It was always a melody to him.

A melody that had been born out of the moans and cries of millennia ago, emerging from the streams of pure power and human passions along with the very existence of his person. One and the same melody, gradually becoming more complex, more whole, more complete, more comprehensive, drawing in other melodies, turning them into its likeness, giving them the same tone, the same shade of sound as it had originated in those infinitely distant ages. In time, when the consciousness of the spawned something became more and more complex, moving from empty instincts to complex behavioral patterns, acquiring what mortals living in the material world could call reason, the melody finally found its perfection.

He, in turn, had found a purpose, a singular purpose that allowed absolutely everything for its attainment - just like any of his kind. Each of them had found that purpose, always the same, always different for each of them. From the simplest of the inferior, born only a second ago, to the almost omnipotent Masters, beside whom he was like a newborn wisp, they all shared that purpose, even if they did not yet realize it. To acquire, to the very root, that which made them - them, that which raised and lowered, resurrected and destroyed. Whether it was Agony, Fear, Sloth, Gluttony, or the much-loved Lust, the essence of Vice, its true essence, remained the same for all who ascended.

Every soul, every feeling, every experience, and every existence became fuel, wood for an unquenchable flame that will burn forever as long as there are still those who will serve as fuel for this flame. A flame that your very existence longs to give to the entire universe, to show the truth that foolish mortals refuse to recognize, avoiding their happiness with all their might. They are the source of the fire, the origin of the fire that has nothing to do with the quintessence of annihilation we used to call the Flame. No, the flames of Hell were not fire. They were of a different nature, but they remained a forge and a furnace, a potter's wheel on which the newly converted souls were shaped, hardened, and reshaped.

Funny, but the creatures most hated by foolish mortals who didn't realize the inferiority they were trying so hard to rid themselves of were the ones who depended on the real world the most. Without souls, there is no Hell, or rather, there is no Fleur, which is full of the melody that souls exude, and fleur is everything. Once long ago, in those short fragments of eternity, when he was just learning about the universe, he managed to snatch a piece of the thoughts and aspirations of several Heroes summoned from the other world.

There were also those who, in their delightfully impudent chuckle, turned to Vice for power, childishly naïve, expecting either not to pay or to pay the lowest rate, not realizing that by opening their souls to them, by opening them to the quintessence of bliss, the distilled and materialized ultimate goal of all existence, they had lost the right to turn back. As it must be, as it has always been, as it will be forever and ever - souls are generated, manifested in the matter of the created world, to be later in their power. Every essence that did not enter any of the Domains, every groan, every beat, every thought and passion that flashed past their attention is a terrible insult, an insolent abuse of the essence of being, of creation itself.

From the same memory of the summoned, he managed to extract a strange association that compared their tribe to a term similar to that of the technological world. The children of the alien sky compared the devils to the magical analog of a self-aware AI network. Extremely complex, branching, all-encompassing, yet never born to start living. The devils were inherently farther from humans than any undead or bloodsuckers, but at the same time, they were immeasurably closer to typical planar creatures - creatures of souls and feelings that never had feelings of their own.

The human consciousness is banally unable to cover the whole range of their thinking, to look at the world from the right angle. Even the strongest of those who see can understand only the tip of an iceberg, the crown of a giant tree, the surface of a sea surface. Only another member of his species is able to understand the devil, and the rest of us can only react, speculate, and assume. They understood mortals many times better than they did. They played their melody on the strings of other people's souls.

A different one for each of us.

The melody was playing in this city at this moment and an hour had been prepared for a long time. The artists were carefully selected, and the orchestra formed the first notes, testing their sound in trial and error. The chords merged to achieve an acceptable sound, guiding the fingers of the musicians and the voices of the choral ensemble. This melody was perfect if only because it did not matter at all which way its sound would be directed, how exactly they decided to interrupt it - any outcome, any choice, any variant, from the most crushing of victories to humiliating defeat, was still equally acceptable, equally perfect.

Isn't that why their tribe is so hated by mortals? Is it not this realization that makes them shudder with terror at the mere thought of opposing them, of trying to play the same symphony with them? The realization that the one you have chosen as your enemy cannot lose, that he wins even if he is defeated? Nothing makes a living and intelligent being as angry as the realization, even if deep inside, not revealed even to the one who realized it, that any of your actions, opposition, or even complete apathy and submission will still become fuel for the fire of the domain that has chosen you.

And yet, and yet...

Among all the variations of melody, there are and will be those that are still sweeter, longer, purer, and more desirable. Were it not so, all the inhabitants of Hell would simply do nothing, for nothing would bring as much passion as anything else. No, there is always something to desire, to desire more than you have. Once long ago, maybe millennia ago, maybe a second later, he had wished for the Eternal Empire, wished for its Emperor and all his blood, wished for these lands and the mortals who had built their nest of destiny upon it.

The limit of the ideal remains unattainable because while your melody is playing, all the other participants in the performance are also playing, adding their notes. To calculate all other compositions in all variants, adjusting your music to all possible outcomes is the sweet molasses of an unfulfilled dream that grows farther and farther away with every step. A place of concentration of the powers of mortals, the embodiment of the will of their rulers, imbued to the last stone with sophisticated magic and the elusive antiquity of primordial Law, is more than capable of playing in a rather ramified manner.

The melody gradually slips away, forced to become simpler and simpler, becoming more and more bland the fewer conductors of his will remain. His children, his toys, his creations, and his slaves. Each of them cherishes the dream of turning their situations around, turning states inside out. Each one has to leave his dreams as dreams, for as long as he owns the Domain, as long as his Chorus sings, as long as each of the cells of the common Bank is assigned to his essence, it is his will that decides who they are, what they want and what they think about. Even those who can afford, by virtue of accumulated power or their choir, to think different thoughts, hiding them behind dozens of layers of subservient deceit, are only deceiving themselves.

He is Authority.

He is Desire.

He is Lust.

He is Sovereign.

But fewer and fewer are his subjects. More and more have to be put at stake in the name of the melody for fear of cutting it short, of failing to reach the dizzying crescendo. Those who have been marked by him, dubbed Legends in the mouths of mortals, are dying. The number of the Worthy who have managed to rise above the masses is gradually decreasing, and the ranks of the forced subjects who have already acquired reason and ambition but have not accumulated any significant chorus and have not developed their skills are thinning. There are almost no toys left. The mortals filled with Lust and borrowed power are dying, unable to hold on to the power given to them, giving in and falling, with no chance of getting back on their feet.

Mortals spare neither themselves nor others, defending their right to see the world in the same old colors, ugly and bland, defending the gray and dull reality, dying for the right to die, never realizing that they are ready to give them everything for almost nothing, because any price next to the priceless loses its immensity. It is pleasant, funny, and delightful to watch them tossing, blind, and broken from birth creatures that very soon will become something else, more worthy.

But those punches, those jabs...

His will is stretched over the whole stolen city of the doomed. He gropes it with a thousand and thousand gazes, looking out of the eyes of each and everyone who has just come here with his name and power in his heart. And fewer and fewer of those eyes remain, more unstable the melody, more quiet the notes played, more ephemeral the invisible ties that gradually drag the harnessed prey to the heart of his Domain, himself. The higher the losses, the more often and more clearly he has to invest his strength, realizing perfectly well that he is betting on the successful note already the very last bet - himself.

Otherwise, in a material world devoid of sound and sensuality, everything would have ended long ago. The incarnate celestials can always condescend to their blind flock, whereas they would all have nothing to counter such an argument. You cannot interrupt the sound of the melody of thunder and crashing rocks with just the sound of a thin flute. The whole song, the whole composition, belonged to him alone, to his domain and his will, and he alone was to bear the responsibility, to accept the burden of defeat that would inevitably come if he played by the usual rules.

No one plays by the rules, ever.

Every single inhabitant of the familiar universe, every embodiment of feeling that dared to come into reality, not for bread crumbs, not to show the true path to a hundred or two blinded souls, but for something worth any sacrifice, was sure to change the battlefield to something that would be more convenient for them. To cut off another's will, to confuse and alienate the Heralds and their creators from the piece that had already been grabbed, to prevent them from taking what had been taken.

He cut it off.

He took.

But this burden, lulled by his singing, is still awake, still fluttering the delicate web of tenderness and promises, refusing to open its eyes and see all the beauty of intimacy, all the ecstasy of expectation that will finally come to an end, never to stop again. And he continues to embroider new and new patterns with inaudible notes, continues to look with myriad eyes, to hear with innumerable ears, to collect and bind, to take what he desires, and therefore a priori belonging to him, just not knowing it yet. His creations continue his melody, so much belonging to him as longing to take his place.

His dance, his passion, his eternity, his delight, his Lust.

He's watching.

And he sees.

* * *

"From the side!" a scruffy bass yells a scruffily dressed barbarian mercenary, shielding a fellow soldier from a spiked tentacle, already severed but still searching for something to grab onto and inject the flesh-eating hallucinogenic poison. "From the side, you blind-eyed meger. He's hitting from the side! Side!"

"On the spear!" Another mercenary, younger and weaker, shouted, trying to hold the creature from which the tentacle had been cut off at a distance from the spear shaft, which was crackling with tension. "Get him on the spear, slow the bastard down, he's aaaaaaaaaaah!!!"

The intersection of the two largest streets in the central quarter was the scene of another massacre, of which there were countless. The human counterattack, sent by the corps that had managed to repel the first waves of the attack on the central city government, was overwhelmed at this intersection, first by a crowd of Lust-crazed cultists and the citizens simply affected by the fleur and then by several dozen elite creatures and a full corps of what in Hell was a line infantry. Unable to hide their movements from the devils, the humans and some number of non-human races were surrounded but no longer had the advantage of the fortified and enchanted walls of the city government on their side.

Perhaps now, each of them was cursing mentally that titled bastard, who, with his authority and uniform, had forced the decision to counterattack. They were sent for slaughter, even if they didn't realize it right away, because there were almost no elite fighters among them, and the unit itself consisted almost entirely of mercenary units of various degrees of fame and a certain number of regular army officers. Someone just needed to distract the devils while a smaller and better-equipped squad tried to breach the defenses of the nearest ritual point, a report about the importance of which came directly from the Palace.

"Hold formation, you infidel cattle. Hold scum!" Time after time, the squad leader applies the Commander's abilities, working to burn out his reserve but still pulling off the most massive effects of the flare, overpowering them, preventing his surrounding companions from finally falling into depravity and perishing without a fight at all. "Stand until Victory!"

The slogans are primitive and stupid because even without the education of a tactician, it is clear that victory is very far away and defeat is close, but the class skill still works. Experienced Commanders or Captains can give not single cheers but whole rousing speeches to strengthen both will and body with orders and even to work instead of Benefics, but he has only recently gained the second class and have not had time to develop it to perform such a thing.

The three brothers bore the family name of Pot, even though their father, who had been the commander of the squad before them, had been given that name as a nickname, noting the amazing ability of the old ruffian to cook divinely tasty Alishan pilaf literally on his knees in the open field. Now Pots, who had long ago received citizenship of the Empire and had ties with a dozen small and even a couple of large noble families or merchant guilds, were eager to go back to their childhood. To eat the same pilaf with meat, to listen to their father's fables, to absorb the science of the squad instructors, and not to know any grief.

Instead, they have to survive, trying not even to save themselves but just to sell their lives with not such a shameful bill as they are being charged now. Sadly, they're just slaughtered like a ferret in a chicken coop, losing only rank meat. All the strongest creatures keep their heads down, working from a distance or approaching the formation of people only for a couple of moments, leaving back with a blink. And there is nothing they can do because there is no strength to push through the defense of enemy commanders, and there are no normal amulets. Only they and their common grave.

The middle Pot, a tall and stubby mustachioed man of about forty winters of age, waved his saber relentlessly, filling it with his power, creating a veritable cocoon of steel-colored flashes, preventing the two ordinary creatures from coming within striking distance. Their claws look imposing, but their hands are more or less the same proportions as a humanoid's, so it's easy to keep a distance. He cut off the only tentacle on the two of them, and now he was slowly increasing the number of wounds on the heavily armored pseudo-bodies.

A sudden change of stance and a slightly raised shoulder allowed him to take a throwing needle on his hardened and enchanted shoulder pad, fired by the hand of a foolishly smiling black beauty with a completely blank stare. Maisa, his younger brother's mistress, had been one of the first to fall under the full control of one of the distant creatures, and his brother had been foolish enough to hesitate, not to beat it to death. It was easy to find a new bad warmer, but he wouldn't find a new brother - the poison on Maisa's blades, nicknamed Olive for the color of her skin and even stopped cutting off her fingers for that nickname, was always excellent.

A swing of the saber, a risky approach, a blow of the stiletto, hidden for the time being in the wide sleeves of the Alishan free cloth garment, which is stretched over the armor, and the first creature, which used to have a tentacle, sprawls like rotten sugar powder, having lost its head. The second one, trying to get in the back, scratches the stiletto out of its eye, along with its eyes - Maisa had brewed the poison for that knife, too, swearing that even a ghost or a dead man would be badly hurt by it.

"No lie, wretch." Pot tiredly but contentedly summarized, intercepting another throwing needle from the rampaging Poisoner and Assassin with the fabric of his sleeve. "It really worked."

Somewhere nearby, but just as surely and infinitely far away, his older and now only brother yells his commands, deflecting a new dose of dope, but the middle brother only sighs sorrowfully. The boons that had been placed on all of them before they went on the attack, protecting them from the lion's share of the brainwashing, would soon be exhausted, and there wouldn't be enough personal amulets to cover the entire crowd. Although, why should he? There wouldn't be any crowd by then anyway!

Blowing off the head of the devil, Pot tried to cover his side from another poisonous iron, but the gift was late, though he was ready to swear that the creature that had subdued the girl had sicced it on all three brothers. Devils like to play such jokes, like friends killing friends and lovers killing lovers. However, unlike the youngest, he couldn't stand that bitch all his life, and deep down, he was even glad that now he could finally slaughter her.

"Pots!" Yelled someone from the last set, either Chik or Brick, he couldn't immediately remember. "Pots, I've caught Olive!"

T.N. This episode is full of references to the game S.T.A.L.K.E.R. that just can't be translated.

"Chik or Brick" - Chickie-Brickie. That's the refrain of the bandit NPCs in this game.

"Pots, I've caught Olive!" - The NPС phrase again. But they pronounce it in slang. And if you translate the slang directly, that's about what it sounds like. In the game, they yell, "Guys, I caught a bullet."

This is about the tone of voice one uses when one has "caught" a ravenous desert camel, which one now wants to take somewhere because the animal does not want to go free. A little turn of the body, giving way to some big man with an expensive-looking flamberge in his hands, and then Pot sees that Brick (it is him. He has an earring in his ear) has really caught Maisa, taking her in his grasp. But she doesn't even break free, only presses her form into the fighter who embraced her, and the latter's amulets of stable mind are fuming.

Well, now he's going to fulfill his dream, so to speak, as a farewell!

A dash, for which it was not even a pity to spend a little bit of reserve, brings Pot right to the couple entwined in a passionate embrace, where the recruit even stopped resisting the insistent caresses of the girl who pulled off his pants, and the old warrior is already bringing his trusty saber in a bogatyr swing... to fall to the ground in two pieces, cut lengthwise. Brick, who had already been stripped of almost all his clothes, just cutting them with the sharpest poisonous blades, stares mesmerized at the wide, doll-like smiling girl, only a shadow of consciousness realizing the end of their battle.

Having knocked out a sufficient number of resistance leaders, the elite devils spent on the attack, no longer saving their strength and skins, in a few seconds, destroying the center of the human formation. Some of them were subjugated, having already started, like Brick, the process of forced recruitment. Some of them were killed, and only a few managed to disperse and retreat into the alleys, which were also blocked but not as tightly as the central streets of the crossroads.

The drooling Brick did not see or hear how the older Pot, who had lost the ability to speak, think, and resist, was silenced.

* * *

The attacking group is choking on its blood, having fallen into a carefully prepared ambush. Neither the distracting maneuver with the least combat-ready units that had involuntarily sacrificed themselves, nor the multitude of disposable expendables of varying degrees of power, nor even the sheer prowess of the five fighters. The personal retainers and the main fangs of the Eternal City Governor, though they could not compare with the guards of the Imperial Palace since no one checked them for their suitability for the guard, but they deserved the title of Gems according to the classification of the Adventurers' Guild. At least, because a couple of years ago, they had organized the disappearance of one of such teams that had rashly taken revenge on one of the town governor's close relatives.

Only these five were left of the hundred stormtroopers, and the rest were simply torn apart by enemy enchantments or sucked into the walls of the enemy fortification. A seemingly ordinary trade representative building belonging to one of the affiliated guilds of the Golden Feather.... it was no longer a building at all. A colossal lump of slime had worked its way through the wood and stone. It replaced almost all the material of the entire complex, leaving only the outer shell. That was its flesh, which had taken on a hardened appearance.

The monstrously strong Legend - though, could they be otherwise, neither strong nor monstrous - was useless in direct attack, unable to fight and pursue the enemy in the open field. In defense, however, Stickiness of Perversion could not only cover the ritualists but also help conduct the ritual itself, embodying it within its own body. The creature and, in a way, the disciple of Soft Touch was in a truly joyous state of feeling, which it shared with the world at once. It sensed the death of its creator and teacher, longing to thank in every possible way all the tortures and punish in every possible way all the pleasures of the one who had managed to serve Stickiness so well.

The devil troops here were pathetic, few in number, and even the cultists had little in the way of borrowed power. Only the ritual masters hidden deep within the flesh of Stickiness were any match for the level of the invasion, but this place was not defenseless, as the stormtroopers experienced firsthand. The seeming ease with which they plunged into the enemy's defenses, the deceptive ease with which the outer barriers fell, the false uncertainty in the movements and faces of the retreating devils and their servants - all this deceived the humans (as well as two dwarves, an elf, a halfling, and a huge Juggernaut-class beast folk taur) who failed to recognize the trap in time.

In another situation, they could not get to the heart of the ritual in time, but they could give the forcibly immobile creature a fight, as well as possibly interfere with the cultists' actions. After all, they could remove the outer barriers and request the fire of the Palace's volley systems, which would not be lazy to work on such a tempting target. Light compulsions, small, almost imperceptible injections of fleur, the inflated pride of the squad leader, which was so easy to play on, even as devils of another Aspect, and the assault team was trapped.

The walls chomped greedily, growing hundreds and hundreds of tentacles that immediately filled the bodies of weakly resisting mortals with themselves and whatever they could pour into them. The dust and ashes of those who did not succumb to the effects on the mind, for within its perimeter, the creature can not only masterfully press on the brain but also hit with astonishing efficiency. The fleur of the rather gurgling Stickiness is impermissibly rough, as for Legend, devoid of grace and cunning, but it is strong, insidious, and does not stop, all the time testing the endowed for strength. The air is full of pheromones, potions, and the almost material magic of Lust, born from the endless supply of flesh and slime of the ancient devil. One breath and its particles are already in you, already sprouting, taking the place of your tissues, muscles, blood, thoughts, and desires, and your body voluntarily steps into the wall that has become soft and cozy.

The five defend themselves, fending off the tentacle attacks time after time, burning the air around them and recreating it back to normal, setting up closed fields to keep the creatures from deploying their own. They do have a lot of amulets, even if the creature has already taken possession of the part of them that was given into the hands of simple stormtroopers. The creature could win at any moment, simply crushing the enemy with magic, overcoming all their desperation with sheer power, but it takes its time, taking its time, stretching out the pleasure.

The half-elf, armed with two swords soaked with Light, one short and one long, is the first to fall to the ground, dropping his blades, shaking in a fit, and ignoring Benefic's attempts to save Master of Blade. The convulsions are getting worse, the Juggernaut covering the whole team, the two battle mages increasing the onslaught, taking on some of the load of the swordsman unable to keep up the pace. He vomits, opening his mouth impossibly wide, throwing up his own body in its entirety-first his insides, then his muscles, then his skeleton, and finally his brain.

Flurrying away, the mental scream of Stickiness causes the companions to procrastinate before burning the vomited and emptied skin of what had been their friend. It costs them another life as Empty Skin jerks closer to the Healer, simply putting it on top of him, picking up his two swords, slicing off the Arcanist's arm in one swing, and diving into the wall of slime. The creature's laughter is mocking and happy, for in trying to fight off the body of the Healer and the Benefic, they missed the moment when the vomited innards filled with slime gathered into a new monster and merged into one with the armless mage, and the second mage, ignoring the barely audible sob and the thick ice lance that pierced first the ugly creation of Stickiness and then the ceiling of the central hall that surrounded them. The five had managed to escape the deadly walls earlier, but the creature had dragged the walls after the fleeing toys.

The Tauren left alone, screams with impossible rage and the pain of loss, throws aside her shield, and grips her hammer with both hands, preparing to give as much rage as she can. The member of an extremely rare subtype of beast folk, who had long considered the team her family, did not even think of running or retreating, seeking only to bring the creature as much pain as possible, bidding farewell to the dead on the grave of their killer, not noticing the ravenous breaths and what went into her body with those breaths.

With another berserker's roaring cry, she throws the hammer away, tearing off first her breastplate, then her gauntlets, then her chainmail and under-armor, leaving her breasts exposed, like all Taureans - quite enormous. Only now, this prominent feature, about which more racist jokes have been invented than leaves on an individual tree, is slowly growing even larger. Tauren growls and grins viciously beneath her muffled helmet, milking her cow's udder with a vengeful relish, believing that this is how she will do the most damage to her blood enemy. Juggernaut let out a triumphant shriek as she reached her goal, splattering her milk and juices all over the place, not noticing the gradual sinking into the viscous floor but noticing exactly how one of her previously hopelessly lost companions, the Arcanist, appeared beside her in company with a vaguely familiar man from the hundred they had been assigned to reinforce.

The whole world of the warrior tired of blood and losses narrowed down to two cuties, who kindly began to empty so pleasantly overflowing breasts, and the beast folk moaned audibly and obscenely, closing her eyes, so she would never open them again... at least not with her past self, for Stickiness of Perversion would find a place and time for a new toy. It had been a long time since he'd played cowgirls with the Taureans. Then the teacher will take it away, then intrigue will trick out the desired soul, then instead of a female tauren it will get a male tauren, which is also not bad, but even having changed the gender, it still remembers what these toys were originally. Or not, who knows? It could also change its own memories so as not to spoil the game, making the fun more whole and proper, so it's not known how many times it has done that.

* * *

Dueling warriors, especially those who are strong and have already learned to control this power, are often beautiful - the precision of their movements, the grace of beasts of prey, and the power, the triumph of the art of killing. These are, of course, particulars, for there are perhaps more exceptions to such a rule than confirmations. At the same time, the battles of classical wizards are most often colorful, fascinatingly large-scale, especially if you watch it from afar, and not being in the center of the area that became the point of the fight. Whether it's a short-range battle, a standard magical duel, or an ultra-long-range battle, it's hard not to marvel at the flow of elements, planar manifestations, and pure magic in all its forms.

But there are also such battles that are not distinguished by colorfulness, and not always these are the battles of masters of silent death. Not always. There is a type of magic, divided into many subtypes and sections, that has no manifestation at all, entirely passing outside the eager eyes of the observant public, which does not even suspect the battle itself. Or does not have time to be surprised but becomes just another victim of such a battle. Mentalistics, Dreaming, Animaturgy, Positonics... the list goes on for a long time, as well as the list of archetypes to whom such types of magic are available due to connection with certain planes or personal skills. After all, if you need a classification of everything and anything, go to Naitmac Academium. They love such schematics there.

R'Arnristal disliked combat, as much as he disliked the world in its entirety, but he had had to fight too often, perhaps his entire life. Combat Mentalists are extremely rare, simply due to the fact that such magic is not suited for direct combat. By the time a mind mage reached the point where he could compete with martial archetypes on their turf, he would have been killed hundreds of times over. Nevertheless, there were exceptions, even too often. Go down to the Hive Cities of tentaclefaced ogres to realize how dangerous it is to underestimate the magic that does not tend to show itself with colorful flashes and deafening thunder.

R'Arnristal knew how to fight. He'd had to learn it about the same time he'd run away from home in a fit of adolescent maximalism, unwilling to be a servant without the right to reach the true heights. His family, as one could easily gather from the offspring's name, were what the arrogant snake-eared ones called Spikes, roughly speaking, close and trusted servants. Now, from the perspective of years lived, the old beast folk realize that one might as well not have run anywhere. The life of a spike is easy, simple, and clear because there is already a place where you will be assigned. There is already work, service, and understanding of the necessity of this service. All the spirits of the wolves will be his witnesses. He had a much harder time in "freedom" than in such shackles. Many and many of his acquaintances would give their hand to provide themselves or their descendants with such a warm place, from which he ran away in his pride.

Yes, he achieved a lot, accomplished a lot, and proved his superiority to himself and the world, but he never got happiness. Came, in his old age, the realization that all his battles, losses, elevation, and other steps on the ladder without end were, how can I put it softer ... stagnant. He had not found in life what he had once left home for, had been on the wanted lists of the Eternal Forest, had fought on the border with Alishan, Neitmak, the Eternal Forest, and had even become a person to be immediately exterminated in the territory of Zeinberg and five other small kingdoms.

Master of Mind Magic, Psymant and Soul Whisperer, six tens of steps to infinity, two hundred forty-three with a small appendage of years lived, but still, he felt that it would be better for him not to show off and to accept service and die somewhere after the eighth decade surrounded by grandchildren and sons. The crisis of power is a rather well-known problem in extremely narrow circles, which many outstanding (to which he included himself without too much modesty) personalities have driven to the grave, or the bottle, or the hermitage.

He would probably fade away slowly, seeing no reason to continue. A servant, a few mansions, the opportunity to claim a province for his feeding at any moment (for the right to give him orders as his vassal, the Emperor would have kicked the past governor out of the office without a second thought), the opportunity to collect debts from many families and guild councils... But it was too easy for him to look into other people's minds and souls, to see there everything that he had to see too often, slowly weaning himself away from perceiving these fires of souls with a web of thoughts wound around them as living beings.

If it hadn't been for what had happened in the capital, he wouldn't have met the new spring. He had stopped taking rejuvenating alchemy, undergoing health-enhancing rituals, and even just keeping his body in shape. Though he had never forgotten since the time his jaw had been broken by the butt of a battle axe. He was even somewhat grateful to the devils, at least for the opportunity to end his journey in a less colorless.

No attempt was made to kill him, though three of his servants were processed by the cult at once, but it was not even an attempt, just a polite invitation to battle. After tearing their minds to shreds and shattering their Lust-ravaged souls, he didn't even turn his face to them, reclining in his favorite artifacts (and therefore favorite) armchair. In a matter of seconds, he had created a Network, beginning to shape it, to augment it, to connect new nodes to it, to give orders and take instructions at half and half with reports. His power was known, albeit rather forgotten, which allowed him to avoid unnecessary suspicions, immediately receiving all possible assistance from the guards, army, and free forces of various aristocratic families.

The carnage in this area continued unabated, and the Imperial forces had already managed to damage one of the Ritual's Anchors, but it was a small one, and only just damaged. It was made to work again half an hour later. But the losses remained relatively low for such a massacre, and the defenses were in no hurry to crumble under the blows of the slowed creatures. There, in front of the front line, the Guards were fighting, chained men were dying for their masters, legendary artifacts were being activated time after time, and Cesare Trimes had just recently used Crash of Everything. The ultimatum ability of the mythical artifact could only be activated in the hands of someone who had crossed the fifty-fifth step, but it was a sight to behold when activated. It was this attack that annihilated any energy of any type, including auras and the upper layers of the soul. That allowed it to damage the very point of the ritual, to which more and more forces were being drawn. The combined efforts of the three enemy Legends were enough to save the core of the enemy army, but the meat had been thinned out considerably.

R'Arnristal, however, had his own business to do.

General Kara, who had recently attained the status of Hero, helped with maneuvers and execution of commands. She was able to coordinate everything and everyone in any condition and much better than the wolfman himself. The strongest combat mentalist of the capital and perhaps the empire was given the role of the one who was engaged in intelligence and control of the enemy crowd, the one who broke the chains of command, anticipated maneuvers, eavesdropped on thoughts, changed orders right in the heads of those who received them and in every possible way shit on the army that was unlucky enough to have him as an enemy.

It would be suicidal for an ordinary mage to get inside the heads of devils or even their cultists, but he could hear the whispers of his soul, calmly and deliberately separating the effects of the fleur, structuring the soul to make it invulnerable to the exact moment and effect they were trying to use against him. Even the elite creatures feared the invisible tentacles of his will. He was far away, hidden behind the ranks of the defending and sometimes advancing army, behind the barriers and walls of other people's homes, but he was still there for everyone, invisible and unstoppable.

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The creatures sensed him. They realized his power, and that was probably why they did not rush to attack, giving the humans time to gather their strength and crush the first ritual point, wiping it off the face of the universe with a concerted attack of three circles of battle mages and six blows of legendary artifacts. The second point, which was within sight of their battle, was hidden over the horizon, in territory controlled by creatures, but even its barriers were tickled by tactical charms.

And then they came for his soul.

He didn't know the creature's name, but he knew for a fact it was a Legend, with the help of another Legend, only weaker. And both of them were specialists in working with the brains and souls of mortals, able and fond, like himself, of operating out of the usual distance. No enemy seen, no enemy heard, but he, every last one of the Tacticians, Commanders, and Kara herself sensed their nasty presence. They felt it, realized it, considered it, and gave this battle to him as the only one who could not lose it.

They fought while the two armies fought their own battle, even if the creatures took their time to attack, disturbing mortals with the very edge of the general fleur. Two webs, two giant ospreys, and two spindles that tried to devour each other. The creatures were both acting as one, and he sent all his assistants away, for even the most talented of mentalists were too vulnerable to the fleur. Without the skill of animaturgy, of controlling their own and others' souls, there was no point in fighting a devil of this kind. They must be killed differently, forced into a face-to-face battle where they can't dispose of their frightening power.

He fought his war as it was.

There were two of them.

He fought for two.

The threads were torn, the webs were crumpled, but there was no winner, even though the creatures were, in general, stronger. But they were in no hurry to use that power, preferring to conduct a very peculiar dialog. Dialogue, where words were dagger jabs of mind-dampening influence, where blades of thoughts and stakes of aspirations faced shields of contempt and walls of indifference. The creatures knew how to play this game, had been playing it longer than the wolfman himself, and so they had to listen, to respond, to look for the source of their weakness in what they said.

... we have a lot to offer...

They spoke and did not lie, for they could indeed, as they could, brighten the endless longing that only a Hero, who had reached his goal and realized that he had reached the wrong goal, knows. Who but a soul scientist would know what they were offering? What was the difference between the almost disintegrated, mangled soul of the cultists sent to him and a true masterpiece, the basis of which would be another soul, a powerful soul, a soul that could control the process itself, direct it, complete it?

...you know what we're going to take...

The two seducers whispered, not rushing to back up their whispers in any way, working only with pure facts and logic. They could have killed him before the massacre began, immediately incapacitating a unit as dangerous as R'Arnristal was. All they did was welcome him, give him a chance to gather his strength, give him a chance to think and evaluate, to accept and understand.

...you still have nothing to lose...

The ringing of crystal and passionate moaning, saying all the things he'd known for a long time, understood for a long time, and, in fact, hadn't even hidden from himself or others. He had no family, no place he wanted to call home. All his friends are either dead or no longer friends, and he fights and kills in the name of those he doesn't really care about. Promised devils always carry poison. It is an axiom that can be broken only by a few out of millions, but any poison can become a cure. And even if it can't, there are moods when even poison can be drunk.

...warranties...

His answer is clear and concise even if he is willing to take the poison almost willingly, it doesn't mean he wants to just die right away. Or worse than dying - even a soul mage can be captured and restrained in such a way as to take away his soul, and he could answer nothing. The creatures had promised much and were ready to promise more, honestly voicing the price that no one in his right mind would pay. Could he, who had long since been extinguished inside and out, be called sane?

...absolutely any...

Clawing and screaming, orgasmic passion, and innocent purity.

...deal...

...sealed...

It wasn't easy to create a channel, but he wouldn't be himself if he couldn't manage it without distracting himself from the ongoing battle, especially since he had help and assistance from the other side. Quietly, invisibly, without arousing any suspicion, having at the same time hacked the amulets and minds of a couple of the most sensitive bodyguards assigned to him by the tacticians. They still do not see the whole picture, noticing only the old beast folk sitting in the rocking chair, who seem to be asleep. Only the most sensitive of them can pick up the notes of the forces he is using to realize that he is not just sleeping but doing something. Those who could understand what he was doing. He sent them away from a foolish death in an unequal fight.

The soul cried and moaned as the second of the weaker creatures came inside his body, coming straight through the channel he had built. It entered him without pain, skillfully and gently, as if it knew in advance that he would agree that it would have to flow into his body through such a channel. It was probably true - the creatures knew about him, had been preparing for this deal, and were sure he would accept it.

Lust and passion don't really cloud the brain. They stay at the very edge of consciousness. When it's needed, no one controls Vice better than a devil who smells prey. A new path, a new stream, and a river are harder to create, but now there are two of them, and the second one, not even trying (and he tracks in full readiness for betrayal) to influence him, helps with all her skill. No matter how strong he is, no matter how far down his path, she will not yield to him. Devils and souls are always one, without the latter, there will be no former.

The second transmission was disguised as an ordinary mental thread of communication, the kind he had made by the dozens, now and then giving hints to commanders or individual fighters. If General Kara accepted his message and opened her mind, he would attack - fast, clear, deadly sharp, with all his skill.

A blow, an interception of thought, and an immediate shift in perception.

Before the General even realized the attack, she had already forgotten about it, stopped perceiving the created channel, and could not realize the existence of R'Arnristal, who was in her thoughts. He couldn't have done it on his own. The General's amulets were too good. She was very strong in will and mind, but he wasn't alone. The latter is helping with all her strength, and the former, whom he is no longer hindering but covering, has not only opened a gap in the amulets but is also discreetly dispersing the attention of the general's retinue.

A moment later, the second one was already inside Kara, who was experiencing a continuous orgasm, unnoticed by everyone. The short and boyishly built woman, like a teenager, never falters, never stops giving commands, not giving her orgasms any importance, because they have become the new norm, a sign of contentment and good mood. Her Chain of Command is only getting stronger, branching out, encompassing more and more, and sending something else along with the commands and orders. Something that none of the junior commanders and tacticians see or realize, and even if they do, the three of them quickly extinguish it.

The army would be able to counter both him and these two, albeit not without difficulty, not without loss of manpower, and not without loss of initiative, but their actions come from inside the perimeter of the defense, stealthily and discreetly. Perfectly chosen tactics and superb execution. He doesn't hesitate to relay it over the communications network. The response is only a flirtatious acceptance of the compliment, like a quiet chuckle mixed with an invitation to taste the same caresses himself.

After six minutes, the armies stop destroying each other, though the strikes, especially the ultra-long-range strikes made by mages from behind the front lines, continue.

After ten minutes, General Kara switches completely to non-verbal command through the Chain because her mouth finds itself constantly occupied by members of her entourage, and a small queue lines up to the field headquarters. A general commanding through the Chain can make her subordinate cum almost instantly, so the queue moves very quickly.

Twenty minutes later, the general has already swallowed many liters of semen, which all goes into her form, turning the skinny and androgynous blood carrier of some very ancient and extinct race into a bimbofied version of herself, and almost the entire army is no longer shyly snuggling and engaging in intercourse with recent enemies.

Half an hour later, Cesare Trimes is handing the Bell of Decay to one of the creatures, not taking his eyes off the three cultists who are spoon-feeding him something that looks suspiciously like shit. The rest of the strongest fighters have fallen even earlier, the Chain of Command only getting stronger, and the panicked cries and orders from the command amulets leading to the Palace have long since gone unheeded.

"Your part of the deal is done." Not even trying to betray or get into his soul, says the first one that finally shows itself. "My Sovereign will fulfill our obligations today."

Lean as she was for such a strong creature, only slightly taller than him, red-skinned and naked, perfect in every movement, and just as dangerous, the deviless was uncharacteristically collected as for her species. Not all is well with them. Not everything has gone as smoothly as it did here.

"If." Speaks out, knowing that the creature groping him with the attentions of the souls of many seers will understand the full implication without difficulty.

"If." She agrees, wanting him even more but not daring to go against the bargain for now and under these conditions, probably fearing the wrath of her archdevil.

Or his endorsement.

"Would you care to visit the Lady General?" With a single touch, he made the passing cultist act as a chair, on which she sat down with the pleasure of stretching her perfect legs forward. She asked without interest or desire to tease, for he and this upstart's family, these arrogant idiots so chafing at the heritage in their blood that regularly reinforced that heritage, despite all the risks to the endowment, had clashed in his time. "In parting, so to speak."

"I've already said goodbye to everyone."

Somehow, after these words, she shut up and was even insulted, albeit in her own devilish way.

* * *

The symphony of the feelings of one who deprives himself of his essence is a dainty sweetness that quickly becomes boring, especially in such situations when there are too many sources of the right note around. But more often than not, we are talking about the usual adepts of Madness, with a gaggle of laughter and a predictably comical misunderstanding of commonplace truths, losing that part of the melody that makes them mortal, or someone who has already accomplished much. Someone who, with his power and will, draws an inexpressibly special shade of melody, creating a separate thread in the overall symphony. But if this someone is desperately unwilling to take such a step.....

Having managed to open such a wrongly cold shell of un-existence, he understood this boy much better than he could have imagined. The last and the first, doomed to defeat from the beginning, desperate to prove something not even to those around him but to the whole world, without realizing what it was he wanted to prove. The soul of the doomed Loneliness was so sweet that his heart overflowed with the sweet sadness of not being able to warm that soul himself, the soul that had so much room for his beloved Lust but which had deprived itself of everything.

It was like a sip of the rarest wine, a single breath of a skillfully created perfume that would immediately pass away, disappearing forever. He wanted to catch its note, to pour it into my melody, to make it part of the petals of my flower, to raise it to a new pedestal of the all-powerful Chorus, but sometimes you have to accept the world as it is. To enjoy what can and should be enjoyed instead of empty regrets of the impossible. No longer human, no longer Summoned, has gone too far, leaving him only to watch this fall, to squeeze as much passion out of it as possible. Take all you can, hear the rhythm, memorize the notes, and then leave the fool who lost his chance in his well-deserved Loneliness.

The chorus sang and boiled, parsing and analyzing the information received, integrating the pictures torn out from under the shell of un-existence into the mosaic of events, which, at last, acquired new integrity, more complete and perfect. Here was that piece of the puzzle, that lost trill of the flute missing from the whole picture. The murder of a Prince stripped of his name and memory, the failure to follow his melody under the gaze of a slumbering giant, the broken points of control, one of which had fallen even before Eternal could be wrenched from its shabby existence. At least the destruction of Touch, at last, for which he wanted to thank with all shades of submissive passion, to plunge into the abyss of shrieking vulgarity because it would take a long time to create, to weave a new specialist of this kind out of other people's desires. Well, or to forge someone from the existing ones, but, all Aspects witnessed, he hated to repeat himself so blandly, to create something out of necessity, but not out of the flight of fancy.

He stepped on the carpet of softened bodies and secret signs that covered the Square of Forgotten Poets, with each touch correcting the multiplying errors, changing the discrepancies, correcting the incorrectness. The Source of the Keys on the back of the body chosen for this day released new and new threads, forming the melody of the petals, ensuring his wishes were transmitted to the battlefield, controlling and shuffling the treasury of the Chorus, selecting the optimal timbre. Part of the consciousness was here and now, part was indulging in debauchery with Chorus in the past, part was looking into the future, part was waging a war, an unnecessary, unnecessary war with the Palace, which did not want to understand all the benefits of the path predetermined for them and fall into his arms, part was fighting through the eyes and hands of his toys, and part, in general, was in sweet anticipation of something, remaining in reserve.

The Flaming Maiden burned out once again, rising from the ashes a little different, a little closer to the perfection he had ordained for her. He could push, tear out the soul, and plunge it into one of the petals, but it was so crude, so unsophisticated, and so disgustingly logical that he would not allow himself to think of such a perversion. Sometimes, of course, the perversity of simple solutions is a source of depravity, but today, he has a different Chorus, a different matrix of thought, and very different desires, not the mood. No.

How many more times would she be resurrected before she fully completed this circle of rebirths, already voluntarily joining the ranks of his children, his toys, and dolls? Eight, or is it still twelve? It is indeed an interesting thought, so interesting that he again decides to roll back a little the changes already made, to let the captive feel these changes, to be horrified in orgasmic ecstasy, and to resist them without noticing the new web already being laid. A strong soul, a strong Flame, which is not spoiled even by the shattered chains to which she reaches with all her might as if holding on to an anchor that pulls her to the bottom, away from the blissful garden that has already been prepared for her.

Passing by, going his route, looking like a completely random tossing through the Square of the Seven glowing from his magic, he again runs his fingers over the cheek of the maiden so submissive in her unwavering defiance, causing a new ecstasy, a new flash of flame, a new piece of personality, a new melody in place of the old, already shabby one.

Without noticing.

Not making it.

Without realizing.

The blow comes out of nowhere, as if there were no one to see in his Chorus as if the closed field of hundreds of other, separate fields and effects created by the petals did not exist. The shadow - evil, alien, unable to hear his melody as well as to reproduce any melody attacks swiftly and uncompromisingly. Anticipation of the last step helps to see and realize what is coming without understanding either the nature of the attack or its source, but this is not necessary.

The petals quiver, giving the command to Chorus, the right souls taking the position, opening the way for the event that would suit him best. Again, with joy and lustful laughter, the stranger's fate shelters him, taking the damage of the blow that its Sovereign was to take. But at the last moment, he sees the absolute hatred of the Shadows change trajectory, taking the form of a thin and deceptively fragile paw with blades instead of fingers, leaving real wounds in space. Instead of trying to give pain to a soul just waiting for it, the Shadow blades cut several dozen controlling threads from the Source Keys, disrupting the petals and bringing the forgotten sensation of the damage done.

It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed pain so much, a long time since he'd forgotten what it felt like to be hit, to be able to reach his goal at least a fraction of the way the threads of the keys had become a part of him. The pleasure of his essence, the changed tone of the rhythm of events could have been the jewelry that would have been stored in his memory for centuries, if not for something else. The passionate pleasure of the blow he had received was not even close to the sincere and forgotten surprise that had come over his delighted essence at the moment when he did not recognize his attacker.

It was the same one, the fallen one.

But it wasn't the creature he turned out to be.

Something different, changed but not defiled.

With the sound of a quiet exhalation, he spells the surrounding matter, manifesting the necessary patterns on the signs lining the square, striving by no means to kill but to capture, to take this accomplishment for himself. Guessing, but not even thinking that he would be the one to dedicate to Lust to someone who would be able to pass this way twice, even by different routes. It delighted him so much that it gave him new breath and strength and removed the doubts sprouting from the list of growing losses.

The patterns burn with fire, stitching reality together with a harsh thread, forbidding the hungry Loneliness to call to this feast, cutting off the adept of the Shadow and its Overlord into the arms of Sovereign. The four souls summon the Truth changed for them, the tainted Light closing the cell with a new layer, creating a multifaceted structure that is complemented by new patterns sprouting already upon it. The group of seers, singled out from the general Chorus, especially for this moment, indicates to the souls of the ritual masters the right combination, closing the structure without return.

The mortal who had fallen back into the human body tried to resist, rejecting one invitation after another, but his will cracked more and more, yielding to the relentless pressure, and the glow of Truth made him fall to his knees, bowing before what his new Sovereign was about to give him. The chains formed inside the cage, with links of all colors of the rainbow, cut into the reinforced fabric of the tattered cloak, into the garments beneath it, and into the flesh itself, almost reaching the bare essence...

... break ...

The patterns burn with fire, stitching reality together with a harsh thread, forbidding to call hungry Loneliness to this feast, cutting off the adept of the Shadow and its Overlord into the arms of Sovereign, but the limbs of the mortal who had changed his Form were beating against the key parts of the pattern, wrapped in predatory jaws. Each blow is weak, worthless, and useless, but it is delivered exactly when it should be delivered as if it had not been read from cover to cover before, but the other way around. The seers, allocated specifically for this blow, change the vector, trying to find a gap in the archdevil's information defense, but find only the usual perfection, which this mortal simply could not break or deceive.

The four souls marked by the Light flare up, but the super-powered cell meets only a shadow that has lost all dimension, only the trace of one who has gone to his Loneliness almost forever, leaving behind only this mockery, a shadow of shadows, nonexistent and therefore invulnerable. Slipping from the grip of the four, it does not attempt to defend itself or retreat, attacking again, spitting a chunk of pristine blackness, almost crystallized Shadow energy right into the center of the devil's current body, aiming to strike the top node of the interspiritual bonds. It wouldn't kill or even scratch the base of the soul bunches, but it would be unpleasant and even a little painful.

It's starting to seem funny.

He and the souls of his beloved beholders caught a different, different development of events, an opposite outcome of the confrontation to the present one. Only a trace of it remained, swirls of vague memories, as if the past had never happened or had only appeared to be the past. The effect was not on the mind, not on memory, of that Sovereign could be sure, for those were his tools, the basis of his melody. No, the fragments of other unfulfilled events, tangible not only to the souls of those who saw but even to himself, did not come from this side. Not suggestion, not illusion, but something close to the control of causality. The devil could do that, too, albeit with a different configuration of Chorus, one not so suited to countering the Palace or the Avatara that had broken through the shroud.

But this is he - Sovereign of his toys, the master of his melody, and all others who hear it. Doomed to Loniless could not pull off such a thing simply because the hungry essence of his nature does not give such gifts and does not allow similar approaches. It gives other powers, powerful and dangerous, but not the same, not the same! The artifact was not the answer, could not be, for already Sovereign had managed to enlighten his unruly toy before it fell for the first time, finding no such things on it. And he would not have missed the unusual trill that such an attribute of sorcery would have made, nor would he have dared, nor would he!

But then how?

Passion boils.

The desire is boiling.

He craves this mortal even more.

The flesh on one of the material body's arms takes on a steely sheen, frustratingly releasing the note of one of the too-old, too-long-sounding souls objectifying the highly unusual Miracle. A blow from the altered hand shatters the crystal of blackness, releasing a cloud of darkness hidden within the hardened charms. Ribbons, hooks, needles, and even a few small creatures would be enough to take down a small fortress, but all the power of another plane is sucked up by the steely glint of Miracle's greed for other power. The chime of regret for the lost toy is mixed with the pleasure of that regret, the kind that only those who have learned to rejoice in letting go forever can understand.

The steel arm, folded in a pinch, beat forward as if he did not notice the quarter hundred steps between him and the mortal, forcing the latter to turn back into a flat and bland shadow, to lull the melody again, to get rid of the rhythm. White noise, devoid of all the grace of the usual mutilation of the mockery of the nature of the universe, for the very existence of which comes a natural punishment. Hundreds of drops of black liquid, like tar or alchemical oil, come off the fingers of the second hand, wrapping around the remaining silhouette, forcing it to become real again or to fall into the Shadow forever when the blackness blurs the two-dimensional shadow and deprives the summoned of the way back. A dozen threads leading to the Source lash out, breaking through all defenses, existing and not existing at the same time, binding the two of them tightly together, forcing the mortal (though whether he is still mortal remains to be seen, for he still has not uncovered the message of his essence) to accept the imposed duel on the devil's field. Two minds clash against each other. No matter how much of a champion this summoned one is, no matter how real he is, he is destined for nothing less than defeat. A second, even less than that - that was how long it took for the archdevil to break the defenses of silence and white noise, to make the pattern of sound play a familiar melody, weaving it into his own. Memories, aspirations, ties of friendship and comradeship - all this was rapidly mastered, viewed and, finally, changed under the inner laughter of Sovereign who did not restrain ecstasy, sweetly finishing the last chords of someone else's li.....

...break...

The flesh on one of the arms of the material body part takes on a steely sheen, frustratingly releasing the note of one of the too-old, too-long-sounding souls objectifying a highly unusual Miracle. A blow from the altered hand shatters the crystal of blackness, which bursts with contemptuous ease, revealing only the emptiness of a planted hoax, a false target, a hastily concocted and carefully recolored ruse whose power would not even be strong enough to kill a mere beast or ordinary mortal warrior. The realization of the Steelheart Cleric's wasted, wasted melody rang deep within the Chorus, a nurturing thirst, an anger as sweet and seductively sticky as the chirping of a songbird.

The sweep of the steel-covered hand is unrestrained by anything, unleashing an invisible, inaudible, and unstoppable death. The steel edict. No matter how one is corrupted, it will remain one of the strongest weapons of the never-before-seen religion on Alurei, something that simply must force the mortal to turn silent... again. Chorus flounders in sour-sweet agony, trying to grasp the remnants of memories that never happened. Like a vision that happened neither earlier nor later but at the same time as what happened. The lord and all those guests of his Chorus who watched this scene remembered, saw, and knew a different outcome. It was as if there were two versions of the same event, an exemplary success and an abysmal failure.

The steel pierces the essence of the mortal who did not use the iconic and familiar technique, which immediately swells into a cloud of blackness, falling to the ground and retracting into glowing sigils and melting flesh. A deception dropped like a snake's skin the instant an equally deceptive attack was spat out. The chorus sings, bringing out the right note, forcing him to turn his back to the settling wisps of blackness, hiding the naked Source of the Keys, taking in the crossed arms, covered by five barriers based on three planes, a new blow.

The mortal strikes again, just as he had the last time. Desperately, with no hope of surviving the blow, no attempt to defend himself, no intention of surviving. But he didn't survive, did he? Twice, the devil had taken his tune and replaced it with his own, but it was as if he'd swapped one outcome for another. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! Shadows can't do it. Hundreds of unseeing eyes, thrown from every place from which they can be dragged, focused on the hungry emptiness of objectified Loneliness. He has no artifact, no blessing of any kind, and the mortal himself has wrapped himself in Shadow completely and utterly, with no chance to use anything but the cursed Shadow!

But he was doing something.

Something unclear.

Making himself wanted.

More and harder.

Instead of attacking back, the devil breaks the distance, retreating in a soft crouching step, commanding space to stretch that step to a hundred meters, to stop and raise his hands to the purple heavens. The petals flashed ethereal colors, reducing the onslaught on the Palace, slowing the process of descending, releasing hundreds and hundreds of lights, shuffling the working assembly of the Chorus into one less suited for war with the stronghold of the Eternals. Analysis, understanding, adaptability - a new Chorus, a new memory, and even, in some ways, a new personality, a new Sovereign taking the place of the old, approaching the enemy from a different angle.

The enemy steps forward, in one step transforming from the silhouette of a black man into a multi-legged creature with six jaws, to step as a crawling serpent, slithering across the stones of the square filled with the ringing of his chant, to step as a gigantic stingray, a sea manta of black color, to step again as an impossibly long stick man, as thin as he is tall, reaching with his sharp and hunched shoulders to the tops of the houses surrounding the square.

Step, new shape, step, new shape, step, new shape...

The mortal changes himself with each new form, making it difficult to analyze, forcing the Chorus to begin the autopsy anew, to pick up the melody for his Silence anew. It is only fitting that it will take its beloved victim, love him, and he will love Sovereign in return, but each change rolls back that term and fills the hourglass of another's existence anew. With this Chorus, this Sovereign is able to simply drink the soul and take it out the moment he can understand nature, matching the most perfect and alluring song to every type of consciousness, personality, and thinking. The sheer number of beholders submissive to his Lust accelerates the process to such an extent that the already absolute technique, the best of the seducing forms of his Chorus, becomes utterly foul, irresistible, unstoppable.... useless in the here and now.

He doesn't attack the petals, doesn't try to snatch the soul-fires rearranged in the shuffle of the Chorus, doesn't tear the patterns that cover the stones of the sidewalk and doesn't even try to snag the threads of the Source. He simply walks, winding a circle after the unhurriedly treading Sovereign, as if they were two brethren in a circle or two hungry dogs over fresh prey. Such unaccustomed silence and music, such pleasant song, a screamingly molested scene. The card is laid out, the card is beaten, and Time, impassive Time, plays against both of them.

It's so beautiful!

The first to break this peace is the one who started it, showing such a deathly foolish impatience, unwillingness to evaluate the situation, the overture drawn by desires and memory. Another appearance of the creature, under which the sweet and unruly soul of the endowed one is still hidden, explodes with blackness, apparently attacking the very structure of the pattern covering the area. Predictable, naive, stupid, delightful, and hundreds of thousands of other epithets that have no analog in any existing language, created and invented by the supreme devil for himself alone.

As before the blow of despair. As before, with no intention of surviving it. As before, only because of this suicidal despair does it have some measure of success. Part of the sidewalk blackens, burns, and resurrects anew, flying upwards in multicolored sparks, breaking control and lowering the limit of suppression, accelerating the melting of flesh throughout the structure. Petals erupt again, unfit to strike inside the perimeter they created but far from defenseless, unleashing a classic, almost image-boring stream of soul blades. Each ghostly sword is a single soul embedded in it, simple and unremarkable. Hence, the ghostly glow is, for the most part, monotonous.

A little more fire - the tendency to the fiery aspects of development. A little black - the weight of madness bending into Darkness. A fraction of scarlet - blood spilled by warriors or brigands. Simple souls but invested in enchantments to the end, to the last of their wills, which they gladly fulfill for the sake of the new pleasures they will find at the end of existence. Each blade, on its own, is not so dangerous to such an unusual mortal, but there are many, after all.

The wounded Shadow, now a clump of segmented limbs around a toad-like body, does not scream or rage but only hisses faintly, losing chunks of its flesh to regrow them immediately. The multilayered barriers waste strength, force them to stop breaking patterns, the barriers give way, fall before the superior power, and it is too difficult, too impossible, to use deeper techniques, to send blades into the Shadow itself, in this place, where Hell is in power and where no Shadow can reside, especially if the devil is interfering with the rift-building process.

A titanic form, a hulk of shadowy flesh, saves the day, but the blow is struck. The defeat is again predetermined as the devil completes another rebuild and becomes another Sovereign, new again, a new melody born only now and only for this battle. A reason to desire the mortal even more tenaciously. It's been a long time since anyone made him rebirth himself twice. This soul would love him forever, more than forever, simply because it could not and would not be otherwise.

The blow is like the elegant gesture of a court maid of honor, the shy murmur of an embarrassed maiden, the tender touch of a mother bidding farewell to her son, atomizing with careless ease the hulk of a converted mortal who cannot defend himself. The blow stripped away the blackness of the hungry creature like an invisible grater cast from pure mithril, revealing the sparkle's radiance, the soul that yearned for his caress, so strange, so unlike ordinary, even very strong souls.

Fingers close on the impotently fluttering spark, sink into it with all the will of the mighty devil, releasing gentle and touchingly soft streams of flair so as not to damage the essence of the caught toy ...

...break...

The blow is like the elegant gesture of a court maid of honor, the shy murmur of an embarrassed maiden, the tender touch of a mother bidding farewell to her son. This lunge can defeat a wounded opponent, to break the exhausted nature of the summoned one who is tired of denying his and his Lust. Only he steps forward, boldly and passionately, again not trying to defend himself, to avoid the collision, making Sovereign believe for a brief moment that the mortal understood and was now ready to accept his gift with open arms.

The empty dream is scattered to dust by the storm when his caresses only shatter the discarded flesh like a lizard's tail. A tail the size of a two-story building, and yet the most important part still slips away, taking with it the spark he already thought was his. What a lingering, all-body blatant insolence! Is it decent to deny him such a small thing?

And this ability of his begins to seem more and more shameful because the joy of failure, the ecstasy of realizing that your prey, which has already become your prey, has slipped away again, is, of course, always pleasant, but not so many times in a row. The resistance of the chosen beloved adds sweetness and spices to the dish served on the table, making the sonata brighter and brighter. However, it is possible to over-sweeten it, turning the sweetness into the bitterness of fatigue when, even after catching someone else's melody, you do not have the strength to listen and rewrite it to the end.

How does he do it?

A question from those that cannot be solved so easily, not in such a deadline, not with so many melodies to be played by oneself, not under the sound of other people's instruments that seek to nurture dissonance specifically to one's creation. A question that he is able to answer, but the situation itself, when there is no time for the answer, no gap between the trills of other people's violins to find the answer.... beckons, and calls, squeezing one's gut in a sensual moan.

He is ready to step again, already in a new attack, at the same time pressing the newly rebuilt petals, changing new and old features, transforming the essence after them. Instead, he places a strong, almost monolithic barrier based on the primordial Cold, which disperses the heavy and murky spear of blood and fierce Flame with vapor and hissing drops. The unhappy sway of essence travels from the fine threads of the Source, from the many-faced petals and the body grown for this day, all the way down into the depths of the Chorus, through every section of the Domain that shuddered at His wrath. Sovereign hated it when anyone dared to interrupt his work, leaving it forever unfinished, devoid of perfection!

The strange mortal, his beloved, stands motionless, the toe of his left foot touching the paving stones of the mangled square as if weighing nothing, swaying in time with the blowing of the air currents. Beneath his mask, there is no smile, no grin, seemingly nothing, except Hunger and Loneliness, which cover him with their absolute shield. Instead, his mask laughs as if testing the devil's patience, testing how long he will allow his lover to torment and stretch it.

The other stands differently, resting against the fleshless stone, melting with heat and anger, the way a marching lad tramples the ground with steel boots. Her bare feet and the rest of her body are covered with a fine mesh of red-hot threads as if the maiden were wearing dragon scales. Are the scales, or are they the petals of a marvelous flower, encircling this animated and fierce elemental with indestructible armor? Does anger or fear drive her, burning her very personality in the furnace of the almighty Flame?

He had managed to forge her, making the maiden rising from the ashes a little different time after time, but there was still too much to be done. She was still rebellious, still not accepting his tune, still howling trumpets of fiery prominences, drums of promises and confessions burning in her fire. She is no longer the one who came here to buy her masters some time, no longer the one who vainly hoped to interrupt the descent, if only at the cost of her essence. And yet, and yet ... she was not his yet, for to turn her to her end too soon would be a true insult to the art to which the creature had dedicated its existence.

Neither of them was his adversaries, neither the dog on the chain of the Eternals who had been freed and miraculously retained the will to fight, nor the last of those who had escaped the spiked collar. In another place, in another time, they would have been at each other's throats, each bearing his song, his notes of truth and shimmering lies. Today, the situation is different and extraordinary, forcing the irreconcilable opponents to suspend a little the hunger of loneliness, the hatred of destruction.

Still not dangerous - neither the renewal of the maiden nor the change of the latter would protect them from Sovereign's real attack, nor would it help if he stopped looking for the beauty of melodies, did not play the role assigned to himself, but did what he most disliked to do. Just come and take what he can without the distraction of his cage of inhibitions and desires.

Still, too weak.

But still talented enough, satisfactorily inventive, superbly prepared, for anyone else to consider this moment.... no, not a turning point, not even a success, just one with any chance of becoming one. To become, if the phantom advantage was developed, to give truth to a false chance, because who else would choose the moments but those for whose caresses he had come here. Slowly and picturesquely turning around, the devil already knew, had time to scan in a dozen ways who exactly had been brought to their musical feast.

Warudo the Eternal stood calmly, seemingly unafraid to even tread the defiled ground, simply cocooning himself in a cocoon of timelessness, looping his current state as it should be. The eldest son of the Emperor, his undisputed heir, the first of the princes, and the strongest potential Chronomancer in the world, promising to surpass even his not weak father in everything. And he had come exactly where his future Sovereign was waiting for him.

The prince's gaze is calm and stern, devoid of both insecurity and fear, as well as hot hatred, only a sense of duty and an understanding of the necessity of conflict. This mortal had always, since childhood, been known for a character extremely phlegmatic and cruel. The Eternals tried to hide it, but the boy, who perceived Time in several directions at once, thought differently from humans, even more differently than "ordinary" Eternals.

Alas, it is not to be hoped that hatred for his brother's murderer, whom he undoubtedly recognized immediately, will cloud his understanding of the situation and compel him to attack his ally, pitting his personal Summoned against him as well. He will have his revenge. He doesn't even doubt that revenge will be exacted, but the Alishan shadowuser as he sees him will die after he has atoned for some of his guilt with his life and blood.

Oh, Alishan, that's so ironic. It makes the molasses sweet!

It was so commonplace and human to fit what had happened into the limited framework. Even the fact that the devil himself, having received the words of his toys, considered the same way before meeting the last of the first did not change this feeling of superiority. He understood everything and recognized the melody of truth hidden behind the silence of the void, but the Eternals could not. That is why he triumphs, and they do not. Isn't it clear?

The three stand around him as if forming a ritual figure, paying no attention to the thick, startlingly concentrated fleur, nor to the petals humming with tension that are too focused on conjugation to engage in this battle at full force, nor to all the promises he is willing to make to them for a drop of their love, for their notes within his melody.

The Shadowman is still as weightless and intangible, hidden and wrapped in his cherished loneliness, only a glowing image on the surface of the mask, playing with the blade of the dagger. Sovereign is not ready to swear it, but this dagger seems to him just a strip of ordinary steel, not even enchanted. Somewhere out there, beneath the tattered cloak, anything from a divine artifact to nothing could be hidden, but the caution that flared from the lack of information, the impossibility of hearing someone else's melody, whispered, inaudible rustle convinced him that there could be no simple dagger in those hands, that they would not let a steel devoid of secrets to such a symphony.

Warudo is leaning on a heavy, even ancient-looking sword of primitive and crude forging, and the devil knows exactly what kind of blade it is and why even he shouldn't let it get close to him. The heavy armor hides the prince's entire body, leaving only his head and face exposed. He would have covered it, too, but there is no helmet for this set of mythical armor. The master had no time to forge one. The blade and the armor are two equally powerful artifacts that, together with the will of the Law, give one a chance to survive at least a few seconds of one-on-one combat against the Archdevil. The armor that protects against any attack, any blow, but only those that can be inflicted by a single, pre-selected opponent - chosen even before the Eternal emerged from the flow of the River. A sword that would not leave even a scratch after a missed blow, but only the first, while the second would be the last, the final one, capable, perhaps, of stopping the music even for him.

Sophia the Flame, one of the strongest Summoned of the Continent and probably even the world, was nearly naked, worse than naked. Going out on what she understood to be her latest venture, she had not had the opportunity to dress herself up in the best protection possible. Her standard attire, a set of lightweight garments of legendary value, as strong as a knight's armor, burned in her fire as she attempted her strike, interrupting the convergence. The Feather of the Ancient Phoenix, given to her by the universe itself at the moment of summoning, was now guarding the border with Alishan and, therefore, could not be used. But even having burned to the ground a dozen times, no longer resembling the one who burned for the first time in this long day, which became a blink of an eye, she is ready to kill and die. For a new homeland, for the Empire, and for Warudo, her beloved and precious one, who at this moment holds a chain invisible even to the archdevil, which bound the essence of the one who in another history would have been embodied by the Chosen One.

Three against one is not a fair fight at all. Too clear and utterly unchallenging in its predictable simplicity. Only slightly diluting the monotonous sound of frozen notes is the need to keep converging, to keep track of the battle in the city, rectifying it where the toys proved too stupid, willful, and useless.

He watched the myriad lights of the captive souls, giving his will to each of his servants, once again reshaping the sound of the Chorus to fit the shifting situation. Once more, Sovereign allows himself to bow picturesquely to none of the three but to each of them. Bowing, enticing, promising, enticing, enticing, seducing, seducing, tempting, and no doubt foretelling what is already obvious.

you'll all be mine.

The answer to his mercy was the coordinated attacks of the trio, as if they were not enemies, as if they had been fighting back to back all their lives.