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  “Am I dead?” Narsiz straightened up slowly, his pristine uniform now coated in a fine layer of dust that caught the dying light filtering through the collapsed ceiling above. With practiced efficiency, he conjured a gas protection spell—translucent wisps of green swirling around his nose and mouth like protective silk. The air was thick with the grit of crushed stone and something far more disturbing: a divine presence that felt reprehensible.

  After a brief pause to regain balance, Narsiz began scanning the area—they had “conveniently” landed in an underground chamber stretching into jagged shadows, scarred walls marked by the violent collapse that had trapped them here, every instinct in him screaming danger.

  “Mr. Narsiz,” Sarusos emerged from the gloom like a wraith, his once-immaculate appearance disheveled, the predatory smile warped into something manic as his ruby eyes gleamed with unsettling hunger. “I hope you’re ready to flee when confrontation becomes... inevitable?”

  The foxkin’s tone carried its usual refined mockery, turning into confusion as Narsiz waved his hand dismissively—though the motion lacked its usual confidence. “First, find the others,” he ordered, already moving with fluid grace despite the surrounding chaos.

  Sarusos watched Narsiz pick his way across the debris-strewn floor, summoning several light orbs with a flick of his ink-stained fingers—ghostly spheres of pale luminescence floated around him like will-o’-the-wisps, their glow sending dancing shadows skittering over the jagged walls.

  “I understand, Mr. Narsiz.” Sarusos drifted in another direction, mimicking Narsiz’s spell for additional visibility. “But be careful, I smell a few insects~” His voice thrummed with anticipation, perhaps even a touch of excitement at the thought of bloodshed.

  Narsiz frowned, ignoring Sarusos’ undertone, focusing rather on the imminent problems. He understood all too well that the entire situation felt unnatural—an enemy had designed this elaborate arena—a third party.

  ‘But who?’ Narsiz’s mind churned through possibilities, yet he couldn’t identify the culprit.

  First, the fall had clearly been designed to separate them from the camp rather than cause harm. Though such heights could have been fatal, all of them knew levitation spells and could soften their landing. Second, the divinity he sensed before was unfamiliar, unidentifiable. And third—the vast space itself.

  ‘There’s no way… right?’ Narsiz’s gut twisted at the thought that his suspicion may be correct—the Church. Everything pointed to them. Only groups with idealistic beliefs wielded divinity and all carried a distinct mood.

  The Circle of Nature and their Temple held a [Divine Energy] radiating life and harmony. The Bones and Blood followers of Houmfort embodied death and decay. And finally, the First Servants of the Church wielded a [Divine Energy] meant to soothe and subjugate—its influence already creeping into his very thoughts, seeking to calm his mind.

  “Where? Who, and how, can I make their deaths the most agonizing?” Before Narsiz’s thoughts could spiral further, a familiar voice snapped him back—Persephone. Gone was the diplomatically astute Heart-Fire sister who had expertly navigated earlier tensions. In her place stood something primal and lethal, her voice tight with barely contained fury. “I want their entire bloodline eradicated!”

  Killing intent radiated from Persephone’s petite frame, making the air around her feel sharp and brittle. Her obsidian eyes narrowed into predatory slits, cutting through the gloom as she hunted for targets worthy of her unleashed bloodlust. Styx and Lethe flanked her, attempting to calm her—a surprisingly ironic reversal.

  “Are you all right?” Narsiz approached the Heart-Fire triplets with careful steps, his voice laced with genuine concern beneath a diplomatic veneer. They huddled within a shimmering mana shield, its surface rippling like disturbed water, unscathed by the violence that had devastated the ground above.

  At first, they turned on him sharply, eyes blazing with killing intent, but it softened the moment their noses twitched—relief washing over them as they realized it was him and that he was unharmed, though Narsiz noted it was only now they’d even thought to check on him.

  “Narsiz!” Persephone immediately dissolved the mana shield, her technique surprisingly smooth. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she said with a nervous smile that faltered slightly. “I was just about to come looking for you,” the lie clear in her voice.

  Narsiz walked toward them, halting his usual diplomatic approach—it wasn’t the time for niceties. This was a trap, and it would be easier to apologize later; right now, they had to act like soldiers, not nobles.

  “Persephone, Styx, Lethe—I’m glad to see you unharmed,” Narsiz sniffed the air, frowning. “Let’s find the others, and then whoever’s behind this—you can then bleed them dry to your heart’s content—sound fair?” His smile was mocking, yet edged with urgency.

  Persephone blushed, and just as she opened her mouth to speak, a distinct voice cut through in the thick northern dialect. “Yer see,” from the shadows emerged Bjoern, Mathilda, Isabella, and Sarusos, their appearances equally disheveled, but their spirits clearly unbroken. “That wee lass’s [Aura]—she’s a proper brawler, aye. Tougher than an ice boar, hehe.”

  Narsiz scanned them as they greeted each other, checking for injuries, but even their youngest—Mathilda—was largely unharmed. What caught him off guard was the utter lack of fear on their faces. Instead, they radiated a concentrated wave of killing intent and bloodlust so thick it made the air ripple with malevolent [Aura]. Their bruised pride had crystallized into something far more dangerous: cold, righteous fury.

  ‘Am I the only one?’ As they talked and assessed the situation, Narsiz felt his chest tighten. Ever since the assassination attempt, he had dreaded situations where he lacked full control. It was terrifying—and one of the few reasons he had never aspired to be the heir, aside from those short puppyish months of youth.

  “Any plan already, Mr. Narsiz?” A voice murmured beside his ear, and a hand on his shoulder made him flinch—Sarusos smiled at him with an encouragingly. “Shall I or the others assist you?”

  Narsiz looked around; everyone was nodding to him while readying their weapons. It was obvious Sarusos intended for him to take command—a trial by fire. He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, accepting the responsibility even though every instinct screamed to hand it off.

  ‘From up there,’ Narsiz frowned, tilting his head upward toward the jagged opening that marked their violent entrance. They had survived the fall of at least fifty to one hundred meters (~62.5ft - 133ft) with remarkable ease, their magical training allowing them to employ various techniques—air friction manipulation, soft-fall enchantments, and emergency levitation spells that had turned what should have been a fatal plunge into merely an inconvenient relocation.

  Turning, he cast a vision-enhancing spell and scanned the area carefully before considering a path upward, wary of an ambush. Dozens of holes lined the walls, likely tunnels for whatever creature had hollowed this place out.

  “We should,” Narsiz’s voice steadied, though he still hoped for nothing serious. “Stay here and—”

  But before Narsiz could continue, the ground quaked violently, a rhythmic rumble betraying the movement of something massive through the earth. Stones broke free from the damaged ceiling, their impacts echoing like a grim countdown to catastrophe.

  “Mr. Narsiz,” Sarusos appeared beside him with his signature quiet grace, his gaze locking on one of the wall openings. The usual theatrics were gone, replaced by cold pragmatism. “I strongly recommend preparing for a life-and-death fight.” Two crisp slicing sounds accompanied the appearance of daggers in his hands as the rumbling deepened.

  Everyone followed suit—Bjoern’s giant axe hit the ground with a heavy thud as he scanned silently the area. Isabella’s hand tightened on her rapier’s hilt, her goodwill long gone. Mathilda drew her bastard sword, a manic smile spreading as her tail lashed side to side. The Heart-Fire triplets appeared calmer, yet they moved in eerie unison, their combined strength amplifying like a single deadly organism.

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  “I’ll act as support then,” Narsiz conjured more light orbs with smooth precision, each sphere pulsing pale as they floated through the vast arena like artificial stars, their glow revealing the underground chamber was far larger than thought—its walls riddled with not dozens but hundreds of tunnels vanishing into impenetrable darkness.

  There was no room for pride—Narsiz was the weakest here, his greatest vulnerability being direct combat. Still, he had an idea: scanning for the final grandstand hidden somewhere in the space, focusing his [Mana Sense] to locate it while weaving battlefield enchantments as ink streamed from his fingertips and crawled like insects across the surrounding ground.

  “It’s a-comin’, aye,” Bjoern hefted the double-bladed axe as the rumbling ceased, and the first shadows emerged from the tunnels—grotesque monstrosities that defied natural description.

  They moved like bodies carved from living stone and earth, crawling forward with eerie curiosity. Massive forearms tipped in claws scraped the chamber floor, their movements unsettlingly fluid for creatures of solid rock. Each radiated the divinity Narsiz sensed, yet they felt more like mindless puppets than monsters—no less deadly for it.

  “Tier one, two, and some three,” Mathilda spoke carefully, a few glancing at her before turning back, prompting her to continue, which she did with a proud smile. “I can see what I can stab through, hehe, and they’re nothing more than just—”

  Mathilda fell silent as the creatures encircled them with tactical precision, cutting off every escape route with chilling efficiency. Their numbers swelled from dozens to hundreds—maybe more—making her gulp as she started forward, only to be abruptly held back.

  “Wait—there’s something else,” Isabella said, grabbing Mathilda’s shoulder firmly. “Something dangerous.” Her eyes locked on one of the tunnels above.

  A figure drifted down with eerie grace, and Narsiz felt his blood run cold—a small boy, barely 1.3m (~4ft.) tall, dressed in simple overalls and suspenders that seemed unsettlingly innocent in the scene. But the wings—greyish-brown, tattered remnants of divine majesty—and the halo above his head, a crown of stone and earth, marked him as something far deadlier than his diminutive frame implied.

  “Hello, my dear friends!” The boy’s voice rang out, cheerful yet strained, as he adjusted the goggles on his forehead and pushed them up to reveal eyes gleaming with predatory intelligence. His wings spread wide—a gesture that might have seemed welcoming in another context, but here only underscored the trap they’d stumbled into. “My beastkin dialect’s a little rusty, but you understand me, don’t you?”

  The monstrosities froze as the boy spoke—an angel standing in enemy territory, exuding unmistakable hostility. As his last word fell, a crushing weight slammed down on them—divine pressure like the mass of mountains. The air thickened, each breath a struggle against the invisible force trying to drive them to their knees. This was power on a [First Conjecture] scale at minimum—raw divinity, weaponized and sharpened with intent.

  Everyone buckled slightly but quickly adapted. It wasn’t enough to make them kneel—all were nobles hardened by rigorous training, especially in resisting [Aura] designed to force submission. Still, it wasn’t something they could fully shrug off, especially the younger ones, like Narsiz and Mathilda, whose sweat betrayed their strain as they steadied themselves.

  Narsiz felt his hands slowly becoming covered in black mana ink, the dark substance seeping from his fingertips like liquid shadow as [Masterful Writing] responded to the threat. Each drop carried the potential for devastating inscription magic, though he would need time and space to craft anything truly effective. “May I ask what an angel of the Alliance of the First Servants is doing here?” He struggled to maintain diplomatic composure while speaking in the human tongue, his voice steady despite the divine pressure bearing down upon them. “I think if you leave now, we can consider this merely an unfortunate misunderstanding—a small prank between old rivals.”

  Angels—a race of winged humanoids similar to nature dwellers or draugr in their otherworldly nature—possessed an innate affinity for [Divine Energy] that made them natural servants of the church. Their presence here, operating with clear hostile intent, represented a catastrophic escalation in the conflict between their territories.

  The boy rolled his eyes with theatrical exasperation, his expression shifting to one of genuine annoyance. “Actually, I would have been perfectly content to ignore your little territorial squabbles and maintain my observation post. But someone, sadly, has forced me to abandon my reconnaissance duties and not merely observe, but actively intervene.”

  There were too many questions Narsiz needed answered. First, for some reason, as the angel spoke, there was no deception Narsiz could detect with his [Smell of Deception]. That alone was unsettling, but the implications were far worse—intervention meant open warfare, a complete collapse of the fragile ceasefire between Mal-Gil and the First Servants. For years, the two powers had maintained mutual hatred and suspicion under an unspoken agreement to avoid direct confrontation. Espionage had been tolerated—even expected—but active military action shattered every carefully maintained boundary.

  “Tell me who ordered this, and we’ll grant you refuge.” Narsiz’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the tactical situation, noting how each companion had begun preparing for combat, their [Energy] and mana hardening into their distinctive styles. His voice dropped to a tone heavy with absolute authority, backed by the full might of Moorgrel’s nobility. “Otherwise, all Guard Households will descend on your peaceful island sanctuary and eliminate everyone—without exception.”

  This wasn’t empty posturing. An attack on a Moorgrelian noble would provoke a retaliation so overwhelming their current military campaign would look like a mere diplomatic gesture in comparison.

  The boy—despite his youthful appearance, he clearly commanded immense power—sighed with what seemed like genuine regret. “You may call me Milo, and—”

  Milo suddenly recoiled as if struck, the remnants of his confident facade shattering like a brittle mask—a divine voice boomed from the depths behind him, shaking the very foundations of the underground chamber and sending cascades of loose stone tumbling from the ceiling, each word carrying the weight of absolute authority.

  ?Enough, you little traitorous rat,? the divine being intoned as it emerged from one of the larger tunnels—a colossal monstrosity so massive its passage made the earth itself groan in protest. As it rose from the darkness, its [Aura] declared its power with terrifying clarity: between [First Conjecture] and [Second Conjecture], a force so dense its mere presence warped the surrounding air into visible distortions.

  Towering far above the smaller monstrosities, a hulking behemoth with dozens of ink-black eyes that darted restlessly across its stone-like hide. Its body rippled like living rock as it prowled on all fours, claws raking deep furrows in the hardened ground. At nearly six meters (20ft) tall, its massive maw stayed shut, but rows of jagged, saw-like fangs jutted outward, promising a violent, unstoppable force.

  ?The Hero has spoken, and so shall we act. You will follow his commands.? The creature strode past Milo, its voice carrying the crushing weight of divine mandate. The angel—despite his own formidable power—visibly flinched at the behemoth’s presence, his earlier confidence dissolving like mist in the sun.

  The monster’s divinity erupted like a living tempest, saturating the chamber with raw power that made each breath feel like inhaling molten lead. The stones in the walls thrummed violently, their vibrations weaving a discordant hum that threatened to tear the entire structure apart.

  ‘Shit,’ Narsiz cursed with crystalline clarity—two such beings were far beyond what they could handle. Maybe one, but two? Then his eyes caught Sarusos glaring at the boy with predatory anticipation, licking his lips. ‘I’ve never seen him fight seriously, have I?’

  Moorgrelian knights embodied power, that much was known, and their retainers weren’t far behind. But Sarusos… he was different—once failed to protect Alexander years ago and yet suffered no punishment. Still, the reputation he carried sent a surprising surge of hope through Narsiz, as everyone seemed to fear crossing paths with that maniac.

  The foxkin’s movements were fluid and practiced, each gesture speaking of countless hours spent perfecting the art of killing. “I’ll take the boy,” Sarusos announced with barely contained glee.

  Behind them, the Heart-Fire triplets conferred quickly among themselves, their earlier dysfunction replaced by the kind of tactical coordination that only came from shared blood and common purpose. “The monster,” they declared in unison, their combined killing intent focusing on the massive creature like a spear thrust of pure malevolence.

  Isabella walked beside them, her nervous smile betraying her tension. “I’ll help,” she said, voice wavering slightly, though her stance remained steady just behind them. “Just make sure to bring all pieces of the corpse to my estate, hehe.” Her hands trembled faintly on the hilt.

  Bjoern strode alongside the Heart-Fire triplets, his axe balanced lazily on his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it,” he said, muscles tensing as his eyes narrowed to predatory slits. “If yer croak, we all go down wi’ ye, aye?” He shot a glance back at Narsiz.

  Narsiz allowed himself a nervous smile as he weighed their impossible odds. Two [First Conjecture] enemies, an army of stone monstrosities, and a cave ready to collapse and bury them under tons of stone—sheer spite would define their survival. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to flee, but rationality had never been the hallmark of his family.

  “Fine,” Narsiz said, slipping into a combat stance as black ink coiled around his hands like living shadows, every droplet brimming with lethal potential. “I suppose we’ll handle the trash, then.” He glanced at Mathilda, who nodded eagerly, no fear in her eyes.

  The words lingered for a heartbeat—a perfect moment of calm before the inevitable storm of violence. In that fleeting pause, Narsiz thought not of survival or tactics but of Alexander’s face when he learned of this battle. ‘I’m going to need a long vacation after this,’ he thought grimly. His idealistic little brother, so fervent in his belief in peace and cooperation, would soon discover that Orbis often crushed such noble dreams without hesitation.

  The underground chamber held its breath, waiting for the first blood to be spilled.

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