Veronica bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, breath sawing through her chest. Her hair, once haloed with light, now fell limp against her shoulders. The violet blaze in her eyes was gone, leaving them dull and human once more.

  Her exalted form had ended.

  Before her stretched a sea of ruin. Grass had been vaporized. Soil ripped open.

  A scar of devastation, four or five meters wide, cut clean through the clearing in a half-sphere trench from her last spell. A deadly, focused beam of light, designed to burn and pierce any that stood in her way. Trees had been caught in her spell's path, sheared in half, their toppled trunks sprawled like broken spears. Embers dotted the blackened earth, glowing faintly beneath the stars.

  It was a dangerous type of spell to use, as it had far more linear collateral, than broader area of effect. Veronica usually surveyed if an area was clear enough to use destruction magic. However, straight-line destruction spells were more difficult to account for based on the sheer distance they traveled.

  Luckily, Greystone’s old mining mountains had been her buffer; anyone that could've been hit was either in town, or were simply cultists hiding in the dark.

  And as for the demon… there was nothing.

  Not a bone, not a fragment. No flesh, no blood, no hide. Nothing remained of the demonic soldier. In its place were the night sky and the soft crackling of dying embers.

  Veronica exhaled hard, lowering herself into a crouch for a moment as the pressure in her cores finally eased. The ache in her chest dulled, a reminder of just how much she’d forced her body to act.

  “Sage,” she rasped, voice hoarse. “Any trace of the demon?”

  [Negative. No demonic signatures detected.]

  Her head tilted back, sweat dripping down her neck. “What about people, then? Cultists?”

  [I do not detect any humans in the area; however, I cannot be sure.]

  Her brow lifted. “What do you mean you can’t be sure?”

  [There are too many crackling embers along the ground. It is difficult to extract sound information.]

  She sighed in acceptance.

  Veronica pushed upright from her hunched posture. She steadied her breathing. “That’s how you spotted the mercenaries in the forest when I first woke up, huh?” she muttered. Thinking back on it, things made sense. “You picked up the crackling fire, horses’ hooves, and them talking.”

  [Correct. From that information, I concluded there was a group of humans over a hundred meters away.]

  “And that’s why you didn’t detect Finn sneaking up on me when I first met him.”

  [Also correct. He purposefully remained prone on the ground, without any motion.]

  Veronica sighed through her nose, rubbing at her temple. “All right. Then how does the five-hundred-meter demon detection work?”

  [The ability to identify demonic signatures was integrated into my core programming.]

  Her lips curled into a small frown. “Damn it, Martin. I guess I should be glad that he knows how bad I am at detection spells and surveillance.”

  Turning, she glanced back to the forest, towards Greystone. “Hopefully Finn warned the town.”

  Veronica exhaled. She took one last look at the scar she had carved into the forest—blackened earth, smoking timber, the faint hiss of cooling stone—before turning on her heel.

  Her legs felt heavy, but they moved. One step. Then another. Each breath steadied, drawn deep into her lungs, forcing her heart to fall back into rhythm. She walked the long path back toward town.

  By the time she reached the edge of Greystone, the night was ablaze.

  Lanterns and torches burned from every window, from rooftops, from makeshift posts driven into the ground. Shouts carried over the walls. The clash of steel on steel rang out in bursts. The smell of blood and ash drifted on the wind.

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  Greystone was wide awake.

  Greystone was not a fortress. It was a mining town, a scattering of homes and shops built around the Baron’s estate. Several hundred, maybe over a thousand people lived here. Fifty trained guards made up its official defense. And yet—tonight, there were more.

  Hadrian’s orders had spread fast. Nearly one hundred and fifty registered militia had answered the call—miners, smiths, laborers with scarred hands and broad shoulders hardened by years underground. With the guards and a handful of townsfolk who had grabbed whatever weapons they could find, nearly two hundred stood armed against the dark.

  And the dark had certainly come.

  Cultists—a hundred from what she guessed, maybe even more—rallied hard against Greystone’s edges. Some wielded steel, others daggers, others bows. A few hurled bottles that burst into fire or spat noxious fumes when they shattered against stone. Houses burned. Bodies were left on the ground, the smell of blood wafting over the streets.

  Many were dressed in black robes, but others—they were regular people, intermingled with the rest, attacking all they could.

  The original plan must have been to conduct the attack from the shadows. To cut throats while guards slept, set fire to homes, and watch the town burn from within. But Finn’s warning had ruined that plan.

  The city was awake and prepared for them.

  Veronica’s eyes swept the chaos of shouts and screams, of bodies falling and others desperately holding out. Her eyes narrowed as she took it in.

  The members of the cultists didn’t bother hiding their faces now. She recognized some of them—directly from House Ronswick.

  Several people stood out as part of the family, ones she had seen at the celebration. One man had arrived off the Viscount’s convoy and was fighting a villager holding a long spear.

  As she gazed around, trying to inspect the situation; a few figures stood apart from the rest.

  One in particular was impossible to miss. At the edge of the town, the sound of stone splitting and earth groaning echoed over the noise of battle. Veronica knew instantly who it was.

  Elise.

  The maid no longer resembled the quiet attendant she had met days before. Her hair was tied back, her sleeves rolled, her hands dancing rapidly as she conjured spells. Walls of earth surged at her command, cutting off charging groups of cultists. Spikes erupted from the dirt beneath their feet. Paths collapsed into sudden pits. She fought with precision, each spell aimed to entrap or disable rather than kill.

  But Veronica’s eyes scrutinized further.

  Elise was quick, but not fast enough. Several of her spells missed their mark. She used no chants. No circles. Her efficiency wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t sharp either. Her casting speed lagged, as if she had long ago found comfort in her Tier-2 spells and never pushed beyond. She had control and discipline—but not the drive to surpass her ceiling.

  Shame, Veronica thought.

  Teaching her a thing or two might have been worthwhile, but taking her in as a disciple wasn’t worth it. She was too old now. Probably in her mid to late twenties.

  Elise’s occupation as a maid for a Baron was also problematic—especially since it seemed she was intimate with the man. It would be hard to pull someone like that off to learn more about magic. Especially someone who already plateaued and seemed content with their life from what she assumed.

  Further off, another figure drew her attention.

  Where Elise was shielded by guards, fighting as part of a unit, this man stood alone.

  Nolhan.

  Veronica had seen him only briefly when the viscount first arrived. But even then, his presence had carved itself into her memory: the rigid stance, the soldier’s eyes behind a butler’s uniform, the scar creasing his brow. The fact he was fighting against the cultists meant that not everyone in House Ronswick was part of the Ashen Covenant.

  She watched closely.

  The old man’s movements were not those of a regular servant. His sword cleaved arcs through the air, cutting robes and flesh alike. He moved with the calm brutality of an experienced fighter, each step and swing without hesitation, always decisive, not afraid of striking his target down.

  Then Veronica saw it.

  The faint sheen glowing along his blade. A condensed aura, tight and sharp as the edge itself.

  Her eyes widened slightly. Sword aura…

  That wasn’t the mark of a guard or a lucky mercenary. Aura meant mastery—a tier well above common swordbearers. Even faint, it was still proof of practice and discipline.

  At least Tier-3, she thought. It was surprising to see someone that high here in the middle of nowhere.

  In this battle, against a ragtag group of cultists that were trained only in petty mercenary tactics, he was a force of his own. A trained soldier who was leagues above what regular people could handle.

  Veronica doubted she could win against him in a direct fight without using her exalted form in her current state.

  “Another ally to slay demon-worshippers,” she muttered. “I’ll take it.”

  To her right, a cultist—someone she didn’t recognize—hurled a bottle of flaming fumes wildly into the street. They turned and spotted her at the same time. A sharp knife—not a dagger, but a crude kitchen knife—appeared in their hand as they charged straight at her.

  Veronica saw this and sighed.

  She was running dangerously low on mana, and her body still shuddered with the aftershocks of her exalted form. While she was regenerating mana, it felt like she was trying to bend sore muscles. The feeling would last for quite a while and, above all, affect her casting efficiency.

  Nevertheless, she raised her palm, channeling a small amount of what little remained. She winced from the uncomfortable sensation.

  Before the cultist could take two more steps, a beam of light tore from the space in front of Veronica, slamming into his chest before he could even react.

  He was sent flying, boots lifting clean off the ground. His body twisted midair, spinning through nearly five meters before skidding—face-first—another five across the stone.

  Veronica shook her head.

  The man didn’t get up again, but he wasn’t dead. The spell lacked killing power.

  Her eyes flicked back over to the maid.

  Elise was drenched in sweat, fingers twitching as she shaped the earth. Another wall surged up at her command, cutting off a trio of cultists trying to flank her. She clenched her fist. Stone spikes erupted from the ground, scattering them in screams.

  Good, Veronica thought. But slow.

  Elise’s chest heaved with exhaustion. Her casting pace was waning. The maid raised her hand again, forcing herself to prepare another surge until a shout beside her caught her attention.

  One of the guards near Elise cried out as a blade sank into his side. He hit the ground hard, clutching his stomach as blood spread beneath his armor. A cultist wrenched his jagged sword free, kicked the guard aside, and charged straight for her.

  Elise spun, hand rising to cast, but Veronica could see it immediately—the spell wasn’t ready. The earth beneath her hadn’t answered yet. Her mana rings faltered, uneven.

  She won’t make it.

  Elise grit her teeth, prepared to be slashed, stabbed—or worse.

  However, the sword never reached her.

  A blast of concussive wind slammed into the cultist mid-charge, hurling him back ten—maybe fifteen—meters. He hit the stone with a wet crack, his sword clattering free and skidding to a stop.

  The half-formed spell before Elise collapsed, unraveling into dust and loose gravel. She turned sharply toward the source.

  “You—” she started.

  Veronica stepped into view.

  Her clothes were in ruins, fabric torn and scorched, edges blackened unevenly by fire. The strap of her upper undergarment was visible. Under different circumstances, Elise might have called her immodest—maids were taught to remain neat and proper—but the marks of battle and injury made it clear that she’d been in a rough battle.

  Veronica smirked faintly as she approached, hand still raised, yet slightly trembling. “Not late, am I? I was tied up with a demon.”

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  Path of Ascension and the Path of Splitting