A few days ago.
Ash spiraled through the collapsing room, carried by the breath of a firestorm. Half-buried pillars jutted from the floor like snapped bones, and the stonework ceiling had long since fallen in. Smoke thickened the air, painting the surrounding in hues of orange and shadow.
In the center of the ruin stood Nivlek Sauron, coat scorched at the hem, military armor half-singed, steam rising from "His" skin. "His" galvanized-steel greatsword burned with azure-purple flames, wreathed like serpents along the edges.
At "His" feet, a man lay sprawled, bloodied, broken, and burned. His breaths were shallow, eyes glassy but still alive with defiance.
Nivlek ground a heel into the man's ribs.
"Didn't last long," "He" said coolly, twirling the blade once with a lazy flourish. "Not even enough to warm up."
The man coughed, "You… think this little crusade of yours… matters?"
Nivlek tilted "His" head, curious.
"You think this path ends with victory?" the man wheezed. "You'll run dry long before it's over. And the ones worth fearing… you won't even get near."
"Oh?" Nivlek arched "His" brow.
"There are monsters," the man muttered, a smile twitching at the corners of his bloodied mouth. "Things that wear silk and skin. Beautiful things. And their bloodlust... would even make you flinch."
For the briefest moment, Nivlek's smile faltered, replaced by a glint of something sharper in "His" gaze.
But then, "He" laughed.
A single, rich sound.
"I doubt that," "He" said, lifting the sword with one hand. "I don't hunt gods, I hunt problems. And prey, no matter how pretty, always dies the same."
"He" drove the blade down, clean and merciless. Flames erupted as steel met flesh and stone alike, swallowing the last of the man's final breath.
The fire crackled louder, spitting embers over the ruins.
Nivlek exhaled, gaze fixed on the charred corpse.
"Things that wear silk and skin… beautiful… with bloodlust that rivals even Angels…"
"He" scoffed inwardly, lips barely twitching.
An Angel's bloodlust? That wasn't a metaphor people used lightly.
Nivlek's fingers flexed on the hilt of "His" blade.
Attractive and rabid. Sounds like a Demoness. The kind that leaves broken glass in your throat and perfume over mass graves.
Correct? Possibly.
Complete? Unlikely.
"He" shook off the thought and refocused. They had work to do.
Through the Chain of Command, "He" sent a mental message to Emory and Alistair
"Clean up quickly, take whatever remains and bring the spoils back safely. We will hold a small meeting as soon as both of you return."
Both minds responded in sync, sharp. Understood.
…
A short time later.
Within the meeting room, a broad, dimly lit space lined with sturdy furniture and a few sealed cabinets, Nivlek sat at the far end of a long wooden table. The air still carried the faint scent of smoke and scorched stone from the battlefield outside. "His" greatsword rested beside "His" chair, its surface faintly aglow, leaned carefully within reach. One hand nursed a half-full glass of dark liquor, though "He" hadn't taken a sip in some time. "His" gaze was distant.
The heavy doors creaked open.
Emory Vale and Alistair Caine entered in tandem, their boots clicking on the tile floor.
They saluted with sharp discipline.
"Targets have been neutralized," Emory reported. "And the spoils have been brought back and accounted for"
Alistair added, "Additionally, the sealed artifacts from Azan Port have arrived."
Nivlek glanced up, "His" expression sharpening with interest.
Emory continued, "They selected the one corresponding to the Disciple of Silence Characteristic to keep. The remaining two were transferred here under strict sealing."
A thin smile tugged at Nivlek's mouth. More tools to use.
"Put them with the rest," "He" said curtly. "I'll review them later."
Both men nodded.
Nivlek tapped the table with "His" fingers, tone shifting with gravity. "We'll be changing our approach."
The silence that followed was thick with expectation. Both subordinates focused intently.
"My last prey before dying spoke of something… someone. There was no identity or name, just a hint wrapped in fear. I believe it may be a product of the Demoness Sect."
"He" sighed once before continuing.
"But without confirmation, we act under shadows. No bluffs. No missteps."
Emory and Alistair exchanged a glance but said nothing.
"He" pushed a small map toward them, fingers tapping two coastal nodes. "You'll deploy the recon team. The unit you assembled under my orders."
Nivlek looked to Alistair. "You'll go with them."
Alistair's face didn't change, but his eyes did, sharpening into the readiness of a field commander. "You will be embedded with the team, vet their covers, oversee reconnaissance, and validate any leads in real time. No premature contact and no false positives." Nivlek remarked.
Nivlek inclined "His" head as "He" continued. "You will keep them disciplined, and you will be the relay. If the target satisfies both conditions, you contact us back with a code. If only one condition is met, you make an anonymous report to the nearest Church or Official Team and move on."
"What are the conditions again?" Emory asked, formal and methodical.
Nivlek raised two fingers.
"One: exquisite attractiveness and beauty, the sort that silences rooms and draws attention without effort. Two: active bloodthirst, demonstrable violent intent or behavior, not only rumor."
Alistair narrowed his eyes slightly. "Attractive and violent? That's a strange pairing to hinge our efforts on. Why those two in particular?"
Emory folded his arms. "And why the shift in method? You usually don't deviate from direct pursuit."
Nivlek leaned back slightly in "His" chair, tapping a knuckle against the map. "His" expression was unreadable, but "His" voice turned thoughtful.
"Because I suspect we may be dealing with something... worse."
"He" let the words settle before continuing.
"If my prey's final remarks are to be taken seriously, we may be facing a mixed-path Beyonder, possibly of the Demoness and Criminal Pathways."
Alistair frowned. "Mixed…?"
"Demonesses can be violent, yes," Nivlek said, "but rarely to the point where it becomes infamous. Their sect prefers allure and discretion, not theatrical bloodbaths that leave cities whispering their name. This one... she's loud. She wants to be seen."
"He" glanced at both of them.
"So the traits are meant to narrow the net," Emory murmured, piecing it together. "Violent enough to be noticed. Beautiful enough to dominate attention. Someone who weaponizes both."
"Exactly," Nivlek confirmed. "That combination doesn't crop up often, and if it does, I want to know about it."
Alistair's expression went flat, but his eyes were already calculating. He anticipated the next move. "So you want subtlety over shock. Make it look routine, keep her senses untriggered."
"Precisely." Nivlek's tone dropped. "If she is what I think she is… she'll have Danger Premonition. If we go in hard, she'll vanish before we ever get close."
"That's why you're going ahead. A seasoned Demon Hunter capable of hiding your own intent. You'll slip past whatever instincts she has."
Alistair nodded slowly. "You're hedging the approach to keep her defenses down. Let her believe we're far away."
Emory added, "And we follow two steps behind. Make our progress look slow. Bureaucratic and harmless."
Nivlek's voice turned cold.
"When Alistair's message reaches me…"
"He" rose, the room suddenly more tense beneath the weight of "His" voice.
"we close the net, with full force."
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Emory gave a satisfied nod and Alistair grinned faintly.
Nivlek turned toward the window, eyes catching the first red-orange glint of dawn crawling across the distant jungle horizon.
…
The smoke had yet to clear. Stones still glowed faintly with residual flames, and the clash of bright and dark power lingered in the scorched air.
Steel, wreathed in azure-purple fire, hovered before her throat.
Priscilla's gaze lifted from the jagged blade to the man behind it. Her expression twisted.
"You smug bastard! You and your little cult of shining rats. How… how the hell did you even find me?! This was sealed! Fog of War shouldn't ev-, shouldn't even be possible without my knowing!"
Her voice spiraled into disbelief, cracking into shrieks. Her Threads flared, uncontrolled, burning around her in disoriented coils. She half-lunged again, but the blade kept her pinned.
Nivlek just laughed softly, amused and effortless. Like watching a child try to punch mist.
"Recklessness was your ruin," "He" said, tone steady. "And if not today, then tomorrow. You made too much noise. Eventually, someone was going to answer."
"You—!"
Then she froze. Her gaze narrowed. Her pupils dilated slightly. A dry, broken laugh escaped her throat.
"…No wonder you're so damn irritating," she muttered, in fluent English, her accent clipped and unmistakable. "Nivlek, Nivlek, Nivlek… Still insufferable. Even here."
"His" eyes flicked toward her, sharpened like drawn blades. English.
The sudden language shift was no accident. It was deliberate and personal.
Priscilla smirked through her wounds. "Still playing as a soldier, huh? General now? An angel too, by the looks of it. Congratulations."
She coughed, a trace of blood at her lip.
"Guess that means you finally got your pathway… Took you long enough. Knowing you, you're still second-guessing it every other week."
Nivlek didn't respond immediately.
She knows. Not just who I am, but who I was. That tone. That familiarity. That language…Another transmigrator!
The greatsword didn't move. But "He" did.
"He" stepped forward and grabbed her by the throat with one hand, lifting her slightly off the ground. "His" grip was solid. Fingers digging in with just enough restraint not to snap.
"That's enough," "He" said, still in Hermes, "His" voice flat and without patience.
The heat from "His" palm surged, burning the air, scorching the oxygen from around her. Her limbs kicked once, then fell still.
"I'm not interested in your ramblings."
"He" held her a second longer, watching her slip into unconsciousness, then let her drop like ash through "His" fingers.
Her body collapsed in the rising smoke.
And Nivlek stood silent, with narrowed eyes, as "His" thoughts was already shifting toward the implications.
Alistair approached first, face bruised but alert. His coat was torn at the sleeve, and the silver edge of his twin swords still shimmered faintly with the light of dawn. Emory followed a step behind, ever-composed, though one of his pauldrons hung loose, barely clinging to his uniform after the clash.
Both men uncorked small vials, thick, bitter-smelling draughts that steamed in the humid air. They drank quickly, and the worst of their wounds began to close with slow, steady pulses of warmth.
Emory's gaze flicked toward the unconscious Priscilla lying in the soot, then toward Nivlek. "Your plan worked," he reported, wiping blood from his temple. "She never suspected until it was too late."
"But… what the hell was she saying at the end?" Alistair asked, brows furrowed. "That wasn't Hermes. Didn't even sound like Loenese." His eyes narrowed toward the faint burn marks around Priscilla's neck. "Did she recognize you, General?"
Nivlek's jaw tightened briefly, but "His" voice remained even.
"She said nothing worth remembering."
There was a long pause, Emory's gaze lingered on Nivlek a second longer than usual, but neither man pressed further.
Nivlek lowered the greatsword, flames dimming. "Take her. Use the Shackled Marionette. Keep her sedated and locked down. I want no surprises, not even unconscious ones."
Alistair gave a silent nod. He slid his swords back into their sheaths, lifted Priscilla over his shoulder like she weighed nothing, and glanced once more at Nivlek.
Then, without another word, he disappeared into the fractured corridor, vanishing into mist and smoke.
Moments later, the burnt entryway flickered with holy light.
A group of Clergy stepped through the flames, their robes edged in gold and crimson. Leading them was High-ranking Deacon Seraphon Greaves of the Eternal Blazing Sun's local Church. A tall, dark-skinned man with braided hair and a sun symbol emblazoned on his cuirass. He was accompanied by two officers in sharp Intis Army dress, Major Claive and Lieutenant Fenien.
Stepping just ahead of them was a third figure, wearing a long black duster and a high-collared vest. His face was lean, with a pale complexion and calculating hazel eyes.
He bowed slightly before speaking.
"General Nivlek," said the man smoothly, "mission concluded."
The Interrogator from Nivlek's Recon Unit straightened and flicked a piece of bloodied parchment from his sleeve. "With HIgh-ranking Deacon Greaves's assistance and the fire support of Major Claive and Lieutenant Fenien, the remaining Demonesses were purged."
He glanced at the lingering divine glow in the square. "Your timely disruption through Fog of War was instrumental. They couldn't reach their mirrors. Not a single one escaped."
Nivlek allowed "Himself" a quiet breath.
Before Nivlek could reply, the Unshadowed Seraphon stepped forward.
Wearing the distinct robes of the Eternal Blazing Sun, his features shone with unnatural serenity, his halo flickering gently behind his back like a living sun. His voice was smooth, elegant, and resonant, each syllable a hymn of polished grace.
"The remainder of our clergy and military detail are assisting your team in rounding up the surviving members of the Demoness Sect," he said calmly. "They will be detained and questioned as necessary, as per the Church's protocol."
He bowed his head, ever so slightly. "Your involvement, General Sauron, proved invaluable. Without it, this infestation would have continued to spread through the city's underbelly. Today marks a decisive blow against corruption."
Nivlek nodded with cool acknowledgment.
"It was my pleasure," "He" replied. "Scouring these rats from the colonies has become something of a habit. One I intend to maintain throughout every corner of the Southern Continent."
At that, Captain Claive, one of the Intis officers accompanying Seraphon, stepped forward. The lines of duty were etched deep into his face.
"Regardless of today's success," Claive said carefully, "we received word from Central Command. The Demoness of Purple is to be transported to Trier immediately—"
"No," Nivlek cut in, voice iron-clad.
"His" tone bore the weight of command not open to challenge.
"She was captured under my authority, by my operation, and she remains under my discretion. Her fate will not be decided from behind a desk in Trier."
Claive opened his mouth, but Nivlek's stare silenced him.
"You were sent to assist. I appreciate that assistance. But make no mistake, this campaign, this continent, falls under my jurisdiction."
"He" stepped forward once, letting the glow of the flames and the shimmer of divine residue cast his figure in stark contrast.
"Transporting her carries too many risks. Ambushes, intervention, or worse. She's a symbol, a weapon, and a wellspring of intelligence. And I intend to use her to uncover the full breadth of the Demoness Sect's infestation."
"He" let that sit for a moment before finishing, flat and final:
"All relevant findings will be relayed to Trier. You'll receive your paperwork in due time."
There was no space left for negotiation.
Claive and Serent exchanged looks. Then both officers gave curt nods.
"As you command, General."
Nivlek turned toward Seraphon and the Interrogator, "His" voice returning to professional cadence.
"Oversee the rest of the cleanup with the local clergy. Ensure no evidence escapes. Then send your final reports to the Church's headquarters and to Intis. Make it clear that this sector is secure."
The Interrogator and Seraphon bowed again, the halo behind him flaring once with approval.
"As you wish, General."
With that, the clergy and officers dispersed, leaving Nivlek alone in the wake of victory, the flames crackling around "Him".