The six masked figures had closed in. Four drew their weapons, charging him, while the remaining two raised their hands skyward, murmuring incantations.
"Spellcasters." Valroth narrowed his eyes. He had little time. With a powerful beat of his wings, he propelled himself forward, meeting one of the warriors head-on. His blade slashed downward—but instead of striking, he released it. The man raised his axe to block, unaware that Valroth had already moved behind him.
A single hand clamped onto his throat.
"Kill your comrades," Valroth whispered. The warrior's eyes widened before going blank. Without hesitation, he turned, raising his axe against his own allies.
A deafening explosion echoed in the distance.
Valroth's eyes narrowed.
There was a seventh enemy.
Valroth clenched his sword tighter. The seventh adversary had rendered his control magic useless. That meant he had to rely solely on his blade, his own strength, to carve his way out of this carefully laid ambush.
One enemy wielding twin blades flanked him from the front, while another, brandishing an axe, closed in from behind. In an instant, Valroth propelled himself into the air, narrowly avoiding their lethal strikes. His left hand clenched into a fist over his chest as he murmured an incantation. Yet before his spell could take effect, a whip lashed out, coiling around his ankle three, four times, yanking him downward.
As Valroth was dragged toward the whip's wielder, the woman raised her free hand. A surge of violet energy exploded from her palm, hurtling toward his vulnerable form. Yet Valroth did not react—his left fist remained pressed against his chest, his lips moving soundlessly. He fell, seemingly helpless, as the woman behind the mask rejoiced in what she believed to be an easy victory.
A deep, guttural roar split the air. From Valroth's loosened fist, twin-headed blue flames erupted, devouring both the woman and her whip in an instant. Not even ashes remained. The fire did not dissipate—it clung to the swirling desert sands, igniting them into a sea of burning blue stars. Carried by the wind, the embers scattered in all directions, turning the battlefield into an inferno.
One tiny flame landed on the cloak of an Asmodeus warrior. He barely glanced at it—only for the flicker to swell into a raging blaze, consuming him entirely before he could react. His body disintegrated into nothing but glowing embers, which in turn drifted away, feeding the ever-growing firestorm.
Explosions of flame erupted across the battlefield, sending the remaining enemies into a panicked retreat. Valroth did not remain to watch. He knew his objective had been met. Even before the dust settled, two more of his foes had already perished in the inferno.
He moved. In a blur, he appeared behind a spellcaster. His sword thrust forward, aimed directly at her back. But just as his blade was about to pierce her chest, she slammed her hands downward. A pulse of energy spread outward, and an eerie violet glow shimmered into existence, forming a protective aura around the remaining three warriors. The blue flames ricocheted harmlessly off this barrier, unable to reach them.
Then, lightning struck.
A bolt of pure energy crashed into Valroth, sending him sprawling. His body convulsed violently. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground.
A shadow descended.
She was the seventh.
The only one among them with wings, she glided down from above with effortless grace, her translucent, butterfly-like wings catching the dim light. Yet despite her ethereal beauty, the violet mask she wore told a different story. It concealed her entire face, sharp, horn-like protrusions curling upward at its edges. Behind it, her gaze burned with something unreadable—something almost demonic.
She was a demon.
Valroth struggled, but his body refused to obey. Though his shattered shoulder had already healed, numbness spread from the point of impact, paralyzing him further with every passing breath. He could feel it—his body was out of control, his power slipping away. And then, the second spellcaster moved.
The desert floor trembled. From beneath the sands, hundreds of spiders emerged, each no larger than a fingernail. They swarmed toward Valroth, skittering across his body, burrowing into his ears, his mouth, his eyes. Their needle-thin legs pierced his skin, carving through his flesh before his regeneration could even begin to take effect. Once inside, they feasted—draining him of magic, devouring his strength from the inside out.
He knew he was finished.
With the last of his will, he sent one final command to Aeris. Yet he wasn't sure if she would receive it.
His body grew weaker. The pain never ceased—it only deepened, writhing through him as he lay motionless in the sand. Above him, the demon-faced angel loomed, looking down at him with something disturbingly close to pity.
"Valroth," she murmured. "By Lord Lucifer's decree, I take you prisoner. He will see to your suffering personally."
She landed beside him, watching him with those unreadable eyes. A flicker of something—regret?—flashed behind the mask, but it was gone in an instant.
"Take him," she commanded, her voice steady. The axe-wielding warrior stepped forward.
Then, with a sickening squelch, a blood-soaked spearhead burst through her chest.
A long spear had impaled her from behind.