Devina locked eyes with David Stewart, who stood trembling, his face drained of color, ashen and ghostly under the faint moonlight. His pants were soaked, a humiliating stain spreading from the raw terror gripping his soul. Before him unfolded a nightmare: hundreds of skulls clattered forward, their bones rattling in a grim, deathly rhythm, marching like a legion risen from forgotten graves. The dim moonlight glinted off their polished surfaces, casting an eerie, pale glow that sent chills racing down the spine.
David, gasping for air, tore his gaze from the ghastly skeletal army. But what he saw next nearly stopped his heart cold. There, amidst the macabre parade, was Devina—the woman he thought he knew—gliding with an unsettling grace, utterly unafraid. Beside her strode a strikingly handsome young man, his aura dripping with mystery, a faint, sly smirk curling his lips. The stark contrast between their calm confidence and the surrounding horror made David's skin crawl.
"D-Devina…" David's voice cracked, stuttering through a haze of fear and confusion. He forced a shaky smile, desperate to ease the suffocating tension. "W-why are you… with those things?"
Devina halted, her piercing gaze locking onto him. Those eyes, once warm and gentle, now burned with a chilling intensity that cut like a blade. Her lips curved into a smile, but it wasn't the one David remembered. This one was wicked, laced with a hunger for vengeance, radiating from her hauntingly beautiful yet terrifying face.
"Someone staring down the end of their life," Devina said, her voice icy and dripping with disdain, "doesn't get to ask questions." She stepped closer, each movement a deliberate countdown to David's doom. "Deep down, you already know, don't you? Why I'm standing here, leading this army of skulls—crafted from the bones of your pathetic, mangy mutts."
David flinched, his pupils dilating with raw terror. "What… what do you mean?" he rasped, though the answer lurked in the frantic corners of his mind.
Devina tilted her head, savoring his despair like a fine wine. "You thought I wouldn't find out?" Her voice shifted, now laced with seething, pent-up rage. "You thought I'd just sit back while you and your filthy dogs tried to snatch my sisters? You were wrong, David. Dead wrong. And now, you're gonna pay for your arrogance."
Raiden, standing at her side, let out a soft, chilling chuckle, his voice smooth yet brimming with unspoken menace. He stepped forward, his hand brushing the hilt of the sword at his waist, as the skeletal legion behind them snapped their heads in unison, their bones clattering in a sinister symphony.
David stumbled back, his legs buckling beneath him. "Devina, wait… we can talk—"
"No more words for you," Devina cut him off, her voice sharp as a guillotine. Her eyes blazed with a vengeance that could burn worlds. "Tonight, only death gets to speak."
With a graceful yet menacing flourish, Devina seized David's head in her right hand. Her slender fingers clamped down with unrelenting force, as if clutching the very essence of his life in her grip. The QSI-tech glove encasing her hand hummed softly, its dark blue aura pulsing ominously—a telltale sign of the terrifying technique she was about to unleash.
In a single, fluid motion, Devina raised her hand skyward. With that gesture, David's soul—a shimmering, gray mist radiating despair—was ripped from his body, drawn irresistibly into her grasp. His lifeless husk collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud, the sound echoing through the silent night like a grim requiem.
Without warning, dozens of barbed chains, forged from pitch-black energy, erupted from Devina's palm. They writhed like ravenous serpents, coiling around David's struggling soul as it let out a silent scream, audible only in the realm of spirits. With horrifying speed, the chains dragged the wretched essence toward a tiny portal that flickered open in her hand—a gateway to her personal realm of death, a place where cursed souls met an unending fate.
From a distance, Raiden watched, his skin prickling with unease. His eyes narrowed, a mix of curiosity and dread swirling within him. What would Devina do with David's soul? Though he couldn't know for certain, he sensed it was destined for eternal torment—a punishment that would never fade.
Devina's gaze shifted, her cold eyes glinting like twin daggers as they locked onto the men at the party. They were surrounded by her skeletal minions—ghastly creatures of bone that moved with a suffocating aura of death. "To you, filthy scum drowning in your own sins," she purred, her voice soft yet lethal, a melody laced with venom, "I'll grant a death that's... mercifully free of spiritual torment."
She tilted her chin, her raven-black hair gleaming under the moonlight. "Finish them," she commanded her skeletal legion, her tone brimming with unyielding authority yet granting her minions free rein to unleash chaos.
The skeletons surged forward as one, their hollow eye sockets glowing with a terrifying crimson light. The air grew heavy and frigid, saturated with the thick stench of death. The men at the party, once lost in lust and revelry, now trembled in primal fear. Their bodies froze, legs quaking, some unable to stop the warm trickle of terror soaking their pants. Desperate cries and screams of panic filled the air, but there was no escaping the grip of death.
In mere minutes, the once-vibrant party, alive with laughter and indulgence, transformed into a blood-soaked nightmare. The anguished screams of the victims mingled with the creak of bones and the relentless slashing of skeletal blades. Blood flowed freely, pooling into crimson rivers that snaked toward the central fountain, painting a scene straight out of the darkest fever dream.
Amid the carnage, Devina stood tall, her expression serene yet radiating an undeniable aura of death. That night, the sinful birthday bash had become a bloody tragedy—a stark reminder that in Devina's presence, no soul could escape her judgment.
After Devina dismissed her skeletal legion back to the shadowed depths of the netherworld, Raiden stepped forward, his elemental prowess surging to the forefront. With a steady flick of his wrist, he summoned a torrent of frost, encasing the chaotic battlefield in a thick shroud of crystalline ice.
The frozen expanse glittered under the moonlight, its sleek surface reflecting an eerie calm—a deceptive tranquility that masked the carnage that had just unfolded.
But Raiden wasn't done. His eyes narrowed, focus razor-sharp, as he channeled his signature silver-blue lightning, a crackling surge of arcane energy that danced like a storm tamed in his grasp. The electric arcs wove across the icy prison, shattering it in an instant. Blood, bone, flesh—every trace of the battle's brutality vaporized into the night air, as if the entire conflict had been nothing more than a fleeting nightmare dissolved by dawn's first light. All that lingered was the faint scent of ozone and the scarred earth, still bearing the wounds of war.
Though the cracked ground, shattered mansion walls, splintered trees, and scorched blast marks might raise suspicions, Raiden had woven his magic with masterful precision. The telltale traces of sorcery were now muted, expertly cloaked by his skill, shielding them from accusations that could unravel their fragile secrecy. With a calm, measured stride, Raiden surveyed his handiwork, a quiet confidence in his gaze. For now, their secrets remained buried, safe beneath the weight of his power.