Saraline lay on the cracked earth, her limbs twitching with pain as she forced herself to rise. Her body trembled—burned by the flick she’d taken, both in pride and flesh. The wasteland around her stretched like an open wound, scorched and silent.

Footprints.

 Hooved. Uneven. Dripping with malice.

The Imp’s trail.

She followed it without hesitation.

“I can’t let that demon roam free any longer,”

 she whispered to herself, each step retracing the echo of a child’s scream.

Then a voice.

 High. Sweet.

 “Birdie.”

She turned fast. A kid stood there.

 Afro puffed beneath a spinning helicopter cap. Brown skin. Wide eyes. A red lollipop jammed in his mouth like a fuse waiting to blow.

“My name’s Jeremiah!” he chirped.

Saraline narrowed her eyes.

 Was this a joke? Some trap? A hallucination from the pain?

“Shouldn’t you be anywhere but here, kid?” she muttered.

Jeremiah tilted his head, eyes glimmering.

“You have devilish thoughts, Saint.”

Her eyes sharpened. The wind fell still.

“What did you say?”

Jeremiah grinned wider.

 Lollipop snapped in half between his teeth.

“I said I hear you. That mind of yours—it’s loud.”

She stepped forward, divine energy buzzing in her fingertips. “You think being a cheap psychic scares me?”

“Yes.”

Just that. Just yes.

 Like a God. Not a boy.

Saraline’s lip curled in frustration. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You’re after the Imp, right?” he asked, eyes now soft again, almost... curious.

She froze. Didn’t answer.

 Didn’t need to.

“May I come with you?”

He didn’t ask it like a question.

 He commanded it.

Saraline turned away with a scoff and walked on. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. He followed like he already belonged there.

The trail grew heavier. The soil became darker.

 Hours passed. The air thickened.

Then—a procession of corpses.

 Laid out deliberately, a macabre walkway of stiffened limbs and vacant stares.

 Each body was dressed differently—soldiers, priests, even children.

Jeremiah clapped once.

“Oh, I love a good arrangement. So theatrical.”

Saraline said nothing.

 She walked.

 Each step crushed flesh beneath her heels.

 Crunch. Squish. Groan.

Ahead, one body stood out.

 Still fresh. Still warm.

 James.

Her breath caught.

His eyes were open.

 Still glassy with fear.

 His hands were curled like he died reaching for something—someone.

She stepped back instinctively.

“You knew him,” Jeremiah said behind her.

Saraline didn’t speak.

 Her face betrayed it all.

“They made you chase the demon,” he said. “But you’re not really hunting it, are you?”

She spun around. “What do you mean?”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re chasing guilt. And someone doesn’t want you to catch it.”

A breeze swept past them, carrying the scent of rot and… cherry wine.

Saraline’s fingers curled into a fist.

“REVERE ME!”

Saraline spun—but too late. A hand, gnarled and massive, slammed into her face and drove her down into the pile of corpses she'd just walked over. Her back hit the cold cadavers with a sickening crunch.

A lollipop flew through the air and stuck to the brute’s hand.

“Enchant.” Jeremiah snapped.

The lollipop multiplied—dozens of tiny candy bombs bursting across the ogre’s skin.

“Move, Saraline,” he barked—not out of worry, but irritation. “I don’t feel like explaining your death.”

Saraline clenched her legs together, unleashing a concussive shockwave that launched the ogre backward. Jeremiah clicked his fingers.

BOOM.

A blast thundered through the wasteland, painting the gray sky in candy-colored flame.

Jeremiah sighed. “Peacekeepers. Hired muscle. Imps pay these ogres to wipe evidence after a kill.”

Saraline nodded. “So, we kill this beast, then examine James.”

“Naturally.”

The fire parted. The ogre strode out—unscathed, skin steaming.

“I am Peacekeeper Zorc!” he roared. “God of Ogres! Divine one greater than Thidos! Greater than... Eliza.”

Jeremiah froze. His grin vanished. The fire in his eyes flared crimson.

“Kill him,” he said softly. “If you fail, I’ll finish it.”

Saraline’s expression turned glacial. “I was already planning to decapitate him.”

“You would fight a GOD?” Zorc bellowed. “I SHALL SMITE YOU—SUBLIMITY!”

He thrust his palms forward. Shafts of burning light erupted, streaking toward Saraline.

She didn’t flinch. She walked straight into the storm.

“Enchant…” she whispered.

Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. “I thought Saints couldn’t enchant. That’s a human thing.”

Saraline ignored him. Her hands extended, fingers precise. A radiant katana bloomed into form—sleek, glinting like glass. She stepped forward, absorbing the beams with no resistance.

“If this ogre can wield godlight,” she muttered, “then he must be something more.”

Zorc laughed, radiant energy crackling from his fists. “I’ll kill you, mortal!”

Saraline didn’t blink.

“Single Slash.”

Zorc blinked.

And when his eyes opened, he was no longer whole.

He watched his own body standing several feet away—neck spurting mist, sword lodged halfway through the collarbone.

And then, nothing.

“You killed that false God with no issue,” Jeremiah chimed, kicking the ogre’s corpse with giddy glee. He danced over to the dislocated head, scooped it up, and whispered into its lifeless ear:

 “Eliza, Eliza, Eliza, Eliza.”

Meanwhile, Saraline knelt beside James’ body. The boy’s corpse lay still, stiff—but somehow untouched by time. She reached out, gripped the spear lodged inside his chest, and yanked it free with minimal resistance.

“Jeremiah, come here,” she called, her voice sharp and low.

He skipped over.

 “What’s the issue, Lady Sara?” he mocked, grinning wide until his eyes locked with James' mangled face.

“Do you see it?” Saraline muttered. “It’s been days. This body hasn’t started decaying. There’s no odor. No bloating. Not even dried blood that’s oxidized properly.”

She leaned down and sniffed the stain.

 “Nothing. That’s... not right.”

“Maybe he’s a skinwalker.” Jeremiah said with a chuckle.

“A skinwalker?”

“Yup. Not human. Just wearing one like a suit.”

Without waiting for permission, he grabbed James’ face and ripped it clean off. Underneath was not muscle or bone—but a goat-like, otherworldly visage, twisted and dead-eyed.

“Turn the body over.”

Saraline hesitated, then did as asked. Jeremiah clenched his fist and slammed it into the corpse’s back. The entire thing exploded in a burst of rotten magic.

“What the fuck?!” Saraline yelled, stumbling back. “That was our evidence!”

Jeremiah didn’t even flinch.

 “Look again.”

Still catching her breath, Saraline stepped forward, unsure why she was still listening to this child. Then she saw it.

Saraline stepped forward, heart pounding. The ashes from James’ detonation had settled, and beneath the charred dirt, something was… pulsing.

She knelt down, brushing away the soot with trembling fingers until she uncovered it.

A stone tablet, black as void, humming with a cold thrum. On its surface was a crude etching of a cherry with crossed-out eyes—the symbol of Thidos.

But it wasn’t just that.

Surrounding the symbol, written in blood that had not dried, was a phrase etched over and over in dozens of languages:

“The Saints Lied.”

 “He is still alive.”

 “James was never human.”

Saraline’s breath caught in her throat.

 “What the hell is this…”

Jeremiah, wide-eyed for once, muttered under his breath.

“He’s breaking through.”

Saraline turned to him.

 “Who?”

Jeremiah didn’t answer. He was already backing away—eyes locked on the now-glowing tablet. The cherry symbol began to burn.

Then the voice came.

 A low, grating whisper, layered in thousands of tones, inside their skulls:

“You brought the spear… now bring the Saint.”

The ground cracked.

Dark tendrils of energy erupted upward, reaching toward Saraline.

And the last thing she heard before the void took her was Jeremiah screaming:

“RUN!”