Third Epoch, Year 666.

The continent buckled under a sweeping shift, like forests bent by a storm. At its whirling eye stood the Church that once steered the war of salvation.

A judged “witch.” A red-robed cardinal crushed like a fallen banner. A balancer between light and dark. And the College of Cardinals, nearly erased to ash.

News spilled from the battle outside Radiant City, like smoke rolling over plains. The stature the Church built across two epochs shattered in a single dawn.

Hearts rattled like drums; households starved like fields after frost.

The Church lost its near-absolute sway, and the two strongest empires bared steel. Without that giant’s leash, war kicked up dust again.

The Nature Elves announced seclusion, like forests closing their gates. They severed the Church, branch from trunk, root from soil.

All that turbulence no longer touched Aphelia, a leaf fallen into night.

Black flames. A black blade. And a black dragon, coiled like a thunderhead.

Endless darkness, a cavern with no candle. No spring of life, only winter’s lonely hush.

So this is hell? A mill built to grind the wicked into grit.

Quiet as a moonlit pond, Aphelia drifted in that dark. Guilt pricked like thorns—demons slain, beasts culled—hell felt earned.

But Arcane Power still throbbed in her veins, like embers under ash. The air sang with pure dark elements, cheering her name like a midnight choir. That was… strange.

If this was hell, why hadn’t her arm returned, like a branch regrown after rain?

Unease bit first, then resolve stiffened like iron. She lit the strange black flame, shaped it into a right arm, and stepped to explore this night.

Sight failed like a blindfold at dusk. So she “looked” with the vast, pure dark elements around her, letting them be her eyes, like bats reading wind.

“Aphelia. What a surprise. Long time no see.”

The voice was familiar, and disgust rose like bile. Her mind flashed through outcomes, then she sighed, cool as rain.

“Long time no see, Demon King.”

Her eyes saw nothing, but the elements rioted the instant he appeared, like a nest of startled crows. Only he made darkness twitch like that.

She faced him in silence. The foe she thought felled under her blade now stood again, a shadow she thought buried. She remembered that kill was far from noble. Meeting him head-on now—did she have a chance?

“You’re the victor,” he said, amusement curling like smoke. “Victors don’t fret if their means were clean.”

He sat, plucked at the void, and the dark elements smoothed like silk laid flat.

“Where is this?”

She ignored his bait; calm wasn’t hers to claim. The black flame became a blade, and she gripped it like a lifeline, guarding for his strike.

“This is the brink of life and death,” he said, voice like cold wind. “A place where wandering souls linger.”

His words fell, and the veil of dark elements before her eyes lifted like fog. Standing there wasn’t him, but… her. Herself before the change, a mirror from another dawn.

“Who are you?!”

Her black flame surged like a tide, ready to burn that “he” to cinders at a thought.

“Easy~ My life belongs to you; form is a costume,” the Demon King said, light as drizzle. “Don’t you want to know why you’re here?”

He tapped, and her flames cut free from her will, flocking to him like moths to a torch. They swelled at his side, pregnant with something old and sharp.

Aphelia didn’t hesitate. Her remaining flame became a blade, and the opening stance of Ancient Martial Flow locked into place like a drawn bow.

“I think—”

He slid past her thrust with the ease of a breeze, yanked her in, and folded her against his chest. Her flame-arm and blade unraveled, smoke to air.

Seeing her own face on him lit anger like a wildfire. She moved to counter, but Arcane Power and elements went mute. She was a cut-off mortal, a blade with no edge.

“Isn’t now the time to ask why you’re here?” he said, and shoved her away, playfully cruel. Same face, a smirk like a thorn.

“Hmph… I probably died.”

The thought fell heavy, then turned to a sigh, low as dusk. No wonder an old enemy stood here too. She’d heard of the wandering-soul land in many whispers.

Every tale agreed: only the dead arrive; only the regretful linger, like echoes trapped in stone.

The Demon King laughed and shook his head, snipping her thread of thought. He stood, and from black flame opened a strange gate, malice spilling like a winter draft. Aphelia’s brow knotted like a drawn string.

“What now? Even here you aim at me?”

She stepped back, caution stiff in her spine. Broken as she was, it likely meant nothing.

“Too much talk…”

He vanished like a shadow at noon. Chill pricked her back; the world lurched. He shoved her through the hateful gate.

“See for yourself!”

He pushed without a blink, that hateful, playful smile like a crescent cut across night.

Fresh to this world, Aphelia was expelled again, driven out by her oldest foe.

Once she vanished, the Demon King sealed the gate and sighed, turning like a blade at rest.

The dark elements churned again, but chaos circled him alone, like bees around a hive. Behind him, a figure wrapped in darkness sank down, silent as snow.

“You have not fulfilled your promised duty,” croaked a voice, dry as old bark, from an unspeakable black.

He shrugged, smiling like a fox. “You think I don’t see your game? Why would I let you have it?”

Black flame, far stronger than Aphelia’s, coiled over him like serpents, forging armor of interlocking fangs. The surplus flame shaped a greatsword that hovered at his side.

“I’ve taken back my power. You won’t track her with that trick again. Besides…”

He gripped the hilt and slashed. A vast arc of black flame roared out, thick with wails and pain, a body of pure malice, nothing like Aphelia’s clean edge.

The shadow didn’t flinch. A pale, slender hand reached from the dark and pointed at him, quiet as moonlight.

“You think you can face me?”

“Hard to say!”

He swung again and again, carving countless arcs, using their storm as cover to charge. Spells layered his blade like runes cut into stone.

“Get back to whatever pit you crawled from!”

The blade flew straight for the shadow. The pale hand ignored the arcs and calmly caught the falling edge.

At once, the spells detonated. A chaotic elemental gale tore across the wandering-soul realm, and both figures vanished into its howl.

Aphelia saw none of it. She couldn’t feel her limbs, only pain flooding her body like boiling rain.

“Master… she…”

“She’s reacting? Then…”

Voices brushed her ears, thin as threads. Irritation sparked; she hated life tied to another’s hand. She ground through the pain and forced her eyes open.

A fox-eared maid with a baby face leaned close, a delicate bowl cradled like porcelain moon. She fed something warm to Aphelia’s lips.

Aphelia tried to struggle, a reflex like a snapped branch. A human woman in a black eastern long robe stepped from behind and pinned her to the bed, firm as iron.

The word feels blunt, but truth was harsher. Aphelia couldn’t touch any of her abilities. Only raw flesh would move. Even with just the body, she was near a Titleholder. Whoever held her down was no simple reed.

“You’re badly hurt. Don’t get worked up. It’s medicine~”

The fox maid smiled and slipped another spoonful in. Aphelia swallowed instead of fighting, and the white fox ears on her head twitched in delight like little flags in wind.