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The Sanorski family's capital estate was modest, though tastefully built. It was a three-story building of dark gray stone with flecks of white and black, surrounded by a small but well-kept garden. Provincial nobles, the Sanorski were never known for their wealth or influential connections. By the standards of the capital, of course. That was why their estate was located in a quiet and presentable neighborhood but not so close to the center of the capital. The more surprising was the cultists' attention to this family, and more specifically to their mansion. Even in the same neighborhood, there were many more tasty targets for the servants of the Devils. But the order to the separate assault group, which had two fighters of the forty-third and forty-first level, was strict. Capture them as quickly as possible. The attack on the estate was led personally by the deviless, who supervised this cell of cultists. It also explained the reasons for the rush to a couple of her most high-level and useful followers.

It turned out that the deviless' immediate superior was very interested in two things in this estate. The first was the collection of some very specific artifacts that had settled in the family's hoards two generations ago. The provincial aristocrats had no idea of the true value of the artifacts that had been dusting in their chests in the basement, but the Devils who had gotten wind of them were very interested in them. It seemed that in combination with a few other artifacts, they could be used in some way that would be of great benefit to the inhabitants of Hell. The second thing the devils were interested in was the youngest of the family's daughters, who possessed some incredibly rare soul trait that was also very valuable to the Devil. Ghyar was not particularly interested in such details, however. If his Mistress wanted the bling and the girl, he would get them. Why she wanted them was none of his business.

He was an extremely dangerous and skillful fighter long before he became a part of the cult, with his unusual Sea Raider class and epic Berserk class. Now that he was literally overflowing with the power granted by the Mistress, he could easily slaughter all the people in this manor alone. And with the support of the cultists and his brother, who was of the same class and only two levels behind him, he could do it with his bare hands. It was all the more surprising that the Mistress had been silently and intently watching the manor for two minutes with the help of some sensor artifact from the roof of the neighboring building, where there was a craftsman's workshop combined with a trading shop. One would rather suspect that the Mistress fears some kind of trickery or set-up from her eternal kin/colleagues/rivals. Finally, a few command images came over the mental link from the Mistress.

Attack. The guards are in the lobby. Weaklings. The girl is here. Some servants over here. One here. The rest are over there. The defense is tied to the lady of the manor. I'll take care of her. You have the girl and the artifacts.

When he received the command, Gyahar grinned and grasped the enchanted long two-handed axe that had been passed down in his family from father to eldest son for seven generations. But as soon as he took a step, he received another thought-image that bore the imprint of vague anxiety.

Something strange. I don't understand it. Stay alert.

Taking note of the warning, Gyahar listened to himself. But the legendary-level Danger Sense was silent. There was no threat ahead. The closest thing to fear was a band of mercenaries that had taken up residence in the fortified estate of a wealthy merchant a block and a half away. So, setting aside his doubts, Gyahar led the attack, rushing forward. The fence and the wrought iron gates were struck with the combined blows of three battle wands, filled with magic to the brim. The seals and defenses were instantly critically overloaded and exploded with a resounding bang. Splashes of molten metal flew in all directions, and before the last drops had even touched the ground, the cultists had already approached the manor itself. The front doors, far better enchanted than the gates, still couldn't withstand Gyahar's ramming. Two hundred points of Strength was a lot to take in. And when you're overfilled by the Mistress's power, you can't be stopped by the gates of most full-fledged castles. The thick oak sashes shattered, the defenses discharging their power, but they were almost completely repelled by the complex of protective amulets. Gyahar didn't even pay attention to that, though.

Before the dozen or so guards that had taken up defenses behind the hastily assembled barricade of household furniture could react, he burst into their ranks. The oldest of them was only level twenty-three and was chopped in half before he realized anything. The subordinates outlived him by a fraction of a second. Three seconds later, only Gyahar stood in the spacious hallway amidst the wreckage of furniture and chopped bodies. With a crackling sound, a curved bolt of lightning struck from the ceiling-mounted defense crystal, absorbed by the amulet without a trace. Spitting the piece of flesh his teeth had torn from the throat of his already slain foe, Gyahar grinned. It would take something far more serious to wound him.

While he was looking around, the other cultists and his Mistress appeared behind him. After looking around, the satisfied deviless mentally communicated to her minions:

Take care of the girl, Gyahar. The entrance to the cellar is under the stairs. The chests you need are on the far wall from the entrance. You take care of them, Fyahar. I'll pay a visit to the head of the family on the second floor. The rest of you, take care of the servants.

The most desirable voice, so sweet to his heart, filled Gyahar's soul, or rather what was left of it, with the sweetest warmth. He looked at the Mistress as she walked slowly to the second floor, her hips swaying and her tail wagging in an incredibly seductive manner, and then he moved in that direction. The door behind which the girl was hiding was blown off its hinges by a single blow of his foot and thrown into the depths of the room. Grabbing the axe, the cultist burst inside the room, which turned out to be an art studio. All the available space was littered with tables with ready-made paints, powders, easels, canvases, sets of brushes, palettes, and other junk. In the center of the room was a still life of several exquisite vases and silver goblets.

There was no danger except that the girl in question had squealed at the cultist's appearance, shrieking in the far corner, her long hand held out in a trembling grip. She looked hardly more than fifteen. Slender, wearing a paint-stained apron over a work dress of dark gray cloth. Her long hair was in two braids. She stared at Gyahar with horrified gray eyes. Eleventh level, and unusual in both senses for a noblewoman, the Artist class.

When the cultist came at her, she let out another panicked squeal and threw a brush at him, then began throwing clay pots of colored powders, other brushes, and other small items on the small table beside her. Laughing contentedly, Gyahar moved at her, dodging the projectiles as they flew at him. He grabbed the shrieking girl by the hair and pulled her to him. Mistress will be pleas...

A sense of mortal danger flashed through his consciousness, and Gyahar activated his Dash skill to break the distance. But nothing happened. Blinking, the cultist stared at the girl with dazed, uncomprehending eyes. At what moment did she manage to grab him by the throat? Why the hell can't he move even a finger?! For a few seconds, he and the girl stared at each other in absolute silence. Then her face changed. Or rather, it remained the same, just changed expression. The horror and fear were gone, giving way to a complete absence of any emotion. The banal change in expression looked so eerie that Gyahar felt a long-forgotten sense of dread in his chest. And then, the cultist's very essence began to quickly leave his body, flowing into the girl through the tiny palm that held Gyahar firmly by the throat. And the cultist's body began to crumble into black ashes. The axe fell out of his hand, which had lost its fingers. His entire body began to crack and crumble like a sand figure in a strong wind. If Gyahar could, he would have roared in terrible pain and horror. But the cultist couldn't move a single muscle, he couldn't even blink. Mistress! In desperation, Gyahar tried to call out to her through the mental link. And realized with horror that he could feel neither Mistress nor his cultist brothers. For the first time in decades, he did not feel the unbreakable bond with the One who had become the meaning of his existence. No, that's impossible! No!!!

With the indomitable fury of a Berserker, gathering all his strength and power, Gyahar lunged forward. But instead of a crushing attack, the result of his extreme effort was a ludicrous flail of stumps of arms, already scattered to the elbows, and an incoherent wheeze. At that moment, the girl who had never changed her face clenched her palm into a fist, breaking the cultist's throat like an empty eggshell with a quiet crunch. In the same instant, the remains of the body turned to black sand and crumbled to the floor, along with the protective amulets and clothing. The girl stood over what was left of the cultist for a moment, and then her face changed back to the pretty face of a young frightened girl. Without saying a word, she bent down and picked up several protective amulets and battle artifacts, including some that were tied personally to Gyahar and would attack anyone else who touched them. She picked up a huge two-handed axe as if it weighed no more than a brush and quickly left the workshop.

She made her way through the bloodstained hallway littered with stumps of bodies and headed for the second floor, ignoring the signs of the monstrous butchery. Climbing the stairs, she turned right and soon found herself in front of tall solid oak doors covered with elaborate carvings. She knocked cautiously and waited for a muffled "Come in" before effortlessly pushing one of the doors open and slipping between them. Inside was a spacious office furnished with rather expensive furniture. A desk, a couple of bookcases, a couple of armchairs, a sofa, and several small round tables. Everything was done with great skill and in one exquisite style. In one of the armchairs, situated by a large window with a great view of the city, sat an elderly woman dressed in a dark maroon closed dress of rather expensive fabric. Her long gray hair was gathered into a well-groomed ponytail. In her hands, she held a saucer and a small porcelain mug. Only one detail stood out of the picture of idyllic domesticity. A small pile of black sand lying in the middle of the carpet in the center of the study. When the girl appeared in the office, she took a small sip, put the saucer and the mug on the table next to the chair, and looked sternly at her:

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Amalia, my dear. How many times do I have to tell you not to walk around the house in your work clothes?" The old woman said in a stern voice, looking reproachfully at the girl who had carefully leaned the huge axe against the wall.

"I beg your pardon, Mother. It won't happen again," Amalia replied in a low voice, her eyes downcast.

"How many times have I heard that before? Look at you. Is this what a proper lady should look like? You came into my office with dirty shoes on."

At these words, the girl cast an embarrassed glance at her slippers, which had left bloody footprints on the carpet.

"You don't appreciate poor Gerda's work at all. She and her girls put so much effort into keeping our house in order, but you don't care," continued the old woman, sternly reprimanding Amalia.

"It's not like that, Mother. I really appreciate everything they do for us."

"It's hard to believe..."

The conversation was interrupted by a cautious knock on the door.

"Come in!"

The heavy oak doors slid open, and a tall, slender, aged man entered silently. He looked to be about fifty, and his once pitch-black hair was streaked with gray. He was dressed in an expensive suit made of black and white fabrics. The only things that spoiled the image of the ideal owner of the uncommon Butler class were bloodstained sleeves and once snow-white gloves. Once inside, he clicked his heels and made a ceremonial bow, first to the older woman, then to Amalia.

"Mrs. Henrieta, young Mrs. Amalia. I'm sorry I let these scoundrels cause you so much trouble. Today I will pack my things, and tomorrow morning I will leave this house, which I am not worthy of."

"Really, come on, Basil. What happened was not your fault. If anyone is to be blamed, it's those idlers who missed the whole mess."

At these words, the older woman cast an angry glance out the window, where the alien skies of Hell were visible.

"Your mercy for me is boundless, Mistress Henrietta. In that case, I daresay we should pack and prepare to leave. I've already taken care of all uninvited guests and the rest of the household."

"Hmmm..."

Pensive, the old woman slowly got up from her chair and walked toward the window. Her posture was perfect, and her every movement was elegant. One could immediately see a true aristocrat who had been taught countless rules of etiquette since childhood. For a few minutes in complete silence, she gazed sadly at the embattled Eternal and then sadly said.

"I felt I shouldn't come to Eternal. My mother told me, may God rest her soul. The Capital never brings anything good."

Stepping away from the window, she approached one of the walls. There were many paintings hanging in the study. Some were small, most were medium-sized, and a couple were full-length portraits. One of them depicted two people. A young man in expensive blued armor leaning with both hands on a long two-handed sword, and a young and very pretty girl with long blond hair, dressed in a snow-white dress. She holding him under her arm. Stopping in front of the portrait, Henrieta sighed sadly. If she looked closely, a careful person could recognize in the old woman the young beauty depicted on the canvas.

"It's a good thing my sweet Guyon can't see all this ugliness."

"I do not doubt that the late Mr. Guyon would not have stood by for a second but would have stood up for his family and country with arms in his hands."

"Yes, that's exactly what he would have done, my sweet Guyon," the older woman said sadly, then shifted her gaze to a nearby portrait.

It showed a young man in good hunting clothes, with an expensive elven bow in his hands, standing over a noble deer. An unarmed eye could see his resemblance to the man in the neighboring portrait.

"My sweet Anri... It's not going to be easy for him. He's still so young. This will be a great blow to him."

"Young Master Anrian is a worthy son of his father. I have no doubt, Lady Henrietta, that he will meet the heavy burden of being head of the Sanorsk family."

"I know, after all, I raised him. My sweet boy. To think how fast he's grown up. I'm glad he chose to stay at the family estate rather than come to the capital with me. At least, his passion for hunting has done him good."

Tears welled up in the old woman's eyes. She took out a white silk handkerchief and carefully wiped them away, then said with sudden determination:

"Pack our things, Basil. But don't take too much. Only the most valuable and necessary. Including those pretty trinkets that our uninvited guests were so interested in."

Raising his eyebrows, the butler coughed in surprise:

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Henrieta, but are they worth taking?"

"Of course, they are, Basil. After all, can't we come to visit with empty hands?" said Henrieta as a matter of course.

"Isn't that too risky, Lady Henrieta?" A genuine concern could be heard in the butler's voice.

"Of course, it's risky. But after something like this, we must pay a return visit, if only as a courtesy. Besides," the older woman's voice became sharply serious. "Otherwise, we won't be able to leave. The hosts of our uninvited guests have done a very good job. I must give them credit. We'll have to take some risks. But we have no other chance of leaving this city."

The butler, who had also become extremely serious, bowed and clicked his heels:

"I understand you, Lady Henrieta. Give me exactly ten minutes, and I'll get everything ready in the best possible way."

"I don't doubt you for a second, Basil."

Ten minutes later, several dusty chests stood on the desk in the study. One contained dozens of vials of potions, another contained various enchanted jewelry, and a third contained several daggers, stilettos, throwing knives, and even a couple of short swords. Henrieta, Amalia, and Basil were quickly, but without fuss, sorting through the contents. Their faces were frighteningly devoid of any emotion. After putting away what they deemed necessary, the trio made their way to the heavy bronze framed mirror in the corner of the study, decorated with floral ornamentation. They stopped in front of it and began to undress. Their movements were frighteningly synchronized. Not a minute later, the two dresses and the butler's suit were thrown aside, and the naked trio stood in front of the mirror, their faces equally blank.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. And then, their bodies shuddered and began to change at the same time, melting away like wax figures thrown into a fireplace. Their hair and faces disappeared, their stature changed to the same height, the outlines of their figures and their sexes disappeared, and their skin became colorless white. Not even ten seconds later, three faceless and sexless figures of continuously flowing flesh stood in place of the elderly man and the young girl. Then, all three figures shuddered once again and began to change rapidly once more. The faces reappeared, the contours of the figures were outlined, and the hair grew rapidly.

In a minute, in front of the mirror, stood a tall, almost two-meter-tall deviless with milky white skin covered with thin bright scarlet lines that formed a mesmerizing pattern on her body. Her long dark maroon hair reached down to her tailbone, from which grew a long and very flexible tail. A pair of sharp, bright scarlet, steeply curled horns grew from the sides of her head. Long, slender legs ended below the knees with clawed paws covered in dark red scales. The wrists of her hands were also clawed, scaly paws of the same color.

At her sides stood two tall men of very strong build, broad-shouldered, and covered with numerous scars and tattoos. They were similar in appearance, though one was slightly taller. With stern, rough faces, powerful square jaws, and dark eyes. Their brown hair and long beards were braided into braids. Anyone of their acquaintance would recognize them as Gyahar, a forty-third level Sea Raider and Berserker, Fyahar, a similar class but forty-first level, and Charming Embrace, forty-ninth level. Only a few of the most powerful residents of Hell would be able to sense something wrong when they looked at them if they looked closely.

For a few seconds, the trio stared intensely into the mirror. Then the deviless said in a languid voice, slowly stretching the words:

"Good... Very good, my boys. But it has to be perfect. This time, the audience will be very picky."

Grinning contentedly, Gyahar wrapped his arms around the deviless and pulled her to him, groping her D-size breasts with large dark cherry nipples.

"We'll finalize it!"

"Fyahar, with an equally satisfied face, joined the deviless from the back and began kneading her firm ass."

"We'll do the best!"

From the outside, it looked as if two naked men with satisfied faces were frankly groping the flailing devil in all places, from the feet to the top of her head. The only thing that stood out from this picture was their tense and concentrated comments that didn't fit with the action:

"It's tighter here."

"The subsidence in this area."

"Reinforce this area."

"The response is fuzzy, tighten it up."

"It's good here, but this side is a bit weak!"

The two men stepped back from the devil and examined her closely. Finally, Gyahar gave his verdict:

"Excellent! My turn."

The procedure was repeated twice more. Five minutes later, a satisfied deviless descended to the first floor of the Sanorski estate, clawing at the floor accompanied by two of her most loyal and useful servants. One of them was carrying a chest, where the artifacts of interest to the higher-ranking Devils were stacked. There was something else there, but it would have taken a lot of effort to spot it or to know exactly what to look for. The second, with a huge two-handed axe on his shoulder, lingered for a moment in the hallway where all the chopped-up bodies had disappeared from. Taking a small dark green vial from his belt pouch, he threw it at the ajar door of one of the side rooms where the bloody footprints led. There, right on the floor, was a mountain of bodies piled up. Cultist guards, the cultists themselves, and the Sanorski's household servants. The latter, like the cultists, had their necks snapped and their faces frozen with expressions of surprise or horror.

By the time the deviless and her acolytes stepped outside, the Sanorski estate behind them was ablaze with a special emerald alchemical flame that devoured everything it could get, whether it was metal or stone. This included burning out any clues the clairvoyants could use. The entire trio was about ready to leave the street when, suddenly, the deviless abruptly froze and turned around, looking around. The two cultists also instantly tensed up, preparing to fight. But there was no one but them in the vicinity. There was no danger at all. After waiting for ten seconds, Gyahar asked:

"Is something wrong?"

The frowning deviless wagged her tail a few times and slowly stretched out:

"I don't know... It feels so strange... Like... Never mind, we'll figure it out later. In the meantime, boys, let's hurry up. I'm sure Maternal Tenderness will be very happy to see us. Let's give her a nice surprise."

Laughing contentedly, the trio hugged each other and headed away. On the other side of Eternal, a cold sweat ran down the back of one of the huffing isekai, who was actively working on his own disguise as a cultist.

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