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Chapter 100: Sweet Oasis, Bitter Roots
🕑 Added 2025-08-02 03:27:39 +0000 UTCThe gates of Sweet Oasis gleamed in the soft light of the southern Hellnian dusk, their bronze-hued metal reflecting the endless nectar spri
The gates of Sweet Oasis gleamed in the soft light of the southern Hellnian dusk, their bronze-hued metal reflecting the endless nectar springs that fed the lush oasis-palace.
Green-leafed palms swayed gently in the humid air, their shadows stretching long and languid across the courtyard where loyal feasters moved like graceful, watchful sentinels.
The place breathed decadence, and every whispered breeze carried hints of fragrant foods and the pulse of pleasure magic.
Hans walked with quiet purpose through the gate, his every step measured and unhurried, as if pacing a grand symphony that only he could hear. His perfectly pressed black suit was impeccable, white gloves spotless, and his thin, ridicul-...tactful spectacles perched atop his nose as usual.
The soft clack of his shoes on the marble echoed faintly, but it was the subtle aura of calm authority around him that caused the feasters to part, their wide eyes recognizing the familiar cut of his presence.
No one dared offer a greeting beyond a respectful bow. To the denizens of Sweet Oasis, Hans’s arrival was no mere visit, it was the heralding of their ruler’s will.
Hans did not pause. He refused the refreshments offered by a flurry of servants eager to pamper him. His face was a mask of professional resolve, the slightest crease betraying neither weariness nor relief.
Sweet Oasis was the heart of the Feast faction, and its beauty was a dangerous one, pulsing with excess and the constant hum of magic so potent it seemed to seep from the walls themselves. Yet, for all its softness and indulgence, it was not a sanctuary for him. Hans was a sheathed blade here, forged for a purpose that comfort could not touch.
He made his way through winding corridors scented with rich spices and the faint waft of roasted meats. Lamps hanging high casted golden rays of light across draped silk and intricate mosaics. The palace was alive with a thousand whispered conversations and soft laughter, but Hans ignored them all. His destination was singular and clear, the inner dining chamber where Gula awaited.
When he entered, the air was thick with steam and the scent of perfumed wine. Gula was sprawled on a couch of ripened pillows, the dim light of lanterns casting her tan skin in a golden glow that made it seem as though the chamber itself poured its opulence into her veins.
Her purple hair tumbled over the silken cushions, catching the light in subtle flashes, and her eyes, sharp golden orbs, were closed as she lounged on the mountain of cushions.
“Hans,” she murmured without opening her eyes, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You smell of blood and girls.”
He inclined his head in a small bow. “Training, my Lady. For the good of your ally.”
The corner of her lip twitched in a half-smile as she finally opened those eyes, surveying him with the sharpness that could chill a lesser soul.
“Those little appetizers,” she breathed, reaching for a green plum in a nearby bowl. She crushed it gently in her hand, the juice dripping down her wrist like warm blood. “You’ve been away so long I almost forgot what your voice sounded like.”
Hans waited patiently. He knew her well enough to understand that her words were a ritual, a game of teasing rather than true complaint.
She sipped from a golden goblet, watching him with a mix of mischief and something deeper, more unreadable.
“So,” she said finally, “did they scream? The bandits. The beasts. The Nomads?”
“They did,” Hans confirmed. “The maids are sharp and growing sharper.”
Gula’s smile deepened, but it seemed not to reach her eyes. “You’re sharpening knives that aren’t mine,” she said, a playful pout forming on her lips. She turned away slightly, fingers trailing lightly to them. “How cruel of you, Hans. You’ve been feeding three little demons for a month straight now, and I, your starving Queen, am left to gnaw on grapes and soft words.”
There was a brief pause. Then, in a rare move that caught even Gula off guard, Hans laid a single gloved hand on her shoulder. The silk of her robe shifted beneath his touch.
“Cravings,” he said softly, “I only train them for the young miss’ sake.”
Her pout cracked, but she didn’t withdraw. Instead, her gaze fixed on him, still unreadable and sharp as the edge of a blade.
“You’d dare name her while touching me?” she asked quietly.
‘Bold to use a pincer attack on his queen. He’s far too smoot-tactful, is he?’
“I would,” he replied calmly, hand still resting gently. “Because she is worth every lesson, correct?"
The tension between them softened, like warm butter melting over bread. Gula rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh but made no move to shake his hand off. Instead, she seemed to lean into the gesture.
“Fine,” she whispered, waving a dismissive hand. “Fine. For Hannya, then.”
Hans allowed his hand to fall back to his side, the moment of quiet understanding lingering between them.
She shifted, letting her purple hair cascade over her shoulder like a pale waterfall. “Besides,” she added, “the curse is reaching its grand finale soon anyway.”
Hans tilted his head. “So you can now feel it?”
“Only a taste,” she said with a wicked grin. “Decay cloaked in sugar, the kind that rots teeth from the root out.”
Hans’s eyes narrowed.
“And you know how it ends, right?” she murmured.
He said nothing, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his knowledge.
“Good,” she said, leaning back into her cushions. “I’ll let you savor it slowly. Spoilers ruin the flavor.”
Hans nodded, then stepped forward to present a sealed note.
“The maids uncovered a covert trade,” he explained. “Between a Dream devil and a Thief devil, speaking with a Nomad and a demon bearing the Broken Thirteen crest.”
Gula’s mood shifted, her eyes darkening.
“So the rumors were true.”
“They used shadow demons, the intel snatched from a few fleeing their hollow corpses.” Hans said. “The kind the factions employed when plotting against Hazy Mountain.”
She hummed thoughtfully, eyes glinting with calculation.
“Like the Lulling Virus years ago, the spies purged from Baku’s ranks, and the recent assault.”
“All pieces of the same hand,” Hans agreed.
Gula’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk.
The moment lingered, heavy with smugness, until a soft ding echoed through the room. Hans turned his head. A communication plate shimmered to life atop a pedestal nearby, lines of golden devil script crawling across it in deliberate sequence. Gula’s eyes flicked lazily toward it, but Hans had already risen from his kneel and crossed the space to read.
“A visitor,” he said after a moment. “A devil bearing Hoard insignia. Claims to be a merchant interested in trade opportunities with Sweet Oasis.”
Gula rolled her head back with a theatrical groan. “Trade? We’re a buffet, Hans, not a bazaar. What does Hoard really want?”
Hans adjusted his gloves. “Likely what they always want. Leverage. Intel. Weakness.”
“Then why announce themselves at all?” Gula muttered, tapping her chin with a delicate finger.
Hans looked back at her, gaze narrowed. “This could be their way of probing the defenses. A polite knock before they start biting.”
She sighed through her nose, golden eyes gleaming with something sharper than disinterest now. “First Dream, now Hoard… Are my sister and I everyone’s favorite dish this year?”
“Perhaps they’ve caught wind of what we’ve been cooking.” Hans said dryly.
Gula crossed her legs with a jingle and toyed with a curl of her purple hair. “Doubtful, unless they found the source…” she paused, tapping a slender foot against Han’s stoic calf. “Manzanas blood carries the curse, sleeping within his inferior body… such an elegant act of sabotage should take years to sort through the infected fruit, since the hunger isn’t placed, but grown.”
Hans’s face remained impassive, but he nodded. “Watering fields in such a way indeed keeps the curse subtle and the flavor sweet.”
“And then,” Gula added sweetly, “an entire faction would eat without care. Predictable.”
“Very.” Hans agreed.
She rose slowly from the couch, approaching the window to watch the unnatural desert horizon beyond her lair. The oasis shimmered, serene and inviting, a mirage of welcome stretched thin over something feral. “So, what should we serve this Hoard interloper, Hans? I’m in a generous mood.”
“Fruit?” He suggested, adjusting his glasses.
Gula laughed. “Tempting. Poisoned, of course. But no. That’s too quick. I want them to taste disappointment. I want them to taste a little hope.”
Hans said nothing, but his glance toward the communication plate said enough.
“Send some of the Feasters,” Gula commanded. “The speedy ones. Let them disrupt Hoard’s stockpiles. Small, precise thefts. Enough to be noticed. Not enough to spark open war.”
Hans gave a short bow. “A warning.”
“A nibble,” Gula corrected. “If they continue to play with their food, I’ll cook the next faction who thinks I’m weak. We already have friends now, why offer another plate after the last was spilled so gleefully?”
She returned to her seat and reclined again, waving Hans over. He moved without hesitation, taking his place beside her. Gula sighed as she leaned subtly into his presence, her head brushing against his shoulder. It was rare, too rare, that he allowed such proximity. But after weeks apart, the subtle delight in the butler’s presence was a luxury she would not be denied today.
And he knew that. He was a skilled butler.
Outside, Sweet Oasis pulsed with quiet, serene hunger.
Inside, Gula’s voice slipped into a low whisper.
“Prepare the Grand Feast, Hans.”
He raised a brow, looking directly ahead of him. “Which one?” he asked, keeping his eyes from wandering.
She smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded, as if savoring the words like a ripe fruit between her teeth. “The one we talked about. Five months from now.”
He turned to look at her directly. “Avaritia’s birthday. The Day of Tallied Sins.”
“Tax Day,” Gula whispered, her voice rich with promise. “By then, the curse will be ripe. The stage will be set. All that’s left is the meal.”
Hans gave a small nod, tearing his gaze away.
A Grand Feast in Gula’s name took months of preparation. And the last time she hosted one, three minor duchies collapsed and the blood moon took an extra night to set.
“I’ll begin immediately.” he said.
Gula’s smile sharpened, and she whispered, “Good. Let them all fast on apples for now, Hans. Their hunger will make the flavor divine.”
Gula’s head drifted closer toward Hans’s shoulder with languid intent, as if the weight of indulgence itself tugged her closer. Her purple hair spilled in slow waves, rich and glossy.
Hans sat perfectly straight, shoulders squared, eyes fixed forward with the discipline of a blade sheathed too long. But the air had grown… a little too warm. The scent of sweet wine clung to Gula’s hair, and when her head drifted closer, softly, deliberately, his jaw tightened. Her purple hair spilled over his arm like silk unraveling in slow motion, brushing the fine fabric of his coat with careless intimacy.
He didn’t dare breathe too deeply. But a single muscle at his temple pulsed. His hands, folded with military stillness, curled just slightly, betraying the storm under the surface. Her hair grazed his wrist, and in that instant, his thoughts faltered, just enough to shift the silence between them. He didn’t look at her, but his stoicism cracked like frost under candlelight, quiet, tactless, and damning.
Gula grinned at the sight.
“...Well, you can always begin tomorrow, Head Butler.”
“...”
~~~
Ragescar Valley boiled beneath the midday sun, a dry wind skating over the jagged terrain where a shattered mountain range had once stood. What remained were scorched cliffs, blackened ridges, and the deep scars of a cataclysm long past. But even such a cursed land could bloom again.
The half-formed skeleton of a temple rose in the center of it all, pillars shaped like interwoven roses, scaffolding of stone etched with budding sigils, and housing quarters being carved directly into the canyon walls. It was beautiful in its raw ambition, held together by grit and fanatical loyalty.
Under the skeletal shade of an already constructed pavilion, Hannya remained seated alone in a pavilion of plush silks and grey mist. Hidden from the people below, isolated in quiet mystery.
Below the pavilion, work bustled.
“Alright, block-heads, stack like this!” Nini shouted, hopping onto a crate of bricks far too large for her small frame. Her horns sparkled with sweat, and her short pigtails bounced with every stomp. “You two! Mortar after stacking! This isn’t a mud hut, it’s the glorious temple of our Supreme Lady Hannya!”
“Let me do the voice!” Mirro interrupted, swiping a length of cloth over his forehead as his form shifted from lanky builder to barrel-chested foreman, his voice deepening to a ridiculous bass. “You dare insult the Temple of Opulent Domination with your crooked corners?! The Mistress shall know shame because of your shoddy masonry!”
Several acolytes groaned. One demon dropped his trowel and muttered, “You’re worse than the overseers from the last faction I left.”
Nini and Mirro struck synchronized poses, hands on hips.
“Henchman One and Two will accept no sass in this domain!” they declared together.
Further down the construction zone, near a shaded dining area, Salitha moved gracefully among the workers. Her silver hair flowed like woven silk, tied at the ends with beautiful red ribbons. Pink eyes shimmered as she poured water from large clay jugs into wooden cups and whispered encouragement to tired hands.
“You’re doing so well. Lady Hannya will be pleased.”
“Rest when the sun hits the black ridge; we don’t need anyone fainting.”
Behind her, Cieron stood at a massive flat grill set over a trench-fire, his back hunched but strong. He was older, leathery and red skinned, and wore a knowing grin even when he wasn’t smiling. His eyes glowed faintly red beneath his drooping brows. At his hip hung a cleaver shaped like a crescent fang.
The smell of charred meat and fragrant mushrooms drifted across the wind.
“Thank you, Master Cieron!” one young devil chirped.
The old demon grunted.
Another worker bowed deeply. “Your cooking’s made me feel strong all day, sir.”
Cieron grunted louder, flipping a slab of fire-spiced pork onto a plate and thrusting it toward them without a word.
Salitha giggled softly. “He only grunts when he says you’re welcome.”
Just then, a rustle at the western ridge turned heads. Dust billowed as a figure leapt down from a boulder, landing with the grace of a falling star.
Shela approached, her white hair streaked with soot and her sword freshly cleaned but still chilled from use. Her blue skin glistened in the sun, and her expression was flat, impassive, betraying little. Only the thin red scratch trailing her cheek spoke of her recent excursion.
Salitha turned and brightened at once. “Shela! You’re back!”
Shela gave a curt nod and slowed her steps. “Perimeter’s clear.”
“Really? With that much blood on your boots?” Salitha teased, offering her a clay bowl of grilled meat and vegetables.
Shela accepted it without complaint. “Routine patrol. Nothing worth writing down.”
Salitha’s brows creased with concern, but her tone remained light. “You always say that, even after dragging in a demon’s spine.”
“They were slow.” Shela glanced around the camp, checking every face, every structure, her soldier’s mind still half-locked in threat assessment with the assist of her devil blood. “Anyone injured?”
“No. Just a few scraped fingers and sunburns. You kept us safe again.” Salitha smiled, brushing a loose bang from her face. “You should rest.”
“I will.”
“You say that, but you won’t.”
“I might.” Shela took a slow bite of her food, then lowered the bowl. “Hannya still hasn’t left the pavilion?”
Salitha’s lips tightened a fraction, the smile not quite fading. “Not in weeks. Not since... well, not since we came down the mountain.”
“Hmph.” Shela’s eyes trailed toward the mist-veiled structure at the camp’s heart. “She’s brooding.”
“She’s just thinking. Processing.” Salitha folded her hands in front of her. “I’m sure her feelings were hurt after getting kicked out…still, it’s not good to stay cooped up like that.”
“She’s not like us,” Shela said softly, eyes narrowed. “She sees more. Maybe too much.”
Salitha nodded. Though, she did not catch on shela’s implication. “But even so... shouldn’t we check on her? Just to remind her she’s not alone?”
After a small pause, Shela nodded. “Alright.”
They walked together, side by side. The closer they got to the pavilion, the more the air thickened. Mist clinging to their skin, whispering with magical weight. Though no sentries guarded the curtain entrance, no one had dared enter without permission. Even Nini and Mirro, as brazen as they were, had avoided disturbing their mistress.
Salitha reached out and gently pulled the veil aside.
“Hannya?” she called softly. “May we enter?”
The mist stirred.
The pavilion's entrance gave a slight hiss as Salitha and Shela stepped through, the thick grey mist curling and shifting like a living curtain. It blanketed everything, obscuring the room’s edges and creating an eerie quiet. But as the two approached, the mist parted gently, first around their feet, then clearing in front of them like reverent servants bowing to honored guests.
“She never lets it rest,” Shela muttered under her breath, her red eyes scanning the interior with faint caution.
The deeper they went, the more unnatural the air became. It wasn’t just the cold, or the silence, it was the presence of something dense, ordered, vast. At the heart of the pavilion sat Hannya, cross-legged in a lotus position, eyes closed, black horns glowing faintly with a sheen of crimson. Around her floated dozens of sigils; small, glowing glyphs that swirled in midair with mechanical precision. They rotated, linked, broke apart, and reformed in loops, spirals, nested grids, and orbiting chains.
It was unlike any demonic magic they’d ever seen.
“What… is she doing?” Salitha whispered, frowning. “Those aren’t summoning runes. They’re not even warlock scripts.”
“No,” Shela said, gripping her sheathed sword. “I’ve never seen glyphs behave like that. It’s like they’re… thinking.”
They stood silently for a moment, watching as sigils collided like clashing thoughts, then snapped together like puzzle pieces, branching in impossible rhythms. Neither of them had any experience with such data structures, but the way the symbols moved suggested logic, repetition, refinement. Like a storm made of thought.
And the strangest part, some of the sigils were completely unreadable. Written in a language that didn’t exist in Hellnia. Ancient? Alien? Invented?
Salitha finally cleared her throat. “Hannya?”
Her eyes opened slowly, like two pink petals blooming in reverse. Her gaze was heavy, deliberate, but not hostile.
“Ah.” Her voice was smooth, light, but distant. “You’re here.”
She raised her hand and snapped her fingers once.
The floating sigils obeyed instantly. They clustered together, stacking like cards in a tower, then compressed into a line, folding inwards into nothingness, vanishing with a soft, glassy click.
Salitha took a step closer, her smile warm but unsure. “We were just wondering how you were doing. You’ve been in here for… weeks.”
“I’m fine,” Hannya replied, brushing an invisible thread from her shoulder. “I’ve just been… working on my library.”
“Library?” Shela asked flatly.
“A trade secret.” Hannya said with a dismissive wave, but her thoughts added a quiet echo.
‘It’d take too long to explain to these normies.’
Salitha’s brows pinched slightly. “We were… worried. You’ve barely come out to eat. Not even for Cieron’s smoked clover boar, and you love smoked clover boar…”
“Not true. I devour it from the mist. He knows.” Hannya’s tone was playfully annoyed. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
Salitha hesitated, then softened her tone. “Just checking on you. We were… thinking maybe the cursed katana was affecting you. The one from the battle. Even for devils, cursed weapons sometimes take a toll.”
Hannya blinked slowly.
The cursed katana. Black, serrated, filled with the wails of the damned, was still in her arsenal. But it had never harmed her. If anything, it fit her. Her devil core, nourished by despair, resonated with the blade’s frequency. It was less a burden and more a tuning fork. They were compatible in a way few tools ever were.
But she hadn't told them that.
Instead, a flicker of guilt passed through her when Salitha spoke. Weeks? She hadn't realized. She’d fallen into the same loop as her past life, consumed by study, curled up in a bubble of silence, solving everything with abstraction. Alone.
She clicked her tongue and stood up slowly, shaking out her limbs as the surrounding mist streamed back into her skin like water soaking into a sponge. The pavilion cleared instantly, revealing its empty floor and carved walls.
“…I hardly noticed.” she muttered, brushing dust from her newly fitted kimono.
Both Shela and Salitha looked at each other, the same thought passing through them: She really might be cursed.
Hannya turned and strode toward the entrance, adjusting her veil, securing it tightly around the lower half of her face with precise, casual movements.
“Come,” she said. “We’re going on a small expedition.”
“Where?” Shela asked, her voice instinctively guarded.
Hannya paused at the threshold, veil hiding the sly smile tugging at her lips.
“To the natural dungeon below Ragescar Valley.”
Both devils froze.
“…The dread spider caves?” Salitha said carefully, voice nearly cracking. “We had the workers seal that off. Even our elite devils don’t hunt there casually. You do remember the reports, right? One of them was A-rank. An A-rank spider.”
Hannya tilted her head. “Mmhm.”
“That’s not a confirmation,” Shela added sharply. “There are children helping build the temple. What if something follows us back up?”
Hannya ignored her and continued.
“No one else will come with me,” Hannya said, eyes glowing faintly. “Just you two.”
A pause. Then another smile hidden in mist.
“There’s something down there I need to check.”
She didn’t tell them about the ruins at the bottom, the remains of an old Gula temple, now swallowed in webs and dust.
She didn’t tell them that it was the place of her birth, her prison, her near grave.
And now, It was calling her home.
Comments
Prent
Nini and Mirro are great I love them
Aune
Fack " A Grand Feast in Gula’s name took months of preparation. And the last time she hosted one, three minor duchies collapsed and the blood moon took an extra night to set." And this was her, reaching out with Friendly intentions and a world weary heart with a dash o hope in the corner of the heart radiating outwards to the world, and the platform. Pure as snow, now ? Hehe
Wintermelody
Thanks for the chapter
