The air inside the cathedral office was thick with solemnity. Gold-trimmed tapestries swayed lightly against the high stone walls, the sigil of the blazing sun catching glints of afternoon light. Despite the sanctity of the place, the atmosphere remained heavy, scarred by the weight of what had transpired.
Nivlek stood with arms folded behind his back, still clad in uniform lightly dusted with ash. Beside him, Emory remained silent, his posture composed, if weary.
Across the room, High-Ranking Deacon Seraphon Greaves sat behind the desk, flanked by Major Claive and Lieutenant Fenien. The demigod's braided hair had been tied back hastily, and the sunlight crest on his cuirass bore new scratches.
"Mesrin paid a steep price," Seraphon began, his voice low. "Even with your timely intervention, General, we couldn't shield the city in full. Casualties among the civilian population are… substantial."
Nivlek nodded slightly, expression unreadable.
"The Church will be holding a mourning event in the city square tomorrow," Seraphon continued. "Rites, processions, hymns… a small gesture for the families left behind."
He exhaled. "I've already informed the Council of Cardinals in Trier. Their response came swiftly, as Saint Viève will be watching over the region for the foreseeable future."
Nivlek's gaze sharpened.
"I spoke with Viève myself. I've already filled in what she needs to know."
At that, Seraphon inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Beside Nivlek, Emory stepped forward and added grimly,
"Our outpost was raided during the siege. Most of the Sealed Artifacts we acquired across the Southern Continent have been stolen. We lost three members of the Recon Unit as well."
A brief silence followed.
Nivlek closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath."Understood." His tone held no theatrics. Just weariness and resolution.
Claive and Fenien then stepped forward.
"General," Claive said, bowing slightly. "Your actions during the siege were decisive. We'd all be ash without them." Fenien nodded, adding, "We've received orders. Both of us are to remain stationed in Mesrin going forward. The Church and Army are doubling security and scrutiny in the region after the retaliation."
Nivlek returned the nod. "Good. It's the right move. The Sect won't risk another strike so easily if they know the region is under heavy gazes."
His gaze swept over the room, the flicker of fire in his eyes not from any spell, but from resolve.
"As for me and mine—we'll depart come morning."
Seraphon blinked. "You could stay here, General. The Cathedral is a sanctified ground. Even the most arrogant cultists know better than to challenge the Sun's wrath here."
"I'm grateful," Nivlek said sincerely. "But this isn't just about security. My presence here only invites further attacks. If we move, we draw out the rats… and spare this city more bloodshed."
Seraphon hesitated a second, then gave a slow nod. "Very well."
Nivlek took a half-step back, then gave a crisp nod to all present.
"Then that settles it. To each of you, your bravery, your judgment, and your ferocity in battle… I am proud to have fought beside you." His voice deepened. "Should darkness ever return, summon me in my name. I will come."
Seraphon, Claive, and Fenien saluted in unison, their voices firm:
"We fight under the eternal radiance of the Sun and in the judgement of the General of War!"
The meeting concluded. Chairs scraped lightly against stone as each officer departed in turn, the golden light catching their silhouettes as they passed through the cathedral's tall doorway.
…
Outside, as Nivlek and Emory made their way through the arched halls back to their temporary quarters, the fading sun cast long shadows through the stained-glass windows.
Emory spoke quietly, just enough for Nivlek to hear:
"Sir. We retrieved the two remaining artifacts the Catastrophe left behind."
Nivlek didn't stop walking, but his expression shifted just slightly.
"Good," he muttered, a grim satisfaction curling at the edge of his voice. "At least some things still burn in our favor."
They disappeared down the corridor, swallowed by gold and shadow.
…
The dim hallway gave way to the heavier, iron-reinforced doors of the lower quarters, hidden deep within the cathedral's fortified wing.
Nivlek stepped through calmly.
Inside, the cell was still cold and dark, but clean. A dull, reddish glow from a lantern flickered across the walls. Priscilla sat low against the far stone wall, arms and legs shackled in cuffs. Her long violet hair clung messily to her face, but her sharp eyes found him instantly.
She quirked a dry smirk. "Back to gloat, General? Or did you forget how to knock?"
Nivlek didn't stop walking, nor did he respond at first. He stopped just short of the cell bars, with "His" arms folded.
"Glad to see you've adjusted to the accommodations," he said coolly. "Though I do hope you're not too comfortable. We'll be leaving soon."
That earned a raised brow from her. "Leaving, hm? You always had that way of dragging people around. Figures."
Her tone turned flat as she looked up at him.
"I've had plenty of time to think, in case that was your goal. The clarity didn't last." She tapped a finger against her temple, chains rattling faintly.
"My mind's been slipping again… memories are scattered. Most of what I recall is the Demoness of Gold." Her voice grew quieter. "Can't even say I remember striking her. Just flashes."
She tilted her head, then gave him a sidelong glance, a sardonic smirk curling back. "So. You used me as bait."
Nivlek sighed faintly. The kind reserved for unpleasant truths.
"When I arranged for your mental treatment, I found more than instability. Beneath all the madness, buried in fragments... were your true feelings toward the Sect."
He met her gaze fully now. "You hated them. Not just mere annoyance, but unresolved hate. Hence, I saw opportunity."
Priscilla's eyes narrowed. "That was not enough to make me switch sides."
"No," he admitted. "But enough for a Psychological Cue. One that would bring it to the surface, push you to act on it when it mattered."
She barked a bitter laugh.
"Right. Push me over the edge and force a betrayal. You wanted me to burn my bridges so I had nowhere to crawl back to."
Nivlek didn't flinch. But a smirk crept across his features.
"Clever girl. Demons really are sharp when they're not clawing their own minds apart."
Priscilla's smile shattered into fury.
"You sanctimonious bastard—!"
The chains strained as she surged forward, veins pulsing with fury, but the curses dragged her back like invisible hands.
"You think you can puppeteer me into loyalty?! Is that your grand plan? Whip me into submission and call it virtue?"
Nivlek's eyes narrowed. His tone cooled. "I told you from the start. I don't trust you."
He let the silence hang for a moment. "But now you have something to prove."
Priscilla sneered, her voice trembling with rage. "How the hell am I supposed to trust you now?"
Nivlek gave a faint shrug. "That's the impasse, isn't it?"
He took a step back. "You're still my prisoner. Bound by the Shackled Marionette's curse. You can't leave, you can't channel your full power, and you can't maintain your mind for long without help."
He turned halfway toward the exit. "I'm not opposed to keep treating you and let you keep a clear head. But with everything pressing down on us… I'll leave the choice to you."
He paused. "Stay feral. Or stay functional."
The door creaked open.
Behind him, Priscilla's voice rose in a furious stream of curses, her voice echoing against stone.
He didn't look back.
…
Back in his quarters, the door shut with a click behind him.
Nivlek took off his uniform and stayed with a comfortable white shirt on. With practiced motion, he poured himself a glass of wine, the liquid deep and still. He took a long sip, eyes fixed on nothing.
Then he scoffed.
"Twelve hours."
This was the price and backlash of using the Judgemental Scales. Three of his Beyonder Abilities would be deprived of him for 12 hours. Nivlek felt rather unarmed at the moment because of this.
Still, the cost wasn't without gain.
His mind turned towards the two artifacts "He" gained from the Catastrophe's death.
A Death Pathway Sequence 3 Ferryman artifact and a Twilight Giant Sequence 3 Silver Knight artifact.
And both now in his hands.
Alistair's advancement, Nivlek lampooned, almost as a reminder. The characteristics are here… Now it's time to prepare for the ritual and to confirm his potion digestion.
He made a mental note to initiate the evaluations within the week. Alistair had proven reliable, but moving to Sequence 3 was no trivial affair.
As for the others… His thoughts shifted to the Shackled Marionette and to the artifacts obtained from Azan Port. That Pallbearer Artifact was useful against the Raid and even more on healing the injured from the siege, including the demigods. For the Blatherer Artifact, it's fortunate it wasn't stolen, having been crucial to give time for the remaining members of the Recon Unit to survive before Emory and Alistair came to their rescue.
He allowed himself a moment of quiet. Then sighed.
The Demoness Sect's retaliation had proven that even a fortified outpost wasn't untouchable.
And if the Sect had moved… the others would follow.
They'll all want to try, he lampooned. While they think the General is... wounded.
Remaining in Mesrin under Church scrutiny had its advantages… He had other obligations. There are still much I need to prepare, specially for the Heist on Vermonda and Medici with Jack.
And whatever else that slippery bastard had written into his mad little schedule.
Nivlek clicked his tongue and leaned back, eyes heavy with fatigue. "Tch… that damned fool's probably laughing himself to sleep."
He drained the rest of his glass in a single pull. "Next time, I'm charging interest."
…
Within the winding gloom of the Catacombs, Lumian and Hela moved past the still form of the tomb administrator, a withered, undead-looking man seated motionless on a broken stone bench. His skin hung loosely over his bones, and the mist around him curled like smoke around the dead.
They said nothing.
As they continued deeper, the air thickened. Hela abruptly gave Lumian a sharp tug and gestured for him to release her arm.
She took another swig from the metal flask hidden beneath her cloak. The sound of liquid sloshing echoed faintly before being swallowed by the fog.
Lumian frowned. Something stirred in him, subtle at first, like a thread tugging loose.
An unsettling chill crept from within his chest, seizing his breath and choking off warmth. He felt hollow, as if his emotions were being drained out of him, leaving behind only instinct and disquiet. Yet, beneath that numbness, something else pulsed violently, maddening. A visceral urge to snap a neck, tear into flesh, act without restraint. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, growing stronger the deeper they went.
He blinked and looked toward Hela. She seemed paler now. The veins at her temple were subtly darkening. Her lips had thinned, and her grip on the flask had grown tight.
"You alright?" he asked, voice low.
"I'm fine," she replied curtly, wiping her mouth. "The preparations are holding. I've got thirty minutes, maybe."
They pressed on, the silence between them turning heavier.
A short while later, they came upon a wall of mist, grayish-white and dense, curling gently as though it breathed. Lumian halted.
His eyes narrowed. He recognized it.
It was the same fog that had blanketed Cordu, the same veil that had shrouded its ruins when he'd invoked boons… when the world had turned inside out.
He stepped forward cautiously. The fog remained unmoving, still, oppressive.
Then a warmth bloomed at his chest.
He glanced down.
Mr. Fool's seal was shining faintly beneath his shirt.
He extended his right hand toward the mist, and the fog parted.
He turned to Hela. "Hold on."
She gripped his arm again, and together, they stepped through the veil.
As Lumian and Hela stepped past the veil of grayish-white fog, the space around them shifted.
What lay ahead was no illusion. The Samaritan Women's Spring stretched before them, a pond-sized body of pale-white water encircled by dark, decaying soil. Long strands of wet, black hair floated like seaweed atop its surface. Bone fragments littered the ground, and vague figures writhed silently within the water's depths.
A woman stood at the edge of the spring. Cloaked in white, her face was corpse-pale, translucent, and cold. Her gaze was blank dead, but watching.
Without warning, the pale water receded violently, spiraling into a pitch-black abyss at the center. Then, just as suddenly, it surged back, darker than before and murkier, stained with strange, indescribable colors. A wave of madness washed over them. Lumian staggered, with his thoughts fraying. He could feel his memories loosening at the edges, and emotions blurring. Something inside him howled to flee, while something else longed to destroy.
He reached for the canister at his side, ready to collect the water, but instead touched something solid and rough.
A stone.
He opened his hand. It was the Earth Blood ore.
The very ore he had lost earlier. Somehow, it had returned to him.
And the moment it appeared, the spring responded.
A tremor split the ground as a colossal figure rose from the dark waters, burning with invisible fire. Its armor was rusted and soaked in blood, its face sculpted and decayed, iron-black eyes glowing with deep crimson. Blood-red hair draped down its back, and its body oozed rust and pus.
Around it, other forms emerged, grotesque and repulsively. A skeletal angel with iron feathers, a maggot-riddled husk, a crowned corpse. They stirred in the water like corpses disturbed in their slumber.
The air thickened with the stench of rust and death. Pale, decaying hands broke through the surface, reaching for Lumian. Tendrils of living hair lashed out, wrapping around his legs. His heart pounded. His skin felt frozen, then seared. He took out the Flog boxing gloves from his bag, fitting them onto his hands.
He tried to invoke The Fool's name. "The Fool who doesn't belong to this era…". However, the surroundings were more fierce than he had anticipated. He took out his bluish-black cane topped with a starlight-glimmering gems, and tried to use it to teleport and flee. But he couldn't sense the Spirit World, its connection had been cut here!
Beside him, Hela raised her black diamond ring. Darkness spread like a curtain, briefly calming the approaching figures. Lumian then turned and burned with fury, sending out plumes of fire to hold the creatures back.
But it wasn't enough.
Dragged ever closer to the spring, Lumian gritted his teeth and reached for his dagger, prepared to cut off his own corrupted hand.
Before he could, something else moved in the spring.
A cracked, pale-white hand emerged from the abyss, its fingers thin, oozing yellow pus and blood. It grabbed the fiery giant's leg, yanking it backward into the dark. Despite the giant's howls and resistance, it was slowly pulled back down, its army collapsing with it.
Just before it vanished, the figure locked eyes with Lumian.
Two rust-red marks shot from its eyes and slammed into Lumian's palm, searing through his glove. His hand blazed with pain, as if the ore itself had fused into his flesh.
The water fell still again and the terror receded.
Lumian and Hela moved quickly. This was their only chance.
Avoiding the pond's edge, they knelt by the damp soil, where dark droplets seeped up, thicker and more tangible than the pale-white water. These were what they had come for.
As Lumian filled his canister, he noticed Hela had already taken out two more golden bottles, each carved with intricate symbols. He narrowed his eyes. She is taking more water than I expected… Why would she possibly need that amount of water?
However, Lumian didn't have the time nor opportunity to ask her, as he was running against the clock filling up his own canister.
Instead, she simply said, "This is the true Samaritan Women's Spring Water. The pale-white water is too dangerous to touch right now. Contact with it means instant death, wandering forever near the spring or its source. Our containers are no exception"
He gave a quiet grunt in reply and returned to gathering the water, wary of the still spring behind them.
But time was short.
The spring trembled again. The grotesque figures were returning.
Lumian sealed his canister. "Hela, we need to go-"
Before he could finish, a jolt of force struck him. He staggered back, groaning in pain.
Hela responded in an instant. From under her dress, she retrieved a palm-sized notebook with a green cover, leather-bound, its edges aged and curling. She flipped it open with a snap and ran her fingers across a brown page.
A lightning storm erupted overhead, a sudden, blistering tear through the dim air. The first bolt came down like a judgment, searing white and thunderously loud, striking the ground just beyond the spring's edge. The very air split, light exploding across the cave in violent flashes. Thunder followed like war drums, echoing off the rock walls and shaking the slope beneath them. Lumian squinted against the blinding brilliance as a second bolt came crashing down, ripping through one of the spectral figures as they tried to approach him. Another strike followed, then another, weaving a web of divine rage across the sky above the spring. Each impact slowed the advance of the dead, halting their climb with scorched limbs and stuttering movements.
Hela's fingers danced to the next brown parchment without hesitation. As she swept her hand across it, the very air bent around them. A howling hurricane roared to life from the ground up, its winds like living blades. Dust, hair, bone fragments, and even some of the malformed hands clawing toward the shore were swept up and thrown backward. The pale-white water rippled and then recoiled, waves pulled away from the banks like a tide reversing. Howls echoed from within the spring, frustrated, monstrous cries, cut off by the roar of the storm. Debris flew in every direction, slamming into the rocks and trees beyond. Even Lumian had to brace himself against the gale, shielding his face with a forearm as Hela pressed down on the notebook, keeping it steady.
She slid her finger along the parchment with precision towards a third brown page, and the moment she did, the air changed again.
From the brown paper, a radiant angelic figure took form. Its wings were illusory, stretching wide as it descended gently toward Lumian. His breath caught as the figure drew close. Its arms wrapped around him in a weightless embrace, pulling him into stillness. In that instant, the shrieking voices faded. The pain in his hand dulled. The madness clouding his mind pulled back like a curtain lifted from his thoughts.
He felt warmth. The angel's presence soothed the trembling in his legs and the chaos in his chest.
Lumian gasped sharply, as if he'd been drowning just moments before.
Shocked by the notebook's power, Lumian wasted no more time. He bolted. Behind him, Hela sealed her final bottle, pricked her finger, and smeared blood across the notebook's page, then ran after him.
The spring roared behind them. The grayish-white fog churned and twisted. The boundary loomed ahead.
Together, they sprinted toward the edge of the nightmare.
They broke through the fog in a single breath, and the world shifted.
The cold vanished. Their thoughts steadied. The influence of the spring was gone.
Lumian stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. His hand still burned. The Earth Blood ore was gone, but its presence lingered in the rust-red marks now etched in his flesh.
He looked down at his palm, grimacing.
"…Monette," he muttered. "That bastard set this up."
Whether it was a warning, a joke, or an invitation, Lumian didn't know. But the damage had been done.
And whatever lived beneath that spring had seen him.
…
The scorching sunlight bathed the entrance of Place du Purgatoire's catacombs in gold. Lumian staggered a step forward, blinking as the shadows peeled away. The heavy cold in his chest, that slow rot in his thoughts, began to lift, like frost thawing under spring sun. He exhaled, as if emerging from a crypt into the world of the living.
Beside him, Hela followed in silence. Her skin remained deathly pale, tinged with a faint purplish-red hue. The livor mortis still lingered, evidence that her recovery was far from complete.
Lumian gave a crooked grin, his boots crunching against the cobblestones at the square's edge. "Not a proper fight," he muttered. "But that's the closest I've ever come to dying."
Hela responded flatly, brushing dust from her cloak. "Those capable of leaving behind a mark in the Samaritan Women's Spring… were once mighty beings. It was not a battle you were meant to win."
Lumian turned toward her as they walked. "What's the spring really for? You can't actually use it to forget the past and pain, can you?"
Hela shook her head. "Not in that way. For me, it's a substitute. A rare element, one that can replace the core of a ritual… or become one."
Lumian frowned faintly. "Another ritual, huh?"
She didn't elaborate, and he didn't press. He knew better than to pry into matters soaked in mysticism and silence.
Still, he wasn't done. His amber gaze flicked toward her again, more curious this time.
"That notebook of yours" he gestured vaguely toward her dress, "I haven't seen anything like it. That power… pages of lightning, hurricanes, and angels?"
Hela looked at him, then replied in her usual measured cadence. "A Sealed Artifact corresponding to the Apprentice Pathway."
Just like my 'Sightseeing Cane' then. Lumian tought.
And then, he heard a low, amused laugh, reverberating within the walls of his mind like a bell tolling in a cathedral.
He stilled, narrowing his eyes as his expression blanked for a heartbeat.
"…I see," he muttered to no one in particular, then nodded faintly to Hela. "Good to know."
She said nothing. With one final glance, Lumian stepped toward the street, heading for the public carriage stop, his cane tapping softly against the stone.
He didn't look back.
…
Moments later, alone beneath the shadow of an old statue, Lumian paused. His grip tightened on his bluish-black cane, topped with a gem that shimmered faintly under the sun, like distant stars caught in glass.
"Why'd you laugh?" he asked in a quiet, cold voice. "That wasn't a coincidence."
Termiboros answered immediately, in a voice like thunder echoing across eternity.
Beware. Eyes that see everything may yet be blind… Do not mistake the false for the truth.
Cryptic, as always. Lumian scowled. "More riddles?"
But Termiboros offered nothing else. Only silence, and a lingering sense of cold mirth.
Lumian sighed through his nose, the weight of confusion settling behind his eyes. "Fine. I'll figure it out."
He tapped his cane once and resumed walking.
…
Elsewhere in the city, Hela walked alone through a narrow side street, blending into the crowd like smoke.
As she reached a quieter alley near her apartment, she slipped a hand beneath her dress, searching for the notebook.
Her fingers found nothing.
She froze. It was gone.
Hela blinked once, her expression unreadable. She breathed in slowly, and then exhaled.
Without another thought, she continued walking. Whatever it was… it had vanished with intent.
A few minutes later, she entered a modest, shadow-draped flat. The curtains were drawn, the floor clean, the walls bare save for a black cloth pinned above a small altar.
With practiced precision, she knelt before it, placing the two golden bottles onto the stone surface. She then brought out her own metal canister, still damp from the soil near the spring.
Cradling it close, she muttered with solemn reverence:
"The Evernight Goddess that stands higher than the Cosmos…"