"That was one of her many names," Rona says. "But remember, there are other witches in Anorak. The Witch Queen is merely the first and most infamous. Countless others have claimed her title over the centuries."
Asuma's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't just a title. I'm certain it was her. Manola mentioned she was born during the Age of Gods. Only the Witch Queen existed during that time. She's the one who's been speaking to me in the void."
Rona let out a low whistle. "If it's truly her, you've got yourself one hell of a predicament, kid. But here's the kicker—you can't meet her. The Queen of Witches has been sealed on Bay Witch Island for centuries. It's a prison shrouded in myth, locked between the Nori Empire and the Sea King Empire. The Holy Church oversees its protection, guarded by high-ranking magic users. No one enters without their explicit approval. Trying to set foot there would brand you a global criminal under the authority of the World Council."
"So... it's hopeless," Asuma muttered, a note of defeat in his voice.
"Hopeless? Nah. Difficult? Absolutely," Rona said, grinning faintly. "All you need is permission. The witch didn't send you to chase her down for no reason—she told you to find your sister, didn't she?"
Asuma nodded. "Yes. And that demon Lanola mentioned Anami, too. But what does she have to do with the 'pillars' Lanola kept talking about?"
Rona's face grew darker, the grin fading. "The Pillars... they're the Apostles of the Primordial Demons. Each pillar is ranked, and their number signifies their standing within the Black Guild. The higher the rank, the more powerful they are. Every pillar is at least a six-star rank, and their legions spread chaos wherever they go. What's worse? Even humans can become pillars. Once someone devotes themselves to the Lords of Darkness, they're granted curse magic like yours. Over time, that power consumes them, turning them into demons."
A chill ran down Asuma's spine. "Then... am I one of them? Am I an apostle for Camellia?"
Rona's expression turned grave. "That's the big question, isn't it? This is why we had to get out of Bagon before the guild arrived. If anyone sensed even a trace of demonic aura coming from you, you'd be branded a threat. Instead of fighting demons, you'd be facing an army of humans."
Asuma fell silent, his hands curling into fists. He hated how little he understood about his situation. The curse, the Primordials, the Witch Queen, the Pillars—none of it had been covered in his academy training. Was this information deliberately hidden? Or was it simply beyond what the world considered common knowledge? He couldn't decide, but one thing was clear: Rona's knowledge was far greater than most.
"For now, kid," Rona continued, his voice softening, "your sister is our priority. The witch didn't stop Manola from revealing your origins for no reason. She must have a plan. And if finding Anami is part of it, then that's the road we'll take."
"But where do we even start?" Asuma asked, frustration creeping into his voice. "I have no idea where Anami could be."
Rona leaned back into the field of dandelions, plucking one and spinning it between his fingers. "Where there's mass destruction, you'll find a pillar. Bagon wasn't just some random demon attack—Lanola, a Pillar, was there. Wherever the Pillars tread, chaos follows. If we track their movements, eventually they'll lead us to your sister."
Asuma frowned. "If the World Council can't track them, what makes you think we can?"
Rona chuckled, the dandelion bobbing in his hand. "Kid, you're the Prince of Mercy. For whatever reason, the Black Guild has a vested interest in you. Even if we can't find them, I guarantee they'll find us."
Asuma's gaze turned toward the horizon, where the sun was beginning to set. Rona's words carried weight. The witch's cryptic guidance and the demons' obsession with him suggested that, like it or not, he was already entangled in their web. Perhaps chasing them wasn't necessary—they'd come for him in time.
Rona stretched out, his demeanor far too relaxed for someone discussing demons and curses. "We'll figure it out. For now, get some rest. You'll need it for what's ahead."
Asuma let Rona's words settle, his mind a storm of thoughts and uncertainties. For the first time, though, a flicker of clarity emerged: finding Anami was more than a personal mission—it was the key to understanding his cursed destiny. If the Black Guild wanted him, he'd make them regret it. For now, all he could do was prepare.
An Hour Later.
The gentle bustle of Avon Village greeted them as Asuma and Rona returned from their conversation in the dandelion field. At the entrance, Amira stood with her arms crossed, her face marked with worry.
"Where were you two?" she demanded, her sharp tone belying her relief at seeing them.
"We had a small conversation," Rona replied, flashing his usual disarming grin.
Amira raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "A small conversation? Well, it doesn't matter now. I was just worried Uncle might have..." She trailed off, hesitant.
"Killed me?" Asuma interjected, his voice even but tinged with humor. He could see the tension in her posture.
Amira sighed. "I was worried he might've done something since he sensed that chaotic aura around you. You've been acting so distant since Bagon—I didn't know what to think."
Rona stepped forward, his expression softening. "My darling niece," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Why would I harm your friend? The only way that'd happen is if he ever tried to hurt you. You and Hani are the only things that remind me of Saina. I've already lost her—I won't lose either of you."
At the mention of her mother, Amira's gaze dropped. Saina Balar, Amira's mother, was a name rarely spoken. She had died fifteen years ago during a devastating demon attack on one of Azel's largest cities. The event had shattered the Balar family, leaving scars that none of them could fully heal. For Rona, it was a wound that shaped much of his reckless, protective nature.
Amira took a deep breath, her voice steady but her words firm. "If you even think of hurting Asuma, I will kill you myself." Her fiery determination caught both men off guard.
Rona's somber expression broke into a wide, exaggerated grin. "Is this late puberty? My dear niece, how could you choose some kid over your incredibly handsome uncle? Have you forgotten all the love and care I've given you?"
Amira rolled her eyes, tugging Asuma by the arm. "Tch... Let's go, Asuma. He's impossible."
Asuma glanced back at Rona, whose exaggerated display of mock heartbreak was on full display as he clutched his chest dramatically. "Amira, wait!" he cried, stumbling after them as if his world had shattered.
"Stop being so dramatic, Uncle!" she called over her shoulder, though there was a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Rona followed them into the inn, muttering loudly about how ungrateful his niece was and how his charm was wasted on the younger generation. For all his theatrics, his eyes lingered briefly on Asuma, his grin hiding the weight of their earlier conversation.
Meanwhile, deep in the Black Continent of Nior, within the maddening halls of the Abyssal Tower...
A girl sat alone at the far end of a grotesque, pulsating table. It writhed as though alive, composed of thousands of shifting eyeballs, each rolling and swiveling in unnatural directions, their relentless gaze filling the dimly lit chamber. Her short black hair curled delicately to her shoulders, a stark contrast to her piercing, iridescent rainbow eyes that seemed to radiate an unnatural light, piercing through the oppressive darkness of the room.
Her flowing black gown shimmered with eerie fluidity, almost as if it had been woven from the shadows themselves. The hem pooled around her chair—another grotesque creation of writhing, unblinking eyes. Beside her leaned a massive two-handed sword, its blade jagged and irregular, as if it had been carved from the same living, squirming material as the table. It exuded a quiet, malevolent hum that matched the ambient dread of the chamber.
She was alone, yet never unobserved. Above her, the room's ceiling stretched impossibly high, dominated by a gargantuan, singular eye that stared down with cold, invasive intensity. It never blinked, its monstrous pupil dilating as though assessing her every move.
Anami smirked, her lips curling with faint amusement as her gaze shifted to the door, which groaned open. A figure entered, his presence flooding the room with an unnatural glow. His golden hair cascaded like liquid sunlight, and his radiant golden eyes seemed to burn against the gloom. Yet, even his blinding brilliance couldn't mask the twisted smirk on his lips.
"Anami," he drawled, settling casually into the seat across from her. "You look as beautiful as ever."
Her gaze sharpened, and her rainbow-hued eyes narrowed. Her voice was cold, razor-sharp. "Your face irritates me, Sharac."
His smirk deepened as though her disdain only fed his amusement. "Does it? Well, I thought you'd want to hear some news that might pique even your interest." He leaned forward, his golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "I visited the human continent recently. And guess what I found? Your brother. Marked with a primordial curse, just like you. How poetic, isn't it? Two siblings, bound by hatred from this world."
Anami's expression didn't waver, though her fingers briefly twitched. Her gaze fell to her hand, which bore a cursed mark etched into her skin. The symbol—a grotesque crest of innumerable eyes melded together, forming the mocking visage of a laughing demon—glimmered faintly as though responding to her thoughts.
"Nothing to say? As expected of you—always so stoic. Such a bore," Sharac quipped, leaning back with a laugh.
Before his laughter could echo further, her massive blade moved. Without warning or hesitation, it sliced through the air in an arc so swift it was almost imperceptible. In an instant, Sharac's head was severed cleanly from his body. Blood sprayed across the table, pooling among the shifting eyeballs. Anami remained unmoving in her chair, her eyes indifferent as though she had merely swatted a fly.
"You talk too much," she said simply, her voice devoid of emotion.
Unfazed, Sharac's body moved with unsettling calm. His hand retrieved his severed head from the table, and within seconds, he pressed it back onto his neck. The blood retracted as though the act of decapitation had never occurred. Once reassembled, he smiled brightly at her, his amusement undeterred.
"So violent," he teased. His voice was light, but his eyes gleamed with dangerous curiosity.
Anami's gown seemed to ripple in response, the fabric shifting unnaturally as new eyes began to appear along its surface. They blinked and swiveled, gazing in all directions as if anticipating her next move.
Sharac leaned back in his chair, watching her with a smirk. "You hate me, don't you?" he mused. "Apostle of Madness."
Anami didn't answer, but the growing chaos of her appearance spoke volumes. The eerie glow of her rainbow eyes intensified, and the pulsating eyes on her dress multiplied, filling the room with an oppressive, chaotic beauty that could only be described as transcendent—and terrifying.
Sharac chuckled softly, his smirk never fading. For all his bravado, even he couldn't help but be mesmerized by her. She was an enigma—a being of unparalleled chaos and beauty, the perfect embodiment of madness itself.