The next day arrived with a golden glow brushing the treetops, spilling warmth across the frostbitten forest.
Even though it was winter, the sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly—an unusual but welcomed sight after the chaos of the past days.
The vast clearing where the witches had taken shelter was still littered with the remnants of last night's bonfire.
Most of them had fallen asleep huddled near its fading heat, bundled in cloaks and makeshift blankets, while the flame's dying embers kept the cold at bay.
Gradually, the witches began to stir, rubbing their eyes and stretching out sore limbs.
One by one, they rose and moved about, returning to their daily tasks. Some prepared food, others checked their potions or organized the supplies for what was to come.
Despite the threat looming over them, there was a strange peace to the morning, a quietness that didn't quite belong.
Menma was the last to rise.
He had chosen to sleep away from the group, perched in the arms of a wide-branched tree with his arms wrapped tightly around his sword.
His body was stiff from the cold, and a yawn slipped from his lips as he opened his eyes.
With a slight grunt, he dropped down from the branch, landing lightly on the forest floor. Still half-asleep, he stumbled over to the nearby well, scooped up a handful of icy water, and splashed it against his face.
"Damn… that's cold," he muttered, dragging his fingers through his hair, pulling it back and slicking it down with the leftover water. The chill bit at his skin, but it did the trick—he was awake now.
That was when he heard it. A faint rhythm of thuds—flesh against earth—coming from deeper in the woods.
His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed as he recognized the pattern.
Curious, Menma followed the sound, his boots crunching softly over the frosted leaves. The closer he got, the clearer the noise became—raw, brutal punches echoing against the frozen ground.
He pushed past a few branches and paused.
There she was.
Lunara.
She stood alone in a narrow clearing, her fists bruised and red as she repeatedly drove them into the frozen soil.
No Creation. No enhancements. Just her bare hands smashing into the ground with relentless force. Her breaths were steady, her movements sharp and practiced.
Menma stepped into the clearing, watching for a moment before speaking.
"Why aren't you using your Creation?" he asked, frowning as he saw her knuckles bleeding slightly. "You'll hurt yourself."
Lunara didn't stop. She kept punching, her voice calm and clear between strikes. "If I train my core strength, my Creation will become more powerful. Power that comes too easy fades just as quickly."
He nodded slowly, leaning against a tree. "I guess that makes sense."
After a moment, she finally stopped, flexing her aching fingers and shaking out her arms. Her eyes turned to him, curious. "How much demon percentage can you use now?"
"Sixty," Menma replied casually, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
Lunara blinked, clearly surprised. "Sixty percent?" she repeated. "I would've never expected you to master more than twenty-five or thirty…"
A small smirk tugged at the edge of her mouth as she crossed her arms. "I guess Zayne did a pretty good job training you."
Menma smiled faintly, scratching the back of his head. "He's annoying… but yeah, he knows what he's doing."
Back at the camp, the witches were slowly picking up speed. The hangovers from last night's emotional gathering had faded, thanks to their recovery potions and a few hours of sleep.
Now, there was a different kind of tension in the air—unease, anxiety. Everyone was preparing for the coming battle.
A young witch carrying a tray of bottled potions was visibly shaking.
Her hands trembled as she tried to hold them steady, but one of the glass bottles slipped from her fingers and shattered against the ground. Bright blue liquid splattered across her shoes.
"Watch what you're doing!" another witch shouted from across the clearing. "Don't waste the potions—we don't have enough to spare!"
"I'm sorry!" the girl cried out, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
She dropped to her knees, trying to collect the shards, her shoulders trembling as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Annie appeared beside her in an instant. Gently, she knelt down and took the girl's hands in her own.
The warmth of her touch made the girl flinch, but Annie's voice was steady, reassuring.
"It's okay," she said softly. "You'll be alright. Everyone will be alright. As long as I'm alive, I won't let any of you die."
Her words lingered in the cold air, wrapping around the camp like a protective shield.
The young witch nodded through her sobs, holding onto Annie's hands like they were the only thing grounding her.
Soon after, a meeting was called. Inside the large wooden hall, the most important figures gathered:
Annie, Zayne, the three Guardians—Sybil, Sylvara, and Saphyra—as well as three elder witches who had lived long enough to witness several eras of conflict.
They sat around a round stone table, a detailed map of the known Purgatory terrain laid out before them.
Discussions began.
"Who will go?" one of the elders asked, her voice old but firm.
Annie spoke first. "Menma, Zayne, and I will go. Along with the majority of the witches. We'll leave a small force behind to protect the island in case of a counterattack."
Zayne nodded. "The few who stay will have to defend the potions, supplies, and the portal."
"The potions have been stacked and stored beneath the sanctuary," added Sylvara.
"We've placed wards and traps. But we'll leave Lunara and the Guardians behind to reinforce the defenses."
"They'll be safe with us," Sybil promised.
Then, the conversation shifted.
What did they know about the Purgatorists?
Four had been confirmed.
"The one who multiplies," Zayne began. "The one who flies. And two others we didn't get to see in full action."
Annie folded her arms. "It's unlikely that those are the only ones. If I were leading them, I'd hide my strongest cards. We have to assume more are waiting."
"They want to finish what they started," Saphyra muttered. "And we won't let them."
Preparations for departure began at once.
The witches gathered at the portal's edge, a swirling oval of energy glowing faintly against the ground.
They wore specially designed masks—crafted to protect them from Purgatory's toxic air. To normal humans, it would be death within seconds.
Even witches needed the aid. But these masks were made invisible, disguised with illusion magic so their enemies wouldn't discover their weakness.
Garrick helped with the illusion, using his expertise to conceal the breathing tools completely. Despite his history, he was allowed to assist—but with heavy precautions.
Around his neck was a round, sharp light-creation collar, forged by Annie herself. It was beautiful, elegant… and deadly.
If he ever raised his hand against a witch, the creation would activate and end his life instantly. A warning. A leash.
He didn't seem to mind.
One by one, the witches formed lines. They moved with silent resolve, shoulders straight, eyes hardened with purpose. Four at a time, they entered the portal.
The first row was made up of Menma, Zayne, Lunara, and Annie.
The last to enter were the three Guardians—Sybil, Sylvara, and Saphyra—and Garrick, walking in silence behind them.
The air shimmered around them as they passed through, vanishing into the unknown realm of Purgatory.
The battle had yet to begin, but the war was already underway.