The projectiles tore through the undead vessels like a hailstorm of iron. Seraph commanded the brunt of the onslaught to focus on the Hyghul, while the remaining volleys decimated the other miner husks.
The staccato of the discharge merged with the agonized shrieks of the undead. The Hyghul's cranium detonated like a bursting melon, and its demon minions fared no better, their frames riddled with holes until they resembled honeycomb. All six demons were hurled against the cavern walls by the momentum, dislodging a rain of stone and dust before they slumped to the earth, motion-less and unmade.
The demons lay motionless, and the cyclonic currents of the mageia gradually dissolved. The chamber fell into a deathly stillness, echoing the silence of a despoiled tomb. Though a mournful gale still drifted from the deeper fissures of the mine, the only sound within this sanctum was the ragged breathing of the young magis. He leaned heavily against the stone wall, his strength spent, before slumping toward the earth.
"Made it..." Seraph wheezed, his voice trembling with exhaustion.
With the struggle concluded, his mana reserves were nearly depleted. The young magis felt the world spin; his body was so devoid of vigor that the cold stone was his only support. The barrage he had just unleashed was a prototype art, still in development and far from refined. That it had not recoiled upon him or detonated within his own frame suggested the Goddess of Fortune had looked upon him with rare mercy this day.
In that moment, the young man beheld the human souls within the five miner husks ascending, dissipating into the wind. Their countenances were etched with gratitude for their liberation, following the same cycle he had witnessed before.
Yet, the soul of the Hyghul was cast in a different mold. The visage of the demon soul was twisted in absolute resentment toward him. It retained its savage, bloodthirsty demeanor, and its spiritual form was indistinguishable from its demonic shell. The soul was pallid and somber, appearing utterly cursed.
Seraph stared at the demonic soul with profound suspicion, yet he could glean no answers from its silent fury. This was a mystery he had yet to study in depth, leaving him ignorant of the reasons behind such divergent spiritual remnants.
Almost simultaneously, the Origin Light Dust surged into Seraph's frame with predatory speed. The mageia particles from the Hyghul's remains were notably more concentrated; the sensation confirmed that the power reaped from a high-tier demon was far more substantial than that of its weaker demon minions.
Seraph wiped the grime from his brow, his fingers still trembling. "So that's how Light Dust works. The more demons one slays, the more mageia power fragments one acquires. Vanquishing high-tier demons and stronger ones yields more mageia power fragments than lesser demons."
He let out a harsh, dry laugh. "Simple enough in theory. But to get stronger, I have to hunt the big ones—high-tier demons that potent like Demon Gods. Isn't that just a fancy way of committed suicide? Victory isn't a guarantee... hell, I almost saw the afterlife three times in the last ten minutes alone."
Seraph possessed a vast repository of spells within his memory banks. He was, fundamentally, a mageia theorist. The sheer volume of mageia spells he could draw upon seemed boundless.
Yet, amidst the electric tension of battle, every decision and movement diverred starkly from mere training. Life and death were separated by only a sheer membrane during a fight. Every moment bristled with fatal risk, for the adversary also sought victory. The young man could not deploy every single spell to its full potential, a limitation that had almost claimed his life time and again.
'I got cocky,' Seraph thought, rubbing his chest where the adrenaline still burned. 'I actually thought I was better than the rest of them. What a joke. I'm green... way too green.'
He felt his heart thrumming against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that refused to slow down. 'I can't play it like this anymore. One more slip-up, and the Goddesses will be dragging my soul back to the Garden.'
Though the minor clash had concluded, the mana circulated relentlessly. Ice-cold sweat slicked his face and body. Adrenaline still surged; blood and mageia power coursed through his body like savage wild horses. The young man had no choice but to utilize this time to hunt the remaining undead.
Once his exhaustion faded, Seraph rose to his feet. He proceeded with his hunt. Lately, the demons within the Desden Cave seemed to sense an external adversary hunting them. Consequently, they began preparing their defences. The young man notably encountered two additional Hyghul.
Fortunately, he had prepared his defences with equal vigilance. Seraph had woven defensive mageia from the very start. Whenever possible, he sought to launch ambushes from the blind corners of the tunnel, allowing him to execute the undead miners with the same effortless precision as before.
The young magis was suddenly beset by a Hyghul, lunging silently from the onyx shadows. It had remained concealed in the cave's lightless hollows before erupting from the tunnel passage with harrowing speed. Only these clashes with the undead alphas truly imposed a grueling burden upon the young man.
Through a stroke of providential fortune, Seraph struggled through the hardship and successfully emerged from Desden Cave. Yet, the Goddess of Luck bestowed no further boons upon him; no other treasure chests manifested to reward his search.
Seraph trudged out of the cave tunnels in a state of utter dilapidation, his form as tattered as a frayed rag. He descended to the valley floor during the waning afternoon. After hours of relentless combat, by the time he escaped Desden Cave, evening had already begun to settle.
Though a dense mist choked the valley heights, a faint, dim light still managed to filter through. In contrast, the interior of Desden Cave remained a void, entirely devoid of light. Had he not sustained a Sphera continuously, he would have been unable to perceive even the path beneath his feet.
Seraph unfurled his Sanctus Scroll. Within the mageia parchment, the mageia glyphs had shifted entirely, rewriting the mission details. Upon the merit table, under the tally of vanquished demons, the number '179' materialized. Below it, inscribed with strokes that were both bold and potent, a declaration stood: 'Mission Complete.'
The appearance of these words upon the mission scroll did not signify the absolute end of the ordeal; rather, it signaled that all objectives and conditions had been fulfilled. The magis could now return to Sanctus to claim his rewards and mission points immediately.
Only when a magis returns to claim their rewards and mission points at Sanctus is a task truly considered concluded. This remains the absolute rule, barring recurring or sequential missions, which allow the practitioner to proceed to the next phase without returning to the Sanctum until the final threshold is reached.
Under the mandates of the Sanctus Sanctum, the petitioner must deposit the full bounty and all mission rewards in advance. Consequently, the magis undertaking the task has no obligation to meet the petitioner in person.
Should the mission end in failure or remain unfulfilled within the stipulated timeframe, all funds and rewards are returned to the petitioner in full. These conditions exist to prevent petitioners from defrauding the magis or Sanctus upon completion of the labor—though the demon hunter guilds or other mercenary groups may operate under far more lax protocols.