Sirzechs tapped the glowing magic circle hovering near his ear, activating the communication rune embedded within. "Very good. Defend the cell and wait for me," he ordered, his voice composed, almost casual. With a practiced ease, he sheathed his crimson blade. The eerie light that had once shimmered within the weapon faded, swallowed by the scabbard.
Turning his gaze back to the two Lucifuge siblings, he dipped into a mocking bow, a crooked smirk curling his lips.
"I do believe that's my cue to leave," he said, voice laced with venomous politeness. "While I do dearly wish to punish you for torturing and killing my men, I will allow mercy to stay my blade... for now."
His eyes narrowed, glowing with dangerous red light as the warmth in his voice evaporated, replaced by a chilling threat. "But next time, there won't be a conversation."
The weight of his words hung in the air like a guillotine. Both Euclid and his sister flinched, if only slightly—a minor crack in their otherwise composed facades. Without waiting for a reply, Sirzechs turned on his heel and strode toward the cathedral's massive arched exit. He walked with the unhurried confidence of a man who feared nothing, even with two of the most dangerous devils at his back. It was no bluff. And they knew it.
He disappeared through the towering doorway, leaving behind a silence more deafening than the destruction that had preceded it.
For a moment, the Lucifuge siblings stood in the wake of his departure, the tension between them tangible.
"He played us for fools," the masked woman finally said, her voice flat with disdain. "He was the diversion the entire time."
Euclid, still glaring at the door, scoffed. "When did you figure that out?"
"The moment he asked why he'd come here," she admitted, her tone edged with frustration. "More specifically, why he brought a full assault force to a strategically worthless castle deep within our territory. Halphes is miles from any trade route or major clan estate. It was always isolated. The only reason we control it now is because we moved quickly after the Halphes line collapsed. A poor choice, in retrospect."
Euclid grunted, clearly displeased. He hated being outplayed.
"We assumed Sirzechs was a blunt instrument," she continued. "A war-hardened general, hot-headed and brash. We never expected him to be calculating. Had we respected his intelligence, we might have seen this coming. The child should have been moved the moment we captured him."
"I heard that didn't exactly go as planned," Euclid muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Something about a power surge... vaporized the whole capture team."
He hadn't paid much attention to the rumors. Just another prisoner, he'd thought. Another waste of time. But now, in hindsight, he wished he'd taken a closer look. He remembered how quickly his sister had acted when the phenomenon occurred—a blazing white orb that tore through Hell's skies. Nothing like a fallen angel. More like... a fallen star. And only one being had ever fallen from the heavens in such a way.
Lucifer.
Sirzechs' words echoed ominously in his mind: No fallen angel other than Lucifer had ever descended from Hell's skies.
The implications were staggering.
After the boy's arrival, everything had moved fast. The explosion of power, the decimation of the capture unit, the sudden containment. His sister, ever the expert in persuasion and coercion, had taken the lead from there. And now, everything had unraveled.
"We underestimated him," she said, approaching the altar where the mass teleportation circle awaited. Its magical structure now fully charged, the remaining nobles filed through in panicked succession, eager to flee the doomed castle.
Euclid tilted his head. "You seem to know a bit about our dear red-haired general."
"You were too young to remember the true days of war," she replied, stepping into the glow of the magic seal. "But I remember. Back then, no one could go a day without hearing his name. He wasn't called Ruina Nex — the 'Destroying Death' — for nothing."
With that, she vanished in a burst of neon blue light.
Euclid lingered behind for a moment, staring at the spot where his sister had stood. His thoughts were turbulent. He'd seen his sister face down an entire regiment without a second thought, tear through a warband with elegance and ease. She never flinched. Never backed down. But she had flinched today.
Sirzechs had made her flinch.
And she hadn't even bothered to pursue him.
That told Euclid everything he needed to know.
He looked toward the now-empty corridor. The boy, he thought. He's just one child. One prisoner. But his sister was right—Sirzechs didn't waste movements. He had brought an army to take one boy. That alone spoke volumes.
Still, he shook off the creeping unease. So what if they lost this round? As long as Lord Rizevim had the Lucifuge siblings, their plans remained intact. The child was a nuisance, a variable—nothing more. They had survived, and they would adapt.
Sirzechs' nose crinkled in distaste as he descended the narrow stone stairwell leading to the dungeon level of Castle Halphes. The torchlight flickered against the slick, mildew-coated walls, casting long shadows that danced like phantoms. The air grew heavier with each step, the oppressive weight of damp rot, old blood, and decay clinging to every breath like a curse. He followed the residual trail of his Praetorian Guard's power signatures, each one blazing like beacons amidst the stagnant aura of death that saturated the lower levels.
The stairs opened into a crumbling corridor—a relic of the castle's older architecture. Here, the cobblestone walls bore centuries of neglect, their joints split by tendrils of invasive undergrowth. Water dripped methodically from overhead, the sound echoing into the bleak silence. The floor, once graced by a regal purple runner, was now a wretched strip of fabric matted with grime, dried blood, and footprints long since smeared beyond recognition.
But nothing compared to the smell.
The stench was suffocating. The unmistakable reek of human and demonic waste, layered with decay and the iron tang of blood, clawed at his nostrils. Sirzechs had endured battlefields, graveyards, and the aftermath of magical calamities, but this was different. This was cruelty distilled—malice soaked into stone.
His gaze swept over the rusted cell doors that lined the corridor. Within, corpses lay slumped in contorted heaps, many of them still clad in the armor of his own forces. Their wounds were savage—broken bones, severed spines, crushed throats—and each corpse told a silent story of torment. None had been given peace. These were not prisoners of war—they were butchered.
Sirzechs' jaw tightened, his crimson eyes burning as he strode forward, fists clenched at his sides. Regret gnawed at the edge of his mind—regret at letting the Lucifuge siblings walk free, unpunished. But now was not the time for hindsight. He pushed deeper into the dungeon, his boots splashing through shallow puddles as he approached a large side chamber—originally a stable, from the looks of it.
The walls were lined with tools. Some were the standard gear for animal maintenance, but others were unmistakably designed for torture—irons, hooks, serrated pincers, racks. The scent of blood was stronger here, mingling with something... acrid. Magical residue. Fresh.
He moved quickly, his long crimson coat brushing against the narrow doorway as he entered the final stretch of corridor. Ahead was the loading bay, a cavernous chamber where carts and supplies were once brought in. Now it served a far grimmer purpose. As he rounded the final corner, he halted.
In the center of the bay stood a single carriage.
His elite Praetorians were arrayed along the far walls, keeping their distance. All of them were tense, hands on weapons, eyes fixed warily on the vehicle. They did not approach. Even these hardened knights—his most trusted killers—seemed unnerved.
And then he saw why.
The carriage was enveloped in a translucent dome of energy, crackling faintly with violent, barely-contained fury. It pulsed like a heartbeat, and with every pulse came a surge of emotion so pure and unfiltered it was suffocating—rage. It oozed from the construct like heat from a forge, primal and consuming.
Sirzechs furrowed his brow, crimson eyes narrowing. The carriage itself was unassuming—wooden, reinforced, old—but the dome that shielded it was unlike anything he had encountered. There was no runic matrix, no sigil markings, no magic circle. It was raw power, shaped by instinct, not design.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice cutting through the thick air like a blade.
One of the Praetorians—Knight Captain Elan—stepped forward and raised his left hand. The gauntlet was scorched, the metal blackened and twisted, runes melted down to illegibility. His voice was steady, but grim.
"My lord, this energy does not respond to conventional magical theory. We attempted to breach it—once. The dome responded with what I can only describe as reflexive violence. I barely pulled my hand away before it incinerated the warding on my armor."
Sirzechs took a step closer, letting his senses reach out to the strange construct. It didn't repel him. Not yet. But the moment he so much as touched its outer membrane with his consciousness, it pushed back. Hard. His expression hardened.