The Summon

The deluge of magic was difficult for Saintess Joan to maintain. She cried and panted as she kept pushing her power out. This couldn't go on. She would drain herself and be defeated. 

Suddenly, the Devil shot into the air and towered much closer to her. He bore down on her with red jets of fire mixed in with his green toxin. The angle and the force was of a much greater intensity. One that had Joan screaming in agony as she held her hands over her head and shielded herself. At this stage, she could no longer attack. All she could was ensure she didn't get obliterated. 

Joan's purple pillar flattened out and formed pockets like a honeycomb. Her magic was changing. It was morphing into something else and she had no control over it. Her holy power was answering to someone else right now.

In the next second, her body flew up into the air as well. The honeycomb net began to absorb the Devil's power, taking portions of it into each comb and purifying it. 

The Devil looked on in shock as he felt his magic getting devoured piece by piece until he could no longer maintain it. In fact, he had been losing so much ground that Joan had gradually gotten closer to him, finally slamming into his body and clawing at his face with her lightning nails. She wrapped her arms and legs around his form and flooded his body with holy power. The Devil shielded himself and released a burst of power which cut open Joan's stomach. She did not cry out or even react. 

Joan heard the voice of the Goddess command her to hold onto the monster and not let go, so that's what she did. The two soared through the sky. The Devil thrashed about trying to get her off of him. He released spell after spell and torse at her back, skull and legs. Joan was getting shredded, but still she focused on the task at hand. She felt numb. She knew that she was going to win and die at the same time.

The Devil roared in pain when the holy power finally cleaved him in half. His wails echoed off the mountains as he knew he would be forced to retreat back into the underworld. His two halves fell and crashed into the water below. His spirit shuddered before dissolving.

Saintess Joan was dead. She had been dead even while she had been clinging to him. Her holy powers had acted as an adhesive, keeping her glued to him as she destroyed his anchor. He was a Demon Lord. She could not kill him, only shove him back into his hole. 

Her bloody body plummeted as she crashed into the lake below. She sunk to the very bottom as her soul extracted itself. Some of her magic bled out and marked the area even as her spirit passed on into the haven of the Goddess. 

The royal knights reached the rockface near the lake. Several jumped off their horses and rushed towards the edge of the water screaming out the name of their holy Saintess. They had seen it all. They had seen the Devil fall in two and the lady fall shortly after. The way she had fallen, limp and unmoving already indicated what had happened, but they refused to believe it.

Lady Joan was their Saintess!

She was their salvation!

How could a holy being die so young? She had not lived the long lives of her predecessors.

Had the Goddess intended for this? Why would she allow her Saintess to be killed?

But she had saved them. She had saved them all. Perhaps, this was her destiny.

But nothing could ease the heavy sense of loss that filled the air. Countless knights leapt into the lake and tried to find her. To at least retrieve her body. Sadly, it was for naught. Saintess Joan was dead and lost.

The images of the incident grew cloudy. As if an ink bottle had been spilled into the water of memories. It cleared away to reveal another memory. It was the same place, but the events weren't ancient history. This was much more recent. 

It was the dead of night. A lone, hooded figure walked along the river bank holding a lantern. The person wandered around for some time before deciding upon a particular spot. The person kneeled, placing the lantern down beside him before throwing off his hood.

It was the Pope. Back when he was still just a priest known as Father Matthew. He looked younger and less scary. He had a sinister air about him, but it wasn't overbearing.

Pulling out a waster flask from his bag, he popped it open and dipped a thick paint brush into it. Immediately, he began painting demonic runes onto the stone slab. And he wasn't using red paint. It was blood. His own.

Murmuring chants beneath his breath, he delved himself into his task. His face a mask of anger, desperation and determination. He was a man at his wits end. This had to work. He did not care about what would be demanded of him. He had to make contact and receive power.

Since Goddess Kartara had refused to bless him, he had no choice but to turn to the Demon Lord for help. He had to become the next Pope. He needed magic to prove his worth to his brethren. Going back emptyhanded would be a humiliation he could not live through.

Once he finished drawing, he painted a circle around himself before chanting more fervently. The air grew hot and the symbols began to glow. Matthew took out a small knife and slashed his own wrist, spilling fresh blood on the bloody symbol directly in front of him.

A slight vibration filled the air. The air itself seemed to thicken. Thunder rumbled in the cloudless and starless night sky. The symbols began to release a red vapor which thickened as it swirled and crawled into the water like fingers. Matthew moved closer to the lake's edge and looked down. In the next second the water began to bubble. Slowly at first, before boiling like a fire had been lit underneath. The bubbles released black steam into the air.

The bloody symbols peeled themselves off the ground and hovered over the boil, forming a circle and spinning rapidly. The water underneath began to swirl as if draining. An entity emerged. It brought with it a magic so foul it smelled like a casket had been cracked open.

The entity could barely maintain it's form. Just a face made up of black smoke with red veins, almost like centipedes streaked all over and one red eye that was flashing on and off.

Matthew breathed in relief and amazement. "My Lord! This humble servant is graced by the presence of the Almighty!"

The red eye narrowed. "Pretty words do not please me. Tell me, what is it that you want? How can a cockroach such as yourself be so daring as to call on the Lord of the Underworld? I feast on souls like yours!"

A sharp chill went up Matthew's spine. But he quickly spoke. He needed to persuade the Devil that taking him on as a disciple would be more beneficial than draining him.