Southern Continent Eastern Balam Region, Misren
The warm air of Misren clung to the skin like a second layer, thick with smoke and sweat. In the shadowed outskirts of the market ring, hidden among courtyards and towering thatch buildings, stood The Red Palm, part brothel, part gambling hall.
Inside, candlelight flickered across the dusky walls as silk-clad dancers swayed between tables. Patrons, foreign soldiers, local magnates, masked strangers, murmured and drank while music hummed from a hidden stringed instrument.
A dark-skinned man in ocean-blue robes entered casually, his dreadlocked hair tied with copper bands, and a carved shell pendant hung from his neck. He moved like water, slow, deliberate, weaving through laughter and perfume with practiced ease.
To the untrained eye, he was just another foreign merchant flushed with money and the thrill of southern nights. But behind the smile was a mind like a net cast wide, listening.
He ordered like a local, loud and half-drunk in tone. In moments, his deliberately boisterous voice rose, a joke here, a rebuke there, enough to draw attention.
And the attention soon arrived.
She was tall, dark-skinned with kohl-lined eyes and golden earrings. A velvet sash draped around her hips. Her smile was painted and practiced, but something behind her gaze shimmered with dangerous playfulness.
She leaned down, lips brushing his ear. "Care for something less… public, handsome?"
The man grinned. "Only if the room's as beautiful as the woman."
He let a few big notes flash from his sleeve, enough to prove he wasn't bluffing.
She laughed, sultry and low, and led him through a beaded curtain and up a spiral stair.
In the private room, incense burned slowly and sweetly. Cushions scattered across the floor. She poured wine, spoke softly, flirted just enough to keep him invested.
But before things could escalate, the door creaked open.
A new figure stepped in.
Broad-shouldered. Her braids streaked with silver, with cold eyes and calculating beneath a loose crimson robe. The Matron of the house.
The air shifted.
"Out," the Matron said simply, her voice like stone dragged over the floor.
The younger woman bowed quickly and obeyed without complaint, shooting the Songster one last teasing glance before leaving.
He sat up straighter.
The Matron closed the door behind her and smiled. The door shut behind her with a soft click.
The Matron, Priscilla, stood there in heels that didn't make a sound, her dark violet silk gown hugging her form like a whisper of night. Her beauty was surreal, ageless. Dark hair that fell like ink, skin like ivory tinged in rose, and eyes, eyes that shimmered like amethysts caught in starlight, reflecting something twisted behind their allure. A smile played on her lips, poised between sensuality and violence.
"You like playing games, little fish?" she purred, hips swaying as she moved toward the man lounging lazily on the cushion-strewn bed. "I adore that in a man. Especially one who thinks he's hunting…"
She paused inches away, fingers trailing the rim of his collar, then jerked his chin upward with two sharp nails, gaze sharpening. "...when really, he's the prey."
But her taunts were cut short.
A divine column of blazing holy light tore through the ceiling, bathing the room in radiance. Priscilla's instincts flared and she twisted, trying to dodge the attack.
But the light struck first.
She shrieked as divine light scorched her skin, halting her movement mid-air. Her limbs locked under its sheer weight. Smoke curled from her shoulders as she clawed at the burn, eyes wide with pain and rage.
From within the pillar, a figure stepped forth calm, composed.
The Justice Mentor, Emory Vale!
Behind his back, a brilliant halo of golden light blazed into existence, like a radiant sun suspended in the shadows of the room. Its rays spilled outward, cutting through the smoke and dimness, banishing every shadow.
The moment it touched her skin, Priscilla winced. Her powers began to falter under its glow, with her senses dimming.
"You filthy clerical parasite, " she spat, voice cracking as invisible threads surged from her hands in a snare. They whipped around the man, dozens strong, latching to walls and air alike before snapping inward to shred him.
But before they could reach him, light flared once more.
An armor of brilliant, polished llight formed around the man in an instant. The Threads struck it and burned.
They hissed and recoiled, some disintegrating entirely under the heat of purification. The armor held firm.
Priscilla's eyes widened, just as the man raised his hand.
His finger glowed with a sharp, golden spark as he pointed directly at her.
"Demoness of the Purple," he declared, his voice firm, unshaking. "By the light of Justice, your sins are judged."
A wave pulsed from his gesture, a clear justice-filled judgement
Suddenly, Priscilla's body faltered, her abilities weakening even more under the overwhelming light that met her eyes.
She snarled, vanishing into invisibility, her form slipping around the room like a flicker of smoke.
But her gaze had already locked onto her escape: the full-length mirror behind the bed.
She lunged, only to skid to a halt.
The mirror was shattered. Glass shards littered the floor like slivers of silvered moonlight. And standing beside them was the man from earlier. His eyes met hers. He had broken it.
"Damn you!" she shrieked. Her voice cracked with fury, unleashing a curse. "Die, you useless mind-boggling fish!"
A tidal wave of curses surged toward him. He staggered, eyes fluttering, breath hitching as invisible claws gripped his body, illusory scales appearing on his skin.
But the holy light flared again.
Emory raised his hand, igniting the room whole. Unshadowed Domain! It was as if a miniature sun erupted inside the room.
The curses on the man melted away instantly. Priscilla recoiled, her skin blistering. "No, NO!"
Emory advanced, blade drawn, a sword of light, edges gleaming like molten silver.
Priscilla didn't hesitate. She roared and conjured her own weapon, a sword made of lava, pulsating with demonic heat and rimmed with flames blacker than night.
They clashed.
Steel rang against the molten blade. Light met shadow.
They spun across the room, flashes of fire and holy brilliance tearing through furniture, sheets igniting, walls scorched. Priscilla snarled, fangs bared, moving like a dancer of chaos.
She feinted, then drove her palm forward,
Boom!
A sulfurous fireball exploded point-blank into Emory's chest. He flew backward, light shield dimming under the force as he crashed into the far wall.
She didn't wait.
With no mirrors left and no time to spare, she flung a final curse,
"SLOW!"
The room warped again. Emory and the Songster faltered, caught mid-movement, with their bodys turning sluggish under the curse.
Using this opportunity, Priscilla bolted out the window in a blur of silk, light, and shadow, vanishing into the smoke-filled night.
Smoke curled in her wake, the air still reeking of scorched perfume and divine fire. As Priscilla dove from the shattered window, midair, gown flaring behind her, her eyes widened.
Her body screamed.
Her danger premonition rang loudly, alerting her of danger as she noted the streets filled with deep fog
"Already here?!" she spat, eyes wild as she weaved through the shadows. "But he was across the damn continent!" Her breath hitched in fury.
But in the very next heartbeat as she hit the groung, her danger premonition stilled.
No, they were smothered.
However, a streak of dusk lunged toward Priscilla, faster than a blink. She met it head-on.
With a growl, she raised her hand, and a sword of molten lava, rimmed in black demon-flames, materialized in her grip. The blade pulsing with dark rhythms, like a heartbeat made of ash.
Clang!
The strike clashed against her blade, sparks and embers exploding outward. She slid back half a step, the holy light force pressing hard against her defenses.
The Justice Halo gnawed at her strength. Her corrupted powers crackled unevenly; her body felt heavier, weighed down by judgment itself.
"Tch..." Priscilla spat, retreating a few paces. "Your damned light again…"
She twisted and sprinted toward a narrow gap between collapsed walls, her planned escape. But before she could cross the threshold,
Fwoooosh!
A spear of divine light soared across the clearing and slammed into the gap, detonating in a radiant blaze. A curtain of fire erupted behind it, licking the archway and forming a crackling barrier of flames that closed off her only exit.
Priscilla snarled and skidded to a halt.
Turning sharply, she took them in.
The Demon Hunter Alistair, crouched with blood seeping down one leg, his twilight blades gleaming, both hands firm on their hilts.
The Justice Mentor, now fully armored in a radiant suit of light-forged armr, the Justice Halo glowing with sharpened brilliance like the sun rising over a battlefield.
They were ready. United.
And she had had enough.
A scream tore from her throat as black-purple flames erupted around her form, consuming her in a swirl of darkness and seduction. Her body twisted, stretched, her limbs lengthened, her skin hardened into obsidian. Six long snakes slithered from her back like animate whips, and her eyes turned full violet, burning with madness.
Her Devil Form, a fusion of Demoness charm and infernal wrath, stood tall, molten sword in hand.
"Let's see how long you last."
She lunged forward with a shriek.
The demon hunter moved first, he parried her strike with twin crescent blades, deflecting the molten edge and countering with a slash of radiant dawnlight, forcing her to pivot mid-attack. His next strike brought down a long-bladed glaive, conjured mid-motion from pure dawnlight, the weapon crashing toward her like a falling sun.
Priscilla rolled aside, snarling, sulfur bursting from her hand as she hurled a fireball of molten plague in retaliation. The ball exploded just before hitting the ground, spewing petrifying mist in a wide arc that began to calcify the nearby stone and rot the wooden stalls, creating a zone of corruption that forced Alistair back.
Emory, unfazed, stepped directly into the cloud, his Holy Armor glowing brighter, burning away the plague in a hiss of steam.
He extended a hand, another spear of light hurled through the mist.
Priscilla spun, batting the spear aside with her sword. The blast still grazed her shoulder, scorching flesh and armor alike, but she used the force to pivot, launching herself directly at Alistair.
Her sword whistled through the air, cleaving with raw heat and malice. Alistair blocked the first, deflected the second, but the third he couldn't dodge. Her lava blade scraped across his armored shoulder, melting a portion of the Dawn plating as black smoke hissed into the air.
He grunted but retaliated with a sweeping dawnblade, forming a second weapon in his free hand, a hammer-like construct, swinging it toward her torso.
She intercepted it with her Threads, three of them catching the brunt, only for them to be severed immediately as his blade sang with purifying resistance, slicing through the constructs.
She reeled backward, her Threads writhing, and growled. "Persistent little toy soldier…"
Emory finally advanced.
With a sweep of his hand, he conjured six small swords of holy light, each one floating midair, He pointed.
They hurled forward, spiraling toward her.
Priscilla shrieked and exploded into black flames, weaving between them, dodging them a hair's breath.
In rage, she retaliated with her own sword, a high-arching strike filled with great force, clashing with Emory's shield. He buckled but didn't fall.
Alistair joined him again, sliding in from behind, dual blades in motion. The two fought in rhythmic coordination, exchanging roles fluidly, when one pressed, the other defended.
And Priscilla, despite her form and fury, began to slow.
Her breathing labored. Her Threads frayed. Each spell came with a price.
She slammed the butt of her blade into the ground, sulfur exploded outward, forcing both men to back away.
The ground around them began to pulse. Black veins of plague spread from her footsteps, corruption blooming like a diseased flower. Her aura oozed heat and venom, until Emory raised his hand again.
With a sudden burst, a miniature sun flared to life above his palm, his Unshadowed Domain.
Light exploded outward, washing the courtyard in purifying radiance. Shadows hissed and recoiled. The creeping plague across the floor withered like rot under bleach, retreating into nothingness.
Priscilla reeled, snarling through bared teeth. Her strength wavered, the pressure of the Justice Halo grinding deeper into her every movement.
She turned, flung a larger fireball, cloaked in mist and sulfur. It struck the floor between them and erupted into a deafening blast, throwing ash, stone, and steam into the air.
From within the chaos, her eyes flared violet.
"Slow."
The world buckled.
Alistair stumbled, his weapons dragging against stone. Emory blinked, his forward step hitching awkwardly mid-stride.
While they staggered briefly, Priscilla could compose herself briefly as she reeled her mind to find a way out of the situation.
Wait, actually, I can die here and revive within my hidden Mirror Self!
But in the next second as she tried to sense her Mirror Self, she was reminded why it was impossible. Oh right, this damned fog is disabling me from sensing anything outside it. i can't even die in peace!
Alistair lunged first after cleansing himself from the sluggishness, twilight swords spinning, each step laced with purposeful, elegant brutality. Priscilla ducked and twisted, parrying one blade with her molten sword, only for the second to carve into her upper arm.
She hissed, breaking into broken mirrors, only to reappear behind Emory. Her sword arced for his back.
But the Justice Mentor whirled with divine precision, blocking with a blazing tower shield conjured from pure light. He retaliated with three radiant spears, flung in rapid succession. One struck her hip, another clipped her shoulder. The third she deflected with a shout of fury.
"Rats in sunlight!" she spat. "You're nothing but obedient dogs!"
She dove again, shifting between mirrored substitutes, lashing out with plague mist, sulfur flares, and shrieking Threads. But the two men gave her no ground. Emory's defenses were impenetrable, and Alistair fought like a tidal surge, silent, relentless and calculated.
Until the moment came.
Alistair's sword blazed to life with a pale, divine brilliance as he struck it to the ground. He brought it down in an arcing sweep, and it didn't strike once.
It struck dozens of times, all in one breath. Radiant crescents spiraled outward in a storm of purifying destruction.
Priscilla cursed and activated Mirror Substitution. Shards of glass exploded outward, her form vanishing and reappearing again and again across the battlefield, buying herself time,
But the Hurricane tore through her projections.
Too fast. Too precise.Too sharp.
Her eyes widened.
Cull?!
The Weapon Master had embedded it into his strike. The ability to execute. No substitution could hold against that for long.
As the final mirrors burst in a rain of glittering shards, the real Priscilla emerged, wounded, bloodied, but standing. She threw herself to the side, avoiding the brunt of the final arc of light, but the edges of the storm caught her.
Burns spread across her devil-flesh. Her wings flickered. Her molten sword faltered for half a second, but she forced herself forward.
And then she lunged for Emory.
Her sword raised high, cloaked in obsidian lava and corrosive poison.
He raised his hand.
"God says it's effective!"
His blade ignited with a flare of judgmental radiance. The two forces met,
A detonation. White and black collided, the soundless scream of justice clashing with corruption.
The blast sent them both flying.
Priscilla skidded across the stone, coughing blood, her body twitching under the stress of the active Justice Halo and the relentless pressure of the Judgment of Justice cast on her.
She rose slowly, vision swimming.
And paused.
Steel, broad and jagged, stopped inches from her throat, a greatsword of galvanized metal, wreathed in azure-purple flames. Its heat was alien, filled with oppressive godhood.
Her gaze followed the blade upward.
To the man holding it.
Long bright red hair, tied loosely. A military coat streaked with ash. Eyes gleaming with mirth and certainty.
"Nivlek…" she breathed.
He smiled.
But there was no warmth.
"Ah, Demoness of Purple. I was hoping you'd last a bit longer," he said, his tone like velvet over broken glass. "Makes the game more fun this way."
His greatsword pressed forward, forcing her down a step.
"You look like hell, by the way."