And the goblin warriors bravely ran away

The sound of goblin drums crawled through the gnarled boughs, a sinister presence that slithered among ancient trees and inhabited every dark shadow.

There was no rhythm to these drums, only the echo of discord that shattered primordial harmony, an ugly cacophony that called to the ugliest parts within. This was not the primal beat of nature, but something profoundly wrong. It whispered of murder committed for its own sake, of ruin pursued for joy, of a gluttony for the flesh of kin. Each beat seemed to feed on hate and envy, stirring the depths of less wholesome desires.

The drums played on the fine line where fear and arousal intertwine – the same reason people love dictators or watch horror movies. This wasn't just about the thrill of fear; it was a darker, more twisted thrill.

These drums mixed their sinister melody in an unholy consort, insinuating acts of violence and degradation, evoking thoughts of rape and other vile acts.

And where the goblin drums were, so were the goblins.

Not that I could see them. The issue wasn't the darkness; the night sky, filtering through the thick canopy, provided enough light for me. But still, I knew precisely where each goblin was hiding.

The reason was the mini-map projected onto my vision – a more modern approach to managing a monster army. I had experimented with the whole 'burning eye on a tower' thing, and while it worked, I knew I could do better. So, I did.

"The drumming gives me the creeps," Andrew commented, his voice muffled by a face-covering helmet.

"It is only natural. When you start to like it you should get worried," I replied, casting a glance at the time-displaced soldier. He had traded his Roman toga for a suit from the Aperture Science Future Warrior project I had provided. The bulky gear concealed much of his body language, but his slight twitchiness was apparent. Probably pre-battle jitters, I assumed. "It is a song of degeneration and depravity. Goblins dance to the sound of goblin drums, thus those who dance at the sound of goblin drums are goblins."

"There is something wrong with that logic," he shot back, his helmeted head scanning the shadowed forest. The darkness seemed of little concern, thanks to the helmet's night vision. "It's things like this that make me question if you're one of the good guys."

"Will you turn against me? Strike me down with weapons I gave to you?"

"Not now," he replied, "The aliens are a greater threat, for now."

"So, I am to be a lesser evil? I don't like being lesser."

Pride was, after lust, my favourite sin.

"I noticed. When Augustus with Greta's help summoned their demons, you just clapped, and the whole forest echoed with sounds of evil drums."

And was that not a disappointment? Together, they had managed to summon just a handful of hive creatures from Xen – one gaunt humanoid and five canines, a hunter with his pack.

Still, what was interesting was Creel did not dominate them. Instead, he made a deal with Hive Mind. How refreshingly novel, and potentially useful.

And as for my clapping, while Arias could take many forms, it was actually the trigger for activating the Bone Tree. It took effort to make it appear so effortless.

"The goblins near the witch hunters," I said to Andrew. I knew that from the mini-map. Although the things on it that were beyond summoned goblins' vision were covered by a simulated fog of war, Archer was shadowing the enemy forces. Thus, I knew their exact position. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," he confirmed, cradling the Aperture Science Gel Enhanced Semi-Automatic Rifle. The z-shaped barrel made it somewhat unwieldy, but the substantial increase in bullet velocity more than made up for that.

It was an overkill, for medieval armour, and would over-penetrate.

The first red dot appeared on the mini-map. That signified an enemy. Goblins were green. Unfortunately, it was not possible to mark an ally, in this version. Goblins naturally had none.

Adding such contextually divergent features would take some finesse. That was one of the reasons, that the battle plan was for goblins to strike first, alone.

And the red dot was joined by just a few others. That must be scouts.

"The battle had begun," I said to Andrew, and then raised my hand, signalling the witches hiding to be ready.

Green dots converged, like ants attacking a caterpillar, and one by one red dots disappeared. The green dost remained clustered.

I knew the reason why. The goblins hungered for man-flesh. That was both euphemism and not. In victory, goblins were feasting and fornicating.

It scouts lucky, they were killed before that.

Although goblins preferred living prey for both food and rape, they would take what they could.

Such behaviour was known to me before I had unleashed them. Even when I had first begun work on Ashturu version 2.0.

I had remade Bone Tree for one reason alone. The words of reptilian Colonel Sullivan in the future. Among other things, he had said that I had commanded a legion of demons.

Making that many distinct demons seemed like a recipe for disaster, so I opted to cheat a little. Make one demon that appeared as a legion.

I have observed Archer Reality marble for more than a decade. Creating a bootleg copy, populated by records extracted from the orc bone was a solution I arrived too.

I could say that I had no choice, but that would be a lie. I had many options, but this was the one I chose.

It was just I did not expect to use it so soon. It needed some more work to be ethically usable.

However, I would not prioritize the well-being of strangers over people I considered mine.

Perhaps it was evil, but it was not as if witch hunters would be much gentler towards witches they would catch.

As the mini-map's edge began to swarm with a tide of red, I smirked. This was as planned. Witnessing their comrades' defilement, the witch hunters would be consumed by rage, descending upon the goblins like avenging angels.

Goblins were wretched. Goblins were wicked. Goblins were vile.

Yet in their ranks, bravery was scarce, discipline rarer still.

They fought when the fear of their chieftains outweighed that of their enemies.

But when fear of the foe grew greater, they would flee.

Faced with the witch hunters' numbers, weapons, and wrath, the goblins broke.

The green dots scattered, each goblin fending for itself.

Thus, most were slaughtered, only a few managing to escape back here, where we were waiting.

The drumbeat sputtered.

Blinded by victory, the red dots — the witch hunters — zealously pursued them, right into our ambush.

Goblins were expendable, after all.

I witnessed the few remaining goblins myself, desperately sprinting, their deformed faces contorted in fear.

They had arrived.

And right on their heels were the witch hunters, their torches casting a bright glow in the night. Perfect targets.

"Fire at will, Andrew," I commanded calmly. The goblins, being merely waist-high, were no hindrance. "The gunfire will signal the others."

The deafening roar of the machine gun melded with the cries of the dying.

Like wheat before the scythe, the witch hunters fell in a storm of blood and chaos.

As I had foreseen, the bullets over-penetrated. But in this dense mass of bodies, one bullet often struck multiple targets.

The witches joined the fray with fervour.

The torches' flames transformed into conflagrations, consuming the men who carried them.

Large rocks, hurled by telekinetic force, struck with the power of catapults.

The earth itself opened up, swallowing the unfortunate.

Nas some with hunter turned on their own.

The charge had devolved into utter chaos. Some witch hunters tried to retreat but were pressed forward by the surging mass behind them.

And when a leader appeared among the witch hunters, trying to rally them, Archer was there in the shadows of the forest, silently sniping.

As for me, my moment to act had not yet arrived. The true danger was still lurking, hiding among the throng.

Blood had turned the earth beneath our feet into a slick mud, and bodies now carpeted the forest floor like leaves in autumn.

Yet still, they came, trampling over their dead and dying with grim determination. For every one that fell, ten more emerged from the shadows. It was a reckless charge, devoid of strategy, fuelled purely by numbers and an inexplicable will.

I had expected them to break, to falter under the weight of their losses. But they pressed on, driven by a fervour that was both surprising and alarming. It was as if some unseen force propelled them, lending strength to their madness, making them more formidable than I had anticipated.

Before me, the enemy's numbers dwindled against the modern weaponry in Andrew's hands. Yet, I noticed his hands beginning to tremble, the relentless carnage clearly unsettling him.

It hardly mattered in practical terms. The targets were too numerous to miss.

Even the few remaining goblins, emboldened by the slaughter, had turned their attention to finishing off the dying men.

The situation on the flanks was growing increasingly dire.

To the left, the monsters Creel had summoned were now locked in brutal melee, rending men apart with ferocious abandon. Their victory was imminent, but it was only a matter of time before they too would be engulfed by the sheer number of the witch hunters.

Then, from the right, Grimhilde's voice cut through the din. "Stop," she commanded. Her authoritative words momentarily halted the witch hunters in their tracks, but those pushing from behind soon caused the front lines to stumble and be trampled by their comrades.

Despite the chaos, Grimhilde's intervention had bought us precious time.

Time enough for a true enemy to appear.

The flickering blue light of their impenetrable shields announced the arrival of shapeshifted reptilians. Even with my keen Elven eyesight, I nearly missed them amidst the chaos of battle – the surging mass of witch hunters, the flicker of torchlight, all contributing to the confusion.

This was my third encounter with reptilians and the formidable shields generated by their vril-rods. As a Magus, I would have been remiss not to devise a counter. I had planned to test a singularity grenade during our last encounter, but the reptilian had fled before I could deploy it.

Currently, all the grenades were with Archer. His proficiency would ensure their effective use, though I hesitated; destroying the vril-rod along with the reptilian would rob me of a valuable study specimen.

I had theorized a second method to counter them, and now was the moment to test its efficacy experimentally. The swath of men between me and the shielded figure under the blue light was a minor obstacle. It was time to ascertain whether my theory would hold true in practice.

I raised Spellwaver Mark 3, shifting it to configuration added to the newest version of my Gun Mystic Code – a gunblade. The handle retained the design of an old-fashioned revolver, intricately inscribed with precious stones and occult symbols. However, the barrel was replaced by a blade, a fusion of Elven blade forging techniques and the ritualistic crafting of Azoth swords. The result was a stunning blade, made of shimmering blue metal that almost appeared crystalline.

Yes, I could not resist sticking a sword to a gun in the end. It was just too cool.

Practicality aside, this seemingly impractical design did offer certain advantages. Firstly, being a sword meant it could be recorded in Archer's Unlimited Blade Works. Not only did this provide a backup should I lose it, but it also allowed Archer to apply his specialized magecraft to it.

It may not be quite proper for Magus, but I have found that I enjoy collaborative work with him.

Most crucially, the gunblade's configuration meant that spells were now imbued directly into the blade instead of being fired.

Aiming at the distant blue light, I phased into intangibility.

Pulling the trigger, I activated a preset spell. An elongated, thin blade of emerald extended from the gunblade. Since it was still in contact with me, it too was intangible, harmlessly passing through men and the blue light shield alike.

As I returned to tangibility, the sudden weight of the blade pulled my hand down. The effect was more devastating for those in its path as the emerald blade solidified, piercing and slicing through everything it touched.

Being just an advanced projection, magical energy from an imbued gem bullet, shaped into a temporary object, it faded soon after. But the damage it inflicted remained.

The shield flickered and then failed. One down.

The unmistakable sound of air rushing to fill the vacuum left by the activation of a singularity grenade was a clear indicator of success. Accompanied by the disappearance of a shield, it confirmed that my second method was equally effective.

Yet, the enemy was far from a passive flock awaiting slaughter. While Archer remained concealed, my visibility made me the primary target of their counterattack.

And then it came – a burst of bright white fire. It didn't matter to them that their own men lay between us; they were indiscriminate, burning through friend and foe alike.

I quickly activated the Curse of Reinforcement imbued in my armour. Grasping Andrew with my free left hand, I felt the unholy strength surge through me, rendering his weight as light as a pillow.

With a swift motion, I tossed him back to safety and turned intangible just in time to evade the searing onslaught.

The fire, though it failed to harm me, had set both man and corpse ablaze, shrouding the area in smoke and reducing visibility.

Yet, this inferno had effectively disrupted the witch hunters' ranks, especially as the pyrokinetic witches among us had intensified the flames into a raging conflagration.

I braced for another strike, but it never came. It seemed the battle was over.

However, the forest was now ablaze, a problem that needed addressing but one that was within my capabilities to solve.

Switching the Spellwaver back to its first configuration – the revolver – I prepared a weather manipulation spell. I rotated the cylinder until the sapphire indicator aligned and fired a shot skyward.

As I set off to find Andrew, the first drops of rain began to fall, quelling the flames. I found him moaning on the ground. My action had saved him, but the fall had broken his arm, the wrist bent at an unnatural angle.

His helmet lay discarded beside him, and he was vomiting, a reaction to either the pain or the stress of combat.

Since he could not eat, I activated another curse imbued in my armour – the Curse of Healing. While it would stabilize him, I reminded myself to ensure he was well-fed later to counter the spell's side effects. I could rely on Boaz for that; he was always meticulous with such details.

Andrew was a soldier, but this level of carnage was beyond his experience. Glancing at the witches, I noticed their pallor and trembling hands. They too were shaken by the brutality of what had transpired.

Yet, I remained detached. Perhaps it was the numbness wrought by countless battles; the sights and smells of burnt flesh, spilled blood, and death had become mere backdrops to me. Maybe this detachment was a byproduct of rigorous Magus training or simply an aspect of my character. Empathy had never been my strong suit.

When I chose to do good, it was a rational decision, not one driven by emotion.

But even so, feeling so unperturbed in the aftermath of such slaughter gave me pause to reflect.

Not too much time, there was work to do.

And I preferred to be busy, to useless self-reflection.

The first order of business was to gather the witches and attend to the casualties. I moved among the groups, assessing their conditions and offering words of praise and encouragement. The heavy rainfall, a result of my weather spell, was repelled by Material Barriers imbued in my armour, keeping me dry.

The others weren't as fortunate, drenched like soaked rats.

But the rain was fulfilling its intended purpose, slowly but surely extinguishing the forest fire. I directed those with pyrokinetic abilities to expedite the process, only to find Grimhilde had already implemented a similar strategy.

To my surprise, there were no fatalities, and the lesser injuries were swiftly tended to with the remnants of the vril-laced food I had provided earlier.

From the forest canopy above, Archer descended with a graceful jump. Even though forest soil had turned thick mud, ha barely made a splash.

"One for you," he said, with a smirk. The wet clothes hugged his slender Elven body tight. "Five for me."

"You had spent all of the singularity grandees I made?" I asked.

"No, just two," he replied. "After taking out the second one, the rest dropped their shields and ran. But it didn't do them much good. Without the light from their shields, they were less noticeable, but that just meant I could take them down with ordinary arrows. Got the next three that way. Almost had another, but I recognized his scent from the future. Killing him now would have been... problematic."

"Which one?" He did encounter in person only two reptilians in person, close enough to catch a scent of their vril, "The Old Man of the Mountain or Sulivan?"

"One from Vietnam."

"Sullivan, then. Good work avoiding the paradox."

"Before I forget, I picked up a souvenir for you," Archer said, extending a short metal rod capped with a symbol resembling a twisted version of the Latin letter 'V'.

"A vril-rod? You know just what I like," I replied, accepting it. Covetously, I ran my fingers over the alien artefact. The metal was smooth, slightly warm to the touch, and I could sense the vril energy within. Yet, it lacked any buttons, levers, or visible interfaces for commands.

Visually examining it, I noticed no irregularities in colour or texture.

I was almost tempted to taste it, to discern more of its secrets.

"Pity about the men the reptilians deceived," Archer remarked, his tone laced with a sigh. His words drew my attention away from the vril-rod, prompting me to look up from my examination.

Archer wore a distant, melancholic look. Following his gaze, I saw that he was surveying the corpses strewn across the battlefield.

I shrugged slightly. "You can't save everyone. We couldn't spare these men and still protect the witches."

"Perhaps we could have," he mused.

"Maybe. But I wouldn't risk an ally's life to save an enemy."

"Practical as always," he acknowledged with a hint of sadness. "I can't say I disagree. I've grown since my younger days. Yet, it's still a pity."

"If you would make the same decision again, and plan to do so in similar future situations, then regret serves no purpose," I pointed out.

He sighed softly. "Perhaps. But the feeling of regret can still linger, regardless."

The downpour suited his mood. I may have overdone it with the spell. Still, it seemed that firer were quenched. It was bit of waste; rain would stop on its own. But I was not in the mood for it.

With a deft motion, I thumbed the cylinder of the Spellwaver, rotating it until the ruby bullet aligned with the barrel. This was set to reverse the rain call spell. Aiming skyward, I pulled the trigger.

Archer turned towards me, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

"What? The spell served its purpose. The forest fire is under control," I explained. "Let's gather some witches and investigate their abandoned camp."

"Yes, let's do that," Archer agreed, his voice laced with intrigue. "I noticed something rather peculiar there."

As we cautiously approached, the peculiarity revealed itself—a litter chair, its contents obscured by elaborate curtains, stood ominously abandoned amidst the aftermath. Nearby lay the lifeless bodies of several witch hunters, their deaths brutally apparent with heads twisted unnaturally backwards.

"Come, don't be shy," called a familiar voice from within the chair.

"Mireille!" Creel exclaimed, recognition and disbelief mingling in his voice. "Explain yourself!"

As if responding to an invisible cue, the curtains parted, revealing the countenance of Mireille, the missing third Grand Witch. "I could say this isn't what it seems, but truthfully, it is. I have betrayed you all. I brought the witch hunters here and blinded us to their approach."

"You killed my boy," Rosamund wailed, anguish and confusion etched in her voice. "Why?"

"Blame the Master for your sorrows. The cruel, heartless Master," Mireille, the traitor, accused bitterly. "I prayed in vain, and only when it was too late. When I sought other solutions in despair. Only then, when I was already lost, did you answer. Was this a cruel lesson from you, Master? Or just for your amusement? Are you entertained by the show I've put on?"

If I said yes, I wonder if she would be pleased. It was an entreating show, and I had barely met the witches. I liked them, but I hardly knew them. Still, nothing of that showing on my face. A divinity needed to be inscrutable, especially one fond of such morality lessons.

If nothing else, I was very good at pretending.

"Enough," Grimhilde interjected sharply, cutting through Mireille's rant. "Do not shift the blame for your failings. I have kept faith for seven hundred years."

Even counting my Elven life, that was more than double all of my lifetimes combined. Another consequence of the time travel.

"But you've lived for seven hundred years," Mireille retorted. "I am lucky to see my thirtieth winter. Despite my power, nothing could hold back the cold embrace of the grave. And now, when I've made my dark bargains, you, Master, bring your gifts. Everything I needed, but all too late."

"You could have escaped in the chaos," I finally spoke, "but you chose not to. Why?"

"I might have run from you," Mireille said, almost sounding resigned, "but not from my failing body."

As her illusion of health dissipated, her dire condition became apparent. Mireille's flesh was withered, her body emaciated. Her arms were like fragile sticks, limply resting in her lap, no longer animated with gestures. Her face was gaunt and pale, the very image of her despair.

Mireille had revealed a pitiful side, but I felt no pity for her.

"If you were someone inclined to die gracefully, you wouldn't have committed these crimes."

"Sins, you mean, oh divine Master," the traitor retorted with a mocking edge.

"I only offer teachings, not commandments. It's to your peers you must answer, not to me."

"Not even condemnation?" the traitor sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "How cruelly indifferent you are to the end."

"Enough," Creel interjected sharply, his impatience manifesting in a tense posture. "Surrender. You stand no chance against all of us."

"It is all of you who stand no chance against me, and against all of the powers of hell," the traitor boldly declared. just before her litter chair exploded into a thousand pieces.

Splinters flew towards me, only to be halted by my Material Barrier. Quickly scanning the area, I noted how the others were faring. Archer had swiftly deployed Rho Aias, creating a protective shield around himself and Andrew. Grimhilde, with a swift upward sweep of her arms, halted the flying debris in mid-air; the splinters hovered momentarily before gently cascading to the ground, harmlessly around herself, Rosamund, and Creel.

In the midst of the chaos, the traitor rose into the air. From the shattered remnants of her chair, a structure began to assemble around her into a tall, cylindrical container – reminiscent of a butter churn from the tales of Baba Yaga. It encased the lower half of her body.

Andrew was the first to react, opening fire. His bullets, however, merely pinged off an invisible telekinetic shield that enveloped the traitor.

Mildly impressive, considering Adrew used Aperture-made guns. I needed to determine whether this was an absolute effect alike Servant Skill Protection from Arrows or something more fragile like the Material Berrier I used. In other words, if could it be overcome with sufficient kinetic force or other methods then bullets should be used.

"Poor, timid Creel. Such cowardice in a Grand Witch," the traitor taunted, dismissing the bullets as inconsequential. "You have only skimmed the edges of hell, playing with its dregs. I have journeyed to its very heart, forging a pact with the king of hell. Behold the power that Nihilanth bestows."

Nihilanth, a name not unknown to me, but unwelcome. I had assumed his existence. It was the reason I was so cautious when exploring Xen. But confirmation of the alien tyrant's existence meant that more resources needed to be funnelled into fortifying that so-useful anomaly.

Like a halo of a saint, orbs of lightning surrounded her head, tendrils of electricity almost lovingly caressing her flesh.

"Stop," Grimhilde commanded, her voice imbued with potent force, an order that seemed impossible to disobey.

Not for me, though, and apparently not for the traitor either. Her resistance to mental coercion was now confirmed.

"Your will is nothing compared to His," she retorted, as the orbs of lightning around her head continued to charge, growing like ripening fruit.

I decided against deploying Shatter variants. The battlefield was too unpredictable, and the connection to Xen would render it excessively costly in terms of Od. I needed to conserve my energy for other manoeuvres.

Yet, before I could fully commit to a plan, more information was necessary. From the six high-grade bullet gems, I had only three remaining. However, I did have several magazines of lower-grade bullets. They would yield only lesser spells, but that should suffice to glean the final details needed for my strategy.

Transforming the Spellwaver into its semi-automatic pistol form, I set up the spell sequence.

"Keep firing, Pretorian," I called out to Andrew, using the title the witches had given him. I joined the fray with a long volley, firing a whole magazine – 13 bullets, 13 spells – in rapid succession. "Don't falter."

In this form, the Mystic Code's engraved spell formulae changed with each shot as pre-configured.

I had aptly named this sequence "scan," its purpose to reveal vulnerabilities in an unknown enemy. The first was a divination spell, bursting into glittering crystal dust that clung to the telekinetic shield, making it visible.

This spell served a dual purpose: revealing the invisible and making the effects of subsequent spells more visually apparent.

The other spells in the sequence were relatively simple, though not overwhelmingly powerful: elemental blasts of fire, lightning, acid, frost, sonic blasts...

"Is that your power, Master?" She chuckled after enduring the barrage, "How disappointing. Try mine."

A ball of lightning surged towards me.

However, my concern was minimal. The divination had unveiled more than just the composition of her shield; it had shown that her attack was confined to three spatial dimensions.

I simply phased and watched with an amused smile as it harmlessly passed through me.

"Praetorian, don't relent. You're wearing down her defences. Rosamund, her shield weakens against fire—strike now, for Hanz. Grimhilde, focus on healing. Archer, assume defensive duties. Iron is an excellent conductor—use it to ground her attacks. Augustus, stand with me. Let's disrupt her link to her patron."

I thought about ordering Archer to use the remaining Singularity Grenades, but not against Nihilanth. To much risk.

"For my boy," Rosamund cried out, her voice a fusion of grief and determination. A conflagration erupted from her, lashing out like a serpent to ensnare the flying traitor witch. Although it wasn't enough to breach the shield completely, I observed its weakening under the assault.

The flames didn't cease. They continued to pour from the grieving mother, matched only by the blood trickling from her nose. She was overextending herself. Grimhilde was quick to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, and the trickle of blood slowed, though it didn't stop.

"If you miss him so much, why don't you join him?" Mireille snarled, retaliating with several deadly orbs of lightning aimed at her assailant.

From the ground rose a massive sword of black iron, standing like a lightning rod. Archer's contribution, grounding the electrical attack with precision.

"What do you want me to do?" Creel asked, his complexion pale and dotted with sweat.

"Sever her connection to Nihilanth," I instructed, as I transitioned the Spellwaver back into its revolver configuration. The weapon itself wasn't necessary; it was the high-quality gem bullets that mattered. I extracted two, keeping one in reserve.

"How?" His voice was tinged with uncertainty.

"She's drawing power from Xen, or 'hell,' as you might say," I explained, regretting the need to use the gem bullets simply as fuel, given that the Spellwaver was primarily tuned for Jewel Magecraft, not Sorcery. "We need to push Xen slightly further away, at least locally."

"That sounds insane. How can one possibly push Hell away?"

"I'm simplifying, for your benefit. When you open a portal, you bring Earth and Xen into closer proximity, but only on a local scale. We're going to do the reverse," I clarified, beginning to weave the magical energy contained within the gem bullets into multidimensional threads, winding them around my fingers.

"I've never done that before," Creel confessed, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

"Before venturing to open a portal to hell, a wise witch should know how to close it, should anything go awry," I remarked, my tone laced with a hint of disapproval. Normally, abjuration was the first lesson for apprentice demon summoners. But Creel was the originator of the local form of this Art; his methods might not align with the conventional approach. "Can you make an attempt? I'd demonstrate, but my methods aren't suitable for you."

"I will try," he resolved, albeit with a note of uncertainty.

"Doubt will ensure failure. Be certain in your actions," I advised firmly.

A shard of the broken iron sword clanged against my Material Barrier, a reminder that the battle raged on while we prepared. The exchange of fire and bullets continued unabated against the onslaught of lightning.

The traitor's shield endured, though the charred marks on the wooden butter churn she rode were evident. Grimhilde and Rosamund had sustained several minor wounds from shrapnel, but they had already healed themselves. The traitor seemed to disregard Andrew as a lesser threat, while Archer, with his ability to phase, remained mostly unharmed – no surprise there.

Yet, their efforts were not in vain. The more power the traitor witch drew from her patron for her shield and attacks, the more apparent her connection became to my senses. It twisted just outside the bounds of three-dimensional space, revealing its presence more clearly with each of her exertions.

As I manipulated the thread of magic, the very fabric of space began to shift in response. The spheres started to part. Suddenly, a force pushed back, agonizingly twisting my fingers. This was the first time I had encountered such resistance, but it was not unexpected. I had suspected that Nihilanth would possess such an ability to counteract.

Creel's eyes widened in disbelief. "How can this be? How can the worlds be moved?"

"Push," I urged him firmly, bracing myself. I marshalled all my mental strength, pitting it against the might of Nihilanth.

"Oh, Master, you should be honoured," Mireille suddenly shouted. "Nihilanth, in his infinite mercy, has decided to grace you with an audience!"

"Perhaps some other time. My calendar is full," I retorted, my focus unwavering even as I struggled against her patron in a complex battle resembling a mix of tug-of-war and multidimensional chess.

"But he insists," she yelled, and between her hands, a new sphere formed, emitting a soft green glow.

Calling it a sphere was a simplification. It was a higher-dimensional object, a wormhole bridging Earth and some distant place in Xen – likely a locale both unpleasant and difficult to escape.

Phasing or my Material Barrier wouldn't be effective against it.

But just as she prepared to launch her attack, an idea struck me.

Instead of pushing against Nihilanth's influence, I pulled, employing a tactic akin to a judo throw, using the opponent's strength against them.

Earth and Xen brushed against each other briefly, and in that fleeting moment, the teleporting sphere expanded rapidly, engulfing the traitor.

And once she was whisked away to Xen, Nihilanth's grip on Earth was severed.