One

I had dismissed Tamiel back to the Otherworld. In the forthcoming confrontations, he would be more of a hindrance than a help. Besides, I hardly needed a porter when I had a chariot powered by nightmares at my disposal.

One of my minor fears—that the summoning spell would fail to bring back the head Khenumra had picked from the unfortunate asylum—was not realized. A severed head with human features but reptilian eyes, bearing the visage of the mental hospital's warden, appeared with my summoned familiar.

Lacking the time to delve deeply into its mysteries, I had given it only a cursory examination before handing it over to Tamiel for storage in the Otherworld. One detail that caught my attention was the high level of a particular ether variant in its composition.

Before dismissing him, I had restocked my supplies: ammunition, mana potions, and chocolate bars infused with a specialized form of ether.

Thus, properly prepared, I boarded Khenumra's chariot and ordered the undead prince to drive through the fleshy tunnel.

And no, that's not a euphemism for anal sex.

The air grew thick and dense as Khenumra steered the chariot into the yawning maw of the tunnel. It felt as though we were descending into the belly of some monstrous entity. The walls pulsated like a living tapestry of flesh and sinew, stretching into an impenetrable darkness. It felt less like a tunnel and more like the digestive tract of a Phantasmal Species.

The chariot I rode in was fit for Egyptian royalty, echoing an era when Pharaohs and gods coexisted. Adorned with gold and azure inlays, the frame shimmered with an inner light that cut through the oppressive darkness like miniature suns. Etched on its golden side panels were hieroglyphs that told tales of valor and magic, glinting softly in the scarce light.

This Mystic Code was fashioned from grave goods buried in Khenumra's tomb. In a distant past, Khenumra rode this chariot at the command of his father and pharaoh. Now, he rode at mine.

Drawing the chariot were nightmares incarnate—equine figures as black as the abyss, their manes resembling living flames. Their hooves struck sparks against the unsettling ground with each step. Their eyes were vacuous voids, yet full of malevolence that could freeze the blood in your veins. Crafted from the corpses of true-bred stallions and dark dreams harvested with Khenumra's help, they were the perfect steeds for this descent into the unknown.

As we delved deeper, the tunnel began to contract and expand as if breathing.

Thanks to Khenumra's prodigious skill and the arcane nature of the chariot, the journey was smooth, as if we were riding on flat ground rather than alien flesh.

From time to time, I would unfurl, and check my detection orrey. Watch-like Mystic Code had served me well during the incursion, but less in present circumstances.

I understood the problem almost immediately. The flesh of the tunnel interfered with the detection capabilities of my Mystic Code, as it was indistinguishable from the mobile E.L.F.s I was supposed to detect.

Although I anticipated an ambush at any moment, none came.

This gave me time to think, and to worry. The wind, caused by our speed, carried a heavy stench.

I trusted Archer. There was no one better for his task. And in truth, if he utterly failed, I would mourn both the lost lives and missed opportunities. But those children were hardly critical.

The choice between a few lives versus many—it was the constant burden of power to make those decisions.

Still, almost against my will, my hand brushed against my earring. It was a single earring, on my left ear, made of intricate geometrical shapes created from a mercury-gold amalgam, with four rather inexpensive gemstones set into it. I had given its twin to Archer.

But they weren't just matching earrings; they were also a Mystic Code, hastily made with subpar materials.

Each could be used to send a very brief message to the user of the other earring, but only four times—once per gem.

With a single push of will, a gem shattered and sent the message, "Incursion defeated. Following to origin. Report."

He didn't reply immediately, and my worry grew. Flickers of worst-case scenarios flashed in my mind—he had arrived and the children were already dead, or he was dead. No, I would have felt that.

And then the answer came: "Brenner escaped before I arrived. Pursuing to Hawkins Lab."

It was somewhat of a relief, but Hawkins Lab? I couldn't fathom why Brenner would go there. The place should be crawling with armed government agents. Even if he possessed that potent staff, engaging them would be an unnecessary conflict.

The only reason I could imagine for his presence there was to reopen the gate that I had sealed. But from my expert opinion, it would be easier to create a new one than to try and reopen that particular portal.

After metaphorically stitching that wound in reality, it had metaphorically scarred over. And scars are tougher than ordinary flesh.

I was still puzzled about their objective. They seemed intent on opening a gate, but to what end? Hawkins' inhabitants might suffer, true, but Aperture's killer robots were designed for Earth's environment. Their coordination would be even better without the interference inherent in this realm.

And if they failed, the army was always an option. As Stalin famously said, "Quantity has a quality all its own." Add tanks, artillery, and air force to the mix, and the odds were heavily stacked against them. And if all else failed, there were those in the American government who wouldn't hesitate to turn Hawkins into an irradiated crater.

All of this didn't even consider my and Archer's involvement, which admittedly, the hive mind couldn't know much about. Either they severely underestimated the forces arrayed against them, or I was missing something.

A pleasing sound of laughter interrupted my thoughts. I turned my head to the chariot's driver and asked, "Why are you laughing?"

"Your joy is infectious. It tastes like honey and sunlight," the incubus replied.

Joy? Only then did I notice my lips were curled into a smile. I suppose as an emotional eater, he'd be right about that. There's something about facing an unpredictable challenge that thrills me to my core—a Magus' version of being a battle junkie, perhaps.

The transition was abrupt, almost as if influenced by dream logic—a fitting sensation, considering my chariot was a construct of dreams. One moment we navigated through tunnels of fleshy sinew, and the next, we were at the mound of vines I had glimpsed through the palantir.

But it was devoid of life. Utterly, unequivocally empty.

And the vines? From even a distance, they appeared sickly and withered.

I used my detection orrey to assess the area. There were traces of E.L.Fs, but these energies were faint, almost as if on the brink of lifelessness.

Dismounting the chariot, I issued a brief command, "Scout the perimeter."

"As you command, Master," the incubus answered, flicking the reins and disappearing as swiftly as the memory of a dream upon waking.

Upon touching the first vine, it crumbled to dust. I examined the remnants carefully. Over the past year, I had ample opportunities to study these life forms. Even without a lab, the signs were clear—these vines had experienced exhaustion. Pushed past their biological limits, they'd resorted to consuming themselves in the absence of other resources.

But there was more: traces of something that bore an uncanny resemblance to Projection Magecraft—also known as Gradation Air—a form of magical energy made tangible but destined to evaporate when the spell anchoring it dissolves.

Yet this wasn't quite magecraft as I knew it. It felt governed by some inhuman logic, a framework alien to human sensibilities.

Could this be the result of memories stolen from Archer? Magecraft is deeply personal; even if a magus inherits family Mysteries and Spell Formulas, their approach to the craft remains unique. This diversity of perspectives is exactly how magecraft advances, as each new generation contributes its own unique insights. Therefore, most magi find more value in having a successor to pass down their wisdom, rather than seeking the elusive goal of immortality.

Well, that and the fact that transferring a Magic Crest is far simpler than the formidable task of extending one's life indefinitely. This is why monsters like Zouken are the exception rather than the rule.

Or was the missing demon involved? Hints suggested that he might be entangled in this labyrinthine mess. For now, the evidence was circumstantial, but increasingly suggestive.

One thing became abundantly clear: this was not the hive mind's lair, but a spawning ground for armies—a quick and dirty way to amass numbers. Depending on what was required to establish such a site, an invasion of Earth seemed just a bit more plausible.

Yet, I felt I was still missing something crucial.

The sound of hooves heralded the return of my scout. Without waiting for me to inquire, he immediately reported, "There's no one alive here, but there is another tunnel."

"Just one?" I asked, rising to my feet and wiping the dust from my fingers.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Take me to it."

"As you command."

As we moved through the structure, decay and rot were pervasive. The air was thick with dust that stuck to my throat. The vines at the top of the mound had already started to fall apart, revealing a stormy sky lit by red lightning above. My scout had to steer the chariot to avoid a piece that nearly fell onto us. This massive, anthill-like collection of vines would soon be gone.

The only thing still alive was the gaping maw of the second tunnel.

"Let's see where this leads."

Apparently in the direction of the mirror of Hawkins National Laboratory. I may not be the most skilled navigator, but the flesh tunnel was going in a straight line. And more importantly, Boaz was very meticulous with such details.

One army was faint, one for incursion into the Aperture facility, and I was beginning to think there was a third for the lab. The hive mind might be slightly more tactically aware than I had given it credit for.

Or was I making assumptions again?

It could be that it had severely underestimated the opposition, setting itself up for defeat in detail.

But then, it couldn't have known our actual strength. Over the year during which we had clashed in this realm, I had not deployed anything but hunters. The objective had been resource extraction, not conquest or extermination.

And this was also the first time in a while that Archer and I had taken the field. Well, mostly me.

Not that it would have mattered much if they had divided their army, assuming it was of similar strength to the one from the incursion.

The chariot suddenly stopped. We were moving swiftly one moment, and the next, we were utterly still. There was no lurch; my workmanship was better than that.

"Why are we stopping?" I asked.

Instead of verbally answering, he raised his hand, and from it began to spill golden sand. It flew far, as if carried by the wind, but there was no wind. The air was still in this tunnel of flesh.

The golden sand caught on what appeared to be an invisible spider web, showing that the way forward was blocked by delicate threads.

This was definite confirmation of demon involvement—a warning system, and perhaps something even more dangerous.

I had two choices: quiet or loud.

Destroy it or bypass it.

One was quick, and the other gave me a chance to potentially ambush them. The likelihood was low, since I wasn't quite sure how sensitive the hive mind was to what was happening in both the vine mound and this tunnel.

But before I could make the decision, it was made for me.

My earring clicked, and I could hear Archer's tense voice, "Distraction. Now!"

"Distraction it is," I said to myself, and then ordered my chariot driver, "Destroy the web. Drive the chariot hard and fast. We are going to make an entrance."

"I obey."

A trickle of sand became a raging sandstorm. For a brief moment, the web seemed to hold against the unreal wind, but then it was torn apart.

The chariot had been described as the "ship of the desert," and in that moment, we rode the storm, tearing everything in our path to shreds.

This was less reckless than it appeared, for I had still active a True Magic spell that allowed me to gaze into the realm of possibilities. In case of emergency, this ability could blur the line between what was real and what could have been.

Though I dwelled in the bellows of hell, I saw through the eyes of an angel.

We burst into the expansive basement of the mirror-image Hawkins Lab, the site that once housed the ominous gate.

Eighteen months ago, this room was a macabre tableau, filled with the lifeless bodies of people Brenner had sacrificed to nourish his undead progeny.

Now, the room teemed with an array of native creatures from this realm—some bipedal, others quadrupedal. Their grey skin shimmered in the only light available, emanating from the golden chariot and the flaming nightmares that pulled it.

Without distinction, all were trampled under the burning hooves of the nightmares that powered my chariot.

I stood at the ready, armed with two offensive Mystic Codes: a caster gun in one hand and a lightning whip in the other. My chariot driver was also prepared, one hand gripping the reins and the other holding a khopesh. This Mystic Code was crafted from a blade that had once belonged to a prince, bringing him glory in life and buried with him in his tomb. Like the chariot, I had restored and enchanted the blade.

For now, though, it was unnecessary. Shock and awe carried the day.

Pain and terror propagated through the mental links connecting these life forms, leaving them paralyzed and vulnerable to our assault.

This wouldn't last long. And truthfully, it would not have lasted at all without the special properties of the nightmares pulling our chariot. Born of fear, they radiated it, turning numbers against these creatures. The more of them there were, the more vulnerable they became to a feedback loop of amplified fear.

Yet, amid the chaos, I noticed one creature distinct from the others. It was bipedal but had a skin tone and texture more akin to burnt human flesh than the gray characteristic of these beings. Its proportions were more human-like, albeit without any secondary sexual characteristics such as breasts or genitals. But what truly set it apart was its head: rather than having a gaping maw as its only feature, it bore almost all human features, even if its nose was mostly missing.

There had been some indications that the hive mind could absorb humans, but this was the first confirmed case I had encountered. Naturally, I aimed my gun at it and instructed my driver, "Don't damage this one. It seems like an interesting specimen."

"I am no specimen!" the creature retorted, speaking in English.

"Stop," I commanded, and the chariot came to a sudden halt. "You can talk? How interesting."

"Interesting? Interesting!" the burned figure roared, and a discordant chorus of growls reverberated from the other creatures. Their emotions seemed tied to him. "Is that all you have to say for yourself? You've hunted us, killed many of us! Now that you know we can speak, do you not feel even a twinge of guilt?"

I considered his words for a moment before responding, my voice laced with cold conviction. "Not in the slightest. If you were open to a truce, you should have spoken up before. My researchers at Aperture have attempted communication numerous times. We've even left offerings of food—both meat and live animals—as a goodwill gesture."

Though the truth was, those offerings were more an attempt to bolster their numbers. The life forms of the anomaly were hostile but profitable commodities.

Still pointing my arcane gun at the burned figure, I continued, "It was you who initiated the conflict, targeting humans to eat or mate with—or both. Responding to aggression with aggression is only natural."

"You're no human," the hive mind's spokesperson retorted, locking eyes with me. All the creatures' gazes followed suit, their focus entirely on me. Excellent.

"I won't argue the accuracy of that statement," I replied, my grip tightening on my weapon, "but I will say it's utterly irrelevant."

Even as I conversed with the creature, my attention was far from solely focused on the dialogue. I let my gaze slip into unrealized possibilities, into shadowy "what-ifs," and in that ephemeral realm, I didn't just talk—I waged war.

I trampled the spokesperson under burning hooves in one vision, struck it with lightning in another, and cursed it to wither away in yet another scenario. By observing these, I learned valuable information.

Three things became apparent: First, this being was psychically powerful in a way that other members of the hive mind were not. It exhibited telekinetic, biokinetic, and telepathic abilities—all of which I noted.

Second, it seemed to function as a nexus or key node within the hive mind. If it experienced distress, the emotional ripple would be more potent and far-reaching than any other node's influence.

Third, it had an astonishing ability to regenerate. None of my hypothetical strikes managed to kill it, and any damage healed almost instantly. A prolonged confrontation would be inevitable, and as of now, I saw no weakness in its regenerative abilities.

Then another voice caught my attention, muffled and distant, bleeding through the barriers that separated this dimension from Earth. It was a signal that our worlds were uncomfortably close, and perhaps I wasn't the only one trying to buy time.

Even muffled, the voice was unmistakably familiar—Dr. Owens, the successor to Martin Brenner as director of Hawkins National Lab.

"Martin Brenner, how could you of all people betray our country?"

At that very moment, I discovered another facet to the spell I'd crafted.

It was an epiphany, a sudden burst of enlightenment. It felt like the historic moment when an apple fell on Newton's head, except with more monsters involved.

With a slight shift in my spell's perspective, my angelic eyes could peer not just into unrealized potential events but also into adjacent worlds. The catch was that I could only do one or the other, not both simultaneously—at least for now.

It's difficult to describe, but if I had to use a metaphor, it was akin to looking at a picture of a vase and suddenly realizing it was actually an image of two faces kissing.

I saw both Martin Brenner and the burned man, overlapping in my vision. It was akin to a split-screen on a computer; or perhaps more accurately, it was like seeing one thing with one eye and another with the other.

Brenner spoke first, his voice full of conviction. His eyes, however, were alight with a feverish gleam. "Americans, Russians—it's all the same, really. We're all human at the end of the day. I've seen too much... know too much... for such pedestrian distinctions to mean anything."

At the same time, the burned man locked his lidless eyes with me. The words slipped from his lipless mouth, each syllable carrying a weight that seemed to pull the very air around us into a vortex of unease. "Is it irrelevant, really? I know who you are. What you are," he said. "My dark muse has whispered to me about you. And Brenner, the poor, envious fool, has found some... interesting journals."

Brenner continued his lecture to Owens. "Patriotism is a child's game that I've long outgrown. It's pathetic that you still cling to it, Sam."

At the same time, the burned man, One, spoke with triumphant glee. "Father of Demons, Master of Witches. You're the one who cultivated the bloodlines of psychics through the ages. You raised the Grand Witches, and you're the one who abandoned them to the tender mercies of witch hunters. I was born Henry Creel. Not all Creels were burned at the stake."

As if that was supposed to mean something to me. The problem with time travel is encountering the consequences of actions you haven't even committed yet.

Brenner's voice took on a melancholic, resigned tone as he continued. "In the grand landscape of existence, do the arbitrary boundaries scribbled by scarcely evolved primates really signify anything? There are greater forces at play here. We, as a species, are not the first custodians of this world, nor will we be the last. Our reign is ending; we're destined to become sustenance for our betters."

Simultaneously, the burned man, his voice tinged with both triumph and contempt, elaborated, "The Creels forgot their origins, making it far too easy for men like Brenner—men who grasp at forces beyond their meagre understanding. He took me, branded me, and even renamed me." He raised his right arm, displaying the tattoo that read 'One.' "He tried to control me, but I was too strong for that. He attempted to contain me; it worked for a time, but I am patient and clever. I found a way to free myself. There were complications, and I ended up banished from Earth. Yet, despite all this, I still gave him the knowledge and power he so craved. Am I not benevolent?"

Considering the apparent state of Brenner's mental health, and the massacre I witnessed when dealing with the possessed Two, it's clear that this is a rather generous interpretation of events. Still, I chose not to interrupt. Any information could prove useful, and as long as he remained focused on me, that was all for the better.

This did confirm one thing: He was that psychic cannibal. Well, it also confirmed that he was possessed. There's no other way he could have survived being fed Hydra's blood by Archer.

The pieces were coming together. It seems Archer's speculations were closer to the truth than mine.

Brenner said, with voice gaining manic quality, "But there is still a choice—who will devour us? It's far more fitting to be consumed by a race born of our own blood. Like the Titans of old, we shall gracefully make way for new gods. It's better than being eaten by outsiders. They will serve as our eternal monument."

Ignoring the need for a response from me, One continued speaking, making it clear his last question was rhetorical. "The new realm was pristine, untouched by human corruption. I roamed freely, embracing its beauty and mysteries. The creatures that dwelled there were so amenable, so willing to become a part of me." This detail caught me off guard. These creatures became a part of him, not the other way around? The implications were vast. Squinting through my countless angelic eyes, I tried to get a clearer look at the burned man, focusing on any astral bonds that might connect him to his creatures. Though unsuccessful, I noticed something else. "And then, the call resonated. The one who banished me reached out once more, beckoning me to return and cleanse the earth of human pollution."

As my double field of vision expanded, I began to make out more of the room. A cultist stood near Brenner, a quadruped creature at his feet like an obedient dog. And there, between Brenner and me, was Sam Owens—bound and kneeling, his back toward me.

Brenned lean in closer to his captive, his voice tinged with a gleam of insanity.

"At least until it's their turn to be devoured."

Simultaneously, One sneered, "And then you unleashed your demon upon me."

"You have stolen from me," I replied nonchalantly, but inside, I was seething. Ever since my brief stint as a ghost, my memory had been perfect. It was as if the brief visit across the veil had unlocked access to the astral records. So, my memory of Archer bound in those vines did not fade at all. "Just one was me being exceedingly kind."

And that was the truth, from a certain point of view. Tohsaka used expensive jewels for magecraft; theft was a known risk. What happened to thieves afterward was best left undescribed. The most charitable thing to say would be that it was less horrifying than stealing from the Matous, but that set the bar so low it could be used to play limbo in Hell. And then there were doctrines like the blood of Feanor regarding theft—subjects that had inspired countless ballads, epic poems, plays, and novels, penned by both Elves and Men.

If I had actually crafted and sent a demon after him for that transgression, it would have been a measured response. But I wasn't about to admit that I had simply lost my temper. Or acknowledge that I had not even considered that he existed at the time.

This conversation was also a battle, and the appearance of strength and cruelty were potent weapons I couldn't afford to discard.

In the background, I could hear:

"You are mad," said a bound Owens.

"The world is mad. I am just being sane," Brenner retorted.

I ignored it. I had little time for such meaningless clichés.

"Too kind," I continued speaking after a brief pause, my voice lowering into a soft, menacing purr. "You dare to stand against me now? You say you've found some meager evidence of my actions? Doesn't that fill you with absolute terror? That question is rhetorical. I'm more interested in what happened afterward. After the essence of the siblings you murdered was replaced with Hydra's blood. Even if fake, that's among the most potent poisons. You should've died in agony."

"Why should I tell you anything?" the burned man growled. But from how his creatures cowered, and how his claw-like hand trembled, I could see my words had affected him, at least a little.

"Sane?" Owens exclaimed across the barrier. "Not only what you last said, but you've picked some random boy and given him the number of a dead experiment. That boy looks nothing like the pictures of Two we have in our files. And let's not even get started on your paranoid theories that the warden of the mental hospital is a man-eating, shape-shifting lizard. Can you even hear yourself?"

A cold smile curled my lips. "Every tick of the clock you spend answering me, you buy another second of your inconsequential life. Such generosity on my part, wouldn't you say? Especially when your hourglass has so few grains left to fall."

"You heard your friend, you delusional freak. You got the wrong man. My name's Damien, not a number," my apprentice Damien boldly retorted to Brenner, inserting himself into the conversation.

My eyes adjusted, and I could see him, Trevor, and Jane, bound to uncomfortable-looking chairs, their arms restrained. It appeared their blood was being collected.

Unfortunate, but not surprising, considering the mess Brenner had made at the asylum.

A wave of relief washed over me at seeing them relatively unharmed, although my concern spiked for the others taken with them.

As my perspective widened, I saw others casually tossed on the floor, tied up next to adults whom I presumed to be personnel from Hawkins Lab.

Mike, Lucas, Steve, Dustin, Max...

But where was Will? He was missing.

"Jane, not Eleven," Jane stated to Brenner sharply, her voice tinged with defiance and bravery.

"You'll find that killing me is much harder than you think," the burned man retorted.

"That may even be true," I replied, "But what would be even harder is saving you. Don't be so surprised. I've had time to observe you, and even with many details missing, I've drawn some conclusions. What saved you before is killing you now. It's not greed or gluttony driving you to seek a path back to Earth—it's desperation. I'm sure you had other plans earlier, before incurring my wrath. But now, you hope that consuming enough souls will save you."

"It's obvious you need more discipline," Brenner scornfully said to the captured kids. "Your time running wild has instilled some unfortunate character flaws. I would correct them, but I need you in full health for what comes next. I'm almost envious. Most people are just fodder, but you get to be the mothers of a new race."

"Fuck you," Two retorted. "Have you completely lost whatever was left of your mind? I'm a man; I can't be a mother."

"A man? You're still just a boy. And you'll think differently when your belly is full of wriggling larvae, nibbling on your internal organs," Brenner said, enjoying the look of horror his statement elicited. But his grin turned to a grimace of pain as an iron sword suddenly erupted from his chest.

Archer had finally acted. Now I could stop distracting the One and work on securing him as a specimen.

"Queshar!" I commanded, and lightning erupted from my bracelet, aimed straight at the burned man. Just inches before striking him, the bolt froze mid-air. He strained, both hands stretched out as though holding the lightning itself, his featureless face tense from the telekinetic effort.

Back on Earth, grains of black iron coalesced into several short swords, reminiscent of Roman gladii, hovering near the bound prisoners. With a swift motion, the swords sliced through the ropes, setting them free.

As I was caught in this telekinetic tug-of-war with the burned man, the nearest creatures charged at me. They met Khenumra's khopesh head-on. My driver moved in a dreamlike dance of swordplay—beautiful, seductive, and deadly. Ancient steel met unnatural flesh, dispatching those bold enough to approach.

Any creature that dared to assail the nightmares that drew chariot died, whether consumed by fanged maws, burned by hooves, or simply absorbed into a midnight-colored hide, disappearing forever.

On Earth, Archer finally revealed himself, drawing the attention of the cultists and remaining creatures. In his Elf-form, he stood tall, graceful, and unimaginably fair. His blood-red hair flowed like a banner behind him, and through my angelic eyes, I could perceive the sacred glow of his spirit.

In truth, that radiance was always present, but it manifested more closely to his physical form when he assumed his Elf guise.

Having known him for a long time, I understood this was deliberate—a tactic to divert attention away from the captives. That was also why he had left the short swords behind, to arm those who had been restrained.

The creature that had been at Brenner's feet charged at my partner and was promptly cut down.

The final click reverberated through the chamber, signaling that the preparations were complete. My blood surged through clockwork magic circles, arranging them in precise configurations for this specific spell. The cylinder rotated, locking into place an aquamarine bullet as its centerpiece.

I aimed skyward and pulled the trigger, sending the magical round soaring like a flare.

A glowing blue star ascended until it hovered near the cavernous room's high ceiling. There, it burst apart like fireworks, its luminescent shards forming a circle inscribed with occult symbols.

The first step: Elemental Conversion.

Aristotelian elements—earth, wind, fire, and water—are each defined by a pair of properties. Air is characterized as hot and wet, while water is cold and wet. Utilizing the essence of aquamarine, the heat in the air was cooled down, preserving its wetness, thus transmuting it into water.

Lines of luminescence flickered to life, giving birth to clouds that quickly enveloped the magical circle.

The second step: Refinement into Alkahest.

In alchemy, the term "Alkahest" referred to a universal solvent, capable of dissolving all substances. Microscopic droplets of the newly transmuted water circulated through the gemstone shards, both charged with mana and ground into fine particles. Superfluous conceptual elements were stripped away, leaving only those most vital: purification and dissolution.

In doing so, the water was refined into something closely approximating the alchemists' dream solvent.

The third step: Restrictions.

Releasing Alkahest indiscriminately would be a poor tactical choice—especially when I'd be standing in its path. Therefore, I imposed constraints on the spell, restricting its effects to the E.L.Fs, whose nature I had already defined in magecraft terms. This not only rendered the spell harmless to me but also concentrated its potency, making it especially lethal to the intended targets.

And then the spell was complete. A deadly, corrosive rain began to fall, fulfilling its painful, purifying purpose.

It felt like ordinary water to me, refreshing in the arid atmosphere. I even dared to briefly taste it; it was as pure as spring water.

However, the effect on the horde was far more dramatic. Each droplet etched a groove into their grey hides. Their flesh sagged, melting into a gruesome, mud-like substance on the ground.

The creatures screamed in agonizing chorus, but that only worsened their plight as the dissolving liquid found its way into their open mouths and gullets.

The restrictions I had imposed were stringent; there was almost no direct effect on the burned man.

Still, he felt their pain, and that was enough to make his telekinetic grip waver—just a bit, but enough.

In that moment of distraction, the lightning surged, coiling around him and binding both his body and telekinetic powers.

"Let's take him for a ride, Khenumra," I commanded with sadistic glee.

"As you command, Master," the undead prince charming responded, flicking the reins with one hand while severing another gaunt humanoid's petal-like head with his sword in the other.

The nightmares let out ground-shaking roars, and the chariot began to move, crushing those in its path and dragging the burned man through a sludgy mixture of rainwater and dissolved viscera.

"Metatef!"

At my command, lightning cracked, delivering an electric shock infused with mana to my helpless captive.

"Metatef!"

On Earth, I could see that Jane was cutting the ropes that bound Mike, while Trevor and Two were busy freeing Steve, Lucas, Dustin, and Max.

"Metatef!"

Under Owen's leadership, the freed workers of Hawkins Lab had taken the swords that Archer casually dropped and were fighting desperately against the cultists. It helped that most, and the best-armed, were focused on Archer.

"Metatef!"

"We need to help Will!" Mike shouted.

"You mean stop him!" Two retorted, "Before he finishes that."

I still couldn't see Will, and Two was pointing to something beyond my perception on Earth. But I knew the place. It was the exact wall where the gate used to be.

"Metatef!"

"I can't let you do that," Brenner spoke, suddenly standing, his wounds inflicted by Archer rapidly closing. "Eighteen has important work to complete."

"Meta..." I commanded again, but this time, I was interrupted halfway, as energy surged backward.

The Storm Kiss, my mystic code wound around my arm, exploded from the backlash, severing my left arm at the wrist.

The burned man stood defiantly, his wounds already healing.