Chapter 18: You tell me

Opal is exhausted, her mana completely spent.

The magic that had surged with such defiance only moments ago had now left her small body trembling, empty. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, her gills flaring weakly, her webbed fingers digging into the frozen ice beneath her.

Balesh stepped forward, exhaling dramatically as he shook his head. “See, this is what we’re not going to do.”

His voice was slow, mocking, as if he were a parent scolding an unruly child.

“We are not going to rebel.”

The people of New Liberty flinched, their heads bowed even lower.

“You all know the rules.”

A hush fell over the kneeling masses.

“You all know what happens to those who rebel.”

A silence so deep it seemed to swallow the entire world.

Then—

“Double the tribute.”

A collective gasp tore through the crowd.

Even the demons behind Balesh faltered, eyes widening in brief surprise.

But the leader merely smirked.

A wide, indulgent, knowing grin.

“Yes…” He purred, his sharp teeth glinting in the firelight. “Double.”

Then, his gaze slid toward Eliza.

A slow, predatory hunger seeped into his expression.

“And how about we start with that sweet little piece of ass you’re hiding behind you, protecting the freak.”

Tenebrae sighed.

“See...” His voice was quiet, even, too calm.

“...you just said two things back to back that pissed me off.”

Balesh’s grin widened.

“Good.”

He licked his lips.

“Because that little freak signed your death wish the moment she stepped out of line.”

His eyes glittered with amusement.

“And the death wish of one hundred others.”

Silence.

The people remained kneeling, their heads bowed.

No prayers.

No resistance.

No hope.

They knew their fate.

And they accepted it.

But Tenebrae did not.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing.

“Actually… the only things that are going to die today…”

He lifted his gaze.

“…are monsters.”

Laughter.

A chorus of laughter erupted behind Balesh, the demons shaking their heads, some wiping tears from their eyes.

With a snap of his fingers, Balesh commanded his forces forward.

Mages and demons alike raised their hands, summoning twisted creatures of the void.

Winged horrors took to the air, their shrieks piercing the night.

Hellhounds prowled forward, their jaws dripping with black ichor.

The ice cracked beneath them, and still, the people did nothing.

And then—

The first stone was thrown.

Not by a demon.

Not by a mage.

But by a human.

It struck Tenebrae’s shoulder, bouncing harmlessly off his armor.

Then came another.

And another.

A chorus of anger.

A storm of resentment.

“Outsiders.”

“Look what they’ve done!”

“We don’t even know who they are!”

“They doomed us all!”

Even those who had been kind to them earlier, those who had smiled at Opal, those who had served them food, now turned their backs.

And Opal—

Opal finally understood.

This wasn’t just fear.

This wasn’t just survival.

This was hatred.

This was how humans had always seen her.

Not as a child.

Not as someone trying to help.

Not as one of them.

Only as an Undine.

And it hurt.

Her small hands trembled.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

But still—she did not look away.

Balesh watched with amusement, drinking in the moment.

“Ah… beautiful.”

His tail swayed behind him as he turned back to Tenebrae.

“All that show, all that defiance...”

He spread his arms.

“And now, the people hate you.”

Tenebrae did not respond.

Did not flinch.

Did not blink.

Because they were beneath him.

They had always been beneath him.

But Balesh was not done.

His crimson gaze slid back to Eliza.

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And that’s when he made his mistake.

“When I get my hands on her, I am going to do things to her that she has only had nightmares of.”

Eliza stiffened, her breath hitching.

Tenebrae’s head tilted slightly.

His eyes darkened.

His voice was low. Soft. Absolute.

“Her dreams… and nightmares… belong to me.”

The demons around Balesh fell silent.

Because something had shifted.

Something had changed.

And Balesh noticed.

He lifted a hand.

“Scribe.”

A sensory-type Succubus stepped forward, her fingers glowing with a soft, pale light.

A life scan.

An advanced scan spell of the highest tier is uis sed to peer into the memories, the mind, the essence of a target. This spell allowed the user to peer deep into the victim's mind. When used on humans it allowed their mundane lives to give way to the secrets of their hearts.

When used on undead, however...

Tenebrae sighed.

“Trust me.” His voice was casual. “You don’t want to do that.”

But she had already begun.

Minds hand stretched out and hovered before him—

And then, she screamed.

A shriek so sharp, so raw, so primal that even the demons around her stepped back.

Her body convulsed, her eyes rolling back, her hands clawing at her skin as if trying to tear away the visions that flooded her mind.

“This... this... this is no man...”

Her voice was strangled.

Broken.

Her breath came in ragged gasps.

“This… MONSTER… has painted the snow crimson red… walking through blood for hundreds of years...”

The crowd froze.

“He has taken many names... many titles…”

The people held their breath.

And then—

“The Son… of Murder… is here.”

The Butcher walks amongst you.

Screams.

Pure, unfiltered terror.

The crowd gasped.

The whispers spread like wildfire.

“The Butcher…? The Butcher of Southern Liberty…?”

The succubus thrashed and sobbed, her mind breaking beneath the weight of what she had seen. It wasn't only the pain and weight of the lives he had taken that broke her mind that day, but the weight and pain of the crown's punishment for its removal.

And Balesh, annoyed by the display, raised a hand—

And snapped her neck.

Her body hit the ground.

Lifeless.

And still, the people did nothing.

Balesh turned back to Ten, smirking.

“Really, the Son of Murder?” He chuckled, shaking his head.

“More like the son of a bitch.”

Tenebrae felt nothing.

Not rage.

Not fury.

Not fear.

Just disgust.

Balesh grinned.

“You’re drained,” he mused. “I can feel it. I can smell it.”

His claws flexed.

“You collect their priests and priestesses before they even have the chance to let their faith grow,” he muttered.

“What good does it do you to drain them in such a state?”

Balesh laughed.

“You are the one who put them in this state.”

Ten stilled.

“You are the one who butchered Southern Liberty and reduced an entire pantheon to ash.”

“We are simply making sure they got the message.”

Tenebrae took a slow, deliberate step forward.

“Leave these people.”

Another step.

“And don’t come back.”

Balesh tilted his head.

He stepped closer.

“You asking me?” he murmured.

“Or are you telling me?”

A beat of silence.

Tenebrae’s eyes burned.

“You know better than to fight me, Balesh.”

“You know the stories.”

“You know who I am."

The Incubus Lord smirked.

“I know who you were."

He flicked a finger.

And Ten was airborne.

Pain. Impact. Cold.

His body crashed into the stage, the wooden planks splintering beneath him.

Eliza gasped.

Opal screamed.

For the first time in this realm—

For the first time in years—

Tenebrae had been tossed aside like nothing.

And he wasn’t sure if he could get back up.

Pain.

Tenebrae was sent crashing into the frozen earth again and again, his body rag-dolled through the air like a discarded puppet.

He felt his ribs crack as he slammed into a stone pillar, heard the sickening snap of ice beneath him as he landed, only to be lifted and hurled again.

Balesh was enjoying himself.

The Incubus Lord flicked his clawed fingers, a smirk playing across his face as he toyed with him.

“You were supposed to be some legend?” he scoffed.

Ten gritted his teeth, trying to summon any ounce of resistance, but the weight of his passives being down made him slow. Weak.

His regeneration? Gone.

His enhanced durability? Gone.

His reflexes? Sluggish.

Without mana, he was nothing but a body waiting to break.

He felt his limbs buckle as he was slammed once more into the icy ground.

Balesh’s grip tightened.

Then—

The magic snapped.

The illusion shattered.

The whispers began.

The gasping.

The horror.

Tenebrae’s face was no longer that of a man.

The skeletal visage of undeath was revealed in full—hollowed cheeks, sharp, pronounced bone structure, a face long stripped of humanity.

His eyes—no longer blue, but an unnatural green—glowed with malice and power.

His silver-white hair fell loosely over his shoulders, contrasting with the dark, jagged armor that wrapped around him.

The spiked black crown atop his head pulsed with an eerie, green radiance—the mark of his rule over the dead.

The rib-like plating of his chest armor flexed as he breathed, the large, pulsating gemstone embedded at its center flickering with remnants of magic, too weak to restore him yet.

A true Lich.

Unmasked.

Undeniable.

And the humans stared.

Some fell backward, some trembled, some cried.

The whispers spread.

“A Lich...”

“A true Lich...”

“By the Gods—he’s—”

One man paled.

“He’s the Butcher.”

A woman collapsed to her knees.

“The Son of Murder walks among us...”

The betrayal in their voices, the sheer dread, would have stung—

If he had cared at all.

Tenebrae chuckled, the sound low, bitter, broken.

Balesh stood back, smirking.

“You see?” he purred, gesturing toward the horrified humans. “They hate you more than me.”

He tilted his head mockingly.

“This is why I win.”

His claws flexed.

“Because even when you try to be one of them, even when you fight for them, even when you bleed for them—”

He laughed.

“They still see you for what you are.”

Ten stared at him.

His eyes burned.

His rage simmered.

But—he said nothing.

Because Balesh was right.

And it disgusted him.

The Incubus grinned, taking a slow, mocking step closer.

“You’re drained, Lich.”

Another step.

“You can’t fight.”

Another.

“You can’t stop me.”

Balesh grinned, fangs glinting in the firelight.

“I bet Lilith is going to enjoy what we bring her today.”

The words hit deep.

Tenebrae exhaled.

He looked up at Balesh.

And smiled.

Balesh turned to the crowd, his voice booming over the shattered silence.

“This is what happens when you try to escape The Darkness!”

The Incubi and Succubi howled in approval, their cheers twisting the air into a cacophony of sadistic pleasure.

The humans cowered deeper, their bodies shaking, their gazes downcast, as if the very act of watching would bring damnation upon them.

But through the haze of pain—Tenebrae laughed.

It was low, almost breathless, but unmistakably amused.

He turned his head, blinking slowly at Eliza.

And winked.

Eliza’s eyes widened.

She saw it then—the glint in his eyes.

The knowing smirk, the madness, the dangerous certainty.

He wasn’t done.

No.

Not yet.

Tenebrae forced himself to stand.

His limbs screamed, his bones burned, but he stood tall, unwavering.

And then, he spoke.

“Though they say of the Dark you should be wary…”

A hiss echoed through the air.

Something was listening.

The demons stiffened.

“But with true faith… the Light is scary.”

His voice cracked with power.

A forbidden invocation.

A Priest spell.

Tenebrae’s body convulsed, the insides of his bones searing with agony.

The air warped around him, his flesh blistering, burning from the inside out.

His veins ignited, his very essence rejecting the words—

Because he was never meant to speak them.

Because no Undead should be able to.

Balesh’s grip on him faltered, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“What in the Kingdom of Lilith are you doing?! An Undead cannot use divine spells!”

The Incubi and Succubi hissed, stepping back, uncertainty flashing through their features.

But Ten wasn’t done.

He lifted his arms, the movement slow, deliberate, painful.

And spoke the name.

“From Heaven’s Armory, I unleash…

DAMOCLES.”

The moment his voice rang out, the very air shifted.

A divine presence stirred. Something ancient. Something waiting.

Something that should not have answered the call of the damned.

But it did.

Because it recognized the name.

“DAMOCLES.”

The first wave of energy pulsed outward—a blast of raw, holy power that sent the nearest Incubi and Succubi staggering back, their forms smoldering just from being too close.

Balesh’s face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and fury.

“Impossible!” he snarled.

But Tenebrae wasn’t finished.

His breath hitched, his burning veins pulsing with searing pain, but he forced himself forward, lifted his skeletal arms to the storm, and spoke again.

A crackling bolt of golden lightning exploded from the sky, ripping through the clouds, striking the center of the battlefield. The air became electric, heavy, vibrating with the presence of something far beyond mortal understanding.

And then—

The eye opened.

A massive, ethereal eye manifested in the storm above, its iris formed of blinding light, its pupil an abyss of infinite wisdom and cruelty.

And then the storerooms of Heaven opened.

The first blade fell.

A massive, radiant sword—not thrown, not swung—but descending as if from a higher plane.

It impaled a Succubus in mid-air, piercing through her torso, burning her body out of existence in a flash of golden fire.

The second followed, tearing through a screaming Incubus, reducing him to cinders.

Then—

Tenebrae took a shuddering breath.

And for the third and final time, he spoke.

“DAMOCLES.”

The sky detonated.

It rained light.

Not fire.

Not magic.

But weapons.

Swords of pure divine will, countless blades of judgment, raining down with no hesitation, no mercy.

And they did not harm the innocent.

Not a single human was touched.

Not a single Undine, nor beast, nor mortal creature.

But the demons?

The demons burned.

They screamed.

They ran.

Some tried to teleport away, only to find their magic useless, their bodies already marked for execution.

One by one, they fell.

Balesh roared, his wings flaring, his body twisting to avoid the slaughter, but even he was forced to retreat, shielding himself as the storm of holy weapons carved through his forces.

But there was one more problem.

Tenebrae was Undead.

He dodged the first blade, barely.

The second clipped his shoulder, sending searing divine agony through his undead form.

The third tore through his leg, ripping into his flesh, through muscle and bone, burning him from the inside.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand, his own armor cracking, the green gemstone on his chestplate flickering with unstable energy.

Then—

A fourth blade fell.

And this time, he couldn’t avoid it.

The sword pierced through his torso, burning, destroying his very essence as it carved into him.

He gasped, eyes wide, unseeing, his very being unraveling at the edges.

The world blurred.

The storm raged.

And as his mana reserves burned to empty, his vision dimmed.

He was falling.

Suspended in an agony so profound it felt eternal.

But before the last shred of consciousness left him—

He did the only thing he could.

The only hope he had left.

He sent one final message.

A whisper—carried through what little magic remained, sent across realms, across space, across whatever lay between them.

To the one who had always answered him.

To the one who had always come.

To the one he could not afford to fail him now.

His lips barely moved as he forced the words through the void.

“Zanac…”

“Help.”

And then—

Everything went dark.