Tzaphkiel continued their explanation.
"But if Sol has been this quiet… then it means one of two things. Either they have yet to find a Master, or they have found one worth serving. And frankly, I highly doubt that a newborn Fenrir, hopping between worlds to flee from carnage, would be deemed worthy.
At the very least, Sol would have killed him for that cowardice."
Bond and Pluto gulped so loudly that the sound echoed through the night.
"Hey, Lord Gabi'el," Bond muttered, shaking. "I... I want some tea."
He prayed—PRAYED—that Ruben wasn't the Master of Sol.
'That dog is a buffoon! He'd totally get manipulated into something dangerous! And it'd end up being my fault!'
Tzaphkiel, begrudgingly, poured tea into Bond's emerged cup and then Pluto's.
"There is one other Pseudo-Sanas," Tzaphkiel continued, "in the possession of the former Power of Darkness, the Shoggoth—Beelzebub."
They levitated a massive cup towards the towering Pluto, though the amount of tea inside was significantly less than what had been poured for Gabi'el.
Pluto sulked.
"Beelzebub's Pseudo-Sanas is merely an inferior, systemized imitation of us—one I consider a bad joke, to be frank. However, it appears to be functional. It can run analyses, assist, and support the Shoggoth, much like an obedient machine."
Tzaphkiel's voice was neutral, but their distaste was evident.
"Unlike us—the true Sanas, who possess emotions, free will, and our own souls—these imitations are nothing more than mindless systems. They follow their Master's will without question.
That said, I, too, obey my Master's every wish."
Gabi'el quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? Every wish? Because if I recall correctly, the last time I requested intimacy from you, I was completely refused."
Tzaphkiel skillfully ignored the remark.
"The Pseudo-Sanas can also communicate with the Shoggoth," they continued, unperturbed. "So perhaps this 'Platform' is simply a newly developed Pseudo-Sanas.
"Bond." Gabi'el's voice was soft.
Bond flinched so hard he nearly spilled his heavenly tea. "Y... Yes?"
"It better be a Pseudo-Sanas we're dealing with here. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, ma'am! —I mean, sir! Or whatever! —Sorry, I mean, Understood, Lord Gabi'el!" Bond scrambled to correct himself.
Pluto, meanwhile, was miserably dipping his purple tongue from beneath his hood into the oversized teacup, barely tasting his drink.
Gabi'el rose from their extravagant seat, their expression hardening. "I'll be watching the Fenrir's movements even more closely now." Their eyes gleamed with quiet determination. "Nothing he does will evade my perception again. Even if Wisdom King Sol is manipulating events behind the scenes... If I'm lucky, this Ruben might someday lead me to… Father."
They turned their gaze to Bond, who was already mentally preparing for his inevitable punishment for aiding and abetting a cosmic entity with zero regard for human life—or any life, for that matter.
Pluto, still sulking over his tea, let out a long sigh.
Gabi'el's voice softened into something almost maternal. "Both of you are the only ones I can trust in Gihon. Please, be careful… and stop slacking off, gossiping like women."
Bond and Pluto straightened immediately.
"The humans are stable for now, but they could spiral into madness again. They were subjected to an upper-tier psychological invasion, which forced their bodies to grow far stronger than they normally would in such a short span of time.
And the culprit Cthulhu—she abducted a Champion from here. Refused to release her and fled."
Bond waved a hand dismissively. "No, that's on us for not being there."
"But… the Champion?" Pluto asked, hesitant.
"Oh, I'd advise you to forget about her," Tzaphkiel interjected with a face so utterly indifferent it could be framed as the definition of apathy itself. "She's as good as dead. But I'll try to retrieve her soul eventually."
Pluto groaned. "Gihon isn't like Pison or the other heavenly pieces. We literally have only four Champion-level humans here. And now we're down to three?"
"Which means more work for us," Bond grumbled. "I'm guessing the one who got abducted was Natasha—that fool of righteousness. Every other Champion would skyrocket at the smell of something like Cthulhu."
He sighed. "Honestly, I've tried to teach her how to exist above good and evil, but nooo, she's a hero of justice. And that made her challenge THE Cthulhu—someone even I would run away from."
A soft glow emanated from Gabi'el.
"Very well," they murmured. "I hope we don't meet again soon."
"Ehhh? Why? We don't get to see heavenly beauties all the time, you know," Pluto whined.
Gabi'el barely spared him a glance. "Then the next time I appear..." She and Tzaphkiel's forms began to blur and fade. "...Try hosting me in a more appropriate venue."
And just like that, they were gone, leaving Bond and Pluto in the vast expanse of short grass, surrounded by the swirling remnants of dark mist still dissipating behind Pluto.
Pluto sighed. "Well, I don't really leave this place much," he muttered, stretching his arms. "And you're the one who invited yourself, but oh well."
Bond stood up from his rocky perch. "Alright, Pluto. I'll head back to check on the others..."
He took a few steps forward, then hesitated. Over his shoulder, he added, "Watch over those two, too. Please."
Pluto narrowed his eyes at the horizon. "What are you talking about? We'll both be in deep waters if Alicia decides to destroy the planet. And Sol—who's suddenly, suspiciously, beginning to resemble Platform—manages to manipulate that fur-for-brains into world domination."
Bond exhaled, misty-eyed. "I love that we always understand each other."
Then, like a bullet, he vanished, leaving only a rush of wind in his wake.
*
After Ruben and Alicia finally crossed Gihon and arrived at the endless wasteland, Sarvest attacked them.
And to his surprise, he was damaged.
That was when he realized something big—something colossal, like the cataclysm of 4,000 years ago—was about to happen again.
So he called for a summit.
The Underworld Summit.
Deep, deep, deep within the Heavenly Piece, far removed from reality and the physical world, there existed a warping void—a place reserved for the fallen, the rebels of heaven.
This place was called Hades.
Despite the world fracturing into four pieces during the ancient war, the Underworld remained intact. Its existence was secured by its sheer, unnatural darkness—an anomaly removed from rationality itself.
And at its heart loomed the great pylon known as Satanas' Tower.
At its peak, Satanas himself sat in ceaseless toil, crafting and refining a single spell.
A spell he had been forming for 4,000 years.
The spell he had sworn would mark his vengeance.
The spell meant to undo his defeat.
At the bottom of Satanas' Tower, a vast, exquisite hall stretched outward—a grand red and white chamber, imposing and magnificent.
The atmosphere was thick with an oppressive aura, a convergence of anomalies, dark forces, cosmic entities, and horrors ripped from myths and folklore. Devil Kings stood among them, some watching in eerie silence, others murmuring in hushed, ominous tones.
Yet, despite the multitude of powerful beings, most remained standing. Only a select few were seated.