I. The Distortion
It happened at noon.
That was the problem.
Markets were open. Bells were ringing. Pilgrims crowded the steps of the Cathedral of the Sevenfold Mercy, craning for a glimpse of the Hero as he passed through the outer square. Children sat on their fathers' shoulders. Vendors shouted blessings louder than prices.
Akira walked at the center of it all, armor polished, cloak white, expression calm.
Inside, he was braced like a drawn wire.
Stay quiet, he told the pressure beneath his ribs. Not now.
The pact did not answer in words.
It answered in misalignment.
As Akira stepped into the square, the sunlight stuttered.
Not dimmed. Not darkened.
It fractured—splitting for the space of a heartbeat into overlapping shadows, as if the day itself had briefly forgotten where it was meant to fall.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
A child pointed. "Mama—why is the light wrong?"
Akira froze.
For the span of three breaths, the world did not know which rules to obey.
The Cathedral's white stone bled a faint violet sheen along its edges. The banners bearing the Church's sigil fluttered against a wind no one felt. And behind Akira—etched faintly into the air like an afterimage—rose the suggestion of vast, folded wings.
They were not solid.
They were there.
Astarielle felt it at the same instant.
She was seated in council when Noctyra's upper wards screamed.
Not alarm—confusion.
The city's shadow-lattices flickered, projecting reflections that did not belong to them: pale stone arches, burning censers, the echo of choral prayer bleeding into demon streets.
She stood so fast her throne cracked.
"No," she whispered.
Across the world, Akira clenched his fists as the pressure spiked.
Stop, he commanded silently. They can see you.
The wings vanished.
The sunlight snapped back into place.
The square exhaled.
People laughed nervously. Someone called it a trick of the light. A priest loudly declared it a miracle of divine revelation—an omen of victory soon to come.
Akira resumed walking.
But the damage was done.
From the highest balcony of the Synod Hall, High Inquisitor Shiori watched with eyes like glass.
She did not smile.
She turned to her aides.
"Prepare a deployment," she said. "Immediately."
II. The Order
They told Akira it was routine.
A demon enclave sighted near the eastern ravines. A minor nest—refugees, likely, fleeing deeper purges. Too small for a battalion. Perfect for the Hero to erase cleanly.
The timing was not coincidence.
Akira accepted the mission without protest.
That frightened them more than refusal would have.
As he armed himself, the pact stirred—not gently this time, but with intent.
They are sending you to kill, Astarielle said into the shared space, her voice threaded with restrained fury.
"I know."
And you are going.
"Yes."
Silence—tight, dangerous.
Then: How many?
Akira hesitated. "Unknown. Probably dozens."
Noncombatants?
"Probably."
The word tasted like ash.
Astarielle's presence sharpened. If you do this—
"I won't slaughter them," he said quietly. "But I can't refuse. Not yet."
They are testing you, she said. After the distortion.
"I know."
Another pause.
Then, softer: I will watch.
He swallowed. "Don't."
I can't not, she replied.
The hunt began at dusk.
III. The Ravines
The eastern ravines were a wound in the land—jagged stone teeth gnawing at a sky perpetually bruised by ash-clouds. The Church called it cursed ground.
Demonfolk called it shelter.
Akira moved alone, blade sheathed, senses stretched tight. The pact hovered at the edge of his awareness—not overlaying the world this time, but tracking it, feeding impressions back and forth like a shared nerve.
He felt Astarielle's attention settle—not possessive, not intrusive.
Witness.
He found the enclave by accident, the way most atrocities begin.
A flicker of movement. A suppressed cry. A child darting between rocks.
He stopped.
From Astarielle's perspective, the ravine unfolded in sharp relief: ragged shelters of bone and cloth, demon sigils scrawled not for power but for warding. She saw elders with cracked horns and missing limbs. She felt the echo of hunger, exhaustion, fear.
"They're refugees," she said. "Barely armed."
"I see them."
You feel them, she corrected.
He did.
That was new.
A sudden shout—one of the demon guards had spotted him. Panic rippled through the enclave. Not aggression.
Flight.
Akira stepped forward, raising a hand. "I'm not here to—"
An arrow flew.
It missed—wide, wild—but the sound was enough.
The Church observers hidden along the ridge leaned forward.
Akira felt their gaze like a brand.
They are watching your choice, Astarielle said.
He drew his blade.
The demonfolk scattered.
"Stop!" he shouted—but his voice carried authority they did not trust.
A young demon lunged, desperate, claws flashing.
Akira disarmed him in one clean motion, blade turning, never cutting flesh.
The watchers stiffened.
He incapacitated without killing. Disabled without cruelty. Each movement precise.
But restraint was not mercy in the Church's eyes.
This is not enough, Astarielle warned. They want blood.
"I know."
The pressure built.
Then—
A child screamed.
Not fear.
Pain.
Akira spun—
—and the world broke.
IV. The Second Distortion
The scream tore through the pact like a hook.
Astarielle felt it as if it came from her own throat.
Her power surged reflexively—not summoned, not shaped.
Across the ravine, shadows deepened.
Akira's blade flared—not with holy light, but with a dim, twilight sheen that did not belong to either side.
The ground rippled.
The demon child froze mid-step as a translucent barrier snapped into place around him—woven of shadow and sigil, unmistakably succubus magic.
Every eye turned.
The Church observers gasped.
"That's demoncraft," someone whispered.
Akira stared at his sword.
"I didn't—" he began.
You didn't, Astarielle said. I did.
The barrier shattered as quickly as it formed.
Too late.
The distortion rolled outward like a shockwave. For a heartbeat, the ravine existed in two states: scorched stone and obsidian spires; holy runes and infernal glyphs overlaid like clashing memories.
Several demonfolk fell to their knees, overwhelmed.
Akira staggered, blood seeping from his nose.
"Hero!" a voice shouted from the ridge. "Stand down and step away!"
Astarielle's presence flared hot with panic. They will brand you corrupted.
"I know," he whispered. "And if I finish the hunt, they'll call it proof of purity."
And if you don't—
"They'll call it treason."
Silence stretched—thin, screaming.
Akira made his choice.
He sheathed his blade.
"Leave," he said to the demonfolk, voice carrying unnaturally far. "Now."
They did not argue.
They fled.
The Church observers descended moments later to find an empty ravine—and residual demon magic etched into the air like a bruise.
Akira stood alone.
Waiting.
V. What Watches Learn
That night, reports crossed borders.
Pilgrims spoke of wings in the light.
Scouts whispered of shadowed barriers raised by a holy blade.
The Church classified the incident.
The Demon courts whispered of a Queen's power bleeding into daylight.
And in the quiet between worlds, Akira and Astarielle stood together in a shared, waking silence—no dream, no vision.
Just awareness.
This cannot continue, Astarielle said.
"No," Akira agreed.
They will force another test.
"Yes."
And next time— her voice tightened, —they will not accept restraint.
Akira closed his eyes.
"Then we change the terms."
Across the world, something ancient shifted its weight.
Not toward peace.
Not toward war.
Toward exposure.