Mission

Enveloped in the dominion of Lord Devil, Victor's understanding expanded, revealing the intricate interplay of events that had woven the fabric of his current predicament.

The eminent Lord Edwards had clashed with his own father, their conflict having happened no more than two weeks past. In the wake of their confrontation, his eminence had cast a curse—an insidious enchantment that bound his father's powers, rendering him vulnerable and weakened.

Driven by an urgent need to shatter the curse and overcome Lord Edwards, his father orchestrated a chilling gambit—one that cast Victor as a pawn in an elaborate strategy.

He was akin to a meticulously planned human sacrifice, with a role that held profound implications, heralding the descent of a powerful entity no different from a god.

This ritual was designed to tip the scales in his father's favor, to wrest control from the clutches of adversity.

The crystalline clarity of this newfound knowledge illuminated Victor's reality with a stark, unyielding light. He recognized his own existence as nothing more than sustenance, akin to a piece of bread to be devoured when hunger beckoned.

This revelation ignited a maelstrom of emotions within him—anger, fierce as a raging wildfire, and regret, a haunting specter that lingered.

From the depths of his being, he yearned for the power to defy this course of events, to wield the blade of retribution against his very own father.

As Victor directed his gaze toward the engulfing abyss of dark green flames that devoured Albert Sinclair, a profound sense of displeasure washed over him. It was akin to beholding a repugnant puddle of filth tarnishing the path ahead.

The emotions stirred by his father's fate were palpable, emanating an unspoken revulsion that permeated the air. Justified as it was, the disgust Victor harbored for his progenitor was an undeniable truth.

Even in the throes of his impending demise, Albert's face remained concealed beneath the cover of dark green scales from the gargantuan demonic serpent, devoid of remorse.

Instead, what revealed itself was the unsettling visage of a lunatic, driven by a ferocious and fanatical fervor that defied reason.

Contrasting Albert's demeanor, the formidable entity known as Lord Edwards exhibited no hint of surprise. His countenance was a mirror of composure, as if he had witnessed such scenes countless times before.

"It is regrettable that I cannot yet become a Marionettist. A Shepherd as a marionette could prove rather advantageous, indeed. However, once I have your characteristic in hand, I can easily give it to a puppet for control—a zombie crafted to my command," his voice emanated, dark and low, akin to the hiss of a serpent whispering its intentions to its prey.

Raising his palm, this mysterious and immensely powerful figure cloaked in enigmatic power exhibited a serene command. As his slender fingers closed, an even mightier torrent of cursed fire surged forth, fierce white flames aglow at its core.

From the very surroundings, these flames soared forth, their intensity akin to the brilliance of a summer morning's rays. Albert, known as Aurora Order's Oracle and referred to as Mr. T, stood no chance as the potent inferno, augmented by the prowess of a Pyromaniac, who had supreme control over fire, voraciously consumed his being.

As the flames soon left only a charred carcass of a body, Lord Edwards soon snapped his fingers, seemingly in command of another entity around him.

From a small fragment of glass on his shoulder, there came a floating spirit that took the form of a Wraith, and with the command given to it by its Lord, it soon flew towards the body of the dead Mr. T, using one of its powers to expedite the process of the formation of the Beyonder characteristic—a huge mouth filled with many serrated teeth that seemed to consume the souls of those who looked at it.

Once more, Lord Edwards summoned forth the tarot card depicting The Devil, harnessing its arcane might to expunge the points of light from this characteristic. With seamless efficiency, he swiftly drew them in, their energy absorbed into his being.

Turning his attention to Victor, Lord Edwards' gaze held a calm certainty as he issued his directive, "You shall not disclose my abilities, whether in your thoughts or dreams. The mere contemplation of it shall be forbidden to you."

The command bore an almost hypnotic quality, akin to a potent Psychological Cue etched into Victor's consciousness. From that moment forth, the mere thought of Lord Edwards' abilities became an inaccessible realm within Victor's mind.

With all in place, Victor observed the enigmatic Lord Edwards as he directed himself toward the cabin's entrance. In a spectacle akin to water-like starlight, he phased through the door without the need for its physical opening, leaving an ephemeral impression in his wake.

Victor had no time to think about all that transpired within the cabin, he quickly opened the entrance door and left the place, now seeing the body of Frederick, who had died here a moment ago, shining with points of light that also flew towards Lord Edwards.

His eminence strode purposefully in the direction of the ship's exit, each step resonating through the wooden planks like the somber tolling of bells, heralding the conclusion of all that bore witness to his presence.

Unbeknownst to the tumultuous events that had transpired within the main cabin, the crew members moved with unwavering focus on their tasks.

An eerie enchantment, akin to a shroud of cognitive fog, seemed to have woven itself around their minds, a spell of truly terrifying proportions. This mystic veil left them impervious to the disarray that had unfolded, rendering them oblivious to the discord and turmoil that had raged within those confined walls.

The crew remained unheeded by Lord Edwards, his attention unswervingly directed elsewhere. His calm and frigid voice resonated in Victor's ears as he continued his departure from the ship, the words etching an indelible imprint in his mind.

"These individuals were important to the ritual orchestrated by Mr. T," his voice held an air of detachment, "intended as supplementary materials for the False Creator's descent. I have Cued within their minds the inclination to heed your commands. Utilize their loyalty the way you see fit."

The crew members' attention swiftly shifted toward Victor, their gazes fixating upon him as if he were their sole captain, their actions bearing an unwavering fervor that surpassed the bounds of rationality. Their demeanor was marked by an almost fanatical dedication, a devotion that seemed to resonate from the depths of their souls.

They, however, seemed oblivious to the mysterious presence that proceeded to leave the ship—a selective blindness that shielded them from acknowledging the imposing presence of the powerful Lord Devil standing beside Victor.

Gradually regaining his composure, Victor took charge and issued orders to the crew members, directing them to make preparations for the ship's departure.

A sense of urgency infused his commands, motivated by the desire to shield any onlookers from the perplexing events that had unfolded within those cabin walls.

In contrast, Lord Devil paid little heed to the unfolding scene. Without waiting for Victor's commands to conclude, he embarked upon his own departure.

With measured steps, he gracefully descended the ship's main stairs, his movements embodying an ethereal elegance. Following the solitary path that led toward the bustling urban expanse of Bayam, he blended seamlessly with the ebb and flow of the city's life, a shadow among shadows.

In swift succession, Victor concluded his instructions to the ship's crew and hastened to align his footsteps with those of his commanding Lord.

His formidable demonic form, which had struck both fear and fascination, had seamlessly receded, leaving in its wake the return of his human guise.

The colossal serpent that had coiled around his Lord had likewise withdrawn from the material realm, dissolving into the enigmatic dimension from which it had emerged.

Navigating the bustling streets of Bayam, Victor's observations were both perplexing and striking. Despite his Lord's resplendent appearance, an aura that commanded attention, it appeared as if a cloak of invisibility had been cast upon him.

Passersby remained impervious to his presence, their awareness seemingly veiled from the remarkable figure traversing among them, a phenomenon that defied both logic and reason.

Their journey led them to the entrance of a lavish hotel situated at the heart of Bayam. Without delay, a valet emerged, addressing Victor directly while curiously overlooking the presence of his Lord.

"Good evening, Sir!" the valet's words carried a hospitable charm. "Might you be interested in securing a room for the night? We have a splendid suite awaiting your consideration."

The valet's keen gaze hadn't gone unnoticed, having taken note of the opulent attire that still adorned Victor, returning to its original state along with his reversion to human form.

With a familiarity that mirrored Victor's expectations, he withdrew a 10-pound banknote and handed it to the valet, who received it with a courteous nod. The valet promptly retreated to the reception, returning in short order with a polished key in hand.

"Your presence is warmly welcomed for the week, Sir!" the valet extended a gracious gesture, indicating the direction of his designated accommodations. Following the valet's lead, Victor was guided toward his room, a peculiar sensation tingling at the back of his mind—the valet's uncanny ability to anticipate his preferences before they were even expressed.

Arriving at the room's threshold, Lord Edwards, displaying his otherworldly prowess, once again traversed the doorway with the ethereal grace of starlight, entering the chamber.

The room itself was a testament to refined luxury, surpassing the standards of most establishments in Bayam. A grand bed occupied the center, flanked by passageways that led to a servant's quarters on one side and a spacious bathroom on the other. The ambiance exuded an air of sophistication, with each intricate detail contributing to an atmosphere of unparalleled comfort.

In an instant, his Lord's hand alighted upon a suitcase stationed beside the bed, the action executed with a swift and decisive grace. Within the span of mere moments, the case was imbued with bouts of blood, six distinct ensembles coalescing within its confines—ranging from precious jewels to enigmatic body parts.

Victor's awareness swiftly identified these contents, drawing upon the wellspring of knowledge bestowed upon him by his Lord—an intimate understanding of Beyonder characteristics.

With the suitcase now laden with its peculiar cargo, Lord Edwards' gaze found its mark in Victor's direction. The intensity of those dark green eyes exuded an icy chill that seemed to pierce through to the very core of his being.

A voice, resonating with a command born from the abyss itself, flowed forth from his Lord's lips. Its timbre was both compelling and inexorable, a testament to the authority from which it emanated.

"Your first task is straightforward," his Lord's voice intoned. "You are to pursue a particular group of pirates known for their variety assortment of Beyonders—The Myriad Anchors. Upon discovering their whereabouts, your mission is to eliminate their leader and any Sequence 7 Beyonders you may encounter. Should the mission prove untenable, employ this tarot card to summon my messenger; merely invoke the name 'Devil' to activate it. Do not call him unnecessarily, his temper is fairly obnoxious."

From his enigmatic repository, Lord Edwards withdrew a tarot card of exquisite craftsmanship. Etched upon its surface was a stunning depiction—an immense, dark-green demonic serpent, the very entity that had previously coiled around him in all its formidable grandeur.

"Furthermore, you have inherited three of my powers as my devoted servant, their nature now intricately woven into your existence. The first, known as Flames of Hatred, constitutes my cursed fire—an embodiment of potent animosity. This flame shall feed upon the profound enmity emanating from your adversaries, siphoning their spiritual essence to sustain its fiery presence.

"The second power is the embodiment of my Devil form—a transformation that bestows upon you a wide array of abilities akin to those of a Devil. Among these gifts are the Mystical Language of Foulness and mastery over my Bone Control.

"The most recent addition to your repertoire is the unique ability of recording and subsequently harnessing other Sequences' powers, a hallmark of the Sequence 6 Scribe of the Apprentice pathway. This capability is of particular value to you, who do not possess a Pathway per se. If the need arises to beseech my assistance in recording specific abilities, dispatch a letter through my designated messenger. Alternatively, as a last recourse, should you require a more immediate connection, you may endeavor to strengthen the bond coursing through your veins, you'll know how in due time."

With his directives conveyed, Lord Edwards shifted his gaze to the entrance of the bathroom, where a pallid woman of Southern descent had materialized.

His actions betrayed no hesitation as he swiftly hurled one of the Beyonder characteristics from his suitcase toward her. This unique item resembled a starlit orb, akin to a miniature universe encapsulated in marble form. The woman, her countenance eerily zombie-like, devoured the characteristic with ravenous intensity.

As the woman ingested the peculiar object, a metamorphosis unfurled within her being. Her once flaxen-colored hair assumed a bluish-white hue, her irises crystallized to a clarity beyond measure, and her entire form took on an ethereal quality. Yet, the transformation was fleeting, as Lord Edwards extended his elegant hand to touch her shoulder.

With a final glance at Victor, Lord Edwards's serene voice resonated, "May your hunt be fruitful, Second. Do not disappoint me."

Following this, a spiritual portal crafted from starlight manifested before him, and with a purposeful stride, Lord Edwards vanished into its luminous embrace alongside the zombie-like figure he was holding.

With unwavering devotion, Victor sank to his knees, his forehead humbly meeting the floor as an embodiment of profound reverence.

His countenance radiated fervent devotion, a testament to his deep-seated loyalty and gratitude, as he whispered in a voice laden with reverence, "Your supreme will is my own, my Lord."