Chapter 230
The air still hummed with the aftershock of violence, thick with the scent of smoke and something coppery and sharp, the metallic tang of spilled blood.
After listening intently to Lyra’s halting, difficult account of the horrible things that had unfolded during the battle at the evilus base – a chilling silence descended upon Draco.
His form, typically radiating an aura of controlled power, became a vessel of raw, untamed emotion.
For a long moment, he simply stood, the details of Lyra's words echoing in the void where his composure usually resided.
He didn't just not know what to think; his mind was a maelstrom, concepts like grief, betrayal, and vengeance warring for dominance.
The first emotion to claw its way to the surface, undeniable and overwhelming, was a searing, volcanic anger.
It surged through him like molten rock, hot and destructive.
So potent was this fury that his talons, flexed involuntarily.
They dug deep into the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet with savage force, the material resisting for only a fraction of a second before succumbing.
A sharp, fracturing sound splintered the tense quiet, and web-like cracks radiated outwards from the points of impact, marring the road like fresh wounds.
Lyra, her face pale and drawn from the recent ordeal and the difficult retelling, instinctively recoiled a step.
A primal instinct screamed at her to put distance between herself and the terrifying intensity emanating from the figure before her.
A prickly sensation, like static electricity or the warning tremor before an earthquake, crawled across her skin, a physical manifestation of the sheer, dangerous energy she felt being so close to his unleashed rage.
"Draco... I am so..." Lyra began, her voice trembling, a desperate need to offer solace or perhaps seek forgiveness welling up.
She wanted to deliver an apology, broken as it might be, for the failure, for the losses, for the news she had been forced to bring, but the word caught in her throat, unfinished.
"Don't say it," Draco cut her off, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down Lyra's spine.
It wasn't loud, but it was laced with a terrifying stillness, an eerie calm that was far more unnerving than outright roaring.
It was the sound of immense power held barely in check, of emotions too volatile to be given voice.
His mind was a tempest of conflicting thoughts and savage impulses, whirling violently as he desperately sought an anchor, some way to settle the churning turmoil within his chest.
The information Lyra had delivered was unthinkable, unacceptable.
He simply could not reconcile himself with the notion that his little brother, Vasileios,, could be gone forever.
Lyra, witnessing the raw, internal battle raging within him, understanding on some fundamental level the magnitude of the potential loss he was grappling with, wisely chose silence.
She remained quiet, giving him the space his tortured soul clearly needed.
In that moment, Draco wasn't even sure who or what to direct his scorching anger towards.
Was it himself, for having made the decision to send his younger siblings, his precious family, into the maw of danger alongside the Astraea Familia, despite the inherent risks of the mission? Was it the Astraea Familia themselves, for what felt like a catastrophic failure, for being seemingly so ill-prepared or incompetent despite the numerous warnings he, and potentially others, had issued about the nature of the Evilus threat?
Was it his siblings – Vasiliki, Clair, and Michalis – for failing to protect their brother, for not being strong enough, fast enough, or lucky enough in the face of the onslaught?
Was it Adi, his friend, for being perhaps too trusting, too naive, too gullible despite the many words of caution they had all received about the deceptive nature of evil?
Or was it simply fate, that cruel, indifferent force that seemed to delight in snatching away those dearest to him, for being so utterly merciless?
As his heart was wracked by this internal conflict, a sudden, unexpected thought pierced through the storm.
It was the thought of his goddess, Bahamut, his lover and protector.
A flicker of something other than despair ignited within him.
‘Wait!’ the thought exploded in his mind, sharp and sudden.
‘Bahamut!’ His reptilian pupils, which had been narrowed to slits in his rage, dilated instantly, widening with dawning realization.
If Vasileios, one of her cherished children, had truly perished, if his divine blessing had been extinguished with his life, Bahamut would not be passive.
He knew his goddess, his lover, intimately.
She was not one to bear the loss of one of her blood, one of her familia, with quiet sorrow.
She was a force of nature, a wrathful deity when provoked, and the death of a child would incite a rampage of unimaginable scale, a divine fury that would shake the very foundations of Orario, if not the world.
The absence of such a cataclysmic reaction, the fact that the city wasn't currently being torn apart by a dragon goddess's grief-fueled rage, could only signify one thing.
Vasileios was alive.
Perhaps gravely injured, perhaps trapped, but fundamentally, physiologically, alive.
His divine blessing, his connection to Bahamut, must still be intact.
The certainty of this flooded Draco, a wave of dizzying relief washing over the turbulent sea of his emotions.
With this revelation, the agonizing turmoil within Draco’s heart didn’t vanish entirely, but it calmed dramatically, settling into burning urgency.
Anger transformed into determination.
Guilt became a spur to action.
He needed to find his siblings, all of them, and he needed to do it quickly.
The thought of receiving news about any other member of his family perishing in the chaos was a cold dread that solidified his resolve.
Turning back to Lyra, his expression still grim but now devoid of the raw, undirected fury, Draco issued his thoughts.
"You girls can handle the rest here," he said.
"It would be best to gather everyone and slowly retreat towards the Central Park. It's a more defensible position. Don’t waste you lives thinking you know better than the commander ‘Finn'" He didn't wait for confirmation or questions, already shifting his weight, his powerful wings beginning to unfurl, preparing for immediate flight.
"Where are you going?" Lyra called out, her voice filled with renewed worry, seeing his clear intent to abandon their position.
"To District Six," Draco replied without slowing his preparations, the area where Vasileios should be.
"I have to find my family." He offered no further explanation, no reassurance beyond the statement of his purpose.
With a powerful beat of his Draconic wings, he launched himself upwards, the ground falling away beneath him, ascending into the smoke-choked night sky.
Just as Draco ascended, a strange and sudden phenomenon occurred.
A pillar of light, impossibly bright, piercing the pervasive darkness of the night, shot up from the ground somewhere in the east within the embattled city.
It was so intense, so pure, that it momentarily illuminated the entire skyline, turning night into a blinding, fractured day, a stark, unnatural beacon in the chaos.
"So bright!" Draco cursed aloud as the sheer intensity of the light lanced into his sensitive reptilian eyes.
Annoyance was his initial reaction to the sudden, painful glare.
But Draco’s irritation quickly morphed into gut-wrenching horror.
His heightened senses, recognized the presence of divine power.
It wasn’t just light; it was the signature of an immense, catastrophic event, a rending of the fabric connecting the mortal realm to the divine.
“It can’t be…” Draco muttered, the words barely audible over the rush of wind and the distant sounds of battle below.
A cold dread seized his heart, nearly bringing its powerful beating to a halt.
“A god has been killed.”
Quickly, almost frantically, he turned his senses inward, checking the connection, the blessing from his own goddess anchored deep within him.
He could still feel it, a warm, familiar presence humming beneath his skin, a tether to Bahamut. A wave of relief washed over his face, momentarily smoothing the grim lines etched there.
His goddess was safe.
But that relief was fleeting, swiftly replaced by a chilling worry that settled deep in his bones. The death of a god, any god residing in the lower world, carried devastating implications.
It meant they were severed from this plane, forcefully sent back to Heaven, never to return through any normal means.
If the fallen god was from the adventurers' side, then the situation in Orario was about to spiral from terrible to catastrophic.
A god dying essentially spelled the immediate, definitive end of their familia in the lower world. The blessing, the very source of their children’s strength, skill, and levels, would be sealed.
Orario was already severely lacking in powerful, experienced adventurers, their numbers depleted by the ongoing war and previous calamities.
Now, those remaining useful adventurers, the very people holding the line against the evilus tide, were about to become utterly powerless, their strength fading into nothingness.
Flapping his wings with desperate, renewed urgency, Draco immediately increased his speed, pushing his body to its limits, accelerating towards District Six.
He had to gather all his familia members, scattered and vulnerable, and find his goddess.
He wasn’t going to allow any more of his family, his kin through blood or blessing, to die in this brutal, escalating war…
…………………………………………………………………
Meanwhile, amidst the chaotic symphony of battle cries, explosions, and collapsing structures, Hermes, moved with practiced ease close to the gloomy, less-trodden corners of a back street.
He was escorting Astraea, through a seemingly quieter route, but the air here felt heavy, wrong. Suddenly, a prickling sensation, the familiar tingle of imminent danger that had saved him countless times, shot through his senses.
"Astraea, stop," Hermes warned, his voice low and urgent, instinctively positioning himself slightly in front of her, his hand subtly reaching for the ornate dagger he carried.
His sharp eyes scanned the narrow alley ahead, piercing the deep shadows pooled there.
The corner of a side street, barely visible, seemed unnaturally still, displaced somehow from the surrounding maelstrom of fighting, like a pocket of eerie calm within the storm.
And then, it came.
From within the impenetrable darkness of the side street, the distinct, measured sound of footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, amplifying in the unusual quiet.
Astraea, became immediately wary, her bright eyes straining, trying to pierce the gloom and make out the source of the sound, the nature of the figure approaching.
"Be careful," Hermes reiterated, his gaze fixed on the shadows.
He watched, a knot tightening in his gut, as the thick darkness itself seemed to stir, to writhe as if it were a living entity, shifting and undulating in an unnerving display.
Emitting a sound that was less a natural noise and more a violation of silence – like the agonizing strain of a taut rope about to snap, or perhaps a low, scornful laughter that seemed to emanate from the very air – the darkness stared back.
For a terrifying, fleeting moment, Astraea and Hermes caught the glimpse of a single, glinting point of light within the void, a mad, malevolent reflection that felt ancient and utterly evil.
And then, something came.
Not walking, but moving with impossible speed and unnatural silence, like a dagger thrown in the dead of night, drawing closer and closer to Astraea until…
“Lady Astraea!” A voice, sharp with worry and instantly recognizable, shattered the tension. Before either god could react, a figure shoved Astraea to the side.
"Ack! Alise!" Astraea gasped, stumbling but regaining her balance, shock warring with surprise.
Alise’s face was streaked with sweat and grime, her chest heaving, but her eyes were alight with relief.
"Thank the gods you're safe," she managed between gasps.
"I... I felt something coming after you. A terrible presence. We came immediately."
Panting heavily behind her, Iska and Neze stumbled into view, their armour scuffed, clothes torn and ragged.
They had clearly raced through the heart of the ongoing battle, cutting down any evilus who had barred their path.
Exhaustion was etched deep on their faces, the adrenaline of their desperate charge finally receding.
Astraea, although worried about them, glanced back at the side street, where the unnatural darkness still clung.
Hermes, Alise, Iska, and Neze all heard it then – a slow, deliberate clap echoing from within the shadows.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
"Always looking out for others," a deep voice resonated, clear and resonant.
"Rarely do you care for yourself. Do you know how much trouble you caused? How long it took to pin you down?" The voice paused, the clapping stopping.
It continued, laced with a chilling blend of thwarted malice and perverse amusement.
"I intended to bury you first, you know. To extinguish your blinding sense of justice from this world, to leave this city and its people drowning in a beautiful, absolute chaos." Yet, despite the cold words of his intent, the god's tone pulsed with a sickening pleasure, a cruel, gleeful satisfaction.
"Congratulations, Astraea. You get to live. You have your loyal children to thank for denying me that particular delight." The clapping began anew, louder this time, a mocking, theatrical round of applause.
Being showered with praise by a being who had just confessed to wanting your destruction felt alien, deeply unsettling.
"I suppose we will have to wait and see what fascinating disruption your survival brings about," the god purred from the shadows, spreading his unseen arms in a grand, condescending gesture. "But before that... I have a little surprise for you all."
Then, with a sudden, violent expulsion, the thick, oppressive darkness cloaking the side street didn't just fade – it recoiled, peeling away like burned skin to reveal a figure standing distinct within the now visible alleyway.
His eyes were not eyes, but twin points of malevolent light, shining with the terrifying, ancient blackness of existence's deepest pits.
"It's... it's you..." Astraea whispered, her voice barely audible, shock stealing her breath.
"No... it can't be... how...?" Hermes stared, his disbelief visible, his composure shattered.
Standing there, undeniable and terrifying, was Erebus.
A dark god who presided over evil, the shadowy architect behind the night's orchestrated horror.
He seemed to have materialized only to savour their stunned, fearful reactions.
A slow, utterly satisfied smile spread across his face, a chilling expression of victory.
Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he dissolved back into the consuming shadows, leaving no trace but the lingering scent of dread.
"Hermes, quickly! We must follow him immediately!" Astraea snapped, the paralysis of shock breaking as her divine imperative to confront such evil surged to the forefront.
"Astraea, no!" Hermes's denial was sharp, resolute, his hand shooting out to grasp her arm, preventing her from charging blindly into the now empty, though still ominous, alleyway.
In that very moment, the air vibrated with a secondary shockwave.
A fire-ravaged building nearby groaned under unseen stress, then collapsed with a thunderous roar, a cascade of stone, wood, and dust sealing off the very alley Erebus had vanished into.
For Astraea, a goddess embodying justice, dark gods, especially one as potent as Erebus, were a fundamental antithesis to her very being.
Their brief, chilling encounter had left her with a burning, disquieting unknown – she needed to understand him, the force that represented everything she fought against.
"We need to get out of here. Now!" Hermes urged again, his divine intuition screaming warnings.
Erebus had promised a surprise.
Hermes had absolutely no desire to learn what malevolent gift awaited them in this doomed sector.
He saw Astraea's lingering hesitation, her gaze fixed on the impassable rubble.
"NOW!" he roared, his voice sharp with urgency, cutting through the distant echoes of the ongoing battle.
But it was already unfolding.
Just as the word left his lips, the dark god's surprise was delivered.
The ground beneath them bucked violently.
The entire city of Orario convulsed as if gripped by the hand of an enraged titan, a terrifying, city-wide tremor unlike any natural earthquake.
"What's happening?!" Alise cried out in raw panic, stumbling and grasping for support alongside Iska and Neze.
The answer arrived with horrifying clarity.
From the eastern horizon, a column of blinding, incandescent light erupted, piercing the night sky and casting stark, unnatural shadows across the ravaged cityscape.
The sky above seemed to shriek, clouds parting violently, while the very earth beneath their feet roiled, a mirror to the impossible turmoil now echoing deep within the dungeon far below.
"Wha... what is that?" came terrified gasps from countless throats scattered across the city, adventurers, civilians, and even gods turning as one towards the horrifying beacon dominating the eastern sky.
Then, carried on the wind, came a sound from the heart of the light – not a sound, but a scream. A divine shriek of agony, power, and cosmic violation, ripping through reality, a concussive wave of pure horror that vibrated in their very bones, freezing everyone in a moment of terrified, silent awe.
In that suspended instant, as time seemed to halt, every eye, regardless of allegiances or goals – Adventurers, Evilus, weary gods alike – were drawn, unbidden, towards that monstrous, pillar of light.
No mind touched by sanity could look upon that sight and mistake its meaning.
The suffering they had been enduring this night, the chaos that was consuming them... it was not the climax.
It was merely the prelude.
True evil, the architects of this night's horror, had just begun to play their true, horrifying game.
The sinister things to come had only just begun.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on and donate.