The Anti-Saint Paradox

In the ruined throne room, a swirl of black mist came together and resolved into Lord Demidicus's graceful, well-balanced figure. There was not a drop of blood or a particle of dirt on his elaborate armor as he stood in front of the skeleton lich. Yarte’s other captains, Helartha and the wolfkin general, watched him in silence.

Lord Yarte’s burning white eyes fixed on him. “Report.”

Demidicus gave a slight, theatrical bow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Lord Yarte. The ambush at the Tramble Site has concluded.”

“And Marutur?” the lich rumbled.

“General Marutur has been… retired,” Demidicus said, his tone one of detached, almost amused analysis. “He engaged the target with his usual unsubtle enthusiasm. It proved fatal. The ‘Saint’ killed him.”

A lesser lord might have raged at the loss of a general. Yarte, however, was silent for a long moment, processing the data.

“Tell me of the Saint. Did she demonstrate the power that so thoroughly humiliated you and your subordinate?”

“She did not fall for the trap, my lord,” Demidicus replied, his voice now alights with intellectual excitement. “She was the trap. I think something’s wrong here. Herr footwork is that of an amateur. I saw dozens of openings, any one of which would have been a killing blow against a true warrior.”

He paused, a genuine, manic grin spreading across his face. “However, her raw power is an absolute anomaly. She wields Ars Maren. And after her blades dispatched Marutur’s forces, she… devoured them. A high-tier vampiric ability, used on a scale I have never witnessed.”

He then added, almost as an afterthought, “I took the liberty of absorbing Marutur’s essence myself before she could claim it. It seemed a waste to let such a prize fall into the hands of an unknown variable.”

Yarte was silent, the information sinking in. A Saint who devours. A holy being using the abilities of a dark god. This was not the girl he had hated for twenty years. This was something different. Something far more dangerous, and infinitely more interesting.

“An Anti-Saint…” the lich rumbled. “This changes the parameters of the conflict. I misjudged. A brute like Marutur was the wrong tool for this task.” He turned his burning gaze to his other captains. “Helartha. Demidicus. The previous plan is scrubbed. We are shifting from extermination to observation and analysis.”

His voice dropped, filled with a new, cold hunger.

“I want to know what this new ‘Saint’ is. Find out her weaknesses, her origins, her purpose. And then… bring her to me. Alive.”

“Oh yeah, doesn’t that Anna have a sword she called Maren also?” Yarte asked. “isn’t that true, Pietta?”

Still kneeling on the desolate ground, Pietta recognized an opportunity to provide more information and establish her value following the failed expedition. "Yes," she answered, her voice a little shaky. “I can confirm, Anna… she also wields Ars Maren.”

Demidicus, who had been savoring his new plan, turned to her, his brow furrowed. “Ars Maren? Are you saying that by chance, our new vampire informant also had the same sword? Is her sword blue by any chance?”

“No,” Pietta said quickly. “During the first attack, the one with the Mupo Birds that Lady Helartha planned, the real Saint Serenya appeared. We saw her. In that battle, Anna only had one Ars Maren, and it was… very slow. Almost sluggish and it’s silver.”

Demidicus’s mind lit up, connecting the disparate reports. “Wait, the true Saint appeared during the Mupo bird attack at the barracks?” he deduced.

Pietta nodded frantically. “Yes! And her holy presence was overwhelming. All of us, even Anna, could hardly move. The power was suffocating.”

“Nyaaa, but Uetum could move!” Uetum said happily, puffing out her chest. “Uetum’s mana is neutral! Not dark! So, the big holy light didn’t hurt Uetum, nya!”

Yarte nodded slowly, “Pietta,” the lich commanded, “Where is the vampire now? Call her.”

Pietta bowed her head and concentrated, channeling her magic into the connection with the stone she had given Anna. She expected to feel the familiar link, to hear Anna’s cool, collected voice.

Instead, a gruff, angry man’s voice crackled through the magical connection, startling everyone.

“—Look! The stone is glowing! I knew it! You think this is one of those corruption seeds Lord Olomyar’s been talking about?” Another voice muttered in the background. The first voice then spoke directly into the connection, loud and suspicious. “Who is this? Identify yourself!”

Pietta froze in absolute terror. The stone had been found. Their connection was compromised.

Yarte did not move. It was beneath his station to speak to a common foot soldier. Before Pietta could stammer out a panicked response, Demidicus raised a single, elegant finger to his lips, a smirk playing on his face.

“You hold an item of significant power, little soldier,” Demidicus whispered, his voice a magical deception. “Placed there by those who seek to protect the kingdom from traitors within. Your Vice-Captain Olomyar is a very cautious man.”

The guard on the other end was silent, clearly stunned.

“Tell him his suspicions are… noted,” Demidicus continued, sowing his chaos. “But he is looking in the wrong direction. The true threat is not the vampire he watches so closely. Be careful who you trust.”

With that, Demidicus made a sharp gesture, and Pietta severed the connection.

“Lord Yarte,” Helartha began, her voice hesitant but firm. “There is something else. The legends are clear. Ars Maren is a weapon of pure, holy radiance. No vampire, no matter how powerful, could ever truly wield it without being destroyed.” She took a deep breath, presenting her new theory.

“I believe the Ars Maren our agent Anna wields is… a false one. The real one, the two blades you fought, Lord Demidicus… they belong to that masked warrior. To the true Saint.”

Demidicus stroked his chin. He found the puzzle delightful. “An interesting hypothesis, Helartha. So you propose there are two separate players on the board: our vampire agent with her clever, sluggish imitation, and this mysterious, masked ‘Saint X’ with the genuine, terrifyingly fast articles.”

“An imitation does not explain what you witnessed, Demidicus,” Yarte rumbled, the fires in his eyes analytical. “You said this ‘Saint X’ also used a vampiric devour. A true Saint, wielding a holy weapon, consuming the dead. Explain that.”

No one had an answer. The room was silent, the captains lost in thought.

“Very well,” Yarte declared, his voice cutting through the confusion. “Let us establish our working theory. A vote.” His burning gaze swept across his generals. “All in favor of the theory that our agent, the vampire Anna, is this masked Saint X?”

Helartha, the shadow-elf, gave a subtle shake of her head. The wolfkin general grunted in the negative. Demidicus simply smirked. “As fascinating as the paradox is,” he said with finality, “the fundamental laws of magic are not so easily broken. There is no way a vampire could contain such a pure, overwhelming font of holy mana. I vote no.”

It was unanimous. “Ain’t no way,” one of the lesser demons muttered.

Uetum, who had been trying desperately to follow the complex, shifting conversation, looked completely bewildered. She tugged on Pietta’s sleeve, her whisper loud enough to carry through the silent hall.

“Pietta… but… Demidicus is the one who called her a ‘Saint’ when he was fighting her at the ruin,” she said, her head tilted in confusion. “Now he says he doesn’t believe what he said? How is that supposed to work, nya?”

Demidicus turned to her, his elegant features twisted into a mask of pure, condescending exasperation. “It’s called sarcasm, you fluff-brained feline,”  his voice dripping with disdain. “A rhetorical device. I was not making a factual declaration for the benefit of eavesdropping kittens.”

Uetum just blinked, her tail twitching. “What’s a… re-tor-i-cal…?” she whispered back to Pietta, more confused than ever.