Having secured the boy's rescue from that den of filth, Seraph had left the messy, bureaucratic aftermath to the paper-pushers of the Sanctum and Arkflame, retreating immediately to the cold comfort of the Stormcloud Citadel.
The moment his report reached Sadir's desk, the man knew Rohtas's death would ignite a political firestorm. The fall of any magis—let alone one with Rohtas's standing—was a catastrophe that demanded blood and answers. Sadir had immediately alerted the Master of the Mission Department, and word reached the Grandmaster's ears soon after. The Sanctus had taken full jurisdiction over the matter, transferring the rescued boy to the Infirmary Hall for a recovery that would be watched by a dozen eyes.
After Marina's exhaustive examination found no lasting physical trauma, the boy was scheduled to be reunited with his family by morning. As for Rohtas, the Grandmaster himself presided over the funerary rites, a somber affair of white robes and guttering candles. The Piperclowns, however, met a different fate; the demons had been hauled into the clandestine oubliettes of the citadel, bound in cold iron, ancient seals, and a heavy, terminal silence.
The past few days had besieged Seraph with a relentless migraine of bureaucracy. That the demonic inquiry had been deferred was a mercy to the young man's frayed spirit. Initially, his mind held room only for the purge—the visceral rhythm of the hunt and the kill. He'd never spared a thought for the logistical quagmire that trailed a completed mission; the tedious arrangements and the constant questioning left the young magis weary and profoundly disillusioned with the "noble" side of his craft.
Seraph stepped into the Mission Hall, the heavy oak doors groaning on their hinges. Dozens of magis now drifted through the chamber like ghosts, weighing the worth of various blood-stained scrolls. Some shared bitter coffee or amber spirits with allies, forging desperate pacts to hunt the Demon Legion, while others huddled in dark corners to dissect the lethal risks of a looming contract. A few brawled openly over the rights to a high-priority cull, their tempers flared by the nocturnal energy that surged through the hall—a stark, jagged contrast to the hollow stillness of the dawn.
Demons, by their foul nature, favoured the shroud of night to descend upon the cities of man. While it was true they could endure the sun's radiance if pressed, the solar glare sapped the strength of low-tier filth, rendering them frail and sluggish. Even for the high-tier predators, sunlight was a nagging irritant, a weight upon their blackened souls. Thus, the Demon Legion and the greater hordes typically unleashed their malice under the absolute cover of darkness.
By nature, humans were diurnal creatures, and most magis still preferred the deceptive clarity of the day. Yet, tracking a demon in the light was a task manifold more difficult than under a hunter's moon; often, despite exhaustive searches, the quarry remained vanished in the glare. Consequently, the night had become the only theatre the magis truly inhabited—an adopted rhythm they'd grown accustomed to without even realising it.
Had the disappearance of Rohtas occurred during the twilight, more than a few magis might've lent their aid. Even if they lacked individual confidence, they could've easily coalesced into a formidable war-party to hunt the demons down. In this broken world, it was the morning, not the night, that posed the greatest obstacle to their cause.
Seraph stepped toward the counter and laid both Sanctus Scrolls upon the polished surface. Within each, the inscription 'Mission Complete' pulsed with a cold, blue finality—confirming that even the tragedy involving Rohtas was officially deemed a success in the scrolls of the Sanctum.
In the grim lexicon of rescue, success isn't always measured by the breath of the target. The pivotal condition rests solely upon the subject's state at the exact moment the magis makes contact. Had Seraph discovered Rohtas while a spark of life still flickered, only to let it perish, the mission would've suffered an immediate, shameful collapse. Even if the objective were later shifted to the recovery of remains, the failure of the rescue itself would've remained an indelible stain on his record.
Yet, Rohtas's life-state upon Seraph's arrival was already void; he'd been dead long before the first spell was ever cast. Laurasia possessed no mageia to bridge the chasm between life and death; to raise such a corpse would result in nothing more than the creation of a mindless undead.
"Sadir. I'm here to submit two missions," Seraph stated, his voice a flat, emotionless chord that cut through the tavern-like din of the hall.
Sadir, who'd been in the midst of a drinking duel while dispensing unsolicited counsel to other magis, found his attention arrested by the sheer, heavy gravity of Seraph's tone.
"Seraph! Back in one piece, I see!" Sadir bellowed, hoisting his massive tankard aloft as if greeting a long-lost comrade.
It was as though a spell of silence had suddenly devoured the Mission Hall. The eyes of dozens turned toward the source of the noise. Initially, Seraph's calm arrival had stirred no ripples; but at the sound of Sadir's roar, the entire chamber fell deathly still. Every conversation died in a throat. Every transaction ceased. Every gaze in the hall locked onto the young magis with a singular, hungry intensity.
Suddenly, a long-bearded magis wielding a staff taller than himself strode forward, his robes smelling of old parchment and ozone.
"Easy there, lad! Word on the street's your power reached a new echelon in record time. If the fates're kind, we ought to pair up for a bit of a hunt soon, eh?" Easton proclaimed. A veteran of many winters, he clapped Seraph's shoulder with the easy, heavy familiarity of an old mentor.
Before the conversation could take root, a striking woman cut him off with a sharp, melodic laugh.
"Have some dignity, Easton! Show a little grace, would you? You're rattling the poor junior's nerves," Kara chided as she approached.
She was a woman of radiant, lethal beauty, her silhouette possessing the dangerous curves of an hourglass. She brushed Easton's hand aside like a nuisance, only to drape her own arm around Seraph's neck with even greater, suffocating intimacy.
Then, a woman of intellectual elegance stepped into the fray, her golden spectacles glinting with a master's authority.
"You'd be far better served joining my White Phoenix circle," Milena declared. "We're currently dissecting the anatomical frailties of the demon species. With our research, we'll purge the darkness far more efficiently."
A man of granite physique and a stolid, unreadable expression followed her like a silent golem.
"Now that you've proven your mettle... we don't care about your rank. If you've a mind to cull high-tier demons, join us. My circle's the Cold Iron Blade," Frostine spoke, his voice frigid yet sincere.
"Give it a rest, Frostine! Have you no shame at all?" Yang shouted from across the hall. "Your lot nearly bit the dust fleeing a mid-tier demon only last fortnight! And now you're inviting a rookie to a high-tier hunt? Pull the other one!"
"That was a minor tactical oversight!" Frostine roared back, his face flushing a deep crimson.
The two promptly dissolved into a heated squabble, trading barbs like old rivals who'd done this a thousand times before.
Finally, a man wearing a silver mask, etched with a perpetual and enigmatic smile, approached Seraph. He walked with the measured, predatory stride of one who held the world in his palm, a wine glass swaying elegantly in his hand.
"Pay no heed to those fractured minds," Argent whispered, his voice laced with a lethal, velvet charm. "If you truly seek to hunt the darkness, the Silver Phantom is your only destination. We're the sovereign demon hunters of Sanctus, renowned across all of Arkflame. I guarantee your power'll ascend through the echelons under my tutelage. And a secret, just between us—my circle's graced by many… exquisite ladies."
Argent never removed that silver visage, his silk-black hair contrasting against the cold metal with a haunting allure.
"Hold your tongue!" Aspel interjected, cutting through Argent's honeyed words like a blade. "This lad's a man, Argent. Your circle's never harboured a shred of interest in his kind."
"My personal tastes're reserved for the ladies, it's true," Argent countered, his tone smooth as velvet. "But strength and power're blind to gender."