The woman who appeared was striking — her face delicate, graceful, undeniably beautiful.
The members of Howlspire stared, taken aback by the sudden appearance of such a radiant figure in a place like this.
Unfortunately, Soren would never know. He could only read her presence, her posture, the cadence of her words — and not using his left eye.
The Howlspire adventurers glanced at him, puzzled and mildly impressed.
"Mister Noctis," Vin said, lowering his voice slightly. "Is she… someone you know?"
Soren didn't answer right away.
He remained composed, eyes closed as always — but his posture held subtle tension. A readiness. Because despite her casual tone and elegant air, this woman was someone he had only briefly spoken with before — during a shared carriage ride. Now she had appeared, unannounced, in the middle of nowhere. In a battlefield's aftermath. That alone demanded caution.
"Lady Elianne," Soren said evenly. "Forgive me for being direct… but what are you doing here? And how did you find this place?"
Elianne pouted — or at least, her voice made it sound like she did.
"Oh dear, are you suspecting me already? That's a bit painful, Mister Noctis. After all the lovely conversations we shared on the road… I thought we had grown quite close."
Her tone was playful, light. But after a moment, it faded into silence.
Her mind drifted — unbidden — to the moment just hours ago.
She and her silent bodyguard had arrived at Kirra under their own purpose: tracking the Crimson Apostle. But then they saw it — the impossible sight of a battle unfolding in the valley outside town.
Four people. One massive, terrifying dragon.
They hadn't been close enough to intervene. But they'd seen enough.
Especially him.
Soren Noctis.
The blind man she'd casually spoken with on the carriage. The polite spellcaster who had gently deflected her probing questions with calm, measured wit. She had found him intriguing then — not because of his blindness, but because something in him didn't quite match what he presented.
And now?
Now she had seen him swallow a dragon's breath — a torrent of death, a force of absolute destruction — as if it were nothing. A calamity, devoured by him!
She had felt her heart skip a beat.
This was no ordinary blind man. Not some wandering scholar or prodigy. No. Soren Noctis was something else entirely. And she needed to know what.
But that mystery could wait for another time. For now, she had a more immediate priority — and a perfect excuse to stay close.
"I won't beat around the bush," she said, stepping further into the cave, her voice calm yet edged with purpose. "It seems you're tracking the Crimson Apostle. As it happens, so am I."
She offered a faint smile, the torchlight catching the glint in her eyes."So that makes two of us."
Soren knew Howlspire wasn't in fighting shape. Their wounds were too fresh, their strength worn thin. Sudden aid like this — unexpected and convenient — couldn't be turned away, even if Elianne's true identity remained a question mark.
"If that's the case, then I'm grateful, Lady Elianne."
"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow, lips curling slightly. "Not suspicious of me anymore?"
Soren shook his head.
"My blindness has made me… more sensitive to people," he said honestly. "Since that day on the carriage, I could tell. You're not evil, Lady Elianne. Maybe secretive, but not cruel."
"So I'll try to trust you."
Elianne blinked — then laughed, light and silvery.
"That sounded almost like a confession," she said, half-teasing. "I like it."
She turned to the others and gave a graceful nod.
"Very well then. We'll join forces — myself, and my bodyguard. At least until this business with the Crimson Apostle is done."
Her presence added an unexpected weight — and perhaps, a new complication. But for now, Soren accepted it.
Because they had no choice. And because something told him she would have followed him anyway.
---
Outside the cave, a cold wind swept across the ridges. Shadows shifted in unnatural ways.
"They're here," one of the Crimson Apostle's followers whispered, crouched beside the trail that led to the cave mouth.
The Apostle didn't answer right away. He simply tilted his head — as if listening to voices no one else could hear. Then, with a gesture almost too elegant for someone clad in blood-black robes, he moved forward.
The others followed.
Inside the cave, the air tensed.
Soren, Elainne and her bodyguard, the trio Howlspire, stiffened, their senses flaring. The magic in the air rippled. An unnatural silence pressed in — moments before they will execute the ambush they prepared.
Do it now!
Elianne's bodyguard moved like a shadow, intercepting the first attacker with a steel-clad sweep. His blade carved through the dark with frightening precision, revealing his prowess as more than just a mere escort. He was a master swordsman — swift, fluid, and utterly lethal.
Elianne herself lifted a hand, and with a flick of her wrist, a cascade of spectral rose petals burst into the air — each one a magical sigil. The moment they touched an enemy, they detonated into waves of psychic disruption and concussive force. Her spells were elegant, deceptive — beauty laced with deadly intent.
Howlspire follows, fought with grit and fury! Joran's sword energy split the ground, sending shockwaves through enemy lines. Vin, bleeding but focused, conjured barriers and lashes of elemental flame. Garron fought with desperate strength, protecting his comrades like a fortress refusing to fall.
But then—
Then came the silence. A silence that wasn't absence of sound — but the presence of something terrible.
He arrived.
The Crimson Apostle stepped into view, unhurried.
The very air seemed to recoil from him.
He didn't need to bark commands. His presence alone shifted the tide. With one utterance — a language older than any known demon tongue — the cave walls screamed. Blood-red sigils flared into life across the floor, warping reality around them.
"By the Old Pact… what is he?" Garron muttered, breathless.
He moved like smoke. His spellwork didn't follow traditional casting — it was heretical, fragmented, wild — and yet horrifyingly efficient. Each incantation warped limbs, bent light, and shattered minds. He struck with blasphemous doctrines, infecting magic itself with taint and paradox.
Even Elianne faltered, her expression sharpening in sudden, grave calculation.
"This isn't a normal A-rank mission target," Vin choked out. "He's—he's on a different tier entirely."
The Crimson Apostle raised a hand, and a wave of midnight tendrils surged forward.
Soren moved to counter — but too late.
The force struck him like a thunderclap.
He was hurled backward, spine slamming into a jagged rock wall. His body hit the ground hard — and did not move.
"Soren!" Elianne called out, startled for the first time.
But the blind spellcaster did not rise.
He had slipped into unconsciousness.
—And somewhere deeper.
---
When Soren opened his eyes, he found himself standing.
Not lying. Not injured.
The world around him was… wrong.
He could… see here.
That alone told him this wasn't the real world. It couldn't be.
An endless, black expanse. But it wasn't mere void — it was textured like ink and oil, moving, whispering. There were fragments of voices, memories, illusions of a life he remembered — fleeting images flashing across the dark like brittle film strips.
His head throbbed.
Then—
"Pathetic."
A voice like iron being ground into rust.
"You lost to that? That ragged heretic preaching scraps of forgotten demonology?"
Soren turned.
From the darkness, something emerged — not walked, not stepped, but slithered forward with unnatural weight.
The figure was massive. Draped in an opulent robe stitched from gold-thread and velvet, though frayed at the hems as if aged by centuries. Its body was bloated, grotesquely round, with a stomach that stretched the fabric tight, bulging with excess.
But the head—if it could be called that—was a mimic.
A treasure chest, ancient and grimy, with its lid half-open.
From within, rows of jagged teeth gleamed, yellowed and sharp. A single, unblinking eye stared from the shadows of the chest's interior, and a thick, slimy tongue drooped lazily over the lip, twitching like a serpent.
Soren recoiled slightly, breath catching in his throat.
He took a slow step back.
"Who…" His voice cracked slightly. "What are you?"
The mimic-head tilted toward him. The single eye gleamed with amusement.
Then came the reply. Smooth. Inevitable.
"You can call me Greed," it said, with a sinister smirk.