From the peak, the world opened up. The valley and the vast forest spilled toward the horizon, meeting the curve of the earth. The waterfall, shimmering in the twilight, was a curtain of liquid silver. Lauresia remained untainted, primal. As the sun dipped beneath the canopy, it bled a molten gold across the sky—a radiant parting gift from the heavens themselves.
The sanctity of the world at twilight, a silent grandeur rarely witnessed by mortal eyes. He drew in a deep, lung-filling breath, swallowing the origin particles and pure air, fueling a desperate restoration of his mana and vigor. Perhaps it was the minor mana potion merging with the natural force that glowed and overflowed around his form, for his mageia power surged back toward a state of brimming with power once more.
In truth, the young magis had descended to the valley floor and ascended once more in less than a single day. In this span, both his mageia power and life experience had flourished, tempering his veins and marrow until he was reborn.
He was certain he had witnessed stars vanish into the horizon many times before. Yet, the sight of the sun sinking beneath the world's edge this time felt like a heartbeat whose vital importance he had never truly realized.
A windmill stood defiant at the waterfall's end, hoisting an ore lift as a testament to unyielding endeavor. Its blades churned against the encroaching dark, rhythmic and pulsing like a heartbeat. At this moment, it was the very breath of the kingdom. The serene union of nature and the denizens living upon Laurasia kindled within him a fierce desire to protect this peace for all eternity.
"I need to get back," Seraph whispered.
"Ventus Windwalker!"
[Whirr!]
The previous spell chain he had used to scale the cliffside had dissolved the moment his mana hit the threshold. Thus, he cast the spell anew to begin his journey home.
✧ . ✶ . ✡ . ✶ . ✧
Seraph blurred past the Sentry Towers lining the highroad. Upon their structures sat great bells and crystals, designed to flash signals across vast distances. To warn the townsfolk in the surrounding lands, the sentries would strike the iron bells.
Along the highroads of Arkflame, sentry Towers were spaced within clear sight of one another. They utilized the pulsing luminescence of crystal orbs to relay urgent news from afar, rendering horsemen and messengers obsolete.
It was not long before Seraph approached the city of Balyon. By this hour, the sun had long since slipped below the horizon, and the city gates had long been sealed. The gates of Balyon were comprised of four layers of thick metal, possessing a fortitude nearly rivaling that of the Capital. The city walls stood at half the height of the Capital's own—a defence deemed sufficient to repel any marauding horde of lesser demons.
As Seraph sprinted toward the fortifications, light from the battlements surged down to meet him. The sentries had detected a suspicious figure. Soldiers in every city remained in a state of perpetual readiness against the demonic threat; they grew alert, bracing for an immediate engagement the moment an unfriendly presence drew near.
Nightfall compelled every city to bar its gates and elevate its rank of defence and surveillance severalfold.
Demons loathed the sun. While the high-tier alphas could endure the daylight, they still hated the sting of it.
The sunlight was a lethal bane to their kind; low-tier demons, specifically, risked certain death should they linger too long under its glare.
Rarely did the demon legions launch an assault during the day. When the demons struck, it was almost invariably under the shroud of darkness, cementing the grim proverb known to every soul in Laurasia: The day is for the living; the night is for the dead.
A chorus of shouts erupted from the battlements, drifting down to Seraph's ears. Since his awakening in the Infirmary, his senses—especially his mana-sensitivity—had been sharpened to a razor's edge. He could hear the soldiers' hushed, frantic confirmations: they were convinced he was a demon.
It was hardly a surprise. Wrapped in a grey hooded cloak and sprinting through the gloom, he looked more like a prowling assassin than a magis. Knowing a hail of arrows or spells could rain down at any second, Seraph looked up and threw his voice toward the battlements.
"Hold your fire!" Seraph's voice thundered, echoing off the massive stone walls. "I'm a magis back from the Desden Cave! Tell the Lord Governor the mission is done!"
The young man reasoned that once he drew closer to the fortifications, he would simply proffer the Sanctus Scroll for the soldiers to inspect. He was merely a messenger of a completed task; surely, the men of Balyon would not be so uncouth as to deny him professional courtesy.
Yet the soldiers of Balyon held no such sentiment. The young man's words failed to reach their hearts. In truth, their ears caught his shouts, but they harbored no trust for a voice crying out from the devouring shadows.
Demons had long employed deceptions, donning human guises to ensnare the sentries of Balyon.
Many cities had fallen not through a lapse in steel, but because they succumbed to the siren calls of demons cloaked in flesh.
The mountains of corpses rising from the ruins of fallen civilizations served as a grim testament, demanding their vigilance remain at its absolute threshold.
As the echoes of his shout died away, the soldiers of Balyon offered their response. It was no welcome cry that returned, but a dozen arrows whistling through the air, aimed squarely at the enigmatic grey figure.
"Cursed luck!" Seraph spat in a fit of fury.
He could have turned back toward Sanctus immediately, abandoning this wretched city to its own devices. Yet the soldiers had greeted his arrival with a lethal strike—an affront he had never expected to endure.
"I won't back down!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
His eyes flared with a luminous glow amidst the darkness, his body surging with a violent rush of mageia power.
"Ventus Swirl!" Seraph erupted, unleashing the spell in an urgent burst.
[Whirr!]
A tide of gales swept across the city walls. The ferocious wind slammed into the descending shafts, scattering the dozen arrows like chaff. The swirling currents lashed out, causing the army banners to snap and flutter violently, while the braziers and torches atop the battlements were snuffed out by the sheer force of the gust!
The gale lashed out, churning clouds of grit and dust until the soldiers' eyes stung and watered. The sentries of Balyon watched with wide, trembling eyes as the enigmatic magis moved with a fluid grace, his presence looming over the ramparts. Such a maneuver was beyond their reckoning; though legendary warriors and certain demons possessed such strength, such beings were rarities in this world. If the figure in grey before them truly harbored malice, this day would undoubtedly be their last.
"EVERYONE STAND DOWN!" Seraph commanded, his voice vibrating with the resonance of steely authority. "I am a magis of Sanctus!"
"Flamus Sphera!"
[Voom!]
A sphere of conjured flame ignited and ascended above Seraph's head. The brilliant mageia light tore through the oppressive gloom, casting a radiance far more piercing than the flickering braziers and torches that lined the stone battlements.