Aphelia’s cleaving strike carved Augustus a slit in time, like a blade through silk. The Church’s ward finally yawned open under his hands. The three of them shot out like arrows from a bow.

The instant they slipped past the boundary, the warship Oppenheimer commanded tore a seam in the night like a whale breaching the void and loomed before them.

“Augustus, take your little girlfriend and get aboard,” his voice rang like iron on deck.

Suddenly, Aphelia shoved the pink-haired girl into Augustus’s arms, like tossing him a lifeline. Before he could snap, a man-high magic circle bloomed before them and shrieked like chalk on glass.

Augustus’s keen eye caught the source at once, as if the sound tugged a thread in his mind.

A slim blade wreathed in holy light hovered there, more element-wrought than forged steel. Light pooled along its edge so dense it looked solid, trumpeting a born affinity for light like sun-silk on steel.

“And keep the others bolted inside—and you, too.”

“Then… Aphelia, the rest is yours.”

Augustus didn’t linger; resolve hit him like frost. He gave Aphelia a deep, weighted look, then sprinted for the rift like a wolf to the breach, refusing to slow her down.

Once Augustus slipped into the tear like a shadow, Aphelia peeled away the shielding circle like a veil and called out.

“Come out—no need to skulk like mice, Jericho.”

As her words fell, a red-robed figure stepped into view like a drop of blood. Flanking him, two armored elemental beings descended like angels carved from dawn.

“Elemental Angels? No more than morning mist to me.”

Jericho ignored the barb. He drew two light-wrought weapons out of thin air, like spears from the sun. He pressed them into his summons’ hands to do the killing.

“You’ve got unmatched affinity for light too, like a saint in white. I don’t need them to kill you; just as you can’t kill them.”

At his command, the two Elemental Angels surged like meteors. Not at Aphelia, but at the rift behind her. Light lances lifted, shields dropped, ready to die to seal the breach.

In truth, Aphelia could scorch these angels bare. The knowledge sat in her like a coal; the archbishop knew it too. If he dared judge her, he held knives up his sleeve.

No matter what he knew, if he trumpeted her tie to the Demon King, she couldn’t unveil her other face. If she wielded the dark, the witch-name would set like ink on stone.

Then no river would wash that stain away.

But her pulse spiked; the muzzle already pointed at her friend. Choice wasn’t a puzzle for her.

Even if it was exactly what he wanted.

Eerie pitch-black flame burst from her palm like a night tide. The two angels that brushed past her crisped to ash, leaving not a mote behind.

Jericho’s smile twisted like wire. The board moved to his design. From here, escape or not, Aphelia would be a street rat for every stone and boot.

Jericho cut his finger and sketched a vast sigil into the void. Lines flared like constellations until it blanketed the sky. He bellowed.

“In the name of Cardinal Jericho, I proclaim to the world: Aphelia, daughter of the Demon King, the seed of ruin. By the Church’s judgment, this woman is an enemy of the world!”

The sky-circle mirrored Aphelia like a flawless lake. It bore no bite; it only rang out her image and his decree to the world like a bell.

Across the continent, every power watched as if standing there. The voiceless, uncanny black flame in her hand spelled one word—demonkind—like midnight script.

And only high castes could shape element into living fire. The more solid the blaze, the nobler the blood, the stronger the arm, like iron turned sun.

Aphelia’s black fire met the highest demon mark. For races scarred by demon wars, that sight cracked the last dam of reason and sent fear flooding the plains.

Violet’s eyes went red as broken dawn. Words fell away. She lifted her crimson spear and lunged for the rift like a storm.

But a burly silhouette filled the warship’s hatch like a cliff, barring her path.

“Move…” Her voice scraped like ice.

“Not happening,” Augustus said, voice flat as a stone door.

Augustus’s answer cut cold. No one else moved; not one hand reached to help Aphelia, like reeds held by frost.

Violet’s fury broke into ragged sobs, then into a voiceless choke, like rain thinning to mist. She wasn’t blind to why they stayed. Augustus’s nails sunk deep into his palm told the tale.

Heads bowed across the deck, and faces showed the battle inside like shadow and light wrestling.

The reason was simple, like a blade’s edge.

How do humans face the other? Tolerance and fusion are scholars’ dreams. At the high tables, the first question is threat. If it’s a threat, the spark leaps to race war.

Then it’s no quarter—drink their blood, gnaw their bones—until the other side sinks beneath the long river of history like stones.

If they stepped out now, they’d be read as siding with demonkind. With plotters fanning it, the continent would howl with blood and storm again.

Demons have been humanity’s old enemy. Forget the lords; even the common folk carry scars. You can guess how they’ll look at Aphelia, like seeing a wolf at the door.

“Think I care about any of that? My life runs long like a winter night. I could just hide…”

“No, no. You won’t hide. You’ll fight me here. Bare your demon side, and shout to the world that you’re a vast threat, like a storm on the horizon!”

Jericho had shed the gentleman’s coat. He was a raving zealot, or a plotter eaten through by greed, eyes burning like coals.

“By what—by you?” Aphelia’s smile held scorn like a thin blade.

She pinched out the black flame like snuffing a candle. A fierce radiance blossomed behind her like sunrise, and within it, a shape began to coalesce.

The watching leaders stared wide-eyed. In their built-in world, no demon danced between dark and light so freely, like a swimmer between fire and snow.

How could a demon wield two warring elements together and walk unburned?

What came next shocked them more. A sacred figure winged out from behind Aphelia, stepped with quiet grace, and settled at her back like a guardian.

It wore silver armor bright as moonwater, sword and shield in hand. Hair woven of light fell to its sides. Unlike faceless light angels, its features were clear, and the familiar iris emblem declared its lineage.

“Valkyrie?!”

Leaders everywhere cried out. That presence meant this “witch” had unmatched affinity with light—and might even be one who’d heard a divine oracle, like thunder in a shrine.

“Tell me—what gives you the right to make me fight you? You. Don’t. Qualify.”

Her rising aura and the holy Valkyrie at her back sent a chill down Jericho’s spine. He should’ve been surer before launching this plan, but he could still play his hand.

“Then let’s look at your companions, shall we?” His voice curled like smoke.

Two armored guards hauled a gray-haired youth forward like a netted fish. Their blades had run him through, yet he still breathed—drained to the bone, pale as ash.

Aphelia’s heart jolted like a dropped drum. Her face clouded. Behind her, the Valkyrie leveled its blade at Jericho, ready to cut him down where he stood.

“Come on—what’s there to hesitate over, witch? Stop bewitching the world and drop that convincing mask, like a snake shedding skin.”

As his taunt fell, chains wrapped in light shot from the air like striking serpents. Each slammed with cannon-force around Aphelia, trying to tear her apart.

Her friend was in chains; frustration burned like salt. She couldn’t spurn Jericho now. She slid back, let the Valkyrie fade like mist, and kindled pitch-black fire again.

“Since you’re so eager to make me fight, then make your peace—you’re going to die.”