The shrieks of the undead wailed and echoed from the distance in a sudden, visceral reaction, as if the entirety of Desden Cave had just awakened to commence a festival of human slaughter.

  Seraph had no time to contemplate the human souls liberated from their undead husks. The thunderous roars and the frantic gallop of an undead horde now surged from the distant tunnels.

  The young man remained uncertain of the total number of undead miners within Desden’s depths. According to the data within the Sanctus Scroll, the mine had originally housed two to three hundred workers. A portion had been purged by the soldiers of Balyon, while the remainder had been driven back, tumbling into the abyss of the Desden gorge.

  Though the entire horde might not have heard the report or arrived simultaneously, the cacophony reaching his ears suggested at least a dozen monstrosities. He was unsure if he could withstand their collective onslaught.

  Demons were perpetually more difficult to combat than humans, even when their strength was seemingly equal. Every demon was devoid of fear. In truth, they might harbor some vestige of terror, yet the behavior of a demon minion was invariably dominated by a demonic alpha, compelling them to lunge at humanity without a heartbeat of hesitation.

  Elite Demons were as cunning and sapient as any man, often congregating in vast numbers and bolstered by savage, predatory instincts. When these advantages coalesced, the Demon Legion became a nightmare that humanity struggled to overcome.

  “Crap!” Seraph exclaimed, his voice taut with strain. “The mageia resonance drew them straight to me!”

  The young man retreated to the narrowest choke point of the tunnel. There, he intoned another incantation.

  “Flamus Barrix!” Seraph cast.

  [Fwoosh!]

  Heat waves churned around the young man as a wall of blazing fire erupted from the earth before him. The surging temperature within the cramped tunnel sent the cave’s currents into a frenzy, his cloak thrashing in the wake of the thermal gale.

  The thunderous cadence of heavy footsteps drew near. Over a dozen undead miners surged around the tunnel’s bend in a state of primal frenzy, their jagged fangs snapping as roars echoed through the grand subterranean hall.

  Each creature bared its teeth and brandished claws like a feral beast; their forms were tattered and torn as if gnawed by predators, some even missing entire limbs. Most possessed eyes that were nothing more than pits of abyssal black.

  The crimson mageia radiated heat waves like a surging sea, repelling the demons that rushed headlong into the fray. It was as if they had only just perceived the barrier of mageia fire standing between them and the succulent scent of human flesh. Some dropped to all fours, snarling at the wall of flame like starving predators, while others recoiled in visible hesitation. The cowering movements of the undead betrayed a deep-seated terror of the fire.

  Seraph’s mageia power continued to surge, glowing with an ever-increasing brilliance. Seeing the opening within the undead ranks, he intoned a secondary offensive incantation.

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  “Flamus Bulletrix!” Seraph cast once more.

  [Bang! Bang! Bang!]

  This time, the young man accelerated his mageia power to even greater heights. Before him, a volley of dozens of mageia projectiles materialized in the air. They locked onto the undead miners that were still snarling and crawling along the tunnel walls, searching for any crevice to reach their human prey.

  “Unleash!” Seraph commanded.

  At his thought, the entire barrage of mageia bullets erupted with extreme violence. The report of the projectiles rang out like a battlefield, tearing through the skulls and hearts of the dozen undead miners without exception.

  Though several shots missed their mark, the surplus of mageia bullets Seraph had woven ensured total devastation. The undead vessels detonated, defenceless against the onslaught. Some had their craniums pulverized, while others had their hearts shredded, leaving behind nothing but hollowed, smoldering chests.

  The guttural snarls dissolved into shrieks of terror. The undead wailed in frantic dismay as the finality of their existence bore down upon them. They scrambled to flee, but even on all fours, they could never outpace the celerity of the mageia projectiles.

  Soon, the last of the undead collapsed. Not a single soul remained standing within the tunnel.

  Witnessing the end of the slaughter, Seraph allowed the fire wall to dissipate. The flames that had licked the cavern floor flickered and died in rapid succession. The young man gasped for air, his lungs burning and his frame trembling with exhaustion.

  Though the Bulletrix incantation demanded a negligible expenditure of mana, Seraph had never before engaged in combat under such suffocating pressure. This was his first day, his inaugural clash with the legions of darkness. That he had survived at all was a testament to his resolve.

  As he approached the fallen husks, a dozen human souls ascended and vanished into the void, just as before. Yet, simultaneously, a strange luster of shimmering dust drifted from the remains, surging toward him like a tide.

  Seraph’s eyes widened in shock. He had not anticipated a curse-trap from such lowly minions.

  “CURSE!” Seraph cried out.

  He erupted with mageia power, leaping backward with every ounce of his strength. He leveled his wooden staff, his breath hitching as he prepared to weave a desperate defensive ward.

  But the phenomenon was inescapable. The glittering dust seeped into his flesh before he could complete the spell. Seraph clawed at his chest, his mind racing to intone a counter-curse against the perceived poison.

  Then, he stopped.

  Instead of decay, he perceived a subtle surge in his mageia power. His fatigue vanished; his mana reservoir swelled. Though the sensation was faint—nearly imperceptible—it was unmistakable.

  Following the convergence of the two souls, Seraph’s mageia senses had become so acute they bordered on precognition. He knew, with absolute certainty, that the sensation he had just experienced was no trick of the mind.

  “That shimmering dust... what was it?” Seraph mused, rubbing his chest in bewilderment. “It wasn’t a curse. It didn’t harm me—if anything, it bolstered my mageia power.”

  “Could it be... that by destroying these abominations, one reclaims a fraction of their essence? Is the legend of the Origin God actually manifest?”

  The Origin God was a myth spoken of in whispers—a tale that the entire Macrocosmic expanse began with the birth of a singular, primal deity. It was said the Origin God divided its essence into the elements and all existence; the stars and the universe were but heirs to its divinity. If the legend held truth, then whether it be light or dark, man or demon—all shared a singular lineage from that First Essence.

  Yet, the chronicle of the Origin God was treated as little more than a bedtime story, told by parents to entertain children. It was a fable devoid of evidence, a myth few deigned to believe in an age of cold logic. But if the legend were reality, then the fragment of power returning to him after a kill was not a marvel—it was a homecoming.

  “Then why haven’t I found a single tome regarding this within the Labyrinthine Basilica?” Seraph’s suspicion deepened. “Void take them... are they hiding the truth, or are they just as blind as the rest?”

  In truth, this essence was known as Origin Light Dust. Throughout history, only a handful of elite magis had ever acknowledged its existence, for the phenomenon manifested almost exclusively to those whose affinity with the Macrocosmic was absolute.