In the hearts of the brave, fear has no place!

The battle had become a tempest of destruction. The river boiled with rising steam and was painted with explosions. Flames danced across the surface, while choking clouds of green poisonous smoke slithered through the air like serpents of their own.

Diego stared at the Tyrant's massive form. Its body was scorched and marred, yes—but not enough. Not nearly enough.

The creature was stubborn, refusing to die. And that obstinance... it thrilled him.

The Tyrant was no simple brute. In addition to spawning its brood and unleashing clouds of venomous gas, it could spew a torrent of acidic bile that corroded everything it touched. It was nearly impossible to block, even with Diego's overwhelming flames.

He was locked in a brutal exchange now—acid versus fire, the river itself groaning under the weight of their duel. Each time the Tyrant surged forward, Diego answered with another column of crimson flame.

But he could feel it—his body was close to breaking. Maybe a minute. Two, at most. His skin blistered beneath the flames that clung to him like a second soul. His blood was boiling with power and pain.

And still, he grinned.

Redirecting the next acidic wave with a flare of heat, he used the explosion to launch himself into the air, soaring toward the Tyrant's towering skull.

He wasn't just fighting for victory. He was fighting for them—for every soldier on that ship who still harbored fear. This was the Ascendancy's first emergence into the world's eyes. The unknown loomed over them all like a shadow. Would they survive? Would they be remembered? Could they avenge the fallen?

Fear made people hesitate. And hesitation could kill. So Diego would set their doubts ablaze with the fire in his heart.

As he neared the Tyrant's head, he raised his blazing axe, his voice thunderous even from hundreds of meters away:

"Mountains may move from their place, but you—you will not move from yours!

In the hearts of the brave, fear has no place!"

With a roar, he brought his axe crashing down.

The impact was like a meteor strike. A fiery explosion bloomed from the serpent's skull, and it shrieked in agony. Diego pressed the assault, raising the intensity of his flames even as his body screamed in protest. He had seconds left. Just seconds. But that was enough.

High above, Hemera's ocean of light poured over the serpent's lower body, burning and blinding it in tandem. Every strike from Diego was a sunburst—raw fury that rocked the heavens.

The Tyrant twisted, shrieking, vomiting poison and acid in a desperate attempt to escape.

And then… it stopped.

Everything went still.

For a moment, silence fell over the battlefield.

Then, a sound that sent a chill through every watching soul—a voice, slithering through the air:

"Ahh… it really hurts.

As furious and insane as I've heard… El Diablo, hmm?

Burning yourself just to burn me… Well.

I suppose that makes you a flame that'll snuff itself out."

It wasn't the serpent speaking. The voice was coming through it—twisted, mocking.

The Puppeteer.

But Diego didn't care. His only answer was a bestial scream as he threw himself at the creature again.

"RAAAAGHHHHRRGH!"

Above them, Hemera soared upward, ignoring the writhing bulk below. She vanished into the clouds, her golden form swallowed by mist.

For a heartbeat, the sky held its breath.

Then the heavens tore open.

A blazing comet descended from the clouds—Hemera, her body igniting like divine vengeance. She twisted mid-dive, wings folded tight, her golden beak a spear of incandescent judgment.

With a cry that split the sky, she plunged.

Her beak struck the serpent's second eye, piercing deep—but she did not stop. Her body dove further into its skull, flames erupting from her form in every direction.

BOOM!

The serpent's head detonated in a geyser of blood and fire.

Flesh and bone rained from the sky. The once-pristine waters of the estuary turned red, stained with the lifeblood of the abomination.

Hemera burst from the serpent's corpse, her feathers soaked in gore. It evaporated instantly, burned away by her radiant heat. She hovered, wings spread wide, her eyes narrowed at the twitching remnants below.

Even now, the beast refused to die.

But Diego was already falling—half-conscious, body breaking under the weight of his own flames. He ignited one last time, forming a giant axe of fire in the air.

And with a single, final strike, he brought it down.

It cleaved into the exposed flesh of the Tyrant's ruined body. Another eruption followed—steam and fire surging into the sky as the river boiled. The serpent was split clean in half. The monster was done.

Hemera caught Diego in her talons mid-fall. Her warm light washed over him, trying to restore what little remained. His body was scorched beyond recognition, barely clinging to life. If not for his natural resistance and ascended body, he would've been ashes.

But they'd done it. The Tyrant was dead.

Hemera looked out across the battlefield with disdain, her gaze settling on one of the remaining serpents—smaller, crouching low on a drifting slab of flesh. Watching.

She snorted. A glow built in her throat.

"A coward dies a thousand times before his death. the valiant never taste of death but once. Be gone, cowardly shadow spawned from the abyss."

She opened her wings wide—and unleashed a tidal wave of blinding light, sweeping the estuary clean. The remaining serpents were vaporized. Even their eggs, hidden and protected, stood no chance.

"I am Hemera, the Light of the Lord. Fear holds no place in my heart. Where I have passed, life will bloom again... and filth like you will be cleansed."

The battle was over.

But the war… was only just beginning.

______

Meanwhile, in the ruins of a forgotten mansion…

A man paced frantically, chewing at his nails until the skin peeled. He wasn't muscular or particularly imposing—just average. Average height, average build. But his long, unkempt brown hair and the frenzied glint in his green eyes betrayed something far from ordinary. Madness simmered just beneath the surface, mingling with fury.

"Damn it! Damn that flaming lunatic and his oversized turkey! What now? What the hell do I do now?!"

He whirled in place like a caged animal, frustration radiating off him in waves. With a snarl, he kicked over an old, dust-covered piano, the discordant clang echoing through the shattered halls.

The mansion stood in the heart of Pauillac—once a jewel of Bordeaux, famed for its age-worthy wines and gravel-rich vineyards. Now, it was nothing but scorched stone, broken glass, and crawling abominations. Beauty devoured by nightmare.

This man—the Puppeteer—was still dangerous. A bizarre and cunning individual, his abilities were terrifying in the right conditions. But without his puppets?

He was vulnerable. Stronger than the average Master, perhaps—but nothing compared to stronger masters, let alone Saints. Yet with preparation? Even Saints had reason to fear him.

"What can i do now?," he hissed, breath ragged. "That Tyrant was a gift from Lady Amelia… Fuck… Now I'm powerless. I doubt she'll capture another one for me…"

He slammed a fist into the cracked wall, then immediately regretted it, clutching his hand with a wince. "Damn it all…"

Despite all his brilliance—his tactical genius, his manipulation of that colossal serpent—he had made a fatal mistake.

Even knowing that Cassie was aboard the ship… he underestimated the blind Seer.

He should've known better. She wasn't just some fragile Seer tucked away behind stronger allies. She had been the key to the Sleepers' escape from the Forgotten Shore. Without her abilities, Dreamer Army would've been reduced to dust—regardless of who led it.

That seemingly delicate girl was more dangerous than any front-line fighter.

As the saying goes: knowledge is power.

And Cassie knew more than anyone.

"So you fucked up, huh? Lol."

The voice was casual, amused—mocking.

The Puppeteer froze.

His eyes widened. Slowly, He turned—expecting an enemy. Maybe one of the Aces.

Instead…

He saw a bird.

A massive bird, perched amid the rubble like some smug, feathered specter of mischief. Its plumage shimmered with unsettling hues, and its beady eyes gleamed with something disturbingly human.

"B-bleh… What is that?" he muttered, recoiling.

The bird clicked its beak and scratched its talons across the cracked marble.

"Listen, you racist fuck. Just because I'm a bird doesn't mean you get to vomit in my majestic presence. Tsk, tsk."

The Puppeteer took a slow, nervous step back. Instinct screamed at him to run—but before he could, a cold, ethereal sensation gripped the back of his skull.

His limbs locked.

His vision spun.

He staggered, eyes rolling upward.

Behind him stood a figure so graceful, so haunting, that she might have passed for a goddess—if that goddess had claws and a veil that whispered of sorrow.

She wore a dress spun from darkness itself, glittering faintly like the void between stars. Her touch was deceptively gentle—like silk soaked in poison.

Miseria sighed, effortlessly cradling the back of his head as he collapsed. She hovered above the floor, legs crossed, chin resting on her palm as if the whole affair was mildly inconvenient.

"I'm far too delicate for this kind of manual labor. Someone else can drag him."

Loki didn't answer. He was already flitting around the mansion, eagerly scanning the room and snatching up anything even remotely valuable.