Cornea emerged from the shadows like a living omen.

  One glance was enough.

  A broken Arlen on his knees.

  Nyx standing rigid, trembling with restrained grief.

  Grom holding Aura’s lifeless body with hands that had once crushed armies.

  And the absence—Tethys was gone.

  Cornea didn’t ask what happened.

  She already knew.

  “We return to the Underworld,” she said coldly. “Now.”

  No one argued.

  Grom lifted Dryas’s unconscious body with care that contrasted painfully with his monstrous frame. Chronos’s kick had left her broken inside and out. The portal swallowed them whole.

  Dryas awoke to pain clawing through her abdomen.

  A foreign ceiling.

  A soft bed.

  The faint scent of demonic incense.

  Nyx sat beside her, eyes hollow.

  “You’re awake,” Nyx said quietly. “Come. Everyone’s waiting.”

  Her voice was steady—but only because she was forcing it to be.

  The throne room felt suffocating.

  Defeat hung in the air like a corpse that refused to rot.

  Dryas took a step forward, fists clenched.

  “We don’t have time to fall apart,” she said desperately. “We have to save Tethys—before Mortis lays a hand on her!”

  Grom slammed his fist into the stone floor.

  “We just lost one of our own,” he roared.

  “One of the Queen’s Royal Guards.

  One of my rivals.”

  His voice cracked.

  “And all you care about… is saving some god?”

  Tears streamed freely down his face.

  Dryas shook her head violently.

  “That’s not what I mean! Aura gave her to weaken Mortis—if we don’t act now, her sacrifice means nothing! We can still save someone!”

  Before she could finish—

  Nyx’s hand closed around Dryas’s throat.

  Her grip wasn’t tight enough to kill.

  But it was filled with hatred sharp enough to cut worlds.

  “Oh?” Nyx hissed, eyes blazing.

  “So you’re Aura died?”

  Dryas froze.

  “Admit it,” Nyx continued, voice trembling with rage and grief.

  “You only care about your precious goddess friends. For us demons, it’s fine if we die—as long as you save that child. Isn’t that right?”

  Silence shattered—

  “SHUT UP!”

  Arlen’s voice exploded through the room.

  Everyone froze.

  He stepped forward—then collapsed to his knees.

  The God Slayer knelt.

  “It’s my fault,” he said hoarsely.

  “Aura is dead.

  Tethys was taken.

  Mortis escaped.”

  His hands trembled.

  “All because I got arrogant.

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  All because I thought a few sacred relics made me invincible.”

  His voice broke.

  “They trusted someone as worthless as me.”

  The room fell silent.

  Nyx shook her head violently.

  “No, Arlen—!”

  Grom clenched his fists.

  Dryas tried to speak.

  But Arlen couldn’t hear them.

  He was already drowning.

  Then the only person who could reach her broken heart, moved.

  Cornea wrapped around him from behind like a constricting serpent, her fingers digging painfully into his chest.

  Her voice dropped—cold, merciless, absolute.

  “You think you’re to break?”

  The pressure of her presence crushed the air itself.

  “You think generals win every war?

  That kings never lose battles?

  That you have the luxury to drown in regret?”

  Her grip tightened.

  “You don’t.”

  From the moment you chose to become a God Slayer

  Her voice cut deeper than any blade.

  “Will you let Aura’s death mean nothing?”

  She leaned close, whispering venom into his ear.

  “Stand up.

  Think.

  Plan.”

  “Or I will make sure you share her fate.”

  The words were cruel.

  Unforgiving.

  Necessary.

  Slowly—trembling—Arlen stood.

  He wiped the tears from his face.

  His demonic eye burned once more.

  “Yes, Cornea.”

  His voice steadied.

  “I won’t stop.

  I won’t allow myself to stop, until I have fulfilled both of our revenge.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “And this time… I fight to avenge Aura too.”

  Arlen’s mind raced.

  How to strike back at Mortis.

  How to rescue Tethys.

  How to stop the parasite before it consumed everything.

  Plans overlapped, shattered, reformed—until something small fluttered through the throne room.

  A butterfly.

  Its wings were black—beautiful, delicate, almost unreal.

  No one else noticed it.

  Only Arlen.

  His eyes followed it instinctively as it drifted closer, slow and gentle, like it was drawn to him alone. Without thinking, he reached out.

  The moment his finger touched it—

  Pain exploded.

  The butterfly bit him.

  Not like an insect.

  Like a predator.

  A sharp, searing agony ripped through his finger and into his palm before he could even react. He recoiled with a sharp gasp.

  “What—?!”

  He stared at his hand.

  There was a swollen hole in his palm, raw and pulsing, as if something had burrowed inside him.

  Then a voice rang out.

  Not from the room.

  From inside his mind.

  Arlen froze.

  “…Aura?”

  His breath caught.

  “Aura?! Where are you? You survived?!”

  His gaze snapped back to his palm.

  The butterfly rested there now, wings folding slowly.

  A dangerous giggle echoed in his head.

  Her tone turned almost playful.

  Understanding hit him like lightning.

  “…You’re the butterfly.”

  she replied brightly.

  Arlen exhaled sharply, relief crashing over him so hard his knees almost gave out.

  No one else noticed anything.

  To them, he was just standing there, silent.

  Aura continued lazily.

  Inside his mind, Arlen replied immediately.

  There was a brief pause.

  For the first time, her voice lost its teasing edge.

  Her tone sharpened.

  Arlen’s eyes widened.

  A slow, dangerous smile crept onto Arlen’s face.

  “So he’s wounded,” he thought.

  He lifted his head, eyes burning with renewed resolve.

  “Dryas,” he said aloud. “Tell me about the other gods.”

  Dryas thought for a moment, then spoke carefully.

  “Vulcan, the god of fire, is close to Chronos. He may already be cooperating with him. Nomos, the god of justice, is also a potential target.”

  She continued, listing them one by one.

  “Krios, god of frost.

  Raijin, god of thunder.

  Hephaestus, god of craft.

  Phantas, god of illusions.

  They might not be involved, because they likes to live in solitude, but I might be wrong.”

  Her expression darkened.

  “The original god of wisdom is already dead.”

  Then she hesitated.

  “And there is Astrea… the goddess of space.”

  Arlen’s attention sharpened.

  “Chronos uses teleportation by borrowing her power via his relic,” Dryas explained. “She was a close friend of Cornea’s father. She gifted him that power long ago—that’s why high-ranking demons can teleport too.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “But Astrea disappeared long ago. During Chronos and Ianthe’s marriage, she said she was leaving on a journey across the cosmos.”

  “She never returned.”

  Silence followed.

  Arlen nodded.

  “I understand.”

  He turned to Cornea, his voice steady, resolute.

  “Take me to Solon. Now.”

  Then, without hesitation, he added—

  “And Grom. And Aura.”

  He clenched his fist.

  “I swear… I will bring Aura back.”

  Shock rippled through the room.

  But no one doubted him.

  Not even Cornea.

  The demon queen smiled—sharp, predatory, pleased.

  She opened a gate to Solon’s sanctuary.

  “Let’s see what you can do, little strategist,” she said softly.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Arlen.”