The barrier cracked—loud, sharp. Like the world itself was groaning beneath the weight of what had just been unleashed.
Quinn flinched, eyes moving to the shimmering glass above them. The once-pristine dome now pulsed with cracks, hairline at first, then spreading like webbing. Each impact from the raging explosion outside deepened them, made the whole thing quiver with strain.
Lilith's hands were still stretched, locked in place, knuckles white with pressure. Her breath came sharp and shallow. Magic flared wildly around her, raw and jagged, like she was trying to hold back a flood with nothing but will.
He could see her shaking.
And then, her mind slipped.
She was standing somewhere else—not in the crater. Not in this moment. A memory? A vision? She wasn't sure.
She saw sunlight. A field. Wind rustling tall, golden grass. A pair of hands—her hands—reaching forward, glass blossoms blooming from the air like petals falling in reverse. It was beautiful, calm.
But then—snap.
The barrier shattered like a mirror hit by a hammer.
Lilith screamed—not out loud, but from somewhere deep, a raw sound trapped behind clenched teeth. Shards flew in every direction, catching the light like a thousand dying stars. The silence after was unnatural.
Too deep. Too wrong.
The heat was gone. The noise was gone. Even the smoke had paused midair. Quinn felt it in his bones first.
Something had shifted.
Not outside him.
Inside.
His heartbeat slowed… and then slammed into his chest like a war drum. Magic churned in his gut, twisted through his spine. It wasn't his spell. It wasn't Foxfire.
It was something else.
Something ancient.
Something watching.
His eyes snapped forward—and saw it. Standing behind Lilith.
Towering.
A figure.
Not man. Not beast.
Larger than anything that should've fit within the shattered battlefield. Its skin was scaled obsidian, like volcanic rock carved into the shape of a god. A pair of spiraled horns curved backward from its head, black and jagged. A halo of fire floated just above it like a crown of judgment, spinning slowly. Its wings—massive, blackened things with embered veins—stretched outward as if casting a shadow over the world.
And it was reaching.
A clawed hand, slow and deliberate, moving toward the broken remains of Lilith's barrier. Quinn's breath hitched.
Because the moment that hand moved, he felt something reach inside him too. Not painful—but gravitational. Like he was being pulled forward. Like something within him recognized that shape. That presence.
Like it had been waiting.
"Asami…" he whispered, barely audible.
She had already seen it.
Her eyes wide, sword trembling faintly in her grip—not out of fear, but recognition. Her mouth moved, but no sound came. And still, that figure moved, impossibly slow, like a dream bleeding into reality.
And Quinn…
Quinn couldn't look away.
It moved.
The figure behind Lilith—this monstrous presence—reached its clawed hand toward the shattered remnants of the barrier…
And reality bent.
Not metaphorically—literally. The air warped, folding inward around its fingers as if space itself was being rewritten, peeled open like a page from a burning book. And the crater inverted.
The entire landscape folded in on itself, reversing and unraveling like time was crumbling. The sky bled violet, stars flickered and died, and the ground screamed in a language no one should understand. It was insane. Unreal. Impossible.
Quinn stumbled back, eyes wide, heart in his throat.
That's not magic, he thought. That's… that's a god.
He felt it again—that pull, that gravity—and then it happened.
Crack.
Inside his mind, something shattered.
Like a cobweb made of glass, snapping at every fragile thread. He gasped, his body locking in place, his vision whiting out—and then came the memory.
But it wasn't his. He was seeing through someone else. Being someone else. The Demon King.
The world around him was red. Fire danced across shattered poles. Blood soaked the ground in a thick, endless pool, and the sky rained ash like snow. And at the center of it all, he stood.
The Demon King.
Tall. Cloaked in tattered remnants of once-glorious armor. His hand dripped blood that wasn't his. His eyes were gold—burning, cruel, quiet. Around him were corpses. Dozens. Hundreds. A few figures stood still—survivors, perhaps. Warriors.
And her.
Morgana.
She stood beside him like a painting come to life—armor dark and clinging to every curve, stained crimson from battle. Her cleavage caught the firelight like a smirk made flesh. Blood clung to her cheek. Her eyes glowed like smoldering embers as she looked toward him, lips forming a dramatic pout.
"This was a piece of cake," she muttered, her voice sultry with mockery.
The Demon King said nothing.
He turned, slowly, toward a broken man lying in the blood—missing an arm, one leg torn off at the knee, ribs jutting from his side like broken twigs. He twitched, alive only by will and hate.
"You fought bravely," the Demon King said, voice low, smooth like thunder wrapped in silk.
The man groaned, tried to lift himself—but failed. Instead, he glared up, eyes brimming with venom. And then—spat. Right at the Demon King's feet. "You monster," he hissed. "You filthy, foul thing."
Morgana tilted her head, raising her hand. A blade of black glass appeared, and without hesitation, she gripped it and drove it into the man's thigh.
He screamed.
"That's no way to talk to your King," she purred.
The man roared in pain—and spat again, this time into her face. "You're no king. You're both just… slithering vulgarities, wearing skin and fire. Playing gods."
Morgana snarled, drawing the blade back for another strike—but the Demon King lifted a hand.
"Enough," he said. "Stop messing with him."
She paused, a sigh slipping from her lips. "Hmph. I was just starting to enjoy it…"
The Demon King ignored her, stepping closer to the broken man, lowering himself slightly. "Pledge your allegiance to me…" he said softly. "And I might spare your life."
The man's face twisted in fury. "You think I'd serve you?"
Morgana arched a brow. "He's very rude… to think a man would defy the grace of god."
"You're no gods!" the man spat again, voice shaking with rage. "You're just—monsters! Crawling filth! Pretending you're more than the rot you came from!"
The Demon King was quiet for a moment. Then, he sighed. "Are you willing to die in your ego?" he asked. "Are you willing to let your wife and children die because of your pride?"
The man's face froze. His pupils narrowed, and be screamed, "Don't you dare touch them!"
A thin smirk tugged at the Demon King's lips. "Then pledge your allegiance… and I promise you a gift."
"…What kind of gift?" the man rasped.
Morgana stepped beside the Demon King, smile wicked. "You'll become the Custodian of the Wing."
And the memory ended—violently.
Quinn's breath snapped back into him, gasping like he'd been underwater too long. His knees nearly buckled, a cold sweat pouring down his spine. The godlike figure was still there. Still watching.
And its eyes were on him.
And then—It exploded.
Quinn didn't even feel his legs give out.
He hit the ground hard, face-first into the dirt and glass, breath knocked clean from his lungs. His ears rang like bells struck by gods, his vision pulsing in and out.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
Except—
What the hell did Lilith summon?