mother, regardless of whether Bethany knew of this herself or not. Your family’s hands are stained with blood, and nothing will cleanse them. Your curse is to bear this burden, even when your cold, cruel actions serve 'The Greater Good.'"

With that, Myrdin’s armor shifted, rendering him invisible, a ghostly silhouette whose presence lingered like a shadow across the office. He vanished from sight, leaving only the weight of the future he had revealed, an unspoken condemnation, a chilling prelude to the paths Robert and Abigail were yet to tread.

Chapter Text

"Are you foehckin shettin me!? What in Shinigami's name do you mean dat Ljahsalfar wants to cooehrt Esmeralda!? [Are you fucking shitting me!? What in Shinigami's name do you mean that Ljósálfar wants to court Esmeralda!?" Roared Kathleen, barely containing her fury. Her Mori Wulvern Form expanded violently, threatening to tear through her outfit entirely as her muscles swelled. Fangs and claws gleamed, making her words difficult to parse through her Irish accent, but the rage was unmistakable. The very flora within Abigail’s office seemed to recoil from the force of her Mana, and a few, including Robert, Ricky, and Nora, instinctively stepped back.

Yet Abigail, alongside their Vanir advisor Freya, stood firm despite Kathleen’s display. Raising a calm hand, Freya spoke with steady reassurance. "Despite what this Light Elf claims through his visions given by Seiðr, Miss Carney, these are only glimpses of one possible future. Nothing in Seiðr's visions is set in stone." Her soothing tone began to calm the Mori Wulvern’s temper.

"Even so," Freya continued, measuring each word, "the glimpses shown by Seiðr should not be dismissed lightly. Some futures it reveals ultimately come true. Ragnarök, for example, is a future that seems inevitable." She paused, contemplating the implications of this Ljósálfar Prince. "I do not trust the words of Ljósálfars easily. Yet from what you have shown me… his approach is very different from others who have abused Seiðr’s power. In your recording with Prince Myrdin…"

Abigail’s arms crossed over her chest, her cold, monotone voice cutting through the room. "He spoke as if these things were certain to come, and that he would do everything in his power to ensure them. All for his sick sense of enjoyment. That is what troubles me most about these claims of the future." Her eyes flicked toward Freya. "This is why I need your insight. I have a hunch these visions aren't entirely false."

Robert recalled a moment in the recording when Prince Myrdin seemed overcome by a migraine. "It seems he might experience more of these visions while… toying with us," Robert noted, reviewing the events carefully. "What are the typical signs of someone affected by Seiðr visions?"

Freya considered his question before answering. "Effects vary, but individuals connected to Seiðr often experience brief, intense pain, migraines, or even shortness of breath. Those untrained can be incapacitated by the visions." She replayed the surveillance footage of Myrdin’s arrival, confirming Robert’s observations. "These moments of glimpses occur unpredictably, with no consistent trigger. That is why such individuals are difficult to anticipate."

"So…" Ricky scratched his forehead, attempting to piece the puzzle together, "He’s telling us something about potential Templar operations, and I assume Vimofrea is involved too." He searched for his pipe while speaking. "The Templar Order isn’t a group to underestimate, based on the tales my father told me before sending me to America." His pipe, however, had been frozen solid by Abigail with a single raised finger. Her narrowed eyes made clear her frustration. "Well, fuck you too, Abigail…" Growled Ricky, pocketing the ruined pipe as he left the room to repair it. Abigail returned her focus to VIRTUE’s database, reviewing all known Broker Heavens on Midgard to determine which might be at risk.

Within the vaulted chambers of Hohenzollern Castle, Nivoxus studied the assault plans laid before him by his Subjugator, Lacey Christine, one of his most trusted and most powerful Templar commanders. Their target: a recently exposed Broker Heaven, secret sanctuaries scattered worldwide to protect Mythic kind. The fragile secrecy had begun to crumble. Kizeno’s global EMP had unleashed the Midgardian Covenant, a human supremacist faction led by Atsadi Hoktoke, Luna Simmons’s former lover. Their goal: expose hidden sanctuaries and drag Mythics into the open. The Templar Order, sharing similar aims, leveraged the Covenant’s discoveries. Nivoxus’s satisfaction grew while reading Lacey’s report. Their immediate target was the Vixen’s Quill, a bookstore once owned by the elusive Kitsune Tamamo-No-Mae. The sanctuary also trained fledgling Mythics and Mythic-Guardians, “mudbloods” in Nivoxus’s eyes, who sought to corrupt Humanity with their powers. To him, this made them easier prey; novices fell far more readily than battle-hardened warriors. Experience had taught him the cost of underestimating Mythics. One Asura had unwittingly given him the means to invade a powerful Demonic Kingdom, yet another, the Wraith Conjuror, had forced him to retreat, wielding the destructive power of Necrosite and the Wraiths it spawned. Now, with calculated precision, he studied the plans with the cold satisfaction of a predator closing in. The inexperienced would fall. The sanctuary would burn. And once again, Nivoxus would prove why Mythics, not even the innocent, were not to be underestimated.

"Are we really gonna be raiding this place?" Questioned another Noble under Nivoxus’s command, prompting the Cyborg to slowly tilt his head behind him to see Walden Hamilton standing close by. Leaning against the wall as he smoked a cigarette, a grimace within Walden's brown eyes formed by a sense of guilt. "From what I recall about the tales regarding Tamamo-No-Mae..." Walden spoke while exhaling a puff of smoke in a form of deep sigh, "She is not anywhere like that demoness who tore apart my family and ripped my arm off..." He finished as the sensation of that missing left arm gripping Walden despite the metal arm that was in its place. Nivoxus remained silent as he grabbed his helm from the tabletop that served as a planning platform. The silence from Nivoxus unnerved Walden, a sign that Nivoxus did not wish to entertain a question of mortality. Despite this, Walden understood that the teachings of their shared order were against the idea of slaughtering innocents. Even though Walden's hatred was born of Mythic Cruelty, he knew this was senseless slaughter and his daughter, Lois, would not want this of him. Yet... At the same time, Walden felt that if he didn't want to violate Lois's memory by giving up on this path of Vengeance that he was currently walking. Walden took in another puff from his cigarette as Nivoxus walked out of the room, yet paused in front of Walden. An action that surprises him is the words that follow.

The conviction and sincerity in the Grandmaster's words struck a chord with Walden, both in a subtle means of manipulation as well as empathy for the pain Walden holds. "Despite your reservations that you hold, we both understand the dangers of these creatures. You felt the brittle ice of a demoness while I was burned by the flames of a dragon. Both elemental forces destroyed all we care for and left us broken." Nivoxus told the Noble Templar, as his eyes widened in shock, to see that Nivoxus's destructive and nihilistic approach to the Mythics was not simple bigotry. It was formed from experience and hardened by his resolve, which was finalized by a deep void born from that pain. It was a reflection of that aura which Nivoxus brought with him that seemed to consume life all around him in those moments of pure wrath and hatred. "This path is not simple slaughter, never make that mistake with my motives, Noble Hamilton. It is just as a means to safeguard humanity as well as indulgence in our thirst for revenge against those beings that tormented us." He declared that Walden reevaluated what he knew about Nivoxus Alméras in a way that played into the subtle manipulation that was ployed. Hidden behind the emotionless faceplate, the Metallic Methuselah smiled in satisfaction that once again in seeing Walden being put back on his leash. 

Elsewhere out in the wilderness of Germany, Einn soon landed off the outskirts belonging to an abandoned factory. His warsuit retracted the helmet that protected his head from any attack. Revealing a Jötunn with snow white hair, skin that mimicked the color of black ice, and eyes that were a ruby red. Two horns curved upwards and took the form of deadly icicles, perfectly capturing his origins in Jötunheim among the races of Giants. Walking inside the ruined factory, his towering size and warsuit tore through the walls with minimal effort due to his sheer strength. The human-made entry points were too small to allow Einn easy means inside, therefore he just forced himself inside. Soon, Einn saw that both Zander Ezgon and June Malbec had managed to meet up at their shared rendezvous point. Scoffing slightly upon seeing June, the Glacier Juggernaut gave an expression that was mocking and made the Cobrivite's blood boil. "Guess you can be kept under control instead being a vicious snake that bites at everything you see." Einn declared with full intent to insult June. He had no respect for June either way as she had compromised multiple missions due to that uncontrolled rage that followed most Cobrivites. "However, our mission has changed due to discoveries in Midgard." Einn declared with the weight and authority of a general who commanded absolute obedience as his gaze locked on Zander and June. Lifting his right arm, Einn used his warsuit to display a holographic image of the Amethyst Wraiths that were scattered about the realm as well as their "mistress", Valerie Adier. "The Emperor had directed us to find this Demi-Goddess. Ryequar wants her connection to Necrosite and plans to unleash Xathrun Beromort to keep Midgard's Heroes distracted for our attempts to recruit her." He stated coldly like a machine, lacking any emotion yet commanding authority. "Do you two understand your orders?" He questioned as the Holographic image vanished.

"Yeah, we get it Icicle." Dryly remarked Zander with boredom in their mission, "Anything else that needs to be considered while wasting our time and efforts finding an Aesir girl that has no real sense of direction?" He continued with that sarcastic flare that always followed Zander even if it caused his allies to find him distasteful. "Even if we find that woman, she will be screwing all of us sideways for pointless ende-" He continued until Einn grabbed Zander by his throat and silenced him with cold fury burning within the Jötunn's eyes. Making Zander gasp for air while clawing the thick metallic armor that was clasped upon his neck. The brief moment of Einn stared down Zander with a glare that could break through ice, the Night Talon nodded to show that he understood that he was not to question the Dragon Emperor's orders. Satisfied, Einn threw Zander to the floor with immense force granted by both his Jötnar Biology and Siegemonger Warsuit.

Though, as Zander was coughing to regain his breath and rubbing his throat to soothe where Einn's metal grip had nearly crushed his windpipe. Axel was up in the upper levels of the ruined building, observing this trio of Mythic Warriors being sent to the Zhēngfú Dynasty. Listening with his Kitsune ears while his Shades watched the group. It was no secret to the Dark Thralls that Emperor Ryequar was operating on Midgard. However, if Ryequar were to invade Midgard. It was seen by Vainomtie as unnecessary complications that might end up making more problems in their long-term craft and mostly maintained plan. Thanks to his abilities given to him through the Kukan Kitsune genes, reconnaissance on these warriors tied to the Zhēngfú Dynasty was easier than compared of those like Izanami, Báigŭjīng, Merlin, or others within their ranks. A bonus for Axel was the fact that he was trained in these types of operations. Yet, the mention of this Xathrun Beromort perplexed him. 'Why would this emperor guy use one guy to distract those naive kids in that agency? I know how he would view the power of Necrosite as valuable...' Axel pondered within his thoughts as one of his five tails swayed slowly, 'However... All I need to do is make sure these guys don't get in the way of Merlin's operations to find the Book of Thoth.' Axel declared as he recalled the manner of his mission with these reconnaissance efforts. Despite this simplicity of his current mission, it did disturb him to know that Merlin was only able to escape his prison deep underwater because a woman had torn out Jörmungandr's rib too casually. Merlin's accounts of this woman made it clear that, whatever she was, she could not be human. The might of the World Serpent was equal to the Aesir, Thor and he was nothing but a force of nature that could shatter mountains with ease. Yet, this Subjugator as she called herself was a being more powerful than both of them. Displayed by this singular action and it made him wonder what else the Templar Order was capable of now that they were able to operate out in the open thanks to Kizeno's World Wide EMP.

Chapter Text

Valencia ventures through the hallways of the VIRTUE's Headquarters to locate Shelketh. While trying to learn more about Zander, the bat demon she met during a joint effort to fight off Valerie Adier and her Wraiths. Valencia learned that Shelketh was once a prominent warrior among Ryequar's armies. Leaving it due to the extermination of Minotaurs through the brutal use of plagues that she had created. Despite her title, Apothecary of Decay, Shelketh’s knowledge regarding magical manipulation of diseases, plagues, and other potent illnesses. Her approaches to these were a method of Decay and rebirth, not mindless destruction. Though destructive in their nature, Shelketh’s application of her Spells could convert them into forms of renewal and healing. Ryequar sought to harness Shelketh’s Apothecary abilities to aid in his conquest and trick her through Shelketh’s naivety during her time in the Ryūgū-Jō Realm. Valencia did not want to learn more of that time, but hoped that she had encountered Zander during her service under Emperor Ryequar Zhēngfú. Soon arriving at VIRTUE's Laboratory division, she spotted Shelketh and Belina continuing their efforts to understand the newly formed species that they dubbed Slaminors. Made easier thanks to Belina Casali being one of the first among them. As she walked into the room, Shelketh turned to see the new arrival as her serpentine lower half coiled about to reflect her interest. "Ah. I was wondering when you would come to meet with me, young Demi-Goddess." Shelketh declared with a small smile on her reptilian muzzle as Belina was somewhat puzzled by the Demoness's claim. "I was told by your Sensei, Tyrik, that you are trying to learn more about Zander Ezgon. A troubled child was flung into a brutal existence." She admitted somberly as her wings fluttered slightly, making the feathers within them become more fluffy, "Alast, Demon Kind never live a peaceful existence due to our nature as warriors." She added on before closing her eyes briefly while turning slightly towards Valencia. With a small gesture of her claws, Shelketh beckoned the Hawaiian tomboy to follow her. "What do you wish to know about the Night Talon, child?" Prompted the Apothecary of Decay with a smooth tone as Valencia silently grumbled about being referred to as a child once again. 

"Well…" Valencia began, trying to decide which question to ask first about the Bat Demon. "He mentioned something about… Uh…" She paused, struggling to recall the name Zander had mentioned when giving her insight into his past. "Bakasura selling him off? What is that about?" She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

Shelketh’s gaze darkened at the mention of the Devourer of Souls. "I am unsure where to even begin with that piece of Demon history, young one…" Her voice was measured, though fury simmered beneath it, as she searched for a way to summarize without overwhelming Valencia. "Bakasura was a corruptive… ‘politician,’ in Midgardian terms. Though elected by the Ethereal Council. Specifically, Odin and other self-serving divine members, Bakasura governed the inner workings of the Demon Realm. A realm rich in resources, yet so harsh that only the strongest, or the desperate, could endure. Its air and water were toxic, easily controlling the population through despair." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "In pursuit of power, Bakasura made a bargain with Queen Raena of the Dökkálfar and a rising gladiator named Ryequar, a warrior from a war between Dragons and now-extinct Minotaurs. The trade was for tribute: young Mythics, specifically from either hunter or warrior races, in exchange for luxuries that only enriched Bakasura’s fame and influence. His gluttony and hubris… led to his death at the hands of June Malbec." Shelketh swayed her bladed scepter, letting a small laugh escape her lips, revealing a sharp fang. "Fitting, I would say. Bakasura was torn apart by someone forced to witness the reality of their so-called ‘benevolent leader.’ Cobrivites are known for their ferocity…" She paused, eyes darkening as a memory surfaced.

The recollection hit her like a physical blow. She closed her eyes, recalling the scene with Alabaster, still Astaroth at the time, and the Odóntos Kopis Gauntlets. Cobrivites, she reminded herself, were the evolved descendants of the Gorgons: hunters by nature. Lethal, precise, and ritualistic in their kills, they were predators, not sadists despite their brutality contributing to their race. Yet these gauntlets were something else entirely. The first set had been crafted by Medusa herself. Driven by vengeance, she had incorporated Ljósálfar weapon design into the Cobrivite form: serrated blades, rigid teeth, instruments of refined cruelty. Medusa had suffered deeply, raped by Poseidon within Athena’s temple, then cursed by the goddess for the violation, punished for a priestess’s supposed transgression. Her rage and grief had poured into the creation of these weapons, blending her mastery of Cobrivite hunting precision with the merciless artistry of the Ljósálfar. The blades did not merely slice. They tore through flesh and organs, leaving gashes designed to trap blood within the body while simultaneously flooding it, forcing the victim to choke even as life ebbed away. Survival was torment; death was prolonged and exquisitely cruel. Even the greatest medical or magical expertise could not undo the injuries, and the Odóntos Kopis Gauntlets ensured that every wound reflected Medusa’s vengeance and meticulous artistry. Shelketh’s hands tightened around her scepter as she remembered tending the aftermath. The scene had been harrowing: the raw brutality of the gauntlets, Alabaster’s suffering, the weight of history pressing down like a physical weight. The Odóntos Kopis Gauntlets were not merely weapons, they were a statement, a violent echo of Medusa’s pain and the twisted beauty of a culture that revered refinement in death.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself once again in the presence of Valencia. The flashback faded, leaving a lingering chill in Shelketh’s chest. She drew a deep breath. "…But that, young one, is where I must pause. Some truths are far darker than the histories they’re woven into." Deciding to leave the conversation at that since Shelketh gave Valencia the needed information that she had requested. Swiftly slithering away before diving any further into the history of June and Alabaster, those were once soul sisters through bound yet torn apart by their circumstances. 

Elsewhere in the Realm of Olympus, a vast, oceanic domain dotted with a handful of islands that were primarily under the rule of Zeus, Vimofrea oversaw the work of her Occultist, the Satyr Rolgioz Veyron. He was assisting in the creation of a new Golem Colossus, a towering Occultronic battle-mech empowered by Daou energy. Golem Colossi were among the most formidable constructs in existence, designed to combat colossal threats: Trolls, Gashadokuros, Chimeras, Uktenas, or even late-stage Wendigos that had consumed enough flesh to reach monstrous proportions. Though Astral Avatars, magical constructs of immense Mana energy, shared similar purpose and size, Golem Colossi were unique: living machines of stone, metal, and spellwork, capable of devastating entire mountains or leveling large islands. Their power were rated between Theta and Epsilon Level on the Seshat Potentia System. Making them capable of destroying entire mountain ranges or large islands with utter ease.

This particular Colossus was exceptional. Vimofrea had instructed that its weaponry not only destroy but also ensnare, bind, and suspend targets. Its offensive abilities, amplified by Daou energy, could sever entire fortresses and unravel their essence in a single strike. Such power carried immense risk, which was why Rolgioz had been bound to service through Desire Magic, ensuring his unwavering loyalty. Unlike many members of the Anvil of Vulcan Faith, who focused on ritual and piety over innovation, Rolgioz sought to push the boundaries of Occultronic possibility. He incorporated human technology into his designs, seeing this as a fulfillment of the faith’s true purpose: the pursuit of perfection in creation. His lean, muscular body belied his scholarly and spiritual pursuits, and ceremonial cybernetic enhancements replaced his shoulders, forearms, and left eye. Bronze and turquoise limbs bore intricate engravings that denoted his high rank within the Anvil of Vulcan and his intimate mastery of Daou energy.

Rolgioz’s goat horns curved back along his ears, his grey-white fur partially concealed by teal robes trimmed with gold, marking him as a high-ranking priest. A small deer tail twitched with frustration, disrupting the otherwise meticulous appearance of his ensemble. His cloven hooves clacked against the metallic floor as he crouched beside the Golem Colossus, focusing on the mechanisms of its right arm. Sparks flickered along the Daou-infused metal as he murmured religious incantations, coaxing the construct to respond. The Golem was more than a machine; it was alive in a sense. Rotations, hums, and pulses of light formed a language of movement and vibration. Rolgioz lifted his right ear toward the arm joint, listening for subtle shifts and anomalies. His cybernetic left eye whirred and scanned the intricate components, overlaying magical diagnostics onto its visual feed. Every adjustment was a prayer, every rotation a hymn to the Hephaestus Forger, blending craftsmanship, ritual, and devotion.

For hours Rolgioz had worked, balancing precision with reverence, coaxing the Colossus into reluctant harmony. One spark, one misaligned gear, and catastrophe would follow, but still he persisted. To him, this creation was more than a weapon. It was proof of perfection, a living testament to Occultronic engineering: a fusion of technology, magic, and devotion strong enough to face even the most monstrous threats the realms had ever known. “So,” came a smooth, honeyed voice, reverberating from one of Vimofrea’s mirages. Her illusions shimmered across the repair bay, each carrying her presence, each laced with authority. “Have you discovered the cause of this system failure within the right arm?” The words were silk and steel in equal measure, a reminder that even her affection was meant to keep her pawns in line.

Rolgios bristled at her favored insult, my little sheep, but forced his ears and tail to stay calm. Rising to his hooves, arms folded across his chest, he answered with a groan of effort and restraint. “For one thing… the Occultronic resists the Daou energy.” His voice, a resonant harmony of throat and machine, carried the weight of his augmentations. “It was designed to feed upon it, but it does not… savor the taste. Still, the reaction should not interfere with your greater schematics.” He scraped a hoof against the deck plating, agitation breaking through his measured tone. “The true mystery lies deeper. I have spoken the rites, invoked the incantations, yet the arm’s inner mechanisms refuse to yield.” His words trailed off as the answer entered the room. 

The Colossus stirred the moment Zhazdel crossed the threshold. A growl rolled from its frame, metal groaning like an animal in pain, as lights flared across its body in a pulse of anger. Rolgioz froze, then glanced at Vimofrea’s mirage, the truth dawning on them both. Zhazdel flinched, four arms flying up in mock innocence, though fury flared in her eyes. “What!? It’s not like I kicked the damn thing!” she snapped, only for the Colossus to snarl louder, straining its restraints. Rolgioz rushed forward, trying to calm it with incantations before its strength tore the repair bay apart.

“You need to shut the fuck up before it crushes you,” he warned, bitterness edging past forced respect. “Even if you despise technology, provoking a Golem Colossus is suicide, Princess.” But Zhazdel was not finished. Lower arms planted on her hips, her upper pair folded across her chest in defiance. “Why are we relying on these toys anyway? We are Asura! Our magic alone could wipe armies from existence! Instead, Loxtrom and that wretched humie with the lance fawn over their machines. Then there is that Jötunn who thinks that petty attempts to make a rusted siege machine are something worth bragging about, and now we’re building this lumbering abomination?”

The Colossus roared at her words, the floor vibrating with its fury. Rolgioz’s incantations barely held it at bay. Vimofrea’s mirage drifted forward, towering over her daughter, eyes alight with venom. “I will use any tool to my advantage,” she hissed. “Pure reliance on magic breeds weakness. That is why your brother surpasses you.” Zhazdel’s bravado cracked. The Alluring Flame bowed her head, cowed by comparison to her twin. “Stagnation is the path to death, O Daughter Mine,” Vimofrea continued, her words cutting with deliberate cruelty. “You wear your power like a crown, but it has blinded you. Apologize to the Golem. Respect it, lest you end as bloody paste beneath its hand.” She mimed a crushing fist, letting the image linger before releasing it.

Shame burned through Zhazdel’s silence as she obeyed. The Colossus quieted, though its lights still pulsed with faint hostility. In that moment, Vimofrea felt something was off and dispelled the Mirage with a swift thrust of her hand. She was not sure why this sudden wave of warning erupted into her being, but Vimofrea knew not to ignore it when they came. Going into a moment of silent meditation, Vimofrea began to tap into Seiðr as a means to see what was causing this pulse of warning. Though, Vimofrea slowly turned towards the wound left by Chernobog's death from the First Age. Remnants of a rupture that had been left on Midgard's Bermuda Triangle by the onslaught of clashing power beyond comprehension as the Primordial Elementals fought each other. Vimofrea opened her eyes in curious about why this region was drawing her attention, but before she could think further on this mystery. Her runestone began to display an alert from one of her covert operatives. A message from one that was implanted within the ranks of VIRTUE. A warning that a Ljósálfar, the Prince Myrdin, had warned the agency about her operations. A fury was building within her at this minor miscalculation of Seiðr being a weapon of her enemies as much as it was an ally to her operations. As her anger brews, another flash from Seiðr displays current events playing out by a minor criminal organization. It was a strange set of visions yet two figures stood out from the mess of broken pieces of possible futures. One of these figures was a Khnum Warrior wielding two sickles and the other was a human that had been augmented by a form of nanite technology. In these glimpses, Vimofrea seduced that these two were collecting powers in the forms of resources, allies, and even relics of ancient might. Yet, these efforts were halted by the arrival of someone who was bathed in Darkness. He carried a blade that reeked of this power, a blade that Vimofrea recognized quickly with terror in her eyes and breath quickened due to a cold sweat. A katana that was one of three objects gifted to a bloodline thought long dead. "Damn you..." Vimofrea cursed with a mixture of terror and defiance as the entity that granted these humans those objects of power was the same that forced her brother, Nadruk the Wraith Conjuror, into hiding. "Even now you remain ten steps ahead..." The Elusive bitterly admitted as her fist pounded onto the desk where the runestone rested. Shattering it with one strike, but her mind returned to the Khnum who wielded the pair of sickles. Piecing together that this Khnum may have important insight into the True Enemy that Lurked within the Shadows. The identity of the three that continued Her worship despite the complete erasure of any memory of Her. A key to the puzzle to silence any chances for Ragnarök and keep the Winged Shadow from escaping her chains.

Chapter Text

Luna skimmed the mission briefing with one hand on her handcannon, checking its cylinder by touch alone. The director whom she saw as always stiff, always with a stick wedged so far up she could choke on it, had laid out the situation with her usual clipped formality. Tamamo-No-Mae was under attack. First, by a faction led by Abigail’s ex-boyfriend, Atsadi Hoktoke, and the Mythic Hate Group that he formed. The latter would be under assault by the Templar Order. On the surface, Luna played the part of a wild card, sharp-tongued, hard to pin down. But behind that mask, her thoughts moved like clockwork. Calculated. Cold. Already mapping contingencies. The Vixen’s Quill was exposed, and that meant opportunity. Both the rogue faction and the Order shared the same core hatred of Mythics. But only one truly worried her. The Templar Order. They weren’t just zealots unlike the Midgardian Covenant. They were soldiers. Disciplined. Well-funded. Equipped with weapons born of Cryptix Energy’s machines, remnants of the Invasion of Camelot. And they didn’t waste their time sending grunts after legends. 

Tamamo-No-Mae was a Nine-Tailed Kitsune. Her kind’s tails measured age and power, and nine meant divinity. A thousand years of cunning, knowledge, and magic embodied in a single being. She was a goddess in all but name. Even if this Tengoku Kitsune was a pacifist at heart, Luna knew the Order would send someone to match her. One name surfaced from the reports Angel Byrne had whispered back in hushed tones. The Subjugator. 

Luna’s gloved fingers tightened on the handcannon. The Subjugator was no rumor. She had crippled Jörmungandr, tearing a rib from the World Serpent as though pulling a thorn. Casual. Effortless. Jörmungandr, the rival of Thor, breaker of worlds. Equal in strength to the Thunder God himself as established by the lore of Norse Mythology. And this woman had undone him without breaking stride. Luna’s mind flicked to the comparison: if Thor and the Serpent could not match her even together… then what chance did anyone else have?

The dossier offered no answers within the airship that carried her and the Novitiate that accompanied Luna, the young French Heterochromatic Espar Girl, Èlise Alard. Just a title. Just a name that carried more weight than armies. Luna exhaled slowly, holstering her weapon. The Templar Order wasn’t coming with pawns this time. They would send their greatest warrior. And Luna intended to be ready. Èlise's psionic abilities would be the ideal counter to the raw strength and power that the Subjugator would be able to command. Despite that Athena and Thoth could not yet establish Èlise's maximum potential of her psionic abilities at the moment. Their estimation placed Èlise between the Zeta Level and the Delta Level. This range places them at the Small Island to Small Country level of destructive power. It was a risk to bring her, but Luna saw it as a necessary one if the rumors of the Subjugator were truer to their tales. 

The aircraft shuddered under a thunderous impact, alarms wailing as the pilot fought the controls. Luna and Èlise stumbled, bracing against the walls as the frame buckled under an unnatural weight clinging to the hull. A jagged crescent blade punched through the roof, rending steel like parchment. Sparks cascaded from ruptured wires, smoke filling the cabin as a second wrench tore the ceiling wide open. And then she appeared. Lacey Christie, The Subjugator. She stood in the opening with a predator’s smile, her short dark hair swept by the rushing wind. Black-and-silver armor framed her figure, plates etched with the insignia of the Templar Order. A crimson sash cinched her waist, flowing like blood against steel. 

In her hands, she carried her weapon—a glaive unlike any other. Its edge curved in a cruel crescent, forged from dark metal streaked with veins of pale gold that shimmered like living fire. The reverse end ended in a vicious tri-pronged talon, wicked and deliberate, made for impalement. The weapon radiated weight, authority, and an unholy elegance—as if it had tasted centuries of blood and demanded more. “Found you,” she purred. A ball of searing primordial fire crackled to life in her palm. She hurled it down without hesitation. Èlise reacted first, yanking Luna aside as the fireball detonated. The blast carved a molten crater into the deck, slag spilling like lava, the shriek of tearing metal echoing as the aircraft’s frame split further apart.

The Subjugator laughed, the sound cutting sharply against the chaos. “Oh, refusing my generous gift already? And here I thought you had such lovely manners.” She dropped into the cabin with a clang of armored boots, the entire craft lurching beneath her presence. The glaive spun lazily in her grip, its crescent edge gleaming with hungry light. The pilot screamed, fighting the controls in vain. Lacey didn’t spare him a moment’s pity. She reversed her glaive, driving the talon end through his skull in a single merciless thrust. Bone cracked. Blood splattered across the console. His body slumped forward, lifeless. “Oops,” she said sweetly, twirling the glaive as though mocking a dance. “Guess I just unalived your pilot.” She turned her focus back to Luna and Èlise, stepping forward with measured confidence. But then, her stride faltered. She snarled, one hand clutching her temple as a sharp telepathic assault tore into her mind. The cabin shook with her guttural roar, her teeth lengthening into jagged fangs, her smile twisting into something feral. “A telepath, huh?” she spat, voice low and venomous. Sparks leapt as her glaive dragged against the metal deck. Step by step she forced her body forward, every movement vibrating with barely contained rage. “I’ll tear you apart first, worm.”

“Move!” Luna barked, seizing Èlise’s wrist. They hurled themselves through the shattered fuselage just as the aircraft began its death spiral. Behind them, the doomed vessel plummeted into the gas station below. The impact birthed an inferno, a column of fire consuming steel, stone, and shadow in a single, roaring detonation.

The pair watched the infernal destruction, allowing a moment of relaxation in the belief that Lacey was destroyed. That brief peace was shattered as the sound of mangled metal and debris scraping against the asphalt filled the air. To their dumbstruck horror, they watched the Subjugator walk out of the fiery destruction, anger blazing in her eyes. Her body healed from her injuries at a speed that made a Dragon's Healing Factor look trivial.

"The hell?" Luna questioned, firing a shot from her handcannon. The blast tore a massive hole where Lacey’s brain had been, but the wound began knitting itself together even as the shot made Lacey angrier.

Spitting a glob of blood onto the charred ground, Lacey grabbed a large chunk of rubble and hurled it at them with deadly ferocity. Èlise, the Espar, managed to catch it with a telekinetic force channeled through her massive Uru Spoon. The sight of the strange weapon made the Subjugator laugh hysterically. "You're fighting me with an oversized spoon?" Lacey said, her voice thick with arrogant amusement.

Enraged by the remark, Èlise braced herself as another warrior nearly struck the Subjugator with a rake. Lacey's glaive clashed with the strange weapon, but the Subjugator felt a current of spiritual power within it. Before Lacey could respond, Shèng Svin'ya swung his muscular arm, sending Lacey flying several feet. She dug her talons into the ground, tearing up the pavement to halt her momentum. A malicious glare in Lacey's eyes, she stood tall and ready for combat. "Guess the young girl isn't the only one with a poor choice in weaponry," the Subjugator declared with utter distaste for the Boar Demon warrior.

"I heard you and Fox Lady had some trouble with Templar," Shèng said, his jovial Russian accent providing a sense of comfort to the VIRTUE Agents. "I came to help and brought a friend. Tamamo-No-Mae should not need to deal with such ruckus, no?" He twirled the rake in his free hand to get a better grip.

Lacey was confused by the Boar Demon's words until a massive sledgehammer worthy of a Giant struck her from behind, shattering her spine. From a shimmering Bifröst Portal stood an Eldjötnar warrior. He wore customized, heavily plated Viking armor, and flames coalesced around his warhammer. "Wondering when you would show, Gíkkmertr. Always one for dramatic entrances," Shèng said with a hardy chuckle.

Lacey slowly rose to her feet as her body regenerated from the shattering of her skeletal structure. Yet, she was not bothered by the sight of such powerful forces standing against her. The laugh that rang from Lacey added a sense of despair to those present as it was a gesture that this was a waste of their efforts. "Bringing everything to stop me from flaying the Kitsune alive, hmm?" She questioned with a sadistic tone as her fingers skimmed across the crescent blade of the glaive, "Smart. You vermin will need all of the help you can find. Though, it won't do any of you any good." Lacey continued as the fighters exchanged glances with one another, "Wanna know why I am known as th-" She attempted to monologue before Luna cut her off by shooting her skull again. Clear annoyance was evident on her face while she waited for Lacey to regenerate.

As Lacey regrew her head once, Luna began to address the Subjugator with a voice that mimicked the annoyance Luna held. "Listen here, bitch! I am not in the damn mood to listen to any long-winded speech of grandeur about how much egocentric and bloodlusted maniac you are. So, shut up and get to fighting while I blow open your skull to see how many times it is gonna take to put you down permanently." She spoke with such seriousness and intolerance that it surprised Èlise at the other side of her Sensei. Yet, it was a welcoming development from the utterly chaotic loony tune she met in their first encounter. "You understand or do I need to split your skull a few more times to shut you up?" Luna declared as Lacey lunged at Luna as her forearm morphed into one that belonged to a powerful Wulver warrior. The display was jarring to Luna as her Truth Vision kicked in to give her the reflexes needed to dodge the attack. Noting this bizarre form of shape-shifting, Luna quickly followed up with another shot that tore open her head. Her pinpoint accuracy ensured each headshot would land and kill Lacey. Though the prospect of landing what she had dubbed a Perma-Death would be far more difficult than these momentary kills. 

"You Impudant Brat and That Annoying Toy!" The Subjugator roars as she attempts to gut Luna with her glaive, but is halted by the Espar's spoon and is redirected into the attack from Shèng as his shield made of Bifröst smacked Lacey in the face. Dazing her slightly as Gíkkmertr swung his hammer to take Lacey's head off. This time, however, Lacey caught the hammer with brutish might as she turned to face the Eldjötnar to plunge her glaive through him. Causing a flourish of gore flying all over while throwing away the hammer and grabbing the Fire Giant by the throat. Proceeding to slam him into a discarded car due to the war scene caused by the conflict between the VIRTUE Agency, Agents of the Ethereal Council, Midgardian Covenant, and Templar Order. 

A grim prelude to a greater war was being woven by an entity that watched from the shadows. Luna's Truth Vision gives her a powerful migraine as she is forced to direct her attention to a strange shadow silhouette that was concealed by the shade made by the destruction of this conflict. The silhouette took a feminine appearance yet was that of a dragon who bore wings that belonged to those of birds, not of reptiles as common to the broader species of Dragons. The demeanor was regal and calm yet calculating and powerful, a reflection of a being born from Darkness and held cunning that could alter the entire course of History to her desires. The purple orbs of glowing magic that serve as the silhouette's eyes soon looked on Luna and in that moment. The Daughter of Horus had never felt so overwhelmed and terrified in her life as those eyes. They were just gazing at her physically, but they pierced into her mind and soul. The raw power in those eyes felt like that of an ocean that was an eternal abyss older than reality itself, water that formed around you and drowned you completely. "I see you, little sparrow. Stay playing your role as Agent of Chaos while trying to pose yourself as the hero." Spoke a voice within Luna's mind, it sounded smooth, elegant, comforting yet nightmarish, cruel, and reeked of Dark Divinity, "A beautiful bird thrown into a world that she NEVER belonged in. There is no changing what will come, little sparrow." She continued to speak as the silhouette slowly tilted her head in methodical movement and amusement. "You may see Truth, but that is always a subjective aspect of our reality, little sparrow. Even now, no one understands what is to come and no one will heed your warnings." The taunts that the silhouette made sent Luna into greater panic as she stepped backwards slightly from that shadowy presence. Yet, in a mere blink, that silhouette had vanished without a trace. Giving Luna a cold sweat as she tried to comprehend what she had just experienced.

Chapter Text

Among the vast oceanic landscapes within the Realm of Olympus, Hy-Brasil was an island nation that was home to the race known as the Cat-Sìth. A Mythic Race of Hunters tied to Bastet, Egyptian Aker of Cats, Music, Femininity, and Pleasure. This island housed a vibrant environment and culture fitting of both Bastet herself and the Hunters that had been crafted in her image. Despite this place of feline prosperity, out among the waves that encase Hy-Brasil's borders, Loxtrom and his twin sister, Zhazdel, were conducting an operation that would display the power of a Golem Colossus—one that was designed by the Eluvise herself with unique applications to grant it unique combative properties. However, it did not go unnoticed that these Asura twins were less than fond of the idea that they had to collaborate in this endeavor. Even more so was their shared dislike of reliance on Occultronics. Zhazdel saw this approach, as well as others who had a dependence on technology, as a sign of weakness and believed that relying on such trinkets was beneath her. Loxtrom, on the other hand, despite his robotic arms and cybernetically enhanced senses and reflexes, was considered cowardly. Having machinery fight your battles while you sat in some office far away from danger felt dishonorable to him. Even though Demons understood that honor in war was a sure way to get yourself killed, a demon's sense of martial virtue was rooted in the belief that only the strongest shall prevail, dictated by The Sword's Logic. In the right situations, combat was something to earn through a battle on even terms, and that invoked a sense of martial virtue as well as honor. Honor in ceremonial combat was something that all demons valued. In these particular events, any form of dishonor in Ceremonial Combat was an insult to the entire bloodline and invoked a challenge that must be answered by any means necessary.

However, this was not a time for such niceties, as the goal was to deploy the Golem Colossus, testing what Daou energy could provide for one of these towering giants when they had to combat similarly sized beings. Using a newly acquired and refurbished Gàe Bulg Warship, named Snaefell by Loxtrom, to transport their massive experimental Occultronic Kaiju. While they worked on transport, their assigned Satyr Occultist's cybernetic augmentations pulsated with a powerful glow of teal green. The colorization of Daou's power flowed as he channeled this energy into the Golem through one of the many rituals within the Anvil of Vulcan. Among these religious incantations, Rolgioz focused on invoking the ritual known as the Petition of Awakening. The mythical energies of Daou's Temporal resonance coalesced his cybernetics with the Golem Colossus' mechanisms and operating systems. This energy swirled throughout the robotic frame, coursing to each part that made up the whole. Gears began to turn, machinery groaning to life, and lights beamed with power. This mighty metal being slowly came online, rotating its many joints akin to one doing morning stretches to awaken dormant muscles in preparation for the day ahead. The Colossus hummed with affection for the Satyr as its optics focused on him, bringing out a small chuckle from Rolgioz while his tail swayed momentarily.

"Good morning to you as well, K3V-1N. Happy to see that you're still operating at full capacity," said the Satyr simply, with a somewhat cool yet comforting tone, ensuring that he did not accidentally anger the powerful Occultronic before him. Turning to face both Loxtrom and Zhazdel, their posture expressing their annoyance with how long it was taking to perform these obsolete methods for simple operations angered this Satyr slightly. Allowing a small sigh to escape his muzzle, he turned to address his superiors with military discipline.

"The Golem Colossus is ready for deployment, your Highnesses. Awaiting your command," reported Rolgioz with cold precision, more common to those deep within the Anvil's religious doctrine and high among their ranks.

"Good to hear, Techno-mancer," declared Loxtrom as he turned to face the Vèl Automatons that operated his Gàe Bulg as it continued its course toward Cat-Sìth Island. "How far are we from the drop zone? I rather not be forced to work aside hobbit any lo—" Yelps slightly as he felt his lower left leg singed by powerful blue flames powered by Zhazdel’s rage. Her small height, being only four feet and eleven inches unlike the rest of her Asura family, belied her intensity. Loxtrom faced Zhazdel, snarling with fury at being burned.

"Watch yourself, brat," he threatened, mechanical claws twitching with wrath radiating from his blue eyes beneath the armor he wore. A set of armor crafted from the remains of a Nuckelavee, a powerful monster that had destroyed his organic arms, forcing mechanical replacements. Yet these enhancements brought their own benefits. Even to Loxtrom's bitter resentment at using such crude mechanics, his reaction speed, action speed, senses, and strength were amplified by his cybernetics. Reforming the Nuckelavee corpse into a set of armor had tactical implications. One was a means of psychological warfare that Midgardians had termed "Aura Farming." From what he had pieced together, the art of Aura Farming was a method to display superior capabilities against enemies—creating a mental image of an overwhelming foe capable of decimating them in mere seconds. Intimidate them and defeat them mentally before defeating them physically. Applied to this Nuckelavee armor, Loxtrom was capable of slaying such a powerful monster despite lacking any practical means of harnessing magic. Displaying his combat skills and physical prowess was enough to make him a dangerous threat on the battlefield.

The chamber of the Snaefell’s docking bay thrummed with ritual and machinery. Steam hissed from vents, arcane conduits pulsed with Daou light, and the vast silhouette of the Occultronic Golem Colossus loomed in silence, its eyes dark. Today, the honor and risk of piloting it belonged to Prince Loxtrom Diofvlum. His cybernetic frame gave him what few others possessed: the ability to interlace flesh and circuitry with the Weave itself. Every implanted node along his spine shimmered faintly as he strode toward the towering chassis. Behind him, Rolgioz, high-voiced and solemn, raised his hands and began the ancient chants. Threads of green Daou energy unspooled into luminous cords, coiling like living veins. They slithered up Loxtrom’s back, piercing the ports of his spine and latching onto the optic lattice of the Colossus. Loxtrom’s jaw tightened. A flicker of pain carved across his face as the connection struck home. His vision expanded, drowning in a storm of glowing threads, voices, and pulsing connections. His consciousness merged with the machine’s Weave-core, and suddenly he was no longer a man in a chamber; he was the Colossus. The Golem’s eyes ignited, emerald fire spilling across the bay. Loxtrom flexed his shoulders, rolling his massive frame to test the tether between pilot and machine. He lifted his arms, stretching and acclimating to this new existence. The Colossus mirrored him flawlessly. But perfection brought terror. Metal screamed as the Golem’s casual stretch snapped the docking restraints like twine. Shards of broken machinery rained from above. Sparks cascaded in showers, and massive fragments of girders and scaffolding slammed into the deck. Vèl Automatons that served as technicians and attendants scattered in panic, their chants breaking into cries. A single wrong step from the Colossus threatened to flatten them where they stood.

And then, "IDIOT!” The cry rang out from the observation gantry. Princess Zhazdel Diofvlum stood clutching the railing, her eyes blazing with both fear and fury. “Do you even see what you’re doing?!” she shouted, her voice cracking as another shower of sparks rained dangerously close to her station. “Your arrogance nearly crushed us all!”

The Colossus’s titanic head turned toward her voice, eyes glowing like baleful suns. Inside the core, Loxtrom smirked, his tone carried on the machine’s vox like a booming sneer. “Shame,” he said. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t survive that little accident. Mother may find your death… inconvenient, but I would’ve found it satisfying.” Zhazdel’s fists clenched white around the railing, her body bursting into flames due to her fury. Her breath came hard, her face caught between outrage and the bitter sting of truth. Loxtrom’s laughter rolled like thunder through the chamber. To him, strength excused carelessness; only the weak feared the sword’s edge. And in Demon culture, the weak were already dead. Zhazdel’s gaze smoldered with hate and doubt. She was the prodigal, once-favored daughter. Yet in that moment, watching her brother stand tall inside the Golem, she felt the shadows of his rising ferocity eclipsing her own. The bay fell quiet but for the hiss of damaged machinery. The Colossus loomed like a new god, and the rivalry between the Diofvlum twins deepened into something far more dangerous.

However, the island of Hy-Brasil was not without its defenders. Aboard a patrolling Gàe Bulg Warship belonging to Azure Lion, a formidable warrior of both Cat-Sìth and Demonic heritage, Azure quickly picked up the surges of immense Arcane Energy thanks to his warship, Anhur's Spear, and its radar systems. Recognizing the strange occurrence, he piloted the Anhur's Spear to investigate the anomaly. He was unsure what he would discover but ensured that his Gàe Bulg was ready for battle if the need arose.

'From what the energy signature…' Azure thought to himself as he reviewed his data, 'The amount of energy is akin to either an Astral Avatar manifestation or Golem Colossus deployment… Either option is not ideal, given how things are playing out in Midgard and the Ryūgū-Jō Realm…' Azure noted with grim pessimism. Since the EMP blast that engulfed Midgard, it seemed as if events were being directed toward a greater conflict. This worried the Cat-Sìth Demon as he reflected on the Multi-Realm Wars he had witnessed. Out of the three that had already transpired, Azure was a veteran only of the Third Multi-Realm War, against Chronos and his mad paranoia over a repeat of… something from the Second Age. Due to Chronos’ instability, no one could truly make sense of what he was trying to prevent. His insanity had forced him to devour his own children just to spite a foretelling that described Ragnarök. Yet, this was far from the only step the Divine attempted to prevent this apocalyptic future. One measure, undertaken by Freya, became one of her deepest regrets. After obtaining knowledge of a curse that would ensure Baldur could not be killed by any means, Freya realized the fate she had forced upon her son—worse than death in its own way. The curse succeeded in its aim but severed Baldur’s ability to feel any physical sensation. This sensory deprivation drove Baldur into his own form of madness, resentful of his mother despite her benevolent intentions.

Soon, Azure was brought out of his thoughts by one of his soldiers, a Cobrivite, who tried to inform him that they were approaching the source of the Arcane Anomaly. Nodding in understanding, Azure began directing the crew of Anhur's Spear to their battle stations, hoping he could defeat this threat before it made landfall.

Meanwhile, in Midgard, in Saxony, Germany, Krio flew about to stretch his wings while Esmeralda was on her date with Tyrik. Though he was not fond of the young hatchling, in Dragon terms, Tyrik Yet, the raven was able to acknowledge that his mistress was cheerier when around him. Allowing tolerance, Krio flew onward. Yet, something felt wrong. Not what was occurring, but the malevolent energy brewing in the distance. Perched upon a tree branch among the vast forest landscape, Krio observed a man adorning strange armor while holding a grimoire, conjuring powerful dark magic over the corpses of griffins and basilisks.

"Восстани из глубинъ Дуата, силою Клятвы Безконечного Глада плоти. Пожри вся и распростри клятву свою на тыхъ, кого яси. Буди Ловецъ, ищій живыхъ, ищій кончины их бездоннаго чрева. Восстани яко сущіе, тронутіи Проклятіемъ Вендиго, и пожрите вся живуща." Crimson energy surged from his outstretched hand, traveling like currents within a river to the dead creatures, mutating them into grotesque, rotten, and ever-hungry forms. Groaning and moaning with malice, their bodies forced themselves into more humanoid shapes, bones snapping and flesh tearing as talons and fangs sprouted, turning them into predatory weapons of sadistic intent. Seeing this, Krio squawked with terror, feathers ruffled, ruining his neatly groomed appearance. The creatures turned toward the mage, but his power forced them to kneel despite their instincts. With a satisfied chuckle, the armored mage folded his arms behind his back.

"Time to see what my Nezit Uvech'ye Virus is capable of," he declared. Yet the rapid retreat of a lone raven drew his attention only briefly. Dismissing the insignificant sight, the Hidden Mage unleashed the MYBIAH Units upon nearby civilian populations, letting the undead creatures wreak havoc.

Chapter Text

The ruins of Vainomtie’s research facility hummed with silence after the World-Wide EMP. The great machines lay in ruin, their purpose gutted in an instant. Ranithcorie stood in the heart of the operations center, his boots striking the floor with deliberate rhythm as he paced. Rage coiled in him like a living thing. Kizeno had acted without sanction. The EMP threatened to expose lifetimes of design to rip apart everything the Inquisitors and the Dark Mother had spun from shadow. To Ranithcorie, such recklessness was treachery. And yet… Ranithcorie’s lips curled faintly. He knew his Herald. The Seven-Crescent-Tailed Kitsune was no fool; a manipulator, a strategist who painted with chaos. That much was why Ranithcorie’s hand had not already closed around his throat. The chamber doors opened. Kizeno entered with tidal calm, kneeling before his master. The confident smile on his face spoke of satisfaction, a smile that dared to suggest his destruction of the world’s order was not folly but design. Ranithcorie turned, eyes sharp as glass. “Explain yourself, Kizeno. You have risked the secrecy we have bled to preserve. Do not dance with words. I expect clarity… or silence eternal.”

“Of course, my master,” Kizeno said, voice smooth, unshaken. “But clarity requires boldness. To achieve what I intend, the Dark Thralls must be seen, if only in part.” Ranithcorie tilted his head, an eyebrow raised. His hands folded behind his back, as though weighing the choice of patience against execution. “I triggered the EMP after Camelot’s fall for a reason,” Kizeno continued. “The timing binds the two events, makes them inseparable in the minds of Midgard. Yes, we risk exposure. But exposure is not always weakness. It can be narrative.” Ranithcorie’s pace slowed, then stilled. His shadow stretched across the floor like a blade, but his silence invited Kizeno to continue. “Let the world see the Dark Thralls as revolutionaries, a vanguard for Mythics cast aside by Midgardians. Let me and the Heralds stand as their leaders, symbols of defiance. All eyes on us… while you remain hidden. They will hunt our noise, and never hear the whispers that bind it all.”

Ranithcorie’s smile cut sharp across his face. “A mask upon a mask. Very good.” He stepped closer, voice dropping to a quiet hum. “So long as they watch you, they will not see me. Or what lies above me. That is how shadows breathe.” The Kitsune bowed lower, his seven tails curling behind him like waves drawn toward a storm. “And with subtle hands,” Ranithcorie continued, “the Inquisitors may guide Midgard’s collapse. We will stoke wars, incite doubts, make VIRTUE appear as hollow saviors. Every misstep will feed the fire. Every fire will swell our ranks.” He allowed himself a quiet chuckle. “Your audacity, Kizeno, may yet prove the perfect blade.” 

Kizeno smiled at the praise, unaware of how easily it was granted, how deliberately it was placed. “Chaos creates vacuum. Power always rushes to fill the void. From that void, we shape the new order. The philosophy of the Dark Thralls, set upon the world itself.” Ranithcorie’s eyes gleamed with approval, and something deeper, something Kizeno never thought to search for. “Yes… to give way to an entirely new world. One where only peace and love exist, removing the corruption that is rooted in this Hell of a Reality.” The Kitsune raised his head, confidence flashing in his grin. “Ryequar will not resist this chance. His thirst for conquest has long sought a spark. The chaos I’ve sown gives him the excuse to strike Midgard without the Ethereal Council’s leash.”

Ranithcorie’s gaze lingered on his Herald, sharp enough to carve through pride. “Spoken like one who sees far. Yet remember, Kizeno. The horizon is not always what it seems.” Kizeno bowed again, the meaning lost on him. To him, he was the author of chaos in the service of a greater purpose. To Ranithcorie, he was a pawn who believed himself a king. And pawns, no matter how brilliant, moved where the hand placed them. A dark chuckle of pure amusement rang out from the Sadistic Warrior, seeing joy in with toying this Kitsune of great power through tragedy. 

Elsewhere in Midgard, the mutilated cyborg stirred. Lois Hamilton, the Alcahest, awoke in the aftermath of Kizeno’s EMP, their frame twitching as faint sparks ran through torn circuitry. The fragment within her chest pulsed once, a slow, insistent beat that dragged them back to consciousness. She groaned and pushed herself to unsteady feet, steel, and flesh, struggling to come online in uneven sync. Her helm flickered alive, scanning. The landscape before them was wrong, grotesquely wrong. Toxic air boiled over jagged ground. Carnivorous flora bared teeth along corrupted streams; waters ran black and oily. Nothing about it held the logic of Earth. The sensors blinked a single verdict: Lethal. “Dafuq…?” she muttered, a thin edge of fear creeping under the steel in her voice. The fragment throbbed again. Energy rippled outward, and a bird of pure light coalesced from the shimmer, a hawk, impossibly radiant, settling on a twisted branch. It cocked its head and, as if guiding a blind hand, turned Lois’s gaze toward a city hollowed into the ribs of a mountain range, titanic and carved with intent. The sight made their chest tighten. She whispered, “What the hell are you doing to me…?” more to the fragment than to anything else. There was no answer, only another tremor through metal and marrow.

A guttural chorus rose from the earth. The ground answered with a deep tremor; something immense moved below. Instinct screamed. Lois forced herself to focus. She activated her Simulation Power, letting glitches tear the air like shattered glass. From those fractures her Shìnbīng Wyverns stitched into being, jagged machines birthed of corrupted data and the fragment’s surge. They shrieked alive, wings unfolding as they formed a ring around their mistress. She rose on the wyverns’ updraft, but the environment struck back. A sandstorm roared across the wastes, blades of grit tearing at armor like paper. Alarms screamed in her helm. Even Phoenix’s AI stuttered, fighting to reroute processes. Lines of code flagged warnings as the wyverns’ coatings began to strip away, metal flaking in the wind. No, this wasn’t a storm she recognized. This was when Lois truly understood where she was, the Demon Realm.

The realization slammed into them: a crucible world where the air itself chewed at machines and living things alike, mountains hollowed by dwellers who carved cities out of stone and hunger. Their wyverns were eroding in minutes; adaptive protocols hiccupped and failed. Lois had seconds. The sand split. A colossal serpent tore upward with a roar that shook the sky. Antlers crowned its deerlike head, and from its skull sprouted a crystalline horn that pulsed in time with the storm, the horn shaping the gale itself. Its malevolent eyes locked on the glow in her chest, not on her face. A Uktena from Cherokee Folktales towered about the Alcahest with confusion written in its gaze. Confusion flickered across the beast’s expression; whatever drew it here was older than its cunning. Lois didn’t wait. She thrust her right arm forward, and Sliameniro Liquid erupted from the conduits in her forearm. The liquid shimmered unnaturally, a living alloy of Daou Energy, silicon gelatin, carbon-steel, and gallium. It flowed over the Uktena’s body like quicksilver, clinging, reshaping, assimilating. Flesh, scale, and horn twisted under its influence, metallic sinews knitting through sinew, biological fibers weaving with machinery, forming grotesque, functioning constructs. The Uktena screamed as portions of itself were drawn into the flow, only to re-emerge as new, jagged wyverns rising in obedience around Lois. The beast thrashed, vomiting demonic flame, but the liquid adapted instantly, resisting heat and reshaping with alien precision. This was not merely an attack; it was transformation, a violent and efficient conversion of matter into instruments of her will. Her wyverns pulled themselves fully into being, fueled by the liquid and the fragment’s pulse, taking shape with terrifying beauty.

She watched them rise, feeling neither triumph nor horror. Simply, the cold satisfaction of function. “Gotcha.” she said, voice flat. This substance wasn’t simply a weapon. It was a device of conversion, a brutal Templar innovation designed in their endless, misguided crusades against Mythic kind. Lois wielded it with terrifying efficiency, channeling the fragment’s pulse through the liquid and her Simulation Power, bending the Uktena’s raw mass into obedient constructs. She hovered there, Wyverns circling, sand grinding at their edges, the fragment pulsing in her chest like a heartbeat that did not belong to any one world. Whatever it was, whatever it wanted, it had summoned predators, drawn a path, and carved openings in realities. Lois could feel its gravity, feel that it meant more than power. She kept the thought small then; naming what she suspected would be dangerous. For now, they had bigger problems: a realm that dissolved their tools and a beast that would return if they faltered. She tightened her grip and ordered the wyverns into formation. They obeyed. Not because she fully understood their origin as much as failed to understand the rest of her cybernetic mutilations, but because she built them to obey. And in the brief, ragged quiet between storms, Lois listened to the fragment’s slow pulse and tried to map the shape of whatever had inserted them here. 

Within the training simulation rooms of Hohenzollern Castle, Steffen Bönsch underwent a series of combat trials designed to refine his abilities as an Espar. Espars were a natural evolutionary stage of Humanity, emerging in response to the growing powers manifesting across the Realms. Just as Gorgons evolved into Cobrivites to gain mobility and resilience for combat, and Sirens became aquatic, shark-like beings capable of hypnotic or sonic devastation, Humanity was adapting to survive in increasingly hostile environments. Espars, like Steffen, possessed unparalleled connections to Mana and Arcane Energy. Once dismissed as mere wizards, like Koschei the Deathless or Merlin. They now wielded destructive capabilities that even Mythics feared.

Steffen’s own power, drawn from Mandulis, a manifestation of Sound and Vibrations, allowed him to manipulate his surroundings through telekinesis or shred massive constructs by resonating their material at devastating frequencies. Any organic being caught in his displays would be torn apart, their bodies disintegrated as if incinerated by a nuclear blast. Yet, despite his prodigious strength, Steffen was far from the pinnacle of power. The Subjugator, Lacey, was leagues beyond him. Her longevity, built from consuming countless beings, ranging from ordinary humans that were of her hometown on Roanoke during the late fifteen hundreds to Mythics like Surtr, Cabrakan, and the Divine Warrior who stalemated Sun Wukkong himself known as Erlang Sheng, had not only extended her lifespan to unnatural degrees but amplified her already immense abilities.

Observing Steffen from the balcony above the combat arena was Walden Hamilton, who had taken on the responsibility of training this volatile Squire. While Nivoxus had discovered Steffen, Walden had been tasked with refining his control. Steffen’s brashness and hotheaded nature made this a difficult endeavor. Though his power was undeniable, it was wildly unstable; emotions like grief, rage, and fear often caused him to misfire, harming allies or destroying his surroundings. Walden recognized the weight of these unresolved emotions but could not fully determine their source. Nor could he uncover the circumstances of Steffen’s discovery by Nivoxus at age six. All he knew was that during a mission to curtail the spread of Espar genes, Nivoxus returned with Steffen in tow, having eliminated every Knight assigned to accompany him. From this fragmentary knowledge, Walden could only speculate grimly about the past.

Pulling out a cigarette, Walden watched Steffen dismantle the simulation arena with precision and control. He remained silent, aware of the gulf between simulated performance and real-world application. Steffen was not yet ready for true combat deployment. This understanding was why Walden kept him in the dark about Lacey Christie’s upcoming mission to assault the Vixen’s Quill.

The reason for caution was clear: intelligence suggested that one of the most dangerous warriors from the Third Age, Tripitaka, had now manifested as the history teacher Cìhuái Kāidăo. If true, they faced the same figure who had once defeated Izanami, one of the most lethal deities of the Japanese Pantheon. Izanami’s atrocities had eroded Tripitaka’s moral compass, forcing him to abandon the principles he had once upheld in the Journey to the West. To combat her and her forces, Tripitaka had been compelled to wield the Athanasia Cataclysm, a gemstone of unfathomable dark power. Each use of the artifact further corroded his ideals, transforming him into one of the most feared warriors in Yggdrasil’s history. Reincarnated or not, Tripitaka remained a figure whose very presence instilled dread, a living testament to the price of wielding absolute power against unimaginable evil. 

Chapter Text

Amidst the chaos of the Vixen’s Quill, Luna moved with practiced precision, doing everything she could to avoid the attacks conjured from Lacey’s stolen powers. Each ability, absorbed from countless victims, struck with ferocious intent, and now a massive primordial flame—drawn from Surtr himself—erupted from the Subjugator’s glaive, scorching the air with searing heat. Èlise barely managed to channel her telekinesis through the Uru Spoon, intercepting a strike just in time, deflecting the flames from their intended target. Shèng Svin’ya didn’t hesitate. His Bifröst abilities flared, forming a shimmering purple energy shield as he brandished his rake, attempting to exploit Lacey’s weakness to Spiritual Destruction. Every move was precise, calculated. Yet Lacey twisted and turned, evading him as best she could, though the cracks in her defenses began to show. From behind, Gíkkmertr Porak charged with unstoppable momentum, attempting to isolate the Subjugator, while Luna’s handcannon spat precise rounds, each guided by her Truth Vision and imbued with the divine clarity of Horus, her Aker father and Lord of the Skies. Over her earpiece, Robert Torres’s calm voice cut through the chaos. Luna pressed a finger to listen more clearly. “Evacuation teams with Shango are in position,” he reported. “Perimeter secured. Civilians are moving out. Keep the fight contained; don’t let it spill beyond the sector.”

Her thoughts flickered, almost reflexively, to the system that had made this coordinated response possible. She remembered the agency’s founding eight months ago. Tyrik had insisted that heroes needed rules. In comics, anime, and games, heroes were often reckless, leaving cities in ruins. Lin had tempered that idealism with pragmatism, and together with Abigail, they had designed the framework now guiding every agent in the field. The Seshat Potentia System set the destructive ceiling for every combatant, from minor threats to Divine-class power. The VIRTUE Ranking System ensured that raw strength alone did not dictate outcomes—agents were evaluated on lives saved, damage prevented, public trust, social contributions, and work ethic. Power without responsibility was meaningless; responsibility without power could fail to protect. These measures encouraged a careful, strategic approach among active superheroes, ensuring that battles remained contained, civilians were protected, and the mission was prioritized over spectacle.

Watching the Subjugator unleash stolen powers drawn from legendary myths, Luna realized that every agent’s movements, every evasive maneuver, reflected lessons from simulations, debates, and the very foundations Tyrik and Lin had laid with Abigail. The system was not merely a theory. Right before Luna it was alive, keeping agents focused, civilians safe, and the fight contained. Another crackle over her earpiece confirmed it: “City perimeter stable. Evacuation is proceeding smoothly. No major injuries reported.” For a fleeting moment, Luna allowed herself a sliver of calm. The frameworks forged months ago were working. But that brief relief was shattered as Lacey’s tendrils, tied to the creature Cetus, morphed from her forearm and lunged at Luna. A yelp escaped her lips as the draconic jaws snapped past, tearing through the building’s integrity. Cracks spider-webbed across walls and floors, metal beams groaned, glass shattered, and the structure collapsed into a cascade of rubble. “Should have kept your eyes on the prize, Mudblood,” Lacey sneered, a sadistic grin spreading across her face. Luna had barely time to react before the falling debris threatened to bury her. Shèng abandoned his offensive, pouring every ounce of his strength into a Bifröst barrier to protect them both. The sheer volume of debris strained him, teeth gritted, muscles screaming, but the shield held… For now.

And then, a new threat made its presence known. Lacey’s glaive fell as a crushing unseen grip encircled her throat, telekinetic, powerful, suffocating. Something that only Nivoxus had been capable of doing and yet this was equal to the power tied to the Metallic Methuselah. That was when Cìhuái stepped into view, his aura a strange, otherworldly blend of golden light and a deep, rich greyish-blue. A color that Èlise recognized from a field trip long ago. From what she was able to recall, this was a trip to the Smithsonian's National Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C. Among the many exhibits that the Museum featured, only one held a gemstone that was tied to a thick long rivers of blood. Leaving any previous owners, even the unknown ones, of this gem left it to endure gruesome and brutal deaths. From the thief who stole it, to royal hands, and to even the unfortunate man who had delivered it to where it sits. That accursed gemstone was known as the Hope Diamond. It was something that made Èlise feel chills coursing through her spine as she backed away. Even the most seasoned agents began to step back in response to Èlise's retreat, sensing that the cheerful history teacher they knew had vanished. In his place stood a warrior sculpted by myth itself: Tripitaka.

Yet, as events unfolded in Midgard, other Realms were adapting to the changing world in their own ways. Among these was the domain of Demons, Dwarves, Cobrivites, and Khnums, known simply as the Demon Realm. Nestled along the outer walls of Yamaloka, this Realm was carved into the mountains by the combined labor of Dwarven miners and Demonic strength. These peaks became one of the few habitable regions capable of sustaining life, offering refuge for those hardy enough to endure its harsh extremes. The Demon Realm was defined by severity: air so thick it could suffocate, waters so toxic that even the hardiest Mythics risked permanent damage, and terrain that demanded ingenuity for survival. Such conditions shaped its society, most notably through the Stone-Hives, vast cities carved directly from the mountains. These Dwarven marvels transformed inhospitable landscapes into livable urban centers, emphasizing survival and utility over comfort. Though stark compared to Midgard’s population hubs, the Stone-Hives remain a testament to Dwarven architectural mastery and resourcefulness.

Governance in the Demon Realm reflected both its harsh environment and the complex nature of its inhabitants. The Realm operated under a Symbiotic Cartel State, overseen in part by the Ethereal Council. Power was distributed among major cartels, each controlling vital industries necessary for the survival of the Stone-Hives. The Milo Gang, under the guidance of Aokez Devonshire, managed chemical production, labor organization, and mining logistics, ensuring that industrial operations remained functional and safe. In the volcanic, ash-swept region of Avernus, the Garuda Xel Gole commanded the Triad Syndicate, overseeing air purification, metallurgy, construction, and the critical refinement of Arcane Crystals. This last specialization was vital: these crystals powered much of the Realm’s magical technology, and improper handling could trigger catastrophic energy surges. Stabilizing their volatile power was essential to both industry and daily life. Across Irkalla, the Kraken Grysgen Pridos directed Leviathan’s Reach, managing shipping, water purification, and aquatic trade, while in Mictlan, the Ljósálfar matron Merivelle Faerona led the Ossuary Consortium, advancing bio-arcane engineering, genetic enhancement, gladiatorial arenas, and covert operations. No single cartel could dominate the Demon Realm entirely. Each relied on the others for essential resources, and any failure created openings for rivals to exploit, sowing dissent and rebalancing the system. The interdependent trade networks could be weaponized to prevent overreach, ensuring that power remained distributed and the Stone-Hives remained functional.

Yet, this balance had not always existed. The late Bakasura, the last Demon Representative of the Ethereal Council, had nearly shattered it. Ostensibly a steward of the Realm, Bakasura was in truth a gluttonous manipulator, a reflection of his mythological namesake. Obsessed with amassing metals, Arcane Crystals, and other resources, he hoarded wealth and power, forging secret alliances with self-serving Council members such as Odin to maintain control. By engineering scarcity and dependency, he kept the populace reliant on both his authority and the cartels he favored, punishing dissent and rewarding compliance. His insatiable hunger for influence blinded him to risk, leaving him fatally vulnerable to June Malbec’s intervention, in which he was literally torn in half, a vivid embodiment of the destruction his greed had sown. Even in death, Bakasura’s legacy lingers. The current cartel system methodology maintains its interdependence, fragile equilibrium, and strict oversight of critical resources. This outcome is in large part a response to his excesses. His history serves as a cautionary tale: unchecked gluttony for power, wealth, and control inevitably destabilizes society, and the measures that now regulate the Demon Realm exist to prevent such tyranny from rising again. The harsh environment of the Realm, paired with its immense wealth in metals, gems, and Arcane Crystals, remains a double-edged sword: survival is demanding, but abundance is tightly controlled, keeping citizens and cartels alike in a delicate balance that has endured… at least until now.

Within the Stone-Hive of Yamaloka, Aokez and Grysgen walked among the Deep Sector’s streets, the hum of daily life threading around them. Aokez had refused the Height Sector, keeping himself grounded among his people. Invoking the image of a leader who shared their struggles. This quality had earned respect… until Grysgen Pridos claimed Leviathan’s Reach through Ritual Combat, leaving his mark on the Demon Realm’s intricate web of power. Grysgen’s presence was impossible to ignore. His tubby gut suggested indulgence, yet every movement carried authority. He wore the long coat of a pirate captain. An attire that was deep navy and emerald, broad lapels and cuffs subtly trimmed with sea-weathered brocade, and a tricorn hat perched at a rakish angle, a dark feather tucked in, giving him charm without diminishing his gravity.

His kraken-angler features shimmered faintly in the dim light. Slick, iridescent skin rippled subtly; a small luminous lure extended beneath his tricorn, casting a soft, inviting glow. Fin-like ears twitched with every flicker of thought, and thick, glowing tendrils of beard pulsed with emotion. Even the subtle protuberances along his hands and wrists suggested both menace and life, hinting at the powerful being beneath the jovial exterior. Despite these alien traits, Grysgen radiated trustworthiness. His deep, rumbling laugh eased wary minds, and his handshake was a contract honored to the last letter. Workers in his operations were safeguarded in hazardous labor, injured Mythics compensated, and wages sufficient for rare comfort in a perilous Realm.

“Still trying to figure out why the Elusive raided your shipment of Daou, huh?” Grysgen asked, a soft bioluminescent flicker passing across his fins. “That stunt with her cyborg kid? One hell of a problem starter. Do you know how many operations went to the flames of Avernus because of it?” His right arm, a powerful squid-like tentacle, flicked lazily, punctuating the story with both menace and authority. The shadow of Vimofrea Diofvlum, the Elusive Asura, and her son, Loxtrom Diofvlum, accompanied by Vèl Automatons. A set of tall, humanoid machines with segmented limbs, faintly glowing faceplates, and unnerving precision still loomed over Leviathan’s Reach. Mythics whispered theories about their origins, speculating endlessly on their eerie blend of mechanical artistry and menace. Yet, Grysgen’s gaze remained steady, amused, unshaken by the threat. 

Aokez simply nodded at this assumption from his Kraken Rival, confirming the suspicions Grysgen held. "It seems she has done more than simply raided our operations for Daou Crystals. I have come across information from Pronxa's inner circle of informants that the Elusive has also addressed the House of Ulster for these gemstones." He told Grysgen as his ears flattened and bioluminescence began to shift into a bluish coloring. Reflecting a sense of contemplation with this new information. "I don't believe that she is one to act without purpose in mind. No one of her level of cunning would operate in such a reckless manner." Aokez concluded as his serpentine tail slowly swayed, violet eyes turning to examine the kraken crimelord subtly. Studying his actions as a means to predict his thoughts on this matter.

"You are right about that..." Agreed Grysgen as he closed his eyes and let out a heavy exhale, gut reflecting the momentum. "From the amount that was collected if your kitty's informants are to be believed." He declared with a cautionary tone and speculative voice, "I would have to think that the Elusive is building something. Something meant to be a weapon of war, a new variant of the Golem Colossi or Gàe Bulg Warship..." He continued further as the implications were worrisome as they were being made. An implication that Vimofrea was preparing for a War on a massive scale and with how events on Midgard were unfolding. This speculative assumption felt uncomfortably like a likely outcome. 

Abruptly, the mountain began to shake due to an impact on the outer walls. The impact held enough force to shake the Stone-Hive's foundations. The entire structure violently trembled as everyone tried their best to stabilize themselves. Aokez blinked multiple times in attempts to understand what caused this. It was clear that this was abnormal, for the mountain walls were meant to conceal the Mana Presence of the population within, making it nearly impossible for monsters to sense the Stone-Hives. The sheer force of the impact made it evident that something of a Theta Level or greater rank on the Seshat Potentia System was striking against them. Soon, the alarms for defensive systems and protocols began to blare across the entire Stone-Hive. Citizens panicked, their fear greater than confusion. For if the toxic outside air leaked into the city through a breach, countless would die gasping. “By Hades’ name, what is causing this?” Aokez barked as he sprinted with Grysgen at his side, both heading toward the security command to grasp the situation.

Yet before they could reach it, the very fabric of reality glitched. Space fractured into jagged, shimmering shards, and from within the distortion, a figure stepped through. The mechanical woman appeared as if the world itself bent to admit them. Crimson optics flared beneath a golden helm; a flowing red cape curled unnaturally in the glitching air. Around them, sound fractured into stuttering echoes, and shadows duplicated into false doubles that danced like broken reflections. Above, the shriek of Wyvern Shìnbīng Drones pierced the Stone-Hive’s corridors as they slithered inside through breaches in the outer wall, their metallic wings scraping the stone as their eyes glowed with malevolent light. They spread like hunting beasts, encircling civilians, driving the panic deeper.

The woman smiled... Or rather, their helmet’s projected faceplate mocked a smile, scrolling text forming the words: “Ooh! I found funny mountain furries! How cute.” A distorted chuckle reverberated as she stepped forward, savoring the terror writ across the chamber. The glitchy vocalization added to the sinister application to their demeanor as both Grysgen and Aokez became wary about this armored woman. Reality glitched again through a flick of their wrist in a theatrical posture, scattering afterimages of them across the walls and ceiling. The drones snapped into formation, perfectly synchronized with their movements, like marionettes bound to her will. “Containment breach? No…” Lois Hamilton’s voice distorted through layers of synthetic glitch. “This is assimilation.” Their crimson optics flared brighter as the Yggdrasil Shard embedded in their armor pulsed, igniting the Chrono-Forge Simulation. The air around them warped as if time itself resisted their presence. And then, in the choking silence that followed, she whispered with a cruel amusement: “Resistance isn’t survival. It’s surrender, on my terms.”