Vol. 1: Chapter 4 – Echoes in the Ascent (3)

Part 3

The stage vibrated beneath their feet.

The three Satirus moved in perfect synchronization, like dancers trained in a choreography of death. Each maintained a high guard, measured steps, straight backs.
It wasn’t an ambush... it was an artistic execution.

"I’ll take the one on the left," Seiryu announced, already floating above them.

"I’ll handle the one in the center," Eliza replied, licking her lips.

"He looks like the most annoying one."

Seiryu didn’t wait. His stones spun in a tight spiral, fired in shifting trajectories.
He attacked from blind angles, without uttering a word.

The left Satirus responded with precision. His thrusts weren’t wild or powerful—they were surgical. He cut through the trajectory of the stones with minimal gestures, as if writing poetry with the tip of his blade.

Eliza, meanwhile, charged with her scythe spinning overhead. The stage lighting highlighted every movement, emphasizing the contrast between her vampiric figure and the central Satirus, who welcomed her as if they were performing a romantic duel.

"So aggressive," the clone said, parrying her scythe with a mere flick of his wrist.
"Is this what you call art?"

"No. This... is what I call pleasure."

Eliza snapped her fingers—and a burst of blood erupted from the ground behind the clone. He turned instantly, but the trap was already sprung.
Several blood whips lashed out from different angles, forcing him to retreat for the first time.

At the back, the third Satirus remained still, strolling calmly between the stage wings—observing like a director overseeing a rehearsal.

Seiryu noticed again.

"The real one stays on the sidelines," he said coolly. "He’s waiting to see if his actors can improvise."

"Then let’s wreck his show," Eliza replied, narrowly dodging a thrust.

Both Heralds began moving with a different rhythm.

They were no longer fighting as separate entities.

Now they attacked with shared logic.

Seiryu descended diagonally, projecting a web of stones that forced the left clone to defend from a single direction.

Eliza, as if she instinctively knew, redirected her next attack to ricochet along the same trajectory, combining their force.

The clone took the full hit.

It crashed into the side curtains and dissolved like a puppet with its strings cut.

"One down," Seiryu said without emotion.

The center clone lunged at Eliza, but it was already out of sync. The vampire slid past with elegance, left her scythe floating in the air, and clicked her tongue.

"How clumsy... your choreography lost its rhythm."

A blood lance shot out from the side of the stage, piercing the clone completely.

The clone fell to its knees... and dissolved into petals of paper.

On the stage... only one remained.

The real Satirus—clapping slowly.

"Bravo. Truly... bravo," he said with a strained smile as his mask began to crack.

With his left hand, Satirus slowly removed the mask, revealing his full face. Pale, flawless skin... utterly expressionless— but not for long.

His slender, refined figure began to distort.
The upright posture broke.
His silhouette expanded, his muscles growing at an unnatural speed.
His arms lengthened, his fingers sharpened.
His smile became... real.

"Now... it’s finally my time to shine under the spotlight," he declared theatrically, bowing in an exaggerated gesture.

And in the blink of an eye—he vanished.

Only his mocking smile remained, floating in the air for a moment—then it too disappeared.

"Tch... that idiot hid his presence again," Eliza growled, spinning on her heel.

"Probably. Although that was a stupid move on his part," Seiryu replied calmly, briefly glancing at his companion.

She understood immediately.

She opened her mouth—and let out a sharp, piercing scream.

"Ahhhhhhh!"

Anyone watching might have thought she had gone insane. But the sound reverberated throughout the hall, bouncing off the walls, the structures... and something else.

The echo returned.

And for a moment—it revealed Satirus’s silhouette: distorted, forced into visibility by the vibration.

"There you are!" Seiryu exclaimed.

"Heavy Gravity."

With a single movement of his hand, the space around Satirus began to tremble.
Gravity folded in on itself—like an invisible anvil crashing down.

Satirus was slammed against the ground, crushed by his own stage.

"No! This is impossible! I’m supposed to be stronger... brighter than you!" he screamed, his voice a twisted mix of rage and desperation.

His theatrics were gone.

All that remained was the weight of his pride... and the Void tightening around his throat.

"Eliza... would you like to finish him off?" Seiryu asked calmly.

"I don't like getting dirty with trash," she replied as she approached with her scythe,
"but for this one, I'll make an exception."

Satirus struggled against the crushing gravity. Slowly, his body rose from the ground—trembling, contorted, but determined.

"Who do you think you are? This is my world!" he roared, breaking free of Seiryu's spell.

For the first time, his expression wasn’t theatrical.

It was pure rage.

He grabbed his sword. Thorns sprouted irregularly from its hilt, and the blade turned a deep, demonic purple—the color of corrupted blood.

"Sacrifice!"

He launched himself toward Eliza with brutal force. Sword against scythe—their blades clashed violently. For the first time in the battle, Eliza was pushed back by the ferocity of the strikes.

In the blink of an eye—he vanished.

He reappeared in front of Seiryu, thrusting straight for the heart.

Seiryu stepped back just in time, and with an agile gesture, summoned spears of ice in midair.

"I already told you..." he said calmly as he launched them, "You don't stand a chance."

Satirus was forced to retreat—panting. But something changed in that instant.

He had no way out.

Behind him—Eliza reappeared, utterly silent. Her scythe already descending in a final, merciless arc.

"Die, you pathetic piece of shit!"

The blade pierced through his back and out of his chest. A guttural roar tore through the hall.

"Arghhhhhhhhhh!"

But Seiryu frowned.

Something was wrong.

Too easy.

His eyes instinctively dropped to the ground—a blade, broken, without its hilt...

He recognized it immediately.
It was Satirus’s sword.

But the hilt was missing.

"No..."

A fractured laugh echoed from above the stage.

"I told you..." Satirus whispered from the balcony, "I am the king of lies."

He appeared behind Yamato—his figure distorted, body still wounded—but clutching the hilt of the sword in his hand.

He pointed it directly at the Void Lord’s head.

"And your master will pay for your incompetence."

The shot rang out.

The explosion reverberated through the theater.
The scent of fresh gunpowder filled the air.
The echo of the bullet seemed to mark the final act of the play.

His fingers still rested on the trigger.

But Yamato remained seated.
Unfazed. Almost bored.
His head rested on one hand—as if the gunshot had merely roused him from a nap.

His nanobot barrier had stopped the deadly projectile.

"Demon of lies and deception... don’t make me laugh," Yamato said, without moving, his voice as serene as it was lethal.

Below, Eliza and Seiryu watched the scene in complete silence, unable to fully hide their astonishment.

"My lord... I apologize for this disrespect," Seiryu said, kneeling with a serious expression. "Allow me to eliminate him immediately."

"I’ll kill you all! I—!" Satirus screamed, in a desperate outburst.

But he couldn't finish.

Yamato was already in front of him, gripping his neck with one hand—as if he were holding a weightless puppet. Choking him effortlessly as Satirus kicked helplessly in the air.

"We’ve heard enough. Now it’s your turn to shut up... and listen. Carefully."

His voice wasn’t violent. It was simple and direct.

He turned his face slightly toward his Heralds.

"What do you think of his performance?"

Seiryu was the first to answer, his tone purely analytical.

"He's weak, but his abilities have value. He could serve as an infiltration pawn, if monitored closely."

"I see..." Yamato nodded, then looked at Eliza. "And you?"

She hesitated for a moment, as if searching for a deeper answer.

"I believe keeping him alive is dangerous. He’s the perfect profile for stabbing us in the back. He doesn’t seem trustworthy... But I admit, as Seiryu said, he might prove useful."

"Good evaluation," Yamato murmured.

Then he released Satirus’s neck, letting him drop to the floor like a rag doll. The demon gasped for air, slowly struggling to rise.

"I’ll ask you one question. Your answer will decide whether you live... or die. Understood?"

Satirus no longer understood anything—but Yamato’s tone left no room for negotiation.
He nodded tremblingly—for the first time in his life, he seemed genuinely afraid of that young human.

"If I free you—and you become one of us— will you betray us?"

The silence that followed was long.

Satirus looked into his eyes—and for a moment, he thought he was staring into the Void itself, the kind that slowly drags you into madness if you gaze too long.

He considered lying. But every fiber of his being screamed that it would be a fatal mistake.

"I can’t promise you anything," he finally replied, bluntly.

Yamato’s mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close.

"That’s good enough... for now."

He straightened.

"Join us as one of my Heralds. Obey our orders—and we will leave this prison behind."

Something new lit up in Satirus’s eyes. Hope?

"Is it... truly possible? To leave... to no longer be bound to this dungeon?"

"It is," Yamato answered. "But you must understand your place. You’ll be beneath Seiryu and Eliza. They are your superiors."

"We’ll reach the surface—and build an empire to correct this rotten world. And in it... there is no room for the weak."

Satirus fell to his knees.

"I will follow you anywhere, Lord Yamato."

"Good."

The Void Lord raised one hand.

Darkness enveloped the demon, breaking the invisible chains that bound him to the dungeon.

"From now on, you are Satirus, Herald of Deception."

Without another word, Yamato turned... and resumed his ascent.

"Yes, my lord," Satirus said quietly before falling into step behind them.

The group resumed their climb in silence.

Their footsteps echoed through the abandoned theater, now stripped of masks, lights... and lies.

Satirus walked a few steps behind, his head lowered, the broken mask clutched in one hand. It wasn’t submission, it was survival instinct.

Because Yamato embodied the darkness that devours everything.

Eliza and Seiryu never looked back at him.
But both knew: the group had changed.
A subtle, chilling sense of distrust lingered between the Heralds.

And ahead of them, Yamato moved forward—his gaze fixed solely on the future,
like a chess master carefully planning his next devastating move.

His army was taking shape. And the surface was growing ever closer.

The gears of destiny turned silently in the depths of the abyss...
in absolute darkness.

And the world... was utterly unprepared for what was coming.