Chapter 73 - Execution

"Grandiose words for a flying corpse. Let me offer you a reality check," said the she-devil garbed in brass armor, fitting that terrible gauntlet in her hand.

He knew her. Not personally, but through the words of his kin, prayers of his worshippers, and news from his sources. They all pointed to one fact—she was a devil.

When her elder daughter was chosen, she eradicated three monasteries of the Aetheric Collective in a single night in her search. That was more than a dozen Observers with three shades and at least a hundred of the lesser kind.

And this was all before the Duskfall. So she managed all that in the enemy's territory, where they had the advantage in terms of perspective domain. That's to say, they weren't suppressed by the Objectivity of the world, but she was.

Even with everything going against her, she still came out victorious. If that wasn't a devil, he didn't know who else was.

The only reason she didn't get her daughter back was her inability to defeat her own child. No one could stand against that monster after the false god descended into her.

Anywho, their plan didn't account for this worst case. How could it? The fact that the vessel had managed to run this far and hide for so long was already outside their initial plan.

His orders for today were straightforward—extract the vessel. What he couldn't grasp was how she had managed to call for help in barely twenty minutes. And to have contacted her mother, of all people.

It was all disheartening news, sure. But Quentin was no pushover. He was this close to mastering the fifth Vision in the Shade sequence of the Observation record imparted to his kin by the Mother—Templars of preservation.

The fifth shade in this sequence, Justiciar, represented a watershed in terms of difficulty. The sheer amount of preservation essence one needed to accumulate from their followers was mind-boggling, and only years of unwavering perseverance had brought him to this point.

And now was his chance to reach higher. To earn himself the fame needed to establish his own temple. His feat of shutting down the Puppeteer of Crimson Court, followed by an ascension to the Justiciar, would cement his position in the kin.

What if she killed a bunch of shade-three trash? He was a literal god who had gained the adoration of tens of thousands. A peak fourth-shade High Templar.

He had survived a spar against Father Oras, a Fifth shade Justiciar, a kin of the Mother. She was just that, a Fifth shade Observer. On top of that, different viewpoints at the same shade weren't always comparable in strength.

He was confident that his prowess of preservation could overpower this puppeteer devil any day. Not everyone was as good of a turtle as that foreigner bastard. He knew enough about Lightveins to judge that she didn't counter him well.

So he retracted all the preservation essence he had been spending on that turtle and redistributed it within his own body. He had to take this seriously.

Soon, the building with the vessel began shaking, and a staircase emerged out of it. It had to be that devil's doing. That disrespectful filth, a sheeple, and the vessel ascended the stairs with an unconscious mundane one floating behind them.

Those useless fools! More than five Templar initiates were sent alongside him, each with two shades in their perception, to handle the situation. How, then, had they failed to defeat such pathetic rabble?

DISGRACEFUL! I shall fix that now! He resolved himself. Such a stain on Mother's dignity couldn't stand!

And time was nigh. The she-devil was done equipping her hallmark gauntlets. One can only be so strong if they have to use outside help to fight. This only bolstered his confidence.

Quentin assumed a square stance high in the air, gazing down at the rabble below. He was prepared for anything. Having sacrificed the past month's insight to Mother, he felt more ready than ever for the confrontation ahead.

But he was going to be smart about the fight. Preservation as a concept was more suited towards defense, so he would first gauge her power and wait out a couple attacks before going in with his own.

It was a perfect plan.

"COME, devil! I shall end your legacy today."

But then he felt something decay around him. The antithesis of preservation. The air shifted, and a whirlwind began to form around him. Smoke churned out of nothingness, and the air dried.

Out of an abundance of caution, he drew three spheres of absolute preservation all around him.

The she-devil had her hands spread wide apart, looking up at him like the god he was. Puppet strings reeled out of that gauntlet on her arms, attaching to one thing after another. Surely, she was going to hurl all those objects at him.

He could dodge such a slow attack a million times before it could ever reach him. The nerve of this woman! Was she treating him like a child?

Quentin looked at the cattle beneath him, unsure if this was a joke. The devil was staring right back at him with those glowing red eyes.

It was coming. His own pupils shone a brilliant golden as he prepared to fight with small-scale Aria of dooms. He would launch it right after her attack.

But then he heard that devilish voice, "This is for the despair you wrought."

CLAP

A rush of smoke surged around him, and an inconceivable amount of pressure attacked him from all sides, threatening to squeeze his very being. Yet, this was only the beginning.

Quentin instantly realized he had landed himself in a trap. She wasn't wasting time putting on those gauntlets—she had been preparing this since the start!

Pouring his essence into the cape on his back—a gift from his kin, he charged out while his spheres followed behind him, nothing but a blur given his speed. But that's when the pressure increased, and he realized what was trapping him.

Odd objects floated in the air around him, all of them connected to form what could only be called a towering bony hand. Each of the fingers was made up of countless items, a thread sewing them all together.

But Quentin didn't care about their form. All he saw was an opportunity to gain the upper hand.

He didn't need to fly straight out of this monstrosity. He could just pass between the 'fingers.' A smile extended on his face, and he swerved mid-flight, rushing through the useless imitation.

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Not even two seconds had passed since she started her offense, but he had already found a way to nullify it. She might be some devil, but he was the son of a goddess herself!

However, right that instant, the pressure increased a couple notches and his flight faltered. And before he could catch his breath, a bone-chilling scene played out in front of him.

The smoke swirling aimlessly became coherent out of nowhere, and like flesh wrapping around bones, the formless smoke created a palm centered around all those fake fingers.

A sinking feeling surged from within. This wasn't good. He involuntarily looked back, and what he saw horrified him.

It was another one of these gigantic palms, made out of nothing but random machine parts and air itself. And it was hurtling towards him with an unprecedented momentum.

Out of sheer panic and a will to preserve himself, he conjured however many spheres of absolute preservation he could manage around him and braced.

The pressure alone seemed enough to squeeze him to death. It was only gonna get worse.

And then, without any mercy, it came.

CRACK

BOOOM

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"Father Oras! I…I come with a message from the Omniscient Gazebinder," shouted the devotee, his voice shaking intensely.

Kneeling in front of the largest statue of Asea in the realm, Oras looked back at the quivering devotee. Sparing the child some terror, Oras replied in a soothing voice, "Tell me, child, what does Ruppert have for me?"

The devotee's knees only grew weaker at the mention of the Gazebinder's name. Still, he persisted and spoke with a stammer, "Father Quentin has failed to procure the vessel in time, and…now, Puppeteer of Crimson Court, Andrea Lightvein has arrived to rescue her daughter. Father Quentin has chosen to pit himself against the devil, and…and at this rate, the temple will lose the vessel as well as Father himself."

"By thy grace, Mother, kin shall rise," muttered Oras—one final prayer before he got up and walked towards the devotee, his celestial robe dragging behind him on the floor. Once out of the sight of Mother's statue, his eyes turned sharp, and he held the shoulder of the devotee that had been following behind him meekly.

Looking him in the eyes, Oras said, "Go and ask High Templar Siris to wake up Mother's new avatar. Ask him to tell her that it pains me to put such a burden on her so soon, but we can't afford to lose kin and a vessel on the same day."

"Ye…yes. Yes, Father!"

"Also…" smiled Oras as he swirled his finger in the air, and in no time, a droplet floated in between them. The moment the devotee laid his eyes on it, a hungry look flashed in his eyes, and he pounced at it without regard for his station.

Oras didn't mind it; instead, he encouraged it. After all, Mother's tears were perfect to reward a concerned devotee. At least until they couldn't live without it.

"Thank you, Father! THANK YOU FATHER! I will, I will…never forget this grace!" replied the devotee with a zealous fervor in his eyes as he watched his fingers elongate and arms shrivel—breaking out of their mortal shell.

"Now go, child."

"YES FATHER!"

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Vern stared at the sky, stupefied by the marvel Esther's mother had conjured. In mere moments, two colossal palms, each towering higher than the tallest clock towers he'd seen, materialized out of thin air and crushed the priest into oblivion.

But Vern saw more than just that. One moment, everything was stable. Next, the whole station was uprooted from the ground, its components floating in the air as they formed the skeleton of titanic hands.

Ethereal strings erupted from the gauntlets in her grasp, spearing through the objects with the precision of a seamstress's needle, binding the trembling objects into a macabre unity mirroring that of human bones. Whirlwinds of air encircled each of those bony fingers, the flow so rapid that it almost acted like solid skin.

And then, before anyone could react, the colossal constructs clashed with a thunderous, bone-jarring impact.

His blood boiled simply looking at this spectacle from the sidelines. This is the power of a real Observer. Capability of someone who knew what they were doing with their eyes.

He wasn't one to yearn for more power, but this was…fascinating. And soon, he would have to shift his mindset in this regard anyway. Yharl Ballin had put it clearly for him. The world was never going back to the way it was before this disaster.

The whole planet was on a one-way trip to doom, and it would be stupid to think he could survive that without power. Power that he had already tasted. It felt great to finally have some sense of control and balance in his life.

This was the first step, and he would keep moving forward until he could decide the balance of all factors in his life. For now, he just had to get good enough to find Ariane, ensure her safety, and overcome Hensen.

That was a great balance to strive for, at least according to him. But his musings ended abruptly as Esther's mother turned her crimson eyes towards him for a second and ordered, "Take good care of her. I'll be right back."

"I am fine, Mom!" She wasn't. She looked paler than ever, barely managing to remain standing even when she was being supported by Vern's shoulder.

Who knows how many days she was down there in that deserted and almost haunted basement? There was no food, no water. She couldn't go out, for that risked being discovered by her watchers.

There was no one to help, no one she could trust. Nothing was working out for her down there. She was doomed to either die there alone or in the grasp of her enemies. Just the thought alone terrified him.

So he nodded solemnly, but her mother was already gone. Reeling those unnaturally long strings, she propelled herself into the air. Her rose pink hair fluttered behind her, each of her moves naturally domineering and graceful.

"Hey, friend. Small world, eh?" hollered the swordsman as he landed down using his scarf on the uprooted ruins of the station with those gigantic palms in the backdrop. Sheathing his blade into an ornamental scabbard, he joined their group of four.

Cera was still unconscious. Esther's mother had done something to the headpiece Esther liked to call Fen, and it was now carrying Cera. Pretty neat if someone asked him.

Trying and failing to execute a bow because of Esther, he settled for lowering his head, replying, "Thank you very much for coming to our aid—"

Before he could finish, however, "Uhh. Right! Thank you very much, master swordsman. If it weren't for you, I'd be a puppet just like the ones my mother controls," Esther chimed in, seeming quite lovely.

"Where's my gratitude?" grumbled Ambrose, playing with his cane.

Her eyes instantly narrowed, and she strained forward to look past Vern's face at Ambrose, "You are twenty rescues away from being absolved for what you did to Fen!"

"Rude," he replied in a meek voice, looking away from them.

This unnecessary banter went a long way in anchoring Vern at the moment and calming him down. They had succeeded. This was it. It was over. There was no question that Esther's mother had it all under control.

Even if that priest wasn't dead yet, he would be in no time. This situation was already resolved as far as he was concerned.

It took a million unexpected turns, but the net result was great. He Shaded his Perception, saved a beautiful human from a terrifying fate, met new people, made some friends, learned far too many secrets, and had a couple directions for what to work on.

So, with a light heart, he listened to the swordsman speak, "My friends, you don't have to thank me. I didn't help you so much because of the kindness in my heart, but to save my own skin and the Vigil's. I couldn't let the whole of Elmhurst down by offending Lightveins as a member of Vigil. Vigil shouldn't be eradicated just because I couldn't hold back a sinner."

Esther quietened down, turning her gaze towards that valiant figure in the sky, "She's not as bad as everyone makes her out to be…"

Just then, a golden explosion burst out from the center of those gigantic palms, and a radiant figure emerged out of the hollow of those colossal hands, fleeing in the opposite direction with a frenzied pace.

"I WILL REMEMBER THIS DISGRACE!"

But Esther's mother wasn't having any of it. A single wave of her hand and all the objects forming the skeleton of an arm rearranged, even higher in the sky, coalescing into a single fist.

"This is for the pain you inflicted."

CRASHH

Like a fly being swatted, the fist pummeled that radiant priest into the ground, the tremors making it hard for Vern to stand straight.

She extended her hands, those fingers dancing with deliberate grace, just like a puppet master controlling the puppet's fate.

"MY KIN WILL REMEMBER THIS DISGRACE!"

Strings wrapped around the limbs of the priest, pulling his limp body back up. The man tried to protest, but they only constricted around his limbs further, digging into his skin.

The strings pulled him into the air and laid him down on a platform made of rapidly flowing air. It burnt and scraped his back, but that was the least of his worries.

"AGHHHHHH!!!!"

A needle hundreds of meters tall, shining with a deadly gleam, hung above him in the sky, its infinitely sharp tip pointed at him.

"This is for daring to take another one of my daughters!" she shouted, letting go of the strings, an unmistakable fury fueling her words.

Like the guillotine's decisive drop, the needle plunged from the heavens, a metallic comet streaking towards its inevitable conclusion.

"MOTHER WILL REMEMBER THIS DISGRACE!"

Vern, Ambrose, Esther, and Shinsei all watched the execution with rapt attention, not one of them flinching at those disgusting pleas.

This is the end.

However…

"Don't worry, child, for I am here," came a voice that sent shivers down Vern's spine and the whole world stilled.