Perhaps it is an instinct for every creature that gains wings: to defy the heavens and challenge the sky itself.
Orlusa did not know how high the sky truly was.But that didn't stop him from trying.
The result was simple—he failed.
The higher he climbed, the greater the pressure became, as if some invisible hand dragged him back toward the earth. Even with magic propelling him, breaking the sound barrier and cutting flesh with the wake of his flight, after ten minutes of soaring straight upward he reached his limit. Beyond that point was simply unattainable.
So, he changed tactics.Rather than chasing the unreachable, Orlusa began refining his aerial combat skills.
Skyborn creatures were fewer than those that crawled the earth, but they were far more agile, and in truth, denser in number once spotted. Birds, beasts, and abominations crossed his path. Each became a test subject for his developing techniques.
Every clash sharpened his instincts. Every kill deepened his mastery. Soon, he had grown accustomed to the rhythm of battle in the open air.
By nightfall, bearing fresh scars, Orlusa descended onto the summit of a mountain.
From this vantage point, his vision—enhanced since advancing to [Lesser Demon]—swept across the Howling Forest. He could pick out the trails of ants hundreds of meters away, perceiving details once hidden.
His strength was no longer what it had been. Within this land, he stood at the very peak of the food chain. He could face anything here with confidence.
And yet… it wasn't enough.
The strength of a [Lesser Demon] was merely a foothold. In the Abyss, it was survival at best, a reprieve from being prey—but not power.
And power was what he sought.
For the first time, the talent [Abyssal Pact] stirred within him.
Orlusa's consciousness was drawn into a boundless, star-strewn void. Lights of varying intensity flickered chaotically, like sparks in a storm. Some burned bright, some dim—each a summoning ritual in another plane, offerings made to the Abyss in exchange for the presence of its spawn.
The brilliance of each light reflected the magnitude of its sacrifice.
The realm was layered—different ranks of Abyssal creatures occupied different tiers. Orlusa could not see their forms, but their auras betrayed their strength. A few surpassed him, but most were weaker.
The lights split into two colors.
White: mortal summoners offering sacrifices, bargaining with demons for power.
Red: summons issued by higher demons, no weaker than [Greater Demon], who drew lesser Abyssal spawn into cross-planar wars. These were brutal invasions—march or die, and hand over part of one's spoils.
Many demons accepted. Better to fight under a warlord's banner than to rot in obscurity. But Orlusa had no intention of being anyone's pawn.
He ignored the crimson lights and focused on the white. Not the brightest flames—they would draw the strongest competitors. Not the faintest—they offered little reward. Instead, he sought the middle, the promising balance.
Finding one, he crushed aside the thoughts of nearby rivals and thrust his will into the light.
In the physical Abyss, his body was seized by that same pull.
A haze of mist enveloped him, and distant prayers echoed, mortals praising the Abyss with trembling devotion.
The summoning portal beckoned, but Orlusa did not cross. Instead, he stopped midway through the channel. With a thought, his talent [Trans-planar Projection – Simulacrum] awakened.
A fragment of his soul tore free, reshaping into a likeness of his true body, and stepped into the mortal world.
[Ten seconds…]
That was all the time the ritual could maintain the channel.
If he did not cross fully, the coordinates would vanish, and he would be dragged back to the Abyss.
On the other side of the ritual—
Night cloaked an abandoned prison yard, lit by a roaring bonfire. The cracked stones and crumbling walls exuded decay, their silence broken only by the chanting of robed cultists.
Animal and human blood, mixed with narcotics, had been painted into runes sprawling across half a battlefield. A circle enclosed a hexagram; within lay dozens of fresh corpses—death row prisoners, their throats slit, their bodies still warm.
Dozens of black-robed figures chanted at the edges of the ritual, led by a bald middle-aged man: Salter.
Not far off, nearly two hundred armored knights stood mounted on warhorses, led by their commander, Baron Duke Abbott. His gaze was heavy with disdain as he whispered to the young noble beside him.
"Your Highness, these cultists are madmen. For the sake of the war, we'd be better off seeking aid from the Duchy of Lyt."
The Crown Prince, Jem Woz, hesitated, staring at the array that had yet to stir. Finally, he replied, "Twenty more minutes. If nothing comes of it, kill them all and tell the Church we purged the cultists. That should buy us favor—and rid us of Salter in the process."
Baron Duke's hand tightened around his reins. He had long despised these blasphemers. His prince's order was exactly the excuse he craved.
Salter, sensing the murderous intent behind him, felt cold sweat trickle down his spine.
'Damn it… how could it fail now?!'
More than a decade ago, he had stumbled upon an ancient grimoire in a forgotten cave, a relic of the Church's great purge. Forbidden knowledge filled its pages, and it consumed him utterly. Even without formal training, his obsession and raw talent forged him into a sorcerer of power—power enough to evade the Church's endless hunts.
Now, after years of building his cult, he had one chance. A war was raging between Marton and Yar, and in Marton's Crown Prince, he saw his opportunity.
If he could summon an Abyssal monster strong enough to turn the tide, his status would rise beyond reach of the Church. He could claim nobility, even glory.
The thought had taken root—and now it refused to die.