Standing before the unconscious Locan and Nahwu, Lance Inkor fell to one knee, his breathing uneven and shallow. His hands—no, his arms—were disintegrating, turning to ash bit by bit, and a bitter sneer played across his lips.
"She brought out the big gun right away, huh…"
That spell. The very same spell that had nearly killed the first Demon Lord five centuries ago. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was the weapon. A spell so monumental it should have taken hours to cast, maybe even days. Yet she had unleashed it in under a minute.
Was she that well prepared? Did they know he was preparing a surprise attack?
Perhaps they were, the moment they knew his existence, even before knowing his identity. It wasn’t just him. She’d grown stronger over the past five hundred years.
The woman beside him, trembling with wide, panicked eyes, was a portrait of terror. Her gaze flickered between him and their unconscious targets, worry and confusion carving lines into her face.
“Lance… are they going to kill us?” she asked, her voice trembling like a fragile thread about to snap.
“No, my love,” he said, forcing his voice into something steady and soothing, though the corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed pain. He gestured weakly toward Nahwu. “Come, let me help you. That girl’s body—look at her. A beautiful elf princess. Doesn’t it suit you?”
Evere’s panic softened into something dreamlike, her gaze settling on Nahwu. Her lips moved in a dazed whisper, “Beautiful…”
The plan, then, was clear. His identity had been blown wide open, his arms reduced to holy ash, and the Original Saint herself was in play. Yet, even pinned into a corner, Lance Inkor wasn’t without options. Locan and Nahwu would do nicely—one body for Evere, one for himself.
But then, there was still Burn.
Well, he still had time. After all, he had prepared a surprise for him, like he promised.
BLAAAASTT!!!
The cliff stood as an imposing giant in the northern reaches of Inkia, towering at least 1000 feet, its jagged edges daring the heavens themselves. It was the kind of natural formation that inspired awe, fear, and the occasional poetic lamentation about the power of nature.
To Burn, it was just an inconvenience.
He stood at its base, eyes narrowed, his hand twitching with the kind of restrained power that could reduce kingdoms to rubble. The faint trace of mana—the princess’ and the prince’s mana, distinct and unmistakable—had led him here. Locan and Nahwu were somewhere within this stony monstrosity. He could feel it.
BLAAAAAAASTT!
Another flick of a finger.
The earth trembled once more. No dramatic incantations, no grand gestures—just a casual motion, like brushing lint off his coat.
CRACK! BOOOOOOM!!!
The cliff disintegrated. Massive slabs of stone crumbled into dust, falling away like a poorly stacked tower of cards. Entire sections collapsed inward, the rumble echoing across the northern expanse as if the earth itself was gasping in disbelief.
Burn stepped forward, his metal heeled shoes crunching over the debris, his expression one of cold mild annoyance.
The dust settled, revealing what the cliff had been hiding—a gaping entrance carved into the rock. No, not an entrance exactly. The jagged opening revealed the edge of a long, winding corridor, stretching into darkness that seemed to swallow light whole.
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A secret base? Burn stepped closer. The faint mana signature grew stronger, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
With that, he stepped into the shadowy passage, the very weight of his presence making the ground tremble in protest beneath him. But then, his steps faltered. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, even the suffocating darkness seemed to retreat in fear.
He saw it.
No—him.
A face he’d know anywhere, even in the deepest pits of hell. A face burned into his memory with a vengeance that time could never dull.
“Come to think of it… we could never find your head, huh, Aroche?” Burn’s voice was calm, almost conversational, as though he weren’t addressing a memory cloaked in grief.
The realization hit him like a blade to the chest, though his expression betrayed none of it. He understood now. Not just his father. Not just the world’s leaders. Not just the fragile balance of this broken world.
"So, Demon Lord..." His voice dropped, the kind of tone that made the air grow heavier, thicker, suffocating. Darkness crept across his face, wrath descended no mortal should have laid eyes upon.
Burn’s grip on his sword tightened, the dragon-horn blade groaning under the sheer force of it. The weapon, a relic of unimaginable power, seemed almost fragile in his hands. “...Apparently, this is personal.”
***
Nemo shot toward Morgan, throwing healing magic at her with frantic precision, mirroring Yvain’s desperate efforts to keep Blair alive. The boy was overwhelmed—torn between the sight of Blair and Morgan teetering on the edge of death and the chaos of his friends sprinting toward him from relative safety.
Panic swept through the scene like a storm. Guards shouted orders, aides scrambled, and Matthew and Alan clung to the edge of composure as physicians flooded in. But the maelstrom froze in place when Morgan stood, a gaping hole still carved into her chest.
“Take the Princess inside. We’re in a war,” she commanded, her tone cutting through the hysteria like a blade.
War didn’t pause for injury, and Morgan didn’t have the luxury of dying—not yet. Not while Burn was still out there, and not until she knew what fresh hell he was dealing with on his side.
For a moment, no one moved, their eyes fixed on the impossible sight of the matriarch standing tall despite her body’s rebellion against all natural laws.
Then, as if snapped out of a trance, the guards sprang into action. Orders were barked, couriers dispatched to the palace, Padparadscha Mansion, and Mossflower Mansion. This could no longer be contained. After Locan and Nahwu’s abduction, hiding this attack was laughably impossible.
“Mama…” Yvain’s voice cracked as he looked up at his master, still kneeling and clinging to Blair, pouring every ounce of his magic into her fragile body.
Morgan closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, then extended her holy magic toward Blair, patching her wounds with a precision only she could manage. “Keep going. Don’t stop until she wakes up. Can you handle that?”
“Yes,” Yvain said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. “I can.”
“Good.” Morgan’s tone softened only slightly before sharpening again as she turned to the others. “Let’s go in. We’re commencing a lockdown. The children are to be protected at all costs. No one meets them—not even their parents. Young Lord Padparadscha, Young Lord Mossflower, I trust you understand.”
Matthew and Alan froze, their frightened eyes flicking from her face to the gaping hole in her chest. They didn’t fully grasp the scale of what had just unfolded, but her words carried the weight of command. Trembling, they nodded.
“Go on. Follow the adults,” Morgan instructed, her tone brooking no argument.
But Nemo stayed rooted to her side, her wide, determined eyes locked on Morgan’s battered frame. Matthew and Alan reached to pull her along, but stopped short, remembering how the small girl had fought beside them.
Instead, they shifted their focus to Yvain, who hoisted Blair into his arms with care and began heading toward the mansion.
Morgan remained where she stood, her gaze sweeping over the retreating figures. Nemo trailed her like a shadow, silent but resolute.
"Barrier," Morgan said, her voice steady despite the strain.
Nemo nodded without hesitation, her small frame began helping her weave the protective spell.
COUGH!
Morgan’s body lurched, blood spilling from her lips in a violent surge. Yet, from far in the distance, a pillar of light could be seen piercing the heavens—a towering manifestation to the barrier she had raised.
“Do you think he’ll attack soon?” Morgan had asked Burn a few days prior, their voices echoing in the stillness of the corridor after that lengthy discussion with Yvain, Gawain and Finn.
“No,” Burn replied. “I think he’ll need time to recover after today.”
It was a reasonable assumption—after all, Burn’s arm had literally detonated on the demon lord, leaving a mark no one, not even the so-called ruler of the abyss, could easily shake off. Surely, even he would need to retreat, to lick his wounds and regroup.
They had been wrong. And they both knew, because…
At that moment, suddenly, a wet, ragged cough wracked her body. Blood splattered onto her hand.
The loop had begun long ago. But she wouldn’t let it end yet.