The next day arrived without fanfare. No mourning banners. No words left unspoken. Only duty remained.

  Alice Azael sat at the long obsidian table of the Infernal Council, her face calm, untouched by grief or anger. Around her sat the highest authorities of the Crimson Sun cult, the Infernal Council and the High Sovereign himself.

  It was Ulric Valehn who broke the silence, Valen’s father. His fist struck the table, hard enough to rattle the empty cups.

  "You sat there and watched!" His voice cut through the chamber like a blade. "While my son, your betrothed, bled for the cult! For the cult! For you! And you did nothing."

  The other council members said nothing, but their eyes watched closely.

  Alice didn’t flinch and blink. Her words came out quiet but clear.

  "Arayn and Valen were both warriors beyond me. Stepping between them would not change the outcome. It would only mean another corpse."

  Ulric’s face twisted. Anger. Grief. Pride strangling his better judgment.

  "Then you should have died there!" he roared. "That is what loyalty demands. To stand beside the Heavenly Demon, in life or in death!"

  Darius leaned back in his chair. His aura pressed out like a silent threat.

  "That’s enough," Darius said. "Stop barking in the face of the successor."

  Ulric's jaw clenched. "I don't fear you, Darius. Where were you when Valen fell? You were supposed to be the observer of Duskwatch Town."

  Darius smiled without warmth. "Hunting Garrick Stormrend. I left my familiars guarding the town's edge. If someone beyond expert class approached, they would have known, but Valen lost to someone of equal standing. Even with the Heavenly Demon’s power in his veins. That isn’t a tragedy. That’s incompetence."

  The room turned colder.

  Ulric shot to his feet, veins rising in his neck. "Say that again."

  He didn’t get the chance.

  A crushing weight dropped onto the chamber like a stormcloud breaking. The High Sovereign’s aura filled every corner, pressing their faces toward the cold table.

  "Enough. You speak of loyalty. Of sacrifice. But you forget what binds this cult together."

  He looked at them all, eyes hard as iron.

  "We worship strength. We follow the living Heavenly Demon. Not the dead."

  His gaze settled on Alice.

  "Valen Valehn is gone. His path ends here. But his legacy does not."

  Slowly, the pressure lifted, just enough for them to raise their heads.

  "I, as High Sovereign, declare Alice Azael the successor of the Crimson Sun Cult. By right of law. By strength of will. This is the final gift we offer to the Third Heavenly Demon."

  No one spoke after that.

  There was nothing left to say.

  ---

  Alice sat on the balcony of her room, her gaze wandering over the garden below. The morning sun spilled over the trimmed hedges and winding stone paths, painting the flowers in gentle gold. The wind carried the faint scent of blooming nightshade, a quiet beauty in a place built on power and blood.

  Soren stood beside her, silent in his black uniform. He leaned forward and poured warm tea into her cup. The faint clink of porcelain echoed between them.

  Alice took a sip.

  "You seem to be in a good mood, Aunty," Soren said.

  She let out a soft chuckle, resting her cheek against her palm.

  "Why wouldn't I be? I'm truly the successor of the cult now," she said, almost to herself. "I never thought this day would come."

  Her fingers traced the rim of her cup.

  "For years, I stood apart. The Saintess of Darkness... forbidden from meddling in the cult’s affairs, but Arayn changed everything. Now, I can slowly change the cult."

  Soren’s eyes lowered. "Master is in the Netherworld, right?"

  Alice nodded. "Yes."

  He hesitated, then asked, "What kind of place is the Netherworld?"

  Alice stared at the garden for a moment longer. The sunlight felt colder now.

  "I don’t know," she admitted. "Few do. But they say it’s a brutal place. A land where only the strongest survive."

  She caught the faint furrow of Soren’s brow. The concern in his young face.

  Her lips softened. "Don’t worry," she said. "Your master has already cheated death once. He won’t die so easily."

  She reached over and tapped his shoulder with a faint smile. "Focus on your own growth. That’s what he would want."

  Soren straightened. "Of course, Aunty."

  Alice raised an eyebrow, playful now.

  "Also... you’re working as my butler now," she teased. "Shouldn’t you call me 'Master' instead?"

  Soren blinked, then answered without missing a beat, "But Aunty is Aunty. Master Arayn is like a father to me… so you’re Aunty."

  Alice let out a small, sigh. She turned away, pouting like a child denied her favorite treat. "I am still 20 and young…" she muttered under her breath.

  ---

  In the heart of darkness, Eryndor stood motionless. The air was still. Silent. Three figures lunged at him from different directions, one from the front, one from behind, and one from above.

  Eryndor moved like a shadow.

  He reached up, seizing the attacker descending from above by the collar. His body twisted, narrowly slipping past the strike from the side. With a surge of strength, he hurled the man in his grasp straight into the one charging from behind.

  A heavy thud echoed through the training hall. Silence returned, only for slow clapping to fill the void.

  The three assailants stood, their heads bowed deeply toward Eryndor.

  From beyond the veil of darkness, an old man emerged. “Well done,” the elder said. “It seems your training has borne fruit. With this, you have mastered that terrifying technique.”

  Eryndor stood still, a black blindfold wrapped tightly over his eyes, yet he turned unerringly toward the voice.

  He bowed low.

  “Thank you, Sect Leader,” Eryndor said. “Thanks for your guidance... I can rise again.”

  Craig Rothshade, the Sect Leader of the Crimson Moon Sect, stepped forward. He placed a weathered hand on Eryndor’s shoulder.

  “I merely showed you the path,” Craig said. “Walking it was yours alone.”

  Eryndor lowered his head once more. “Even so,” he said quietly, “I am grateful to you and to everyone here who lent me their strength in this training.”

  Eryndor suddenly raised his brows. “Oh, a letter from Alice Azael… addressed to me?”

  Craig Rothshade raised a brow, a flicker of surprise crossing his worn face. “Oh? How do you know that? I wasn’t planning to tell you yet.”

  Eryndor let a faint smile touch his lips beneath the blindfold. “I saw you... talking about it in your office. In the alternate future.”

  Craig let out a dry chuckle, scratching his beard.

  “Your clairvoyance… it seems the radius is even greater than I thought.”

  Eryndor nodded slowly.

  “Outside of battle, when I’m calm… my vision stretches over the entire sect. I can see thirty minutes ahead within this range.”

  Craig exhaled a soft laugh, half-amused, half-impressed. “It seems I’ve raised a monster.” His eyes glinted with pride. “Good. I look forward to seeing just how far you’ll go.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Eryndor bowed his head respectfully. “It seems Young Mistress Alice is inviting me to take part in her grand plan. I’d like your blessing… to fight for her cause.”

  Craig fell silent for a heartbeat. “So… in the alternate future I spoke about the letter’s contents as well, huh?” He shook his head with a wry grin. “Yes. She’s inviting you to join her… but are you sure?”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “You were toyed with by her brother — used as a stepping stone for her rise to power. Not to mention, the Crimson Sun Cult marked you as dead. The world believes you no longer exist.”

  Eryndor’s smile never wavered. “It’s fine, Master. I don’t hold grudges. I never have. If anything… I believe working alongside her is necessary. If we want our sect to be free from the cult’s chains, this is the best path.”

  Craig studied him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “I understand.” He placed a hand on Eryndor’s shoulder, grip strong. “You are the successor of the Crimson Moon Sect. I trust your judgement. Walk your path without hesitation and regret.”

  ---

  Aveline curled up on the edge of her bed, her small frame swallowed by the oversized pink pajamas she wore. The sleeves drooped past her wrists as she hugged a massive bear plushie, its stitched smile doing little to comfort her trembling heart.

  Soft sobs broke past her lips, muffled against the plush fur of the bear. Her eyes were red, swollen from tears that refused to stop.

  She kept seeing their faces, her comrades. Brave, stubborn, loyal. People who had trusted her. People who had followed her lead into that cursed battle against the Crimson Sun Cult.

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  They had fallen.

  One by one.

  For nothing.

  Aveline bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, but the ache in her heart swallowed the sting. Duskwatch Town… its broken walls, its ruined homes… all of it haunted her.

  “I… I couldn’t protect them…” she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking. “I am not worthy to be the saintess…”

  Her arms tightened around the plush bear as if its silent presence could shield her from the crushing weight of her failure, but no warmth reached her. Only the guilt of her failure.

  A soft knock suddenly echoed from the wooden door.

  “Aveline,” came the deep, gentle voice of her father, Garrick Stormrend. “May I come in?”

  Startled, Aveline wiped her teary eyes with the sleeve of her pajama. She scrambled to her feet, her legs weak from the feeling of guilt. Slowly, she crossed the room, clutching the bear plushie tightly against her chest.

  She reached for the door handle with trembling fingers and pulled it open.

  Garrick stood there, his towering figure shadowing the doorway. His stern face softened the moment he saw her swollen eyes and quivering lips.

  “Are you alright, my little star?” he asked.

  Aveline didn’t answer. She simply shook her head, her golden hair falling like a curtain around her downcast face.

  Garrick knelt down slightly, leveling his gaze with hers. “Would you like to talk about your concern with your father?”

  For a moment, Aveline hesitated, but then she gave the faintest, almost childlike nod.

  Without another word, Garrick stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Together, they sat on the edge of her bed.

  Garrick reached out, his large calloused hand gently wrapping around her smaller, delicate one.

  “Tell me, Aveline,” he said softly. “Tell me what burdens your heart.”

  Aveline’s voice trembled as she clutched the plush bear tighter against her chest.

  “Father... I can’t forget them,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “Those who fought beside me... who fell because I wasn’t strong enough. I keep seeing their faces... I hear their voices when I close my eyes.”

  Garrick listened in silence. After a moment, he placed a comforting hand on her head, his rough fingers brushing gently through her hair.

  “Heart wounds... are unlike any other,” he said softly. “No magic can mend them naturally. No spell can ease them fully. Only time can dull the ache, Aveline.”

  He paused.

  “Sometimes... being alone is the answer. To sit with your grief, to understand it. Sometimes... being with others is what keeps us afloat. If you choose to be alone for a while, that’s alright, but if you ever wish for company, remember there are many who care for you. Many who will sit beside you without asking for anything.”

  Aveline looked up at him, her voice barely a whisper. “Is it really alright... that I’m not punished for failing them?”

  Garrick let out a faint sigh. He gently lifted her chin so their eyes met.

  “My kind-hearted daughter...” he murmured. “Your heart is already punishing you far more than everyone could, but responsibility... true responsibility... is not about punishment.”

  He squeezed her hand firmly.

  “It’s about remembering them, keeping their names, their dreams, their sacrifices alive within you. To honor them... you must keep living. Keep growing stronger. Not for guilt... but for them.”

  Tears welled in Aveline’s eyes again, but this time, there was a quiet strength stirring beneath the sorrow.

  Garrick rose from the bed with a soft pat on Aveline’s head.

  “I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he said as he left her room, closing the door behind him with a gentle click.

  Aveline sat there in silence, the weight of his words settling into her heart. The night was long, and sleep never truly came to her. She sat by the window, staring at the distant stars, lost in thoughts of her fallen comrades, of her failures, and of what it truly meant to be responsible.

  When morning arrived, sunlight poured faintly through her window. She stood before her mirror — no longer in her soft pink pajamas, but clad once more in her armor.

  She stepped out of her room with calm determination, making her way to the dining room.

  Garrick sat there, sipping tea. When he looked up, his sharp eyes softened. He could see the fire in her gaze.

  “I’m going to the church,” Aveline said firmly. “To train. I can’t waste any more time.”

  Garrick chuckled deeply, shaking his head. “You’ve inherited your mother’s stubbornness.” He raised a hand, stopping her. “But no warrior marches to battle on an empty stomach. Sit. Eat first.”

  Aveline hesitated for a moment before nodding. She sat down beside him as her mother joined them with a gentle smile. Together, the Stormrend family shared their breakfast.

  ---

  Lyssa stood still before the towering door of her family’s mansion — the place she once called home. The cold wind bit against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the freezing words that came from the man standing on the other side.

  Her father, clad in his regal attire, stared down at her with eyes devoid of warmth.

  "You are dead," he said, his voice like iron. "From this day onward, you are no longer my daughter. You should have stayed dead. That is the only way to preserve your honor… and ours."

  Without waiting for a reply, the grand doors of the mansion closed, as if sealing a tomb.

  Lyssa stood motionless. The ache in her chest spread like ice through her veins. Slowly, she turned around, her legs trembling beneath her weight. The streets were empty. The world felt unbearably quiet.

  She walked. One step at a time.

  This was the truth, wasn’t it? She had always known. They sent her to that deathmatch not for glory... but for convenience. She was a tool, a sacrifice for their political gain.

  She was worth more to them as a corpse than alive.

  Her steps slowed, her vision blurred. The weight of reality crushed her heart. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she stumbled down the empty road.

  She had no home. No family. No place left to go.

  A cold sting suddenly tore through Lyssa’s back. A blade slid between her ribs.

  Her breath caught as another dagger impaled her. And another.

  Pain blossomed in her body like a storm of thorns. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving street. Blood stained the cobblestones beneath her as she struggled to crawl, her fingers scraping weakly against the ground.

  Boots landed before her. She looked up. Her blurred vision met the indifferent gaze of a man dressed in dark leathers.

  “Long time no see, little sister. Since we shared blood, I figured out that you should at least know who is going to kill you,” he said flatly. “I am ordered by our father to dispose of you.”

  There was no malice in his voice. Just cold detachment.

  “I hold no grudge against you. I do this for our family. Blame your fate… not me.”

  He raised his dagger high, the final blow meant to silence her forever.

  Lyssa’s trembling hand reached out toward the empty night. Her lips quivered.

  “I… I want to live…” she sobbed.

  Her heart ached for something impossible. For something warm.

  "I want… to be happy…"

  She closed her eyes. In her mind, in her final moment, she imagined an ordinary life. A peaceful one.

  She imagined Thalric talking to her once more.

  “Thalric…” she whispered, tears falling like rain. “Save me…”

  Like the answer to a prayer, the air twisted. A presence materialized beside her. A calm voice followed. "I heard your wish."

  The assassin turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the figure standing there.

  "Who… are you?"

  Thalric stood there, his expression soft. A smile touched his lips. "I am just a fragment of her imagination," he said quietly.

  In an instant, Thalric vanished from view, only to reappear behind the assassin like a phantom. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, deep, crimson lines carved themselves across the assassin's chest.

  Blood erupted from the wounds as the man staggered, shock overtaking his face.

  Thalric knelt beside her, his hand reaching out. “Take my hand, Lyssa.”

  Her fingers trembled, too weak to lift. Her voice came in broken breaths.

  “Thalric… I’m glad you’re alive… At least… you have to live well… for me…”

  Thalric furrowed his brows. “What are you talking about? You’re not going to die here. Imagine your wound healing. Picture it.”

  She didn’t understand. It sounded absurd. However, something deep inside her trusted him. Trusted that voice.

  Weakly, she closed her eyes and imagined. Warmth pulsed through her ruined body. The pain dulled. Then faded.

  When she opened her eyes, the blood was gone. The wounds were gone. She was well and kicking.

  Her lips trembled. “What… happened?”

  Thalric smiled faintly. “I told you. I’m just a fragment of your imagination. So this is your power, the power of your will.”

  Lyssa blinked in disbelief. “I… did this?”

  She shivered as the night wind bit her skin. Almost instinctively, she pictured a scarf. In her hands, threads of thought became reality, a scarf formed.

  Thalric gently took it from her hands, wrapping it carefully around her neck like a guardian shielding her from the world’s cruelty.

  “…Thalric,” she whispered, “please… don’t leave me alone again.”

  “I’m always here, Lyssa, as long as you imagine me.”

  “Thalric… are you real?”

  For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he stepped closer and pulled her into his embrace.

  “Does it matter?” he whispered near her ear. “Even if I’m just a fragment in your heart… even if I’m only your wish given shape… I am here for you. I am real as long as you believe it."

  Lyssa could hear Thalric’s heartbeat as he held her close. It was warm. It was comforting. It felt real, but reality was cruel.

  She knew what had happened to the real Thalric. Arayn had killed him coldly and without hesitation.

  That memory burned in her chest like a curse. Her trembling hands balled into fists against Thalric’s chest. A storm of emotions swirled within her, sorrow, bitterness… and then, rage.

  Rage toward Arayn, who had taken everything from her.

  Rage toward the Crimson Sun Cult, who had cast her into the deathmatch like disposable bait.

  Above all, rage toward the family who discarded her like broken glass on the roadside.

  Her breathing grew heavier.

  "I survived," she told herself. "I survived that deathmatch."

  She had the power to shape what she believed. If imagination was her weapon, then she would sharpen it. Temper it in the fires of her hatred and resolve.

  She would grow stronger, stronger than anyone had ever thought possible. When the time came, when her blade was ready, she would carve her revenge into the bones of those who wronged her.

  No one would cast her aside again. She would be the one who disposed of them.

  From the corner of her eye, Lyssa noticed her elder brother. The very man who once looked down on her now reduced to a pitiful sight, crawling desperately across the bloodstained ground, trying to escape.

  Pathetic.

  She turned her cold gaze to Thalric.

  "Dispose of him," she ordered.

  Thalric gave a faint smile. "As you wish."

  He began walking toward the crawling man, like a reaper approaching his harvest.

  "No—! Stay away!" her brother screamed, his voice breaking with terror. "I’m your family—! Lyssa! Please!"

  Lyssa merely watched as the man who once held power over her life crawled like an insect before death. A faint smirk crept onto her lips.

  ---

  [Name: Arayn Azael

  Class: Demon Hunter

  Level: 23

  Patron: 1. Tyras 2. Loxyr

  Origin: Learning

  Strength: 68

  Dexterity: 76

  Constitution: 90

  Intelligence: 94

  Wisdom: 56

  Charisma: 66]

  Arayn sat atop a boulder, the wind of the Netherworld brushing past his cloak like whispers of the dead. His crimson eyes stared at the flickering status window hovering in front of him, casting a faint blue glow over his hand.

  Level 23.

  He leaned back slightly, one leg resting over the other as he studied the numbers. Two levels in one fight.

  "Valen..." he muttered.

  He had hunted countless monsters in the Netherworld. He had slaughtered them without rest, but his level hadn’t budged. Yet, when he killed Valen, the experience surged into him like a crashing wave.

  “Valen was worth more than all those beasts combined…”

  A raspy cough broke the silence.

  Arayn’s eyes flicked down from the edge of the boulder. Below, standing amidst the cracked, ash-covered earth, was a familiar figure wrapped in noble attire. Tyras, his first patron, looked up at him with a faint grin.

  Arayn stood, cloak fluttering behind him, and dropped down from the boulder. His boots met the ground with a soft thud. He bowed his head slightly.

  "Greetings, master."

  Tyras straightened and nodded, his pale hand briefly pressing against his chest to quiet the cough. "I knew you would succeed," he said. "Welcome back."

  Arayn gave a single nod in return. "So… why are you setting this meeting in the middle of nowhere?"

  Tyras's eyes gleamed. “I’ve summoned two of my friends here,” he said. “I didn’t want to attract any unnecessary attention.”

  Arayn raised a brow. “The Transcendences you asked to be your Horsemen?”

  Tyras gave a slow nod. “Yes. And they are even more amazing than me.” A brief smile tugged at his lips. “Even though they’ve descended into new mortal vessels, they deserve respect. Please, Arayn. Be respectful to them. For my sake.”

  Arayn’s interest stirred. If Tyras could speak of them with that kind of reverence, then these Horsemen were worth paying attention to.

  “Interesting,” Arayn said, his gaze shifting to the side.

  There, standing not far from them, was a black-haired woman clad in a priestess’s ceremonial garb. A sheer, silken fabric covered her face, hiding her features but not her presence. She moved with grace, her posture regal, her steps silent. As she was close, she gave a gentle bow.

  “Greetings, senior brother,” she said softly. “It’s the first time we meet.”

  Arayn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You must be the Horseman of War, then.”

  The woman nodded. “My name is Qichalla Marzhazar. You can just call me Qi.”

  Arayn rubbed his chin, the name scratching at his memory. “That name… The Saintess of Star? I know one of the Horsemen is a mortal like me, but I didn’t expect her to be one of the Eight Saintesses.”

  Qi chuckled gently. “I’m not as impressive as the other two Horsemen,” she said. “Senior should’ve seen their avatars. Even the Star Goddess wasn’t as amazing as them.”

  Arayn glanced around and asked flatly, “So where are those two Transcendences?”

  Tyras gave a half-shrug, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “They're playing with their new bodies. Adjusting. They must be close.”

  Just as the words left his mouth, Arayn felt a sudden presence behind him. He didn't react immediately, but it caught him slightly off guard. Whatever it was, it meant no harm. he turned slowly, gaze drifting downward first.

  He saw a calf the size of a tree trunk.

  Then, as his eyes rose, he saw the full figure, a towering troll with red skin, his muscles thick and knotted like ancient roots. Two massive tusks jutted upward from his lower jaw, and his yellow eyes glowed.

  The troll grinned wide. “Wow,” he rumbled, “our little friend isn’t easily shook, just like you said, Tyras.”

  With a deep, rumbling chuckle, the troll lowered himself and sat with surprising gentleness, causing a slight quake in the earth. His gaze settled on Arayn.

  “You have potential,” he said. “I can't wait to see how you'll grow.”

  Tyras began, “This is—”

  The troll raised a massive hand. “I can do my introduction myself.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I was thinking of a name… and I’ve decided I’ll go by my first name. You can call me Husk.” He gestured toward himself. “I am the Horseman of Famine.”

  Before Arayn could reply, a sharp cry echoed across the sky.

  A wyvern screeched and plummeted from the clouds, crashing to the earth in a mess of wings and broken bone. Standing atop the beast’s corpse was a white-haired man, lean and tall, his blue eyes piercing. He leapt down lightly, dusting off his gloves as he approached.

  He looked at Tyras and spoke with a frustrated tone, “Are you sure dragons exist in this world, Tyras? I haven’t found a single one.”

  Tyras laughed. “If you found a true dragon, you wouldn’t be able to beat it at your current level.”

  The man indifferently said, “I level up fast.”

  He stopped in front of Arayn and extended a hand. “You must be the Horseman of Conquest. Nice to meet you. I am here as the Horseman of Death."

  "My name is Locci Snowstar.”