The morning sun cast a crimson hue across the shattered city. Fires still smoldered in alleys, and the smell of blood lingered in the air like a cruel perfume. Amid the wreckage, a young man clutched a sword taken from a fallen guard, his hands trembling.
"My name's Tobin," he said at last. "I'm… I was just a student. I'm nineteen."
Ryle, standing beside him, offered a hand. "Ryle. World's Strongest Journalist. Twenty."
Tobin blinked. "You're serious?"
Ryle smirked. "Deadly."
Thea rolled her eyes. "He really is."
Tobin swallowed hard. "Then help me. I want revenge."
"You'll get it," Ryle said, golden eyes burning. "Let's end this."
The castle loomed over the city like a silent tyrant—its white towers glimmering ominously, untouched by the chaos below. Together, the trio crept through the outer gardens, cloaked in shadows.
Guards patrolled the halls—eyes pink, faces blank.
"Still controlled," Ryle whispered.
They struck fast. Thea's light danced between shadows, disarming and binding guards in streaks of golden silk. Ryle's claws flickered, pressure points struck without killing. Tobin, raw but determined, followed behind with wide, vigilant eyes, learning.
But the deeper they pushed, the thicker the resistance grew.
Until—
"Trap!" Thea yelled.
Explosions of pink fire tore through the corridor. The floor cracked beneath them—and the group was split apart as the marble collapsed.
Ryle and Thea landed gracefully amid the ruins of the ballroom.
Three succubi and two incubi stood waiting, grinning.
"Aw, look who dropped in," one purred.
"You're not our type," Ryle growled.
Thea's swords hissed from their sheaths.
It wasn't even a fight.
With a burst of radiant fury, Thea flashed through the air, her twin blades slicing illusions and flesh alike. Ryle danced beside her—every blow a calculated rejection of their influence. Within moments, their enemies were sprawled unconscious, twitching and muttering broken seductions.
Ryle dusted off his coat. "Weak."
"Sloppy," Thea added, flicking blood from her blade.
They turned toward the next corridor.
Meanwhile, Tobin stumbled into a gilded hallway lined with statues of former lords. Velvet curtains danced in the wind—and standing before the grand staircase was a stunning succubus with crimson lips, obsidian armor clinging to her hourglass form.
"You poor thing," she whispered, stepping toward him. "You've lost someone, haven't you?"
Tobin froze. Her voice curled around his ears like silk. "I… I…"
She touched his cheek. "Come. I'll make the pain vanish."
His blade trembled. His knees buckled.
No. He gritted his teeth.
The image of his girlfriend's bloodied face flashed in his mind. Her warmth. Her voice.
His scream shattered the illusion.
"I WON'T FORGET HER!"
He plunged his sword into her chest, unleashing a flame spell point-blank. She shrieked, her seductive mask peeling away into rage as fire consumed her.
He stood alone—scorched, panting, victorious.
They regrouped in the Duke's private chamber. Velvet drapes, mahogany furniture—decadence without honor.
The Duke stood tall, crimson eyes glazed with charm magic. No words, no hesitation. He attacked.
Ryle moved in first, dodging swings of the Duke's obsidian glaive. Thea parried from the side. Tobin snuck behind, hesitating only a second—then slammed the hilt of his sword into the Duke's skull.
CRACK.
The noble dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
"Nice," Ryle nodded.
Then—
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
A slow, mocking rhythm echoed from behind the silk curtains.
"Bravo."
From the shadows stepped a woman—no, a goddess of ruin. Horns curved elegantly from her golden hair. Her eyes, violet and predatory, swept over the trio with amused contempt. A dark dress shimmered like liquid sin.
"You," Ryle said, voice tight. "One of the Four Demon Generals."
"Oh, I'm flattered you Me. I'm Lilimora." She smiled lazily. "I created the succubi race, you know. What you fought today? Children's drawings."
Ryle stepped forward. "We're not impressed."
She raised a brow. "You should be."
Tobin charged, rage fueling him. "You killed her! You—!"
She barely moved. With a gesture, the air twisted—and Tobin flew back, smashing into the wall.
"Ugh…" he groaned, blood trailing from his lip.
Ryle followed, claws glowing purple.
Lilimora caught his gaze.
Her eyes pulsed.
And just like that—he froze.
His body twitched once. Then relaxed.
His eyes turned pink.
"…Ryle?" Thea said, alarm rising.
He turned toward her, claws bared.
"Ryle!" she shouted.
He struck.
The battle tore across the chamber.
Thea blocked his claws, her light magic sparking. "Fight it, dammit!"
But Ryle didn't answer. He roared, eyes blank, strength monstrous.
She leapt, dodged, parried—but he was faster. More vicious. He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her into a pillar.
"Woman," he hissed. "Why are you in my way…?"
His voice—shaky. Conflicted.
Her eyes welled. "Because you're Ryle. My Ryle."
That's when Lilimora laughed—and tossed a gleaming artifact into the air. It snapped mid-flight, releasing a burst of magical frost.
Thea froze in place, paralyzed by the ancient magic.
Ryle raised his claw.
"No…" he whispered. "No, not her…"
His body trembled. Eyes flickered between pink and gold. Pink. Gold. Pink…
"Ryle," Thea whispered. "Please…"
He turned his claw on himself—and shoved the artifact into his chest.
Chains of light exploded around him, binding his limbs and locking his mind.
He fell to his knees, trapped—but awake.
"NOW!" Ryle roared. "KILL HER!!"
Tobin stood, sword blazing, eyes filled with vengeance.