The silence that fell over the Blighted Canopy was profound, but it was the silence of a held breath, not of peace. With the Nexus of Thorns destroyed, the constant, gnawing static of Anastasia's distant influence had vanished. The very air of Serenar felt lighter, the colors of the bioluminescent fungi seeming brighter, the songs of the few remaining uncorrupted birds more vibrant. Yet, in the strategic heart of the white palace, the mood was taut with anticipation. They had cut the supply line, not defeated the supplier.
"The anchor is gone," the Verdant Queen stated, her voice echoing softly in the war room. The living map on the wall showed the ley-lines slowly, agonizingly slowly, beginning to pulse with their native gold again, the violent purple knot of the Nexus erased. "But Anastasia is not one to accept defeat. He has invested too much. He will be searching for another way in. A more direct, and undoubtedly more violent, method."
Rael, for once, seemed to share her grim outlook. He stood uncharacteristically still by a window, watching the serene forest. The usual playful smirk was absent, replaced by a focused intensity. "He's desperate," Rael murmured, more to himself than to the room. "The Demon King's trust is a blade at his throat. He'll do something reckless. Something with a high cost for a high reward."
Zuzu felt the truth of his words settle in her gut like a stone. The plan to save Nihilastra, the fragile hope the Queen had offered, hinged on one thing: Ryo's unique healing ability. But Ryo was in Arcadia, a world away, separated by the very barrier that was both their shield and their cage.
Later, in a quiet antechamber, Zuzu knelt, focusing her will. She recalled a basic, low-level contact spell the guild healers used for short-range communication. It was a long shot, spanning continents and potent magical barriers, but she had to try. She poured her mana into the effort, picturing Shiro's face—his stubborn jaw, his perpetually irritated expression. The spell connected with a dizzying lurch, and a chaotic image swam into her mind's eye.
It was Shiro, all right. But he was hanging upside down, tangled in a web of ropes and laundry lines, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The sounds of a bustling Arcadian street and the angry shouts of a shopkeeper formed a bizarre backdrop.
"Shiro!" Zuzu's voice echoed in the shared space of the spell. "Where's Ryo? It's urgent!"
Shiro's scowling face seemed to fill her entire vision. "How in the world would I know?" he snapped, voice strained from his inverted position. "Do I look like her keeper? I'm a little busy being publicly humiliated by a clothesline! This is all Rael's fault, I know it!" The connection shattered into static as he presumably fell, leaving Zuzu with nothing but frustration and a fading image of his indignant face.
Sighing, she reported her failure to the Queen. "I cannot reach her. My contact found Shiro, but he was... indisposed. He doesn't know where Ryo is."
The Queen's emerald eyes narrowed in thought. "The red-haired warrior from your vision? The one with the fire in his soul that burns even across dimensions?" A plan, desperate and dangerous, began to form in her gaze. "His energy is a potent beacon, a torch in the spiritual gloom of the outside world. If this Ryo is his companion, their auras may be intertwined. I can use him as an anchor, a focal point to pull her through."
"Your Majesty, wait—" Zuzu began, but it was too late.
The Queen raised her hands, and the air in the throne room began to shimmer with an intensity that hurt the eyes. This was no gentle portal or clever shortcut; this was a raw, demanding celestial summoning. She was harnessing the lingering echo of Zuzu's contact spell and using Shiro's blazing, unique energy signature as a tether, pulling with all her immense, ancient power.
In a back alley in Arcadia, Shiro, who had just sliced himself free with a pocketknife, suddenly vanished. There was no warning, no portal. One moment he was cursing Rael's name, the next he was a blur of green and silver light, torn from his reality.
He landed in a clumsy heap on the cool, polished white stone of the Verdant Queen's throne room, skidding several feet before coming to a stop. He pushed himself up, dazed and disoriented, his eyes struggling to focus on the regal elf queen, the startled Zuzu, and the circle of elven guards who now had arrows nocked and aimed directly at his heart.
"Where is the healer?" the Queen demanded, her voice resonating with the residual power of the summoning.
Shiro blinked, his confusion rapidly boiling over into a familiar, hot anger. "What healer? What is this? First a bakery line, then a laundry line, now a throne room? Is there some kind of cosmic conspiracy to ruin my day?!" He glared at Zuzu and then at the space where Rael usually stood. "Where is he? This has his name written all over it!"
The Queen's face fell, a flicker of frustration and disappointment crossing her features. She had summoned the wrong person. She had expended a significant amount of power and drawn the exact kind of attention they wanted to avoid, all for nothing.
It was in that moment of collective frustration that the air before them tore open.
This was not Rael's subtle shimmer or the Queen's controlled light. This was a brutal, violent gash in reality, a wound of purple and black energy that screamed with agony. From it stepped Anastasia, his form radiating a palpable, terrifying power that made the very stones of the palace tremble. Beside him stood a hulking Demon General, a mountain of obsidian flesh and smoldering iron, its eyes burning with pitiless fire.
"You have something that belongs to my master," Anastasia's voice cut through the hall, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. He held up a hand, and a spectral image of a small, crystalline vial, pulsing with a captured nebula of light, appeared above his palm. "The Chronicon Lymp. The last existing record of the primordial ley-lines. You will hand it over from its resting place in the Hall of Slumber, or I will reduce your precious white palace to dust and salt."
The Queen's eyes blazed with a fury as old as the forests. "You will have nothing, betrayer. You have already taken enough from me."
Anastasia's smile was a thin, cruel line. "Then we'll take it."
The battle began not with a shout, but with an infernal roar. The Demon General unleashed a wave of pure, black fire that scorched the air itself. The Queen met it not with a dodge, but with defiance, raising a shield of solidified sunlight that erupted from the floor. The collision was cataclysmic, a detonation of opposing energies that shook the palace to its very foundations, sending cracks racing up the white pillars.
Zuzu moved on pure instinct. "Luminous Finality!" she cried, and her glaive erupted with silver radiance. She threw herself into the path of the demonic onslaught, becoming a whirling dervish of light, deflecting blasts of hellfire and parrying the axe-blows of lesser Cursed Dolls that now poured through the unstable rift. "Shiro, we need you!"
Shiro stood for a heartbeat, torn between his boiling anger at being abducted and the immediate, overwhelming threat that had literally walked through the front door. His eyes locked onto Anastasia—the source of his teleportation, the architect of this entire chaotic situation. The decision was made in an instant. The personal grievance was a luxury he couldn't afford.
A roar of raw, untamed fire answered the demon's. "Stay out of my way, elves!" he bellowed, a massive fireball forming in each hand. He didn't wait for an invitation. He launched himself directly at the Demon General, a blazing comet of vengeance.
The throne room became a maelstrom of elemental fury. The Queen dueled Anastasia, spell against corrupted spell, beams of green life-energy clashing with lances of disintegrating purple magic. Meanwhile, Zuzu and Shiro fought a desperate, chaotic battle back-to-back against the Demon General and its minions. It was not an alliance of friends, but a desperate, temporary pact forged in the crucible of survival, a chaotic and explosive defense against the storm that had finally, violently, broken through their doors.