The word barely left Edwin's mouth before a fist slammed into his gut.
It knocked the breath clean out of him. His body jerked forward, wheezing, eyes wide.
The second punch caught him across the jaw — fast, brutal, and precise. The dark-red glove flared for a split second, heat flashing like a coal exposed to air.
His vision swam.
Another hit came, low and sharp, right under the ribs. It didn't break anything… but it dropped him.
He hit the floor hard, folding at the knees, slumping sideways against a broken crate. No time to shout, no time to fight. The world just spun, breath shallow and ragged.
Above him, Impheil lowered his hand. The glow on the gloves faded, ember threads vanishing like smoke.
He adjusted his coat, calm as ever, and looked toward the rest of the warehouse.
Edwin slumped against the shattered crates, half-conscious, wheezing through split lips. The pain in his side bloomed sharp and deep — nerves still echoing the force of the blow. Whatever had hit him wasn't just strength; it had precision. Purpose.
Impheil crouched beside him, expression unreadable behind the glint of his glasses.
"No parasite this time," he murmured, almost to himself. "Would be a shame to waste the effort, only to have our watching friend peel it out later."
His eyes flicked toward the battlefield. The Overseer was still active — wounded, but far from done. With him in play, leaving marks was unwise.
Impheil crouched beside him, gloved fingers already working through his coat with practiced ease. No hesitation. He searched every inner seam, every lined pocket, stripping out charms, contracts, trinkets, a folded veil token — anything small and valuable enough to matter. He paused, pulling free a cipher shard tucked into a hidden fold.
Edwin stirred faintly, trying to mumble something. Impheil gave him a light tap to the temple with the back of his hand. The man went still.
"You won't miss these," he said softly.
He let his body lean back against the crates.
Then, without another glance, Impheil rose and slipped away into the smoke and shadow, keeping low as the sounds of battle rolled around the warehouse. His target was somewhere ahead.
The air inside the warehouse cracked.
The Overseer moved to stabilize himself, body briefly listing under the pressure of the Mirror's distortions. With a sharp gesture, he used the artifact—black flames burst outward in a wide arc, accompanied by a flurry of jagged frost and slicing threads. The air cracked as the floor beneath them shimmered with cracks of ice.
Lucienne braced as the assault came, frost and threads tearing through the air like a storm. But before it reached her, the ground to her left opened with a dull thud — Greswin vanished beneath the stone, his cloak folding into the earth. The Spirit tethered within his tooth ferried him through the soil.
Lucienne, still above, held her ground. Her Sword of Dawn flared. In one motion, she shattered it. Light erupted from the fragments, swirling around her like a hurricane. It ignited, tearing forward through the frost and silk-like threads, burning them away with streaks of amber light.
As she moved forward within the radiant storm, dark green symbols gleamed into being within her pupils. Her gaze locked onto the Overseer as her sword reformed mid-step, flickering into a solid blade once more.
As she prepared to lunge, she stumbled.
A fit of coughing seized her and her grip faltered.
Lucienne staggered back a step, her eyes widening. The air around her rippled with a subtle shimmer — tainted with something thick. Her breath catching something. Poisonous pathogens hidden in the frost.
Across the space, the Overseer's figure straightened slightly. He had sensed her hesitation. His eyes narrowed, locking onto her.
His eyes shimmered once with a tint of gray. After discerning her crimes, he exclaimed.
"I judge you guilty of attempted murder"
The words seared through the air — then through her.
Lucienne's body seized, her steps slowing, limbs trembling under the weight of judgment. Light crackled along her blade—then her Sword of Dawn exploded in her grasp, fragments of radiant steel tearing across her side. She staggered, catching her breath, the backlash sharp but not crippling.
And that was when Greswin returned.
He emerged behind the Overseer, the floor bubbling upward like churned tar. His blade came in low — precise. But it wasn't just a strike.
His Spirit Body surged.
In that moment, he agitated the Overseer's Spirit Body!.
He had seen it, a latent instability within the Overseer. Something within his mind and soul, some lingering corruption
And so he struck, blade gleaming in the fractured light, spirit surging forward.
The Overseer convulsed mid-step — not from a blow, but from within. Greswin's soul agitation tore at the already fractured foundation of his mind and Spirit Body, deepening the instability. For a breath, his posture twisted unnaturally, shoulders jerking as if his own limbs resisted his commands.
In that moment of lost control, the artifact pulsed violently.
A surge of frost exploded outward, an uncontrolled discharge of power lashing the area. Greswin was forced to break his momentum, retreating swiftly with a burst of shadowed motion to avoid the full force. Ice scraped across his coat, brittle and biting.
Lucienne, still reeling from the earlier backlash, felt the mirror's distortion brush against her — a flickering haze that disrupted the effects of the Overseer's accusation. Her body, stiffened under the judgment, loosened with a gasp. She broke free.
But freedom came at a price. The wave of frost caught her across the chest.
Surrounded by an armor made of the light of dawn, the blow struck, cracked through the front plate, and scattered frost across her limbs, but she held on. Gritting her teeth, Lucienne held her ground through the brunt of it.
The Overseer, still reeling, found a narrow window.
He moved.
Darting forward in desperation, he sprinted toward the Mirror. Yet, halfway through the charge, his direction faltered.
His stride curved.
His body twisted sideways, as if the very air had betrayed him. He stumbled, thrown off-course by a silent force that warped space around the Mirror.
Greswin saw the shift and moved without hesitation.
He lunged, blade cutting a clean arc toward the faltering Overseer—only for the space around him to warp. A ripple of distortion swept through his footing, twisting his balance. His stride broke mid-motion, and he staggered forward, catching himself too late.
Air rushed from his lungs as he dropped to one knee.
Unseen sickness threaded through his veins, coughing sharply, as the first signs of corruption began to stir in his chest.
Lucienne tried to follow up, but as she moved to engage—
Lucienne advanced—then faltered.
Her stride bent sideways, sword veering mid-arc. She blinked, eyes narrowing. It wasn't resistance—it was redirection. Subtle, creeping. Her muscles still moved, but not toward her aim.
The distortion had changed her.
And from the shadows of that chaos—
Impheil moved.
His coat whispered through broken air, each step unnervingly quiet. As he neared the Mirror, the warping presence around it reached for him. The twist of space, the pressure on his thoughts—it all pressed in.
He bore it for a breath.
Then, with a slow sway of his hand, the sensation snapped away, being deceived elsewhere, lashing at empty air and broken crates.
And he pressed forward, soundless, step by step—closer to the Mirror, while the battle behind him unraveled.
A sharp breath dragged through clenched teeth.
Greswin pushed himself upright, drawing upon one of the spirits sealed in his teeth. A rush of unnatural chill passed through him, banishing the sickness writhing in his veins. His limbs steadied, the dull ache in his chest loosening. No time to waste.
He surged forward again.
The Overseer, still reeling, caught the movement. His gaze sharpened—gray flooded his vision, a hue of judgment piercing the chaos. Layered words, heavy and final, spilled from his lips.
"I judge you guilty of attempted murder!"
Greswin flinched mid-stride. A crushing weight lanced through him—like invisible chains latching to his soul. His breath hitched. Pain bloomed across his shoulder.
The Overseer raised a hand to capitalize—
—and stumbled.
His left arm froze mid-motion, thin veins of ice threading up from the artifact. His cough returned—wet, cracked. Pathogens twisted deeper. His body betrayed him.
Lucienne moved.
Her steps resumed, firm and deliberate. With Sword of Dawn in hand, she advanced again, light blooming faintly with each pace. The glow of dawn radiated from her like a rising flare, washing over the ground in growing arcs, curling the shadows back.
The Overseer's eyes snapped toward her.
He raised the artifact—again. Even as his hand trembled, he unleashed its power. A wave of frost surged forth, mirror-like barriers forming in uneven arcs, trying to brace for the clash.
Lucienne didn't flinch.
Her Dawn Armor caught the brunt of the wave. The frost cracked, spread, and dulled—but the armor held. Her blade met the mirrored shields, shattering the edge of one and cutting through the rest in a hiss of scattered light. Her momentum carried her through, pressing against the Overseer's line.
For a moment, they locked.
Sword against ward. Step against step.
Then—the distortion lifted.
The pressure that had gripped the battlefield fell away. The Overseer exhaled—startled. His footing returned beneath him.
Lucienne's blade sparked again—met with force.
The stalemate held for another second. But now, the Overseer pushed harder, recklessly. His strikes were more random and chaotic. Freed, if only slightly, from the Mirror's weight, he pressed the Demon Hunter back.
And he never turned his back to the Nightwatcher.
The Overseer felt the moment shift.
He pivoted sharply, the distorted battlefield now seeming briefly manageable. His eyes fixed on where the Mirror had last rested—only to find the space empty.
Gone.
His breath hitched. Frantic, he widened his gaze, the full breadth of the warehouse pulling into focus beneath the reach of his Overseeing vision.
And there—by the far exit.
A figure in motion..
The mirror cradled under one arm, sporting a gray coat and dark-red gloves.
The Overseer's focus snapped to the intruder, his body already moving to intercept—
But he froze mid-step.
A terrible roar echoed to him. A voice that tore into the soul, layered in syllables no tongue was meant to shape. The Overseer's head jerked as something vast and ancient gripped his mind.
Words not meant for sanity scraped across his thoughts.
He screamed.
The warehouse trembled.
His limbs convulsed, his form twitching violently as flesh and spirit began to twist. Corruption burst to the surface. His flesh warped, his bones stretched and cracked. His robes tore away as his shape gave way to something monstrous—an incomplete, grotesque being birthed from madness.
A sliver of the Mythical Creature form, surfacing beyond control.
Lucienne didn't wait.
The Sword of Dawn split in her hands again, scattering into luminous fragments, spinning around her as a cyclone of destruction. The Hurricane of Light surged forward.
At the same time, Greswin stepped in from the flank, his eyes cold.
Invisible strands erupted from his form — Serene Hair, fine as breath. They snaked toward the transforming Overseer, winding around arms, legs, and neck. Each strand hissed with subtle spiritual force, trying to drag the creature into stillness — into sleep.
But the Overseer fought.
Even as his body shredded and twisted, even as the mirror-shields collapsed and the frost cracked, he bellowed. But he was bound. And the light was already upon him.
The Hurricane struck.
It tore through the artifact's final barrier like it was paper. The icy threads snapped. The black flames flickered and vanished. And the Overseer screamed once more as the blades of light sliced into him.
The warehouse shook with the force of it.
The serene hair tightened, while the Demon Hunter's judgment did not falter.
And then, with a final cry, the Overseer fell — twisted body slamming to the ground in a half-broken sprawl, the light fading slowly from his crazed eyes.
Silence reclaimed the space.
…
Impheil didn't waste time.
With the Constantine Mirror secured under his arm, he stepped through the battered warehouse threshold and out into the outside. The air was colder now, thick with the scent of frost and blood. Across the open lot, he saw the robed clergy stationed along the outer barricades, symbols dimly lit on their gear.
One of them shouted and another raised a hand.
Then their eyes dropped to the object in his arms.
Recognition struck them and they moved to stop him.
Without pausing, Impheil turned the mirror outward.
The polished surface caught them.
Their reflections blinked into view.
Then twisted.
Every intention, every breath, folded in on itself. One priest dropped to a knee, eyes wide. Another reached forward and froze, his limbs twitching once before locking. Their formation broke in silence, confusion spreading like a fog.
Impheil's hand flicked once through the air.
The shimmer of a stolen thought rippled past their temples and their blank expressions followed.
They stood motionless and dazed, their minds briefly hollowed. A beat passed, and their gazes remained vacant — adrift in stillness.
Impheil moved through the gap they left, boots silent against the frost-laced ground, vanishing past them just as the first blink of clarity began to return to their eyes.
He turned sharply down a side street, weaving through the paths and alleys he'd memorized through Therrin's borrowed knowledge. The Church wouldn't have every street locked down — not yet. If he moved fast and clean, he'd clear the ring.
But as he emerged onto a broader intersection, he slowed.
Another group blocked the road ahead — and this one wasn't just clergy.
They were Red Gloves.
At their center stood a tall figure clad in a reinforced coat laced with dark silver threads. His eyes gleamed with power — steady, cold. In one hand, he held a longsword. From his back stretched five shadowed limbs.
Another High-Ranking Deacon.
A Nightwatcher, judging from the nightmare coiling behind his shoulders.
Impheil halted.
The demigod's steps were measured as he advanced — the Red Gloves falling into formation behind him.
Then the Deacon's gaze shifted.
Over Impheil's shoulder.
He frowned slightly.
And then his body locked.
From behind, a roar split the air. For a moment, it sounded like the echo of something primeval, silver and regal.
The Deacon reeled, clutching his head. His knees buckled. Around him, the Red Gloves collapsed like puppets with severed strings — unconscious, breathless, overwhelmed by the weight of something they couldn't name.
Impheil spun.
Empty.
No figure and no trace.
But the sensation — it lingered. That primal weight, the echo in his bones. Something had stood behind him.
Something inhuman.
He pivoted back. The Deacon still stood, barely — shaking.. Then, suddenly, his form jolted as though struck from within.
And he fell.
Impheil didn't wait.
One hand flicked through the air, a motion that twisted around the nearest bodies. Their memories peeled away from the last moments.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Down the next alley. Then another.
He didn't look back.
On a rooftop above the shattered exchange, two figures stood — cloaked in inconspicuous coats, faces half-shadowed beneath wide brims.
They watched as Impheil vanished into the night.
One chuckled softly.
The other smiled.