Aetheral Space

Sam Set gaped at the thing that had smashed right through the barrier and buried itself in the center of the promenade.

At first, he'd thought it to be a meteor -- but now he knew that couldn't be true. The structure was way too… bizarre. It was spherical, nearly perfectly so, and bright orange like plasma -- in fact, now that he had a closer look, it very well could be plasma.

Plasma, sculpted into a sphere, and a silhouette lurking at its core.

"You can't be serious…"

The sphere exploded with pink light, as if a supernova were trying to hatch from it. The crowd screamed, flowing back to retreat -- but that retreat only brought them face-to-face to the hordes of combat automatics now encroaching from behind. Caught between deaths, the people chose the one that for the moment seemed sealed, the ocean of humans parting as they rushed past the sphere.

All the while, it ranted.

"Seriously?! You're gonna take yourself out, just like that?! I can't believe you. I can't believe you, man! You finally get your head in the game, and this is what you do with it?! Asshole! Apoda! We hadn't even started yet! I was gonna show you my trump card, you sick bastard! And you lock me up in this?!"

The flames intensified, the sheer light they exuded making it difficult to even look at the sphere. Alcera rushed forward, keen to get herself and Sam into the Seat of Man while she still had a chance.

Of course, that chance had passed.

"Get -- this -- off -- of -- MEEE!"

With that final scream of fury, the sphere finally reached its limit -- exploding into shards as a torrent of pink flames washed over the area around it. Acting on instinct, Alcera threw Sam down to the ground and stood protectively in front of him, freezing the front half of her body so that she could act as a shield.

That was a mistake.

If anything, the flames seemed to burn her frozen section more voraciously than the organic. In seconds, her stone flesh was eaten away completely… and what was left of her collapsed to the ground as a pile of meat and bone and guts.

Sam screamed --

Only I!

-- and, right after the nightmare simulation ended, he wrapped his arms around Alcera and threw the both of them into the darkness beneath a bench. The pink flames washed just above them, the torrent of fire barely missing their hiding place. A low, rattling sigh of relief washed over the area… but it didn't belong to them.

Slowly, Sam stood up, clutching the bench for support. Slowly, Sam looked up, squinting from the light of the ring of fire that now surrounded the entire area.

A demon was walking towards them.

There was no other way to describe it. With that last burst of heat, whoever -- or whatever -- this was had clearly damaged itself as well -- it had no skin, its musculature completely exposed, a mane of charred black hair framing a grinning skull. Pink Aether crackled and surged as the thing slowly walked forward.

"Ah, I can't believe it…" the demon sighed. "I really can't believe it. He really went and ditched me, that Fei Long… I feel insulted. I'm actually really pissed off, if I've gotta tell you guys the truth."

Sam and Alcera hadn't been the only ones to survive that explosion. Among the destruction, civilians cowered in fear, sealed into this slaughterhouse by the pink flames that surrounded the entire street. Someone turned to run -- and instantly, a crimson spear appeared out of nowhere and impaled him through the chest. With a flick of the demon's wrist, the spear returned to its grip, corpse still hanging limp from its blade.

"It's not enough…" the demon seethed, shaking the dead man off its weapon and crushing his head beneath its heel. "Still not enough… not nearly enough… I'll need to kill a thousand people to get over this… a million people… ah, not enough, it's still not enough, but still…"

It looked up, pink light dancing in its empty eye sockets.

"Let's get started!" it snarled.

Sam Set had faced death many times, and experienced death many times. He was probably more familiar with it than anyone else. The pain, the fear, the final moment of stillness and silence that was somehow worse than the torment that preceded it.

That was why he could say with confidence.

It didn't matter how hard he tried.

It didn't matter how long he fought.

It didn't matter how many simulations he went through.

This was not an enemy he could defeat.

He was about to die.

Ash del Duran looked ahead.

With his path of lampposts destroyed by that explosion, he'd had no choice but to rejoin the crowd, weaving and bobbing through the stampede in an effort to get to the Seat of Man as quickly as possible. He could see it, he could see it now, the entrance to the atrium -- and through the great windows, the telltale flashes of warring Aether. Purple, violet, orange, red, silver.

Silver. He's here.

There was only a little bit to go. Just one more street, and he could face his final opponent. He could mine for the tiny glory still available to him. If he was just faster, if he was just stronger, he could still -- he could still -- he could still!

Someone screamed.

Ash del Duran skidded to a halt.

What was he doing? Even he couldn't answer that question. He was wasting time that he didn't have. His heartbeats were finite, his gasping breaths limited. Right now, this body was nothing but a delivery mechanism -- something to get him in front of his opponent, so he could use it.

So why, at the final crisis, was Ash del Duran stopping?

Behind him, far behind him, a slaughter was about to commence. He knew that. He'd understood that as he ran here, ran past it, with all the strength he had left. Whatever havoc was about to ensue, it had nothing to do with him. He would be gone from this world soon enough anyway. What concern was all of that to him?

Someone was screaming.

At a certain threshold of terror, all screams sounded the same. Men, women, children. The voice of fear was universal. So, facing away from the massacre, Ash del Duran didn't know who was about to die.

But someone certainly was.

Honestly… what was he doing? Why was he just standing here? Why was he just staring at the silver light that surely belonged to Atoy Muzazi? Why was he listening to this? And why, why, why…? Why had the panicked thumping of his heart faded back to a soft and comfortable rhythm?

There was glory before him, and only blood behind.

Ash del Duran turned around.

Framed by pink flames, framed by blood, framed by malice, the Old Demon of the Dawn called Victory raised its spear high. This ring of Calamity hadn't actually captured that many victims -- fifteen, or maybe twenty, with only two looking like actual fighters -- but that was fine, that was fine. Victory wasn't looking for a fight right now. He was looking for stress relief.

He was looking for a way to spit in Fei Long's eye.

Victory released his spear, and it began to spin rapidly on the spot, until it resembled a disk more than a polearm. Grinning -- he could do nothing but grin now -- Victory looked from one terrified face to another. They were all thinking the same thing.

He giggled. He was exactly the same.

Who will it be, oh, who will it be?

The spear stopped, pointing between the eyes of the furthest target -- a young boy being pushed behind his parents.

"Compass!" Victory hissed. "Kill that --"

He stopped.

No.

He was stopped.

MANTLE OF HEAVEN

15:00

This was an Aether ability.

Slowly, Victory turned his head.

The ring of fire had parted. With a single hand motion -- the most basic chop -- an intruder had cut a hole through his malicious barrier. An intruder that now stepped calmly through the ashes left behind. Victory slowly cocked his head.

"And who are you meant to be?" Victory growled, the words oozing from his ravaged jaws.

A golden-haired youth stepped through the haze, his body lean and strong. It seemed he'd been wearing a tracksuit, but had unzipped the top half, letting it trail behind him like a pair of coat-tails. A white cloth floated over his shoulders, unburdened by gravity, decorated with esoteric symbols that Victory didn't recognise.

The young man readied himself as he faced off against Victory. Legs bent. Open palm. Closed fist. A picture-perfect stance.

He smiled.

"A dead man," he replied.

AETHERAL SPACE 16.26

"The Man Who Could've Been Supreme"

Victory sneered, stepping away from the cowering civilians, his gaze fixed on the enemy before him. His attention had been stolen by far more enticing prey. As he stepped into the middle of the street, he snatched his spear from the air, spinning it in his grip before pointing it at the stranger.

The distance between them was about twenty meters. The scorched street between them was clear of obstacles. Victory would have no problem skewering this pest the moment he got bored.

"Well," he said, pulling his spear back. "You've got that --"

A palm slammed into his chest.

It was as if he'd been struck by a train. Immediately, Victory went flying back, the breath pushed out of his lungs as his ribs cracked under the pressure. In an instant, his new enemy had crossed the distance between them and landed a devastating blow through his defenses.

As he sailed through the air, Victory's blood boiled. He'd let his guard down. His anger towards Fei Long had made him careless.

That's the last easy hit you get on me, you little shit.

Victory landed.

"Zero."

Huh?

When Victory opened his jaws this time, it was involuntary -- and instead of words coming out, it was a spray of meat and blood that covered the road before him. The remains of the heart that had just exploded in his chest. Clutching at his chest, Victory collapsed to his knees.

"You…"

A shadow fell over him -- no, appeared over him -- and, with the first dread he'd experienced in a thousand years, Victory looked up.

The young man was standing over him, long blond hair billowing in the wind, his expression painted with distaste -- as though he were looking down at a particularly repulsive insect.

Enemy. Bastard.

The revelations came in pairs.

CONQUEST REPORT

The ability is nameless.

The ability is an Aether tic. When the user uses their Aether, they experience accelerated aging. This accelerated aging is exponential, and as such will speed up further the more Aether is used throughout the user's lifetime.

The ability is within Conquest's complexity limit.

DEVELOPING COUNTER-ABILITY…

…COUNTER-ABILITY DEVELOPED. DEPLOY WHEN READY.

…

CONQUEST REPORT

The ability is called Mantle of Heaven.

The ability forcefully suppresses the user's Aether tic and restores their body to the state it was in upon original activation of Aether. The ability has a time limit of fifteen minutes. Once this limit is reached, the accumulated Aether tic will take effect all at once

The ability is within Conquest's complexity limit.

DEVELOPING COUNTER-ABILITY…

…COUNTER-ABILITY DEVELOPED. DEPLOY WHEN READY.

Victory chuckled to himself as he slowly rose, arms swaying beneath him -- the missing one had now reappeared. He'd admit it… this guy had caught him by surprise. But that was all it was: surprise.

This body was just his puppet, anyway. Even without a heart, he'd have no problem moving it around. He'd need to throw the corpse away sooner than he'd expected, but that wasn't a real problem. That attack had accomplished nothing.

In fact, worse than nothing. Victory had gained two potent counter-abilities from that clash. From the tic, he'd obtained bodily restoration -- already, new skin was spreading like moss over his form. From that Mantle of Heaven? The ability to reactivate the Bastard's Aether tic with just a touch of his palm.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

And even better! This stupid fuck was standing right on top of Victory's demolished heart!

Calamity!

The gore exploded into a pillar of pink flame, utterly engulfing the Bastard's form in an instant. Victory grinned with his newly formed face, narrowing his eyes in pleasure at the incineration. This was what came from reaching beyond your means.

He looked over his shoulder, back towards the few civilians that remained.

"Now," he said, taking a step towards them. "Where were we…?"

The more someone tried to stop him from doing something, the more he wanted to do it. So many people today had stood against him, tried to stop him staining this world red -- and all those efforts had accomplished was to turn his bloodlust up higher, higher, higher. Right now, all thoughts of grander plans had vanished from Victory's mind. To hell with Wisdom. Right now, his only goal was to kill these people in front of him, purely for the purpose of killing them.

That was why he turned away.

That was why he licked his lips.

And that was why… he only realized his mistake when he heard the voice behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Killing Arts: Body Imaging.

Ash del Duran's body was producing a blizzard. There was no other way to describe it. A torrent of cold was pouring from his skin, extinguishing the flames around him and pushing them away. With the slightest increase of effort, the pillar of fire encasing him vanished entirely.

He brushed a single speck of soot from his lips. The sole damage he'd sustained from that attack.

The enemy gaped at him, frozen in place. Clearly, that wasn't the sort of attack he was supposed to have survived. Ash smiled. Come to think of it, who was this person he was fighting right now? He honestly had no idea.

Well, it didn't matter. All that mattered was how wonderful this felt.

He'd been freed from chains that he hadn't even realized existed. When he breathed, the air -- even tinged with smoke and blood -- tasted cold and crisp. Every movement was effortless, the air seeming to part to grant him passage. It wasn't just his body that had been revitalised. It was like he'd seized hold of a soul long since lost.

This moment, right now… it was the only tombstone he needed.

Killing Arts: Bullet Step.

To be honest, enhancing his speed was probably overkill at this sort of range. Instantly, he was in front of his foe. Instantly, he was ducking to avoid a swing of the spear. Instantly, he was jabbing his finger right into his opponent's torso. The movements were so fast they may as well have been simultaneous.

Welin-hath.

He dislocated and relocated his finger in another instant, and the air pressure produced slammed into his enemy like a shotgun blast. He flew up into the air, the curse that had been coming from his lips transforming into a sputter of blood and saliva.

The enemy twisted his body in mid-air -- an impressive display of gymnastic ability -- readying his spear for a flurry of lethal blows at the same time. No doubt a maneuver like that was the product of great experience. No doubt many people had died from it.

Ash del Duran just thrust his hand forward.

Killing Arts: Oxygen Palm.

A hand-print of solid air -- the size of a starship -- slammed into the demon, forcing him to continue his unwilling flight. The enemy became a dot -- a dot that slammed into a distant skyscraper, producing a smoking crater of dust and debris. Ash tensed his legs, readying himself to join his final partner.

Killing Arts: Bullet Step.

With full access to his Aether, and full access to his prime, Ash del Duran had become the apotheosis of the Killing Arts. It was no big deal for him to propel himself through the air with kicks, the sheer power in his legs enough to turn the sky into his staircase.

It took him maybe five seconds to reach his enemy, maybe six… but he didn't really care to keep track of it.

Bruised, battered, humiliated.

Victory opened his mouth, letting the soup of blood and broken teeth pour out onto the balcony below him. All the same, his eyes were locked into cold fury, fixed on the Bastard as he closed the distance across the skyline. He'd taken his opponent far too lightly -- Victory understood that now. If not for the restoration he's cultivated from that Aether tic, Victory had no doubt the son of a bitch would have beaten this body to a pulp already.

He pulled himself out of the wall, seizing hold of his spear and readying it like a pool cue. He locked the blade onto the approaching shape manually, tongue slowly sliding over still-skinless lips. The less time Compass had to aim before firing, the better.

Right now, every fraction of every second mattered.

"Compass," Victory snarled, right before the enemy reached him. "This bastard's weak point."

…

Nothing happened. Victory blinked.

"Eh?"

If Compass couldn't find the target, that could only mean one thing.

It… doesn't exist?

A fist slammed into Victory's jaw, crashing him right back into the wall and finally smashing through it -- sending him flying into the evacuated shopping centre beyond. Broken glass and mannequins became his bed as he was spiked through the promenade, the eerily untouched mall quickly becoming another scene of devastation.

Victory reset his jaw with a shaking hand, pulling himself off the ground as quickly as possible. The Bastard's silhouette appeared in the hole he'd opened through the wall. There.

"Compass!" Victory screamed. "Kill him! Kill him now!"

As the spear flew off to do its master's bidding, the Bastard dropped down into the promenade -- and, as the spear reached him, he danced.

Arms crossed, face softened by the slightest smile, he spun and stepped and casually turned his body to avoid the spear as it stabbed at him again -- and again -- and again. Every second, he avoided numerous killing blows. Even as the spear moved so fast that it became a line of red light, the dance seemed so casual and so effortless that it made the demonic weapon look pathetic.

Victory could feel his blood boiling in his veins. No matter. He'd soon make that literal.

"Calamity!" he roared, thrusting his hands forward -- sacrificing his newly restored fingernails to create thin beams of pink heat that sliced across the room towards his foe.

The one deadly point that the Bastard had to dodge suddenly became nine… and yet, the dance continued. Perhaps the tempo increased, perhaps the pace quickened… but even that might have just been a trick of the mind. Who was this guy? Why didn't Victory know about him?! Why, even after all of this, was he still getting closer?!

Just touch him, Victory told himself. Just grab him with your hand, and that'll put an end to this farce.

His fingernails returned, and he fired them again, and they returned, and he fired them again, and the cycle continued and continued and continued as the dance grew more complex and intricate and unforgiving until --

There.

Victory's chance. He lunged forward, hands outstretched like claws, ready to seize hold of his enemy in this moment of opportunity. Only…

…he'd misjudged whose opportunity this was.

Indeed, this dance was unforgiving. With the spear and the beams and the slicing death, the slightest mistake would mean a deadly blow. That was true for anyone nearby, whether they were the target or not. All the Bastard had to do was adjust his footing slightly as he spun around -- and Victory suddenly found himself tripped up, his momentum interrupted for the briefest moment.

His own spear carved through the flesh of his own throat.

Blood sprayed from his neck as he clutched it, consumed briefly by the panicked instincts of a living creature -- a second mistake to follow his first. The Bastard seized him by the collar and swung him around, right into the path of more of his own attacks. Two of Victory's heat-beams burned through the flesh of his left leg, boring right through, sending him down to the ground once more. From there, the Bastard concluded his dance --

Stomp.

-- by bringing his foot down hard on Victory's chest.

The impact formed a crater beneath Victory's prone form, cracks spreading across the floor, but the Bastard wasn't finished. Far from it. He brought his foot down again, and again, and again.

Stompstompstompstompstomp.

It was like a jackhammer had just been unleashed upon Victory's chest. The impacts came so fast that Victory's limbs, flapping up and down in the air, made him look like a bird trying to take flight. The cracks in the floor expanded, stretched out, reaching even the far walls.

Forget the crater in the floor -- the crater in Victory's chest was such that the Bastard was almost touching the ground when he drove his foot in.

"You have some kind of healing ability," the Bastard noted calmly. "Just turn it off if you want this to stop."

Victory struggled to rise. "Fuck you, ass --"

Stompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstomp.

The worst part wasn't even the attack, nor was it the injury. It was the camera automatics he could see floating throughout this place, their lenses focused on him. The people of Serendipity were witnessing this. The people of Serendipity were laughing at him.

Victory's thoughts were a maelstrom of chaotic hatred.

Bastard. Kill you. I'll kill you. Kill you all. Kill everyone. All of you.

How dare you? How dare you do this to me? Who the hell do you think you are? I've fought machine gods. I've fought Edgar. You're a shit stain. A speck. Nothing.

I'll kill. Kill you. Eat you, rip you. Shit out your skull and crush it. All of you. Every single person. Your people. Your cities. Your planets. Kill you, kill you, kill you, kill you, I'll kill you, piece of shit, bastard, kill you, bastard, kill you kill you kill you kill KILL YOU

CALAMITY!

Victory snapped his jaw open and his tongue poured forth as a torrent of flames, aimed right for the Bastard's face. For the first time, Victory had forced him back. Giggling madly, Victory rose up, his chest popping as the massive dent slowly healed.

From here on, this battle would belong to him.

Or

So

He

Thought.

Killing Arts: Nitrogen Palm.

Victory was blasted in an explosion.

Killing Arts: Bloodrush.

Victory was shredded by bullets of congealed blood.

Killing Arts: Graveyard Dance.

Victory was sliced in half by a guillotine of dust.

Killing Arts…

Killing Arts…

Killing Arts…

Victory was beaten.

Victory was beaten.

Victory was beaten.

Their battle -- if it could still be considered their battle -- crossed from locale to locale like a city tour. The mall, the street, the neighbouring building, the subway station below, the subway tunnels, the next station, the street again, and finally the Rufus Von Frostburn memorial statue. Countless backdrops to be painted with Victory's blood.

Victory wheezed beneath the shadow of the statue, utterly immobilized by the damage his body had sustained. Limbless, battered, beaten, bruised. The Bastard stood over him, expression impassive. Victory's spear lunged at him from behind, seeking a surprise attack, but this wasn't the sort of man who could be surprised. He simply reached out and snatched it from the air, holding it tight as if it belonged to him. Even with the force that spear was capable of producing, it couldn't escape his grip.

Kill you… kill you…

Victory abandoned the wisdom of a human -- instead staring up at the Bastard, growling, like a feral dog. The Bastard stared back down.

"I'll wait for you to grow your legs back," he said. "I want to kill you standing."

He's mocking me.

A final threshold of anger was crossed, and the blood vessels in Victory's eyes burst, painting his vision red. As new limbs began to weave themselves together, Victory slowly rose, his legs trembling like those of a newborn deer. His rabid growl morphed into bitter and mocking words as he dragged a bloody hand down his bloody face.

"Ha… hahaha… I don't know who you are, but you're just like those other idiots… just like him… little people with little brains… worrying about collateral damage, or winning in the way you want, or feeling good about yourself… stupid shit like that… it doesn't matter, none of it matters, you dumb fuck… all that matters… all that matters…"

The spear tore itself from the Bastard's grip and returned to its master -- who infused it with a pink light brighter and more malevolent than anything before. When he looked up, that same light poured from his eyes and mouth.

"...IS VICTORY!"

Before the Bastard could make a move, Victory kicked off the ground with all his strength, flying high into the sky -- becoming a tiny dot silhouetted against the sun. Blood still pouring from his eyes, teeth still bared in a crimson grin, he pointed his spear at the distant Bastard below. The unearthly light was already gathering in the weapon.

It understood.

The air grew still, the sky turned pitch black -- and high, high up, pink sigils began to glow, revolving around Victory like a magic circle. The most ancient scripts of Inganci, the oldest curses and insults, casting aspersions upon the entire world. This was the throne of a demon indeed.

It was time. His trump card. His fourth and final ability.

He called its name.

"VENI! VIDI! VICI!"

The light exploded -- and the spear ballooned in size, doubling itself over and over and over again until Victory was resting his hands against the side of something that looked more like a skyscraper than a weapon. His grin widened, tongue lashing at the air.

The impact would wipe out everything below, leaving only Victory to laugh amidst the rubble, but that wasn't all. Veni Vidi Vici would flow into the Aether of those it killed, shredding any information contained within, erasing their legacies along with their flesh. This was the ability that had gone up against Beast Crown, the apotheosis of conquest itself, the culmination of the blood-drenched battlefield.

In short…

Absolute Victory!

Ash del Duran looked up.

The scene above him was an apocalypse, no doubt. The sky had turned as black as tar, strange symbols blazed in replacement of the stars, and a spear the size of a building was pointing its mammoth blade directly at him. Any second now, this ability would fire.

He took a deep breath.

How much longer would Mantle of Heaven last? He hadn't been keeping track of it, but it was probably coming towards the end. The moment the ability ended, his Aether tic would return with a vengeance. The debt he'd have to repay would surely mean his death.

And yet… his heartbeat was still so soft, so calm, so relaxed.

This was the end of the path he'd chosen. He understood that. He also understood that there were other paths he could have taken. Paths that weren't the one of the fist -- the fist that had slowly killed him. Perhaps there had even been happiness waiting for him on paths like that. But the fact was that he hadn't chosen those paths. The fact was that this was the one he had walked until the end.

What point, then, was there in regretting anything?

Ash del Duran pulled his fist back, eyes fixed up at the demon. Any second now, the final attack would come. When that happened, he would meet it with his best.

He couldn't lie. He'd been enjoying the feeling of gorging himself on his Aether, of finally cutting loose and battling without reserve… but that had never been the way he'd fought. His strength lay in a single fist, in pinpoint power, in focusing all of his Aether into a single spot.

That was how he would fight now.

My final punch.

This was not an Aether ability.

The spear fired, moving faster than sound despite its size, spearing down towards Ash del Duran in an attack that would surely have killed anyone or anything else.

He matched it.

Fist met blade -- and the clash between them produced a shower of cosmic fireworks that lit up the world around them. Space seemed to bend, as though the two -- fist and spear -- had become a singularity, demanding the attention of all else. The ground rumbled, as did the air. Nothing could escape.

The spear drilled against Ash's knuckles, sparks flying from the point of impact, but not a drop of blood. Ash's fist struggled against the mighty spear, just barely keeping it at bay. The first vulnerability, the first hesitation, the first weakness -- that would spell the end.

And so it came.

Victory pushed against the spear, forcing it forward with all his might, seeking beyond everything to crush the insect before him and restore his supremacy. The Bastard along with this damned city -- he wanted it all washed away with blood. Just a tiny bit more effort, just a tiny bit more will, just a tiny bit more --

Or

So

He

Thought.

Somewhere deep inside him, some miniscule impulse activated. Perhaps it was the final death-twitch of something that had already vanished from this world. Perhaps it was something deeper than that.

But the fact remained…

For the briefest of moments, Victory's body locked up, and his momentum was lost.

A vulnerability.

A hesitation.

A weakness.

Jamilu… Agutaaa…!

Victory had only an instant in which to recall his host's name -- before Ash del Duran broke through the final threshold…

…and the grand spear that had cursed a thousand years shattered like glass.

Light began to flow as the darkness that had consumed the skies of Serendipity parted.

Ash del Duran looked up at it, surrounded by the twinkling shards of the spear, each piece slowly floating through the air like confetti. One by one, they began to vanish, popping in sparks of pink Aether. His enemy had utterly disappeared from this world.

He looked down at his fist, at his bloody knuckles. In the end, he hadn't been able to get through this battle unscratched. But that was life. There was no point in regretting it.

00:00

It was funny, Ash del Duran reflected as he closed his eyes. So many times he had cursed this existence of his, gnashed his teeth in regret, sank his head in despair. Now, though? At the end?

Only one thought still remained inside him.

Ah… what a nice life I had.

His lips quirked up into a smile just before they turned to dust.

For fifteen minutes, the crowds had watched in a state of shock. The demon that had tormented them, terrorised them, slaughtered them, dragged through the streets and utterly obliterated like it was nothing but a pest. And now… the man who had done it had scattered to the winds, as though he'd never even been there.

The image of where he'd been standing was mirrored across hundreds of videograph screens.

Alcera Nox took a deep breath as she looked up at the nearest one. Her whisper was full of awe. "Who was that?" she asked.

Sam Set blinked.

"No idea," he replied.