Chapter 11—The Courtesan's Fire

Sera's fury blazed anew, flames licking the air as she hurled fire toward the witch. But the sorceress, undeterred, snuffed out the flames with a mere gesture, her laughter echoing through the rocky cove. With a blade in hand, she lunged at Sera, eyes gleaming with malice.

Sera danced on the edge of danger, her instincts sharp. As the witch aimed to plunge the knife into her, Sera sidestepped with grace, the blade missing her by a hair's breadth. The witch, off balance, teetered at the precipice.

In that moment, Sera's raw power surged. She seized the witch's wrist, muscles straining as she flung her adversary across the cove. The impact shattered the stone, sending debris flying. The witch staggered to her feet, black dress coated in dust.

Before the sorceress could regain her bearings, Sera pounced, their bodies colliding. Together, they soared through the air, crashing into another hidden coven. The force reverberated through the witch's spine, blood spilling from her mouth.

Sera's nails, crimson talons honed for vengeance, hovered dangerously close to the witch's face. But the sorceress was swift, Sera's abdomen absorbed the force of her kick. The impact sent Sera sprawling backward, landing hard on one knee.

The witch rose, her eyes aflame with determination. She whistled, a haunting sound that pierced the air—a call to her coven, a plea for reinforcements. The other witches emerged from their hidden sanctuaries, each bearing a unique appearance and wielding magic-infused weapons. From the very earth, a summoner's chant resonated. Three golems stirred, rising like ancient guardians. Their stony forms, moss-covered and weathered, mirrored the drake of the Verdant forest—a testament to their primal power.

Towering at twelve feet, the golems loomed over the battlefield, their stony forms ancient and formidable. With a primal roar, they hurled massive rocks toward Sera, each stone a deadly missile. But Sera, nimble and fierce, danced through the onslaught. She dodged one boulder, shattered another with a powerful kick, and deflected the last back toward its origin. The impact shattered the other golem's legs, leaving it crumbling in disarray.

Sera's eyes blazed with sinister determination, her hands once again wreathed in flames. She unleashed a rapid barrage of fire attacks upon the remaining golems, their mossy bodies crackling and crumbling under her assault.

Meanwhile, the witch's anger twisted her features. She abandoned Sera to the golems and turned her attention to Datura Lucas, the enigmatic figure who had fled with the mermaid. The witch sensed something extraordinary within him—a divine power, perhaps. It intrigued her, made him more than a mere mortal. With a wicked grin, she closed in on him, her blade ready to clash with destiny.

And amidst the chaos, Datura Lucas fought for his life, his sword clashing with the sorcerer's, sensed another presence—a shadow racing toward him. The witch, relentless and vengeful, bore down upon him. Their blades met, steel sparking against magic-infused steel. The sorcerer's weapon carried the weight of a boulder, yet he wielded it with the finesse of a feather.

Backpedaling, Datura sought distance. His mind raced, and he summoned a thorn bush into existence, its jagged spines aimed at the sorcerer. But the adversary faltered, inexperienced in battle. The thorns found their mark, piercing the sorcerer's stomach. His howl echoed through the hidden coven.

The witch, observing her apprentice's plight, intervened. Her invisible hands sliced through the thorn bush, freeing the wounded sorcerer. Her voice, like a serpent's hiss, slithered toward Datura. "That woman deceives you, young man," she warned. "Her beauty blinds you to the peril she brings."

"I knew her," the witch's voice dripped with venom, "the bitch who razed my grandmother's fortune teller stall at the bustling market. She murdered her and fed her remains to the insatiable drakes of the forest." The pain of loss and the thirst for revenge etched lines on her face, twisting her features into a mask of wrath.

"I'll end her," the witch vowed, her eyes aflame. "But I need something from you, young man. Be a good boy and hand it over." Her demand hung in the air, a sinister melody woven into the chaos of battle. Datura Lucas, his shoulder throbbing from the witch's earlier stab, danced with death. He sidestepped her attack, but she anticipated his move, her blade seeking his flesh. His hiss of pain echoed through the forest swamp as he swung his sword, forcing her to retreat.

The witch was swift, her power unmatched in speed. Yet Datura knew his strength lay elsewhere. He needed the perfect moment, a convergence of fate and force. Distance was his ally, but the witch preferred head-on clashes, relentless and unyielding.

As they dueled, the witch's gaze found the cunning woman. Sera's eyes ablazed, burning holes into the very fabric of reality. In that instant, petals—those same petals Lucas had stomped earlier—swirled around the witch. They sliced through her skin, leaving crimson trails in their wake. She staggered, her defenses crumbling with just a single mistake.

Lucas seized the opportunity. His sword danced, weaving a deadly combo. A thorn bush sprouted, wrapping around the witch's arms and legs. Another thorn, aimed at her heart, pierced her chest. She writhed, her invisible hands struggling to block the onslaught. Pain etched lines on her face as the thorns impaled her arms and knees. "Tell me," Lucas's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What was that thing you revealed to me?"

"T-that?" The witch's voice wavered, blood staining her lips. "It was the—" She coughed, crimson droplets spattering the ground. "It was the prophecy, your fate. You can't alter it." Her grin held a twisted satisfaction, as if she reveled in the inexorable threads of destiny. Datura Lucas's anger surged, a tempest within him. The witch's words gnawed at his resolve, taunting him with the futility of defiance.

Meanwhile, Sera sensed time slipping through her fingers. The encircling sorcerers, conjurers, and witches watched, poised for the final act. Their collective breath held, anticipation thick in the air. Then, a summoner's incantation rent the silence, crystal shards erupting from the ground. The weapon-wielders seized the opening, launching their assault on Sera.

But darkness descended, a shroud that swallowed the world. A sinister laugh echoed, reverberating through their minds. A desperate sorcerer, fueled by determination, channeled energy to break the suffocating spell that ensnared them. But fate twisted cruelly. Chills slithered down his spine, and the air grew stagnant. Pain erupted from his eyes, searing and unyielding. He screamed, hands clawing at his face, but it was too late.

Sera, the harbinger of chaos, moved with preternatural grace. Her talons, honed by vengeance, sliced through their sight—one eye after another. The sorcerers crumpled, knees buckling beneath the weight of their newfound blindness. Too powerful, she was—a force beyond reckoning. A monster that roamed the earth, unbound by mortal constraints. This realm quaked in her presence, its very fabric unraveling.

"Hagatha! Run!" The plea echoed, a desperate cry. One of them, guided by their third eye, fled into the murky swamp.

The witch, bound by the thorn bush, turned her gaze toward Sera as her name echoed through the chaos. Run? The thought twisted in her mind. They can't handle that wench? Her breaths came ragged, blood choking her throat. Hagatha, a three-hundred-year-old witch, wielded power as an overseer, her divination skills unmatched. Even in close combat, she rivaled seasoned assassins.

But this creature—this limitless force—defied all reasons. Hagatha's realization dawned like a storm gathering on the horizon. "You sneaky wench," she spat, her voice a venomous hiss. "You possess the Sphere of the gods, don't ya? You greedy girl, and you still—Ahh!" Her words fractured as agony consumed her. Searing pain seared her tongue into oblivion.

Datura Lucas, torn between duty and curiosity, reached out to halt Sera's lethal strike. He didn't want to end her life yet—not when questions lingered like shadows. Was the vision true, or merely a trick woven by the witch?

The witch's eyes bore the weight of vengeance, her mouth a twisted canvas of blood and pain. Bound by the thorn bush, her hands and feet remained trapped, powerless against the inexorable tide.

Sera, devoid of mercy or sentiment, met her gaze with cold resolve. Her eyes, a stark contrast to her blazing hands, held no flicker of doubt. "You dare think you're stronger than me?" Sera's smirk danced on the edge of cruelty, a blade honed by wrath.

"After I'm done with you," Sera's voice cut through the air, "Consider your descendants unlucky.  For every damn one of them will be burned by the stake." The words hung like a curse, woven into the very fabric of fate. And then, with a mere flick of her hands, Hagatha ignited. Flames consumed her, devouring flesh and bone. Not even a scream escaped her lips as she died—an agony swallowed by the void.

Datura Lucas, lost in the mists of memory, found himself back in the castle—a night etched in flames and tears. His vision blurred, fever searing his senses, he stumbled down the corridor. There, his mother leaned, life slipping away, crimson liquid staining the once-pristine floor. The cacophony of screams, shouts, and clashing swords echoed through the castle's crumbling walls.

He was about to call for her, to reach out across the chasm of chaos, when a shadow emerged—a figure both human and otherworldly. Fox ears crowned its head, and several tails swirled like smoke. The creature, though blurry, moved with lethal precision. Its blade slashed through the air, severing his mother's life thread. Silence swallowed her scream, and shock clamped around Datura's heart.

His father, a desperate king, swept him away from the horror. "—tura, Datura," the words echoed, a plea and a command. They fled, leaving behind the burning castle, the fallen queen, and the creature with eyes like flames.

And now, Sera, her gaze ablaze, shook him from the abyss of memory. Her hands gripped his shoulders, grounding him to reality. Her face, adorned with splashes of blood, her robe a deep crimson, the fabric blending seamlessly with the gore. You'd be hard-pressed to discern whether it's her own blood or that of her victims. Her visage remains unchanged—cunning and composed—a mask of calculated resolve.

Even after she razed the village to dust, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins, her demeanor remains unshaken. She is the embodiment of strength, a force of nature that defies mortal limits. Nothing could stop her.