"Ain! Protect her," Morgan commanded, stepping in front of the two children without hesitation. Beside her, Nemo worked diligently to craft a barrier, isolating the chaos.

Outside the barrier, Matthew and Alan stood frozen in dread, their faces pale, while the Wilderwood Mansion’s guards and aides braced themselves around them, weapons drawn but hands trembling.

[Lumin ae’lorin, manai verelan umya?]

Morgan began weaving her magic circle, steady and precise. Once it was ready, she could stop this disaster from spiraling out of control. But everyone knew why things hadn't exploded into full-blown calamity just yet.

[Manai theran sai lorin? Ai’ven tae lena, ai selian yai, na’fin cir anai, na’maer na'thel.]

Burn hadn’t stormed into Inkia guns blazing because he knew better. Charging in recklessly would only let the demon lord slip through their fingers. On the flip side, the demon lord hadn’t fled yet because he still had threads to pull in Inkia. One of those threads, Morgan suspected, was Blair.

He’d called Blair his greatest masterpiece. Sure, it could’ve been an elaborate bluff—but what if it wasn’t? What if Blair really was his magnum opus? Then, of course, this moment was all too perfect. A stroke of genius: using his "masterpiece" to eliminate Morgan once and for all.

It added up, didn’t it? Locan and Nahwu had been snatched away, separating Morgan from Burn, isolated and vulnerable. Burn would be kept at arm’s length, unable to reach her in time. And now, here she was—alone, save for a couple of kids and a ragtag barrier—playing defense against a demon lord’s vendetta.

But would she let him pull the strings again? Manipulate events like a smug playwright directing his final act? Not a chance.

[Faein lorian thaesel, ai’ven sen ethelar, na’lumin ethelan, te yamin ai’selian esthelar?]

From the shadows beneath Morgan’s feet, grotesque hands began to claw their way into existence. They looked as if they’d crawled straight out of hell—pitch black and oozing with a tar-like substance that dripped and splattered onto the ground, sizzling where it landed. The stench was overpowering, a mix of rot and sulfur, clawing at her senses like a living thing.

The hands moved with terrifying purpose, their spindly, malformed fingers snaking toward her legs and limbs. The first icy grip wrapped around her ankle, pulling with a strength that threatened to topple her.

Then came another, and another—hands grasping her wrists, her arms, her waist, each more repulsive than the last. They tugged and yanked, their touch cold, slimy, and relentless.

Above her, the bound hands riddled with eyes began to stir, the grotesque orbs darting wildly in every direction. The crown of light that held them in place flickered and cracked, thin lines spidering across its surface.

It wasn’t broken yet, but its resilience was faltering with every passing second. The giant hands thrashed violently, their movements causing a low rumble that reverberated through the ground.

Stolen story; please report.

Morgan gritted her teeth, refusing to let the grotesque assault distract her. The magic circle beneath her hands was almost complete, glowing faintly as her mana flowed into its intricate patterns.

[Sena soliel tae’narn, halian sera loras ai’theniel!]

CRACK.

The crown of light shattered—splintering into fragments as darkness surged forward, swallowing everything in its grasp. But just as it seemed to consume her, golden fire erupted from within, fierce and unyielding, burning away every trace of corruption it could reach.

“All that preparation, and that’s it?” sneered the voice from the abyss, dripping with mockery.

The taunt hung in the air for barely a heartbeat before the fragments of the shattered crown twisted midair, transforming into thousands—no, tens of thousands—of glinting needles.

Stab.

Stab-stab-stab-stab-stab-stab!

A low, guttural growl echoed through the void, a sound that reverberated through Morgan’s very bones. Yet even as the demon lord’s agony filled the space, her sharp mind caught a detail that made her stomach turn.

Something was definitely off. This spell was supposed to strip him of most of his power—just like it had done to the first demon lord five centuries ago. But no, apparently this one didn’t get the memo.

Her voice, cold and cutting, rang out: “You’re not the demon lord.”

Not him. Not the one who orchestrated this chaos. A decoy? A puppet? No. That had been the demon lord earlier—his presence unmistakable. So, when had this changed? When had he switched places?

“Caliburn,” she whispered, her composure cracking.

It hit her like a thunderclap. Blair was the distraction. Locan and Nahwu—they were the real targets.

The low growl twisted, rumbling into cruel, delighted laughter.

STAB!

Morgan barely turned in time to see the dark tendrils flying through her.

“No!” Yvain’s voice cut through the chaos as he lunged forward. But he was too late.

Morgan’s eyes widened as she looked down. A gaping hole pierced her chest, black strings writhing through the wound like living shadows.

“Guess it was worth it,” came the demon lord’s voice, slick with mock amusement, “to toss away my masterpiece and both of my hands here. Just like your husband tossed away his arm.”

He chuckled, swallowing down blood clot somewhere, with hands petrified, turning into crumbling ashes from the holy judgement. “You should’ve known, Original Saint: I am not the first demon lord.”

Morgan’s breath hitched. It wasn’t a decoy. It was him. The real him.

“It… wasn’t me!” Blair choked out, her voice breaking under the strain. “It flew out of me, but it wasn’t… me!”

Morgan dropped to her knees, blood spilling from her mouth, staining the ground beneath her.

“Too bad I can’t stay to enjoy the spectacle of your death,” the demon lord sneered, his voice brimming with mock pity. “Your husband’s waiting, after all. I’ve prepared a lovely little surprise for him.”

His presence began to fade, but not before Blair screamed—a soul-shattering cry of agony. She convulsed, writhing as if her body was tearing itself apart from the inside. The curse leaving her now to punch a hole through Morgan was no clean exit—it was more like being flayed alive from within. Withdrawal syndrome.

Yvain caught her as she collapsed, his arms steady even as panic clawed at his features. Though he had no holy energy to call upon, he cast healing magic after healing magic, desperate to hold her together. “Stay with me, Your Highness. Stay with me!”

Morgan’s vision blurred as blood poured from her mouth, the children’s struggle painting a fractured picture before her eyes.

“Give up,” the demon lord’s voice coiled in the air, dark and cold as the void itself. “Without my influence, she’ll never control her soul. Isn’t that also true of you, Saint?”

With that, the darkness spiraled into itself, shrinking smaller and smaller until it vanished completely, leaving silence in its wake.