Gussa drifted in a weightless void, his body untethered, the roar of battle a fading memory far behind him. There was no pain here. No burning mana. No collapsing Radiance. Only stillness — and the faint, unexpected scent of roses.

He opened his eyes.

A garden stretched endlessly before him, thorny vines strangling blackened trees, crimson petals scattered like drops of blood across pale stone paths. The air shimmered faintly, carrying an eerie, metallic warmth. Above, the sky was neither day nor night, but a soft, dim glow — painting the thorns and dying branches in muted gold.

At the garden’s heart stood a figure.

Slender. Small. Almost delicate.

The young man turned toward him, a soft, knowing smile playing on his flawless, porcelain-doll face. Hair like spun silver fell in gentle waves, framing wide, bright eyes that shimmered with impossible depth — the kind only someone who had lived through centuries of loss and fire could possess.

Seraphim.

In the waking world, he was a name — a rumor in half-forgotten prayers, a myth wrapped in sorrow.

But here… in this place… he was real. Terrifyingly so.

“You look like hell,” Seraphim murmured, his voice lilting and smooth, a warmth that barely stirred the air but left Gussa’s bones aching with longing and grief. “But then… you always did, when you overreached.”

Gussa’s throat tightened, heart thudding against his ribs. “Seraphim… You — how…?”

The other man stepped closer, and the entire garden seemed to shift around him. He was shorter than Gussa remembered, delicate in form, hips narrow, body soft in places most men weren’t, blurring the lines between masculine and ethereal. But his beauty… it hurt to look at. It felt like home.

“I’ve always been here,” Seraphim whispered, brushing ghostly fingers against Gussa’s cheek. The touch was weightless — a memory made solid. “Your power is unstable, Gussa. The Trifold Radiance wasn’t made for a body so bound to pain… to fear… to loss.”

“I…” Gussa swallowed thickly. “I’m losing control.”

“I know.”

Seraphim stepped back, a mournful softness in his doll-like gaze. “But there’s more to you than Radiance. You were never meant to shoulder this war alone.”

A low, distant pulse of thunder rippled through the garden, shaking the pale stones beneath them.

Gussa turned.

In the far distance — beyond the thorns and dying trees — he saw it: a battle. Flickering like a distant storm, light and shadow clashing at the edge of everything.

Michelle.

“She's fighting him…” Gussa whispered.

Seraphim’s gaze followed his. “She’s stronger than you know. But she stands alone now… and she’s about to face what even you couldn’t stop.”

“I have to go.”

“You will.” Seraphim’s voice softened, the rose-twisted vines shivering around them. “But hear me, Gussa. When you wake, remember this place. The Saint’s Thorn is not just a weapon… it’s a seed. And like all seeds — it must bleed into the earth before it can bloom.”

Gussa opened his mouth to ask — but the world cracked apart in a burst of light.

And he fell.

Stillwater’s Hellmouth

Michelle’s breath came in ragged, painful bursts, sweat mixing with blood and dust streaking down her face. The walls of the Hellmouth pulsed around her like a living wound, its air thick with ash and old death.

Before her stood the archduke.

Delirium.

His monstrous form towered above her, skin a churning sea of tar-like flesh and bones. His jagged grin glinted in the unholy light, countless infernal eyes flickering within the dark. Lesser demons circled them, held back by fear of their master’s fury — watching, snarling, waiting.

“You’re no Saint. No vessel,” Delirium growled, voice like stone grinding against itself. “What can a mortal hope to do against a god?”

Michelle’s fingers tightened around the shaft of the spear in her hands — though calling it a spear felt inadequate. It wasn’t a weapon of this world. A thing of pure, searing gold, forged from mana and something older. Its light cut through the suffocating dark.

She didn’t understand how she was holding it.

One moment drowning in terror… the next —

Something broke loose.

A warmth, a clarity.

Not Radiance. Not life-force.

Something hers.

“Enough,” she growled.

Then she moved.

And the world slowed.

Every heartbeat stretched. She saw the flicker of Delirium’s strike before it came — and stepped aside, the spear whistling through the air as she drove it toward him. It sang with power, slicing through demonic flesh like silk.

Delirium’s howl split the cavern.

He lashed out, waves of corrupt mana slamming against her. Michelle staggered, feeling the sickness of it pressing against her soul — but it faltered.

She held.

The spear wasn’t just a weapon.

It was a shield.

It was a part of her.

Delirium’s eyes narrowed. “What are you?”

Michelle’s lips curled in a snarl, light bleeding from her skin. “I’m done running.”

She lunged, enhanced speed turning her to a blur of light. Every strike landed with devastating precision — each movement guided by something deeper than instinct.

Delirium reeled. His form flickered, splitting apart, reforming. Black ichor poured from ragged wounds that refused to close.

“You… you can’t…”

But Michelle was no longer listening.

The spear crackled with golden-white power as she drove it into his heart. A blinding eruption of light burst from the wound. Delirium shrieked, convulsing, cracks spiderwebbing through his monstrous frame.

“For Gussa. For everyone.”

She twisted the spear.

There was a final, violent pulse — and Delirium’s body shattered, breaking apart into ash and mist, his scream lingering like a storm wind.

The Hellmouth trembled.

The lesser demons shrieked and scattered, the balance of power broken.

Michelle collapsed to one knee, the spear fading from her grasp — leaving a faint, radiant mark in the center of her palm.

“I…” she gasped, staring at the swirling remnants of her enemy.

“I did it.”