The steam curled between them, heavy with unspoken fate.

Alarich stepped forward, the weight of Soramas’s words still lingering in his chest.

Alarich:

“How can we leave? How do we go from here?”

For a moment, Soramas didn’t speak. He just looked at him—tired eyes, eyes that had seen too much. Then, slowly, he extended his hand. With a gentle flick of his fingers, the shadows bent and curled behind him, forming a spiral in the air—swirling black, laced with flickers of pale blue flame.

Soramas:

“I’ll help with that. Don’t worry.”

The spiral widened, humming softly with ancient energy. A circle appeared on the floor—etched with faded runes, the kind only remembered in forgotten tomes. And from its center, a swirling gate of fog and fire tore open, revealing the faint silhouette of a distant city.

Soramas (softly):

“Back to Arugula.”

The sound of the name alone echoed in the space—like something sacred, something waiting.

Soramas turned to Alarich one last time.

“You’re not ready for what’s coming. But neither was I. Go. Learn. Return stronger.”

Then, with a wave, he stepped aside as the portal pulsed brighter—inviting them home, if only for now.

The air cracked with tension.

As the portal to Arugula faded behind them, a sudden shift in pressure made Alarich flinch—his instincts warning him something had arrived.

From the sky above the tower, a great purple light shimmered into form, warping the air like heat off metal. The silhouette descended — wings wide like a cathedral roof, cloaked in majestic but corrupted energy. A chilling presence.

Shirogane’s eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.

“Adrian…” he muttered, his voice low with hatred. “I killed you.”

The winged being sneered. With a flick of his arm, he hurled a docked column—like a spear—straight toward Shirogane. But before it could strike, Shirogane raised his arm high and roared:

“RAIJIN’S PURPLE THUNDER!”

From the sky, a serpent-like bolt of violet lightning exploded downward, disintegrating the projectile mid-air. The blast sizzled, searing the air in arcs that danced around his blade.

Alarich, standing beside the tower, felt something shift. His memories stirred—knowledge blooming within him like an unwanted seed. From the fog behind the purple light, a second figure appeared.

Unlike Astaroth’s demonic form, this one was eerily calm—a man in a simple white cloak, blonde hair falling gently to his shoulders, a silver cross hanging around his neck. No horns. No wings. But a finger raised, slowly pointing toward Alarich.

The moment he pointed—

A pulse of holy, silver fire erupted and wrapped around Alarich, burning him instantly. His body reeled as divine energy tore through him, blinding and raw.

He screamed—

But before the pain could consume him, Uki’s voice rang out like a chant.

“Restore. Mend. Flow.”

Uki, hands glowing with soothing blue, placed his palm on Alarich’s chest. The energy dulled, then dissipated into smoke as the burns faded. Alarich gasped, clutching his ribs, wide-eyed with confusion.

Shirogane, meanwhile, didn’t even register the second figure. His focus locked entirely on Astaroth—but he still thought it was Adrian.

He didn’t know.

And neither did Alarich.

But someone else had arrived.

And he was not of this world.

Astaroth’s grin widened like a rip in reality.

Blood spilled from Shirogane’s mouth as the jagged obsidian blade sank deep into his stomach—impaled clean through, lifting him slightly off the ground. Shirogane coughed violently, lightning sparking faintly around his fingers as he tried to move, but the divine pressure held him paralyzed.

Astaroth leaned in, face inches from Shirogane’s pale, strained expression.

“You thought you killed Adrian?”

His voice slithered like venom.

“You killed a shell. A puppet. A leftover of a boy I already hollowed out.”

The demon’s eyes glowed a deep indigo, not just with power, but with age—eternal, cursed age.

He raised his free hand, fingers curling with twitching sigils burning on his skin.

“I controlled that boy. His body was mine. A vessel, perfect, made to endure what you fools could not understand.”

He ripped the blade free with a sickening sound, letting Shirogane collapse to his knees.

Astaroth spread his arms wide, the air shaking as his wings pulsed with divine-dark energy.

“I am one of the Divine Demons of the Realms—and I do not die. I watch time. I keep it. I was chosen. And my master… is only Him.”

He gestured behind him—to the man in white.

Jacob.

The one with the blonde hair.

The silver cross.

And eyes that had never blinked since he arrived.

“He gave me this power—divinity within my hands. I am his disciple.”

“I have as many reasons to live as he allows. And even when my cells were destroyed...”

He pointed directly at Shirogane’s chest, sneering.

“You forgot one thing.”

His voice deepened, crackling like grinding stone.

“You never destroyed Adrian’s remains.”

“Big mistake.”

“Huge mistake.”

“You sure were gone, you idiot.”

Shirogane struggled to rise, but his strength faltered. His vision blurred—between Astaroth, Jacob, and Alarich—whose eyes glowed faintly now, as if something inside him was starting to wake up.

Uki, fists clenched, whispered to himself:

“This isn’t over. That... thing didn’t account for what’s still buried inside Alarich.”

“Or what’s coming next.”

In the distance, a horn blew once.

From the south.

Something else was approaching.

The tower trembled.

Not from damage, not from chaos—but from will.

Alarich, barely able to stand, looked up at the vast structure pulsing with violet sigils. The stone rearranged itself, glowing in a language that hadn’t been spoken since the Womb Realm collapsed.

And then—

SHHHHHING!

A brilliant katana spun out of a rift near the top of the tower—floating downward, encased in violet mist, forged from memory and oath. The blade itself was translucent, as if it remembered every cut it had ever made.

It hovered before Alarich, waiting. Waiting for a hand worthy to grasp it.

And behind it—

A rift opened.

Not a crack in space—but a portal of ancient memory. From it, a spirit emerged.

Clad in layered white robes trimmed in obsidian ink, it did not walk—it glided. Its face was obscured by a mask with a single slit of light where eyes should be. And behind it, eight spectral hands drifted silently in a circle, forming mudras no mortal could understand.

Shirogane, still bleeding, gasped.

“That… that’s not just a spirit. That’s a Warden.”

Alarich’s hand moved on its own—drawn by the tower’s calling.

As his fingers touched the katana’s hilt—

“Bloodless God… I summon thee. Bind spirit to blade. Truth to time.”

The spirit’s body rippled, and it stepped forward—

merging with the katana.

The blade ignited in purple-white light, and a roar not from the world but from the memory before the world rang through the sky.

Astaroth turned. His grin vanished.

“What… is that tower doing…?”

“That spirit—should not exist anymore!”

But it did.

And it had chosen Alarich.

The sky shattered.

Jacob raised his hand — elegant, cruel, divine — and a blast of light, too pure to be holy, ripped through the air like judgment itself. It roared toward Alarich with the weight of a dying sun, burning every shadow, searing the fabric of the world.

But before it could reach him —

GRRRRRAAAAUUUUNNNHHH!

The tower screamed.

Not a sound of pain — but of defiance.

From its heart, an ancient seal peeled open, and out of it rose a beast of stories. Not flesh — but ink and memory, its body stitched from forgotten myths and doomed epics. Its eyes glowed with the knowledge of every untold tale. Its limbs crackled like turning pages. It roared with a thousand voices — narrators, ghosts, scribes, poets — all bound into one monstrous, literary guardian.

It threw itself between Alarich and Jacob’s light.

BOOOOOOM!!!

The light collided with the beast — and for a moment, everything went white.

When the blinding glow faded, the beast stood — barely. Its form was flickering, pieces of its body erasing like torn parchment. But it had done its job.