Rgd2
"Yes! I mean, between unfamiliar people," Emilia explained, her face growing increasingly red. "It's considered... intimate."
"Fascinating," Viyrim replied, though he made no move to redress himself. "Cultural taboos are so arbitrary. In some realms, showing one's elbows is considered obscene, while in others, full nudity is the expected norm for formal occasions."
Despite her embarrassment, Emilia couldn't help but be curious. "Really? There are places where people attend formal events... without clothes?"
"Indeed. The Crystalline Beings of Nexus Seven consider clothing an attempt to deceive others about one's true form." There was a soft splash as Viyrim entered the bath. "You may turn around now if you wish. The water provides the modesty your culture demands."
Hesitantly, Emilia turned. Viyrim was already submerged to his shoulders in the steaming water, his obsidian hair floating around him like dark seaweed. His expression was one of utter contentment.
"Ah," he sighed, "water, the universal constant. No matter the realm, a good soak is always satisfying."
Emilia approached cautiously, kneeling on a cushion beside the bath. "You mentioned grapes earlier?"
"Indeed I did," Viyrim confirmed, his eyes still closed in bliss. "And perhaps you could wash my hair? It responds well to gentle treatment."
"I don't recall agreeing to that," Emilia muttered, though she found herself reaching for the bowl of plump purple grapes that had mysteriously appeared on a nearby table.
"Did you not? How strange," Viyrim mused, opening one eye to regard her mischievously. "Your memory seems quite selective."
As Emilia reluctantly held out a grape, Viyrim opened his mouth expectantly. With a sigh, she placed the fruit between his lips.
"Delicious," he declared after savoring it. "Your world produces excellent food, if nothing else."
"You keep talking about 'realms' and 'worlds,'" Emilia observed, offering another grape. "Are there really so many?"
"More than your mind could comprehend," Viyrim replied. "Infinite worlds, infinite variations. Some so similar you might not notice the difference at first glance, others so alien that merely glimpsing them would shatter your sanity."
Before Emilia could respond, the door slid open abruptly. Rem stood in the doorway, her expression transitioning rapidly from professional detachment to mortified shock as she took in the scene—Emilia hand-feeding grapes to their half-submerged guest.
"I—I apologize for the intrusion!" Rem stammered, bowing deeply. "I merely wished to inform you that dinner will be served in one hour."
"Excellent timing," Viyrim declared, gesturing for Rem to approach. "You can assist Emilia in washing my hair. She seems hesitant, and four hands are better than two."
"That's not necessary—" Emilia began.
"I couldn't possibly—" Rem protested simultaneously.
Viyrim tilted his head, looking genuinely puzzled. "Why not? Is hair-washing also considered intimate in your culture?"
"Yes!" both women exclaimed in unison.
"How inconvenient," Viyrim sighed. "So many arbitrary barriers to efficiency." Nevertheless, he waved a dismissive hand. "Very well. Rem, please inform your master that I look forward to our dinner conversation. You may go."
Rem bowed again, backing out of the room with obvious relief. The door had barely closed when Viyrim turned his attention back to Emilia.
"Now, where were we? Ah yes, the infinite cosmos." He settled deeper into the water. "Have you ever wondered what lies beyond the stars, little half-elf?"
Despite her discomfort with the situation, Emilia found herself drawn into conversation with this strange being. There was something hypnotic about his casual discussion of concepts so vast they made her head spin.
By the time Viyrim emerged from the bath, wrapped in a luxurious robe that had materialized from nowhere, Emilia had forgotten to be embarrassed. Her mind was too full of visions of crystal cities floating between galaxies and beings made of pure thought.
"Thank you for the stimulating conversation," Viyrim said, casually drying his hair with a towel. "It's refreshing to find a mind open to cosmic possibilities, even in a realm as provincial as this one."
"You make everything I know seem so... small," Emilia admitted.
"All things are small from a sufficient distance," Viyrim replied with unexpected gentleness. "But that doesn't make them unimportant to those who dwell within them."
With that philosophical observation, he swept from the room, leaving Emilia to wonder what strange cosmic winds had blown this being into her life—and why a part of her hoped he would stay.
## Act VII: Dinner and Revelations
The dining hall of Roswaal Manor was a vision of opulence—chandeliers dripping with crystals, tapestries depicting ancient battles, and a table long enough to seat twenty comfortably. Tonight, however, only four places were set: one at the head for Roswaal, one at the foot for Viyrim, and two along the sides for Emilia and Vados.
Roswaal, having recovered from his earlier humiliation, was dressed in fresh formal attire, his painted face beaming with forced joviality. Emilia had changed into a simple but elegant purple gown, and Vados wore the same attire as always, her angelic appearance requiring no embellishment.
Viyrim, however, had transformed his appearance. Gone was the casual robe, replaced by formal attire that somehow blended seamlessly with the aesthetic of this world while remaining utterly alien. The obsidian-black fabric seemed to absorb and reflect light simultaneously, creating the impression that he wore a slice of the night sky. Gold accents reminiscent of distant stars completed the ensemble.
"My, my," Roswaal drawled as Viyrim entered. "What a striking appearance you present, my honored gueeeeest."
"One should dress appropriately for the occasion," Viyrim replied, taking his seat with casual grace. "I believe you promised me a political education over dinner?"
As the first course was served by Ram and Rem, moving in perfect synchronization, Roswaal launched into an explanation of Lugnica's current situation. The death of the royal family, the royal selection process, the five candidates and their factions—all laid out with theatrical flourish.
Viyrim listened with apparent interest, occasionally asking incisive questions that revealed an unexpected grasp of political intrigue. By the third course—a delicate fish dish that Viyrim pronounced "adequate"—the conversation had turned to the other candidates.
"So," Viyrim summarized, "we have a half-elf supported by a possibly possessed clown, a merchant princess with dubious ethics, a knight-turned-duchess with memory problems, a haughty noble with a superiority complex, and now, apparently, a slum-dwelling thief of royal blood." He chuckled softly. "Your realm's politics are more entertaining than I anticipated."
"You seem to grasp the essentials quite quickly," Roswaal observed, his painted eyes narrowing slightly. "For someone claimed to be a 'tourist.'"
"Power dynamics are universal constants," Viyrim replied with a casual shrug. "Only the costumes change."
As the main course arrived—a succulent roast surrounded by colorful vegetables—the dining room door burst open unexpectedly. A small blonde girl in an elaborate pink and white dress stormed in, her drill-shaped curls bouncing with each angry step.
"Roswaal!" she demanded, blue eyes flashing with indignation. "Why wasn't Betty informed of guests, in fact?!"
"My apologies, Beatrice," Roswaal replied smoothly. "I assumed you would prefer to remain undisturbed in your library, as usual."
The girl—Beatrice—sniffed disdainfully, then froze as her gaze fell upon Viyrim. Her eyes widened, and her small body tensed like a startled animal.
"What is that?!" she gasped, taking an involuntary step backward. "That's not human, in fact! Not spirit! Not demon!"
"How rude," Viyrim commented mildly, taking a sip of wine. "I'm sitting right here. You could address me directly."
Beatrice pointed an accusatory finger at him. "You don't belong in this world, I suppose! Betty can sense the wrongness of you!"
"Beatrice!" Emilia scolded. "That's no way to speak to a guest!"
"Better a rude truth than a polite lie," Viyrim countered, seemingly unperturbed by the accusation. "The little spirit is correct. I don't belong to your world." He studied Beatrice with new interest. "You're much more perceptive than your companions. An artificial spirit, if I'm not mistaken. Created for a specific purpose."
Beatrice's face paled. "How could you possibly know that, in fact?!"
"Your essence sings your origin story," Viyrim explained. "Just as the twins' souls broadcast their trauma, and just as the clown's body whispers of its possession." He tilted his head curiously. "You've been waiting a very long time for something... or someone. How tedious that must be."
"Don't speak of things you don't understand!" Beatrice snapped, though her voice trembled slightly.
"Oh, but I do understand," Viyrim replied softly. "Waiting is the universe's cruelest punishment. I've experienced boredom on a cosmic scale, little spirit. It's what brought me to your quaint reality in the first place."
To everyone's surprise, Beatrice didn't storm out in a huff as expected. Instead, she approached the table slowly, her suspicious gaze never leaving Viyrim. "Betty would know more about you, I suppose."
"Then pull up a chair," Viyrim invited, gesturing to an empty space that suddenly had a booster seat perfectly sized for her small frame. "Knowledge is best shared over good food."
After a moment's hesitation, Beatrice clambered onto the seat, her expression still wary but undeniably curious. Ram silently provided a place setting, and soon the strange dinner party had expanded to include the reclusive librarian.
As the meal progressed, Beatrice peppered Viyrim with increasingly technical questions about dimensional theory and the nature of spirits across different realms. To Roswaal's obvious surprise, Viyrim answered each query with precise, detailed explanations that had Beatrice alternating between scowling in concentration and widening her eyes in fascination.
"So you're saying Betty's existence as a contracted artificial spirit would be impossible in some realms, in fact?" she asked, fork hovering forgotten above her dessert.
"Indeed," Viyrim confirmed. "In some worlds, spiritual energy cannot be bound to physical form without constant renewal from an external source. In others, the concept of 'spirit' doesn't exist at all—only energy with varying degrees of consciousness."
"Fascinating," Beatrice murmured, seemingly forgetting her initial hostility. "And in your... original realm?"
"Spirits are primarily decorative," Viyrim replied with a small smile. "Pleasant ambient features, like particularly intelligent house plants."
Beatrice bristled at this, but before she could retort, a tremendous crash echoed from outside, followed by an inhuman roar that shook the manor to its foundations.
"What in the world?!" Emilia exclaimed, rising from her seat.
Roswaal was already moving toward the windows, his painted face suddenly serious. "It sounds like a mabeast attack—but they rarely come this close to the manor."
Another roar split the night, closer this time. The chandelier swayed ominously, crystals tinkling like wind chimes in a storm.
"Not just any mabeast," Rem said softly, having entered the dining room at the first disturbance. Her blue eyes were wide with a fear that bordered on panic. "That's the White Serpent."
"The White Serpent?!" Roswaal's usually theatrical voice was deadly serious now. "That's impossible. It dwells in the mountains to the east, hundreds of miles from here."
"Nevertheless," Ram added, appearing beside her twin, "it approaches. I can sense its malice even through the manor walls."
Viyrim, who had remained seated throughout this exchange, finally stood. "How interesting," he commented, casually wiping his mouth with a napkin. "A beast worthy of the name, perhaps? This evening improves by the minute."
"You don't understand," Emilia said urgently. "The White Serpent is one of the Three Great Mabeasts created by the Witch of Envy herself. It's not something to be taken lightly!"
"I never take anything lightly," Viyrim assured her, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Weight is such a tedious concept."
Before anyone could decipher this cryptic statement, the entire east wing of the manor exploded inward. Debris flew across the dining hall as a massive, skeletal white head burst through the wall. The creature's body followed—an enormous serpent with scales like bleached bone and eyes like pools of liquid darkness. Its mouth opened to reveal rows of crystalline teeth, each the size of a short sword.
"Fascinating," Viyrim observed, seemingly unperturbed by the monster that now occupied half the dining hall. "A construct of mana given physical form through hatred. Your 'Witch of Envy' had some skill, at least."
The White Serpent's head swiveled to focus on Viyrim, its black eyes narrowing with malevolent intelligence. A forked tongue, pale as milk, flicked out to taste the air.
"It's targeting you!" Emilia gasped, backing away. "But why? Mabeasts always prioritize those with the strongest connection to the Witch's miasma—"
"Perhaps it senses a greater threat," Roswaal suggested, gathering mana for a defensive spell. "Rem, Ram—evacuate Beatrice and Lady Emilia!"
The twins moved to comply, but Viyrim raised a hand, stopping them in their tracks. "No need for evacuation," he said calmly. "This interaction promises to be educational."
With deliberate slowness, Viyrim approached the enormous serpent. The beast reared back, hissing a challenge that shattered the remaining windows and caused the floor to vibrate beneath their feet.
"You're quite impressive by local standards," Viyrim acknowledged, studying the creature as one might an interesting museum exhibit. "Your creator infused you with a spark of genuine divine essence—diluted and corrupted, but present nonetheless. That's why you've survived so long while maintaining your intelligence."
The serpent struck with lightning speed, its massive jaws closing around Viyrim with enough force to pulverize stone.
Emilia screamed. Roswaal cursed. The twins froze in horror.
But instead of the expected carnage, the serpent's attack halted mid-strike. Its jaws remained open, frozen mere inches from Viyrim's unperturbed form.
"As I was saying," Viyrim continued as if nothing had happened, "your construction shows genuine creative flair. But there's a fundamental design flaw." He raised one finger and tapped the serpent's snout lightly. "You were never meant to encounter a being like me."
At that gentle tap, cracks appeared across the White Serpent's scales. They spread rapidly, web-like fractures running the length of its enormous body. Light began to seep from the cracks—not the expected red of blood or flesh, but a brilliant golden radiance that seemed to emanate from within.
"You see," Viyrim explained conversationally as the serpent began to disintegrate before their eyes, "your essence is fundamentally incompatible with mine. Like trying to mix oil and water—except in this case, the water is an ocean and the oil is a single drop."
The serpent made one last attempt to strike, but its body was already collapsing into motes of golden light. Within moments, one of the most feared creatures in Lugnica's history had been reduced to nothing more than a shower of glittering particles that drifted harmlessly to the floor.
A profound silence fell over the ruined dining hall.
"Well," Viyrim said brightly, turning back to the stunned observers, "that was invigorating. Is there any dessert left? I find annihilating ancient terrors gives one quite an appetite."
Beatrice was the first to recover her voice. "You destroyed it," she whispered. "Just like that. You didn't even use magic, in fact."
"Magic is such a limiting framework," Viyrim replied with a casual shrug. "I simply reminded its constituent parts that they had other options."
"Other options?" Emilia echoed weakly.
"Existence, non-existence—it's a matter of perspective," Viyrim explained, returning to the table and calmly helping himself to a slice of untouched cake. "I merely suggested the latter would be more comfortable, given the circumstances."
Roswaal, his painted face unnaturally pale, approached cautiously. "You... suggested to the White Serpent that it should stop existing? And it... agreed?"
"Reality is inherently conversational for those who speak its language," Viyrim confirmed, savoring a bite of cake. "Quite good, by the way. My compliments to the chef."
Rem and Ram exchanged glances of absolute bewilderment, their usual composure shattered by what they had just witnessed.
"He destroyed a Great Mabeast," Ram murmured. "With a touch."
"No spell, no weapon," Rem added. "Just... a touch."
Beatrice slid from her chair and approached the glittering residue on the floor. She knelt, her small hand hovering over the particles. "No residual mana," she noted with professional curiosity. "No curse effect. No miasma. It's completely neutralized, I suppose."
"Of course," Viyrim said between bites of cake. "Leaving harmful residue would be inconsiderate to one's hosts."
Vados, who had remained silent throughout the entire encounter, finally spoke. "My lord has always valued proper etiquette," she observed with a hint of dry humor.
Emilia approached Viyrim slowly, her violet eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. "What are you, really?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please, no more riddles or evasions. After what I just saw, I think we deserve the truth."
Viyrim considered her for a long moment, then nodded slightly. "Fair enough." He set down his fork and rose to his full height. The air around him seemed to shimmer, and for a brief instant, his form appeared to contain galaxies—stars swirling in the depths of his eyes, nebulae folding through the fabric of his clothing.
"I am Viyrim, the God of Infinite Destruction," he announced, his voice suddenly resonating with power that made the very air vibrate. "Though I prefer the term 'Cosmic Arbitrator' these days. 'Destruction' has such negative connotations, don't you think?"
## Act VIII: The Morning After
The dawn broke over Roswaal Manor with deceptive tranquility. Birds sang in the gardens, dew glistened on the grass, and the eastern sky blushed with delicate pinks and golds. If not for the gaping hole in the mansion's east wing, one might never have guessed at the previous night's extraordinary events.
In the manor's grand kitchen, Ram and Rem worked in unusual silence, preparing breakfast for the household and its unusual guests. The twins moved with mechanical efficiency, their faces masks of concentration as they processed the revelations of the previous evening.
"A god," Ram finally murmured, breaking the silence as she deftly chopped vegetables for an omelet. "An actual god, in our home."
"Not just any god," Rem corrected softly. "A god of destruction." Her hands trembled slightly as she kneaded dough for morning bread. "What does he want with us? With Lady Emilia?"
"Entertainment, apparently," Ram replied, her tone dry despite the gravity of the situation. "We should be grateful he finds us amusing rather than irritating."
"But for how long?" Rem wondered, her blue eyes troubled. "When he grows bored again..."
The twins fell silent once more, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them. What would happen to their world when a bored god sought new diversions?
Their grim musings were interrupted by the kitchen door swinging open. Beatrice entered, looking unusually disheveled. Her blonde drills were slightly askew, and dark circles underlined her blue eyes, suggesting a sleepless night.
"Tea," she demanded without preamble. "The strongest you have, I suppose."
"Rough night, Lady Beatrice?" Ram inquired, already moving to prepare the requested beverage.
"Betty spent the entire night researching dimensional theory," the spirit admitted, slumping onto a kitchen stool. "Everything I thought I knew is wrong, in fact! Or at least, woefully incomplete."
"Because of what our guest said?" Rem asked, sliding a freshly baked roll toward Beatrice.
"Because of everything about him," Beatrice corrected, accepting the bread with a distracted nod of thanks. "His very existence challenges fundamental principles that Betty has accepted for over four centuries!"
"At least you're taking it well," observed a new voice. Viyrim stood in the doorway, looking disgustingly refreshed despite the previous night's chaos. He wore a casual robe that seemed to shift colors with his movements, and his bare feet made no sound on the stone floor as he entered.
"Lord Viyrim!" All three females straightened immediately, an instinctive reaction to his presence.
"Please, don't interrupt your activities on my account," Viyrim said, waving a dismissive hand. "I merely came in search of morning sustenance." He inhaled appreciatively. "Something smells delicious."
"We're preparing breakfast for the household," Ram explained, quickly regaining her composure. "It will be served in the small dining room, given the... condition of the main hall."
"Ah yes, the architectural remodeling courtesy of our serpentine visitor," Viyrim nodded, seeming unconcerned. "No matter. I prefer intimate settings for morning meals anyway." He approached the counter where Rem was working, peering curiously at the dough she was shaping. "What are you making?"
"Traditional Lugnican breakfast rolls," Rem explained, her voice admirably steady despite her obvious nervousness. "With honey and cinnamon."
"May I?" Viyrim asked, reaching for a piece of raw dough before she could answer.
To the twins' astonishment, he began shaping the dough with expert movements of his long fingers. Within moments, he had created a perfect miniature dragon, complete with scales created by tiny, precise indentations.
"Bake this one separately," he instructed, placing the dragon on a small section of baking sheet. "It's for the little spirit. A small apology for disrupting her worldview."
Beatrice blinked in surprise, momentarily speechless.
"You needn't look so shocked," Viyrim told her, his lips quirking in amusement. "Even cosmic entities can recognize when they've caused intellectual distress. Though in my defense, you did ask."
"Betty merely inquired about dimensional theory," Beatrice protested. "Not the fundamental nature of existence itself, in fact!"
"The two are inseparable," Viyrim replied with a shrug. "Like asking about a single thread and being shown the entire tapestry. Overwhelming, perhaps, but more honest than a partial answer."
Before Beatrice could formulate a response, the kitchen door opened again to admit Emilia. The half-elf looked tired but composed, her silver hair neatly braided and her purple eyes clear.
"Good morning," she greeted the assemblage, then paused when she noticed Viyrim. "Oh! I didn't expect to find you here."
"The God of Infinite Destruction requires breakfast, just like lesser beings," Viyrim informed her solemnly, though his eyes twinkled with mischief. "These talented sisters are creating something that smells divine—a descriptor I don't use lightly, given my extensive experience with divinity."
Despite herself, Emilia smiled. There was something disarming about his casual humor, especially after the awe-inspiring display of power the previous night.
"Where is Vados this morning?" she inquired, accepting a cup of tea from Ram.
"Overseeing the repair of your mansion's east wing," Viyrim replied. "She has a talent for restoration that balances my own tendencies quite nicely."
"She can fix that kind of damage?" Rem asked, unable to hide her surprise.
"She is reshaping reality to its previous configuration," Viyrim explained. "Or an improved version thereof, knowing her aesthetic sensibilities. The results should please your master."
As if summoned by the mention, Roswaal appeared in the doorway, his painted face unreadable. "Good morning to all," he greeted, his voice subdued compared to his usual theatrical delivery. "I trust everyone rested well despite the excitement?"
"I found the night most refreshing," Viyrim assured him. "The ambient energy released by the serpent's dissolution created quite a pleasant atmospheric resonance. Like sleeping beside a cosmic waterfall."
There was a moment of awkward silence as everyone tried to process this strange description.
"About last night," Roswaal finally said, addressing Viyrim directly. "You called yourself a god of destruction, yet you saved this mansion and its inhabitants. I find myself... curious about this apparent contradiction."
"Destruction and preservation are not opposites," Viyrim explained, sampling a freshly baked roll and nodding appreciatively at the twins. "They are complementary aspects of the same process. To create the new, the old must sometimes be removed. To preserve what matters, threats must be eliminated." He fixed Roswaal with a penetrating stare. "You understand this principle well, if I'm not mistaken. That soul sharing your body certainly does."
Roswaal's painted smile froze. "I'm afraid I still don't know what you mean by that."
"No? Pity." Viyrim turned to Emilia. "I would very much like to explore the grounds today. Would you be my guide, silver-haired daughter of conflicting bloodlines?"
Emilia blinked at the strange form of address but nodded. "I'd be happy to show you the estate."
"Excellent!" Viyrim declared. "After breakfast, then. I find that food enhances the appreciation of new experiences."
As they moved to the small dining room for breakfast, Beatrice fell into step beside Viyrim, her expression determined.
"Betty has questions," she announced. "Many questions, in fact."
"I'm sure you do," Viyrim acknowledged. "And I will answer what I can, little spirit. Knowledge is a gift I rarely withhold."
"And in exchange?" Beatrice asked suspiciously. "What do you want from Betty?"
"Conversation," Viyrim replied simply. "The opportunity to discuss concepts with a mind capable of at least grasping their edges. It's refreshing."
Beatrice considered this, then nodded grudgingly. "Betty supposes that's acceptable, I suppose."
"Her graciousness overwhelms me," Viyrim commented dryly to no one in particular.
Breakfast proceeded with surprising normality, considering the company. Roswaal inquired about plans for the day, the twins served with their usual efficiency, and Beatrice alternated between eating her dragon-shaped roll (with poorly concealed delight) and peppering Viyrim with increasingly esoteric questions.
Only when they were finishing did Vados appear, gliding into the room with her characteristic grace.
"The repairs are complete, my lord," she announced, bowing slightly to Viyrim.
"Excellent," he approved. "Any improvements I should be aware of?"
"I took the liberty of enhancing the structural integrity of the east wing," Vados replied. "It should now withstand impacts equivalent to approximately twelve White Serpents, should such an eventuality arise."
"Always thinking ahead," Viyrim said with obvious fondness. "What would I do without you, Vados?"
"Grow even more bored, I imagine, my lord," she replied with the faintest hint of a smile.
Roswaal rose from his seat, his curiosity evidently overcoming his wariness. "I must see these repairs for myself. If you'll excuse me."
After he departed, Emilia turned to Viyrim. "Shall we begin our tour of the grounds? The gardens are particularly lovely in the morning light."
"Lead on," Viyrim agreed, rising smoothly. "Vados, I believe you wanted to visit the nearby village? Something about assessing the local fabric of reality?"
"Indeed, my lord," Vados confirmed. "I detected several unusual fluctuations during the night. Nothing concerning, but worthy of investigation."
"Take Rem with you," Viyrim suggested, glancing at the blue-haired maid. "She knows the area, and I'm sure she's curious about your methods."
Rem looked startled by this unexpected assignment but nodded obediently. "I would be honored to assist."
"And I," Beatrice declared, "will accompany you and Lady Emilia. Betty's research requires further direct observation, in fact."
"The more the merrier," Viyrim agreed amiably. "A cosmic entity, a half-elf, and an artificial spirit walk into a garden... it sounds like the beginning of an excellent joke, doesn't it?"
As they exited the manor into the bright morning sunshine, none of them noticed Ram's thoughtful expression as she watched them go, nor the subtle gesture she made—a signal to Roswaal that they had unexpected company approaching from the forest edge.
The peaceful morning was about to become considerably more interesting.
## Act IX: Unexpected Visitors
The gardens of Roswaal Manor were a testament to meticulous design and magical enhancement. Flowers bloomed in carefully planned color schemes, pathways curved with mathematical precision, and sculpted hedges portrayed scenes from Lugnican mythology. Fountains burbled pleasantly, and carefully placed trees provided dappled shade for contemplation.
Emilia led Viyrim and Beatrice along the main garden path, pointing out features of interest with evident pride. "Roswaal's family has maintained these gardens for generations," she explained. "Some of these roses were developed by his great-grandmother, who was apparently quite the botanist."
"Hmm," Viyrim murmured, examining a particularly vibrant blue rose. "Artificial speciation through magical gene manipulation. Crude but effective." He touched the bloom gently, and it suddenly shifted through a spectrum of colors before settling on a hue that seemed to glow from within—a color that had no name in any human language.
"What did you do to it?!" Emilia gasped, staring at the transformed flower.
"I introduced it to possibilities beyond its designed limitations," Viyrim explained. "It's still a rose, but now it can express wavelengths previously inaccessible in this reality."
"It's beautiful," Emilia admitted, reaching out to touch the petals cautiously.
"Beauty often emerges when artificial constraints are removed," Viyrim observed. "True in flowers, true in beings."
Beatrice, who had been unusually quiet during their walk, suddenly stopped short. "Someone's coming," she announced, her small form tensing. "Multiple someones, I suppose."
Viyrim nodded, showing no surprise. "Yes, I've been aware of them for some time. Three individuals approaching from the forest—two humans and something... else." He tilted his head slightly. "How curious. One bears a spiritual signature remarkably similar to yours, little librarian."
"That's impossible," Beatrice replied sharply, though uncertainty flickered in her blue eyes. "There are no other artificial spirits in this world, in fact!"
"Perhaps not artificial," Viyrim suggested, "but definitely related. The resonance is unmistakable."
Before Beatrice could respond, three figures emerged from a garden path that connected to the forest. At their head walked a woman of striking beauty, with flowing orange hair and crimson eyes that radiated imperious confidence. She wore an elaborate red and black dress that emphasized her considerable assets, and a regal tiara adorned her head.
Flanking her were two men—one a tall, serious-looking knight with short blond hair and a sword at his hip, the other a small, effeminate boy with cat-like features and mismatched eyes, one blue and one yellow.
"Priscilla Barielle," Emilia identified the woman in a whisper, her expression tightening. "Another royal selection candidate. But what is she doing here?"
"Emilia," the orange-haired woman called out, her tone dripping with condescension. "How fortunate to find you at home. I was concerned we might have made the journey for nothing."
"Lady Priscilla," Emilia replied with forced politeness. "This is unexpected. What brings you to Roswaal Manor?"
"Information," Priscilla replied bluntly, her crimson gaze shifting to Viyrim with undisguised curiosity. "Word has reached the capital of a strange visitor who destroyed a Great Mabeast with a touch. Naturally, as the future queen, I had to investigate such rumors personally."
"News travels quickly in your realm," Viyrim observed, studying the newcomers with mild interest. "Though I'm surprised the account was accurate. Gossip usually distorts events beyond recognition."
"Are you implying the rumors are true?" the knight asked, his hand moving subtly toward his sword.
"Al, don't be rude," Priscilla chided, though her eyes never left Viyrim. "If this man truly destroyed the White Serpent, we should be thanking him, not threatening him."
"I require no thanks," Viyrim assure "I require no thanks," Viyrim assured her with a casual wave of his hand. "The serpent's existence was an affront to the cosmic order—an unbalanced amalgamation of corrupted divine essence housed in a physical form never meant to contain it."
Priscilla's eyes widened slightly at his explanation, before her lips curved into an intrigued smile. "How fascinating. You speak as though you understand the very fabric of creation itself."
"I do," Viyrim replied simply.
The cat-like boy at Priscilla's side tilted his head curiously, his mismatched eyes gleaming with an intelligence at odds with his childish appearance. "My lady, this one smells... different," he observed, his voice soft but carrying clearly. "Not human. Not spirit. Like a void that thinks."
"A poetic description," Viyrim acknowledged, studying the small creature with new interest. "And not entirely inaccurate. You're a perceptive one, aren't you? Another artificial construct, though of a different sort than our small librarian here."
Beatrice bristled at being called "small," but her attention was fixed on the cat-boy. "Betty senses no kinship with that thing, in fact!"
"Not kinship," Viyrim corrected gently. "Resonance. You were both created through similar metaphysical principles, though with vastly different materials and purposes."
"My name is Mimi," the cat-boy introduced himself with a small bow. "I serve the most magnificent Lady Priscilla as her attendant and companion."
"How delightfully diplomatic," Viyrim commented. "Though I suspect 'pet' and 'spy' would also feature in a complete job description."
Priscilla laughed, a sound like crystal bells. "You are refreshingly direct. I find myself enjoying your company already..." She paused expectantly.
"Viyrim," he supplied. "God of Infinite Destruction, Cosmic Arbitrator, and occasional gardener." He gestured toward the color-shifting rose he had transformed earlier.
Al, the knight at Priscilla's side, made a choking sound. "You can't seriously expect us to believe you're a god?"
"I expect nothing," Viyrim replied with a shrug. "Belief is such a subjective thing. Some beings refuse to believe in water even as they drown in it."
Priscilla stepped closer to Viyrim, her movements deliberate and graceful. There was no fear in her approach, only fascination and something akin to recognition.
"I know what you are," she said quietly, her crimson eyes locked with his obsidian ones. "Or at least, what you represent. The world bends around you, just as it does for me. Though on a vastly different scale, I suspect."
"An interesting observation," Viyrim acknowledged. "Your world does seem unusually accommodating to your whims. A blessing? Or perhaps something more fundamental to your nature?"
"The world exists to please me," Priscilla stated with absolute conviction. "All things arrange themselves for my benefit. It is the natural order."
"Is it now?" Viyrim's lips curved in amusement. "How convenient for you."
Emilia, who had been watching this exchange with growing concern, finally interjected. "May I ask why you've really come here, Priscilla? I doubt it was merely to satisfy your curiosity about rumors."
Priscilla's attention shifted to Emilia, her expression cooling noticeably. "Always so direct, half-elf. Very well. I came to extend an invitation." Her gaze returned to Viyrim. "The Royal Selection Committee is holding a formal introduction of all candidates tomorrow evening at the royal palace. As a being of obvious significance, your presence would add... weight to the proceedings."
"You mean my presence at your side would intimidate the other candidates," Viyrim translated, looking more amused than offended.
"I require no advantages," Priscilla declared haughtily. "But I do appreciate quality companionship. My invitation stands regardless of whether you choose to align with my candidacy."
"How magnanimous," Viyrim commented dryly. He glanced at Emilia, whose expression had grown troubled. "Though I believe Lady Emilia might have prior claim on my attendance, as my current host."
"I wouldn't presume—" Emilia began.
"Of course you wouldn't," Priscilla interrupted dismissively. "Which is precisely why you'll never sit on the throne. A queen must presume. She must take what is rightfully hers without hesitation."
"And what makes you believe the throne is 'rightfully' yours?" Viyrim inquired, genuine curiosity in his tone.
"Because all desirable things are rightfully mine," Priscilla replied with absolute conviction. "It is the nature of the world."
Viyrim's laughter was unexpected—a sound like distant thunder, resonant with power that made the very air vibrate. The gardens trembled slightly, flowers turning toward him as if he were an alternate sun.
"I haven't encountered such perfect solipsism in millennia," he declared, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "How refreshing! Most beings display at least token acknowledgment of others' autonomy."
Priscilla, rather than taking offense, looked pleased by his reaction. "Most beings are deceiving themselves. I simply acknowledge reality as it is."
"Your reality, perhaps," Viyrim conceded. "Though I wonder how it would hold up under cosmic scrutiny."
Before Priscilla could respond, Al stepped protectively closer to her. "My lady, perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere. The grounds seem... unstable."
He wasn't wrong. The garden around them had begun to respond strangely to Viyrim's amusement. Flowers were blooming and wilting in rapid cycles, grass grew and shrank in visible waves, and the very colors of the surroundings seemed to intensify beyond normal parameters.
"Fascinating side effect," Viyrim noted, glancing around with mild interest. "Your world's physical laws are more responsive to emotional resonance than most realms." With a casual gesture, he stabilized the fluctuations, returning the garden to its normal state. "Better?"
Beatrice was staring at him with newfound wariness. "You weren't even trying to affect reality just now, were you, in fact?"
"No more than you try to breathe," Viyrim confirmed. "Some functions simply... happen."
Priscilla, far from being intimidated, looked positively delighted. "You must attend the royal introduction," she declared. "Not as my ally or Emilia's, but as yourself. I insist upon it."
"Such enthusiasm," Viyrim observed. "One might almost suspect ulterior motives."
"My motives are perfectly transparent," Priscilla countered. "I wish to observe how the other candidates react to you. It will be... illuminating."
"Politics," Viyrim sighed theatrically. "The same in every realm. So tedious, yet occasionally entertaining in its absurdity." He considered for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. I accept your invitation—though I will attend as a neutral observer."
"Splendid!" Priscilla clapped her hands once, then turned to leave. "We shall depart for the capital immediately. The proceedings begin at sunset tomorrow, in the Grand Reception Hall of the royal palace." She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "Do dress appropriately. Gods should look the part, after all."
With that parting comment, she swept away down the garden path, Al and Mimi following in her wake. The knight cast one last suspicious glance back at Viyrim, while the cat-boy offered a small, curious wave.
"Well," Emilia said after a moment of stunned silence, "that was unexpected."
"Not entirely," Viyrim replied. "Power recognizes power, even when the scales are vastly different. Your orange-haired rival possesses an interesting connection to this world's fundamental structure—limited compared to cosmic standards, but remarkable for a mortal."
"Priscilla has always been unnaturally lucky," Emilia acknowledged. "Some say the world itself favors her."
"Not just luck," Viyrim mused. "Something more intrinsic. A form of reality manipulation so deeply integrated with her consciousness that she perceives it as the natural order rather than an ability." He shrugged lightly. "Fascinating, but ultimately a curiosity rather than a significant factor."
"You're going to attend the royal introduction?" Emilia asked, her tone carefully neutral.
"It seems like an excellent opportunity to observe your world's power dynamics at play," Viyrim confirmed. "Why? Would you prefer I decline?"
Emilia hesitated, clearly weighing her words carefully. "It's not that. It's just... your presence will significantly alter the tone of the event. The other candidates will be assessing whether you're an ally or a threat."
"And which am I to you, I wonder?" Viyrim inquired, his obsidian eyes unreadable.
"I... don't know," Emilia admitted honestly. "You've helped me, but I don't understand your motivations or what you truly want from our world."
"A refreshingly honest answer," Viyrim approved. "Most beings would attempt to flatter or manipulate at this juncture." He gestured for them to continue their garden tour. "What I want, silver-haired daughter of conflicting bloodlines, is entertainment. Diversion from the endless tedium of cosmic existence. Your world, with its curious blend of magic, politics, and tragedy, provides that... for now."
"And when you grow bored again?" Beatrice asked bluntly.
"Then I shall seek entertainment elsewhere," Viyrim replied simply. "Your world will continue on its path, perhaps slightly altered by my passing, but fundamentally unchanged."
"You won't... destroy it?" Emilia ventured cautiously.
Viyrim looked genuinely surprised by the question. "Why would I? Destruction without purpose is merely tantrum on a cosmic scale. I may be the God of Infinite Destruction, but I'm not a petulant child."
Both Emilia and Beatrice seemed relieved by this assurance, though Beatrice tried to hide it beneath her usual scowl.
"Now," Viyrim declared, changing the subject, "I believe I was promised a complete tour of these gardens. There's a particularly interesting grove of trees at the northern edge that seems to exist in both your realm and another simultaneously. Shall we investigate?"
## Act X: Preparations and Revelations
The announcement of Viyrim's attendance at the royal introduction caused predictable chaos within Roswaal Manor. The painted mage himself had to be talked down from commissioning an entirely new wardrobe for the entire household, while Ram and Rem worked tirelessly to prepare appropriate formal attire for the journey to the capital.
"Lady Emilia must outshine the other candidates," Ram insisted as she supervised the packing. "Especially now that we have such a... distinguished guest accompanying us."
"I'm merely attending as an observer," Viyrim reminded her, lounging in an armchair and watching the preparations with evident amusement. "Not as Emilia's champion or ally."
"Perhaps," Ram acknowledged, measuring Emilia for last-minute alterations to her formal gown. "But appearances matter in court politics. Your mere association with our household will be interpreted as support, regardless of your stated neutrality."
"Court politics," Viyrim sighed. "So tediously predictable across realms."
"If you find it so tedious, why attend at all?" Rem asked, her usual reserve temporarily forgotten in her concentration on packing.
"Because predictability in structure often allows for fascinating variations in detail," Viyrim explained. "Like musical compositions—the same basic notes arranged in infinite combinations."
As the twins continued their preparations, Vados entered the room, carrying what appeared to be a small, ornate box crafted from materials not found in this world. The container seemed to absorb and refract light in impossible ways, creating patterns that hurt the eyes if observed too directly.
"Your formal attire, my lord," she announced, presenting the box to Viyrim with a slight bow.
"Excellent timing, Vados," he approved, accepting the container. "I was just contemplating appropriate dress for tomorrow's political theater."
Ram paused in her work, unable to hide her curiosity. "You brought formal attire with you?"
"Not exactly," Viyrim replied cryptically. "Vados maintains access to certain... storage spaces between dimensions. Quite useful for travel."
"May Betty see what's inside, I wonder?" Beatrice asked, entering the room with a stack of ancient books balanced precariously in her small arms.
"Patience, little librarian," Viyrim chided gently. "Some presentations deserve their moment of revelation."
"Betty doesn't care that much anyway, in fact," Beatrice huffed, though her curious glances at the box belied her words.
Emilia, who had been quiet throughout this exchange, finally spoke. "Will you be returning to the manor after the introduction ceremony, or will you stay in the capital?"
The question hung in the air, its implications extending beyond mere logistical concerns.
"That depends," Viyrim replied thoughtfully, "on what entertainment opportunities present themselves. The capital appears to be the nexus of this world's current drama, which suggests it might be the more interesting location for extended observation."
"I see," Emilia said, trying to keep disappointment from her voice.
Viyrim studied her for a moment, his head tilted slightly. "Does the prospect of my departure trouble you, daughter of conflicting bloodlines?"
Emilia blushed faintly under his direct gaze. "I've... grown accustomed to your presence," she admitted. "The manor will seem quieter without you."
"Quieter and significantly less weird," Ram muttered under her breath.
"I heard that," Viyrim noted with amusement. "And I choose to take it as a compliment."
"It wasn't meant as one," Ram replied dryly.
"Intention and reception often diverge," Viyrim observed philosophically. "Another fascinating aspect of sentient interaction."
Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of Roswaal, his painted face fixed in an expression of calculated joviality.
"My deeeeear guests," he announced. "I've arranged for our transportation to the capital. We shall depart at first light tomorrow, traveling by ground dragon carriage for the first portion of the journey, then transferring to an airship at the provincial border."
"An airship?" Viyrim perked up with genuine interest. "How delightful. I do enjoy primitive flying machines."
Roswaal's painted smile faltered slightly at the descriptor "primitive," but he recovered quickly. "Only the best for our distinguished visitors, of course. I've secured a private cabin for you and your attendant."
"Your consideration is noted," Viyrim acknowledged. "Though I wonder if your generosity stems from hospitality or a desire to curry favor with a being you perceive as powerful?"
"Can't it be both?" Roswaal countered smoothly. "The best politics align multiple interests simultaneously, after all."
"Indeed they do," Viyrim agreed, his obsidian eyes glinting with amusement. "A lesson many realms' leaders fail to grasp until too late."
The evening before their departure passed in a flurry of final preparations. As the household settled for the night, Viyrim found himself wandering the mansion's extensive library, perusing ancient tomes with casual interest.
He was examining a particularly old grimoire when he sensed a presence behind him.
"Your stealth is improving, little one," he commented without turning. "But your spiritual signature still announces you like a beacon."
Beatrice emerged from the shadows, her small face set in determination. "Betty has a question, in fact."
"Just one? How restrained of you," Viyrim teased gently, returning the grimoire to its shelf.
Beatrice ignored his levity. "Why are you really here? In this world, in this mansion. There must be countless realms more interesting than this one, I suppose."
Viyrim considered her for a long moment. "Have you ever gazed at a single snowflake among billions and found yourself captivated by its particular pattern? Not because it's necessarily the most beautiful or complex, but because something about its specific arrangement speaks to you in that moment?"
"Betty doesn't understand what that has to do with anything, in fact," Beatrice replied, crossing her arms.
"Your world is like that snowflake," Viyrim explained. "Not the grandest or most complex realm I've encountered, but possessing a unique confluence of elements that captured my interest. The blend of your magical systems, the curious time-loop phenomenon centered around a specific individual, the political machinations colored by ancient tragedies... all creating a pattern I found momentarily fascinating."
"So we're just a temporary diversion," Beatrice concluded, her voice carefully neutral.
"Everything is temporary from a cosmic perspective," Viyrim pointed out. "Even gods. Especially gods."
"That doesn't answer Betty's question, I suppose."
"Doesn't it?" Viyrim countered. "The truth is, little librarian, I don't always understand my own motivations entirely. Cosmic entities experience time and causality differently than linear beings. Sometimes I find myself drawn to specific moments in specific realms without understanding the full reason until much later."
"So you don't actually know why you're here?" Beatrice asked skeptically.
"I know I was bored," Viyrim replied with a shrug. "And your world caught my attention like a glittering bauble. Whether there's a deeper purpose to my presence..." He left the sentence unfinished, a rare moment of uncertainty from the cosmic being.
Beatrice studied him with new interest. "Betty thinks there's more to your presence than you're admitting, in fact."
"Perhaps," Viyrim acknowledged with the ghost of a smile. "Time will tell, little one. Time always tells, eventually."
With that cryptic statement, he bid her goodnight and continued his wandering, leaving Beatrice staring after him with a mixture of frustration and fascination.
Morning arrived with perfect weather for travel—clear skies, gentle breezes, and temperatures mild enough for comfort. The household assembled in the manor's front courtyard, where two elegant carriages awaited. The first, larger carriage would carry Emilia, Roswaal, and the twins, while the second, more intimate conveyance was designated for Viyrim and Vados.
As the servants loaded the last of the luggage, Viyrim emerged from the mansion. He had abandoned his usual casual attire in favor of something more formal for the journey—a high-collared jacket of midnight blue that seemed to contain pinpoints of light like distant stars, paired with flowing trousers of the same material. He remained barefoot, however, much to Ram's visible disapproval.
"No shoes again?" she asked, unable to contain her criticism. "We're attending a royal function, not a beach excursion."
"Cosmic entities don't require foot coverings," Viyrim replied airily. "The ground accommodates me, not the reverse."
"The palace floors won't care about your cosmic status," Ram countered, hands on her hips. "They'll just be dirty."
"Will they?" Viyrim asked with exaggerated innocence. He lifted one foot to reveal that no dust or dirt clung to his skin, despite his walking across the unpaved courtyard. "How curious."
Ram pursed her lips but said nothing more on the subject.
As they prepared to board their respective carriages, Emilia approached Viyrim. She looked particularly elegant in a traveling outfit of lavender and silver, her long hair braided intricately for the journey.
"I wanted to thank you," she said softly, "for agreeing to attend this event. I know politics isn't your primary interest."
"On the contrary," Viyrim countered. "The elaborate dances of power and influence among mortal beings can be quite entertaining. It's the pretense and posturing I find tedious."
"Well, you'll see plenty of both at the royal palace," Emilia warned with a small smile.
"I shall endure somehow," Viyrim assured her gravely, though his eyes twinkled with humor.
As Emilia turned to board her carriage, she suddenly stumbled on the uneven courtyard stones. Viyrim moved with impossible speed, catching her before she could fall. The moment seemed to stretch as he held her against his chest, her silver hair brushing his chin, his arms encircling her slender form.
"Careful, daughter of conflicting bloodlines," he murmured, his voice resonating through his chest against her ear. "The path forward requires sure footing."
Emilia looked up, her violet eyes wide with surprise at their sudden proximity. A faint blush colored her cheeks as she became acutely aware of his arms around her, strong and secure yet somehow gentle.
"T-thank you," she stammered, regaining her balance but not immediately pulling away. "That was clumsy of me."
"Grace and stumbling are siblings, eternally intertwined," Viyrim replied cryptically. "One cannot exist without the possibility of the other."
Their moment was interrupted by a pointed cough from Roswaal. "We should deeeeepart if we wish to reach the airship terminal by midday," he reminded them, his painted eyes watching the interaction with calculating interest.
Reluctantly, Emilia stepped away from Viyrim's embrace, the blush on her cheeks deepening as she noticed the twins' knowing looks and Beatrice's disapproving scowl.
"Safe travels," Viyrim called as she boarded her carriage. "We shall reconvene at the airship terminal."
As the carriages set off down the long drive leading away from the manor, Vados gave her master a sidelong glance.
"You're becoming quite involved with these mortals, my lord," she observed neutrally.
"Am I?" Viyrim replied, watching the countryside roll by through the carriage window. "I hadn't noticed."
"Of course not," Vados agreed, her tone suggesting she believed otherwise. "It's merely an observation."
Viyrim smiled faintly but said nothing more, his gaze turning contemplative as the manor receded into the distance behind them.
The journey to the provincial border proceeded smoothly—perhaps too smoothly. By mid-morning, Viyrim was leaning forward in his seat, eyes narrowed slightly.
"Something troubling you, my lord?" Vados inquired.
"This realm has a certain... rhythm to its events," Viyrim explained. "Periods of calm invariably punctuated by chaos. We're overdue for the latter."
As if his words had summoned it, the carriage suddenly lurched to a violent stop, nearly throwing them from their seats. Shouts of alarm echoed from outside, followed by the distinctive sounds of combat—metal striking metal, cries of pain, and the heavy thud of bodies falling.
"Right on schedule," Viyrim observed with something akin to satisfaction. "Shall we investigate?"
Without waiting for an answer, he opened the carriage door and stepped outside into what appeared to be a full-scale ambush. Both carriages had been surrounded by figures in dark robes, their faces hidden behind bizarre masks shaped like beasts. Some wielded conventional weapons, while others were clearly magic users, their hands glowing with malevolent energy.
The Witch Cult had come calling.
## Act XI: The Witch Cult's Ambush
The scene outside the carriage was one of calculated chaos. At least twenty cultists had surrounded their traveling party, attacking from the cover of the forest that lined the road. Ram and Rem were already engaged in combat, the blue-haired maid wielding her morning star with deadly precision while her pink-haired sister cast wind magic to keep attackers at bay.
Roswaal hovered above the fray, raining fire down upon the cultists with theatrical flair, his painted face locked in an expression of cold fury. Emilia stood protected behind a barrier of ice, Puck manifested beside her in his diminutive form, his paws glowing with magic far more powerful than his cute appearance suggested.
"How delightfully predictable," Viyrim commented, stepping fully into the open with casual disregard for the danger. "Religious zealots attacking travelers on an isolated road—a trope as old as sentient society itself."
A cultist noticed his emergence and lunged toward him, blade raised for a killing strike. Viyrim didn't bother to dodge. The weapon shattered upon contact with his skin, fragments of metal scattering like confetti.
"Rude," Viyrim observed mildly. "I was speaking."
With a negligent flick of his wrist, he sent the attacker flying into the forest canopy, where the unfortunate cultist became entangled in the highest branches of an ancient oak.
This display caught the attention of a robed figure who stood apart from the main assault. Unlike the others, this cultist wore a distinctive mask adorned with multiple hands painted across its surface. When he spoke, his voice carried a manic, unhinged quality that set him apart.
"Interesting, interesting, INTERESTING!" the figure shrieked, his body contorting unnaturally as he gesticulated wildly. "What is this? A new piece on the board? A factor not accounted for in the gospel? How DILIGENT of fate to provide such a delicious surprise!"
"Petelgeuse Romanee-Conti," Vados identified quietly, having emerged from the carriage behind her master. "Sin Archbishop of Sloth of the Witch Cult. A being possessed by a corrupted fragment of what this world calls 'Witch Factors.'"
"I see," Viyrim replied, studying the madman with clinical interest. "A spiritual parasite animating a series of host bodies. How... inefficient."
Petelgeuse cackled wildly, his body twisting at impossible angles. "You know my name! Am I famous? Have my efforts in service to my beloved finally earned recognition? How SLOTHFUL of me to crave such validation!"
Without warning, invisible forces erupted from the cultist's body—extensions of his will made manifest, known in this world as Unseen Hands. These spectral appendages, imperceptible to most beings, shot toward Viyrim with killing intent.
They never reached their target. Inches from Viyrim's unperturbed form, the Unseen Hands simply... unraveled, dissolving into particles of light that drifted away on the breeze.
"What?!" Petelgeuse screeched, his masked face contorting with confusion. "WHAT?! HOW?! My Authority—my beloved's blessing—rejected?! IMPOSSIBLE!"
"Your 'Authority,'" Viyrim explained conversationally, as if discussing the weather, "is a corrupted fragment of divine essence never meant to be wielded by a being of your limited spiritual capacity. It's causing progressive degradation of your host bodies and what remains of your original consciousness."
He began walking toward the now-trembling Archbishop, each step leisurely yet somehow covering more distance than should have been possible.
"In simpler terms," Viyrim continued, "you're using a tool that's destroying you with each application. How wasteful."
"SILENCE!" Petelgeuse shrieked, launching another barrage of Unseen Hands, with the same ineffectual result. "You know NOTHING of devotion! Nothing of the LOVE that drives me to serve my beloved witch!"
"Ah, love," Viyrim mused, now standing directly before the cultist despite having appeared to be dozens of paces away just moments earlier. "The universal excuse for all manner of atrocities across countless realms. So predictable."
He reached out and gently tapped one finger against Petelgeuse's mask. "Your 'beloved' would find your devotion pathetic, you know. You've completely misunderstood her intentions."
The mask cracked under his touch, fractures spreading across its surface like spider webs. Through the breaking pieces, glimpses of the madman's face were visible—eyes bulging with fanatical zeal and terror in equal measure.
"LIES!" Petelgeuse howled. "SLOTHFUL LIES! My beloved guides my hand through the gospel! Every action serves her glorious return!"
"Does it?" Viyrim asked mildly. "Let's consult the source, shall we?"
With a casual gesture that somehow bent space itself, Viyrim reached into nothingness and pulled—and suddenly, remarkably, a figure materialized beside them. A woman with long silver hair and violet eyes, clad in a flowing black dress that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Her features were strikingly similar to Emilia's, though her expression held an ancient sadness no mortal could comprehend.
"Satella," Viyrim greeted the apparition cordially. "Or rather, a partial manifestation thereof. My apologies for the abrupt summoning, but I thought you might like to address this misguided devotee personally."
The battlefield fell utterly silent. The fighting ceased as all combatants froze in shock and terror. Even Roswaal's painted face drained of color at the sight of the legendary Witch of Envy, the most feared being in Lugnica's history, standing casually beside Viyrim as if she were an invited guest.
"BELOVED!" Petelgeuse screeched, falling to his knees in ecstatic worship. "You have come! My devotion has finally—"
"Silence," Satella's shade commanded, her voice somehow both gentle and terrifying simultaneously. "You do not speak for me. You never did."
"But... but the gospel—" Petelgeuse stammered, confusion warring with denial in his fractured mind.
"Is a corruption of my will," Satella interrupted. "A twisted reflection created by those who sought to use my power for their own ends."
The manifestation turned to Viyrim, her violet eyes reflecting recognition of something far beyond mortal understanding. "You should not be here, Arbitrator. This realm is not yours to interfere with."
"I go where tedium drives me," Viyrim replied with a casual shrug. "And your little tragically looping realm caught my interest. Such an elegant design, fundamentally flawed in execution. Rather like you yourself."
Satella's shade inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the observation without taking offense. "Even so. There are... agreements. Boundaries."
"Agreements can be renegotiated," Viyrim countered smoothly. "Boundaries redrawn. Particularly when certain entities fail to maintain their designated responsibilities."
This cryptic exchange was interrupted by a howl of denial from Petelgeuse. "NO! This cannot be! My beloved would never reject our glorious work! This is an impostor! A test of faith!"
The Archbishop launched himself at Satella's manifestation, Unseen Hands extended to either embrace or destroy—perhaps even he didn't know which.
Viyrim sighed theatrically. "So tedious."
With a negligent flick of his wrist, he froze Petelgeuse in mid-air. The cultist hung suspended, his body contorted in mid-lunge, only his bulging eyes able to move as they darted frantically between Viyrim and Satella.
"Your devotee lacks manners," Viyrim observed to Satella. "Shall I dispose of him, or would you prefer to address this personally?"
The manifestation of the Witch studied the suspended fanatic for a long moment, ancient sorrow deepening in her violet eyes. "He is but one symptom of a greater corruption," she finally said. "His removal will change little in the grand design."
"Perhaps," Viyrim acknowledged. "But sometimes removing symptoms provides... clarity." With those words, he made a simple pinching gesture toward Petelgeuse.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic for the Archbishop. The corrupted Witch Factor within him—the source of his Authority and his madness—was suddenly extracted, manifesting as a writhing darkness suspended between Viyrim's thumb and forefinger.
"Fascinating," Viyrim observed, studying the squirming essence. "Divine power corrupted by hatred and obsession, yet still recognizably divine in origin." He glanced at Satella. "A fragment of you, I believe. Shall I return it?"
The Witch's shade extended her hand, and the dark essence flowed toward her, absorbing into her form. As it did, her manifestation seemed to grow slightly more substantial, less ghost-like.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "It has been... a very long time since any being could assist me in this manner."
Deprived of the Witch Factor that had possessed him, Petelgeuse collapsed to the ground, suddenly nothing more than a trembling, ordinary man. He looked around in confusion, as if waking from a nightmare he couldn't quite remember.
"What... what happened?" he asked, his voice now lacking its manic quality. "Where am I? Who are all of you?"
"A case study in cosmic parasitism," Viyrim explained, though the explanation was clearly not meant for the confused former cultist. "The Witch Factor was using him as a vessel, gradually consuming his original personality until nothing remained but the parasite itself."
Emilia, who had been watching this extraordinary scene in stunned silence, finally found her voice. "That's... that's the Witch of Envy? The one responsible for the Great Calamity?"
"Yes and no," Viyrim replied cryptically. "What you see is a partial manifestation of a fragmented entity. The complete being was... sundered centuries ago." He glanced at Satella's shade. "Though 'sundered' barely begins to describe the metaphysical complexity of what actually occurred, does it?"
The manifestation inclined her head slightly, acknowledging his assessment without elaborating. Her gaze shifted to Emilia, and her expression softened with an emotion too complex for simple categorization.
"You carry a heavy burden," she said to the half-elf. "One not of your choosing. For that, I am sorry."
Before Emilia could respond to this unexpected apology, Satella's form began to flicker and fade. "I cannot maintain this manifestation much longer," she told Viyrim. "The seals binding my true self are... formidable."
"Indeed they are," Viyrim agree