Chapter 21: Hellfire

  Lily was irritated. Really irritated.

  Her gnawing suspicion had proven right the moment Nathanel Veyth placed the [Greater Healing Potion] on the desk. The very same potion she had tossed at Marie. It was impossible not to recognize it, and the sight alone made her stomach twist. Maybe she could have kept her mouth shut, played along, and simply bought back her own potion. No one would have been the wiser. That would have been the smart thing. After all she was here to build up her merchant persona.

  But Veyth’s comments about cultists still echoed in her head.

  In the Salon, he had already said plainly that cultists were outlaws, that you could kill them on sight and collect the bounty. Now he sat here, smiling, talking about “acquiring” an item from cultists. Did that mean he had actually dealt with them? Or had he just killed them outright and taken what they carried?

  Her fingers twitched against the arm of her chair. Did he kill my idiotic cultists?

  That question wouldn’t leave her. Though, should she even care? They were idiots, a burden from the very moment of her summoning. Reckless, weak, and hardly the kind of people anyone would mourn. But when she remembered last night in her own throne room, seeing their stupid faces as they groveled before her, something shifted inside. Again, it felt like her mood suddenly snapped. Anger rose, and her thoughts fell in line with her Xantia persona. Every time Lily grew emotional, Lilithia Nocturne bled through a little more. And this time, she didn’t even notice the change in her thought process. After all, she had given those cultists her word while seated on her throne. She had made promises not as Lily Carter, but as Lilithia Nocturne—Princess of the Abyss. She had vowed she would take care of them, grant them strength, wealth, and even their own souls. A deal had been made, bound for a decade. And a Demoness had to keep her word.

  Also… they were hers.

  Her cultists, her tools, her instruments, and ultimately her property to command.

  And this potion was hers.

  So, what right did this lowlife have to sit across from her, dangling her own possession in front of her like some prize he might sell back? The audacity of it was staggering. He wanted to use her. He wanted to profit from her. He thought less of her.

  Her.

  Blood of the high demons. Princess of the Abyss.

  The irritation sparked hotter. Anger flared. Who was he to think he could play her like some naive merchant? Who was he to treat her like a fool in her own story?

  Her emerald eyes narrowed, her tone turned sharp, and the questions slipped out colder, more demanding. She wanted to know who sold it, where it came from, how much he paid. And she saw him shift uncomfortably, saw the heat rise in his neck as her words pressed him. He was blocking, refusing, hiding behind that mask of his.

  Her patience thinned with every heartbeat.

  It wasn’t only business anymore. It wasn’t about value or trade. It was about insult.

  This man had dared to look down on her.

  And in that moment, irritation burned into fury.

  The air between them thickened, her temper snapping against the mask she had worn in the Salon. She felt her lips curl into something darker, and before she could unleash what was boiling in her veins, he moved.

  The big man rose to his full height, the shadow of his bulk falling over her. “Lady Greenwood,” he said, his deep voice edged with heat, “in light of the fact that we both know Gideon, I advise you now to go.”

  She stood as well, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Why,” she spat, “is everyone in this damned world a fucking idiot? You wanted to sell my potion to me.”

  For a heartbeat he froze, the words slamming into him. Then realization struck him like lightning. He reacted instantly. Fury and fear coiled in his body, and with a burst of speed he lunged. A buildup of power rippled through his frame as he unleashed a melee skill [Quick Strike].

  Lily recognized it in an instant. It was just like in the game: a faint blur forming around his fist, as if the motion of the strike had already begun before it was thrown. She knew the warning triggers of melee class attacks, and [Quick Strike] was one of the most basic.

  But for her, that didn’t matter.

  [Quick Strike] was one of those skills that scaled directly with the user’s level, tied to their core attributes—strength and velocity. Every hundred levels it gained an additional power spike. And from the stance, from the speed, from the raw weight behind the skill, Lily could tell immediately; her opponent was somewhere between level 100 and 200.

  As someone who had reached the top one thousand worldwide in Xantia, Lily was of course one of the best PVP players in the world. Her muscle memory kicked in before her thoughts caught up. There was one golden rule in Xantia: never let yourself be fooled by an under-leveled enemy. Everyone and everything in that world could kill you. Every fight had to be treated seriously.

  Her eyes tracked Veyth’s movement, calculating the exact point where his [Quick Strike] would land. At the same time, she activated [Hellshield (Demon Spellblade)], pouring mana into the spell. Burning energy surged from her core, forming a jagged infernal shield at the predicted impact zone.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The plan was simple. Tank the hit with [Hellshield], absorb the burst of his melee skill, and buy herself the moment she needed to draw her [Nocturne Crownblade]—her massive soulbound two-hander—and strike back.

  But what happened next was even more pathetic than she had thought the fight would be.

  Veyth’s fist slammed into the shield with a sharp crack. Instead of breaking through, the impact bounced back at him with brutal force. His hand and arm snapped under the recoil, bone and flesh shattering from the backlash. The flames of her [Hellshield] leapt instantly onto his arm, licking hungrily up his flesh, engulfing him in black infernal fire.

  He screamed, a raw, broken sound, and collapsed to the floor as the blaze ate at him.

  By then Lily had already pulled her [Nocturne Crownblade] from her inventory. The red runes engraved on the huge black weapon glowed hungrily, and black smoke drifted in slow coils from its edge. She raised it, ready to finish him, but froze for a moment at the sight before her. The man was already writhing on the ground, his body burning, his screams rattling against the walls. The smell of burning cloth and seared skin filled the office.

  The black infernal flames were not like normal fire. They burned slower and much hotter, consuming their victim with the wrath of hell itself. At the same time, they gave a foretaste of unending agony, dragging it out second by second.

  Lily blinked as she watched the big man squirming on the ground in front of her. No… no… no… wait… wait… wait…

  Her anger was gone, drained away in an instant. In its place was the most gruesome sight she had ever witnessed. And that said something. She had lived most of her life online, and she had seen her fair share of horrific clips—the kind of disgusting things idiots’ thought were funny to send around. She had thought she was used to it.

  But this was different.

  This was real. Fucking real.

  She saw the flesh dissolving under the black fire, bubbling and cracking as the flames ate their way deeper. She smelled the sickly, choking stench of burning flesh, the kind no recording could ever capture. His screams had collapsed into broken moans, each sound rattling through the office as his massive body writhed helplessly on the floor.

  She told herself she should do something. Anything. End it quickly, stop it, or at least look away.

  But she was frozen.

  It was like the saying: It’s like a train wreck, you can’t look away. She couldn’t. Her chest tightened, and she felt herself on the edge of panic. But just as her emotions began to spiral out of control, something shifted inside her again. A cold calm slid through her veins, steadying her breath. After a few second everything felt distant.

  She exhaled once, and spat a single word. “Pathetic.” And then she knew what she had to do.

  Lily slid the [Nocturne Crownblade] back into her inventory and reached for the [Greater Healing Potion] on the desk. Without hesitation she splashed it over Veyth. He had been only a breath from death, but somehow the brute had still clung to life. The potion hissed as it met the infernal fire, dousing the black flames and forcing them back. Flesh knitted slowly where the worst burns had been, but only on the surface, a [Greater Healing Potion] was too weak to erase this kind of damage entirely.

  When his breathing steadied into ragged gulps, Lily stepped closer. She grabbed his head in one hand, her nails digging into his jaw, and forced him to look at her. Emerald eyes met his, unblinking.

  “So,” she said, her voice cold, “tell me where my cultists are, you pathetic excuse of a human.”

  ???

  Some time had passed. Marie sat beside Sevrin. He was still unconscious, but at least he was breathing. Her own body ached and throbbed with every small movement. She hated it so much. She hated being helpless again, caught in a situation like this again.

  At first, she had even thought about ending Sevrin herself. He definitely deserved it. He was reckless and delusional, and more and more he was losing his grip. But no, she couldn’t do it. It was true that Sevrin was slowly going mad, but he was also the reason their small group was still alive. He had gathered them, he had cared for them, and he had given them hope. They had sworn to each other they would help each other. Maybe Marlon was right. Maybe they really were some kind of twisted family.

  Marie chuckled hollowly. It was strange what thoughts came to her while sitting in this chamber waiting for her doom. She was really getting sentimental, wasn’t she? But she had already planned not to give that bastard, who had caged them here, the satisfaction. He would not get to torture them, maybe rape her and then kill them in the end anyway.

  He was so confident he had left without even taking her dagger. She was probably no match for him, no matter what weapon she had, but she still had the dagger. She wanted to use it to carve out the outlines of a ritual circle and fill them with her blood when he came back. She would be sitting with Sevrin inside the circle when he returned. She would slit his throat first and then her own and activate the summoning.

  She didn't know if it would work. But it was the same circle she remembered when they summoned the Princess. Maybe the Princess would come through and avenge them. Maybe she would summon something else. Maybe it would do nothing at all. But in every case, she would win, because the bastard would not have control over their lives.

  She checked on Sevrin again and whispered, “You idiot, we were on a good way to fulfill our dream… why do you always have to make these all-or-nothing decisions?”

  Then she began her work, carving the runes of the circle into the floor with her dagger, slow and steady, her blood dripping into the cuts.

  But as Marie traced the last lines, she heard the heavy lock shift. The door moved.

  Her stomach dropped. Shit. He’s back. Too early.

  Marie froze, dagger still in her hand. The circle wasn’t ready. So, what should she do? She crawled back to Sevrin’s side. She would have to improvise. She wasn’t dead yet, and she still had a little mana left. Maybe that would be enough.

  Her thoughts spun with desperate plans as the hinges groaned. In the end, she decided. If nothing else, she would at least end Sevrin. Better to spare him from what was coming. And his death could fuel one last curse. She would use it to strike back, even if only for a moment.

  [Death’s Relay].

  She had never used it in a real fight. She had practiced the complex incantation enough to trust herself, but she had never had the chance because the hex required a victim to trigger. The victim’s death would send a necrotic burst to the nearest living being, spreading rot for a short time. It was a cruel choice. But it was all she had.

  She steadied her breath, whispered the first words of the incantation, and pressed the dagger’s tip against Sevrin’s neck. Death’s re…

  The blade began to sink into his skin—

  And she stopped.

  Through the doorway didn’t come the towering brute.

  Her concentration snapped, the words scattered. The hex collapsed in her throat. She cursed under her breath, but at least had the presence of mind to pull the knife back before it cut too deep.

  Then her eyes widened, because it wasn’t Veyth who came through the door. No, stepping through the doorway was an elf, and not anyone, it was the same one Marie had seen only hours ago. And of course, it wasn’t a real elf at all.

  It was the Demon Princess. Yes, the Princess… and she was really here.

  The Princess walked inside, dragging something heavy behind her. When her emerald eyes found Marie sitting beside Sevrin, her lips curled.

  “Here you idiots are.”

  Marie’s blood ran cold. Death wasn’t the worst fate after all. No—an angry demoness who might devour your soul was a thousand times worse.