Rodin waved his hand as casually as if he were hailing a cab, and from beneath the blood-colored sea of clouds, a massive, blurry figure rose. The figure circled a crimson tornado in the distance like a shark detecting prey beneath the waves, then surged forward with visible excitement, racing toward the cliff where Rodin and the Arcanist stood.
It was a manta ray-shaped lower-plane creature known as Insidious.
Solomon had encountered such a creature before in an underground cavern, gliding through the cold darkness like a predator.
Compared to the one he'd seen previously, this Insidious had the same slime-slick black skin marred by sanity-shattering patches of decay, but it was noticeably smaller, its chaotic markings denser, with pectoral fins spreading roughly twenty-three to twenty-four feet. Even so, it was still a behemoth. Every time he saw one of these things, it reminded him of bats—embodiments of shadow and fear from the oceanic abyss, silent hunters lurking beneath mud and coral.
Rodin beckoned Solomon to jump down from the cliff onto Insidious's pectoral fin, then walk to the beast's head, overlooking the floating rubble, islands, and various minor lower-plane creatures drifting below. Paying no mind to Solomon's expression of disgust, the fallen angel craftsman gave a shout, and the manta-like entity flapped its fins and glided through the sulfur-choked air with the ease of swimming through water, slipping forward in smooth, surprising stability.
Even though they still had some distance to go, Solomon could already hear shrill female screams and gunfire coming from a barren floating island above the blood-colored sea of clouds. That alone wasn't enough to confirm Bayonetta's presence—during the past few minutes riding Insidious, he had passed some truly depraved places, where humanoid lower-plane beings indulged in carnage and lust. What truly confirmed her location was the towering figure of the Butterfly Lady—and the horrifying laughter of that demonic woman. From afar, it looked like she was enjoying her favorite pastime: pummeling something with her fists.
Even more striking was the sight of another figure circling outside the floating island—a female demon clad in a white gown, her headdress resembling a full lunar eclipse, ruthlessly hunting every lower-plane creature drawn by the noise.
Solomon immediately recognized her: the River Styx demoness under contract with Jeanne—Lady Styx. Clearly, the unlucky soul-thief who had stolen Jeanne's soul was now under siege by the witches' contracted demons. As Insidious drew closer, Lady Styx lowered her massive form to inspect the newcomers. Her blood-red eyes locked onto Solomon and Rodin, and in her clawed, crimson-nailed hand, she clutched another of the same manta-like creatures, sulfuric blood and rotting flesh raining down in a foul torrent.
Rodin took a deep draw from his cigar, then flicked the glowing stub away. "State your business clearly, Arcanist. That's her true form. You'd best be respectful," he said in a low voice. "Don't piss off a woman—that's friendly advice. I don't want to get attacked over something so ridiculous."
Though Lady Styx bore all the classic features of a succubus from the lower planes, Solomon still recognized her true identity. He addressed her with the reverence due an ancient Titan goddess—but only reverence, not submission. Not even Vishanti could make Solomon bow. "Noble Oceanid, Mistress of the River Styx," he said. "You already know why I'm here."
Oceanids, nymphs born of the Titans, were minor Olympian goddesses. She was called Lady Styx because she ruled one of the five rivers that encircle the lower planes. And the reason witches' shadows resemble moths upon contracting with her is tied to folklore: moths are said to carry souls of the dead, or be souls of the dead. Myths, prayers, and worship—however small—always influence the deities they're directed at. That is an immutable law.
Solomon used her true name—both a show of respect and a veiled threat.
On one hand, remembering a deity's name meant maintaining their worship, crucial for a Titan of the Olympian pantheon—unless they were a recluse like Hecate. On the other hand, knowing a true name meant holding power over them. A true name in the hands of a Kamar-Taj Arcanist could be weaponized in countless ways. That's why the Sorcerer Supreme went to such lengths to obscure Solomon's own true name—rendering it invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, unwriteable, and unspeakable without choking.
Solomon made it clear: he was going through.
"Athena invites you to dinner," Lady Styx said. "Of course, after this matter is resolved." She stepped aside, clearing the way to the floating island. Even Rodin, experienced as he was, furrowed his brow and said nothing. Solomon shrugged and took a puff from the cigar Rodin had given him.
"Whether it's the legacy of Kamar-Taj or my bloodline, I can trace it back to the Olympians," he said. "Besides, I've always been closer to the Titans. So yes, it's just nepotism."
Even Baron Mordo was taken aback.
He'd never imagined Solomon possessed such a vast arsenal. After the giant tanks rolled through the town, countless self-propelled artillery pieces were moved into firing positions outside, initiating fire recon on the slopes of Mount Fimbulwinter. Mortars, howitzers—every tool of big-gun warfare was being deployed, as if a full-blown localized war was about to begin. And that wasn't even counting the tactical nuke-equipped fighter jets and experimental high-tech weapons mounted across the mountain—lasers, plasma, electromagnetic railguns, and more. Mordo had no idea what tactical objective Solomon's forces were even aiming for.
Yet despite the war machine already surrounding the battlefield, Tita and Sophia remained distracted—still preoccupied with the Arcanist.
Unlike Tita, whose concern was purely emotional, Sophia understood just how crucial Solomon was to the people of the Lost City. She and her kin carried a grim responsibility: serving as war overseers. They had the best equipment and the authority to eliminate any coward under their command. They had to do this—because they weren't facing human enemies, but creatures from another dimension. No one knew how long ordinary soldiers could hold their sanity under such pressure.
Even Sophia couldn't guarantee she'd remain unaffected.
Her greatest fear was losing her ability to command. If she faltered, the entire overseer structure—built on rigid chains of command—would collapse. And if Solomon didn't return, her people would be blamed, cast out, and forced to retreat to their base in the Lost City. No one wanted to return to the days of walking hundreds of kilometers to trade for basic supplies after hunting trips.
Sophia confided her worries to Victoria Hand, but the intelligence chief merely gave her a curious glance—and reassured her that such a foolish scenario would never happen.
Was this foolish girl really questioning the Lord's strategic foresight?
(End of Chapter)
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