Shadow clung to Xellos like a second skin as he descended the obsidian spiral beneath Corinth's cobbled streets. Each step echoed wrong—not the sharp crack of boot on stone but a wet whisper, as if the darkness itself swallowed sound before it could properly form.

The taste of the meadow meeting still fouled his mouth. Wildflowers and morning dew, Ebonheim's golden radiance burning against his carefully maintained shadows. But worse than her light, worse than her insufferable righteousness, was the weight of power that had pressed against his divine essence like an ocean crushing a pond.

Intermediate God.

His fingers tightened until shadow-wisps bled between them. The sanctum door—a slab of volcanic glass that had drunk the blood of thirteen master stoneworkers—recognized his approach and melted away. Beyond lay his true throne room, where no mortal foot had ever fallen.

Here, shadows moved without source. They writhed across surfaces that existed in more dimensions than mortal minds could process, creating patterns that would have driven Corinth's puppet-citizens to madness if they glimpsed even a fragment. At the chamber's heart stood his scrying mirror—not glass but crystallized void, reflecting truths rather than images.

The Akashic System responded to his will before he could fully form the thought. Crystalline interfaces materialized in the air, each panel showing different aspects of his divine status in characters that burned cold blue against the darkness.

Divine Rank: Lesser God - Zenith Stage

Divine Domain: Corinth

Population: 8207

Monthly Quintessence Generation: 733

The numbers mocked him. Other gods—lesser gods who ruled single towns or guided small tribes—pulled twice, sometimes three times that amount from their worshippers. The System's notation pulsed beside his generation rate like an infected wound:

Efficiency Rating: 33% (Artificial Devotion Detected)

Note: Emotional resonance compromised by external influence

The Irresistible Influence Mantra. His greatest tool and heaviest chain. Every citizen of Corinth moved to his will, thought his thoughts, dreamed his dreams. Perfect control. Perfect obedience.

Perfect emptiness.

Through shadow-scrying, he watched them now—his people, his dolls. Morning prayers in the central square, eight thousand voices rising in flawless unison. Every word identical. Every gesture synchronized. Every smile carved from the same vacant mold.

Their prayers reached him like lukewarm water when they should burn like wine. Faith without choice, devotion without soul—the Akashic System recognized the forgery and penalized accordingly.

"Dolls." The word scraped past his teeth. "I've made a city of dolls."

The bitter irony wasn't lost on him. Ebonheim's chaotic settlement, with its bickering council and diverse population, generated pure faith like a furnace generated heat. His perfectly ordered domain produced a trickle of tepid devotion, each prayer identical to the last, each offering mechanically given.

Projected time to Intermediate Rank: 8.3 years

The irony burned worse than any divine flame. Perfect control had seemed the superior path when he'd claimed Corinth. No dissent. No doubt. No messy mortal emotions complicating his designs. Just pure, ordered devotion flowing upward in measured doses.

Now Ebonheim—chaotic, naive, sentimental Ebonheim—with its bickering council and diverse population, generated pure faith like a furnace generated heat. She had somehow surpassed him through the simple expedient of letting her people love her.

Love—a fool's emotion, one that had no place in the calculations of power and prestige. Yet somewhere in Ebonheim's clumsy strategy lay a secret he wasn't seeing.

The Akashic System seemed to agree, and it rewarded Ebonheim's approach with rapid ascension. So much power, so quickly. No other god he knew had broken through to Intermediate rank as fast as that simpleton who dwelled in a cabin and coddled her people, rather than ruling them from a place of glory.

His fist connected with the mirror. Obsidian cracked but didn't shatter, spider-web fractures distorting the reflected data. Through the broken glass, older memories surfaced unbidden.

Decades compressed into heartbeats of recollection. Before Corinth's ordered streets. Before elaborate schemes and calculated deceptions. When Xellos had been vagrant, hunting through primordial wilds where Greater Spirits still ruled.

The first kill tasted of copper and starlight. A river spirit, ancient but complacent, had fallen to surprise and surprise alone, believing itself so mighty that nothing could threaten its existence. He'd stalked it for seventeen days, learning its patterns, mapping its territory. When shadow-fangs finally found the spirit's core, essence had flooded into him like molten gold poured into an empty vessel.

His first Quintessence, pure and undiluted. No need for worshippers. No begging mortals for scraps of faith. Just pure, distilled power ripped from creatures too weak to keep it.

The second hunt had been harder. Word spread among the spirits—something new prowled their realm. Something hungry. They'd grown wary, defensive. But wariness meant predictability, and predictability meant opportunity.

A mountain spirit's essence had tasted of granite and slow time. His third kill had taken a year to set up. A forest spirit had resisted even longer, its roots spread through realms he couldn't touch. Eventually, they all fell before him.

By the tenth kill, he'd perfected the art. Isolation of target. Corruption of territory to weaken their connection to the land. The gradual introduction of despair that made even ancient spirits doubt their own strength. Then the strike—swift, overwhelming, inevitable.

The Akashic System had recognized his achievements, granting him divine rank without a single worshipper to his name. Ascendant Stage through conquest rather than cultivation.

Those had been pure days. Simple days. Before politics and patience and the exhausting theater of pretending to care about mortal concerns.

Something had changed, though. Now Ebonheim, despite starting so far behind him, surged ahead. Something about love and its expression, chaotic and inefficient, tapping some hidden source of power.

The numbers no longer worked, and Xellos had never been one to cling to broken tools. He brushed obsidian fragments from his knuckles, fingertips running over fresh scars etched into pale flesh. Somewhere within Ebonheim's foolishness lay a key he couldn't yet see.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Nonetheless, a solution presented itself. If he could no longer seize the advantage through shadows and manipulation, then going back to his old ways bore serious consideration.

A new interface materialized—tactical assessments of regional powers. Elmsworth appeared first, the ancient ent's statistics scrolling past. Too well-defended. Too connected. Striking him would bring Ebonheim down on Xellos's head before he could properly ascend.

Nillen next—the great stag who roamed without pattern. Mobile, alert, impossible to corner without a prolonged hunt that would draw attention.

Calyxia after—a gorgon-lamia monstrosity whose essence oozed green and toxic in his shadow-senses. Direct conflict with such a creature would prove... messy. Her defenses are formidable, and she could well prove troublesome.

Then, Liselotte.

His lips curved. The Harpy Queen ruled her floating aeries through strength alone. No political connections. No mutual defense pacts. Just raw power and the absolute certainty that none would dare challenge her supremacy.

Pride like that created blind spots wide enough to drive armies through.

"Isolated. Proud." The words tasted sweeter than any prayer. "Perfect."

The chamber's shadows shifted, responding to his changing mood. What had been writhing fury smoothed into calculated purpose. The cracked mirror repaired itself with a sound like breaking bones played backward.

New screens materialized, these showing tactical deployments rather than divine statistics. Markers glowed across a shadow-map of the Eldergrove—red for demon positions, purple for Morrian cells, gold for key individuals with potential to shake his plans.

He'd been orchestrating this for months. Not the assault itself—that was simply Tuesday's entertainment—but the careful cultivation of resources that made it possible. Demon pacts negotiated through careful exchanges of future promises. Morrian loyalty purchased with gold and guarantees of expanded operations. Even the corruption of nearby settlements served dual purposes, providing both Quintessence and strategic positioning.

All for moments like this.

"Original parameters," he spoke to the empty air, knowing his field commanders would receive the words through shadow-channels. "Probe defenses. Identify weaknesses. Force escalation until the target commits fully."

The plan's elegance lay in its simplicity. Demons would emerge from prepared positions, threatening harpy territory with sufficient force to demand response. Morrian assassins would thin the defenders, their poisoned bolts turning strength into liability. Liselotte would be forced to engage directly—her pride would accept nothing less.

And when she was wounded, exhausted, her forces scattered? He would arrive. Her life for his ascension.

Time dissolved into preparation and anticipation. Reports from his Morrian contacts flowed through crystal channels with increasing urgency.

"The tunnel network has been compromised. The Asura are engaging ahead of schedule."

"Harpy response more aggressive than anticipated. Adjusting tactics."

His fingers danced across shadow-screens, monitoring casualty ratios and positional advantages. The demons were taking losses—expected, acceptable. Each fallen Bhutava bought intelligence about harpy combat patterns. Every destroyed Shadaksha revealed defensive weaknesses.

Then the first disruption crackled through.

"The subject of interest we've been tracking is engaging the Asura. Silver fire manifestation, plant growth anomalies. Demon forces taking heavy casualties."

Xellos frowned. None of Liselotte's harpies wielded silver fire. Had another Lord of the Eldergrove intervened? But Nillen used storm-based attacks, Elmsworth commanded earth and root...

"Show me," he commanded.

The shadow-scrying mirror rippled, displaying the battlefield in perfect clarity. A figure moved through his demon forces like a scythe through wheat, silver flames wreathing her form. Green exploded in her wake, plant growth erupting where she walked.

A single, unbidden word dropped from his lips: Ebonheim.

But Ebonheim was in her city. He'd confirmed that through three separate spy networks. Which meant...

"An avatar. She sent her avatar."

The words emerged as barely more than breath, but they carried the weight of revelation. Ebonheim had dispatched her divine representative far from home, beyond easy recall, into hostile territory where destruction meant more than simple inconvenience.

His mind raced through implications with the speed of shadow across sundial.

Avatars were extensions of divine will. Powerful, yes, but limited. They drew on their creator's essence to maintain physical form, channeling godly might through mortal-shaped vessels.

Destroying an avatar wouldn't kill a god—the Akashic System had safeguards against such easy deicide. But the backlash would cripple Ebonheim for months, possibly years. Unable to manifest fully. Reduced to whispers and blessings while her essence reconstitutes itself. Her domain would be vulnerable, leaderless in any meaningful sense.

"Two birds." The laugh that escaped him made shadows dance with sympathetic glee. "One perfectly orchestrated stone."

New orders flew through the communication crystals. Gradual withdrawal, make the retreat look genuine. Maintain enough pressure to keep targets engaged but preserve forces for the final act. He needed them exhausted, not fled.

The avatar—Ryelle, his spies had called her—burned through demon ranks with disturbing efficiency. But each burst of silver fire dimmed slightly, each movement came a fraction slower. Divine avatars drew power through their connection to their patron deity, but distance attenuated that flow. She was running on reserves.

And Liselotte... the Harpy Queen bled from multiple wounds, Morrian poison darkening her white feathers. Still dangerous—she'd torn apart several Shadaksha despite her injuries—but fading. Pride would keep her fighting past wisdom, past survival instinct.

Perfect.

Xellos selected his entrance point with theatrical consideration. Not too close—that would seem suspicious. Not too distant—he needed to arrive while they still had strength to fight. The shadow of a dying Bhutava at the clearing's edge would serve nicely.

Divine power condensed around him as he prepared. Not the subtle influences he usually favored but war-forms he hadn't worn in decades. Shadow became armor beneath his robes, each thread capable of turning blade or claw. Lesser Eyes manifested among his hair, providing multidimensional awareness. The blade on his left wrist lengthened and took on blacker shade. The gauntlet on his right, an old favorite, expanded into an elaborate filigree of dark energy, its surface crawling with eldritch designs.

The mirror showed him one last view of the battlefield. The avatar and the Harpy Queen stood among the carnage, both breathing hard, both bloodied. They were already looking toward the forest edge where his demons had retreated.

Time for his entrance.

He reached through shadow to the marked Bhutava, feeling its simple mind recoil from his touch. A twist of will exchanged their positions—the demon appearing in his sanctum just as he materialized at the battlefield's edge.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Blood and burnt flesh, ozone from eldritch energies, the peculiar green scent of aggressive plant growth. The second was the residual power hanging in the air—divine essence mixed with primal fury, enough to make lesser beings genuflect from proximity alone.

He began his slow applause before fully materializing, letting the sound announce him. Each clap rang with perfect mockery, timed to their exhausted breathing.

"Well done. Truly impressive. I couldn't have asked for a better demonstration."

The avatar's head snapped toward him, silver fire guttering around her fingers like dying candles. Liselotte spread her wings in threat display, but he caught how her left wing trembled, how weight shifted to favor her unpoisoned leg.

"I do hope you haven't exhausted yourselves too thoroughly," he continued, stepping fully into the light. His shadows writhed with eager anticipation, ready to feast on divine essence and primal spirit alike. "It would be terribly disappointing if you couldn't put up much of a fight after all this. A true shame, really."

Behind him, darkness gathered. Not his demon forces—they'd served their purpose. This was his own power, patient shadows he'd been feeding for ten years. Each one hungry for the feast he'd promised.

The Harpy Queen's eyes narrowed, recognizing him at last. The avatar's stance shifted, protective instincts warring with exhaustion.

He smiled his most pleasant smile, the one he'd practiced in mirrors until it could cut sharper than any blade.

The hunt had begun.

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