The moment Seraph declared she would feed Kylas, she wasted no time. With a casual flick of her wrist, she plucked a piece of roasted griffin from the fire, the surface glistening with juices, steam curling up from its charred edges. Kylas barely had a second to process what was happening before Seraph knelt down in front of him, her golden eyes locked onto his face with a look of pure, unshaken determination.
"Open your mouth," she commanded.
Kylas blinked. "Wait, hold on, at least let me—"
Too late.
Seraph stuffed the meat into his mouth without hesitation, shoving it past his lips with far more force than necessary.
Kylas immediately choked, his body jerking as he gagged on the massive chunk of meat. His arms, still useless and paralyzed, flailed pathetically at his sides, as if desperately trying to help himself but failing miserably.
"MRMPH—!? GHK—!!"
Gunthr and Zedlock sprang into action.
Gunthr lunged forward, dramatically patting Kylas' back with enough force to nearly knock him over, while Zedlock grabbed Kylas' jaw, tilting his head at an insane angle as if trying to get the food to slide down easier.
Finally, after what felt like a battle for his life, Kylas managed to swallow, gasping for air. His eye burned with betrayal as he whipped his head toward Seraph.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" he wheezed.
Seraph, still completely composed, tilted her head with that infuriating, effortless elegance.
"I'm feeding you," she said, her voice smooth. "You're supposed to eat it."
Kylas gawked at her.
"That wasn't feeding!"
Seraph flicked her tail. "You exaggerate."
Gunthr and Zedlock exchanged glances—then, as if struck by divine inspiration, they dramatically pantomimed the correct way to feed someone. Gunthr, with the grace of a stage actor, held out an imaginary fork, miming a delicate movement toward an invisible mouth, while Zedlock nodded sagely, giving a thumbs-up of approval.
Seraph watched them for a long, long moment.
Then—realization dawned.
Her ears twitched. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
And then, for the first time since this conversation began—Seraph actually looked flustered.
Her tail flicked once. Then again. She stood abruptly.
"Don't think this means anything," she muttered.
And then she was gone.
Gunthr and Zedlock hid behind a massive flowering bush, peering through the leaves like conspiring villains.
A short distance away, Kylas and Seraph sat across from each other on the soft, overgrown grass of the garden.
The sun hung overhead, casting a silvery glow over the ruined courtyard. The scent of charred meat lingered in the air, mixing with the faint floral sweetness of the blooming roses.
Seraph, now silent and strangely composed, held a silver fork in her delicate fingers, her posture perfectly upright as she picked up another piece of food from a silver plate beside her.
Kylas swallowed thickly.
He was starting to sweat.
She was… actually feeding him.
And the way she did it—so smooth, so effortless, her movements so slow and calculated—it made something in Kylas' gut twist uncomfortably.
He tried not to think about it too much.
But then she would meet his gaze, and suddenly his entire brain short-circuited.
'What the hell was happening right now?'
He felt like some kind of prince being spoon-fed by a damn goddess.
Seraph, meanwhile, was also struggling.
She wasn't showing it, of course—on the outside, she looked as composed and unbothered as ever. But internally?
She was screaming.
Slanted thoughts raced through her head, spiraling faster than she could control.
'— I've never done this before. Ever.'
'— This means absolutely nothing.'
'— I'm simply feeding a human because he's useless right now and needs strength to help me slaughter the gods. That's all this is.'
'— …But what if he thinks otherwise?'
'— What if he actually believes this means something?'
'— What if he gets the wrong idea? What if he—'
Her fingers tightened around the fork.
'— Absolutely not.'
'— I will never have feelings for a human.'
'— Never.'
Kylas, meanwhile, was still losing his mind.
"You don't have to be so serious about this," he muttered, trying to break the tension.
Seraph didn't respond. She simply picked up another piece of food—and fed it to him faster.
Kylas nearly choked again.
"Oi—!!"
Seraph ignored him.
She grabbed another piece.
And fed him faster.
His face turned red.
Her face turned red.
But she refused to acknowledge it.
"Man up," she muttered, shoving another piece into his mouth.
"I AM manning up—!!"
Gunthr and Zedlock, still hidden behind the flowers, exchanged another dramatic glance.
Then, at the perfect moment, they sprang from their hiding spot, pointing directly at Kylas' face.
With unmatched theatrical energy, they both motioned wildly at his mouth.
As if to say—
"GET THAT OFF HIS FACE."
Seraph stared at them.
Then at Kylas.
She exhaled sharply. "Fine."
For a second, it was quiet.
Kylas and Seraph locked eyes.
There was a strange tension in the air—like neither of them knew how to properly process what was happening.
Then—in the blink of an eye—
Seraph's tail lashed out—
—And smacked the piece of food clean off Kylas' face.
Gunthr and Zedlock immediately dove behind the flowers again, like they had just witnessed something too powerful for mortal eyes.
Kylas, meanwhile, sat completely stunned.
Then—
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?"
Seraph flicked her hair over her shoulder, trying desperately to maintain her composure. "You had food on your face. I removed it."
"With your tail!?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you just wipe it off like a normal person!?"
"Because I didn't feel like it!" she snapped, her voice going higher than usual. "And I'm not some normal person, I'm not even a person."
Kylas squinted at her.
"Are you nervous?"
Seraph immediately got louder.
"No."
They bantered back and forth as Gunthr and Zedlock watched from behind the flowers, completely invested.
And despite the absolute chaos of the situation—
Despite his rapidly beating heart—
Kylas couldn't help but think—
What the hell is even happening right now?
….
The garden was bathed in the ever-constant golden sunlight, the warmth settling over the remnants of their feast. Kylas leaned back against the sack of grain, his arms still useless at his sides, eyes flickering toward Seraph, who sat with her legs folded neatly beneath her, a plate balanced delicately in her hands. Despite the wreckage of their battle, despite the blood she had washed from her skin, despite the exhaustion clinging to the edges of her features, she ate with an effortless elegance. Every bite was precise, every movement controlled, yet the faintest red tinged her cheeks.
Kylas tilted his head, studying her. "You eat so delicately," he muttered, half in awe, half in curiosity.
Seraph paused mid-bite, her eyes flicking to his, and after a moment, she swallowed and set the plate down. "I'm fighting the urge," she admitted softly, a small, almost sheepish smile curving her lips. "It's in our nature to ravage our food, to tear into it like beasts. I don't want you to see me like that." Her voice was steady, yet there was something fragile about the way she said it. Then, almost teasingly, she added, "It might remind you of yourself. Of how primal and feral you are."
Kylas scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Oi..what's that supposed to mean?"
Seraph simply picked up her plate again and resumed eating, unbothered.
For a while, silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The fire crackled, embers floating lazily into the air as Gunthr and Zedlock stood side by side, their glowing visors locked onto the flames, arms crossed in dramatic appreciation of their work.
Then, Kylas spoke. "So… what's the first step in killing these ten gods?" His voice carried an edge of skepticism, as if he half-expected her to say something insane, like they were just going to waltz in and start swinging their weapons. "We can't just bust up in there and start slaughtering."
Seraph finished chewing, swallowing gracefully before looking at him. "We need to find a Druid."
Kylas raised an eyebrow. "A Druid?"
"They are the only ones who can guide us," Seraph explained, shifting slightly to face him. "The Druids of Nyxhelm can use the wind and nature to find anything, no matter how well hidden. Their abilities are ancient, spanning across multiple worlds before this one was created. They have the gift of sight—true sight. If there's anyone who can find a way into Hell, it's a Druid."
Kylas's expression darkened slightly. "Hell?" he repeated, and when Seraph nodded, his stomach twisted.
She continued, her voice lower now, more measured. "I believe my mother and my kin are there. I don't know for sure, but it makes sense. All I've ever heard is that Hell is the prison for those who refuse to mate with the Ethelen to create demi-gods. They don't force them after they reject the offer… but they do bind their souls to Hell. When they die, they go straight there."
Kylas's brows furrowed. "Why?"
"I don't know," Seraph admitted, her gaze distant. "But I do know that my people were powerful, and power is what the Ethelen crave. Maybe they thought creating a hybrid with our blood would make something… unstoppable. The Ethelen survived the last reset of the world. The Sphere destroyed everything before this, but they lived. And now they're desperate to maintain control."
Kylas let out a low exhale, his mind swimming with the weight of her words. "So, a Druid can even use the air to find their way through Hell?"
Seraph nodded. "Yes. That's why we need one. But finding a Druid won't be easy. They've been hunted, killed, and scattered. If any still live, they'll be in hiding."
Kylas stared into the fire, his thoughts churning. "My parents used to tell me stories about the Druids," he said. "There were a few notable ones—Sivren of the Pines, Elduin of the Grass Land, and Thalia of the Veil. They all did incredible things. But the kingdoms accused them of treachery. Most of them were executed."
Seraph sighed. "I know. But we only need to find one."
Kylas leaned his head back against the sack of grain, closing his eyes briefly. "So, what? We just start wandering around asking people if they happen to be an ancient all-knowing air wizard?"
Seraph smirked. "No. First, we become Hunters."
Kylas cracked an eye open. "And that helps us how?"
"Hunters have access to places no one else does. Even more than Adventurers. If we gain enough reputation, we'll be able to travel freely, access forbidden knowledge, and cross into lands that are otherwise restricted. And besides," Seraph added, leaning forward slightly, "the more famous a Hunter becomes, the more likely they are to be invited to meet one of the gods."
Kylas blinked. "Wait. You're saying if we get famous enough, one of the ten gods will personally invite us over?"
"Yes."
"And what, exactly, do they invite us for?"
Seraph hesitated. Then, she said flatly, "To mate with them."
Kylas gagged. "Sounds super odd when you put it like that. We're not actually going to do it are we?"
"Of course not. I have never given my body to any man and it will remain like that forever. But they will most likely want to mate with us, or make us their hounds, and snuff out their enemies. Those who are a threat to them. Beings of unimaginable power."
"This is all happening too fast," he muttered, pushing himself up slightly. His body ached, his arms still refusing to function. "But I won't complain. This has to happen. Though I'm not mating with any of them."
Seraph turned her head sharply. "Kylas…"
Kylas ignored her, looking toward Gunthr and Zedlock, who immediately began a slow, dramatic clap.
Then, without warning, Kylas let out a loud, echoing fart.
His entire body froze. His soul left his body. His paralyzed arms twitched.
Gunthr and Zedlock slowly turned their heads to stare at him.
Panicked, Kylas scrambled to his feet. "THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT," he yelled, his face burning red as he turned and sprinted toward the wooden house, his arms flailing uselessly. The moment his foot hit the dirt, however, he tripped and went down, face-planting directly into the ground.
For a few painful seconds, he just laid there.
Then, still too embarrassed to function, he started rolling toward the house instead.
Gunthr and Zedlock immediately ran after him, helping him up in an overly dramatic fashion, acting as if he had been mortally wounded.
Kylas, still burning with shame, yelled over his shoulder, "IT WAS AN ACCIDENT."
Seraph didn't respond. She simply watched. And then, when the coast was clear, she let out the tiniest fart herself.
"…Idiot Kylas," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "Everyone farts. Stop getting embarrassed."
The garden was bathed in the rays of the sun, shadows cast by the flowers swaying softly in the breeze. The scent of damp earth and faintly wilting roses lingered in the air. Kylas sat alone in the heart of it all, his body aching from the strain of the day, his arms still tingling from the remnants of paralysis. But his mind was elsewhere—fixated on a single rose before him, its once-vibrant petals now edged with the creeping decay of rot.
His lips parted in a weary sigh.
'Can't sit here like some damsel in distress. Fuck that.'
Something about that rose stirred something deep within him, something ancient and furious. The more he looked at it, the more it felt like a reflection of himself—something meant to burn bright, yet held back, suffocating, decaying before its time. His hands curled into fists. The seal binding him was still there, coiling around his essence like invisible chains. He could feel it, constantly tightening, constantly stifling the fire inside him.
Closing his eyes, Kylas exhaled sharply. His thoughts drifted inward, deeper and deeper, past his physical body and into the abyss within—the endless black void of his subconscious. In the darkness, something moved. A shadow that wasn't quite a shadow, a towering figure with burning eyes, standing just out of reach.
His older self.
'Is that me..?'
The figure extended a hand, and glowing symbols flared to life in the void, burning a path through the darkness like constellations of fire.
IZH-YALH-ZOH.
The rune of Searing Omen burned into his mind first. Kylas reached out, trying to carve the sigils into the empty space, trying to feel the fire that should have been his to command. But the moment his fingers traced the air—
Pain.
A sharp, violent pulse shot through his skull, like molten needles digging into his brain. Blood dripped from his nose, splattering against the soil in the real world. His breathing hitched, but he gritted his teeth.
Again.
IZH-KOT-MAKH.
Infernal Crucible. He focused, weaving the next set of runes, trying to manifest the consuming flames, trying to shape them into something real. His vision blurred. His gums throbbed. Blood seeped between his lips, hot and metallic, staining his teeth. His body screamed at him to stop, but he would not.
Again.
IZH-VEZ-KESH.
Rapture Claw. He reached out in the void, grasping at the fragments of flame, at the burning fractures of reality itself—
His head snapped back as blood burst from his right eye, running in thick crimson trails down his cheek. His entire body shuddered, his skin burning as if something inside him was trying to claw its way free.
But he wasn't done.
IZH-MAKH-VAZH.
Oathbreaker's Requiem.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His body trembled. The strain on his soul was unbearable, but his fingers kept moving, kept drawing, kept weaving. The void around him pulsed with unstable energy, and his older self merely watched—silent, expectant, waiting for him to either succeed or collapse.
IZH-YALH-KESH.
Blasphemer's Flight. The last rune.
Kylas exhaled sharply, his body barely able to hold itself up. Blood pooled beneath him. His vision darkened. The sigils blurred, warping under his own instability. He could feel himself slipping, his mind shattering under the weight of it all—
A voice.
"No—Kylas, stop!"
A pair of hands reached for him.
Seraph.
But before she could grab him, Gunthr and Zedlock restrained her, their silent forms standing firm as they held her back.
"Get off of me!" she snarled, but the two sentient armors did not budge.
Her breath hitched as she turned back toward Kylas.
He was crying.
Silent, burning tears streaking down his bloodied face, his expression twisted in agony—but he didn't stop. He was kneeling in the dirt, shaking, bleeding, breaking—yet still reaching forward, still trying to carve the final rune, the final piece.
Seraph's ears flattened. "You idiot…" she whispered, her voice unsteady.
Gunthr and Zedlock glanced at each other, then back at Kylas. Even they, beings without flesh, seemed to feel the weight of what was happening.
Kylas gasped, his fingers trembling as they traced the last sigil—
His eyes flicked toward the dying rose.
For a split second, he wasn't here anymore.
He was a child again. Sitting in front of the same flower, talking to it with a soft voice, telling it his stories when he had no one else to listen.
Something inside him snapped.
A primal, unrelenting fury tore through him.
His head tilted back, and he roared—
A violent explosion of red flames burst outward, the ground beneath him scorching black. Wind howled through the garden as the sigils around him burned into existence, their fiery marks warping the air itself.
Gunthr and Zedlock moved fast, shielding Seraph as the force of it all tore through the space around them.
And then—
The flames died.
The air settled.
And Kylas fell to his knees, his body drenched in sweat and blood, his breath shallow and ragged. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring up at the star-filled sky.
He did it.
The black talisman that had once bound him was gone—reduced to nothing but smoldering ash in the wind.
"A black talisman…dark magic?" Seraph noticed.
'Dark magic…only place where it comes from is Hell itself…are his parents unconverted with Hell? What other beings?!'
Kylas sat up slowly, his breathing ragged, his body a canvas of fresh wounds and seared flesh. He could still feel the phantom pain of the runes carving themselves into his mind, into his very being. His vision was blurred with exhaustion, but when he looked down at his hands, he saw it—the red flames coiling around his fingers like living tendrils, flickering with an unnatural intelligence. His power was no longer sealed. He had done it.
With a shaky breath, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs threatened to buckle, but he moved forward, each step a weighty echo of the past. He wasn't just walking—he was retracing the steps of his childhood, that small, lonely boy running barefoot through this garden, always stopping in front of the rose.
'Did I do l it..?'
And now, here he was again. Only this time, he wasn't running—he was walking, burdened by years of suffering, by the knowledge of what lay ahead. But despite it all, he reached out. His fingertips brushed the petals, delicate and impossibly soft.
He exhaled sharply, a shuddering breath, as a single tear slipped down his face. His lips trembled as he whispered, "I'm out… I'm finally out…"
Behind him, Seraph stepped forward, her movements slow, hesitant.
'—Fool. Reckless fool. He didn't stop even when it nearly killed him.—'
Her eyes softened slightly as she watched him, his shoulders shaking with restrained emotion. She knew what it felt like—to be desperate enough to claw through death itself for freedom.
'—But… I can't say I hate it. That kind of determination… that's something even I understand.—'
She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly, her white hair cascading over her shoulder. Out loud, she scoffed, "Tch. Idiot. At least you managed to harness something from your past life."
Gunthr and Zedlock approached next, their massive armored frames clanking lightly as they moved. They exchanged a glance before one of them reached out and gently rubbed Kylas's head.
Kylas groaned. "Oi—what the hell? I'm not a damn child."
Gunthr patted him harder.
"Alright, alright, I get it! Geez!" He swatted at them, but it was half-hearted. The warmth behind their gesture made him roll his eyes, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
Then his gaze fell back on the rose. His expression sobered. "I want to find a way to preserve it… take it with me. But…" He hesitated, frowning. "What if I uproot it, and it loses whatever weird immortality it has?"
Seraph sighed, placing a hand on her hip. "We'll be back for it.
Kylas stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."
He turned slowly, sweeping his gaze across the garden. The beautifully strange plants shimmered under the endless sunlight, their colors shifting subtly, as if they were aware he was leaving. His lips parted slightly as he took it all in—this place that had been his prison for so long.
He exhaled. "I won't miss this place."
Then, without hesitation, he turned his back on it and began walking.
Seraph followed at his side, her arms still crossed, her eyes flicking between Kylas and the horizon. Behind them, Gunthr and Zedlock paused for a brief moment, looking back at the garden, the place they had stood guard over for so long. Then, almost hesitantly, they raised their gauntlets and gave it a small wave before finally stepping forward to follow.
Seraph caught that. She watched the way they silently acknowledged the past before leaving it behind, the way they didn't speak but still understood.
Then, as they walked, the sky stretched out before them, bright and vast.
And high above, watching, unmoving, the Black Sphere loomed.