“Magnificent skies tonight!”
“Positively transcendent!”
The stargazers exclaimed, intoxicated by the dizzying spray of pale constellations.
Yvette’s breath hitched. The oppressive starlight seemed to coalesce into an invisible force crushing her chest. How could the others not feel it? These fragile mortals should be paralyzed with dread—yet they gaped enraptured at the very stars whose demonic glimmer pulsed with maddening secrets.
Murmurs swirled around her—disjointed at first, like untuned strings, then merging into a single chilling chant. Faces upturned, the crowd swayed like sun-drunk flowers, voices slurring in unison:
“Hail, Star-Maiden, traveler of celestial roads! Beacon in darkness, heaven’s delirium! Time withers at thy feet—unchanging, unyielding! Ascend! Illuminate! Glory eternal to she who rouses us from mortal stupor!”
The drone of their fanatic chorus flooded Yvette’s senses, thick as tar.
Air turned viscous. Breath stalled.
Then—a violet streak.
The meteor traced a low arc northwest, a harbinger of the Star-Maiden’s will. Its passage warped the sky: every star now blazed with ghostly coronas, haloed infernos swirling like Van Gogh’s tortured brushstrokes.
Madness? Or truth? Yvette clenched her jaw. The Dutchman’s twisted skies suddenly felt frightfully literal.
The violet intruder loomed closer, trailing spirals of eldritch fire that defied earthly physics. Altol would be here soon—he’d seen the signal. She followed the entranced mob toward the impact zone, their stumbling pilgrimage accompanied by ceaseless chanting.
A flash. A bone-shaking roar.
“Thy radiance conquers eternity! Grant us passage through thy astral wheels…”
The meteor lay ahead, its psychic virulence dwarfing prior encounters. Yvette tallied mental casualties—then froze.
On the ridge, a red-haired figure in a trench coat manhandled a writhing, multi-limbed horror into a steel case. Its waxy flesh bore burns from atmospheric entry—a Starspawn, newly birthed from its stone womb.
The man scraped the creature against crude metal edges, ignoring its agonized shrieks.
“Brute! You’ll harm the Maiden’s herald!” A besotted stargazer lunged.
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Mid-stride, his throat split like ripe fruit. Blood fountained.
An Adept.
Yvette groped for her absent sword, cursed, then palmed her pistol.
Altol staggered over the crest, heaving. The bleak terrain had hindered pursuit. He’d tracked the redhead since the meteor’s appearance—no mortal moved that fast.
“Stand down!” Altol tossed Yvette his blade and leveled an odd, stubby pistol. “Next bullet finds your cerebellum.”
Yvette recognized the design—her own compact sidearm, trading range for alchemical payloads.
The redhead’s laugh dripped scorn. At this range, even proper firearms missed. “A crow with a popgun!”
He tugged his collar, exposing lips smeared crimson. Not blood—lipstick, savagely erased.
CRACK. The Adept teleported—but not fast enough. A bullet tore through his thigh.
“Hollow points track their mark,” Altol said coolly, reloading.
The redhead grinned through pain. “Cute trick. Should’ve aimed higher.”
As Altol slid in a fresh round, a spectral clown head materialized behind him—jaws unhinged, needle-teeth glinting.
“‘Hound’! Your six!”
The apparition’s bite left no mark—but Altol blanched. “My ability… Gone.”
The Adept flourished grotesque shurikens. “The Fool steals what he covets!”
He vanished. Reappeared.
THWACK. A blade sprouted from Altol’s thigh—matching the redhead’s wound.
“Your turn, crowling,” the madman crooned, licking bloodied lips.
"A power thief among Transcendents?!"
The revelation chilled Yvette—this foe operated on another level.
But marveling at his predatory skill wouldn't save them. All supernatural gifts had rules; she needed to crack his.
"Your other abilities—still functional?" she murmured to Alto, though his grimace confirmed the stolen tracking bullet crippled their offense.
Her mind dissected the puzzle piece by piece:
Why spare Alto initially? The red-haired killer had ample chances. Yet he'd waited, taken the leg shot... then retaliated identically. Not mercy—calculated preservation.
Pattern Clicked: He needs to experience an attack to claim its power. Alto's demonstrated abilities—causality manipulation, tracking, photographic recall—explained his rank. But the stolen homing bullet specifically countered teleportation... and nullified their advantage.
Fatal contradictions emerged:
- The thief radiated confidence targeting that one ability, not random selection.
- Alto's essence remained intact—the theft was temporary.
Predator's Calculus: Killing Alto risks losing the borrowed power. Against Yvette's unknown capability, he couldn't afford asymmetry. Hence the theatrics—testing vulnerabilities.
"Run! I'll stall him!" Alto hissed desperately.
Signaling fear would be death. Instead, Yvette leaned into stereotype. "Y-You... heroic sacrifice!" she warbled in performative falsetto, retreating with trembling steps. The killer's sneer deepened—mere woman. Perfect.
Swift maneuvers positioned her triangularly. Flame Cloak activation bathed her in flickering shields. Sword raised ritualistically, she intoned:
"I am the bone of my sword.
Forged steel, burning blood...
Unbound by Death's grasp,
Unaffected by Life's clasp..."
The red-haired man twitched—damned sorceress rites! Desperate dart throw... diverted through her covert energy tweak and golem charm. Pain lanced her arm; the chant continued.
Swordlight hummed with piercing enchantment. Through slitted eyes, she tracked his staccato teleports—injured leg limiting movement to linear approaches. Close the gap, finish the chant... He obliged recklessly.
True Pivot's geometric intuition took over. Eyes shut; heartbeat synced to his blink-step rhythm. One opening.
His dagger gleamed—
Her blade fell.
Crimson arc.
A head bounced twice before stillness.
Cold steel dripped as Yvette observed impassively. "Deception," she whispered to the dead man, "isn't exclusively your craft."