4thDay of the 1st Fire Cycle[1], 2000 g.c.
Returning our attention to the planet Gaia, we stumble across a group of humans neck-deep in the country of Velonica. The cerulean sun's light shimmered off Gaia's many rings, throwing prismatic beams through the white-leafed trees like they were caught inside a divine cathedral. The day sky here could rival the night with how much color and wonder it wore. And looming above was Trappist, our sister planet. Thick and enormous, it sat in the sky like a babysitter watching over a toddler. It looked so close, you could swear it called out to your soul. Kids used to say you could jump right to it if you leapt off the tallest tower at dawn. I remember Alex sayin' it too. Stupid little story, but in a world where mana danced through the air and monsters ruled the wildlands, it ain't the craziest thing to believe.
Down past the humming forests of white flora and soft sapphire grass, just off the main road leading into Talasi, Jojo King—the so-called Hero of Mankind—stood behind a tall bush, one hand bracing the tree trunk, the other busy takin' care of his bladder. He'd been holding it since sunrise. The journey from the border had been a sprint the whole way—nonstop, no breaks, just adrenaline, a little strategy, and way too many sermons from Krystal. The air was warm, fragrant with the light, citrus-like scent of the petals falling from the canopy above. You could hear the trees humming low from the wind, like Gaia herself was warning 'em about what was coming.
"These are some beautiful trees," he thought, glancing up as his stream weakened.
The trees were tall and glowing, with bark so white it reflected sunlight like polished marble. Every breeze brought a cascade of tiny silver petals fluttering down like snowflakes.
"I've never seen white flora that felt so divine. But why is a forest like this present in a Monster Country?"
That was the million-coin question.
He zipped up and stepped away from the bush, casting a glance toward the others. Just ahead, leaning with her toned back against the bright bark of a divine white tree, Krystal Sento watched the road like a hawk. Her arms were crossed tightly under her bust, the silk of her long-sleeve top clinging to her pale skin. Her violet eyes were locked on the horizon, where the main road stretched long and unbroken, like a thread leading directly into the lion's mouth. There wasn't a soul in sight, but Krystal wasn't fooled. She'd noticed it earlier while they were sprinting—an odd stretch of the path that smelled of iron and ash. And blood. Huge puddles of it—old enough to be sticky, fresh enough to smell like murder—trailed off into the brush. And yet, not a single person in sight but them.
She stayed on alert. Her hand rested on her bow. The white trees were too quiet, the shadows too long for midday. Something had happened here, and if she was right, it was recent.
Meanwhile, under the glimmering trees, things were getting scandalous. Closer to the road, standing with prayer-quiet poise, Novara Matthews waited in a silence too heavy to be casual. Her bronze-toned skin practically shimmered beneath the glints of sunlight breaking through the white canopy. Her eyes were sharp, distant, as though they were reading scripture no one else could see. The honey-blonde bob framing her cheeks danced slightly in the breeze, brushing the corners of the glasses perched lightly on her face. Even when she was still, Novara looked ready to smite a demon on command—and then repent for it ten minutes later. She always appeared in control.
But her sisters? Not so much.
"Wow, Decima, I didn't think you liked this kind of stuff," teased Marzia Judas, her voice dripping in amused mockery.
"Oh my Goddess, stop it, Marzia. Give it back!" Decima lunged forward in a desperate hop, arms reaching high, trying to reclaim the slightly bent magazine flapping in Marzia's fingers.
"A nude book of men? One even with Demihumans in it," Marzia mused, dramatically flipping through a page like she was grading an essay. "Where did you even get this filth from?"
"It doesn't matter!" Decima hissed, freckled cheeks flushed a volcanic red. "Just hurry and give it back before she comes!"
Decima Thomas was the definition of deceptive packaging. Shorter, fair-skinned, and chubby in a cute sort of way, she looked more like a baker's daughter than a Church-blessed duelist. Her round cheeks and lime-green eyes gave her a childish charm, especially with those perfectly fluffed cotton candy puffs on her head. But don't let that fool you—she could parry a sword into the next calendar week. Her rapier was strapped tight to her hip, its hilt glimmering faintly with temporal-like particles.
Marzia, on the other hand, looked like trouble dipped in cocoa and perfume. Honey-toned skin, royal blue eyes, lips that could cause wagon wrecks, and a plum-colored mane of curls that tumbled lazily around her head like she'd just woken up flawless. Marzia was a woman who wore emotions like a mask, always hiding her true thoughts and intentions from the surface. At 5 feet and 6 inches, she wasn't the tallest of the disciples, but her titties could fill a ballroom. Her bigger breasts led to a bigger presence. That presence, of course, was currently being weaponized against poor Decima.
"So, you're into men now? I guess those nights with Octavia weren't satisfying enough?" Marzia whispered, but loud enough to get Krystal's eye to twitch slightly.
"Darn it, Marzia, hush!" Decima was practically vibrating in place.
Marzia dropped her voice again and leaned in until their faces were just inches apart. Her aura shifted—just a tick—from teasing to something silkier.
"How about this..." she said with a grin, her breath brushing Decima's lips, "After we complete this mission, later tonight, you show me if you lick everything like your ice cream cones."
The words hit like lightning. Decima's brain short-circuited, her eyes wide, her body frozen mid-reach. She didn't answer right away. Just trembled, lips parted, freckles glowing faintly as mana stirred beneath her skin.
"…Fi-fine," she whispered, barely audible. "But don't tell Octavia!"
Marzia grinned like a cat with a fresh kill. "I knew you'd be a good girl." She returned the book, letting her fingers trace Decima's just a second too long.
The wind rolled softly through the ivory trees, rustling leaves that shimmered like thin silk under the cerulean sun. That soft golden glow danced across the branches, giving the white flora its divine shimmer, almost like they were dipped in stardust. And just as the warm breeze teased the leaves, it carried with it the subtle clink of Magic Gems and the rhythmic crunch of approaching footsteps.
That's when she returned.
Januelle Peter's presence wasn't something you noticed—it was something that announced itself. From behind the alabaster trees, she emerged like a vision out of a priest's wet dream. Ivory skin, untouched by blemish or time, gleamed like polished marble under the sunlight. Her long legs moved with a deliberate grace, each step gliding over gravel as if the stones wanted to be touched by her. Her light blonde hair, tied into a high ponytail, swayed like a bell's rope with every movement, and those ice-bright blue eyes? They cut through the warm day like a winter chill straight to your bones.
Her lips, full and soft pink, curled slightly as she came into view, the kind of smile that could make confessions start themselves. Her armor—white as snow and trimmed in steel-blue and obsidian black—hugged her form with reverence, not restriction. It was nearly identical to what her paladins wore, except for the yellow cape trailing behind her, fluttering with quiet authority. From her ears hung polished orbs of Magic Gems, faintly pulsing with a patient mana like small lights awaiting command. Her fingers, too, gleamed with multiple rings—each one a mark of power. But the most potent symbol was the church's necklace, resting gently against her collarbone like a divine collar. Januelle wasn't just their leader; she was their blade, priestess, and punishment.
"Alright, ladies," she said, voice crisp like the snap of fresh parchment, "your rest is coming to an end."
At that exact moment, Jojo King reappeared from behind a tall white bush, adjusting the waistband of his pants and sighing with the relief of a man freshly unburdened.
"I'm good to go now, Krystal. What did I miss?" he asked, walking up with that casual bravado he wore like a second cape.
Krystal Sento didn't even turn toward him at first. She had her arms crossed and was swatting at her own shoulder with irritation.
"Nothing but these annoying ass bugs," she snapped. "Why is everything so big in the damn boondocks?"
Jojo smirked, brushing a bug off his arm. "I heard many of the mosquitoes here are attracted to human blood and mana."
"Great," she muttered, smacking another insect off her thigh. "Even the insects are aggressive. It's all Joey's fault."
Jojo blinked. "How? He's not even here."
"Exactly why it's his fault," she fired back. "Instead of being here to take the brunt of the bugs, he's enjoying himself on the beach."
Jojo shook his head, chuckling. "I don't think joining the other Saint Disciples to drive off a Dragon Lord counts as 'enjoying the beach.'"
Krystal rolled her eyes, her green hair swinging in the breeze. "Ughhh. What's a Divine Beast even doing that far from Wyvernia anyway?"
"Who knows?" Jojo said with a shrug. "But with that thing showing up near Arrington, the Saint Disciples had no choice but to go. I didn't think he'd volunteer, though."
Krystal scoffed. "That's because he still has a crush on Febris. He's such a child."
Jojo laughed. "Let him chase love. We should all be so lucky."
Krystal smirked sideways at him. "Speak for yourself. I already have someone with my eye on."
Jojo raised an eyebrow, trying to sound playful, but not quite hiding the curiosity in his voice. "Guess I'm the one failing in that department."
She reached out and gave his chest a light push. "You'll get it together one day, King."
They both turned their heads slightly as the commanding figure of Januelle came into full view.
"Looks like Lady Peter has returned as well," Krystal said, straightening her posture.
Jojo nodded, his eyes lingering a moment too long on the sway of Januelle's hips before catching himself.
"Shall we go join them?" he asked.
"Let's," Krystal said, and the two of them made their way toward the others, the tension in the air sharpening—not just from the cold aura around Lady Peter, but because they all knew what lay ahead. Something in the silence of that white forest whispered of blood yet to be spilled.
The gravel crunched beneath their boots as Jojo and Krystal rejoined the other Saint Disciples, their silhouettes falling in line like disciplined shadows as the wind picked up around them. Clouds above spiraled faster than before, pulled unnaturally toward the south like some great force was breathing down upon Gaia itself. The scent in the air had shifted—sharp, metallic, and sweet like spoiled fruit—blood and mana, dancing together in a cocktail only warriors would recognize. It clung to the back of the throat, settling in the lungs like a warning. Something or someone was already bleeding ahead of them.
In the center of the group stood Januelle Peter, a symbol of iron-willed elegance as her golden ponytail fluttered in the wind. Her yellow cape whipped with the same rhythm, billowing like a divine banner against the overcast sky.
"Good, you two are right on time," she said, folding her arms neatly beneath her bust as Jojo and Krystal came to a stop. "As I was informing them, we are approximately 150 miles away from our destination. With that, the mana signature of the Demon Lord has been located."
Jojo narrowed his light brown eyes, brushing a hand over his long, hairy chin as if the question itched at him. "How are you sure that it's the Demon Lord?"
Januelle's smile was brief but edged. "I fought her once, around 180 years ago. Back when she was freeing Dark Elves from human capture."
Krystal, eyebrows high, whistled. "Was she as powerful as the report suggests?"
"Let's just say," Januelle paused, letting the moment breathe, "even with my strength now, I would still end up losing to her back then."
"Damn," Krystal muttered, crossing her arms and adjusting her weight.
"But," Januelle added, her tone sharpening, "just as the reports state, her magickal power seems far weaker than before."
"Good," Jojo said with a sigh, rubbing his shoulder. "We stand a chance at victory without a loss."
A scoff snapped the air like a whip.
Marzia Judas, with her eyes narrowed to slits, sneered through her teeth. "Times have changed. Nowadays, even Dragon Lords can be dealt with." The venom in her voice didn't hide well—she didn't try to.
Decima, ever the one to smooth tensions with calculated polish, chimed in with a sweet yet eerie calm. "Lord Jojo, we Saint Disciples have an emergency plan in case we run into monsters stronger than S-Class. Allowing us to handle even SS-Class with a surefire victory."
"That's enough, Decima," Januelle cut in quickly, a warning laced in her posture. "That's classified information."
"Oops! Yes, ma'am!" Decima said with a sheepish chuckle and a mock salute.
Jojo tilted his head, his tone cautious but curious. "Was she alone, Lady Januelle?"
"Not exactly," she answered, now staring off toward the moving clouds. "Along with the Demon Lord, I picked up the signatures of other demihumans. The steady flux of their energies suggests they're currently in battle with each other."
Krystal nodded. "That's even better. Let our enemies defeat themselves."
"That would be the preferred outcome," Januelle agreed, her gaze focused. "But no matter the ending, they will be dealt with, along with the entire town."
Jojo's body stiffened.
"What do you mean?" he asked, voice dropping an octave. "I didn't sign up for a genocide run. That'll only incite equal fury and losses."
Januelle didn't waver. "As an order received from Sister Mary, it's not something we could refuse if we wanted, Lord Jojo. The Church has deemed this place a future threat to the development and expansion of the Kingdom of Madness."
Jojo lowered his head slightly, his voice barely above the whisper of the wind. "This will only bring vengeance against humanity. For evil can never be truly defeated with evil."
Marzia rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out of her skull. "Wow. Were you always this much of a scary bitch? Or did you lose your balls after you got killed?"
"Marzia!" Decima gasped, but the snark was already loose.
Jojo blinked slowly, then looked up. "I beg your pardon?"
Marzia stepped forward, boots pressing into the dirt like she wanted to grind him into it. "Damn. I hate that I ever thought you were cool, once."
Krystal turned, her jaw clenched. "Lady Judas, Lord Jojo has the right not to want to kill innocent people. It'll make us just as much the monsters we call them."
Marzia snarled. "I don't remember asking for your opinion, Sento. And there's no innocence in war. Only soldiers and collateral damage."
"That's enough, Marzia," Januelle said with a sigh, though her tone remained firm. "Understand, Ms. Sento, all Saint Disciples have been trained to remove any sympathy for a Monster Country or Nation that becomes an enemy of womankind."
Marzia stormed off, muttering to herself and making a trail of stomps toward the open road. Her body language was unreadable—too many wounds, too much fire under the skin. Jojo said nothing, though his expression remained grim.
Krystal, voice low, asked, "Does that mean the Kingdom of Madness plans to fully invade Velonica soon?"
"That's classified information, Ms. Sento," Januelle replied, her eyes now following Marzia's back.
A gust of wind howled through the camp, pulling cloaks and hair as a brown and white carrier falcon swooped down from the heavens. It landed with a gentle thud on Novara's outstretched arm, the bronze woman silent and poised. Her blue eyes scanned the creature's expression like reading scripture.
She removed the enchanted paper tied to its leg, the runes along the edge glowing faintly. Channeling a thin pulse of mana through her fingers, the message unfurled with a whisper of power and light. After reading it, she nodded and whispered her thanks to the bird, which took off again into the greying sky.
"Captain," Novara said calmly, "we've received communication from Sister Mary. She has made it to Magnolia and instructs us to advance with our mission."
Januelle nodded, her expression unreadable. "Thanks for the report, Novara." Then her eyes turned to Jojo. "Lord Jojo, will you be able to carry out the mission objective to completion?"
Jojo didn't flinch. "My only targets are the Devil of Velonica and the Demon Lord. I will leave meaningless genocide to you all."
"I understand, Hero of Mankind," Januelle said quietly.
With a soft salute, she excused herself and walked down the road toward Marzia. The others lingered in a tense silence, the air between them heavier than before.
The wind carried the scent of more than just blood and mana now. It carried judgment. Conflict. Doubt.
And somewhere ahead… death waited patiently.
When Krystal's fingers lightly tugged on the edge of Jojo's coat, the gesture seemed almost accidental—casual enough to pass unnoticed, but deliberate enough for him to feel it. He didn't resist as she guided him a few paces from the group. Her violet eyes locked onto his, sharp enough to cut deeper than words. She didn't blink. Didn't waver. Her gaze spoke of suspicion, mistrust, and something colder simmering beneath it all.
"I'm with you," she murmured, voice low like a secret passed under candlelight. "I'm not for attacking civilians who are clearly innocent in all this."
The words barely reached his ears—yet they hit harder than a warhammer. Jojo glanced toward the Saints—four armored figures clad in gilded cloth and ceremonial steel, silent as looming statues of divine judgment. Their presence didn't comfort. It suffocated.
"Appreciate you saying that," he said, nodding slightly. "But I got a feeling things won't go half as smoothly as we're hoping."
"It's 'cause of them, right?" Krystal narrowed her eyes. "I always get this weird feeling in my stomach whenever they're around. Like… a storm's about to break, but everyone else keeps acting like it's just warm wind."
Jojo didn't answer. His gaze lingered on the Saints—Januelle, who spoke like a queen; Decima, stone-faced and forever adjusting her sword; Novara, quiet but razor-sharp; and Marzia, practically vibrating with agitation. Four paladins, each dangerous in ways that didn't require demonstration.
"Don't worry about the Saint Disciples," Jojo said at last, tugging at his gloves. "They're only a threat to those who oppose the church. They're our allies, too."
Krystal leaned closer, voice nearly inaudible. "They are scummy. I've never been too sure about trusting the Kingdom of Madness. Something's always seemed off about the people from over there."
Her words burrowed into Jojo's mind like thorns. He stroked his beard thoughtfully, casting another glance back toward the Saints. That's when he noticed the subtle interaction happening just a few meters away.
A small distance from the main group, Januelle appeared beside Marzia without a sound—her presence like a ghost stepping out of sunlight. Marzia didn't acknowledge her at first. Her fingers danced on her twin hilts, eyes locked on some invisible itch.
"Men are utterly useless," Marzia spat, eyes hard.
"Yes, some can be," Januelle replied, her voice calm like water over steel. "But the capable ones are always a sight to behold."
Marzia scoffed. "I haven't met a man I liked longer than a day. They're all so annoying."
"Well, stomach it until we finish the mission," Januelle said, her tone shifting into something colder. "We're about to head out."
Marzia rolled her eyes. "Are you sure it was a good idea to bring him along? What if he gets in our way?"
Januelle's eyes glinted, calm and predatory. "I was instructed by Sister Mary that if he steps out of line at any time, to execute Plan Crucifix."
Marzia smirked. "Now you're speaking my language."
She paused, squinting. "Question. Did any of the signatures feel like the Devil of Velonica?"
Januelle's eyes narrowed. "None felt like the one in the reports. Not like the Devil they've been whispering about."
"Guess we'll find him after the Demon Lord," Marzia muttered, tapping her blade's handle once.
Januelle's gaze drifted down the path ahead, wind lifting the edges of her cloak. "Although… I did feel the familiar presence of a Cultivation Buff in three of the signatures."
Marzia's head snapped around. "No way! Are you sure?"
Januelle nodded slowly.
"How is that possible? That's supposed to be a secret only the Church of Holy Madness has access to."
"I don't know," Januelle admitted. "But I plan to take one as a prisoner for questioning."
Their conversation cut off when the approaching footfalls of Decima and Novara broke the quiet. Both women came into view, their postures stiff and focused.
"All ready to depart," Novara announced curtly.
A few minutes passed as everyone grabbed their gear. The sky shimmered in hues of silver and blue as the group gathered atop a scorched ridge. Below, the land lay wounded, blasted earth and fractured stone stretching far into the distance. The air shimmered faintly, laced with residual mana that hummed like distant bees and tingled against the skin.
Januelle stood tall at the edge of the ridge, radiant longsword drawn. Her blade crackled snowflakes, each pulse releasing that cold, metallic scent of ozone and angel mana. Her silhouette looked mythic against the late noon sun.
"Ladies," she called out, her voice sharp as a drawn blade. "Look at me."
The other three turned, locking eyes with her.
"I don't care what fear is gnawing at your bones right now—let it. That's how you know you're still alive. That's how you know your heart ain't done beating. But I need that heart strong. Steady. Ready to strike like a viper."
She took a step forward, letting the wind catch the hem of her coat. Dust lifted around her boots.
"Vericka Mikazuki won't be some bedtime tale. She's real. She's waiting. That Demon Lord ain't just another beast—we're staring down the nightmare that kept nations from sleeping. But guess what?"
She raised her sword, letting it shine in full display.
"We are not those nations. We are wrath—the answer when peace breaks."
Her eyes flicked to each of her sisters.
"Novara, I want your eyes on everything. If she blinks funny, I want her dissected before she exhales. Decima, blade up. I want you to show her what doubtless truly looks like—clean, precise, final. Marzia, you were made for this. Those abilities they fear? Aim it at her. Strike from the veil and never apologize."
She lowered her sword slightly, the tip glowing faintly in the dying light.
"We are the Saints of the Sword, the Flame, and the Future. When this battle ends, Talasi will be dust. Even the Devil of Velonica will learn that monsters have something to fear."
She turned her gaze to the horizon, where crimson clouds stretched like a bleeding wound across the heavens.
"And the world? It will be ruled by Humans, as prophesied in the Book of Endless Skies. Guided by the strength of the Church of Holy Madness. Our strength. So tighten your grips. Stand tall."
She raised the blade to the sky.
"Now let's go remind those monsters why the Goddess gave us permission to rule the world."
In unison, the three women snapped to attention and saluted.
"Yes, ma'am!"
Then, like a sitcom laugh track after a funeral, clapping broke the solemn air. Jojo and Krystal had rejoined the group. Jojo clapped awkwardly, like a man trying to break a curse with a grin.
The silence that followed was stiffer than a corpse.
Marzia shot Jojo a look that could curdle wine.
"My bad," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Let's move out," Januelle commanded without missing a beat. "The estimated time of arrival is half an hour."
And with that, they descended the ridge—silent, tense, and headed straight into the fire.
Meanwhile, over in Talasi...
The world outside the entrance gate of my hometown was a violent canvas smeared in mana and desperation. Five streaks of incredible power surged and clashed in the open space, like fireworks trapped in a death spiral. My mother, Vericka, stood alone against the Illuminati's assault, a single pillar of iron resolve in a hurricane of hatred.
Her glasses didn't rest on her face—they clung, held in place by thin threads of Bio Mana fused to the frames, gripping her skin like fingers refusing to let go. Her breath came fast. Not panicked. Not yet. But measured. Forced. She was calculating, even as her white boots ground against the broken dirt path, barely holding ground.
Kiranna, the Blood Witch, struck first—her staff slicing the air in a crimson arc aimed for Vericka's ribs. But Mom twisted low, ducking under as Abdul's gauntlet-wrapped fist shattered the space she just left, the air cracking with thunder. Yoona blurred in, lightning-charged twin fans sweeping in from behind. And Beau cut off her retreat with a scavenged spear, silent and sharp.
Vericka vanished.
One blink, and she reappeared yards away—no teleportation rune, no chant. Just raw, mana-charged speed. The grass she left curled upward, blackened from the friction heat. She didn't dodge them—she threaded through them like a seamstress stitching reality mid-fight. Every strike missed by inches. Sometimes less.
Sweat beaded down her temples, catching the light of stray mana flares like glittering rain. She dipped under Abdul's spinning kick, the shockwave cratering the dirt beneath. Her eyes flicked—incoming lightning.
Too late.
Yoona's bolt surged from behind, screaming toward her. Vericka pivoted, twisting mid-step. The lightning kissed the edge of her arm, burning skin and searing hair—but she lived.
And in the same moment, Beau's spear came roaring toward her chest.
"Crescent Moon Blade: Lunar Reflection!" she snapped, her voice a whip crack of power.
Mana spiraled from her open palm, shaped instantly into a crescent arc of silver energy that pulsed like moonlight on the ocean. The mana blade met the spear with a shriek of sound, redirecting the kinetic force back like a boomerang of compressed air. The resulting explosion was a wide, spiraling gust that tore trees from their roots and kicked the Illuminati back like rag dolls.
They landed dozens of meters away, tumbling and skidding across the ground, their cloaks glowing with defensive mana veils that flickered from the force of impact.
Vericka gasped for air, her knees trembling as she pulled herself upright. That bought her seconds—maybe ten. Maybe less.
"Focusing my mana on movement is working," she thought, jaw tight. "But damage output's a joke. I'm draining Billie Holiday's reserves too fast."
Her eyes fluttered for half a moment, and memory took her. A smell in the wind—a distant fire—ripped her mind back to a different battlefield, a different flame.
Flashback:
5th Day of the 3rd Earth Cycle, 1818 g.c.
She was younger, prettier, softer—before the years carved lines of worry into her face and battle hardened her eyes. She sat across from Fann, her mother. There were no titles, no fame, no children—just two women trying to survive in a country that wanted them broken.
The air was dry and full of the tang of burning wood. A fire crackled between them, its smoke curling into the dark sky as the sounds of war carried on the wind in the far distance.
Fann's eyes narrowed in concern. Her voice, low and measured.
"Understand me, Vee. I am proud of you for fending off that Divine Beast. None of us would be here if it weren't for you." She reached forward, gently cupping her daughter's cheek. "But using that skill has only dated your future death."
Vericka shook her head, eyes gleaming with fierce purpose. "Not if I can ration out my use of mana. If I keep my emotions under control and keep my mana usage to a minimum, then I'll be fine until I can figure something out."
"Baby girl," Fann said gently, brushing her cheek, "You're talking about surviving years like this. Are you sure this is the only path?"
"It's the only one left. [Trance] only eats my spirit when I run out of MP. So, I just can't run out."
Fann's lips pressed thin. "But [Trance] blocks mana recovery. You won't regenerate any. And we still don't know what it does to your soul."
"I'll figure out how to deactivate it. I just need time." Vericka's voice trembled with defiant hope. "Until then… my Soul Core will hold. It has to."
Fann nodded after a long pause. "I'll research what I can, as well."
Yet the years didn't bear much fruit in that department.
End of Flashback:
8 Seconds later.
Back in the present, Vericka snapped herself out of the memory with a sharp breath. The heat of the moment slammed into her again like a wall, sweat beading along her collarbone. Wind Mana flickered around her legs in pulses of pale green, keeping her blood moving, her bones aligned, her speed just a hair above death.
"I can't believe I let my mind wander… now, of all times," she cursed internally.
The fear tightened her chest. Her worst nightmare wasn't death—it was not living long enough to see her sons come home.
The Illuminati were regrouping already. She could see them in the haze of smoke and glowing embers. Abdul stood tall, stretching his neck. Yoona twirled her blades with a calm that shook Vericka more than rage would've. Beau stabbed his spear into the ground, letting mana swirl up from it in orange waves. Kiranna's blood magic danced around her shoulders, each tendril coiled and eager.
Vericka's eyes narrowed.
"No time to give up. Focus, Vee. Just holding them off won't win this."
She crouched low, hands crackling faintly as she called more of Billie Holiday's reserve mana from within her Soul Core. The red tones of her spiritual energy dimmed, flickering like a dying candle.
And then a realization hit her like ice down her spine.
"Wait…" Her pupils dilated. "Why is their mana replenishing so quickly?"
Even with her keen analysis, she couldn't see the source. Their movements weren't sluggish, their veils weren't dimming. They were fighting above their grade.
"It feels like I'm fighting four Godwalkers." Her heart pounded faster. "But I know their clan doesn't have any Kami-Level V-Skills…"
Which meant one of two things.
Either something was feeding them mana.
Or something changed with the clans that left.
And in either case… she was looking outmatched.
The cloaks fell like shadows shedding their skins. Their dark hoods hit the dust, revealing faces tattooed with hatred and whispered nightmares. All four figures now stood before Vericka under Gaia's blue sun, its silver glow reflecting off the mana-laced air like heat off a blade. And though the wind never ceased over the high plains outside the gate of Talasi, the breath in Vericka's lungs tightened, as if the mana itself had thickened into something solid.
Beau stepped forward first. Short, messy hair, black as a void, hung over a strong brow. His thick, jet eyebrows curled upward like brushstrokes dipped in ink, a contrast to his pale, peach-toned skin. There was no stubble along his angular jaw, no softness in the face that gazed at her—only icy blue eyes set into a sculpted mask of thrill and cruelty. The black and yellow cuirass across his torso clanked as he adjusted it with one casual tug, glancing over at Vericka's trembling shoulders, her knees slightly bent, blood smeared across her left cheek and temple. Her heterochromatic eyes—one blue, one green—burned with resistance, but he saw it. The wear. The weight. The crack in her armor.
Beau's lips curled.
"La Dame du Sud... You are shaking. Your spirit bleeds before your flesh. The Demon Lord cannot hold on much longer."
He snapped his fingers.
"Now, mes amis… take the last pill."
Kiranna cackled as she pulled a vial from her belt. "Trixy said this would be fun."
Vericka's brows tightened. "A pill?"
All four of them held a small iridescent tablet between their fingers, glowing faintly like captured fireflies. When they swallowed in perfect synchrony, the world shifted, like Gaia herself had inhaled. The air turned heavier. The colors became too sharp. The battlefield groaned like it knew what was coming.
It started with sound. A low hum vibrated in the bones of the earth, the kind that made your teeth hurt if you clenched your jaw. Mana signatures exploded outward, no longer restrained. The sky above them bled with wild colors for a heartbeat as the magitons surrounding the Illuminati twisted like furious swarms. The ground cracked. The trees far behind Vericka's back line began to lean unnaturally, their roots rejecting the earth in protest. And then the pressure.
Vericka gasped as her lungs struggled to expand. But she couldn't think fast enough. Her vision wavered. Not from exhaustion, but from tears. Uninvited. Uncontrolled.
The first drops slid down her cheeks with heat, blurring the battlefield. Her eyes stung—no. Her soul stung. Yoona Haru's V-Skill was attacking her emotions directly. It was psychological warfare, weaving despair and sadness so thick it soaked her from the inside out.
At the same time, her arms moved. Against her will.
Her elbows dropped slightly, her fingers twitched open, and her stance slackened. She screamed within her mind to stop, but her body betrayed her. Blood—her blood—suddenly surged toward her arms as Kiranna's control took root. She felt her own iron-rich essence pulsing in reverse, answering to the Blood Witch's will.
And then came the hammer.
Abdul Vega blurred forward, his punch cloaked in jagged, earthen mana that crackled and pulsed like armor made from Gaia itself. Stone spikes lined the back of his fist and knuckles. The blow landed against Vericka's face with a sickening CRACK, the force ripping a sonic whip through the air. Her head snapped to the side. She lost her footing.
And Beau was already there.
With perfect timing, he lunged with a spear coated in Solar Mana—its surface glowed like burning gold, emitting a heat that warped the air around it. He drove it into her right shoulder with subsonic force, lifting her off her feet and carrying her across the battlefield like a human comet.
"YAAEEGGHHH!"
Her cry echoed across the dry field and into the hills beyond. The wind failed to carry it far. It was too heavy with pain.
She tumbled. A roll. Another. A jagged bounce. Her body stopped against a large, half-buried stone, legs splayed, arm useless, blood spurting from her shoulder like a cracked wineskin. The dirt around her drank it eagerly.
Her breaths came in ragged bursts. Her chest spasmed. Mana flickered around her like a guttering flame. Her thoughts were hazy and dread. The sounds of boots crunching toward her were distant, yet sharp, as if time couldn't decide if it was slowing or speeding up.
She couldn't die. Not like this. Not alone.
Not with her sons still out there.
Vericka choked on a sob, half-fury, half-fear. She had been strong all her life. Strong enough to fight dragons. Strong enough to free the Dark Elf Tribes. Strong enough to give birth to a soul like Jean M. Vinson.
But this? This was something else. She had no more ideas. No more plans. Only fire left in her soul. The type of fire that refused to flicker out.
Her hand twitched against the dirt.
It burned.
The blood soaking into the earth began to glow. Not with enemy magic. With hers. Not through her Mana Pool, but something deeper.
Desire.
A summoning glyph bloomed beneath her body like a lotus of crimson and white light. Glyphs in the language of gods and souls etched themselves in blood, and an anima of her Spirit Weapon—Lady Day—answered the call not through intent, but through need.
The glyph hissed and spun.
A radiant sphere of magick engulfed her in a heartbeat, bathing her in creamy-white light tinged with deep red. Magitons surged around the sphere like stars caught in orbit, and for one brief moment, the battlefield paused. Even the Illuminati hesitated.
Above her broken body, a golden sigil of a music note wrapped in chains blazed into view. The spiritons of Lady Day did not speak, but Vericka's V-Skill, [Creation Sage: Izanagi], did.
He called for an emergency spirit sealing.
She was becoming the anima. Not just the wielder of a Spirit Weapon... but the weapon itself.
Her form—her soul—began to transform into a Guardian Armament, transcending her limits as an M-Cee. Pain twisted through her muscles. Her skin cracked with glowing light. And yet, her face relaxed. Because she had chosen this. For them.
For Xiro. For Steez. For the clan.
Her final thoughts as Vericka were not fear or regret.
They were of love.
[End of Chapter]
[1] April on Earth.