The air above Orario, already thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the distant cries of conflict, momentarily fractured.
Not by an explosion of conventional magic, but by the sheer, unadulterated power unleashed in the fleeting yet cataclysmic clash between Zald, the revered champion of a bygone era, and Mors, a figure of equally terrifying might.
Their exchange, a maelstrom of force and skill condensed into seconds, tore at the very fabric of the beleaguered city, leaving further devastation in its wake.
Yet, within this destructive rupture, opportunities arose, seized by those desperate enough to act. While the battle offered a stark and terrifying preview of the enemy's capabilities, further eroding the already fragile morale of the defending adventurers, it also provided crucial, albeit brief, moments for critical action.
On opposite fronts, two individuals recognized and capitalized on this momentary diversion.
Just as Draco, the young captain of the Bahamut Familia, leveraged the chaos for his own vital objective, so too did Asfi Al Andromeda of the Hermes Familia.
The blinding focus of Zald and Mors, momentarily drawing all attention and power to their epic collision, created a small vacuum of awareness around Alfia, whose normally omnipresent vigilance was momentarily captivated by the spectacle.
It was a perilously small window, demanding a tremendous gamble against an impossibly powerful foe.
For Asfi, known more for her intellect and ingenuity than reckless bravery, this was a moment of overwhelming courage.
She knew the odds were stacked against her, but the prize was too significant to ignore. Strapping on her experimental 'Winged Sandals' – less a finished magic tool for true flight and more a prototype designed to provide explosive acceleration mid-air – she prepared for her desperate dash.
Coupled with a scattering of other, equally volatile experimental magic items – smoke bombs designed to blind and disorient, miniature explosives meant to create noise and distraction, and noxious poison bombs intended to deter pursuit – Asfi concocted a high-stakes plan.
Launching herself forward, she activated the sandals in sharp bursts, darting to her goal.
The experimental bombs were deployed in quick succession, erupting in puffs of thick, obscuring smoke, sharp percussive blasts, and clouds of sickly green vapor.
This created a chaotic, multi-sensory screen just long enough for her to reach her target: the forms of Riveria and Gareth, lying unconscious amidst the debris of their own brutal defeat.
Working with frantic speed, Asfi secured the severely wounded pair, slinging their heavy forms over her shoulders and back, and immediately initiated her retreat.
Using the Winged Sandals in repeated, powerful bursts, she propelled herself away from the scene, weaving through the air currents and over destroyed structures, disappearing into the labyrinthine paths of the city.
Alfia, her attention finally peeling away from the retreating forms of Zald and Mors, observed Asfi's desperate escape.
There was no alarm, no surprise, only a chilling, almost bored recognition.
She made no move to pursue, her posture one of utter confidence and terrifying patience.
To her, Asfi's actions were ultimately futile, a temporary reprieve in an inescapable cage.
"Run as you might," Alfia's voice, devoid of emotion yet carrying an immense weight of finality, echoed through the settling dust, "there is no escape in the end, as long as you remain in this city."
As Asfi vanished into the distance, a small speck against the backdrop of Orario's burning skyline, Alfia simply turned and walked in a different direction, leaving the scene of destruction and the rescued adventurers behind, secure in her conviction that her prey remained trapped within her grasp.
............…..
Miles away, in the Central Park, now tragically transformed into a sprawling, tense hub of wailing evacuees, weary healers, and wounded adventurers, the grim realities of the ongoing conflict arrived in waves.
Amidst the makeshift medical stations and restless crowds, adventurers, serving in the de facto command center, struggled to process the flood of devastating news.
A runner, breath ragged and uniform torn, reached Finn, his usually calm demeanor taut with anxiety.
"Sir, we are getting reports that our allies in the southwest have been completely wiped out," the woman reported, her voice trembling slightly.
"Wiped out? All of them?" Finn spat the words, his shock palpable.
Complete annihilation of an entire frontline was a catastrophic blow, far worse than simple defeat.
"Yes, sir! Some managed to escape, but the enemy has completely crushed the frontlines! There's no organized resistance left in that district!" the messenger confirmed, the severity of the situation hanging heavy in the air.
As if that wasn't enough to shatter their resolve, a second messenger arrived moments later, barely able to speak through his exhaustion and fear.
"Loki-sama, Captain! It's Riveria and Gareth… they have been defeated!" he managed to gasp out, the words hitting the command center like a physical blow.
"What!" Loki yelped, her usual playful mask replaced by genuine maternal worry for her cherished executives.
"Are they okay?"
"It seems that Asfi of the Hermes Familia managed to rescue them," the messenger replied, offering a sliver of relief amidst the despair.
"But they are both badly wounded and unconscious. Asfi has taken them towards the southern area."
A collective groan rippled through the nearby adventurers.
The news of Ottar's defeat earlier had been met with disbelief by many, dismissed as enemy propaganda meant to demoralize.
Whispers had circulated about Riveria and Gareth's fall as well, similarly doubted.
But now, confirmed by the rescue itself, the impossible had occurred.
Two pillars of power within the Loki Familia, adventurers who seemed invincible, had been beaten.
This confirmation didn't just lower morale; it sent it plummeting into the abyss.
If even Riveria and Gareth could fall, who else was left to stand against these monsters?
"No way... Riveria and Gareth lost... that means the Evilus were telling the truth all along," Raul, whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief, mirroring the sentiments of countless others around him.
The air crackled with despair, each face reflecting the dawning horror of facing truly superior opponents.
Then, amidst the demoralized murmuring, the frantic voice of a third messenger cut through.
"Captain!"
"What has happened now?" Finn asked, his voice tight with exhaustion and the relentless onslaught of bad news.
His head ached, a physical manifestation of the overwhelming pressure.
So much was on the line – lives, the city, maybe even their entire way of life – and the situation only seemed to worsen with every passing minute.
It was only natural that even the composed Braver was on edge.
"Sir!" the messenger hesitated, clearly wrestling with the gravity of his report.
"Just relay the news," Finn demanded, forcing himself to remain calm. Time was a luxury they couldn't afford.
"Uhm, it's word from Draco-san!" the messenger finally blurted out.
Loki leaned forward instantly. "Speak!"
"Draco-san has managed to save Ottar and Allen from the enemy, although severely injured, they should recover with proper treatment!" the messenger reported, the second piece of surprisingly positive, albeit grim, news.
He went on to narrate the chain of events as relayed by Draco – the brutal power of their opponents, the enemy's estimated strength, and various other pieces of critical intelligence gathered during the perilous rescue.
Everyone listening, having just absorbed the defeats of Riveria and Gareth, almost collapsed in despair once the messenger finished describing the sheer magnitude of the power they were expected to face, confirming the enemy's horrifying capabilities.
So it's confirmed, Finn thought, rubbing his aching temples.
Our enemies are Alfia from the Hera Familia, Zald from the Zeus Familia, and a mysterious man of equal strength... three monsters from the cursed past, resurrected to wreak havoc.
"So are these Valletta's trump cards," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, "or is there more? Is this just the beginning?"
A fourth messenger jolted him from his grim contemplation. "Captain!"
"What is it now?" Finn asked, a hint of weary irritation creeping into his tone, though he quickly suppressed it.
This was no time for frayed nerves.
"Sir! Morale is plummeting with news of consecutive defeats!" the messenger reported, stating the obvious but underlining the critical consequence.
"The enemy, energized by this, are advancing rapidly in the south. There is nobody left to stop them!"
Raul immediately stepped forward, pleading. "Captain, we have to immediately send reinforcements! Riveria and Gareth are still around that area, Asfi might need help!"
"No," Finn denied instantly, the word sharp and decisive, cutting through the plea.
It was a painful decision, going against his instincts as a friend, but necessary for his role as a leader.
"We must stay here in the Central Park and protect Babel with our lives. There is no doubt what the enemy is after….."
As much as his heart twisted with worry for his two dearest friends, Finn couldn't afford favoritism.
Risking the lives of the thousands gathered in the park, or compromising the city's last bastion of defense, to mount a counter-attack for two individuals, no matter how important, would be a catastrophic failure of leadership.
He had initially found Draco's choice to designate the Central Park as the primary assembly point strange.
It wasn't the most defensible location from a traditional military standpoint.
He'd been suspicious of the young boy, cautious about his motivations and the actions of the Bahamut Familia.
But putting together all the incoming information – Draco's successful rescue, his accurate intelligence, his strategic positioning – Finn now surmised that Draco possessed a similar, perhaps even more potent, type of foresight to his own unique ability.
No member of the Bahamut Familia had acted against the city's interests; on the contrary, they had risked life and limb alongside the others.
It remained a mystery how someone so young, with seemingly limited experience, could possess such strategic depth and predictive ability, but Finn no longer questioned it.
At this moment, as long as the Bahamut Familia was on their side, contributing to the defense, that was all that mattered.
Processing the grim reports, the dwindling resources, the enemy's clear objective, and Draco's implied strategy, Finn made his final, difficult decision.
"Listen closely," he instructed, his voice regaining its resolute command, cutting through the despair.
"Abandon all the districts south of our current defensive line. Pull back and focus all remaining troops here, in the center of the city! Send a message to the north immediately and tell the Freya Familia to do the same – consolidate their forces quickly towards the center!"
His orders were clear and brutal – sacrificing vast swathes of the city to concentrate their remaining strength for a last stand.
"Additionally," he continued, outlining the next steps, "tell all the small Familia's to gather here immediately. We need to start moving the civilians to other evacuation points. Also, tell the Bahamut Familia to regroup and secure the Guild building with the other mid-sized familia's. That location is also crucial."
Raul and the other messengers, their faces etched with grim determination, immediately hurried off to carry out Finn's stringent orders.
The situation felt increasingly hopeless, the odds stacked impossibly high, but Finn couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness.
He was 'The Braver,' a symbol of courage, a beacon of hope in the adventurers' darkest hour.
He had to embody that, even as his own heart sank.
Looking down, Finn stared at his thumb, which ached uncontrollably – a physical manifestation of his unique sixth sense, screaming that something far bigger, far more terrifying than even Alfia, Mors and Zald, was at play.
"What is coming?" he grimaced, the question a silent plea directed at the smoke-choked sky. "What is out there, pulling the strings, and how... how do we even begin to stop it?"
.................
In another district, observing the unfolding tragedy, Hermes stopped his casual stroll, his gaze sweeping over the landscape of destruction and carnage around.
The air wasn't just thick with smoke; it felt heavy with the weight of orchestrated despair.
"Who wrote the tune we are all dancing to?" he mused aloud, the question tinged with weary cynicism.
He was certain, with a chilling certainty that went beyond mere suspicion, that some god was orchestrating the horrific events unfolding in Orario, waiting for their carefully planned cue to make a final, devastating move.
Everything felt too calculated, too perfectly aligned for the "Evilus" victory.
It was unfolding like a meticulously crafted script, and mortals and gods alike were merely characters being manipulated within its parameters.
He was aware that mortals of extraordinary intellect could devise complex plans, but not one of this scope and perfection.
Mortals could not move divine characters within their 'script,' nor could they induce such widespread madness and despair among mortals and gods alike.
This scale, this level of malicious artistry, could only be the work of a god. But which one? And what was their ultimate goal?
As one of the gods who had chosen to descend and share responsibility for the mortal world, witnessing this callous manipulation, this divine cruelty, filled Hermes with deep revulsion, disgust, and dread.
It felt like their shared world was being defiled, used as a stage for a cosmic, malevolent play.
"Indeed," a voice of Astraea, walking beside him echoed, her serene expression clouded with sorrow and grim recognition.
"Whatever god created this horrific theatre is mocking us," she said, her voice low and heavy. "Waiting to draw us deeper into greater despair, into a trap we cannot escape."
Placing a hand on her chest, over her heart, Astraea closed her eyes, her senses reaching out, piercing the veil of chaos and destruction.
A shiver ran through her.
"Something more yet awaits us," she whispered, her eyes snapping open, revealing a chilling mix of fear and grim resolve.
"Something vast and terrifying... a horrendous nascent evil, stirring in the shadows, waiting for its moment to manifest fully."
As if in response to her words, the towering columns of smoke rising from the burning city seemed to writhe and tremble against the bruised sky, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, Hermes could almost hear the echo of a vast, unseen evil laughter woven into the wind carrying the cries of the dying city.
The stage was set, the initial acts were concluding, and a truly horrendous darkness was preparing to take center stage.