"Absorb Elements!"
Charles chanted the words again, invoking Absorb Elements, letting the four Fire Bolts strike him straight on. His fifth-tier False Life spell provided a hefty shield of protection—getting hurt was the last thing on his mind.
But up in the air, Regolas fared far worse against Xanathar's ray.
That gray beam shot straight into his mind, shattering every last bit of his mental defense in an instant. His snarling expression froze mid-snarl, his brain whirled with vertigo, and those wings—just moments ago beating with agile menace—locked up all at once. He fell, utterly limp, from the second floor's height!
BANG—!
He crashed hard to the ground, raising a storm of dust. His body convulsed. He hadn't fully lost consciousness, but Charles's magic coupled with Xanathar's unique arcane physiology left him almost completely paralyzed—his body was all but out of his control!
"Good job, Xanathar, keep it up!"
Seeing his moment, Charles roared in encouragement, pouring more magical power into Xanathar as he sprinted forward.
The mini-beholder was definitely starting to look tired, but it grit its teeth—so to speak—focusing and unleashing another unseen Telekinetic Ray from its main eye.
BZZZZT—!
A wave of telekinetic force wrapped around Regolas and yanked him, dragging him bodily toward Charles. Xanathar was exhausted, but didn't falter, waving its eyestalks and channeling everything into keeping its grip strong, hauling Regolas at maximum speed.
"Ugh…"
Regolas started to recover some awareness—only to find Charles right in his face, his words radiant with arcane power: "Purified!"
SHHHNK—!
In the next instant, the keen edge of Charles's twin-bladed sword slashed across Regolas's back, rending one of his wings. Brilliant purifying light washed over his body—and then began seeping into his very soul.
Regolas's eyes widened in pure horror, and his entire body began to shake uncontrollably.
What is this?
No—it's impossible! My soul should be deep in the Eighth Layer of Cania, my home domain!
Why do I feel my soul itself trembling? Why do I sense the threat of total annihilation?
What is this white light?!
No, please—don't let me die! I don't want to die—I don't want to die!
"Lord Mephistopheles—!" In his final moments, the mastermind behind so many of Liberl Port's dark conspiracies finally showed his true, sniveling, cowardly side. "Save me—!"
But his cries went unanswered. Bathed in milky purifying brilliance, his physical form vanished utterly, without a trace.
Deep in the shadows, Mephistopheles's avatar wheeled around, peering through the walls toward where Regolas had just died, shock etched across his infernal face.
What just happened?
Wait—where's my agent gone?
For a moment, the avatar hesitated. The true body, on Cania's Eighth Layer, started scanning for Regolas's soul mark.
Moments later, Mephistopheles was stunned.
Gone… completely gone, not a single trace left. Regolas's soul mark had been purified, scrubbed clean!
Who—who could erase the soul of my marked cambion from my world, without my even noticing?!
The idea that struck him made his metaphysical heart skip a beat.
That's something only a true deity—one with at least Intermediate Divine Power—could pull off!
No, it's more than that. Even an Intermediate Power would struggle to do this without alerting me. To pull it off so cleanly… it must be a god of Greater Divine Power!
A true god, mighty and present in this very city, had personally intervened, erasing Regolas's soul.
Impossible! There's no way a Greater Power would waste time on a measly cambion like Regolas. This had to be a warning!
That deity must have noticed my involvement!
Dread thundered through Mephistopheles. Within the theater, his avatar blurred, shattering into sparks and vanishing.
He'd teleported away—no choice, not if he didn't want to risk that greater god hunting him down in person!
...
Outside the theater, a bizarre scene had taken shape. Performers in costume, nobles in nothing but bedsheets or nearly naked, stood shivering in the icy wind, eyes wide in terror as they watched smoke and fire snake from the grand building.
No one had imagined the glorious revelry of tonight would end like this—a nightmare. Many stumbled out bloodied and bruised from their flight, and even the lucky ones, half-naked in the frosty air, had lost all dignity.
Only a handful—those who hadn't gotten started—still had their pride intact.
Every noble present was grinding their teeth, cursing House Cassalanter to the depths of hell. How on earth had this happened? How could a night like this go up in smoke?
In the distance, the nobles' personal guards were sweeping in, shouting their masters' names, finding and gathering them, stripping off their own coats for their lords, doing their best to restore some warmth and order.
Most of the guards found their charges; a few couldn't, growing worried—but after one look at the blazing building and thinking about their own paltry pay, decided it wasn't worth dying for. They resigned themselves to searching just enough to look concerned.
Then, amid all the stunned nobles, a battery of lanterns lit up at the edge of the crowd. Voices rang out:
"What exactly happened here? What started this fire?"
"The world-famous Cassalanter Grand Theater—struck by disaster. It's a tragic blow to our city…"
"Sir, could I have a moment for an interview?"
"Miss, aren't you the lead soprano with Blue Star Opera? Were you here to perform tonight? Could you tell us what happened in there?"
...
A swarm of reporters, notepads in hand, dove into the chaos, jostling for interviews, sketching scenes, imagining details—some malicious, some wildly inaccurate.
Some of the art troupe girls hesitated, but buckled under the onslaught of questions and gave partial answers; the nobles, faces darkening, shouted furiously:
"Guards, get these jackals away from us! Don't let them near!"
"Where's my carriage? Bring my carriage—NOW! We're leaving!"
No way were they letting these vultures get their humiliation splashed across tomorrow's news.
So the scramble intensified—nobles fought to get to the stables, shoving aside everyone in their way, barely caring if their clothes came off.
Soon, heavy carriages thundered out of the stables, racing down the street. Journalists, dancers, guards, and civilians all scrambled to dodge the stampede—total chaos.
No one got struck by a carriage head-on, but there were slips, stumbles, trampling aplenty—so many who'd survived the fire unscathed now found themselves battered and bruised or worse.
The chaos was sheer bedlam—insults and curses filled the air. Nobles dropped every pretense of class, some even resorting to fistfights. Greed and panic were on full display, their ugliest depths revealed for any god watching to sigh and lament.
But then, ringing out above the din, came a voice—clear, powerful, full of gentle arcane resonance:
"Everyone, stay calm and keep your positions. The life nuns will heal the wounded."
All eyes turned to see a radiant figure descending from above—a beautiful nun, voluptuous and proud, clad in a white-and-gold-edged opulent habit, streaming warm light as she floated down from the sky.
The air grew softer around her—no more biting wind, no more suffering from the cold.
Walking swiftly to her side came another woman, equally beautiful and imposing, clad in heavy black—her very presence radiated an authoritative, magical command that instinctively compelled obedience.
"Please spread out, everyone. Where are the injured? The Church of the Goddess of Life nuns will tend their wounds. Please assist us."
A dozen more nuns, all in battle habits of solid black, followed solemnly behind.
Calm settled. On their own, the crowd split into orderly lines, distancing themselves, pointing out the wounded and directing the life nuns to those most in need.
Soon storm nuns—wielding warhammers and shields—entered as well, restoring order. The last few troublemakers fell silent, and within a minute the crowd of hundreds fell into perfect discipline.
Watching it all, the reporters were amazed by how swiftly peace returned. Some even shifted focus, trying to interview these nuns—who were they, and how did they arrive so quickly?
From the group, a graceful girl with long pink hair and vertical reptilian pupils stepped forward, her words sharp as needles, clearly practiced at handling the press:
"We are battle nuns of the Church of the Goddess of Life. Our monastery's priest, Lord Charles, is currently inside the theater battling the fire. It was his message that brought us here to assist."
The radiant nun in the air was Theresa, the black-clad one on the ground was Hattie, and the one blocking the press was the quick-witted Sephera—all Charles's battle nuns.
When Charles's urgent message arrived, the witches wasted no time—every nun was roused, armor abandoned, buffs cast on the run, and the whole force rushed to Muse District. Longstrider made the march a breeze—and South Harbor and Muse District were neighbors, after all.
Order restored, the nuns started scanning for Charles. But despite searching, he was nowhere in sight.
"Where is Lord Charles?" While fielding questions from the journalists, Sephera also tried to leverage their numbers, making them shout for the key figure:
"You—have you seen the count Nigel Charles? Exceptionally handsome, Sein features—you'd never forget him if you saw him!"
The word spread fast—most had no clue, but there was always someone in the crowd.
Not long after, a man's voice rang out:
"You're Lord Charles's followers? I'm Bernard Voulet, a friend of Mr. Charles. We were together just now."
Sephera spotted a short but sturdy man breaking through the crowd to stand before her.
"He's probably still inside, helping with the rescue. It's beyond dangerous in there—you really need to be careful!"
Sephera squinted, memorizing his face.
"Understood. Hattie, I—"
She meant to discuss rescue plans, but overhead, a streak of light zipped by—Theresa had shot into the inferno ahead of anyone.
Sephera sighed, only to see a ground-level figure darting into the building: it was Nymeria, their new moon elf recruit!
She was stunned for a moment.
Wait—since when did this elf's relationship with the priest get so close?
She wasn't sure, but she knew Nymeria's power well enough. Since she'd gone, Sephera wasn't going to snatch her chance—it was fair, after all, and there was work to be done outside.
Inside the theater…
The flames had burned down—Charles hadn't set a true blaze, only enough for smoke and chaos to clear everyone out. After defeating Regolas, he simply cast Create Water and doused the remaining fire.
Smoke still hung in the air, but danger was largely gone.
Yet Charles didn't leave. He roamed backstage, knowing there had to be an altar—any real soul sacrifice would need one.
It was both his experience as a player and the advice of the being who dwelled inside his twin-bladed polearm.
At that moment, Montport—his voice rich with Schadenfreude—commented,
"Sacrifice on this scale… Heh, this is one for the books."
"I wonder what's become of the altar gathering souls? Wonder if it's finished. Master, you'd better hurry, otherwise…"
He deliberately trailed off, trying to bait Charles's interest. Charles knew the game, so he pretended to be flustered and anxious, replying,
"So, where is that altar now? Do you have a clue, Montport? Lives are at stake—just tell me already!"
Montport played coy,
"I don't know where they hid it—I'm not that familiar with devil habits. I could help you search magically, but… not in my current state!"
"Unless, of course, you grant me some power—loosen my leash, so to speak—then I might be of use…"
"Shut up!" Charles snapped mentally. "Give it up, Montport! Remember your place—no funny ideas."
Montport only chuckled in the depths of the weapon.
"No rush, Master. Refuse me now, but I'll wait. Should you ever need my lore, I'll be here—ready to help."
With that, he faded from Charles's mind, leaving Charles grumbling about how exhausting it was to negotiate with a cunning Abyssal Lord.
You had to pry out information without ever letting them taste true freedom—a delicate, stressful dance.
His current plan: keep threatening Montport (but with subtlety, never too much or too little). If Montport believed Charles was both dependent on him—but just willing enough to destroy him—he'd constantly strive to prove his own value.
That was Charles's intention, though he knew success was unlikely.
Outsmarting Demon Lords was… always a headache.
Holding his breath against the lingering smoke, he pushed on as Montport chuckled quietly inside the polearm.
Just then, a flash of light shot through a window on the third floor. Charles's eyes tracked it—Theresa landed by his side. "Master, are you alright?"
With no outsiders around, she dropped all pretense of formality. Charles started to reply when, from the distance, a slender figure with silver hair darted between rooms, calling,
"Charles—Priest Charles! Where are you?!"
Nymeria's voice!
Charles couldn't hide his surprise. She was here, too?
"I'm over here!" he shouted, as a lithe moon elf darted to his side, face full of relief.
"Priest! I'm so glad you're safe!"
Her face and robes were completely clean, not a trace of soot—she seemed wholly untouched by the chaos.
"Of course I'm fine," Charles said, taking his place. "But what are you doing here? This place is dangerous—you should wait outside. Theresa and I can handle things."
"I'm here to help!" Nymeria replied, chipper, her pointed ears twitching with each word.
"Eilinel said there was a fiend's aura here—some kind of sacrifice. So I came in to smash the altar!"
She extended her hand—golden firelight spiraled, and a massive sword, coiling like a serpent, appeared in her grasp.
~~~
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