Beneath the fury of the battle above, Hemera hovered in silence, her blazing wings outstretched, her presence a beacon of wrath and divinity. Two Ascended War Maidens knelt before her, scorched and trembling. She did not speak to them. They were beneath her voice—unworthy of hearing the music of the phoenix spirit.
Those who defiled innocence… who shattered purity without remorse… deserved only silence. And fire.
The War Maidens screamed as her judgment fell upon them. An ocean of searing light surged forward, not like water, but like divine fire given form—consuming flesh, armor, and soul alike. Their cries echoed through the temple halls, piercing and wretched, but Hemera remained unmoved.
Did they weep when they heard the screams of the children they tortured? Did they pause when they saw little hands reach out for help, only to be torn away? Did they ever ask why?
Why crush what is pure?
Why steal joy from those who had so little?
Why choose cruelty over kindness?
Hemera's eyes glowed like twin suns as her fury answered for them.
With righteous rage burning in her heart, she lifted her head, and the ocean of light condensed—drawn inward, tighter and tighter, until it became a blazing sphere of golden fire. It pulsed once in the air, like a star at the moment of death.
And then it exploded.
A shower of golden embers surged outward, cascading through the temple like divine sparks scattered by the hand of a god.
Outside, those still locked in battle paused as a wave of warmth enveloped the temple grounds. Light poured from every window, turning night into day. The air shimmered, thick with radiance. Darkness fled before it. And where it could not flee, it burned.
Lava-like heat bled from the sacred stone, melting tile and mortar alike. The earth cracked, steam hissing through fractured stone. Warriors on both sides instinctively fell back, shielding their eyes from the overwhelming brilliance.
Hemera stood still, her figure glowing with such intensity it seemed as if she were forged from dawn itself. She was no longer a mere child-like spirit—she was Child Of Daylight, a wrathful star in the heart of the temple.
And yet… even in all her brilliance… there was a place her light could not reach.
Far below, nestled in the ancient, rotting heart of the temple, there existed a darkness—dense and absolute. An abyss of silence, where light was swallowed whole. Her flames recoiled from it, shrinking as if afraid.
A shiver passed through her.
That darkness… it pushed back.
He had begun.
_____
Two figures clashed atop the grand temple, their silhouettes blurred by velocity, movements a ballet of destruction. Each step, each strike, sent waves of ruin cascading across the rooftop, cracking stone and scattering debris like petals in a storm.
Elder Sekra fought with cruel precision. Her every motion exuded a refined brutality, each blow calibrated to inflict the most agonizing torment. Her experience—honed over decades of bloodshed—allowed her to anticipate Klaus's maneuvers with unsettling ease. She wasn't merely skilled; she was a sadist sculpted by war.
But Klaus, too, was no stranger to conflict. Though less elegant, he was a seasoned combatant—an analyst amidst chaos. Piece by piece, he deciphered her rhythm, slowly reclaiming the edge he'd lost at the battle's start.
He slipped past another merciless strike, his violet eyes glowing with a malevolent light. Fractures veined from his pupils like cracks on shattered glass, blood weeping down his cheeks. His Divine Eyes slowed his perception of time, allowing him to react to her attacks—but he was paying the price. Pain coursed through him like wildfire: nerves ablaze, muscles straining, skin threatening to tear under the strain.
He blinked out of range, landing atop a crumbling pillar and gasping for breath. Across the rooftop, Sekra stood poised, their gazes locked in a moment of mutual stillness—two predators waiting for the other to twitch.
Klaus wiped the blood from his eyes and surged forward. Sekra's grin widened with savage delight, raising her arm like a blade as she mirrored his charge. The next flurry of exchanges was a whirlwind—Klaus too swift to be caught, Sekra too formidable to overpower.
He slid back, graceful as a dancer, evading the luminous nails that pursued him like ravenous hounds. In a blink, he vanished from his spot, reappearing near the temple's eastern wing. The stone beneath his feet shattered as he leapt skyward, summoning his spear midair. With every ounce of strength, he hurled it down at her heart.
The spear descended like a falling star—its crimson hue mirrored the blood-red moon, a harbinger of annihilation.
Sekra tilted her head with almost playful delight, letting the spear narrowly miss. She beckoned mockingly.
"Impaler..."
Klaus whispered as his smile twisted into something wicked. The spear curved midair, homing in on her exposed back—but too soon did he rejoice. Sekra's hand snapped up and caught it with ease.
His eyes widened as he felt it: a strange energy creeping into the weapon. The spear's dark surface began to corrode, metal sizzling as if doused in acid. Sekra's smile became almost maternal.
"Ah... this is my dormant ability," she purred. "I can corrode all metals."
Satan—a weapon forged from Enchantment of divine ranked memory—was not divine in itself, but rather matched Klaus's own rank. Thus, though far stronger than it appeared, it remained vulnerable to superior forces. Sekra, regrettably, outclassed him.
This was not good.
Klaus's expression flickered, then split into a smile. He raised a hand, and the spear shivered in Sekra's grasp before ripping itself free, flying into his palm. He examined its surface—tarnished, scarred—but intact. Satan was more than steel. It was forged from many rare ores and memories—a crystallization of his journey. Still, her corrosion had left its mark.
He looked up and sneered. "You vile, rust-breathing bitch."
A laugh escaped him—a low, bitter chuckle. His gaze drifted to the battlefield below. The temple's interior was nearly deserted, the conflict spilling into the courtyards beyond. Hemera had already eliminated the last two war maidens within, turning them to dust in a brilliant ocean of light.
Farther down, Klaus saw Sunny, Effie, and Kai locked in battle. Dozens of war maidens still fought—perhaps over a hundred remained.
He could have summoned Hassan. The stalwart knight would've made short work of Sekra. But Klaus had three reasons not to.
First: Hassan had his own mission, a task only he could complete, one requiring his unique abilities.
Second: It had been far too long since Klaus faced a true opponent.
Sekra was strong—disturbingly so. Her movements, honed over countless battles, were nearly flawless. She had only struck Klaus twice, but each blow had left an echo of agony far deeper than the wounds themselves. He wondered: did she possess a passive attribute that amplified pain? Or was it an aspect ability? No—it felt more intrinsic, more insidious like innate ability. Perhaps akin to Cassie's haunting visions—unpredictable and cruel.
So far, Sekra had revealed two abilities: her corrosive touch and the radiant nails. But there was a third. She was hiding it. Why? If it could turn the tide, why hold back?
Unless… it had a cost. Perhaps it required a condition. Or perhaps the price was simply too steep.
But the third reason he hadn't summoned Hassan—the truest reason—was this:
He wanted to kill her himself.
Klaus was many things. A manipulator. A strategist. A sinner. But he never harmed children. In fact, he adored them—their laughter, their boundless curiosity, their untainted joy. Perhaps because he had been robbed of such innocence himself, he wished to preserve it in others.
And Sekra… Sekra had shattered that purity.
He would burn this entire accursed sect to ash. He would crush her.
Corrosion, huh? Interesting.
That might just work.