The glow of the spell sliced through the sky, falling upon the massive shadow.
Nearly half the sky was obscured, as if an airship were flying over the battlefield. But this was not an Erian airship; it was some kind of writhing, living creature. From a distance, it looked as cute as a pink balloon, but up close, one could see its skin-like shell and various bulges, resembling a stomach torn from the body. Many small mouths grew directly from the stomach, and with every gulp, it sucked in numerous flying objects.
Drones, fairies, the Erian air force… As the first link in the Devourer's chain, the Mobile Stomach devours everything.
However, it was about to fall.
The black-robed mages had already entered the fray; they did not form a unified barrage formation but were scattered across the battlefield. These masters of brutal magic are protected by other classes; their casting times are long, but their spells are immensely powerful—each one a veritable artillery battery. The black-robed mage Timothy chewed on the acid glands of some fish-frog, swallowing the last bit of casting material along with the fresh blood corroded from his body. The acrid acid gathered in midair; the spell's glow sliced through the sky, and the acidic spear pierced the swollen stomach, burrowing inside like a fish.
Boom!
The acid that penetrated the stomach wall reacted with the gastric juices. To onlookers in the distance, it looked like a pink balloon being pricked by a needle, its jumbled contents spilling out. Some of the victims who had just been swallowed began coughing, vomiting blood and mucus mid-air. If treated in time, many of them could survive.
Timothy let out a sigh of relief and took out the water flask he carried to rinse his mouth. The sour taste spreading in his mouth made him close his eyes; before he could open them again, the battlefield suddenly fell silent.
The clanging of weapons gradually ceased; the whistling of arrows and spells through the air slowly fell silent; the roars and screams, the frantic dashes and grappling… most of the sounds on the battlefield came to a halt, as if someone had cast a wide-area Silence spell, as if someone had pressed the pause button. Timothy opened his eyes and saw a crystalline glint.
Countless crystals suddenly appeared in the air, the scene resembling a sudden snowfall—a blizzard combined with time standing still was the only way such a sight could be formed. Tiny, crystalline mirrors were everywhere, and every living creature with open eyes on and near the battlefield saw a face reflected in them.
It was not their own face.
A demon had traversed the passage between the Abyss and the Prime Material Plane, making no attempt to conceal its presence. On the contrary, the moment it appeared, it announced itself to the entire battlefield; a magical prism projected its image before everyone in the vicinity. The spectacle resembled the entrance of a superstar, yet the effect was even more profound.
What a vision of beauty it was.
From humans to demons, regardless of race, gender, or age, everyone stood transfixed before the prism, captivated by this breathtaking beauty. Some demons drooled uncontrollably; some humans gasped for breath, their faces contorted in a grotesque expression of obsession. The demon's beauty seemed to possess a magical power—no, it was magic itself.
What does true beauty look like? Everyone has a different perspective on "beauty," and even the most universally acclaimed beauty cannot captivate the entire world—let alone a crowd that included more than just humans. Each person's understanding of beauty varies, and the faces they see are not the same: some male, some female; some old, some young; some human, some not. That demon's visage was beauty itself.
The Succubus Lord, "Sea of Desire" Trianlia—the weakest of all demon lords. The fact that she has managed to survive to this day with such meager power, even as the Abyss declines, speaks volumes in itself. She glided down to the ground, stepping on the back of a demon sorcerer, drawing the gaze and adoration of the crowd—many of those grinning foolishly actually knelt before her. A satisfied smile spread across that indescribable yet soul-stirring face. It parted its lips and said...
"Do not look at it!"
A sharp command shattered the feverish silence. Pope Samuel of Saroth, his expression stern, held the microphone he'd snatched from the bard. His voice, amplified by the armored vehicle's loudspeakers, swept across the entire battlefield. His unwavering faith momentarily disrupted the succubus's spell; the magical prisms flickered like a TV signal with poor reception, revealing the figure of the Holy Son of Saroth.
Saro's ceremonial robes were solemn and dignified; the golden patterns upon them resonated with divine power, shining like the rising sun. Saro's holy crown was resplendent, from the gem at its peak to the hanging gold-leaf tassels, all glistening with a blinding radiance. Samuel's power was insufficient to shatter those countless mirrors, nor could he disrupt the reflections for long, but that radiant, sun-like, sacred light flashed through the mirrors. Accompanied by his voice, it struck like a thunderclap, jolting countless people awake from their trance.
The priests murmured the scriptures of Saro, rousing from their daze to begin erecting a wall of resistance. The paladins snapped out of their trance; filled with either anger or shame, they shouted their battle cry, revved their engines, and the roar of their heavy motorcycles echoed across the battlefield. A halo of blessings drifted across the battlefield as they moved, doing its best to rouse their comrades still lost in a dream. Those with unwavering resolve, inspired by Samuel, regained their fighting spirit and struck while the enemy was still dazed.
Trianlia showed no sign of anger; instead, it smiled.
Its laughter rang in the ears of everyone on the battlefield, sending chills down their spines and making their bones go weak. Many warriors who had only just managed to awaken from their illusions were once again plunged into a bewitching dream. The figure of Pope Sarro had vanished from the prisms, and Triantlia's form once again filled these ubiquitous crystals. Many could only hastily close their eyes; those who failed to do so were so utterly enchanted that they lost their wits, forgetting even the thought of closing their eyes.
The Magic Prism was an area-of-effect spell—or rather, this terrifying manifestation wasn't even a spell at all, but the innate ability of the succubus lord, Trianlia. As the pinnacle of a distinct combat style, Trianlia's very presence subjected anyone who saw her to a Will saving throw once per minute; any living being that failed would become her servant.
The stalemate persisted on the ground and in the skies. However, given that the soldiers of the Material Plane possessed far greater willpower than those of the Abyss, this farce—with such a vast number of people unable to focus on battle—seemed to give the Material Plane's creatures the upper hand.
A laugh that made one's knees go weak rang out from the sky, spreading from the passageway.
Something flew out, in groups of three or five, the laughter unceasing. They possessed bat-like wings, wielded spiked whips, and had slender, naked bodies. No one would describe a cow as "naked," but using that term to describe this group of demons speaks volumes about their appearance.
Compared to their kin, this breed of demon seemed far too petite and frail. As an intermediate evolutionary stage between the relatively low-level Deathbringer and the Succubus, the Nightmare's lower body consists almost entirely of a pair of flawless legs, with only its feet remaining as a pair of furry bird claws. None of them stand taller than two meters; they lack sharp fangs and claws, exceptionally developed muscles, a wide array of powerful spellcasting abilities, or the cunning intelligence to beguile minds. To the eye, they appear to be nothing more than decorative figures.
They lack the ever-changing allure of a succubus. These Nightmares come in a myriad of forms and appearances, each embodying sensuality in the eyes of some intelligent beings—for them, seduction is not an innate passive ability, but an active spell that must be specifically cast.
This is why these high-tier demons, born as the previous stage of a succubus's evolution, remain attached to their succubus lords.
Laughter.
One after another, this sweet laughter sounded like a field of wind chimes being stirred. They flew through the sky, circling and descending, each nightmare creating a wave of resonance. The magic of the succubus lord, Trianlia, was diffused by her army of nightmares; that power left people parched and made them feel as if ants were crawling up their spines. Those with eyes tightly shut wore expressions of horror; though their eyelids hadn't lifted a single millimeter, a dazzling illusion was lighting up within their pitch-black vision.
Rose-red clouds drifted across a violet sky, and beautiful angels descended from above—their faces serene, their bodies sensual, the very image of everyone's dream lover. Just as when they first beheld the phantom of the Succubus Lord, all thoughts of resistance vanished without a trace, leaving only base desires. Each nightmare served as a conduit, spreading Triantlia's domain; within this dreamscape, every nightmare was a projection of the Succubus Lord.
"Get out!" Samuel roared.
The rose-colored illusion suddenly tore apart, like a churning lake, the moon's reflection shattering into countless fragments. The startled crowd scrambled backward; many had come so close to that barbed whip that cold sweat broke out on their brows.
"It's His Holiness, the Pope of Sarro!" The radio host exclaimed excitedly. Even at this distance, she had been caught in the blast; having just regained her composure, her forehead was now drenched in cold sweat. "Truly, Lord Samuel, the Holy Son of Saro, lives up to his reputation! His rebuke clears the mind, banishing even the filthiest erotic fantasies—not even a Succubus Lord is a match for him! Haha, I think I'll pay a visit to church this Sunday."
The host managed to lighten the mood with a joke at the end, and listeners far away breathed a sigh of relief, pressing their hands to their foreheads in gratitude. But on the actual battlefield, the surrounding priests and bards watched Samuel with concern; the Pope of Saro was deathly pale and on the verge of collapsing.
"A familiar scent… Look what I've found!" A voice, audible only to Samuel, rang in his mind. "Oh, Holy Son of Saros. Hehehe, I, the Abyss, am here. How have you grown so weak?"
Samuel was nearing fifty; he was no longer young, but as a Pope, he was far from old enough. The former Popes of the Church of Saro were chosen from among ten thousand; under the grace of the God of Saro, these earthly spokespeople for the gods could live for a hundred or two hundred years. Back then, the Holy Son had the guidance and assistance of countless predecessors, undergoing various trainings from a young age—unlike Samuel, who had to start almost from scratch, building everything from the ground up. In those days, when the Holy Sons, Holy Daughters, and Popes could go toe-to-toe with Demon Lords without being outmatched, the Celestial Realm still existed, and their gods were still present.
To confront a Demon Lord nearly a thousand years old—even one as relatively weak as Triantlia, who had been demoted due to the Abyss's decline—was still far too difficult for Samuel.
"How many more times can you stop me? A servant of a god who no longer exists?" The succubus lord's voice scraped against Samuel's eardrums; despite the Son of God's desperate resistance, it brought only a dizzying headache. "A few more times, and you'll drain your own spirit, turning into a drooling fool?"
"I will hold out until the end," Samuel said weakly. "I will hold out until you or I return to dust."
Trianlia burst into laughter. "That would be such a pity," she said.
"Why?" Samuel asked, secretly hoping this would buy him a little time.
"Because I'll save you for last," she said sweetly. "My children and I will copulate with every priest and nun of Saroth right before your eyes, and then I'll devour their souls—ah, before that, I'll turn you into a nightmare and share the flesh and souls of these fallen clergy with you. You're such a prim little cutie—I really do like you."
The door opened.
A dazed staff member opened the door, and all those who had succumbed to desire bypassed layer upon layer of protection, sending swarms of nightmares into the chamber where the Holy Son of Saros and the Bard resided.
No one screamed; the death brought by the nightmares was as sweet as a beautiful dream.
The Dreamscape unfolded once more on the Material Plane, even more magnificent, even more overwhelming. They laughed foolishly and reached out to the angels in their dreams; the angels smiled sweetly, lashed out with their whips, and took half a head. Only now did these beautiful demons reveal their true forms; their jaws opened, tongues extended, sucking in souls and brain matter. They encountered almost no resistance wherever they went; only the army of already-dead spirits could continue fighting, unaffected.
But the flying nightmares were too agile; the clumsy spirits on the ground were momentarily helpless.
Amid the vast wave of death unleashed by the Succubus Lord, Trianlia herself remained standing in place, not moving an inch.
Through the eyes of her children, she watched the room where the Holy Son of Saro and the priests were desperately maintaining the final barrier, keeping the swarming Nightmares at bay. Nightmares excel at mental magic and are essentially the weakest of the higher demons, but their melee capabilities far surpass those of ordinary humans. The shadows of their wings and their spiked whips circled the barrier, like a pack of hyenas closing in on a large herbivore—it was only a matter of time.
The sight of the clergyman being devoured elicited a hungry moan from the Succubus Lord. It licked its lips and turned its head.
"Hmm…" it drawled, "And what brings you here?"
Behind Trianlia, an elderly man appeared.
The dungeon had transported him to the vicinity; he had completed the rest of the journey on his own, arriving right beside the succubus lord. He was an old gentleman dressed in a plain scholar's robe, his sallow face covered in age spots and deep wrinkles. His gaunt frame swayed unsteadily, as if a mere breeze could knock him over. He held a notebook as thick as a brick, glancing at Trianlia from time to time while scribbling furiously in it.
"To put my life's work to the test," he said, breathing heavily, as if old age made even speaking a struggle.
The Succubus Lord ran a finger over her lips, looked at the notebook, and chuckled. The notebook was a magical item, but its faint magical fluctuations were negligible.
"Ah, you're from the Chalk Plains," she said. "I recall the Abyssals there—they're the best at crafting explosive artifacts, and the most effective ones are truly terrifying… but your trigger notebook doesn't seem to have been crafted properly. Let me think—is it because the Prime Plane has declined to the point where there are no raw materials left? What brings you to me? I don't want you; your body is so old."
"To be precise, it's the Chalk Academy. Regarding the academy's legacy, I have indeed picked up a few scraps of knowledge." Verbert smiled good-naturedly and spoke slowly, "I'm over a hundred years old—far too old. It's truly my good fortune to see the true Abyss before I die."
Trianlia's laughter ceased.
To stand unscathed before a succubus lord was remarkable enough; to show no reaction to her proactive spell attack was even more astonishing. This had nothing to do with age; after all, sexual attraction was merely a manifestation, and a succubus's "allure" was a form of magical attack. To remain unscathed under such an assault was, in essence, no different from withstanding a fireball of equal magical potency—enough to make the spellcaster take notice.
"Am I not beautiful?" Trianlia asked, feigning offense.
She cast the spell again. It was powerful enough to make a pure-hearted youth blush with embarrassment or leave a revered cleric dazed and confused, yet in the presence of this old man, it failed to elicit even the slightest reaction. Feeling her power challenged, Triantlia intensified the spell's potency, like a spider firing a second stream of viscous silk at its prey.
The old man suddenly laughed.
"You are indeed as beautiful as the records describe," Verbert wrote the final entry in his notebook, sighed contentedly, and shook his head nonchalantly. "And, by the way, you are just as arrogant as the records say."
Trianlia had never sensed a threat from the old mage before her—until this very moment.
The succubus lord instinctively sensed trouble. It tried to teleport away, only to find itself unable to move. The "spider silk" it had just fired had not been in vain; it had merely been concealed. Only now did it realize what was wrong: the magical energy released by Trianlia had been drawn into it, effectively trapping the succubus lord itself, momentarily binding it to the old mage.
"Almost no one can resist your charm," said Verbert with a chuckle. "It's just that I love knowledge more."
At that moment, the skin of this Abyss researcher began to crack.
Verbert had crafted an explosive artifact, but the medium he used was not the notebook in his hand—it was himself. Charms only affect living beings; a fully formed artifact, of course, showed no reaction.
That aged husk vanished into thin air in an instant, and not a single trace of the old wizard named Verbert remained in this world. The black substance burst through its container, exploding in an instant, yet it remained contained within a sphere two meters in diameter, like a nuclear bomb confined within a sphere. There was no thunderous roar, no blinding light or billowing smoke; the explosion swept through such a small area that it just barely engulfed the Succubus Lord.
Exorcism Artifact.
Weilbert's library contained the legacy of the Chalk Academy; excavations of the Ancient Mages' Tower had yielded precious materials; and researchers within the Grand Mages' Tower had worked together to refine them. Ultimately, using Weilbert—a high-ranking black-robed mage, descendant of the Abyss's followers, and researcher of the Abyss—as the raw material, they created a new forbidden art.
The old mage's students were frantically transcribing notes. Welbert's magical notebook could project the text onto a paired notebook as he wrote, though the image lasted only a few minutes and required re-transcription. In the final moments of his life, he recorded his experience of facing the Succubus Lord. An entity forged into a magical artifact could perceive the charm spell without being affected by it—what invaluable data this provided for the deconstruction of the most powerful charm spells. Welbert's life, right up to his last breath, was devoted to knowledge and magic. Just as he had once told his students, he died a worthy death; there was no need for sorrow.
The succubus lord Trianlia had vanished, banished back to the Abyss after being severely wounded. She wouldn't be returning for centuries—in today's Eryan, that meant never again.
The Dreamscape, having been drawn into the Prime Material Plane, lost its anchor. Like a room with its central pillar removed, even swarms of nightmares could not hold it up. The pink dream shattered on the ground, and the dreamer jolted awake. The nightmares still posed a certain threat, but these clowns, stripped of their stage, lived up to their reputation as the weakest of the Greater Demons.
"One," Tasha said.
Her body traced an arc through the air; she folded her wings and arched her back, narrowly dodging a sharp gust of wind. She landed as lightly as a cat, then sprang upward, spread her wings, and soared skyward. Behind Tasa, a flash of light too fleeting for the naked eye to catch turned a vast expanse of land to dust.
A scythe—one with a blade far larger than Tasa herself—whose material was almost impossible to discern. It was luminous and transparent, like the shimmering ripples on a lake. The massive creature wielding the scythe swung its weapon once more; for such a large being, it moved with incredible speed. The scythe pursued Tasha, but midway through the air, it suddenly veered off course, its back glancing off Tasha's side as if struck by a pebble.
"One," said Victor, feigning a fist pump. "In the blink of an eye, the first one to go, Trianlia, has been sent back. Oh, old friends, why on earth did you give the first spot to it?"
The attacker paused. The scythe—which had been indistinguishable from its body amid the rapid assault—finally came into clear view. It was a massive skeleton, with the scythe growing directly from its frame. When it stood still, its translucent body slowly turned pale, as if glass had been veiled by white mist.
The Lord of the Reapers, "Pale Amon."
Ten minutes ago, they had arrived in the Abyss. Five minutes ago, they had encountered the first demon lord there. A minute had been spent catching up and exchanging harsh words, and four minutes on a tentative back-and-forth exchange. Now, they had paused the battle on that side for a moment.
The demon lords could not cross over all at once, nor one after another; there was a fixed minimum time interval between each pair of lords. After sending the succubus lord Trianlia back, the Material Plane would be safe for a while.
"Well then," Tasa said, "let's not waste any more time on our end either. Let's get started."