In the secluded throne hall, the full moon shone brightly through the ceiling windows, casting its eerie light upon the room. The walls trembled, as if struggling to contain the tension of the two powerhouses within.
"Archeus, I have co—" Lucien began but was interrupted by the demon's chilling laughter. The sound echoed through the hall, dropping the temperature as though the room had plunged into an icy abyss. The tremors in the walls intensified with each reverberation.
"So, you dare speak in my presence?" Archeus mocked, his tone dripping with disdain and derision.
Lucien knew precisely what he was up against. Archeus, a fallen demon, had been born from the spite of the 43rd fallen angel and carried the powers of a demon commander. Once the left-hand man of Abcess, the demon of pain and wounds, Archeus had been banished after Abcess's death in the First Fallacy of Hell. The Demon King, who absorbed Abcess's land, had cursed him as punishment, tethering him to an artificial moonlight that followed him wherever he went.
Lucien's thoughts raced as Archeus loomed before him. Despite the demon's grandiosity, Lucien noticed something was off—Archeus felt weaker than the looming threat he had been in their past encounters. His once-imposing presence was reduced to arrogance masking insecurity.
"Do you know why you feel like this, Archeus?" Lucien suddenly asked, a smirk creeping onto his face.
Archeus tilted his head, his disfigured fingers twitching.
"It's because your master's records were written—and they were pathetic," Lucien sneered. "The mighty Abcess? Forgotten. A waste of a relic. Even his memory was too weak to preserve among demons!"
Archeus's eyes flared with anger, and the walls quaked violently. His pride faltered, but he quickly masked it with a chuckle. "You dare mock my master?"
"Master?" Lucien laughed harder. "You think calling him that makes him feared? No one remembers him but you. To the rest, he was insignificant, and so are you!"
The words struck Archeus like a blade, and for a moment, Lucien could sense the demon's hesitation. Archeus shifted, as though refusing to acknowledge the truth.
"How do you know my name, young blood?" Archeus demanded, suddenly appearing behind Lucien. His speed was blinding—so fast that Lucien barely caught the shift in his shadow.
Archeus's disfigured finger hovered at Lucien's throat, and his chilling presence made the air feel heavier.
"You're strong, I'll admit that," Archeus drawled. "Even with this finger on your delicate throat, you remain unshaken. But why do you feel so weak?"
Lucien turned his head, locking eyes with Archeus. The moonlight shone bright, but Archeus's face seemed to evade it, as though the light itself rejected him.
Lucien chuckled again. "Weak? You're the one asking for permission to use your power."
Archeus stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about?"
Lucien gestured toward the throne where Archeus had been sitting moments ago. "I heard your demonic scriptures, Archeus. Those spells weren't for show. You need permission—even to wield your own power."
The mockery stung, and Archeus roared in frustration, the walls quivering from his fury. He began reciting a guttural incantation, each word laced with dark energy.
"You pathetic relic," Lucien interrupted. "Reciting your little prayers for power? Your pride must sting knowing that even the moon you cling to is borrowed. Everything you wield—your beasts, your castle, even your artificial light—was stolen or given to you out of pity."
Archeus's rage boiled over. "Enough!" he screamed, lunging at Lucien with his claws.
But as his attack struck, Lucien's form faded like a shadow in the wind. Archeus growled in frustration, scanning the room for his opponent.
"Your master's power manifests when you touch someone, doesn't it?" Lucien's voice echoed from the distance. "But even then, it's just a knockoff version. Unlike him, you need all this pomp and ceremony to make it work. You're a shadow of a shadow."
Archeus roared again, teleporting directly in front of Lucien. His claw swiped at Lucien's face, but the image dissolved once more.
"How?" Archeus growled.
Lucien smirked, now seated on the throne Archeus had claimed earlier. "Void Step," he said simply. "A family martial art. My grandfather taught me well. You can thank him for letting me slip through the spaces between your precious moonlight."
Archeus froze, his breathing heavy.
"Oh yes, Archeus," Lucien continued. "Your moonlight? It's your weakness. It shines bright, but its very connection to your sensory nerves means I can manipulate it. Even with its light, you can't see me unless I want you to."
Archeus's expression twisted with rage and desperation.
"I could even let you touch me, and you still wouldn't win," Lucien taunted.
"Silence!" Archeus roared, teleporting behind Lucien once more. But this time, Lucien spun, kicking Archeus squarely in the face. The demon flew back, crashing into the throne.
"You insignificant child!" Archeus screamed. "Who do you think you are?"
Lucien rose, his smirk widening. "Someone who doesn't need relics born of spite. You, on the other hand, still cling to your master's broken horn."
Archeus's eyes burned with hatred as Lucien gestured toward the demonic knife in his hand.
"You want my blood for your ritual, don't you?" Lucien said. "You think the horn of your master—Abcess's horn—will turn the tides for you. But even if you gained that power, you'd still be nothing but a banished relic yourself."
The room fell silent as Archeus seethed, the walls trembling once more. Lucien's taunts had pierced deeper than any wound, and the battle had only just begun.
Rewritten Chapter
Meanwhile, beyond the door, Hector's defense was crumbling. The Lich's relentless fireballs forced him to stagger backward, the oppressive mana thickening around him. Every spell cast seemed to drain more of his strength, leaving him gasping for air.
The Lich grinned, his skeletal features exuding twisted amusement. "Impressive, little human," he mocked. "But your hesitation hastens your death. My master's strength wanes, and the throne room quakes. It is time to finish this."
Raising his bony hand, he began chanting in a guttural tongue that echoed with demonic energy. Valeri's eyes narrowed, his sharp ears catching the words.
"Demon Tongue..." Valeri muttered, his voice tight with alarm. His mind raced as the Lich's incantation continued, and he instinctively began translating aloud:
"By Armoush, by Marmoush, by Asjlanni, by Hamed..."
The room darkened as glowing circles formed around the Lich, swirling with ominous energy. Three figures began to materialize, their outlines growing more distinct with every syllable.
• Armoush: A shadowy thief with gleaming eyes, his curved blade exuding malice.
• Marmoush: A lithe archer, her cursed arrows vibrating with power.
• Hamed: A hunched oracle, muttering words that rippled through the air like poisoned waves.
• Ajslanni: a swordsman, whose sword seemed to corrode even the air. Its hand that held the sword and Half his body was skeletal with the other half Normal.
Valeri's brow furrowed. "Three... where's the fourth?"
Before he could piece it together, the air shifted. A burst of energy surged toward the adventurers. His heart dropped. "GET DOWN!" Valeri roared, but the warning came too late.
Twin arrows shot from Marmoush's bow, their speed unmatched. Harigold moved without hesitation, his sword a blur as he intercepted the first arrow aimed at the group. But the second was too fast, its cursed energy piercing through his chest.
The adventurers froze, stunned into silence as Harigold staggered. Blood poured from the wound, his barrier faltering as his body collapsed to the ground. The oppressive energy from the Lich's summoning still clung to the air, suffocating their thoughts and movements.
Even Armand, who instinctively reached for his bow, was paralyzed by the moment. His hands trembled, unable to act fast enough.
Harigold's eyes fluttered open, his breath labored. Despite the agony racking his body, his lips curled into a faint smile. "Logan," he rasped, his voice weak but resolute, "it's time for you to swing for me."
Those words pulled Logan into a memory—a flashback of the day before they entered this hellish dungeon.
Harigold stood across from Logan in the training yard, the sun dipping low on the horizon. Logan's sweat-soaked hands tightened around his practice sword, his strikes shaky and hesitant as they sparred. Harigold parried effortlessly, his movements calm and deliberate.
After the session ended, Logan sat heavily on the ground, frustration etched across his face. Harigold knelt beside him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Logan," he said gently, "you deserve to be comfortable with yourself. If you're not ready, take your time. Don't force it."
Logan looked up at him, shame flickering in his eyes. "But... you're always so fearless. I can't be like that."
Harigold chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Fearless? Let me tell you something. When I first joined the army, I was terrified. Discipline didn't erase the fear—it just taught me how to march while feeling it. My first battle..." His voice grew quiet, heavy. "I watched comrades fall around me, and I realized I wasn't strong enough to save them. I hated myself for it. I thought, maybe if I was more competent, more skilled, they'd have survived."
Logan's throat tightened as he listened.
"But then I learned something," Harigold continued. "People don't rely on you because they expect you to be perfect. They trust you to do your best, even if that's just standing beside them when everything falls apart. I was scared back then, Logan. I'm still scared now. But I hold my sword tight, swing as hard as I can, and rely on others to do the same for me. That's how we survive."
Harigold rose to his feet, extending a hand to Logan. "One day, you'll swing for me. And when you do, you'll know what it means to fight not just for yourself, but for everyone who stood by you."
---
The memory shattered as Logan's eyes snapped back to the present. Harigold's bloodied hand weakly gripped Logan's trembling wrist, his grip barely there. "I still feel fear," Harigold whispered, his voice faltering. "But I'll hold my sword... even when I can't... and I'll swing through you."
A single tear escaped Logan's eye as he nodded. "I'll swing for you, Harigold. I swear it."
With a final exhale, Harigold's hand fell limp, and his eyes closed for the last time.
"And I'll keep swinging until it's done."
As Logan stepped forward, Valeri turned his attention back to Hector, whose body trembled from the lingering effects of the demonic energy.
"Focus, Hector," Valeri said sharply, placing a hand on his shoulder. He pushed a stream of mana into him, guiding his energy. "Ignore the darkness. Follow my flow."
Hector's breathing steadied, his mind clearing enough to regain control. "How do you know Demon Tongue?" he asked weakly.
Valeri's gaze flicked toward the Lich, then back to Hector. "It's... a long story. One you'll hear when we survive this."
Armand gritted his teeth, shaking off the oppressive energy enough to nock three arrows. With precision honed by years of practice, he loosed them in quick succession.
Two struck Marmoush, forcing her to retreat, while the third grazed Armoush. Armand's breathing was labored, his strength waning, but he readied another shot.
"I'll hold them back!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but determined.
The ground beneath them quaked as a deafening roar erupted from the throne room. Valeri's head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing.
"Lucien," he muttered. His voice carried a mix of worry and determination. "And whoever he's fighting... isn't human."
The group exchanged tense glances, but the weight of Harigold's sacrifice gave them the strength to stand.
They would fight. They would survive. And they would swing their swords—for themselves and for those who could no longer fight.