Brimhold City…
Black Dragon Main Hall…
While Emperor Groa Aratat scrambled to fulfill the Trickster God's cryptic demands, far away in Region 32, a storm of a different kind brewed in the heart of Brimhold City.
The Black Dragon main hall—once a chamber of glory and laughter—was now thick with anxiety and muted murmurs. Torches lit the ancient walls, flickering shadows across the weathered banners of Josh Aratat. His seat at the head of the chamber lay empty, untouched, as though his spirit might return at any moment to reclaim it.
Over two thousand of his followers were gathered—warriors, scouts, spies, and civilians who had thrown their lot in with the man who had once cleaved a kraken in two. Their eyes were all fixed on the dais, where the top generals now stood, faces hardened by loss and uncertainty.
Ralia took a breath, her voice strong but laced with tension. She had just finished recounting the harrowing tale of the swamp—the sudden disappearance of Josh, the surreal emergence of the Trickster God, and the god's terrifying power that left even the mighty emperor broken.
"...So that's how Master vanished," she said, her voice carrying across the hall, "and how the Trickster God breached our realm. Now we face a threat that... not even all of us together can stand against. We're gathered here not just to spread this information or mourn—but to decide what happens next."
There was a moment of dead silence. Then Limro, the spear genius who was tall and built like a wall of iron, stood up from his bench.
"I say we leave," he growled, voice gruff and unapologetic. "We run, scatter, hide—anything. What's coming isn't war—it's obliteration. That thing... it doesn't play by rules we understand. We'd be walking into a storm with nothing but sticks and curses."
A wave of murmurs swept through the hall—some nodding, some recoiling.
But then Naze, the blind shot archer and sword fighter, rose, fiery-eyed and unyielding.
"Run? You suggest we run?" he barked, slamming a fist on the wooden table before him. "Master never raised us to be cowards! If he stood here—he'd already be halfway to that beast with a sword in one hand and a warcry on his lips. We don't abandon the locals! We don't abandon each other! We are the only hope they have."
Tension snapped in the air like a drawn bowstring. Arguments erupted—some siding with Limro, others shouting back with Naze's fury. The sound of divided loyalties began to thunder louder than any war drum.
In the midst of it all, Lola sat calmly beside Conrad Stan, the flickering light of the torches casting quiet defiance in her eyes. She leaned slightly toward him, whispering so only he could hear.
"They're breaking apart, Conrad. We need to act."
Conrad nodded grimly. He had always been Josh's right hand in action—and now, with Josh gone, he bore the crushing weight of inherited leadership.
He stood slowly, raising his hand. The hall fell quiet, and the atmosphere changed, as if even the torches had leaned in to listen.
"There will be no running," Conrad said. His voice wasn't loud—but it carried power, anchored by years of respect. "And there will be no suicide missions either."
He let that sink in.
"We will strategize. We will investigate what the Trickster God wants. And we will not charge blindly into the dark—we will light our own path first. If Master is gone, then his legacy is us. His teachings. His fire. His cause."
He looked to each general, then to the sea of faces below.
"We're not prey. We are the fangs in the dark. Let's act like it."
The hall stayed silent, but the mood shifted—fear giving way to resolve, division cracking just enough to let strategy slip in.
Suddenly, a maniacal laughter filled the hall. "Ahahahahahahahah! AhahaAHAhaha! Ahahaaa—oh, this is delightful!"
The insane laughter split through the hall like a thunderclap. Every soldier jumped to their feet, hands on weapons, eyes darting around in panicked recognition.
The voice needed no introduction.
Ralia's breath caught in her throat. The colour drained from Limro's face.
The Trickster God was here.
"Clap. Clap. Clap."
Slow, mocking applause echoed from the upper platforms of the chamber. All heads turned as a figure stepped out of thin air—perched on one of the elevated stone balconies like a theatre actor enjoying his grand entrance.
Draped in strange, shivering fabrics that shifted between colours, his form seemed both too real and too dreamlike. His eyes appeared like empty darkness. His grin was all teeth—hungry, mad, and almost boyishly amused.
He raised a long, pale finger and pointed directly at Naze.
"That one. That young man right there..." His voice slithered into every ear, cold and invasive. "He just saved your miserable lives."
The hall froze.
"Had you chosen to run..." he continued, voice now dipped in venom, "I would have reduced every last one of you to ash. Not because you're dangerous—oh no—you're not, on the contrary you're like chickens on this night's menu. Rather, it is because cowards are of no use to me."
A long pause.
Then the Trickster's tone shifted—playful, almost giddy.
"But now... now that you've chosen to stay... well... I have plans for you."
Gasps. A few hands tightened around sword, spears, glaive and bow hilts. But 1,700 of those present—Death Level loyalists of Josh Aratat—stood their ground, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the entity before them. They had sworn oaths that no god, trickster or not, could break.
Still, fear rippled through the rest of the assembly like a virus.
The Trickster grinned wider, inhaling the terror like perfume.
"Let's make this fun, shall we?" he whispered, arms stretching wide as though embracing the whole hall. "You've just become pawns in a game much bigger than any of you imagined. But fret not—" his eyes twinkled darkly, "some of you might even survive."
""Attack!" Lola's voice pierced through the hall like a whip of lightning cracking the sky. Her eyes burned with raw fury as she surged forward, the leather coils of her enchanted whip trailing behind her like a predator ready to strike. The whip snapped against the floor with a violent hiss, and sparks danced in its wake.
Conrad Stan was at her side in a heartbeat, his twin-edged glaive already spinning in his hands. Each movement he made was deliberate and deadly, a symphony of trained muscle and honed steel. Behind them, Ralia Amia followed, her Orb of Memories glowing with a pulsating violet light, swirling like a storm trapped within glass. She summoned echoes of past battles, whispers of ancient spells, and threads of lost time to lace her next move.
They moved as one—generals trained by Josh Aratat himself—coordinated and sharp, circling the trickster god like wolves around a wounded beast.
But the god was no prey.
He stood on the elevated dais with his arms folded behind his back, unfazed by the approaching force, his mouth curled in that same maddening smile. Then—he began to laugh again. A laughter so unhinged and cold it curdled the air around him.
"Ahahahahahahahaha… ahaha… ahahahaha…"
The fighters slowed—not because they feared—but because of how unnatural it felt. The laughter didn't echo; it infiltrated. It was like a voice inside their heads that didn't belong there.
More soldiers began pouring into the attack, forming a tide of motion, steel, magic, and willpower crashing toward the trickster god.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he blinked slowly… and spoke. His voice slid across the hall like venom dripping from a blade.
"Lola..." He said her name like a lover's whisper—intimate, dangerous. "Are you sure you want to do this for him? Your precious Black dragon… You do know he has other women, right? Other hearts he's tangled himself in, other hands he's held… maybe even warmer than yours."
The words hit like shrapnel. They weren't just taunts; they were seeded. Crafted with his perception-warping abilities to fracture certainty, twist memory, and sow doubt in a single breath.
Lola flinched—barely—but it was there.
The trickster god's grin widened. "You were always his number one, weren't you? Or so you believed. But what if you weren't? What if you were just… convenient?" His voice slithered into her ears, bypassing logic and drilling into the core of her convictions.
In that instant, everything froze.
The battle hadn't stopped, but Lola had. Just slightly. Just long enough.
She didn't know it then, but the trickster god had found the crack—and he was ready to drive the wedge deeper.
But fate hadn't sealed yet.
If Lola could push through this moment—this cruel illusion—if she could anchor herself in truth and loyalty, in the memories of all they had fought for, she might land the first true blow the trickster god had ever received in this world.
But if she faltered… if the doubt took root…
Then everything—Josh's legacy, the people, Brimhold itself—could crumble like dust beneath a god's laughter.