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Netherwitch - 58
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 17:00:19 +0000 UTC<< Chapter 57 | Table of Contents | Chapter 59 >>
His Grace, Archduke Asmodeus and his latest wife Baroness Ilyana Leita
-oOo-
Chapter 58
-oOo-
Chair suspended in the air, Sylvia watched figments of terrain dissolve into nothingness. The crowd had started to clear, flowing out from the stands. She watched as they left. Only when the group thinned did she nature her mana with causality.
Observe Item. Observe Item. Observe Item.
Pendulum dangling, the asteri let delicious data filter through her digitized soul. The System happily gulped down the enchantment code for the floating chair. To this it added glimpses of the arena’s construction. Sylvia was tempted to press further, but the resonance of her magic had already called sidelong looks from nearby demons.
Enjoying her free merit, she swung resonant tear around her arm before letting her seat sink back into the stands.
“I should meet up with Belkis,” Sylvia said, vanishing the accessory into her soul.
The witch stood, crystal heels clicking on the stone floor. She was halfway out of the arena when Anbaht went cold. Sylvia’s steps slowed. She could feel the chill onyx trembling against her chest. Someone divined her? No. That wasn’t it. She felt a faint tug, up and to the left. The legendary artifact was responding to a call.
Torchlight.
It took a second for Sylvia to remember the feature. One of Anbaht’s brother medallions was on this ship. There were only six Anbahts with which hers could commune. And all of them, supposedly, belonged to the Promethean Cults.
Moswen’s distraction had started, and here she was, right in the middle of it.
“Dirt Pudding,” Sylvia cursed.
The asteri didn’t trigger her artifact’s reply. Instead, she hurried through the arena, the click of her crystal heels made sharper by her rapid steps. The witch spared a glance toward the betting stand as she left the building. There was no need to physically collect. By now, Sylvia’s account would already be seven thousand soli richer.
Nervous, the silver-haired girl planted herself just outside the arena’s entrance.
What were those cultists planning? And how could she avoid getting entangled? Should she drop her plans for the evening? No. Leaving early would attract attention. Nobody knew she was here. In fact, being here would only sell the story that Sylvia lacked any connection.
Especially since she was, quite literally, uninvolved.
The best thing to do then, was to pretend nothing happened.
Slowly, she relaxed. A minute later, she watched her senior sister bounce through the arena’s entrance. Belkis was glowing with pride and excitement. Unbidden, a smile spread on Sylvia’s lips.
“Hey, little sis!” the dark-skinned prisma called out happily. “Did you see me take down the flame drake?”
“I saw you get barbecued,” Sylvia commented lazily.
“Yeah, but then I whipped a chain around him,” Belkis continued, miming the action. “I thought for sure I’d have to toss out a second steel shackle before I could ground him, but I snagged a wing perfectly on the first try.”
“Then the fight got boring,” Sylvia added with bland tones. “You should’ve fought the drake in the air. It would’ve been more exciting that way.”
Belkis paused, seeming to notice Sylvia’s manner for the first time. The prisma set a cheek in an open palm, gazing at the silver-haired witch as though she’d witnessed something impossibly cute.
“Little sis, are you trying to tease me?”
…
“Oh my! You are. That’s so adorable,” Belkis gushed.
A pastel pink eye twitched. Who was adorable? In fact, on what grounds could Sylvia ever be called adorable? If anyone was adorable, it was Emmy.
…
On second thought, Sylvia puffed her chest. What did it matter if she was adorable? She was a girl now. Being adorable was a good thing.
“I’m glad you noticed,” Sylvia returned arrogant tones.
Belkis snickered. “Emmy’s right. You desperately need bows and ribbons.”
Tch. She was perfect as is.
Belkis’s expression fell. Sylvia traced her sister’s gaze to see Bai Meng strutting out from the arena. The fox walked with the poise and elegance of a lady on the catwalk, her platinum tail swishing behind her. The playful moment turned sour.
“Look who we have here, Belkis von Vallenfelt, proud victor of The Gauntlet.” Lady Meng’s acrid declaration in no way detracted from the schooled prim of her diction. “What a glorious display of cowardice. If I were you, I’d duck my head in shame and flee this ship immediately. Though, I suppose, for a lady of your caliber this travesty is cause for celebration.”
“Baroness Meng,” Belkis sounded sweetly, dipped into a curtsy. The dark-skinned girl wore a plastic smile. “I didn’t know Iacchus’s esteemed Secretary of Development was an expert in warfare. Perhaps you would like to compete in The Gauntlet next, so you might shower us with your profound insight.”
Per etiquette’s demand, Sylvia curtsied along with her sister. Baroness Meng watched the obligatory supplication with a smirk, feathered fan waggling beside her face.
Should she murder her? Hell did make light of violence. Sylvia might well get away with murdering the woman. The proposition had merits.
“As a sacred fox, I disdain unclean things. Such a bloody affair disagrees with me,” Bai Meng excused, haughtily. “And I haven’t the time. Important guests will be arriving soon and, as a titled lady, it is among my duties to greet them.”
However, murder might attract too much attention to Sylvia’s class and rank. She would really rather Countess Chanlina didn’t speculate whether the asteri was in the third consolidation.
“How unfortunate,” Belkis murmured. “I had so hoped to witness your glory.”
“We all must make do,” Baroness Meng dismissed. Her silver eyes showed a sudden slyness. “You are quite lucky. Your dress does well to hide the hideous burn cut across your chest. A pity though, that nothing can be done about the broken vessels in your eyes after the ashen bat’s sonic attack.”
The kitsune used her folded fan to emphasize the wounds. The first was left by the golem’s ray, barely visible. The other showed as cracked spider webs of crimson left Belkis’s whites. The prisma’s molten gaze flicked to Sylvia. The silver-haired witch had nothing but a grimace.
Sylvia saw her senior sister’s hand tighten.
“They do say the only thing more attractive than a lady’s face is her battle prowess,” Belkis returned, with stubborn sweetness.
Baroness Meng sneered. “As if you possess either.”
“50 thousand soli,” Sylvia mentioned dully.
The kitsune’s triangular ears twitched. “Excuse me?”
Instead of repeating herself, Sylvia let dead eyes veer to the prisma.
“Belkis, they didn’t charge you anything before you joined The Gauntlet, did they? If so, I fear the baroness cannot afford to fight in the arena, seeing how she just lost 50 thousand soli. That’s a lot of money for a secretary after all.”
Sylvia didn’t just emphasize the word, she intentionally added the English double meaning of servant and government official.
Belkis snickered. Bai Meng trembled, her face showing her fury.
“Such a paltry sum is nothing for a noble,” the kitsune said, voice sharp. “Belkis, your sister forgets her station. A mere denizen has no right to speak thus before her betters.”
“My apologies, Lady Meng,” Belkis said with a small curtsy. The prisma turned to the asteri before gently scolding. “Little sis, just because Baroness Meng is a secretary doesn’t change the fact she’s nobility.”
“I’m very sorry,” Sylvia replied blandly. The asteri gracefully curtsied. “I had forgotten Baroness Meng was nobility and had feared we’d left her destitute. I’m curious, how much does your fief make? Even with a small town in the boondocks, Lady Vallenfelt managed to collect 10 million soli every year.”
The silver-haired witch sighed.
“A little merchant like me can only envy such a steady source of revenue. After scraping for years, I barely managed 14.5 million soli. Denizens and nobles are truly a different class. I can only assume, then, that Lady Meng will be joining us in the auction.”
The bone handle of Bai Meng’s fan creaked in her grip.
“A lesser lady might demand satisfaction,” Bai Meng accused. “Belkis, you should see that your sister is properly trained. A year as a maid serving her betters will suffice. In fact, I would be pleased to discipline her myself.”
Lady Meng’s vicious smile was the picture of benevolence. Sylvia gazed back, a cold and distant galaxy of fractal pink staring into mirrors of the purest silver.
“I’ll have to decline,” Sylvia said, her bland tones holding a hint of threat. “You see, I recently worked as a maid and ended up causing all kinds of trouble for my unfortunate employer. As such, I cannot in good conscience enter that business again.”
…
Sylvia was answered by silence. Somewhere in the middle of her retort, Bai Meng’s attention had turned. The ieros gazed out into the crowd, porcelain skin graced by a girlish blush. Sylvia followed to see a tall, golden-haired man approaching. Two draconic horns rose from the lord’s head.
Viscount Nychta.
Malik Nychta pushed through the bustling throng filling the battle layer. The man’s posture revealed his pride and arrogance. Even the lord’s smirk did nothing but enhance the viscount’s flawless face. Malik radiated masculine attraction. Strong hands. Chiseled chin. Muscular legs. Broad shoulders. The dragonling was a seven-foot sculpture of male perfection.
Even Sylvia was forced to admit as much.
In a strange sort of way, seeing him was a relief. Ever since Sylvia had experienced the alien pull in Baron Naopte’s villa, she had been quietly questioning her sexuality. Malik’s presence stirred nothing inside of her. And if he couldn’t call primordial desire, then no man could.
No man without mind-altering magic, anyway.
“Viscount Nychta,” Sylvia greeted with the expected curtsy.
For once, Sylvia moved first. Belkis and Bai Meng followed her motion, both women flustered by Malik’s incredible presence.
“Ah, the hunter who stole my prey.” Lord Nychta’s yellow-orange eyes swept the silver-haired witch, tracing every curve as though they existed solely for his pleasure. The dragonling took a deep whiff of the air, breathing in the fine scent. “The water has turned to ice with a delightful, stinging spark.”
Sylvia’s nose scrunched. Gross. She didn’t like the feel of Malik’s gaze as it lingered on her breasts. Belkis’s expression turned to fury. The dark-skinned witch stepped forward, angry and protective.
“You’re not welcome here,” she hissed, not even making an attempt at politeness.
Malik smirked.
“And there is my dear Belkis,” Lord Nychta said suavely. “You ran away so quickly, my love. What a shame, as I had yet to finish my feast. But surprises are what make the game interesting.”
Belkis trembled, molten irises churning. Malik laughed, delighting in the prisma’s hate.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I never touch the leftovers,” draconic man sneered. His slit eyes returned to the asteri. “Such a little thing. But fierce. I heard about your venture in Baron Naopte’s estate. Seeing that vampire’s demise amused me greatly.”
“Why am I not surprised your circles overlap?” Sylvia stated coldly.
“We’re both collectors of sorts,” Lord Nychta appraised. “But Naopte didn’t understand the pleasure of the hunt, obsessed as he was with his floare perfectă – a thrall who remains flawlessly devoted to their master even after the changes brought by transmigration.”
Malik waved a hand through the air with mocking elegance.
“Mi’lord Nych –,” Bai Meng interrupted.
Yellow-orange eyes flashed with irritation. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking, woman.”
Baroness Meng shivered. The fox lowered her head. Without a care in the world, Viscount Nychta returned his gaze to the silver-haired witch.
“You are not to my taste,” Malik announced. He smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “But there’s a thrill to be found when pursuing the most dangerous game.”
The viscount licked his lips. Pastel pink eyes looked up, glacial.
“One day, you’ll end up exactly like Dmitry,” she said, pitiless.
The viscount grinned. “That’s exactly the vicious rejection I was hoping for.”
“Mi’lord Nychta,” Baroness Meng tried again, tone sharp.
“Did I not make myself clear earlier?” Malik Nychta said dangerously.
Silver eyes flashed. Bai Meng thrust her folded fan into the man’s chest. “Show some respect. You are speaking to a baroness.”
Malik laughed.
“You try to arouse my interest,” he sounded. Lord Nychta leaned forward, near the blushing woman’s ear. “But a hare is still a hare. There’s a long way to go before you’re a fox.”
With that said, the viscount strode off. Bai Meng watched him, her tail showing a pleased sway. After a moment, her fan snapped open, fluttering beside her face.
“I have business on the upper deck.”
With a lady-like strut, the fox-woman left. Sylvia wasn’t sure whether she should wish Bai Meng luck. Eventually, her eyes returned to Belkis. The prisma’s expression was unreadable.
“Are you okay?” Sylvia asked.
“I should be the one asking you that, little sis,” Belkis said weakly.
Sylvia gave an inelegant snort. “Why would I be worried about Malik?”
Viscount Nychta was a powerful man who controlled a wealthy fief. By cultivation, the lord was her superior having crossed into the fourth consolidation. But, so what? Sylvia would reach the same level in another few years. By the time she returned to Tartarus, it was Malik who would need to fear her, not the other way around.
Countess Chanlina and the Inquisition were far greater threats.
“We too should head for the upper deck,” Sylvia noted. “The auction will be starting soon.”
-oOo-
The House of Silver unfolded in the celestial blue skies. As the giant building gently swirled down, the walls shifted and tilted. The silhouette blossomed, appearing like a delicate flower sliding softly toward the earth. The rumbling th-thud when it landed, however, revealed the lie behind the illusion.
The heavenly hue faded, azure bleeding into orange then heated red. The sky filled with blackened ash as the true ceiling of Tartarus’s fourth layer was restored. A band played, teasing the ear with beautiful music. Fireworks shot from the House of Silver, bursting in celebration.
Pop. P-p-pop!
Explosions of sparkles formed a banner – Welcome to the five hundred and seventy-first year-end auction!
Sylvia sighed. What a disappointment. She’d been hoping some dumb demon would get crushed, but there had been no takers. Come on! Be a man! Live life to the fullest! YOLO!
… Er, YOLI? You only live infinitely?
“Welcome, welcome,” Hywel Silvertooth called bowing in every direction. “Welcome to the year-end auction. First let me say, congratulations Lord Asmoodeus for your seventieth wife, Ilmama Leita. And to all the ladies out there, better luck next year. The archduke still has two open slots, but today his eyes only see one.”
The grinning goblin offered the crowd a charismatic wink. Sylvia’s lips quirked. Hobgoblins just couldn’t stop themselves from mangling names.
Hywel Silvertooth stood on a tall pillar, easily seen by anyone on the Ignis Rosa’s top deck. This small stage rose from the auction house’s center like the pistil of a flower. The great demon was smartly dressed with a black suit and top hat. Hywel casually gripped a classy cane in his left hand. With his right, the goblin fished a flask from his belt.
The great demon tilted the container, taking a sip of glowing blue liquid.
A mana potion? Sylvia eyed the gold framed container. Wait. That wasn’t a mere potion. That was a right and proper flask. Damn rich people. One day, Sylvia would buy a psychic fruit, or three, and make herself an ‘estus flask’ too.
While Sylvia ground her teeth in envy, Hywel showered the crowd with his salesman’s smile.
“Boy do we have an incredible line-up tonight,” he said, voice amplified so that it echoed through the entire upper deck. “A hundred rarities that will be sure to get the blood pumping. To keep things exciting, we’ll start small then work our way up to the true treasures. There’s something here for everyone, devil or archduke! So join the drama. And definitely don’t miss tonight’s number one item. It’ll shake the heavens. I guarantee it!”
Hywel Silvertooth spread his arms theatrically, letting the crowd’s roar wash over him. With a brilliant, toothy grin the goblin made his final declaration.
“The House of Silver is now, officially open to business. Happy New Year everyone! May the light of the Heavenly Will shine upon us all!”
Shk, shk, shk. Sylvia’s camera captured pictures of the wealthy goblin even as the walls of the House of Silver folded up, returning the blossomed building to its stately shape.
♦ Netherworld >> Tartarus >> General Chat
Topic: Auction on the Ignis RosaCutestSilverBird (Original Poster) (Planar Governor)
Posted: 11 seconds agoHey everyone, your governor is about to attend her first auction here on the Ignis Rosa. Today, I’m aiming to obtain the core of a territory phantasm. If I can win it, then dungeons will be sooner in your future. Since this involves the future of the Cloud Island Wilderness, so wish me luck.
[Pic: House of Silver descending to the deck]
[Pic: Hobgoblin bowing to the crowd]These pictures show the House of Silver and its proprietor, Hywel Silvertooth. Hywel is one of the ten richest men in Tartarus. He’s doing pretty well for a great goblin, don’t you think?
An interesting tidbit: the official name for the hobgoblin bloodline is Kategaris Xotiko Spiti. Xotiko meaning ‘elf’ and spiti meaning ‘home’. In other words, hobgoblins are house elves. Won’t someone throw this poor man a sock and free him from the wretched grasp of greed and capitalism?
(Showing page 1 of 1)
“Looks like the main guests are starting to show,” Sylvia commented while writing her forum post.
Carriages were landing on the upper decks with great theater. The orchestra sounded with their entrance, filling the air with excited beats. Barons and viscounts weren’t worthy enough to attend Asmodeus’s wedding. This privilege was reserved for counts, marquises, dukes, and the other great demons.
Unsurprisingly, the carriages were a parade of wealth. Lords and ladies rode in on magical vehicles or powerful, phantasmal beasts.
…
Sylvia looked over her shoulder. Belkis was missing.
Expression sour, the asteri scanned the crowd. Belkis was a few dozen meters away, chatting with another witch. Not far from the prisma’s acquaintance was Celio Cedaro, the Presiding Witch of the First Coven of Pyrkagiás.
Hmm. Sylvia glanced at the House of Silver. She should have enough time for a bit of business.
Decided, she crossed the space and introduced herself with a curtsy.
“Sylvia Swallows,” she said before rising. “We met briefly at Baron Naopte’s villa.”
“It would be hard to forget,” Celio replied. The siren offered a genteel bow with a ladylike flair instead of a curtsy. “Chanlina had a great deal of questions about you and your sister after the event. Questions I wasn’t able to answer. But thank you for your service. It was a brave thing to infiltrate Baron Naopte’s slave ring. Several of our sisters are safe because of you.”
High Witch Cedaro had a beautiful, resonant voice. Sharp, topaz eyes studied the silver-haired girl across. Sylvia returned a smile. Celio’s intense scrutiny was backed by a mother’s kindness.
“Did Yvonne mention that I’m in the broom business?” Sylvia asked, redirecting the conversation toward her interests.
“Far too often. She’s been trying to sell them to the FCP, so they could be quickly distributed,” the siren said with distaste. Celio’s eyes were hard. “The quality is quite good, so I can’t say I’m uninterested. But the price is too high. I doubt you will find any buyers among the lower circles.”
“That was a special deal with Yvonne,” Sylvia waved off. “In the future, Swift Broom’s is hoping to wholesale for thirty to forty thousand soli.”
High Witch Cedaro nodded. “You might find a few takers. However, business like this can be discussed in the future.”
The way Celio Cedaro intoned the words made it clear the President of the First Coven of Pyrkagiás had no desire to further discuss the subject. Well. It was good enough. The important part was to put her foot in the door.
Before she could leave, a dwarf waddled up and interrupted.
“Are you ladies talking business?” the rough man asked. Thumping his chest twice, the dwarf bent slightly. “I am Ulric, a servant of The-One-Who-Owns-The-Tower. And, if I’m not mistaken, you are Miss Sylvia Swallows. My master is a collector of phantasms of all sorts. Seeing as you are recently from a new minor plane, I was wondering if I might bend your ear for a minute.”
The dwarf had the classic look. The man was short and squat, his head a bit lower than Sylvia’s. But where the asteri was delicate, Ulric was heavy set with broad shoulders and thick muscles. The dwarf had a long beard that reached his waist.
“I’m from the Cloud Island Wilderness,” Sylvia confirmed. There was no harm in saying it. Now, revealing where the world tree resided or even that it existed would be a different matter entirely. “I’m listening, though I do hope your master isn’t interested in the territory phantasm being auctioned tonight.”
“Ah, a fellow connoisseur,” Ulric said heartily. “You’re in luck, Miss Swallows. My master has already collected samples of the phantasm in question. It is only new species that rouse his passion. For these, we will pay several times what the beast is worth. Living creatures are best, though we’ll also take cores if they can be reconstituted. Even better if you can supply information on the beast’s traits, habitats, and breeding.”
Ulric’s master, The-One-Who-Owns-The-Tower, was famously the most powerful hobgoblin in existence. In fact, the tower keeper was among the most powerful souls in the netherworld. There were only four living individuals of the eighth consolidation: Michael and Brahma from Heaven, Abaddon from Hell, and Tianlong from the Fey Federation. Though The-One-Who-Owns-The-Tower didn’t have their raw power, his titanic house was so strong that the goblin was said to be their equal.
The hobgoblin, however, was something of a hermit. Only his direct agents, such as Ulric, knew the tower keeper’s name. Sylvia, like most, only knew him as The-One-Who-Owns-The-Tower.
“I’ll swing a ship by Jeolsung when we have a collection,” Sylvia offered. It was worth seeing what they had to trade on other planes regardless.
…
Sugar!
Silas should’ve sold the rattle cobras to this fellow instead. Well, hopefully Ulric wouldn’t snatch them up in the aftermarket. Otherwise, those beautiful soli would be gone forever.
“Excellent news,” the dwarf laughed jovially. “Now, if I were you, I’d hurry on over to the House of Silver. Hywel is not a man to dither.”
With a friendly curtsy, the silver-haired witch left. Belkis gave a jaunty wave in the distance. Sylvia returned the gesture, leaving her sister to socialize while she entered the auction house.
She didn’t need the prisma for a simple bid.
The House of Silver had public seating and private booths. Lacking vast wealth and a noble title, it was obvious in which area Sylvia belonged. However, taking a public seat didn’t mean giving up anonymity. Before heading in, the asteri paid five thousand soli to have her identity hidden.
When the witch took her seat, she was shrouded in a haze of shadow. She wasn’t alone in this decision. Roughly a third of those present showed only a vague silhouette.
On the stage, a beautiful hostess was speaking. “Now that I’ve explained the rules, we’ll begin with the night’s first item!”
The dryad’s charming voice washed over the theater. With cheerful grace, the hostess whipped a cloth off a glass case. Revealed was a pale fruit, its skin shimmering with indigo and violet.
“Lot #100 is a soul fruit plucked from one of the eighty-seven trees in Emain Ablach,” the dryad introduced. “As many of you know, a soul fruit is a true treasure which can heal all kinds of spiritual injury. Not only can they be eaten raw, they can be used in all manner of alchemical recipes. Beyond its medical properties, a soul fruit can mature your spirit, increasing talent.
“Its greatest use, however, is in cultivation,” the hostess continued. “By cleansing the membranes of the soul, this fruit can reverse the degradation of time. Instead of challenging a consolidation in a single century, why not spend two!”
The dryad’s voice carried a cheerful excitement. Her tone, manner, and friendly beauty helped to inspire interest. Sylvia curiously took in the woman’s image. Long brown hair poured down the dryad’s back like fertile earth, locks beset with leaves and flowers. Her ears were sharp and high, extending above the head as though they were antennas.
Dryads were a rare bloodline of fey from the Aos-Si lineage. Most lived in the Fey Federation. Generally, they were categorized as nymphs, with nymph being an informal grouping of bloodlines that produced beautiful ladies. Some demons lumped magissa with the nymphs. Witches often raised their nose at the insinuation then promptly thumped the offender with their staves.
How dare you! The only nymphs from the Hecates lineage were the sea nymphs of the Xemyalistra genera!
“The starting price is 500 thousand soli,” the dryad continued. “All bids must be made in increments of 10 thousand.”
The dryad stepped back. On the left and right side of the stage, two judges were seated. The first was a gray-bearded, three-eyed magia. The second was a dark-haired oracle. With her starlight eyes, Sylvia glimpsed the ripple of divination magic. After a moment, both judges raised a white placard.
This symbolized truth.
While the House of Silver was a reputable institution, no demon wished to spend millions of soli without first checking the integrity of whatever they purchased. Allowing the guests to cast divinations of their own might seem like a reasonable solution, but the image of a thousand magics pouring onto a lone object was too gauche. Therefore, for major auctions like this, Hywel invited trustworthy outsiders to appraise the items for his audience.
“Six hundred thousand!”
The first call shattered the silence. Quickly thereafter came a deluge. The value of the fruit shot through the roof.
“Seven-fifty!” “Eight hundred!” “Eight-thirty.” “Eleven hundred!”
Sylvia watched the bidding with amusement. Yaalon still had three hundred soul fruits hanging from its branches, most having been plucked to birth new guardians. As for blood fruits and psychic fruits? Without the same demand, their number had accumulated to nearly one thousand.
And there would’ve been more, if the fruits didn’t drop after a thousand years.
Of course, few nobles were lucky enough to own a tree of life. Particularly in Hell, where the trees were rarest. Heaven was fortunate enough to own the greatest number, as trees of life grew naturally in Eden. The Fey Federation was a close competitor, being the foremost expert when it came to rearing world trees.
Even so, there were less than a thousand of these trees in total. Since only a single fruit of each type would grow every year, that meant the supply was small compared to the hundreds of thousands of nobles.
“Twenty-six hundred!”
The bidding came to a stop.
“Sold!” the dryad said happily. “To the vanara up front.”
A monkey-like silhouette slipped out of the theater and into the main hall of the House of Silver.
While the next item was wheeled in, Sylvia considered Yaalon’s fruits. Most of the psychic and blood fruits would be saved to make dungeons, of course. The soul fruits were even more valuable as they could be used to birth new guardians, all of whom would have strong potential thanks to the System. But the soul fruits could also be given to gamers to hasten their Awakening.
Which would be important, as many players would reach the level limit over the next decade.
“I should buy a psychic fruit for myself,” Sylvia realized.
A psychic fruit could be purchased for three thousand merit points. Beyond making flasks and dungeons, they had a number of alternative uses. The main one, however, was to restore ten years of selected memories. In other words, if Sylvia ate a psychic fruit she could refresh roughly fifty skill books worth of learning.
Better yet, memories restored by a psychic fruit were more durable. In fact, it wouldn’t be bad to consume a fruit right after using the eleven books she’d picked out. It’d be akin to enhancing the effect of every skill she’d learned so far.
“Next we have something truly rare.”
The dryad’s voice called Sylvia’s attention. The second item had been revealed. Sitting on the podium was a dull, misshapen rock. In size, the lump matched two of Sylvia’s fists.
“Do not be deceived by the simple appearance,” the hostess said. “This is the core of a rare Class IV territory phantasm, limitless labyrinth. On rare occasions, delvers encounter this creature in the caves between the layers of Tartarus. The unfortunate and the unprepared will become lost, trapped in the gullet of a monster, doomed to die to the hordes of dreadful specters spawned by this beast.”
The dryad spoke with a loud hush, giving the phantasm a spooky wonder.
“Normally, these rare phantasms are Class III, low-ranked creatures. But this core is extra special. When it was found on the eighth layer, it had already evolved becoming a Class IV, high-ranked beast.”
The hostess suddenly stopped. The gray-bearded judge held a blue sign.
“Oh, it looks like one of our judges has noticed something special,” she said, sounding cheerful. “Can you share what you’ve learned?”
“Of course,” the magia said, rising from his seat. The man approached the core, his brown skin carrying a hint of blue. Leaning close, he studied the object for a moment, muttering spells under his breath. Finally, he gave a sharp nod. “As I thought. The evolution of this beast has added a subtle psychic function. With this, any creature that enters the phantasm’s domain will be further mislead.”
The dryad clapped her hands. “How delightful!”
Sylvia wanted to cry. No~ooo! Don’t make it worth even more money!
“A shame it was collected poorly,” the magia added, while shaking his head. “Due to the damage, I’m afraid this beast can only be reconstituted to Class IV, mid. Only a powerful, blood element resource could fully restore this phantasm’s strength.”
Whew. The silver-haired witch relaxed in her seat. Blood element? Why, it just so happened, that her dungeon creation technique used blood fruits. What a happy coincidence.
“Indeed, a shame,” the dryad lamented. She looked over to the other judge. “Can you confirm this new information, miss?”
The oracle gave a small nod. “My associate’s judgment is correct.”
“With these new and interesting facts, let’s begin!” the dryad said, voice rising with excitement. “Bidding starts at 750 thousand soli. New bids must be made in increments of 25 thousand.”
The hostess stepped back. Sylvia immediately shot from her seat.
“Seven-fifty!”
Silence followed. One second. Two seconds. For a tense moment, Sylvia thought she’d get lucky. Then cruel reality dashed her hope.
“Seven hundred and seventy-five thousand,” a feminine voice asserted.
The bid came from one of the private booths above. Sylvia grimaced. Just her luck. Her goal was also the target of someone rich. Sylvia could only hope her rival only had casual interest.
“Eight-fifty,” Sylvia countered nervously.
“One million,” the other bidder raised.
The witch grit her teeth. Her poor, poor soli. Why? Why did the beautiful coins have to fly away so helplessly?
“One point one.”
“Twelve hundred.”
Blueberry muffins. The asteri grimaced. Hers was one of two voices fighting for the core. This was of little surprise. Though territory phantasms were rare, they were collectors’ items for the most part. Sylvia herself would never have considered buying one if not for the research value that could be derived.
“One point five million,” she finally ground out.
Silence lingered. With clammy hands, Sylvia waited.
“Sold!” the dryad said. “To the lovely lady in back.”
The asteri let out a breath.
Taking a few moments to calm herself, Sylvia got up and left. A few words in a side room confirmed her purchase. At her request, the core would be sent to the Utrecht immediately. The witch paid extra for this service, worried that whatever the crazy cultists had planned might interrupt delivery.
“Now, I just have to meet with Chanlina then wait for a good time to retire.”
Shadow peeled away from Sylvia as she left the House of Silver and stepped back out onto the Ignis Rosa’s deck.
The background music had changed, instruments filling the air with sounds courtly and exultant. The sky filled with petals, a continuous rain of flowers of every color. The accumulating figments evanesced into nothingness, lingering just long enough to create thin carpet on Ignis Rosa’s deck.
From the sky descended a grand procession.
Trains of carriages bore beautiful ladies by the dozen. On each brow: a crown, a diadem, or a tiara. At the end of this parade was Asmodeus himself. A giant, dragon glided in on massive wings, the span measuring eighty meters wide. When the divine beast set clawed feet onto the deck, the archdemon morphed back into a man. Cape and clothes melting from flesh.
The archdragon’s golden crown, however, stayed firm on his head, two black horns passing through the hoop.
Transformation complete, Asmodeus cradled his tiny wife in his bulging arms. The lady wore a floor length gown, the silken skirt draping on the deck.
By bloodline, the Prince of Lust was a winged dragon, Drakon Drakon Drakonis. All true dragons – species from the Drakon genera – were natural titans. During the Ancient Era, natural titans were apex predators but few of these bloodlines had survived into modern times. Large and inhuman bodies put a heavy burden on the soul. So much so, that four out of five newly hatched dragons would see their souls crack.
And while Drakon was an orthodox lineage, the Heavenly Will had found a way to extract its price.
Arms swung around Asmodeus’s neck, Ilyana kissed her husband on the lips. The prince indulged his wife before setting her down lightly. Cheers and polite clapping encouraged the couple, the two rows of women from the prince’s harem joining in. Sylvia put her own hands together a few times, mostly to avoid standing out.
She didn’t want anyone accusing her of impugning the archduke’s authority.
Asmodeus at the lead, the royal procession entered Turrim Amoris, the central spire of the Ignis Rosa. Sylvia waited for the group to vanish before hopping one meter into the air and scanning about for her sister.
An eight-foot giant found her instead.
“Miss Swallows,” a trumpeting voice greeted. “What a surprise to find you here. How is my Utrecht?”
The petite witch turned to see Lord Potami. The viscount’s figure was broad and thick, with large, floppy ears hanging on either side of his head. Faintly, he reminded Sylvia of an elephant. That was no surprise. Karnabo looked like bipedal elephants before Awakening. It was only after two grand mutations that Drugi Potami had a shape so human looking.
Otherwise, the poor man’s elongated nose might well be a snout.
“Viscount Potami,” Sylvia sounded, sinking into a deep, formal curtsy. “I am unworthy of your presence.”
Pale petals of ki fluttered around her as Sylvia settled back onto the ground. Unspoken were the words: why did you put me in the spotlight?
“No captain is unworthy. And most definitely not the captain of my darling Utrecht,” the viscount dismissed. Drugi took a sip of his cup. “You know how much I love my ship, so how could I be remiss? Especially with a captain as lovely as yourself.”
True. From a certain perspective, it’d be odd if Drugi avoided her. That said, there was a serious problem with Lord Potami’s chain of logic.
“Don’t you mean, my Utrecht?” Sylvia challenged. Her polite tones had an edge to them.
“You wound me,” Lord Potami proclaimed, hand over his heart. “But really, I hope she has been doing well by you.”
“I’ve sailed her around the Cloud Island Wilderness a few times,” Sylvia answered honestly.
Indeed, Sylvia had recently been using Drugi Potami’s pleasure yacht to transport lumber from eastern Starlight. But she’d also taken the ship for a spin once or twice. And on another scouting run with Emmy, where they’d used some serious magic to improve their map of Pyrinas.
But most of the time, the Utrecht stayed anchored in Chaos Lagoon.
“Remember, a ship exists for adventure,” Lord Potami said grandly, waving his huge arm and his drink. “The more magnificent, the better. However, it is better she is made to carry goods than be forgotten on some dock. That’d be a true pity.”
Sylvia wore a polite smile. Was this Drugi’s roundabout way asking her to spare the Utrecht and buy a cargo ship instead?
Viscount Potami took another sip from his silver cup.
“Now, tell me what brings you to the Ignis Rosa, Miss Swallows. I’ll admit, it was quite the surprise to see you here. Not that you don’t belong. Why, if you’d asked, I would’ve proffered an invitation myself.”
“My master, Esmeralda Vallenfelt, served under Countess Chanlina during her stint as an appointed devil,” Sylvia explained. “Naturally, when the countess realized we were in town, she extended an invitation. It’d be impolite to refuse.”
“How troubling,” Drugi sounded, swirling his cup. He lowered his head, voice falling. “If you’re looking for an escape, you might try after the last item in the auction. I’ve heard the transaction invites trouble.”
Was the cult’s plot somehow related to the House of Silver? Regardless, she’d happily use any excuse to remove herself from the premises. The thought of getting caught in harem politics gave Sylvia the heebie-jeebies.
“Thank you, Lord Potami,” Sylvia said, offering another curtsy.
“No need, my dear,” the viscount waved off. “Now, I absolutely must meet with the other guests.”
After a slight bow, to show politeness but not deference, the karnabo walked off. The giant man’s steps were like thunder. It didn’t take long before Lord Potami found another guest with which to chat.
Shaking her head, Sylvia searched for her sister. A few moments later, she found the elemental witch mingling with an acquaintance. Belkis separated from the lady as Sylvia approached.
“How did it go?” the prisma asked.
“The core should already be on the way to the Utrecht,” Sylvia said, shooting a thumbs up.
“Good,” Belkis answered with a broad smile. “I’m glad you got it, little sis. What about the price? Was it within reason?”
Sylvia sighed. “One point – ”
A heavy hand clamped onto Sylvia’s right shoulder. Belkis’s expression turned to one of horror.
There was no time to react. Ki smashed through Sylvia’s flesh with the fury of the ocean. The shock left her rigid and dazed. The demon yanked. Sylvia was lifted into the air, a second hand grasping her left hip before spinning her around.
The dainty, silver-haired witch found herself gazing into the fanged face of an asura. Pale blue flame glared into eyes of pastel pink, the man’s glower like a spear piercing through her soul.
“L-Lord Azazel,” Belkis sputtered, dipping into a hurried curtsy. “What an honor to be in your presence.”
Lord Azazel didn’t deign the prisma a glance.
“Who are you?” the demon barked like a back alley thug. “Why were you talking to that fugitive, Potami?”
Sylvia gurgled. The witch could barely think much less speak. Azazel’s ki had claimed every gram of her flesh. Her own life force was a whimpering puppy curled up in her crystal core.
Who was Lord Azazel?
Azazel was a seventh consolidation archdemon, making him one of the twenty most powerful men in Hell. Once upon a time, Azazel had served directly under Prometheus. When came the Utopia War, Azazel rebelled against Heaven joining the forces of Hell. Then, as the Unification War loomed, his allegiances changed a third time. Azazel turned against Lucifer, starting a personal crusade where he hunted every one of The Devil’s thirteen evil pieces. His was a pursuit no less driven than Heaven’s Inquisition.
Though, far more lonely.
“Answer the question!” Azazel demanded, shaking the tiny witch.
Sylvia wobbled in the air like a rag doll. With his spare left hands, the asura brought a pair of instruments near Sylvia’s face. The first was a spinning compass. The second looked like a tuning fork. Left hands, plural. The seven-and-a-half foot asura had six arms in total.
“He ... the Utrecht,” she garbled in desperation.
Azazel frowned. With one of his right hands, the archdemon held a notebook. With the other, Azazel quickly flipped through the pages. Sylvia took the moment of distraction to muster some approximation of thought. Namely, she noticed that Azazel’s profile was rather decent looking. The dark-blue skin, verging on black, gave a smooth yet fearsome youthfulness to the archdemon’s face.
… she didn’t say it was good thought. Or even a useful one.
“You’re Sylvia Swallows,” Azazel noted, halting his search. “You met with Drugi in the week prior to the event to purchase a ship called the Utrecht. Is that correct?”
“Y-yes,” Sylvia gasped.
Ting!
The tuning fork rang. Sylvia’s mind was growing clearer as her essences adapted to the invasive ki. Faintly, she could sense the fork’s enchantments flowing into her, using Azazel’s life force as a carrier. Ah. It wasn’t just rudeness. Azazel was using this technique to bypass nearly all her defenses.
… actually, that was seriously, seriously rude. Was this bundt cake snagging nobles and pumping them full of ki to avoid the anti-divination items everyone would be wearing?
Blue fires glared in the asura’s eyes sockets. Dizzily, Sylvia realized she should probably be thinking about what the man might ask next.
“Potami is a member of the Clockwork Men. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?”
“I- I didn’t!” Sylvia answered woozily.
She almost giggled. Right now, Azazel was the one giving her information not the other way around.
Ting! The fork rang again. The archdemon spared it a glance.
“Truth,” he muttered. A right hand scratched something in his notebook. Then Azazel studied his compass, tapping the glass twice. “Fate has been obscured. One of those Anbaht wearing rats must be on this ship.”
Sylvia’s blood turned to ice. She would’ve quivered, if not for the fact her essence had been squeezed into a tiny ball. The pendant above her breasts went cold. A hazy energy slithered through her veins, shrouding the transfer of information.
Luckily, Azazel didn’t notice.
“Lord Azazel,” a prim and pleasant voice interrupted. Countess Chanlina offered an elegant curtsy. “If it pleases you, would you be so kind as to unhand my guest.”
Azazel was not, technically speaking, a lord. The archdemon was one of the few who’d crossed Apotheosis without a noble title. Rather, this title was a polite courtesy granted by Hell’s etiquette. Similarly, if others knew Sylvia was of the third consolidation, they might call her Lady Swallows or High Witch Swallows as a sign of respect.
In the netherworld, when personal power eclipsed social status, it became a rank in and of itself.
“It doesn’t please me,” Azazel replied, dismissing the prince’s wife. He gave the asteri another shake. “Tell me, are you a member of Firestorm, the Clockwork Men, Last Beacon, or any other Promethean Cult?”
“N-no,” Sylvia choked.
Ting!
She blinked. Actually, come to think of it, she was, strictly speaking, a member of Lucifer’s cult. Fortunately, she had Anbaht to do the heavy lifting.
Azazel dropped the witch as though she were a bag of refuse. Sylvia crumbled to the ground. Slowly, her ki reasserted itself. As it did, strength returned to her limbs.
“Something important is going to happen and it’s connected to that elephant, this much is certain,” the archdemon muttered. One of Azazel’s right hands scribbled a note, while a second held the book. The asura’s head turned, checking his compass even as a fourth arm stroked his chin. “The hands pointed in Lord Potami’s direction for the entire ceremony. As long as I keep an eye on him, I’ll find the chain that follows.”
While the archdemon was distracted by his musings, Belkis offered a second curtsy.
“Thank you, Lord Azazel, for treating my sister kindly,” she said sweetly.
Standing dizzily, Sylvia almost missed the prompt. Strawberry Shortcake! The silver-haired girl quickly gripped the hem of her dress, nimbly crossing her feet before offering a gentle curtsy.
“Thank you, Lord Azazel.”
Having to thank the archdemon after his abuse left a bitter taste in Sylvia’s mouth. But pride was less important than practicality. While Azazel probably didn’t care about niceties, there was nothing she could do if he decided to slap her to death and put her soul in a jar.
The asura didn’t so much as grant them a glance.
Back turned, Azazel stalked through the crowd, burning blue eyes glaring in every direction. Lords and ladies scurried out of the way, afraid to upset the asura. Suddenly, the archdemon lunged. Two of six hands dragged a panicking devil from a group.
A compass and a tuning fork were shoved into the poor man’s face.
“Who are you? Why were you talking to that fugitive, Potami?” the archdemon barked.
…
Sylvia watched in dismay. Who let this apple tart onto the ship? And was he seriously going to snatch anyone who traded so much as a word with the viscount?
“You okay over there, little sis?” Belkis questioned.
“Yeah,” Sylvia breathed, recovering her bearings. Her frame was still shaking after the encounter. “Just a bit shocked, that’s all.”
“A first meeting with an archdemon is always unforgettable,” a prim and perfect voice interrupted. A violet-eyed woman offered the daintiest of curtsies. “I am Countess Chanlina Asmodeus, but please call me Chanlina. I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Sylvia Swallows. And to meet you again as well, Belkis. It has been a long time. What a shame Esmeralda isn’t here, I would have dearly liked to spend time with her.”
“I’m sorry our master couldn’t make it, milady Chanlina,” Belkis said with a smooth and friendly curtsy.
Sylvia offered a dip of her own.
“It is no matter,” Chanlina dismissed. “After that frightful encounter, how about the three of us retire to a quieter locale so we can properly meet?”
As the countess spoke, the sky tore open. Vast flows of realm ether wrapped the colossal ship. The Ignis Rosa ascended, passing through the boundary of the fourth layer of Tartarus and into the starry void.
P-p-pop. P-pop, pop.
All around, fireworks exploded in celebration. Blazing sparkles shimmered against the star-filled night. Instruments sang, their beautiful tunes filling the air with mesmerizing melodies.
-oOo-
Lineages and Bloodlines
A lineage is defined as a group of bloodlines sharing a common ancestor. For a lineage to be officially recognized by the Collegium Magicae, it must first persist for seven generations. Then it must split so there are two or more distinct bloodlines for that lineage.
Unofficial lineages exist, though they are rare. Namely, the types are:
* Wild Bloodlines – Any bloodline that had persisted for less than seven generations.
* Unique Bloodlines – Any bloodline that has lasted seven generations but has yet to divide.
A lineage may also be orthodox or unorthodox. An orthodox lineage is one identified by the treaties which established the Heavenly Will. Spreading or producing children using an orthodox lineage will not incur karmic loss. The only exception to this is when a practice is deemed ‘especially harmful’. Even then, the Will must clarify a path of propagation.
True dragons of the Drakon genera, which are natural titans, fall under such a restraint.
Any lineage not explicitly named by the treaty is considered unorthodox. Without the stay on the Heavenly Will’s judgment, great consideration must be made before sharing the nether code as carelessness may incur serious karmic loss.
For this reason, no wild lineage has transformed into an official lineage since the start of the Silver Age. Indeed, only a handful of unorthodox lineages exist in the core planes. In far planes, outside the Heavenly Will’s benevolent light, few know what wicked things are born.
Emergence
A lineage begins when a captured soul Awakens after absorbing chimeric code. Such rare and unique individuals are known as wild fey. Wild fey still appear in the various wilderness planes throughout the netherworld. This is true even in modern times.
However, a single individual does not a lineage make. For a bloodline code to become a lineage, it must be passed through multiple generations. During this period the lineage will undergo an evolution, becoming increasingly refined.
During the early Age of Myths, there was no known way to pass on bloodlines. Thus, all demons were wild fey. Only later did the mechanism of transmission start. Thus began the first tribes and with them, the Age of Blood.
Evolution and Divergence
Bloodlines and lineages evolve as they pass through the generations. This is driven by various mutations to the code. Mutations can be caused by consolidation or by Awakening, Transcendence, and Apotheosis. Mutations generally operate in the direction of refinement, meaning lineages tend to improve across generations.
Over time, this means bloodline codes will diverge. These deviations are further amplified by the absorption of foreign code. There are many pathways in which foreign code can be introduced: chimerism, bloodline keys, and rare resources – like the fruit of life.
Until the Age of Magic, however, the most common source of divergence were transformation realm masters using special methods to imprint their cultivated organs during consolidation. This would convert the organ into a bloodline trait, permanently altering their nether code.
Regardless of the method, new traits are passed onto descendants while other traits may be slowly lost.
Bloodline Potential
The netherworld rates bloodline potential as Low, Medium, or High. Despite rumors, there is no such thing as an ‘Arch’ bloodline. Once Transcendence is passed, the soul will dominate the code allowing directed evolution. This means a bloodline’s potential is meaningless beyond this point.
Low potential bloodlines are defined as those producing less than eight traits through Awakening. Medium potential bloodlines are those producing less than thirteen traits through Transcendence. Any bloodline beyond this limit is classed as High.
This distinction is driven by the consequence of not producing a trait. Generally speaking, this is a sign the code was unable to adapt to the soul. A failure to adapt, in turn, results in a lesser increase in talent. This means future advances will be more difficult. Worse, if potential is exhausted, future consolidations are likewise unlikely to bring enhanced talent.
Note that these judgments of potential are general. Hogmin, for instance, are a low potential bloodline that rarely produces more than 5 traits through Awakening. This means the second consolidation is often a Hogmin’s limit.
In the absence of outside forces, bloodlines naturally evolve toward Medium potential. There are, however, many ways to manipulate the potential over generations. Subjecting the code to a blood-chain lock then passing it through multiple descendants is an easy and effective way to destroy potential. A less brutal, and more common way to trigger reduction is to repeatedly pass bloodline codes from persons who are not Awakened or Transcendent.
Even so, a degradation of potential usually takes several generations.
To maintain or generate High potential, an opposing mechanism can be used. Repeatedly transfer code of Awakened or Transcendent ancestors while denying direct descendants from those who are not Awakened. Vampire clans often utilize such a mechanism, passing one coded cell from the Transcendent ancestor, one coded cell from an Awakened elder, and one cell from a parent onto each child. This ensures that the possibility of Transcendence remains while retaining branches and diversity.
Comments
Yomuashi
Me going damn Asmodeus going be interested in her. Reality: Negative Rizz skitso 🤣. Good to see ur doing well. Was doing a reread on ff and saw u had a rr account and here I am.
Steve Barbour
It's hobgoblin's name butchery showing. One of these days, I'll have hobgoblin greeting Saliva. One of these days, I just know it.
Amadhe
Illyana’s name is misspelled in the chapter as Illmama… Or is that just the author’s secret kink showing? /j
