“Long, long ago, when I was but a common child in the slums of Lux Caelum, I lost my right eye. It was an unceremonious loss; sudden, quick, and without remorse. A drunken fool, a flying bottle, and before I knew it, a bloody mess spurted forth - like a macabre fountain of gouged tissue - as a glass shard pierced my eye and wretched it out of my socket. I could not see. I could not feel. From then on, the world was cast in the most dulled of greys. I lost the gift to see color.

“My only joy, my precious little garden - blooming with such wondrous pigments despite being planted in the ash-wrought concrete - was my sole relief in those days. Yet it was ripped away from me. Those colors, that beauty… I could not see it anymore. Those flowers were my only love, but the world deigned to leave me bereft of even that. And so I shattered. Years passed, the nation transformed into the age of Nox, yet I was still broken. Empty. Hollow.”

- Satanael of the Bloom

———

The Knight

The two silently leer at the other, foot stomping onto the moist dirt as they carefully stalk around on the field—waiting for the first move. This foe is different; Satanael is unlike the Nature’s Throne who rampages with her heart laid bare. Instead, he scrutinizes the Knight’s every move. He lingers with footsteps aflutter, gauging its every twitch of muscle and keeping a firm distance away. Those are not the maneuvers of the Polus; rather, they are of an assassin’s. A killer who lurks out of sight for a singular moment of vulnerability… and yet here is—his form fully revealed in this garden without shadow.

There must be a secret to his confidence, a scheme lying in wait: That much is evident. But the Knight will yield nothing of worth so long as they continue this revolving dance. The door has disappeared, there is no escape in this endless meadow, and Satanael’s intentions are clear: “Come to me,” his form seems to beckon. “Come, and let yourself be wrapped in my embrace.”

So be it, it muses. But it does not intend to fall for his tricks so simply. If the only path is forward, then it shall employ a ruse of its own.

Close your eyes, Aegis.

The Knight raises its leg, and then it pulverizes the ground below. A plume of dust erupts skyward in a billowing trail, sound traveling through the garden in an explosion of debris, and Satanael’s stance becomes flustered for a brief second as he attempts to scurry away. It is too late, and the Knight emerges from the cloud faster than he can react. It bolts behind him, raises its blades, and severs his head in one fluid motion.

Just like that, his body crumbles. His head falls. And he stains the tattered grass with his blood.

… Is that all?

It lifts up his head and crushes it between its fist. Bone and brain matter splatter together into an unrecognizable mound of flesh, yet Satanael still does not react. Is he truly dead after that entire speech? No, there are still some methods in which he can revive.

The Knight stomps the corpse’s heart. It tears away the arms, rips out the legs, and splits the torso in two. Yet Satanael, or rather what remains of him, still remains quite dead.

Hrm. This can’t be right. This separate dimension should have begun collapsing upon his death. That it still remains implies the man is still alive. Well, if physical mutilation has failed, then perhaps a more thorough method is in order.

It gathers every mangled piece of sinew around it and throws the bloody pile all together into one clump; then it raises the blade of the sun and prepares to reduce the man’s remnants into but ashen cinder.

“Solgas, let loose your flame.”

But it receives no response.

“Solgas?”

The blade is entirely dulled as if it is currently slumbering. The Knight takes a look at the Lunas as well and discovers a similar fate: the twins are not responding to its call. No, more accurately, they are unable to respond. Something about this space is disrupting Creation’s flow, turning the celestial weapons into mere scraps of stardust.

Aegis, it speaks to the child in its mind. Are you able to stir the Creation around you? Attempt to beckon it forward.

Aegis does as he commands, but he soon lets out a confused gurgle. His frustration is conveyed clearly—a sense of disorientation. The energy in the garden feels strange and foreign, as if the Mother’s divinity has been corrupted in some way, and any attempts at summoning it only result in the child’s senses to be assaulted by pain.

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But if so, then why is his invisibility invocation still being maintained? Curious, it is ever so curious, but now is not the time. Before it can ruminate over the bizarre phenomenon any longer, an ominous laughter from the beyond confirms its suspicions. Satanael’s gloating voice rings clear in its mind, but the pile of flesh that used to be his body is still there. Unmoving. The Knight attempts to find the source of his snickering, but all that meets its vision is the same blue sky and verdant field.

“My, my, quite the impatient one you are,” he says from every direction. Satanael has become a true phantom: immaterial and ephemeral in nature, but how exactly still eludes the Knight’s grasp. “A pity. I had much more planned for the first act - oh, it would have had such wonders and twists - but I suppose I should have expected one such as you to surpass my expectations. Never the matter, let us delve straight into the second act, shall we?”

Suddenly, a thread of bloodlust bids its instinct to move, and the Knight quickly slashes at its side towards what appears to be mere air. Only, its blade makes contact with something. Something unseen. And it does not take long before the bloodlust reappears in stride—sending an unrelenting surge of invisible attacks to strike it without rest.

They are not particularly powerful in comparison to Annalay’s wrath, but what makes Satanael’s assault difficult to deflect is the complexity. The rhythm. At times it contains a clear pattern while others are more disjointed and chaotic in nature. He is not a warrior, his attacks lack that ingrained depth that comes from repeated training, and his urge to kill is almost whimsical in a way. It is almost as if Satanael is leading it on a waltz, purposely conducting its every movement through a song of sparks and strikes.

But his true form is not there. He has no physical presence, and slashing the space behind the transient attacks yields nothing: not even so much as a scratch. This is puzzling. If he was simply invisible, then my vision would have revealed him long ago. Not even Aegis’s sorcery can fool me.

“Oh, my dear madam! It appears you are in quite the conundrum,” his voice whispers into its ear. “Your efforts are admirable, but surely this cannot last forever. You will falter, eventually. Bit by bit, I will prune you. I will be the one to bring out your inner beauty, and from your blood shall rise a flower like never seen before. I wonder… just what appearance shall it bloom into? Goodness, my body shivers at the thought.”

“I am afraid you’re going to be disappointed,” it grunts. “What makes you so sure these feeble attacks will wear me down?”

“Feeble? Your words wound me, Lorelai,” he says with mock indignation. “But I admit, my strength is no doubt lacking in comparison to the Polus knights. I much prefer to tend to my flora than hold a weapon, after all. However, your fate was sealed the moment you stepped foot into my garden. My paradise. I have all the time in the world, my dear. And I will savor every moment of your futile resistance.”

When I set foot into the garden? So it all started there. I must think back… what did I see? Nothing—a flash of light. The mock sun blinded me, and when I turned my head, he was standing there with his arms held wide. But was that truly him? Was the man I entered with and the man I saw truly the same? Perhaps, my thoughts were wrong from the very beginning. This garden is not just a separate dimension, but rather…

The Knight understands now. It understands why Creation is so muddled, and it knows why mutilating his body results not in his death: because it isn’t his actual body at all.

The garden is Satanael. The sky, the soil, the very space itself: all of it is he.

“You…” it stutters. “What have you done to yourself? How can such a thing even be possible?”

Creation is endless in its potential, but even the Knight has never witnessed such a baffling transfiguration before. The man cannot even be considered human anymore, for all that remains of his mortal self is his spirit. His blood has transformed into rain. His flesh has been ground into soil. He is the land itself: his very own seedbed. This shouldn’t have been possible. At least, not without the help from a being far beyond the nebula.

“Hm? That look in your face… hehe, you’ve realized it, haven’t you?” he chuckles. “Oh, Lorelai. You’re ruining all of my dramatic reveals! Where’s the flair, the art of suspense, when you discover my secrets so quickly?

“I am not in the mood to listen to your ramblings. Answer me: Who gave you this power?”

The earth should never be found. It must stay hidden, it must remain far away from their loathsome sight, but the Knight cannot help but assume the worst: That they have found their way to Humanity’s last bastion.

“Were you seduced by a Star?”

He doesn’t answer; instead, the onslaught stops. The expanse becomes silent. And soon, Satanael manifests into reality with his prior puppet of flesh. It has the same floral mask, the same robe, and the same eerie aura, but there is something else now mixed into his guise: confusion. Genuine confusion.

“A Star, you say?” he questions. “Now why would I give myself to one of the Mother’s kind when she is here right with me? Do you think of me to be some sort of unfaithful scoundrel? Oh, you insult me. My heart belongs to only her, and so it shall be for the rest of my existence.”

Hm? Was I wrong? There is no deceit in Satanael’s words. He is sincerely baffled by its question—as if it has just insulted him with the most foul of curses.

“But a Star you say? That is very interesting,” he says. “You surprised me at the theatre, and you surprised me again with this mysterious knowledge. Does Polus doctrine not proclaim those divinities long absent in search for new lands? And yet… you, who is second only to the King, seem to believe otherwise. What other secrets are you hiding? I must know.”

Satanael raises his crimson sap-covered dagger and hovers it right next to his chest. “Ah, but you won’t answer me, will you? That is perfectly fine. I shall simply have to wretch it out of you by force.”

Without even a hint of hesitation, Satanael plunges the dagger straight into his body. He laughs, and then he writhes. Shaking. Trembling. Until a squelching wet blob of puss begins to crawl out of the cavity.

“Now, it is time for the third act.”