Charles racked his brain to no avail—without crucial intel, there was no way he could puzzle out the true depths of this scheme.
But now was no time for speculation. The decadent revels had already begun, and none of the nobles still inside the theater had any inkling they were hurtling toward annihilation.
He spun to Bernard. "You know this place better than I do. Is there any way to shut things down fast—some way to get everyone to stop and get out of here?"
Bernard scratched his head, hesitating. "Uh, well… I could try finding Amlick. There should be a sound system here for announcements. If I get to it, I could warn everyone to clear out…"
Charles gritted his teeth. "That's wishful thinking. Cassalanter orchestrated this whole disaster—they'll never let us use their equipment to warn all the nobles."
Bernard fell silent, heart pounding. He had no idea what Charles had discovered, but every instinct screamed that a colossal crisis—life or death for hundreds—was about to explode.
"No choice, then!" Charles drew a deep breath and stared back inside. "I'll have to start a fire!"
Bernard blinked. "Huh?"
"I need your help, Bernard." Charles turned to him, steadfast. "I'll create thick smoke. You need to run in and warn people—tell everyone there's a fire, and no matter who they are, GET OUT, now!"
Bernard's teeth chattered—he'd never faced a situation like this in his life. But a strange rush flooded him, his blood pumping with a feverish excitement.
Through thick and thin—sharing danger, forging true loyalty and trust!
Father… I'll finally complete my mission!
"Alright!" he hissed, steadying himself. "I'll look like I'm just wandering at first—give it about five minutes, then I'll kick off the evacuation."
Charles nodded, liking the man's cool-headedness. "Good. Let's do this!"
Bernard straightened his back, put on his most graceful noble posture, and strode back into the grand hall—even if his knees were shaking beneath him.
Meanwhile, Charles slipped backstage. He pulled out his Sending Stones and quickly messaged the witches, telling them he'd found something big and to bring backup ASAP.
Then he summoned his Montport twin-bladed polearm, and Xanathar, the mini-beholder. Casting Elemental Weapon at 5th-level—he chose Fire. As he walked, anything flammable—curtains, carpets, wooden tables and chairs—got slashed and set alight, then piled together for a bigger blaze.
Within moments, he had thick, rolling smoke billowing through the halls.
Next, he cast Gust of Wind, sending the choking fumes flooding upward. The stench quickly filled the whole building.
He couldn't help but cough, so he pulled out a mask and tugged it on, breathing a little easier.
Montport's voice suddenly echoed in his head: "Whoa! What are you doing—arson and murder now? Want an extra hand?"
He sounded way too eager. Charles was not amused. "No. Mind your business. Stay put!"
"Aw, Master, don't be so cold! I'm just trying to help." The Abyssal Lord's tone was oily. "You're working so hard just to spark a few fires. Why not let me off the leash? I could torch the whole place with one easy spell. Saves you all this trouble!"
Charles scoffed. "I'm not burning the whole place down—just making enough smoke to drive people out."
Montport thought about suggesting a Toxic Mist to flush everyone, but Charles cut him off before he could open his mouth. "Enough, Montport! Quiet! This is NOT the time—know your place!"
Montport zipped his lips but made little effort to hide his amusement. He'd figured out that, deep down, Charles actually craved power—and as an Abyssal Lord, he had plenty to offer. He knew Charles would never truly destroy him, and if Charles was ever desperate enough, he'd come begging for infernal aid.
Whatever the demon lord's attitude, Charles ignored him and moved on, setting curtains and sofas ablaze.
Occasionally, a guard appeared, but the mini-beholder came in handy here. Its ray attacks, while limited, were more than enough to knock out mere mortals—a quick stun beam, a minute of deep sleep, and Charles was already gone by the time they woke.
Satisfied, Charles pulled out his Storm Warhammer, pumped it full of arcane energy, and hurled it at a distant wall—
BOOM!
An earth-shattering blast rocked the building. Charles grinned, pleased with the commotion.
Alright, then! Let's see those pampered nobles panic and run for their lives!
On the third floor, inside a private suite…
"Girl, you wouldn't want your troupe blacklisted from every stage, would you? Or see your mother's medical bills go unpaid?"
On the big bed, fresh from his bath and naked except for a thin sheet, a leering nobleman eyed the singer before him, her cheeks wet with silent tears.
"If you know what's good for you, make plenty of noise—sing for me, sweetie, and make it sound pretty, will you…?"
Rage darkened the girl's face—this bastard had threatened her mother and now wanted to sully her art.
Unforgivable!
But thinking of her debts, her ailing, gentle mother, she caved.
I can't be selfish.... Just this once. I'll endure it—eyes shut, teeth clenched, just get through it…
She trembled, lowering her head, starting toward the nobleman's bed. But then, acrid smoke suddenly wafted in.
A panicked shout echoed down the corridor:
"Fire! Fire! Something just exploded! Help, the flames are spreading to the second floor!"
The two froze. Terror overtook lust and shame—they bolted to the door.
"Open up! LET US OUT!"
"Why's it locked?! Somebody, open the door—please!"
Out in the corridors, Bernard pushed on, spreading alarm as he went. Coughing on smoke, he actually felt oddly at peace—convinced he'd make it out alive.
His shouts, blended with the thick smoke and that earlier explosion, had doors flying open all along the halls. Panicked girls, half-dressed nobles, all came pouring into the stairwells, fleeing for their lives, never mind that the freezing winter air awaited them outside—survival was all that mattered!
With so many people fleeing, there were bound to be a few falls and bumps, but all told, the guest list was modest compared to the theater's size, and—miraculously—no major trampling occurred. In clusters and singles, the throng retreated safely to the snowy street.
Far below, in the basement, Regolas remained kneeling before the altar—until Mephistopheles's furious voice thundered in his mind:
"Regolas, what have you done?!"
"What?" Regolas jerked his head up—
There, tall and hulking, with crimson skin, massive bull horns, and enormous bat wings, stood the terrifying avatar of Mephistopheles, the Archdevil of Cania, Lord of the Eighth Hell, master of secrets and knowledge—the mightiest mage in all the Nine Hells.
Regolas never dreamed that his master's avatar would appear in person. Terror nearly shattered his mind—he dropped his gaze, not daring to meet those infernal eyes.
Normally, this would have been a moment of wild joy. But now, the archdevil's rage was unmistakable—Regolas trembled in dread at what punishment might follow.
Mephistopheles glowered, voice dripping with fury:
"They've escaped! They've all left the building—they're outside! Was THAT your plan, Regolas?"
Regolas broke out in a cold sweat—of course not! His plan had been for the nobles' souls to be taken by Mephistopheles as the night's prize. And the girls, having sold their souls for infernal power, would be killed by authorities or hunted down—their souls claimed as well!
That was how it was supposed to go!
How had it gone so utterly wrong?!
Gnashing his teeth, Regolas burned with anger and shame. He stood, eyes blazing, and stalked toward the exit. "I'm going to see for myself—what trickery is afoot here?!"
He stormed out. Mephistopheles's avatar just watched him go, eyes hooded, saying nothing more. With a ripple, the devil and his endless snowscape vanished, leaving the altar cold and dead once more.
Upstairs, Charles had kept well back, warding himself with every protective spell he had. Mask on, pressed against a massive stone pillar, he gazed down into the burning lobby below.
The performers and audience members had almost all made their escape. Anyone left was probably already dead.
Still, Charles didn't leave.
He waited in ambush. Someone, surely, would come to investigate after all this disruption. Whether it was a Cassalanter, Regolas, or some other player—it didn't matter. Nobody runs a conspiracy this big, spends this much, only to watch it all unravel without poking their head out.
And anyone with access to this many enchanted items was a real threat. Charles needed to know who it was—to prepare for what might come next.
Hell, if necessary…
He'd kill them on the spot!
Hidden behind that great round pillar, eyes slitted against the biting smoke, Charles watched the lobby below, gritting his teeth until his eyes watered.
At last, patience paid off. From his vantage point, he saw a figure in a pitch-black cloak bursting out from the direction of the backstage. He looked furious, scanning the devastation. "Someone—what happened?! Who started this fire?!"
A group of bouncers hurried over, pale with fear. "We—we don't know, Manager Regolas! We were just patrolling, but suddenly we all dozed off!"
"Yeah, the smoke woke us up—by then, things were already out of control!"
It was almost midnight—anyone might be sleepy now. The bouncers muttered their excuses, remembering nothing of magic put to sleep.
Regolas, hearing nothing but incompetence, flew into a rage. "Useless fools! You can't even handle this job?!"
"Everyone's gone! Now how are we supposed to clean THIS up?!"
He howled, his composure destroyed after too many failures.
Charles's eyes gleamed as he whispered the incantation for Hunter's Mark, magic feedback confirming what he'd already deduced—
A cambion! And in Cassalanter's house, there could be only one!
Regolas.
A cruel smile played at Charles's lips.
Just as I thought!
You, Regolas—after all your lost spies and havens, I expected you to lay low for years, licking your wounds. But here you are, trying something even crazier.
Don't blame me for what's about to happen, then.
The killing intent in his gaze couldn't have been clearer. He fingered his Storm Warhammer, whispered a spell, and charged it up—then hurled it down—
WHOOSH—
The warhammer blazed through the air, headed straight for Regolas's skull.
Feeling the killing intent, Regolas twisted to dodge—but too slow!
The warhammer struck with thunderous force!
BOOM!
A deafening blast echoed as the hammer exploded against Regolas, the shockwave flattening the nearest bouncers and leaving them reeling in a daze.
Regolas himself went flying, landing hard and barely clinging to consciousness.
Nice—direct hit!
Recalling the warhammer to his hand, Charles vaulted off the second floor, landing smoothly. Polearm in hand, Longstrider surging, he sprinted straight for Regolas.
He was fast, but the theater was large and Regolas had been blasted far. Even at world-record speed, it took Charles a good five seconds to close in.
Blinding white light flared on his polearm—pure, searing destruction—and he swung down hard. But Regolas, regaining his senses at the last second, rolled desperately aside, barely avoiding the blade.
He leapt into the air—his body transforming as magic surged out of him, his finely-tailored suit shredding away to reveal blood-red skin and enormous bat wings.
WHOOSH—
A mighty flap scattered the smoke in a burst of wind, and Regolas soared toward the ceiling, eyes burning crimson with hate as he called down:
"Nigel Charles!"
Below, the battered guards stared up, screaming in horror: "Demons! It's a demon!"
~~~
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