Though the sun claimed the afternoon, the interior of the troupe's tent remained steeped in gloom, devoid of a single torch. The young man stood as a solitary pyre, a small beacon defying the encroaching shadows.
Slowly, the fire spread across his form. From his silver tresses, it consumed his visage; from his head, it cascaded down to his chest. Once the white flame pierced his heart, it claimed the organ as its sanctum, detonating in an outward pulse of ivory aura that saturated his entire being. The young man's silhouette became a radiant ward against the dark.
A natural force would demand a toll from its wielder, yet this white flame spared Seraph. For this was no mere elemental strike; it was the flame of purification.
Catharis Spell was a unique mageia art, a synthesis of the light and flamus elements. It lacked any physical lethality, yet it possessed the power to purge the malevolent remnants of demonic fel lurking within.
Illusory Fel corroded the body and mind like a virulent toxin, always leaving a lingering residue within a human host. For mageia that specifically targeted the human soul, the danger was not merely the fracturing of thought or the scrambling of memory.
High-tier Illusory Fel could warp the very essence of a man, transmuting a saint into a sinner. It could strip a devoted family man of his virtue, leaving behind only a husk of cruelty.
Often, battles against demons leave behind virulent toxins or residual fragments of power within the vessel. If these shards of Illusory Fel are not correctly excised, they may gnaw at the psyche until they utterly dismantle one's mageia power and mana!
The frame that once trembled stood firm. His eyes regained their keen, piercing luster. Suddenly, the young magis began to discern the haunting melody of a pipe drifting around him. This was the acrobatic stage, yet no clown troupe remained in sight. The young man was certain: the music drifted from beneath the very earth!
"They still won't yield!" Seraph muttered, his irritation mounting. "There must be more than three Piperclowns lurking here! It is no wonder Rohtas fell to them. To face illusory demons without mental fortification is a grave peril! Even I, forewarned of this mission's corruption, nearly succumbed to the inescapable abyss of their Illusory Fel..."
He spat a bitter laugh. "An amusement park of malice… Hmph."
Soon, the ivory flames flickered out, and with them, the phantoms vanished. The suffocating gloom that had clouded his world dissipated. Inside the Red Piper tent, once steeped in darkness, the atmosphere brightened through his clarified spirit. Only the fury of the young magis remained constant.
"Vile minions!" Seraph bellowed, heedless of all else. "How dare you toy with the hearts of men!!"
In the distance, a subterranean staircase lay concealed behind a tattered screen. The Piperclowns had acted as though they wished none to discover the basement hidden beneath their troupe's floor.
Yet, they continued to blow their pipes from below. Thus, even without a meticulous search, Seraph located the descent with ease.
The hatch was sealed by a massive iron plate, much like the entrance to the tent itself. It was heavy, dense, and far beyond the strength of a commoner to breach.
"No more hesitation," Seraph declared, his mana surging.
"Flamus Impetus!" Seraph intoned.
A torrent of flame, shaped like a massive lance, manifested before the young magis. The fire particles compressed into a piercing shaft of heat, radiating a violent kinetic force.
"RELEASE!" Seraph's voice thundered.
[Boom!]
The lance of fire struck the iron hatch with devastating impact. The sound of exploding metal resonated throughout the tent as the plate shattered into infinitesimal shards. Fragments of iron whistled past the young magis as the barrier was pulverized.
But it did not end there. The searing current surged deeper into the subterranean dark, a stream of fire resembling a nascent flame dragon, lunging forward to devour the shadows that dared obstruct its path.
The moment the iron seal was annihilated, demonic miasma and absolute darkness were laid bare. The young man could finally peer into the depths below.
The descent was crude—uneven steps carved roughly into the earth without symmetry. Some treads were miniscule, as if built for children; others were three times the height of a standard stair. Gaps in the structure forced one to leap across the void. Every inch of the construction was chaotic, born of random, lawless design.
[Screech!]
As Seraph stood at the threshold of the abyss, a cloying stench of rot wafted upward. The piping grew distinct. It bore no resemblance to music; it was the agonizing wail of a demon, suggesting a grotesque celebration being held in the bowels of the earth.
[Flash!]
The lightless cellar erupted into brilliance as the flamus mageia illuminated the gloom. The Piperclowns, who had been relentlessly piping, ceased their chorus and shrieked in terror. The fire current spiraled like a miniature dragon, circling the center of the subterranean chamber.
Heartbeats later, Seraph vaulted into the pit. As he touched the ground, he realized this was no ordinary basement. He had descended into a sacrificial sanctum of a demonic cult.
The cellar was saturated with the sickly emerald glow of mageia stones. Upon the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, inverted hexagrams—formed by two overlapping downward triangles—had been scrawled in a frantic, lawless geometry. At the epicenter of these circles sat the sigil of the Goat Demon Lord, surrounded by a chaotic mess of demonic inscriptions. Every mark, every line of this profanity, had been forged from human blood.
At the heart of the chamber stood the sacrificial altars. A small child lay atop one, stripped of consciousness, his eyes welded shut. His limbs were bound tight, and a dark pool of gore seeped from beneath his frame. Seraph did not recognise the boy, nor could he discern if the flickering spark of life remained within him.
[Vrrr!]
The current of flamus mageia spiraled against the ceiling, its radiance exposing four Piperclowns lurking within the jagged shadows of the corners. Beside the boy's altar stood its twin, where another figure lay bound—a man draped in the tattered remains of a Sanctus cloak.
'Rohtas! He was held captive here all along!' Seraph's mind recoiled in shock.
Rohtas's altar sat mere inches from the boy. He too was submerged in a deluge of blood, his limbs and throat locked in iron restraints. His very flesh had been desecrated, carved with demonic mageia circles and tattooed with twisted demonic inscriptions that covered his entire form.
His eyes were thrown wide in a permanent stare, his face so gaunt it was little more than skin stretched over a skull. His body was withered, as if every drop of his essence had been siphoned away. In such a state, he stood far beyond the threshold of life, lingering at the very gates of death.
The sound rising from the troupe below was the echo of a sacrificial rite, an offering to a high-tier demon. Even to an outsider, it was clear the Piperclowns were weaving a malevolent design—until the young magis descended, shattering their ritual mid-incantation.
The Piperclowns shrieked in a cacophony of malice. They continued to leap and dance, yet their faces were stripped of all mirth.