In the very last moment before complete collapse, the spirituality inside him finally stopped fighting.
It let go.
Surrendered full control to Vincent — a calculation driven by pure survival instinct, the most basic and honest choice either of them had ever made together.
As clarity returned, Vincent looked behind him and saw — sprouting from his own back — broad, white, translucent feathers. Clean as a swan's.
Mystical Re-enactment: The Ugly Duckling becomes the Swan.
A momentary partial mythical creature form. Stable. Chosen. His mind intact.
"About bloody time!"
He could feel the enormous spirituality now — Bernadette's, flooding through him — along with the divine quality living inside it. The jump from Sequence 5 to demigod wasn't just a step. It was becoming a different kind of thing.
The gap between Sequence 5 and demigod made the gap between him and Audrey look trivial.
No hesitation. Emperor's New Clothes — back on, "non-existence" cloaking him from all harm. Distort — running constantly, scrubbing away the remaining psychic damage and contamination.
Then he raised his hand.
In his palm, the crimson Spear of Longinus condensed — faster than it ever had before, denser, the annihilating intent woven through it almost tangible. His third use of Mystical Re-enactment tonight. His most powerful.
"Your turn, jackass."
He swept a hand. Endless blue-green beanstalk vines erupted from the earth around the dragon, racing up its scales and spreading across its entire body in seconds, turning it into a vine-wrapped abomination. Every tendril that found a gap between the scales pushed inward — leeching at its spirituality, draining it.
"ROOAAR!!!"
The dragon howled. It thrashed, enormous wings beating at the vines, tearing them in chunks — but each chunk was immediately replaced.
Vincent snapped his fingers.
Above the dragon's head, suspended by a horsehair, appeared a sword — jewel-studded, ornate, the kind of thing a nobleman might wear as decoration. It radiated a killing intent that had nothing to do with its appearance.
Even in its mindless rampage, the dragon's survival instinct screamed at it. It fought to wrench away, but the beanstalk vines held it nearly immobile.
Snap.
The horsehair broke. The sword fell.
It punched straight through the top of the dragon's skull. The divine power inside detonated on impact.
The Sword of Damocles — calibrated against those of high standing. The higher the target's position and authority, the worse the damage.
Even with the mythical creature form's absurd durability, the blow was beyond recovery. The massive body went slack and crashed to the ground, golden vertical-slit eyes filling, from the inside, with blood.
Still it tried to shriek. Still it scrabbled for traction, trying to rise, trying to release some last ability.
Vincent raised his hand one final time. In his palm the crimson Spear of Longinus re-formed.
He threw it.
A blood-red streak.
The dragon had nothing left. The spear entered through its skull and emerged through the back, dissolving into a flash of blood-light that scattered into the dark.
The shrieking stopped.
The dragon lay with its half-transformed head tipped back, staring at nothing, and in the last fragments of its consciousness it replayed what had just happened: the psychic aspect it had sent into the target's mind had been torn in half by the woman inside. The soul-backlash of that had hit its own body, triggering the uncontrolled shift. And then—
The thought didn't finish.
Crack.
The grey-white dragon shattered like a glass sculpture and collapsed in pieces across the street.
The masked demigod, watching from a distance, felt his heart pound. Thank god I managed to shake off that first blood-red spear when I did.
As the dark mass turned toward him, he stopped deliberating.
He ran.
Vincent didn't give chase immediately. He condensed a fresh Spear of Longinus — more spirituality than the previous three combined — and launched it.
"Leave."
Bernadette's voice came through.
Vincent blinked, didn't argue. He let the white feathers fall away. The seams across his body knit shut, the eyes closed. He returned to himself — ordinary-looking, two feet on the ground.
He landed lightly beside the shattered dragon, reached down, and picked up what was left of the Sequence 4 Spectator Beyonder characteristic — the size of a fist, shaped something like a heart, something like a brain. Then he tore a rift in space, stepped through into the spirit world, and moved fast.
"What happened — why pull out?"
He asked once they were clear.
"Other Beyonders were arriving. Don't know yet if they're Church or royal authorities."
"Ha. They waited until I was done and then showed up. Perfect timing."
Bernadette said: "The only explanation for that timing is that the attackers pre-arranged it."
A pause, then, flatly: "An Arbiter demigod and a Spectator demigod. The Loen royal family and the Psychology Alchemists?"
There was one thing she couldn't quite make sense of: if they'd decided to kill her, why send only two? Even setting aside the Psychology Alchemists, the Loen royal family should have more demigods available. And there was the angel to consider.
...
Backlund.
The masked man, fleeing under the third Spear of Longinus, had run himself ragged — spirituality wrecked, every nerve singing.
He could feel it. This one was worse than the previous two. Even a graze from it would be something he couldn't survive.
"Banish!"
A calm, commanding voice spoke, and the blood-red spear was simply pushed through a spatial rift, dispatched to somewhere else.
The masked man exhaled, bowed deeply. "Thank you, Your Grace."
The figure before him: black hair shot through with silver, slightly imperious bearing. Drinck Augustus, the previous-previous Duke of Southwells — Sequence 2 Balancer of the Justiciar Pathway. An angel of Loen.
"Hmph." A sharp, dismissive sound. "Can't manage one simple job. Useless."
"Your Grace, the Demoness Sect's people never moved."
"Oh."
The old man's brow creased. "They asked us to do the killing, and then they themselves didn't act?"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Give me an explanation. Katarina?"
A woman appeared without announcement — plain white robe, raven-black hair with a lustrous sheen, a face that somehow blended maturity and innocence, every gesture and expression touching something involuntary in the people around her.
"Your Grace — my concern was that if I made a move, the Church's people would be alerted ahead of schedule. That would risk the rest of our plan."
The old man studied her at length. What she'd said wasn't wrong, but the real reason was certainly not what she'd admitted to.
"That said — wasn't it the same reason you didn't act, Your Grace?" Katarina added pleasantly.
"Hmph."
Drinck Augustus made the sound and said nothing more.
The truth was that his read on the Churches' current posture was genuinely unclear. They obviously knew what the Loen royal family had in mind, but had expressed neither approval nor concrete opposition. That ambiguity was the hardest thing to deal with.
For now, their approach: stay the course. Adjust as needed.
"Let it go for tonight."
He said it flatly and vanished.
The corner of Katarina's mouth curved upward, very slightly.
...
On the other side, guided by Bernadette, Vincent arrived at her palace — the Emerald City.
He stepped out of the spirit world.
"The Scale is balanced."
To be continued…
Since I was unable to post on Sunday due to some issues, today there will be a double update!
Advance 100 Chapters are up on my Patreon!
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