Death's Embrace (1)

"Vile beasts."

The words rang out like thunderclaps, not from a monster, but from a woman, clothed in white robes that shimmered like woven starlight. Her silver white hair streamed behind her like a flowing river, and her figure, dazzling and terrible, possessed the sort of beauty that made even the bravest of men forget their weapons, their gods, and their fear.

She stood in the air, serene and emotionless, as her voice shattered the world.

The entire Newborn territory quaked. The tunnels, the caverns, and the foundations of the ground near the vicinity cracked at the might of her voice. The feeble creatures howled in torment, blood dribbling from their ears. Some collapsed outright, unable to hold the weight of her presence on their minds.

The millions of newborns swirled in panic, like water beneath her, forming a massive, shield-like formation —an instinctual reflex, a desperate prayer, while she stared down at it, unmoved.

Then, without warning, she shot upward like a rocket, leaving behind successive shockwaves, so fast that the air cracked behind her, and came crashing down like a dazzling comet.

Her descent split the air, her robes trailing divine fire like the tail of a falling star. The never-melting snow of the land of Forever Ice warmed—as though the ice, witness to forgotten wars, had remembered fear, when her fist struck the shield with the force of several mountains.

The explosion of light and sound was blinding and suffocating as the massive shield-like formation shattered on impact. It didn't stop her, nor did it slow her... it was never worthy.

She landed in silence.

And then the world screamed.

The shockwave rippled outward, flattening the ground and turning the front lines of the Newborn horde into ash, while every human within a seven-hundred-meter radius felt their wounds vanish, their bones mend, and their breath return.

She was salvation and annihilation, all at once.

She needed no weapons. Her fists were meteors. Her body, a divine instrument. Her presence alone was a weapon of mass deliverance and destruction.

Her hands moved in swift, sacred patterns, like some precursor before a ritual. Her eyes glowed majestic purple as she willed the manifestation of her Domain.

The domain of Judgment.

Tens of thousands of chariots burst forth from the heart of the cavernous dark. Some bore spears, others swords, all gleaming with divine fire. They ripped through the hell below like a divine cavalry, slashing, hacking, purging.

The wrath of Heaven had arrived.

And she... she floated like a ghost of vengeance. Each step of the way, each breath she exhaled, was a life taken. Any creature that dared to approach her was torn in half by her bare hands.

Her robes remained spotless. Her face was unreadable. Her justice, absolute.

High in the sky, floating in silence, was an elder man cloaked in radiance. His face was veiled in light, his beard long and white, and his back was adorned with three large halos.

The three giant halos of blinding light hung in perfect formation behind him, forming a glowing triangle that pulsed like a heartbeat of the heavens. Each ring glowed with layered soft glowing arcs, casting a gentle illumination across the world.

Above and a few feet behind him loomed a holographic angelic figure — silent, breathtaking, holy. It hovered in solemn grace, its six golden wings unfurled in slow, deliberate motion, as if blessing the very air it touched. From its form, delicate feathers began to fall, glowing fragments of sanctity, drifting down like a divine snowfall. They evaporated on the way down, just before hitting the ground, and all that followed them was warmth and awe behind.

Even the wind dared not howl, as the world stood in reverence.

Since his arrival, he had only performed one action: sealing the newborn territory with his divine sense. He was not here to fight the lowly beasts.

He was searching for something —or someone. The true reason the ancestral clans had sent one of their strongest Favourites.

The mastermind behind the onslaught of the Silent Night.

Divinity's End.

And then, for the first time, he opened his eyes and smiled.

"Found you," he whispered, as the air itself recoiled.

Then he vanished.

***

Back in the prison cave, Murphy and the others were tossed around like rag dolls, into walls, into one another, and to the ground. The quake had no mercy, and a few unlucky souls who didn't respond promptly crashed to their deaths on the ragged wall.

During this brief upheaval, Murphy had instinctively shielded his sister with his body, his posture a bizarre acrobatic feat. Yet despite the sudden death of the few unlucky souls and the grotesque backdrop, rather than fear or repulsion, something else took its place in the hearts of the survivors.

A glimmer of hope.

It flickered in their eyes. Not just in this cave, but in thousands of others. In tunnels, in pits, in the dark beyond. A new vigor ignited in the hearts of mortals, Cursed, and even the broken Favourites.

And for a moment, the air seemed to shift. The choking heat that clung to every breath grew lighter, less oppressive. Dust settled more slowly. The groaning walls, once angry with tremors, fell silent, watching, listening. It was as if the very bones of the cave had paused… startled by hope.

George braced himself on a jagged wall.

"The cavalry is here," he said, voice hoarse.

"But we're too deep. I'm worried… before the reinforcement reaches us, the Newborns... might resort to mutual destruction."

"And when that happens… things will take a turn for the worse pretty fast."

Murphy, bruised and battered, brushed dust from his face. Half listening, half assessing his wounds and numb leg; it was broken, alright. But now... it didn't matter.

After confirming that May hadn't suffered any new injuries, adrenaline surged through him like fire. He dodged falling debris, dancing between stone and corpse while dragging May with the precision of a ballerina.

His resolve to live surpassed all sensations of pain.

"I must survive," he whispered.

"Hope is near." And somewhere deep within him, fear began to lose its grip.

And across the prison cells of the underworld, something similar stirred from the newfound hope... the seed of rebellion.

In Murphy's cave, Derrion reached into a concealed pocket and withdrew a cursed shard... his trump card. A cursed artifact that has accompanied him for most of his hunter adventures.

With an eerie smile, he rushed towards George and grabbed a mid-grade crimson stone. His eyes gleamed with ruthless clarity as he turned toward the dazed Chimera.

"It's payback time, you bastard."