The gigantic cavern housing Arach’Che’el trembles from the explosion, as if the earth itself is crying out in pain.

In a short time, things spiral into utter chaos.

Both the queen and I are caught off guard by this sudden event.

We exchange a fleeting glance, our faces incredulous.

The view from the top of the temple, on the circular terrace where we stand, offers a terrifying sight. The city, powerful, immense, with its dark beauty, turns into an inferno of flames and destruction. So suddenly, we don't even have time to fully process it.

Multiple fires rapidly spread in the southern area, precisely where the massive entrance gates have been shattered. The flames start devouring entire streets, their tongues hungrily stretching over the stone and wooden buildings of the Underealm, casting a red, sinister glow across the entire underground city.

Heart-wrenching screams rise from below, echoing in the vast cavern like the wail of damned souls.

The clamor reaches us, a cacophony of war and slaughter that contrasts sharply with the characteristic semi-silent whispers of an underground city, a place usually dormant now violently awakened.

The chaos is tangible.

I look at the streets and see rows of dark elves, appearing like ants, running in all directions—some in a desperate attempt to defend the city, others fleeing deeper inside. It looks very much like a frenzied anthill.

The structures collapse one after another, overwhelmed by fire or the strikes of the invaders.

The candles they carry light up like countless specks in the dark, reminiscent of graveyard matches in their grim manner.

It seems as though the entire city is imploding, with thick columns of smoke rising toward the cavern ceiling.

Even the natural light from the bioluminescent plants and fungi is obscured by the smoke, casting Arach’Che’el into the deepest night.

 

I turn and observe Queen Azherie.

An expression of genuine surprise cracks her mask of confidence. Shock.

There is a tension in her that I have never sensed before. The queen of the dark elves, who would never have believed that an invasion could shake her realm so deeply, now watches with disbelief as the destruction unfolds beneath our eyes.

From the door behind us, an insistent knocking shatters the momentary silence that envelops us.

A frantic, worried rhythm that doesn't stop until the queen, impatient and visibly irritated, turns with a hiss: "Vel'klar!"

A guard slips inside with quick steps, bowing in respect.
"Ussta Ilharess, natha qu'ellar orn tlu jala dosst xor!" His voice is broken by anxiety and urgency.

"Aluinus," the queen responds with a wave of her hand.

Another dark elf, appearing as a messenger from the front, drags himself inside, his body covered in dust and bleeding wounds.

"Jala!" orders Azherie.

He barely manages a bow, gasping for breath, and utters words that seem to freeze the air in the room: "L'jalukin udos pholor, ulu'ryld dosst har'ol del lil'che'el! Udos zhaun naut tir dosst!"

Azherie, visibly incensed, rises from her chair with such force that the folds of her dress ripple as if caught by a sudden gust of wind.

Her hands clench into trembling fists, and her face becomes a portrait of barely contained rage.

Her voice rings out with an anger she rarely reveals. "Ussta verin d'valsharess ilythiiri zhaun naut tir jalukin?!"

The messenger looks as if he might crumble under the weight of his queen's words. "U-udos ph'jaluss natha vel'uss… natha Claw'zhaun d'ndar, n-natha’wael..." he stammers, shaking as if that single word carries unbearable weight.

“Natha’wael?! … Wael…” Azherie repeats, and the tension thickens as she turns to face me, her voice colder than death itself.
“Hero.”

I flinch for a moment, as my mind races through all the possible implications.

I weigh the meaning of that word and the effect it has on the queen.
Heroes are champions chosen by the gods, as the books I’ve studied explain. They can be counted on one hand; for example, Hallemagner has only one, who is likely the prime suspect in this situation. Many individuals have the potential to become one, but only a very few do.

“Humans… their lives are so brief, so impetuous. They dared to attack me, the realm I built, descending into the depths they know nothing of,” says Azherie, her words sharp.

Her fists clench even tighter. Her voice trembles for a moment, a fracture in her absolute control.

The dark elf messenger, still shaken and gasping for breath, runs his hands through his hair, unable to suppress the fear he felt.

His eyes avoid meeting the queen's, which are full of contempt, as he struggles to explain himself, his voice a broken whisper of terror: “Naut zhah ulu'bol, ussta Ilharess... l'veldrin qual'faer l'jaluk tlus l'sanctath zhahus dossta kyorlin ulu elgg udossa!"

Azherie jolts slightly at those words, her composure cracking for a moment.
The disdain remains in her gaze, however. Disdain for the weakness of the dark elf before her, but especially for the audacity of being attacked.

“That light... The fall of the gates is the result of divine intervention…” she murmurs thoughtfully, in a way that I can understand. “Is it possible there is another Hero? Or even a Saint?” Azherie’s usually imperturbable expression reveals a shadow of unease.

Her gaze falls on me, but it is empty, distant, as if considering epochs, not moments. Then, speaking slowly, almost reluctantly, she says: “If the gods are moving against me directly... even for me, Strauss Wagner, a confrontation with divinity carries risk. I might defeat one Hero, perhaps, but two? I know when it’s time to call for allies.”

Interesting, I think to myself, carefully considering the implications of this new threat.

Her eyes flash, changing color, reflecting the fury and fear of someone who realizes she might have lost control of the situation. The idea of having to rely on me to counter such a threat is a blow to her pride.

It’s clear that all this time she has maneuvered every piece with conviction, certain that nothing could compromise her victory. And yet now, for the first time, I see a hint of doubt in her. Was she so absorbed in her conquest, so focused on subjugating me, that she underestimated the repercussions of her actions on Hallemagner? Did she not expect the Church or the guilds to react? Did she underestimate them? Or did she simply think she had more time? Has the mighty queen finally made a mistake?

The explosions grow closer, the roar intensifying, accompanied by a symphony of screams and the clash of battle. From our position, the flames devour the city like wild beasts, spreading a blazing path of destruction. Dust and smoke rise in thick, gray clouds.

The queen's face is a mask of disdain and fury, but I can see the flicker of fear behind those blazing eyes.

“Our enemies have made their move, Strauss Wagner. I suspect Chand is behind this. Through her followers, she is attacking my realm.” She pauses, her lips pressed into a hard line. “Those who could defend it are occupied in the Demonic Game of Death.”

The situation is becoming quite intriguing.

The chaos unfolding below might definitely work to my advantage. I’m certain that Chand will do anything to kill me, but the fact that she is attacking the Underealm indirectly plays in my favor... it sets the stage for distracting the queen.

Maintaining my calm, detached demeanor is a deliberate provocation.

Below us, the city burns, and through the smoke, I can only partially make out the chaos. Soldiers and civilians flee, a river of desperate souls seeking refuge from the invading warriors. The fire, like a ravenous monster, dances and spreads throughout the city and rises to nearly touch the temple, like a dark premonition.

Beside me, Azherie has lost her confident gaze, her ancient bravado; now her eyes wander over the city as if she were staring at a specter, her own realm in flames.

The messenger has already left the room, and the queen turns to me, standing tall, her face cold and steady but with a glimmer of uncertainty, a note I never thought I’d see.

“The game cannot be interrupted under any circumstances unless one of the conditions for its termination is met, but we could consider a truce between us. A temporary alliance,” she proposes, each word carefully pronounced.

But deep down, I know this isn’t a proposal; it’s a request that costs her to admit.

“With all due respect, queen, how is this my problem?” I provoke, trying to push her further in the direction I want her to go.

For a moment, her eyes flash with anger, her response as sharp as lightning. “Have you ever faced an hero? They are practically demigods. He will destroy everything, reduce this city to nothing until only ash and dust remain,” she states coldly, but I can sense the fear behind the implication.

Heroes. I’ve dismantled several [Heroic Seeds].
Luysia, Kanna, and even Deedee had the potential to become one. But what is a hero, essentially? A hero is a divine chosen one, a being who has gained power beyond that of their Venture abilities.

If we were to create a power scale, gods would be at the top, followed by Saints, and very close beneath them, Heroes. Below them, Ventures with their various classifications.

If I had to make an assumption, the queen’s power level is slightly above that of a hero. But these are mere suppositions, not backed by evidence. And from the concern I see in the queen, with all her power and experience, I can imagine that even she is uncertain of the outcome.

The fact that she hasn’t moved to defend her realm betrays something deeper: she knows that this hero is a threat, even to her.

I turn to her, letting every trace of irony slip from my voice. “This is your realm.”
After all, with all her Servants occupied in the Demonic Game of Death, she should be the one to defend it, to push back a Hero challenging the entire Underealm.

Her gaze hardens, but her voice betrays a shadow of doubt. “Perhaps I could defeat one hero… but potentially two? I need your support in this battle. Are you aware that if one of the two Masters dies, the Demonic Game of Death is voided, and those who died during the game are gone forever?”

Ah, here it is.
She’s trying to bind me to her fight, to make me feel the looming danger not just for her, but for me as well.
In a single moment, I see her vulnerability and the fear behind the mask of confidence. She’s willing to form an alliance with me to save everything she’s built.

Yet, I can’t help but savor the taste of this partial victory.

Her voice fills the room, laden with tension and awareness. If either of us were to die, the entire game would be nullified. And, if that happened, every fallen Servant would be lost forever.

In this cruel game, every life taken would be a permanent loss for both of us.

For her and for me, the risk is immense, but it’s also the perfect opportunity for me.