Oswald had relished the sensation of the blood moon shining upon the world. He knew tales of the knights of old when the blood vampire queen had ruled from the Divine Realm, and sat upon her throne of skulls and darkness. It was her symbol and the symbol of their people from long ago. A symbol of ancient power and the first vampires. Long before the madness had taken the queen and the first away. Long before the gods had gone mad or disappeared.

And a mere wretch who had yet to walk on his own had given him that. Few things could move Oswald’s cold and dead heart, but this was one of them. However, even this moment hadn’t been left for him to enjoy. As the red light had left the world and all was plunged into darkness yet again, he had felt at a loss of what to do.

The hordes of ghouls were defenseless against the lords, but losing the city was still possible and quite likely. A mere dozen vampires could only do so much against thousands, and the lessers, while stronger than a ghoul, were not great against numbers.

This all seemed to not matter anymore though. Twists and turns, surprise after surprise, only because an ancient event had come to pass again and outsiders walked the world. So many changes. So much wonder. As if the world had grown larger yet again. For the first time in so long, Oswald felt like a child.

Even he, one of the oldest and strongest beneath the Baron, was currently trembling. Frozen like a weakling and disallowed from raising his head. Ranks were the way for magi to measure their essence, their ability to wrangle spells and use them, and their enlightenment as they strived for power. They were not a useful measure of the power of stranger beings like those from the burial grounds or wights. Vampires preferred other means too.

On the wall before them stood a man. A vampire of unknown origin so old, and yet so childish, it made Oswald’s head spin. Next to him was sat a little inferni girl on one side, and a one-armed high ghoul on the other. Both wore different expressions that changed ever so slightly, but constantly. They were cowed, and… so was the vampire. Even if a young inferni was rare, she didn’t matter in the slightest at this moment.

Oswald knew that for once, this city was at the whims of another. Even if ghouls washed the streets the vampire fortresses would have stood. They wouldn’t dare go against the Baron if he had remained on the battlefield, but the loss of all the mortals would’ve doomed the kin. And now the threat had grown yet again. Oswald lamented that the Baron was not nearby. He wished to see how he would act in this situation. How he would bow to another.

And worse yet, the ancient vampire before him had been ordered by an even scarier being. She had screamed at him like he was a petulant child and she was the mother of monsters in the flesh, ready to feast. A beauty of abyssal hair and eyes that didn’t even regard the lords as ants worth stepping on. She had gone, and the mighty vampire of legends was dangling his feet and… complaining.

“—and what did you achieve, huh? Making her scold me with your constant whining. Do you know how scary it is being scolded by Nysandra?! I still remember the day I became the strongest vampire in the region, ah! And it was not due to my strength or growth, no. It was because the old Count mouthed off to her, and then tried to have one of her favorite taverns shut down. Oh, the Divine trembled that day! She made an example of that grumpy old bat, I tell ya. My wife—the fourth one—is a descendant of his but she’s renounced any sort of connection. She gave up stepping foot in his castle too! Can you imagine? We had to tear it down eventually, once the blood dried out. Nearly three hundred vampires. Five Barons. A Viscountess and a Count! And you go and try to piss her off. I tell you, there’s a thing called self-preservation, and you got none of that. I mean, you probably would still have your arm if you did. Had a cousin like you, a nice girl. Pretty too, with a bosom that made the corpses drool. She—”

The vampire was… chatty. One of such prowess was expected to at least act differently. An unwritten rule, if there had been one. With great power, one had to cultivate a great image, lest his peers mock them.

And the things the vampire spoke of, while said strangely and nonchalantly, made Oswald’s mind spin. A Count was a legendary existence. The Baron had spent hundreds of years trying to even touch the edge of becoming a Viscount. Oswald was dying to scheme, to flatter, to earn some trust, but the vampire was unleashing his presence and neither he nor the ghouls could move.

So, he stayed bowed close to the ground amid trembling ghouls, vampires, and magi, waiting for the newcomer to decide their fate.

And the latter chattered on and on…

And Oswald listened.

***

Sunday struggled to focus and opened his mouth to curse, but something hard and fast hit his body and sent him tumbling to the side. He was quite a bit stronger than before, and that came with sturdiness too, so the damage was minimal, but the surprise was unwelcome.

He stood up with a groan—more out of habit than because it hurt—and his eyes nearly popped out of his head as he saw a mass of flesh barrel toward him.

The fuck?! It was his only thought at the moment. A wall of dark red appeared before him, growing from the floor and blocking the attack. The sound that followed was disgusting but the force behind that would’ve left him crushed into a paste or at the very least with a few broken limbs.

“Mera?” he said slowly. This was all too much at once. His head thumped from exhaustion.

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“What are you doing here?!” the woman asked, appearing next to him.

It was his first time seeing her so distressed. Mesmer Steel swirled around her in sharp pieces like fractured mirrors. The waves of essence and power were almost intoxicating. No. Suffocating. Sunday felt like he was a tiny feather on a stormy sea.

This is insanity. This… my talent is trying to kill me! No, the one behind it!

“What’s—”

His eyes widened as he saw the Baron scream while tearing the shifting mass of flesh apart with his clawed fingers, only for it to melt in the air and regrow. And in the middle of the mass was a smiling man. Unfamiliar, yet familiar. The smile, the eyes, the presence.

It felt like meeting an old friend—no. It felt like meeting the strange twin of an old friend. Sunday’s mind struggled to catch up, but he was given no time as laughter echoed and the monstrous flesh went crazy.

***

Trust walked outside the sealed doors. He had felt the new presence as soon as it had appeared in the Arcanum. After all, he controlled the whole place with but a thought due to the core spell he had stolen. His experiment was too important to be interrupted. What he was trying to create was—

Another quasi-spell array broke. What was it this time? Six seconds? Whatever was coming, was not of this region. He had a few figures in mind, but magi wouldn’t act so crudely. Someone so strong would have the spells to circumvent the enchantments and traps.

This was something else. Brute force… who was capable of that but those beneath the Corpse Kings, or a vampire at the level of a Count? Another chosen? Impossible. The Flower Region was unimportant, and with all the upheaval happening in the world due to the talents of the chosen, and the uprising of the cults, few would have the time to interrupt his experiment.

That’s why it was all so perfect. But things never went the way they had to, did they? First the Prophet—stronger than anticipated. Crazier too. The bastard knew what the cauldron was, and yet he was laughing at it and even trying to assist the process. Typical for a follower of Joy. Trust had killed one or two in his time, but this one had too much of a divine spark inside him.

Not good. Not good at all. He was not supposed to be so strong. The Prophet had been barely a rank three at best a day ago. Trust had checked. Was it the interference that had caused this? The Divine were peculiar about some things, despite their madness…

No. It couldn’t be.

A crash. A moan that came from the stone itself as something forced it apart. A sorrowful cry from the Arcanum’s interwoven enchantments, from the living parts that made it all tick. Another broken, as if a hand had somehow reached into the wall and pulled it out.

Trust calmed himself down.

Whoever was coming wouldn’t be stronger than him, surely. It was not likely. With the spells he carried, there was no need to worry. Banish was enough to guarantee his safety. He could even use it on himself to escape—

A woman appeared like a ghost thirty feet away from him. Beautiful, with hair as black as the darkest night, and eyes that contained nothing but fury. A wight? Truly unexpected. He could count the wights who could do this on one hand, he could—

“Fucking bastard,” she cursed.

Her voice was a whisper, but it reached him. That voice… Trust made himself whimper, and he let the spells inside of him dry out—a blade was already at his neck. He raised both hands. Wights were difficult to gauge by reasonable means. Not like magi or even vampires. He had to be smart about it. A tactical retreat?

“I surrender!”

He wasn’t about to, but she didn’t know it. He had brought one of the worst spells he knew of along, and he was glad. All he had to do was charge it and wait for the opportune moment. A touch and even a wight wouldn’t stand a chance to resist the banishment—

A fist crashed into his face and Trust felt the cold stone meet his body. He was undead, but it still hurt like a motherfucker. Wights could do that. Their punches often transcended dimensions.

“I said I—”

A kick sent him toward the ceiling but at the same time, a hand grabbed his ankle. The wight threw him toward the door with strength that was not typical for a representative of the race. Trust felt something break and groaned. He could fix the damage. He was prepared, but—

“Cast a spell and I’ll make a piss pot of your skull.”

Trust froze. His mind whirled as he remembered a name. All ambition and desire to see things through melted away. His banishment spell was almost done, but was it wise…? If she found him afterward…

“M-Milady. I didn’t mean to offend—”

“Where is he?”

“H-he? The chosen?”

Trust suddenly understood it all. He didn’t need much to put the pieces together.

Sunday wasn’t supposed to be participating in this. That’s why he had left him out of it! There was no possible way for the undead to have gotten inside. Trust focused on the room and allowed himself to glimpse through the enchantments inside.

“Fuck.”

Trust closed his eyes and focused on healing and reinforcement as the wight gabbed him, and used his body as a battering ram against the stone door. Why did he have to seal it so well?!

***

Why is this happening?!

Mera and the Baron were fighting the raging mass of shapeless flesh, and losing.

And he was supposed to kill this guy alone?! The Prophet was the strongest thing Sunday had ever seen! This was not a simple monster! This was pitting a piranha against a fucking Kraken, with Sunday being the former!

The gravitational pull returned, and Sunday barely held onto the crystal-clad body. The force was greater than he could handle, and the only thing that saved him was the crystal coffin that managed to resist. Sunday could still feel some sort of essence leave it and sink into the void.

Someone screamed in the next moment, but it was hard to tell who through the sounds of constantly exploding bones and flesh striking stone.

“AAAAAAAAAAH!”

Another explosion, stronger than any so far followed, and the walls near Sunday were coated in wet flesh and pieces of bone. The Baron roared and appeared near Sunday, painting a sorry picture. One of his legs was gone, and part of his stomach was missing too. It was all regrowing quickly but something was off.

The pieces of wet flesh moved and flew backward as if time was being reverted. Then the crystal Sunday was hiding behind cracked. The void was increasing its pull.

The Prophet laughed.

“I see now! I see! What a gift! What a pleasure! Thank you, thank you! My Gods! Thank you!”

Gods? More than one?!

Sunday peeked horrified as the man ripped off his left arm and threw it in the hole, then smiled. The flesh coated him, rather than reforming into the monstrous blob this time, and soon he was no longer human, but a disgusting, smiling abomination who had regrown the lost limb.

Then he reverted to being a human, at least in look. So familiar…

The Prophet reached into the air and his limb elongated as fast as a bullet, wrapping around the floating Mera who had appeared fifteen feet away and attempted a sneak attack. She screamed as Mesmer Steel instantly descended in the shape of swords, cutting at the flesh.

The monstrous thing kept laughing and reforming, until finally, it wrapped around her leg.