Last Intermission: Separate paths, wills reaffirmed (“End of Part One”)

In the shadows of the decrepit mansion, within a stone-walled chamber dominated by a massive table, the Associates convened. The air was thick with the scent of candle wax and damp stone, every whisper echoing like judgment. Azrael's empty eye sockets fixed on Rydia, disappointment etched into every syllable as he finally spoke.

“In Clémarine… your hesitation allowed Isolde, Ayato, and his companions to escape. Do you understand the weight of that failure, Rydia?”

Rydia lowered her gaze, pressing her lips tight. The others exchanged glances—some amused, some intrigued. She spoke quickly, hoping to avoid being singled out.

“But Zeltha also helped them escape from Thalassomare, even though her two Lone Demons were defeated once again!?”

Baal’thazar, towering and munching on a bowl of insects, chuckled darkly.

“Right… that narcoleptic elf’s blunder worked in their favor. Very unfortunate for them, quite convenient for us, hahaha~”

Nigravos, quiet and meticulous, placed two dark, jagged crystals on the table. The air around them vibrated with an otherworldly hum.

“Not all is lost,” he murmured, his voice cold yet reverent. “In the Ruins of the Demon Castle, they still held these… gifts. These crystals contain fragments of ancient demon souls—Morrigan, Agni, Belphegor, and Leviathan—names that once shook empires. Why allow such treasures to be destroyed?”

Baal’thazar slammed a clawed hand onto the table, eyes flashing. “And these two on the table are only Leviathan and Belphegor. Where are Morrigan and Agni?!”

Nigravos’s gaze flicked toward a secluded wing of the mansion, the faint glow from under a door hinting at its occupant. “In fact…”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Zeltha’s room.”

[Zeltha's Point Of View]

Tatsuya and Yuzuru, still bound under arcane seals from their bitter defeat against Ayato, stiffened as Zeltha’s gaze fell upon them. She pushed the crystals closer, the inner glow pulsing like a heartbeat, filling the room with a subtle, ominous rhythm.

“I gave them a chance, and they failed miserably… But since I see how far they are willing to go to become the new Dark Lords, I will grant them this… consolation prize.”

The Lone-Demons clasped the crystals. Veins darkened as if ink bled beneath their skin, shadows crawling across their eyes. Their breaths grew ragged. A faint echo of guttural demon voices slithered through the chamber, twisting the air with menace.

Zeltha’s smirk deepened, her tone both playful and deadly.
“Consider this a contract. With their power, your blades will never fail again. Of course…”

She let the words hang, the silence stretching like a blade across the room, before finishing coldly:
“…there is a price.”

***

Back at the Associates’ meeting, Nigravos took the crystal containing Leviathan’s soul, while Baal’thazar claimed the one with Belphegor’s spirit.

“They’ll sell their fragile humanity easily…” Nigravos murmured, holding the Water Demon crystal, eyes cold and calculating.

“And yes… perhaps monsters are exactly what we need~” Baal’thazar added, fingers caressing the Earth Demon crystal, a smirk playing at his lips.

Azrael’s golden gaze flickered between the ritual and Rydia, silently weighing her wavering loyalty against their ruthless resolve.

“But that’s not the only reason you’re here,” Azrael said, his voice low and measured. “Given the circumstances, I brought an extra pair of hands.”

A slow, deliberate clap echoed from the far end of the chamber. The heavy door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the flickering candlelight. Pale, short pink hair framing her face, scarlet eyes gleaming, and an elegant black coat trimmed in silver accentuating her form—Jessica Scarlette de Montfroid. Once thought lost to some forgotten battlefield, now alive, she cut through the air like a blade.

Rydia slammed her hands onto the stone table, voice sharp as flint.

“This is a total nuisance! Of all the Associates you could bring… you choose one from that clan of crazy bitches?!”

Jessica’s lips curved into a calm, dangerous smile.

“Really, Rydia… did you think fire and rubble would be enough to erase me? Death is merely an inconvenience for those who know where to strike bargains.”

Baal’thazar’s smirk widened, as if welcoming back a long-lost piece of their intricate game.

“Well, aren’t you the daughter of Necromancer Cyrus D’Rails?”

Jessica inclined her head slightly, eyes flickering with both respect and challenge.

“Indeed. And you must be Baal’thazar, the Harlequin of the Flies~” (she let the words hang, gaze sharp as a knife) “My father told me much about your infamous deeds over the past 170 years~”

Nigravos spoke quietly, his tone precise.

“So you were responsible for corrupting the Ashen Lash and Luke Valmont, is that correct?”

“That’s correct, Sir Nigravos, Legion of the 666 Black Beasts. Yet the fact remains—I am here. And I intend to reclaim my place.”

Her words balanced scholarly poise with the theatricality expected of a Scarlette de Montfroid.

Azrael’s expression did not falter, though his eyes narrowed, calculating. Rydia shifted uneasily, the tension in the room thick and suffocating, as if every breath carried the weight of centuries-old grudges.

"All right, time to act~."

Baal’thazar rose from his chair, the wood creaking as if groaning at his departure. His coat flared with the movement, and with a wicked smile he strode toward the door, ready to stop being a spectator and step into the stage of blood and fire.

"Don’t leave me behind—I want to enjoy this as well~," Nigravos added, his voice still formal but laced with sadistic delight. He lingered a moment, savoring the thought of chaos consuming the Demon Castle.

Rydia buried her face in her hands, her voice hollow with despair.

"I can’t even imagine what those two maniacs are about to unleash… and with her of all people."

Jessica tilted her head, her tone dripping with mockery.

"My dear Mademoiselle Rydia… if neither you nor the Dark Elf of the Dream World could stop my bâtarde cousin Fatima, what chance do you think they have against Monsieur Nagatoshi and Mesdemoiselles Vlad Tepes and Lauren~?"

Rydia clenched her fists but said nothing. Her silence weighed heavier than any outburst.

Then Azrael spoke. His voice rang like a tolling bell, final and inescapable.

"The curtain has fallen on the first act. Let the second begin."

The candles sputtered, shadows crawling high across the walls as though eager to devour the chamber. Beyond that suffocating darkness, across scattered lands, the heroes stirred—unaware that the stage had already shifted, and that the play was no longer theirs to control.

***

In a swamp of blackened water, Isolde rose. The stench of stagnant water clung to her armor as Isolde dragged herself from a choking mire. Ahead, a church lay in ruins, its jagged silhouette cutting against the gray horizon.

She stood tall, proud as ever, but pride is brittle when solitude gnaws. Yet in the silence, when the only footsteps were her own, her facade cracked. Without Ayato and Vera… this world has lost its color.

Her lips curled into the faintest smile, bitter yet fond. Once, she had fought alongside legends. Now, she thought of those two like stubborn younger siblings. A bond she could never admit aloud, yet one that softened the iron around her heart.

Rats scattered as Lucien stirred, coughing against the rot of the alley. Rain had soaked his journal—his epic verses bled into smudged lines, unreadable. He ran his thumb over the ruined pages, a pang of emptiness gripping his chest.

For a heartbeat, despair threatened him. Without them, where will my stories find their spark?

For an instant, despair gnawed at him. His verses, his stories—hollow without the sparks his companions gave.

Then, he closed the book and pressed it against his chest. His expression hardened, eyes burning with renewed resolve.

“If the song is broken, I’ll write a new one. And I’ll find them. No matter what it takes.”

He rose, his boots splashing through filth as though they were the first steps of a new march.

A tumble of grass and laughterless breath—Vera and Sylphidia rolled to a stop in a meadow at the forest’s edge. Vera clutched her flute, trembling.

“If Isolde hadn’t… if Ayato hadn’t…” Her voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have made it this far. Without them, I…”

Sylphidia placed a hand on her shoulder, her smile both playful and sincere.

“You’ve done more than you realize. You’re the reason they’re still standing. Remember this—‘For evil to triumph, good need only do nothing.’ You’re not nothing, Vera. You’re the light keeping two broken souls afloat.”

Vera blinked back tears, her grip tightening on the flute. Sylphidia laughed softly.

“Besides… Isolde can take care of herself, and Ayato? He’s a disaster magnet. Trouble always finds him. Which means we’ll find him too.”

"At least... I'm not alone," Vera murmured, holding her friend's arm tightly.

The meadow breeze carried the sound of her laughter, and Vera stood straighter, her resolve stitched anew.

The cave’s air was sharp and dry.

"Mon dieu... was such abruptness necessary?" she said with a nervous laugh, settling on top of him.

"Great... right with the worst possible company."

"Oh, darling... consider it a romantic destiny."

Then came the pain. Ayato clutched his skull, a searing throb tearing through him.

"That look... it's definitely not just human. Tell me, Ayato... how does it feel to carry a choir of souls inside your body?"

"Like having a migraine... but with screams from beyond the grave."

"So much power, so much darkness. I wonder... if you really want to keep playing the hero, or if it's time to accept that you can be a Dark Lord."

"Here we go again..."

"Mon chevalier... think about it. If I were by your side as a concubine, we could rule not just a Pseudo-Castle, but the entire world."

"I'd rather rule my insomnia first."

From the Ashen Lash, a voice emerged—mocking, theatrical, eternal.

“Well now… you’ve made quite the mess.”

Ayato hissed through clenched teeth.

“Shut up, old man!”

Ardyn Valmont’s spectral form smirked, his words half-poetic, half-maddening. “Mock me if you wish, boy, but your soul frays at the seams. Find the relic that slows the rot, or you’ll lose yourself entirely.”

Ayato spat to the ground, though his hands still trembled. 

His eyes flicked toward Fatima, her hand at the silver chain around her neck. For a moment, the flare of power there drew his attention. Her humanity—if embraced—could become her strength.

Ardyn’s smirk faltered into something graver. Fatima, too, narrowed her eyes. They both sensed it: a shadow stirring inside Ayato, something sinister, yet unshaped.

"But of course... there's no time even to sleep in peace."

"Oh là là... then let's see where fate has thrown us this time."

Ayato steadied himself, words rough as steel.

“Then I’ll find it. I’ll find them. And I’ll end this damned play.”

***

From swamp to alley, from meadow to cave, the scattered threads stretched taut. The stage no longer lay in fragments, but in cruel design.

The heroes stirred, each fractured, each flawed, yet bound by invisible cords.

End of Part I.