Amber's voice carried across the chamber, sharp and clear, slicing through the murmurs like a blade.
"We're leaving," she announced. "The Oradonian Base will no longer remain here. The empire is no longer safe with the Trickster God running rampant. He will return to finish what he couldn't… and I have an obligation to keep those who remain alive."
Her eyes swept the crowd, piercing and calm. "The fifteen who followed him made their choice. Now I'll ask this once—" her tone dipped into something heavier, colder—"is there anyone else who wishes to stay behind?"
Silence. Not a cough, not a shuffle, not a breath too loud. The room felt like a tomb, thick with tension. Everyone knew leaving her side was a death sentence.
Amber waited. She didn't rush them. She stood there like a monolith, giving time for second thoughts, for wavering hearts to speak. None did.
When the silence proved absolute, she inclined her head slightly. "So. You've all chosen to remain under my banner… under my protection." Her tone softened—not with warmth, but with the gravity of truth. "That means this: within the next few minutes, this entire base will vanish—not hidden as before, but gone. We will move to a sealed dimension, a place no god can sniff out. If you come with me… you may never see your families again."
The weight of her words settled like lead in their chests. A few faces tightened. Someone's hand clenched white-knuckled at their side. But no one moved.
"Good," Amber said at last. And without another word, she turned, her cloak sweeping the stone floor like a shadow given purpose. Uriel Commes, the Scarlet Raven, fell in behind her without question. They disappeared down the corridor, boots echoing like distant thunder.
As soon as they were gone, the dam broke. The trainees began whispering, voices sharp with shock and disbelief.
"So… Agatha actually left?" one of the unpromoted eighty hissed, wide-eyed.
"Yeah," one of the thirty-five replied grimly. "Her and fourteen others. She didn't even hesitate once the Trickster God started talking about glory and power."
"Glory?!" another spat. "That monster doesn't give glory—he takes lives. He's playing them. He's always playing people."
"Yeah, well…" a boy near the back muttered darkly, "some of them wanted to be played. They wanted to believe the fairy tale. Fame, riches, power. You know the speech."
"It's a death wish," someone else snapped. "The guy kills on a whim! Why would anyone trust that?"
"Because people like to think they'll be the exception," another voice said bitterly. "They think they're the one who'll survive the lion's den. They're not."
The room fell quiet for a beat, the truth settling like dust.
Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the base, Amber and Uriel were already at work.
A colossal circle had been drawn into the stone, etched with precision that bordered on madness. At every cardinal point stood an artifact—pulsing with raw, ancient power. Crystals that bled light, blades humming with whispers, a chalice steaming with energy like molten silver.
Uriel moved silently, checking placements. Amber stood at the circle's center, her fingers weaving sigils through the air. Her voice rose—not loud at first, but low and thrumming, a tone that made the walls shiver. The language was older than empires, older than time itself. It wasn't sound—it was command.
Her chanting grew louder, resonant, rolling through the base like an earthquake. The floor trembled underfoot as light blazed along the circle's lines, stretching skyward in jagged veins of blue fire. The temperature plummeted, and outside, winds screamed to life as if the world itself resisted.
Then—
The storm came.
It swallowed the base whole, shredding the sky into ribbons of violet and black. Lightning clawed the heavens as the ground warped and folded inward like paper. And in the blink of an eye, the Oradonian Base—and every soul within it—was gone.
Gone, into a dimension no god should ever find.
Amber's mind, however, was already elsewhere. She knew exactly when Josh Aratat would return. And when he did… she would be ready to return.
--:——:——:——:——
The Trickster God materialized in the heart of the Imperial Colosseum with a flourish of distorted air. The fifteen recruits stumbled as their feet touched the cold stone of the blood-stained arena floor. High above, a thousand empty seats loomed like silent judges, the echo of countless battles hanging in the air like ghosts.
He let his gaze linger on them for a beat, his grin curling with something unreadable—approval, amusement, or maybe hunger. Then he leaned in slightly, his voice a velvet whisper that still managed to claw at their spines.
"I'll be back."
No explanation. No reassurance. Just those three words, sliding into their minds like poisoned honey. And then—he was gone.
The air barely stirred where he'd stood as his essence unraveled and reknit itself across space. In less than a breath, he was soaring through the void, heading back toward where the Oradonian Base had been—intent blazing in his eyes like twin stars.
He wanted blood.
He wanted her.
But when he arrived…
The ground was empty. Dead still—except for the roiling black storm that churned above like a wound in the sky. It was the kind of storm that wasn't born of nature, but of will—raw, ancient will.
He waited, arms folded, patience stretched taut as a bowstring, until the last thread of cloud dissolved.
And then… nothing.
The base was gone. Every stone, every soul. Erased from existence as cleanly as ink wiped from a page.
The Trickster God's smile curdled into something darker. "That insane witch…" The words fell like venom, low and cold. His jaw clenched, the humor gone from his face like light snuffed by a storm.
He scanned the terrain, senses unfurling like a predator's snare—but there was no trace. No whisper of power to follow. Just empty earth where once an empire's stronghold had stood.
Who exactly is this woman and how powerful is she? Is she mortal or immortal?"
The thoughts hissed through his mind like a burning brand. She had anticipated this. Of course she had. The woman who read the future like most mortals read tea leaves. She had known he'd return for blood. She had planned for it.
He stood there a long moment, silent but seething. The hunger for chaos gnawed at his ribs, demanding carnage, but there was no prey here—only the hollow taste of her defiance.
He knew one thing, though:
She couldn't stay gone forever.
That level of magic was enormous, especially for a mortal, even immortals would have to use up quite a lot of their essence. That little pocket of nowhere she'd fled to would drain her magic dry. Hide long enough, and even Amber Nois would bleed power until she was brittle as glass. And when that happened…
He smiled again—slow, sharp, and cruel.
When that happened, he'd break her.
For now, he turned his gaze back toward the horizon—toward the Colosseum where his chosen fifteen waited like lambs fattened for slaughter.
"Playtime," he murmured, and vanished in a ripple of shadow.