"YOU!"
Antara turned to Quivara, his eyes alight with madness.
So what if she had saved him? That was on her. Gratitude? Perhaps, but his survival wasn't something he would exchange in return. Selfish? He had always been alone to begin with.
Once, he was nearly consumed by the woman, fortunately reclaimed by the jaws of nature of being aware. And if he hadn't believed in the counterparts, the urn would've ended him.
There was something deliberate in what Quivara did, something calculated that he couldn't quite fathom.
Or… it just happened.
Quivara's expression remained indifferent as their eyes locked for a moment.
It was a warning. A threat. 'If you don't help her, you will die by her hands.'
He clicked his tongue in irritation, as he observed the situation.
Antara immediately noticed the orb-like creature standing on only its hind legs far behind the Guardian. It was absorbing the massive black sphere above and transferring something translucent directly to the Shaded Terror.
He charged forward, the chain slithering around him.
The Shaded Terror let out a piercing scream, brandishing its bizarre swordbrush, in a flash, two shadows identical to itself emerged, springing toward Quivara. The trio moved in eerie unison, attacking from different angles with coordinated, fluid movements.
Quivara stood her ground, clashing fiercely against them, her stance was strange, erratic, unrhythmic, and seemingly unconventional, it dismantled their coordinated assault perfectly.
The Shaded Terror and Quivara battled on equal footing, their clashes reverberating, he surmise Quivara didn't have the opportunity to destroy the orb-like creature, a Guardian anchor.
While the two monstrous beings clashed, Antara had already closed the distance to the Orb Creature.
It stood there, unusually still, as if observing him, calm, unalerted. He had expected it to flee, being the Guardian's apparent weak link, but instead, it exuded an air of smug defiance, almost daring him to act.
Seizing the opportunity, the chain-blade shot forth, hurtling toward the creature with lethal intent.
The attack failed to inflict any damage.
Blur of motion, the creature leapt toward him, delivering a powerful kick that sent him flying, crashing into the distance.
Antara staggered to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose.
'Does it sense that I'm mortal? That I'm not a threat?'
The disparity between mortals and Veilreach Creatures was immense, much like the distance between mortals and Beyonders. Yet this creature… Probably the weakest he'd encountered, and despite its bold arrogance, he could feel it—he could defeat it.
The Orb Creature advanced slowly, its every step deliberate, as if savoring the moment.
Antara's lips twitched involuntarily.
The creature began to circle him, Antara noticed something, a faint trace of something resembling a code of honor or something. Perhaps it was some remnant of the creature's fragmented origin.
'So that's how you want to play this.'
The chain coiled around his arm, slithering purposefully as it reshaped itself, forming a sleek, hardened glove encasing his hand and forearm, stepping into the rhythm of the circling dance.
They moved in unison, each mirroring the other's cautious, prowling steps, tension thickening the air around them.
As if an unspoken signal, they lunged at each other.
Antara dodged the creature's kick and delivered a punch, the impact didn't penetrate; it felt like striking malleable metal, bending but refusing to shatter, before he could recover, the creature twisted with fluid precision, slamming a kick into his abdomen.
The force sent him flying a short distance, landing hard with blood trickling from his abdomen, pain did not deter him, both charged again, colliding in a furious, primal clash.
The Shaded Terror turned its attention toward them amidst the chaos. It screeched a haunting cry, intent on killing Antara. Before it could advance, Quivara intercepted it—she had already killed its duplicate.
Minutes of brutal conflict passed.
'Got it.'
Antara sidestepped a vicious roundhouse kick, using its momentum against it, the chain coiled around his arm, gathering weight and speed, before he struck with all his might.
*Creakkk!*
The blow connected, the orb shattered.
'My first kill.'
As the anchor shattered, the Shaded Terror let out a deafening howl, the Black Sphere descended upon it, consuming it directly.
Quivara's resplendent half-spear shimmered with a malevolent brilliance, its edges humming with untamed energy. Antara, his task complete, was already sprinting away, leaving the final act of the battle—its inevitable dénouement.
Quivara lunged forward, her body propelled like a streak of lethal light, slashing toward the Shaded Terror, the creature raised its swordbrush in a desperate arc to meet her strike.
Silence descended.
Vision blurred.
Desctruction bellowed.
Antara opened his eyes, realizing he had been blown away by the force, carried a considerable distance through the air, the exit array was now close and so was the swordbrush lying before him.
Casting his gaze further, he noticed Quivara, unconscious, sprawled some distance away.
But the most unsettling part was the Apostle—it had vanished from the sky.
"Finally. I entered."
The voice was mellifluous, each syllable resonating with an unnatural allure, as if it could coax a flower into bloom.
To call him handsome would be an insult to his grandeur.
He descended with pompous grace and unearthly elegance, a towering figure with ancient tattoos, draped in garments that barely veiled his nether regions, his majestic form was chiseled to perfection, like a masterpiece drawn from some divine yet corrupted ideal.
The depravity radiating from him was palpable.
His lustful gaze lingered on Quivara's figure as he cradled her delicately, as though she were precious thing in existence.
"What a truly beautiful woman, the Divination did not exaggerate. I have had my sights set on you since the moment you were born."
The Apostle voice dripping with lasciviousness and possessiveness.
"Now that you've grown, you will become one of my wives. Oh, I can't wait to taste your purity, to hear your voice crying out my name in ecstasy as I claim you—deflower you. Oh, I can't wait any longer."
Antara's heart thundered in his chest, it might explode from the sheer magnitude of his rage.
He wanted to act, to kill him, to do something—anything.
However… however, he lacked the strength, he didn't have the power to do so.
There was nothing he could do.
Logically speaking, wasn't it better this way? The Apostle's attention was fixated on her, after all, wasn't it? Even though it was inhumane—even though it was cruel—survival took precedence.
There was a future to fight for—something the dead could never claim.
Gripping the swordbrush tightly with avarice, he began moving toward the exit, each step measured, silent, furtive.
Behind him, the sketched world was already crumbling.
***
The Apostle, though his gaze never shifted toward the grotesque man slinking toward the exit, saw everything.
He didn't need to look—he could sense it all.
He was reading his mind as he conversed with the weathered urn.
There was nothing remarkable about him; his mind was plain, unexceptional—no different from that of an average mortal.
Selfish. Greed. Oppurtunist.
So why didn't he kill him? Simple. Those who stood against depravity had always failed—each one falling like grains of sand slipping through fingers, they were insignificant nuisances, doomed by design.
But the real reason he refrained was far more instinctual.
The man's ugliness was a uniquely repulsive thing. It wasn't the kind of ugliness that provoked pity or contempt, but the sort that exuded an almost infectious filth. Killing him would feel like sullied hands touching defilement itself.
Her focus was on Quivara from the very beginning. That's why he was here.
Gazing at Quivara, her Charm Title was off the charts. The thought of it filled him with anticipation—he could hardly wait to experience the pleasure it promised. They might very well remain confined to the bedroom for decades to come.
He couldn't read her mind; a barrier of protection shielded it.
She had been far too ambitious, in trying to eliminate the Guardian, but this was likely tied to some precondition of her abnormality. Yet, even though she might have desired to flee long ago, even though she had not passed out, escape was never an option for her to begin with.
He might have to use his trump card as a last resort, which he didn't want to do.
His smile widened, this was it—the fruitful encounter he had spent an insurmountable amount of effort.
Something amiss.
Why didn't he get any pleasure from holding her?
"Fool."
The mocking voice belonged to a grotesque man, his words dripping with scorn.
He turned to face the source, still grinning, only to realize the man's body was already half-consumed by the glowing array, he was holding Quivara, as the woman raised her middle finger, they vanished together.
"THAT WOMAN!!!"
He had been deceived!
Looking down at his arm, her lifelike sketch was already dissolving, as the sketched world crumbled.
***
Antara was stunned—the swordbrush had transformed into Quivara.
The Apostle was left holding a fake one, but Antara had quietly anticipated this outcome from her. The replica was likely a high quality Armament, a weapon sophisticated enough to deceive even an Apostle.
"Fool."
He glanced at the Apostle's expression—it was a comical sight, one that was almost too satisfying to witness. For the first time in his life, he felt an overwhelming sense of gratification.
'Is this what sex feels like?'
His gaze shifted to Quivara in his arms. She was casually giving a middle finger, her expression a contrast to indifference, a primeval madness.
Their eyes locked, a shared madness sparking between them, their untamed gazes perfectly aligned.
Antara was utterly entranced, an unanswered question echoing in his mind: Why weren't they soulmates?
They vanished.
***
Since he saw the godlike figure, after the woman's death of being aware, he felt exposed, as if stripped bare, certain such beings could read a mortal's actions as effortlessly as breathing.
So, he chose to act purely on 'feelings', abandoning the deep contemplation he once relied on, his focus narrowed to the 'present moment'—the here and now, the past and future no longer mattered, only the 'present.'
Quivara probably expected this.
'Did this woman read me like a book?'
When he saw her, he wondered if she might be one of his escape routes.
The final exchange of clashing swords between Shaded Terror had been deliberate, the forced gust of air, the fixed position of the swordbrush, everything seemed meticulously planned.
Reflecting on it, her unconscious state now seemed questionable. During their earlier interaction, he had the feeling that she was either sleeping with her eyes open or that unseen eyes lingered on her back.
She revealed no vulnerabilities, no weaknesses.
Honestly, he went with the flow. Dead or alive, that was it then.
There were actions at play that he couldn't comprehend, but Quivara somehow filled in the gaps cryptically.
In the beginning, he had been nothing more than a marionette, dancing in her palm, willingly.
As he looked down at Quivara in his arms, a strange duality consumed him, fear and admiration.
But there was one thing far more pressing.
"You're heavy."
Antara managed a faint smile, though he felt as if his arms were about to give out entirely.
Exquisitely, she rose to her feet.
"I saved you, didn't I?"
Antara said with shameless confidence.
In truth, he hadn't even wanted to retrieve the swordbrush—its fixed position almost made him pause in deep thought—but he redirected his focus to his greed, which seemed effective because the Apostle didn't notice anything amiss.
But now, in hindsight, it became clear: if he hadn't gotten it, she would have killed him.
And even so, wasn't he the best possible escape route for her?
Even though she saved him, she had used him too, and he believed he had been the biggest factor. That made it an equal exchange.
Probably.
Quivara fixed him with a sharp gaze.
"Speak briefly."
"Then will you—"
Antara immediately fell silent, sensing that if he continued, his head might very well roll.
"Ahem… You're nobility, aren't you?"
'