"Can't stop the bad omens for four minutes!?"

The storm around them seemed to pause for a heartbeat, the only sound the hum of Azrael’s scythe slicing through the charged air.

“Two minutes… nearly gone,” he intoned, voice now echoing inside their minds as much as in the wind. “Time to see what each of you truly fears—and what you will sacrifice to survive.”

The first illusion struck Isolde: the meadow around her dissolved into a throne room filled with corpses, the throne empty yet demanding her claim. Whispers of the Count’s expectations clawed at her mind.

“You… you could have ruled, yet you hide,” the voices hissed.

Her grip tightened on her blade, crimson flames surging, but doubt flared. Could she rise without becoming what she despises?  The scythe’s shadow loomed over her, pressing her toward the impossible choice.

Ayato’s vision was assaulted by the faces of the demons he had once fought—and failed. Their accusing eyes burned into him, each spark of his power threatening to consume him entirely.

“Why fight… if all I do ends in ruin?” whispered the illusions, echoing his deepest fear of being just another hollow pawn.

Vera stumbled, her divine light flickering as visions of her failure played before her: towns lost, allies crushed, her faith questioned at every turn. A cold weight pressed on her chest, as if her own miracles were meaningless.

“Your light is too weak… your faith a joke…” the wind carried the whispers.

Dakim, ever fervent, faced spectral shadows of his past mistakes—corpses he could not save, prayers unanswered. The shock nearly tore his focus, though his wide-eyed fanaticism made him scream defiance:

“I may be weak… but God’s hand is with me!”

Madelis found herself confronted by illusions of treasure slipping through her fingers, gold and jewels scattering into flames as she tried to grasp them. Even she faltered, realizing her obsession with profit could be her undoing here.

Azrael’s skeletal hand moved slowly, sweeping through the illusions as if orchestrating a symphony.

“Two minutes remain, and already your convictions quiver. Tell me… who among you will bend first?”

The storm’s howl seemed to respond to his words.

But one by one, they clung tighter to themselves—Isolde’s fire, Ayato’s sparks, Vera’s light, Dakim’s prayers, Madelis’s precision.

Azrael’s sockets flared brighter, crimson lightning crackling across his scythe. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his skull.

“Good… you cling to yourselves. But the final minute will test not your power… but the limits of your convictions.”

The storm howled around them, the fourth minute starting with a weight heavier than the wind. Azrael’s scythe glowed brighter than ever, crimson lightning streaking from the blade.

“Final minute,” he intoned, his voice echoing like a death knell. “Time to demonstrate… the inevitability of fate.”

He raised his scythe high, then brought it down in a motion that seemed to split the sky itself. 

Every shred of metal, every blade of grass, every spark from Ayato’s powers froze midair. The air vibrated with the promise of sudden annihilation—an Install-Kill, a move that would obliterate them in an instant.

“Nothing personal,” Azrael whispered, the words cutting into their minds. “It is simply… part of my duty.”

A white-hot arc of energy formed suddenly between Dakim’s hands, shocking everyone. It hissed like a living thing, writhing as if awakening after centuries of dormancy. 

The Ashen Lash, still coiled at his side, flared despite being a “mere whip” now. Sparks erupted where the tip cracked the air, pushing back Azrael’s scythe mid-strike.

Azrael froze for the first time since the battle began, his skeletal fingers twitching with surprise. A slow, mocking laugh escaped his skull.

“Interesting… the corruption of Luke Valmont lingers within this… pathetic relic. He sought to raise Dracula again, sacrificing his own allies to keep the Demon Castle alive. A Valmont shining once per century… and then forgotten. I see now… it was you, Isolde, who ended him. Clever girl.”

Vera gasped, Ayato and Dakim’s sparks surged erratically, and even Madelis blinked, stunned. The Ashen Lash shimmered in Dakim’s grip, its squalor-tinged power now deflecting a move that should have been fatal.

Azrael’s voice became darker, colder.

“So, the threads of my plan… disrupted by the hand of fate itself. Very well… the cycle will continue, but not today.”

The scythe slowed mid-swing, sparks and shadows recoiling from the whip’s interference. For the first time, the group felt the tiniest fraction of hope—just enough to realize that even Azrael’s inevitability had limits, if only they could act with conviction.

The Ashen Lash hissed in Dakim’s hands, its white-hot energy repelling Azrael’s scythe just enough to create a heartbeat of space. The group didn’t hesitate.

Isolde leapt forward, crimson slash testing his guard.

Ayato hurled shards of steel with sparks snapping at his fists.

Vera, trembling but unbroken, formed a spear of golden light, conviction woven into its core.

Dakim’s whip cracked, scattering shadows, while Madelis’s holy-water daggers pierced openings in his defense.

Azrael’s scythe slashed, arcs of crimson lightning striking where the group had been only moments before, but his eyes betrayed the first sign of frustration. Each attempt to eliminate them collided with their combined resolve.

“Impressive…” his hollow voice echoed, carrying over the storm. “Four minutes were meant to show your inevitability… yet here you stand. Defiant. Alive. All of you… clinging to yourselves.”

Their attacks surged in unison—Isolde feinting, Ayato striking, Vera thrusting, Dakim disrupting, Madelis distracting. For the first time, the storm belonged to them too.

The battlefield erupted in sparks, wind, and energy. For the first time, the storm didn’t just belong to Azrael—it was shared. The group, battered and trembling, had taken the first real step toward challenging inevitability.

For a heartbeat, Azrael’s scythe froze midair, a thin layer of light holding him back. His crimson sockets flared, surprise and amusement flickering across the shadows of his skull.

“Interesting… to see mortals cling to themselves with such desperation,” he murmured, voice echoing with both mockery and curiosity. “Very well… survive this moment, and consider it a lesson. Four minutes are over.”

The scythe retracted, the storm of crimson lightning dissipating slowly. Dust and sparks settled as the group staggered, panting, battered, but still standing.

Vera sank to her knees, trembling but smiling faintly.

“I… we did it. We survived…”

Dakim let out a whoop, swinging the Ashen Lash triumphantly, though its power had nearly faded entirely.

“Never underestimate a little faith—and teamwork, boss!”

Madelis, still grinning, surveyed Azrael with a daring smirk.

“Well, that was fun. Next round, maybe we make it even more entertaining, huh?”

Isolde wiped blood from her lips, crimson flames still flickering along her blade. Her gaze remained locked on Azrael.

“This isn’t over. Not today. Not ever, if we don’t let it be.”

Even Ayato allowed himself a small, sharp laugh, sparks crackling from his fists.

“Convictions… they’re stronger than inevitability, apparently.”

Azrael’s crimson sockets flared, a slow, amused laugh escaping from his skull.

“Very well… survive this day, and perhaps you will see what it means to defy fate. But do not mistake this reprieve for mercy.”

Dakim collapsed, the Ashen Lash slipping from his grip.

“Don’t panic, guys~”

The whip glowed. From it, the spirit of Ardyn Valmont emerged.

“I’ve sold cursed junk before,” Madelis muttered, paling, “but never one with a ghost inside!?”

“A living legend…” Vera whispered, awed.

Ardyn rubbed his spectral head.

“Your paladin’s half-dead because that whip eats his life force. That’s the price for not being a Valmont by blood.”

“Sounds like nepotism,” Ayato grumbled.

Ardyn’s gaze turned to Isolde.

“And what Azrael said… is true?”

Isolde’s grip tightened.

“A year ago, Luke Valmont tried to revive Dracula. He sacrificed allies, betrayed trust, even seized the Demon Castle. I ended him myself.”

The memory burned in her crimson eyes.

Dakim groaned, drained by the whip.

“So this all ties back… Tyrants, demons, the Castle…”

Madelis tilted her head.

“So Ayato’s been in a game rigged from the start?”

Ardyn nodded.

Vera trembled, piecing together old tales.

“The Castle still stands because Luke tried to keep the cycle alive. With Summoned like Ayato, there’s always a new Candidate for Dark Lord…”

Ayato frowned.

“But how did Azrael drag people from other worlds? Zeltha wouldn’t bother finishing such a spell…”

The question lingered—until Ardyn pointed at him.

“You. Do you want to be the next Dark Lord?”

“Of course not!” Ayato snapped. “I’m not anyone’s pawn!”

“Kid, that was rhetorical,” Ardyn chuckled darkly. “There is a way out of this mess.”

The group stiffened.

“Don’t tell me…” Isolde muttered, half-dreading his idea.

“Just like old times,” Ardyn smirked. “When Dracula cursed me, I needed all five of his body parts to revive and kill him. Same logic here. Ayato needs the Candidates’ souls—destroyed on the throne—without turning monster in the process.”

The storm had ended, but the silence that followed was heavier still.