The vanguard units stood in rigid formation, watching in quiet awe as the twelve black-armored figures—the Praetorians—vanished into the castle's shadowed entrance. A faint series of sounds followed: the clang of steel, muffled cries, the crackle of spells—and then silence once more. It was an eerie, unnerving quiet, as if the castle itself had swallowed the chaos whole.
The vanguard was prepared to move forward, but suddenly, every soldier froze. Then, as if controlled by some unspoken command, they dropped to one knee in perfect unison. Their armor groaned under the motion, but none questioned it.
A moment later, the air shimmered with power.
A massive red magic circle appeared ahead of them, far larger than the ones summoned by the Praetorians. Its runes pulsed with radiant energy, and at its heart was the same emblem of the Gothic rose—the mark of House Gremory. From the radiant core stepped a man whose presence caused the very air to thicken: Sirzechs Gremory.
Clad in ornate crimson-and-gold armor, with a black cape trailing behind him, he stood like a monarch of the battlefield. His short, spiked blood-red hair caught the dying light of the flames still smoldering in the courtyard, and his piercing teal eyes scanned the ruin with quiet intensity.
As the glow of the circle faded, a ranking officer approached from the rear. He dropped to one knee swiftly, his breathing heavy, his armor scorched and cracked from the earlier fighting.
Sirzechs glanced at the man with a calm, unreadable expression before turning his eyes back to the castle. His voice was cool, but held an undeniable gravity.
"Report."
"All resistance has been quelled, my lord," the officer responded without hesitation. "The Praetorian Guard neutralized the final stronghold and proceeded into the inner sanctum. There are no reports of surviving hostiles."
Sirzechs nodded slightly, acknowledging the efficiency he had expected.
"Good," he said evenly. "Have the main force withdraw. The vanguard is to rest and regroup. Bring the rear guard forward to assist in securing prisoners and sweeping the remaining perimeter. No one is to enter the castle until I say otherwise."
The officer remained kneeling, hesitating just a moment as he studied the general's stance. He could see it then—under the composed veneer of power and nobility, Sirzechs was tense. Not from fear, but anticipation. His body was angled forward, his aura held taut just beneath the surface.
There was something in the castle that called to him.
"What of you, my lord?" the officer dared to ask.
Sirzechs finally looked at him again, a faint, tired smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "I will continue. My guard is already inside... and I fear they may grow lonely without me."
The officer blinked, unsure whether to respond. Either failing to grasp the humor or wisely choosing not to comment, he bowed his head, rose, and turned away, shouting orders to the rest of the vanguard. The soldiers began their retreat, their heavy footfalls echoing through the desecrated plaza.
As their presence faded, Sirzechs found himself standing alone amidst the wreckage.
The courtyard was devastated. Cobblestones lay cracked and upturned, great sections of stone walls scorched black. The ornate fountains—once symbols of noble heritage—were shattered, water mingling with blood in the rubble. The air stank of sulfur and burnt metal.
Sirzechs turned his eyes to what had once been a garden. It was now a blackened husk, charred beyond recognition. Roses, once vibrant and fragrant, were now ash drifting gently in the wind.
"Such a waste," he murmured, barely audible.
And then he stepped forward, one booted foot after another across the ruined earth. As he did, the ambient power in the air began to stir.
The seal on his strength—kept suppressed during the campaign—began to lift.
Not all the secrets of Castle Halphes had yet been revealed.
And he would uncover them, one shadow at a time.
Deep within the towering, labyrinthine heart of Castle Halphes, the air was thick with panic and smoke. The walls of the inner sanctum trembled with each distant blast from artillery bombardments slamming into the outer towers and upper defenses. Dust drifted from the vaulted ceilings like falling snow, and chunks of stone and charred wood occasionally tumbled to the polished marble below.
Noble devils, draped in once-regal garments now tattered by soot and debris, scrambled through the cathedral-like corridors in a state of disarray. Their refined masks had slipped, revealing faces contorted in fear and confusion. Higher-ranking inquisitors barked desperate orders, trying to maintain some semblance of control, shouting for a full escort to lead the nobles to deeper, more secure chambers. The scent of sulfur and scorched velvet filled the halls.
Then it came—the shift.
A colossal surge of demonic energy erupted from outside the sanctum. It rippled through the air like thunder through water, pressing down on the very bones of those inside. The walls groaned. Candles flickered violently. Every heartbeat seemed to pause. Even the air became difficult to breathe. This oppressive pressure didn't simply inspire fear—it crushed hope.
Some nobles shrieked openly, clutching their heads or dropping to their knees. Others backed against the walls, eyes wide with terror. The most cowardly among them voiced their dread aloud.
"Ruina Nex is here!" bellowed a noble in a soot-stained, once-opulent waistcoat, his powdered wig askew.
"All is lost!" another cried, his voice cracking.
Panic surged like a tide.
But just as hysteria reached its peak, it was stopped cold.
A wave of raw, wrathful demonic power swept through the sanctum. It choked off the screams, silenced the sobs, and pinned every soul under its crushing weight. Then, with a deafening crack, the sanctum's massive double doors were blasted open—not by spell nor blade, but by sheer force of will.
Two figures entered.
They didn't rush. They strode.
A young man led the way, silver hair trailing down his back in a long braid that swayed with his graceful steps. His gait was calm, purposeful. Polished black shoes echoed against the marble, a rhythmic contrast to the erratic shuffle of fleeing nobles. Behind him came another—her movements lighter, swifter, but no less composed. She moved like a phantom, silver hair fluttering around her like silk threads caught in moonlight. Her crimson eyes scanned the room with a predator's intensity, stripping every individual of dignity with her icy gaze.
Flanking them was a third—an elder devil whose presence held a different kind of weight. Though age lined his face, his posture remained upright, proud. Each step he took echoed with the pride of nobility and years of service to a cause now on the edge of ruin.
The three approached the sanctum's central platform, a raised dais beneath a domed ceiling painted with ancient celestial murals. The silver-haired devil at the front halted, his crimson eyes locking with a slightly shorter nobleman who stepped forward nervously.
"Have the evacuation seals been stabilized?" asked the silver-haired man, his voice calm but firm. Each word was deliberate, like a judge passing sentence.
The nobleman, visibly trembling, swallowed hard before answering.
"T-they will be, my lord... within minutes. The flow of energy within the territory is... unstable. W-we're not sure why, but we believe it's temporary. I can assure you, Lord Lucifuge."
Lord Lucifuge—the name hung in the air like a blade.
He offered a faint, knowing smile. "Very good. And I trust your house has made its loyalty clear today? Surely, you've witnessed firsthand the savagery of the traitors knocking at our gates. Desperation always brings out the worst in the weak. Wouldn't you agree?"
His crimson eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. The nobleman wilted.
"Y-yes, my lord. The Valefor Clan stands with you. Entirely."
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Lucifuge's face.
From behind him, the silver-haired woman stepped forward, her gaze hard and unrelenting. Her voice, when it came, was cold as ice cracking underfoot.
"Do not underestimate them, little brother," she said. "The fall of this fortress was not coincidence. You would be wise to respect the threat they pose."
A palpable chill settled over the room. Even the fires in the braziers seemed to dim.
Lucifuge glanced at her from over his shoulder, the mirth never leaving his smile, though his eyes twitched in amusement. "Of course. I was going to ask you later—how goes the matter of the prisoner? Is he ready for transport?"
The woman narrowed her gaze, replying with a clipped nod. "He is."
Lucifuge grinned, eyes gleaming. "And the rest?"
"Disposed of," she said, her tone final.
"Excellent! The new Lucifer will be pleased. Such a specimen—such power—he may well prove to be our trump card. How long until he bends to our cause?"
The question turned the room to ice.
The elder noble behind them looked on, face twisting in discomfort. His hands clenched as he processed the callousness of Lucifuge's enthusiasm.
The woman, however, showed no hesitation.
"I cannot say. He's lasted longer than any subject before. Physical torment yields nothing. Starvation—no change. Sleep deprivation—ineffective. Isolation has shown some results, but it's insufficient. Worse, we have no records on him. No birth date, no territory, no lineage. A ghost."
Lucifuge blinked. "Truly? A phantom commoner? I never thought I'd see the day you were outlasted, sister."
His grin widened.
Her gaze hardened, voice sharpening to a lethal edge.
"Know your place, Euclid... or I'll remind you."