Shadow Over the Heavenly Throne

A shadow by the altar stirred. From the darkness that should not exist, a woman stepped forth. HHer stride was calm, almost silent, yet she carried an aura so heavy the air seemed to part before her out of reverence, as if the world itself dared not obstruct her path. Behind her, ever-present, slid Shadow.

Veynessa halted, her gaze sweeping through the hall like a blade. For a moment, no one moved. The bodies of children nailed to crosses, their lifeless eyes placed atop their heads, and hollowed chests... It was a sight beyond words.

"So it's true," she thought. "My worst suspicions have been confirmed."

Her eyes flicked to the front of the spiral. There, on the closest crosses, hung Teren and the other children Sylphia had played with in recent days. Their small bodies limp, nailed to wooden crosses, with empty chests and gouged-out eyes, twisted in silent agony as if their souls had never been allowed to leave.

Veynessa's face showed no change. Her body froze in place, like stone. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment—not from relief or fatigue, but as if she were sealing something breaking inside. When she opened them again, her gaze had changed—lifeless, deep, and cold, as if the final spark of compassion had gone out.

Blood lines on the ground, spiral shapes, symbols carved into the air... Veynessa scanned the marks—none of them aligned with any ritual she knew.

She raised her head again to look at the crosses—at the eyes placed like trophies and hearts hung like offerings. A metallic chill filled her throat. She knew dozens of rituals. Hundreds. But this… this was something even the oldest books had never hinted at.

Her hand clenched slowly, knuckles turning white.

Her lips curled into an icy smile.

"Shadow," she said coldly. "Kill everyone. Leave only those who appear higher-ranked."

Shadow did not reply. But the cavern did.

From the ceiling and walls, shadows began to seep—thick and sticky, like ink bleeding through cracked stone. One moment, the cave shimmered with torchlight; the next, it was consumed by darkness not born of absence—but of hunger.

Shadow's form stretched, then exploded into hundreds of tendrils, slithering like serpents across stone and air. In an instant, Shadow vanished—becoming one with the dark. Lights didn't go out with a snap; they surrendered.

The cultists froze. Then… they began to vanish.

Screams tore through the silence like ripped flesh—sharp, ragged, brutal. One cultist barely moaned before a tendril wrapped around his neck and dragged him into the abyss. Another was lifted skyward by something formless and vanished, leaving only a burst of blood.

Shadows danced across ceiling and walls, devouring silhouettes like predatory spirits. The cries grew fewer, weaker—until only scattered whimpers remained. And then silence—deep and dead.

Veynessa hadn't moved an inch. Her gaze was fixed on the man holding Sylphia. Her brow furrowed.

She looked at him again. His aura was barely discernible—a faint trace of the fifth level. Yet she sensed he was the strongest among them. She sighed quietly, confused. So weak… and yet they had gathered technology they shouldn't comprehend and performed a ritual that defied all known logic.

Then something broke inside her. Her pupils thinned into vertical slits, cut through by inner light, like crossed blades etched within her gaze. A cold brilliance flared from her eyes—not anger, but judgment.

Behind her, the air twisted, and reality split like a curtain. Eight swords emerged from the void—each unique, each pulsing with its own light.

They orbited her in impossible rhythm—harmony and destruction intertwined. With every rotation, the air trembled.

A crown appeared on her head—eight curved blades forming a circle, crackling with lightning and inscribed with glowing runes. Each segment pulsed with light, as if reflecting separate laws of existence.

Beneath her eyes, markings bloomed—spirals and geometric symbols, pulsing with every breath.

Veynessa raised her hand.

The seventh sword halted midair and fell into her palm. When she closed her fingers around it, the air shuddered, as if reality itself acknowledged her decree.

The man by the throne lifted Sylphia in his arms. His eyes widened at the sight of the woman surrounded by swords and crowned in radiant light. His voice trembled as he raised the girl's chin, preparing to utter a threat.

"If you come any closer, I'll hurt he—"

He didn't finish.

A blade tore through the air like lightning—passing mere millimeters from Sylphia, brushing her hair like a spirit's whisper. Before anyone could react, the blade pierced the man's chest just beneath the collarbone, shattered through ribs and spine, and nailed him—and the throne—into solid stone.

He didn't even scream. A thin stream of blood spilled from his lips, hanging in the air before trailing down his chin.

Sylphia flew from his arms.

Veynessa was beneath her before the ground even had a chance. She caught her, holding her tightly to her chest. Her eyes scanned the girl's face, searching for wounds—blood, bruises, torn skin. Nothing. Her skin was unblemished, breath steady, pulse strong. She was merely… asleep. Unconscious, but whole. Veynessa pulled her closer, feeling her tension ease—just for a heartbeat.

Behind her, the man impaled to the stone began moving his fingers desperately, tracing symbols.

Veynessa didn't even look. The air around her pulsed—and dozens of radiant swords materialized.

With a calm wave of her hand, the blades shot forward like arrows.

The first impaled his left arm, pinning it to the stone. The second—his right, shattering bone. More followed, stabbing through thighs, knees, wrists, ankles—each blade driving deep, making his muscles convulse, blood fanning outward.

The man screamed—raw, animalistic—each sword tearing through not only flesh, but bone and soul. His cries echoed through the cavern, louder than even the hum of energy.

When the last blade pierced his side, his body hung grotesquely—arms outstretched, legs apart, head slumped like a shattered martyr. Each sword pulsed faintly, as if pronouncing a divine sentence.

Veynessa's steps echoed through the silent cavern as she walked—slow, wordless, Sylphia in her arms. She passed the still-writhing body as if it didn't exist. Her eyes, colder than steel, locked onto two figures huddled against the wall.

They trembled. Arms wrapped around knees, eyes downcast as though even looking at her would incinerate them. One began rocking—like a child lost in trauma.

Veynessa stopped a few steps away. The air around her seemed to tighten.

"Was it you who kidnapped my daughter?"

No reply. One of them shook too violently to lift his head.

"I'll ask again."

One lifted his face, tried to speak:

"W-we—"

Before he could finish, Veynessa pivoted sharply. Her foot sliced through the air like a blade, casting a shadow across the wall. The contact was instant. The man's skull cracked like pottery, and his head flew sideways, splattering against the stone with such force that fragments echoed like shattered glass.

Blood erupted from his neck in a wide arc. Several warm drops hit Veynessa's cheek, leaving crimson streaks. She didn't flinch. Her eyes were already on the second man, who bolted in panic.

Her hand struck his back, fingers piercing between shoulder blades like daggers. She felt warmth—pulsing, soft beneath the skin. Then clenched.

His heart exploded in her palm.

The body spasmed, then collapsed at her feet, trailing blood across the ground.

Shadow appeared beside her without a sound. Two unconscious men lay at his feet.

"The rest are dead, my Lady."

Veynessa looked at the unconscious men. She nodded faintly.

Then her eyes drifted to the man impaled to the wall. His body still trembled in agony, blood seeping down the blades.

"We need answers. Deal with him."

The shadow behind Shadow stretched like a serpent. Silently, it detached from his feet, forming a mass of darkness thick as tar. It hovered… then plunged upon the man nailed to stone. Darkness seeped into his mouth, nostrils, eyelids, and ears.

His body jerked, head thrown back, eyes wide in panic—then dimmed. His muscles twitched once… twice… then went still. His body sagged, extinguished from within.

He groaned… and fainted.

Veynessa said nothing. She held Sylphia, gazing upon the massacre and the dozens of crosses that still jutted from the ground like monuments to cruelty. Her eyes rested on the children's bodies—lifeless, silent, eyes gouged, chests hollow.

She nodded—slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if confirming a thought left unsaid. She sighed quietly, her heart clenched like stone. In her mind, she was already planning—they must be brought down. Given proper burials…

But she didn't finish the thought.

The earth beneath her feet trembled.

For a heartbeat, silence hung—absolute, ominous. Then came an impulse—a burst of energy so intense it sliced the air like a sword. Veynessa looked down. Her eyes widened—too late.

"My Lady!" Shadow shouted, leaping toward her.

An eruption of energy burst from below. The cavern walls cracked along ritual markings. Shadows twisted. Crosses toppled. Air exploded with light and thunder, a blinding torrent that seemed to scream with ancient fury.

And then everything was consumed by black.