Lord of the Mysteries: Catalyst of Shadows

The dawn light stretched thin over Azan Port, a golden shimmer brushing against the rooftops and flickering across the restless waves of the harbor. From the vantage of "His" quarters, Nivlek Sauron watched as the city roused itself—dockworkers hauling cargo onto moored ships, merchants preparing their wares, the distant hum of life threading through the streets. Even after the storm of battle, the port pulsed with movement, determined to carry on.

"He" rolled "His" shoulders, loosening the stiffness that had crept into "His" muscles. Though it had been days since the battle, "His" body still thrummed with the echoes of war.

Turning from the balcony, "He" strode back into the dimly lit chamber. The Governor's office—now repurposed as "His" own—was stark in comparison to its former state. Gone were the opulent furnishings, the decorative clutter that once spoke of indulgence rather than leadership. Nivlek had stripped the room down to its essentials: a broad wooden desk, a strategic map of the Southern Continent, and an arsenal of weapons neatly arranged against the far wall.

Near the washbasin, a tall mirror reflected "His" image.

"His" long red hair, usually tied back for battle, now hung loosely, cascading down past "His" shoulders like streaks of fire. "His" scarred features bore no signs of fatigue. "He" traced "His" jaw absentmindedly.

"He" reached for "His" battle coat, the dark crimson fabric lined with reinforced plating, worn from years of war but unyielding as ever. With practiced ease, "He" fastened the clasps, the weight of it settling over "His" frame like an unspoken command. "His" boots followed, polished yet scarred, bearing the memories of countless battlefields.

A soft knock came at the door.

"General, the meeting is about to begin," came a voice from the other side—one of the officers.

Nivlek cast a final glance at "His" reflection before exhaling sharply.

With that, "He" stepped forward, the floorboards creaking beneath "His" measured stride.

Nivlek strode into the meeting room, pushing the doors open with effortless ease. The gathered officers immediately turned to acknowledge "His" arrival, standing in unison.

"Good morning, Captain. How are your injuries?" "His" voice carried the weight of command, yet there was a measured ease to "His" tone.

Elias straightened, offering a respectful nod. "Good morning, General!" The others followed suit, their bows crisp and disciplined. "I, along with the majority of our personnel, have made a full recovery over the past few days. Thanks to your leadership and overwhelming force in battle, we were able to crush the enemy before they could inflict serious damage. No major casualties were sustained."

Nivlek gave a small nod, satisfied. "Good. Now, update me on the results of the preliminary investigations regarding the operations that took place here in Azan. I want everything you've uncovered—no details spared."

"His" crimson gaze swept across the room, expectant, as silence settled before the first report began.

"We have confirmed through the interrogation of the captive forces that the Andariel Family's undercover agents were tasked with sowing discord, meddling with our intelligence network, and discreetly abducting victims for both their ritual and their own Beyonder advancements," Elias reported, his tone professional and steady.

"As for the ruins, our sweep uncovered little of substance, General," another officer added. "The Rose School of Thought was meticulous, erasing all traces and leaving behind no tangible evidence."

Nivlek exhaled sharply, "His" expression unimpressed. "Not all of it." "He" leaned forward slightly, "His" crimson gaze sharp. "From the Blatherer's memories, I saw their plan clearly. Their objective was to amass enough blood sacrifices to cultivate a hotbed—one meant to birth yet another abomination. To achieve this, the Rose School of Thought collaborated with the Devils, using them as a smokescreen to divert attention from their true goal. They even placed insiders within our ranks to ensure their operation's success."

A ripple of tension passed through the room at "His" words.

"My sudden arrival and swift assault caught them off guard," Nivlek continued. "The Blatherer foresaw the danger through his Danger Premonition, but by then, there was no time for effective countermeasures. That's why only one of them managed to use an artifact against me, and the other two arrived in disarray."

"His" fingers tapped idly against the table, "His" tone dropping into one of disdain. "Unfortunately, they had contingencies in place. Their counterattack on the city forced my return, giving them the perfect window to escape with their progress intact. And then, at the last moment, Suah himself appeared—blocking my final attempt to eradicate it."

Silence followed for a moment before Captain Selene spoke up, her voice firm. "Even so, General, this was a resounding success. We detained the majority of their agents within Azan, with only a handful managing to flee."

"Not only that, Sir," Captain Gregor added, stepping forward and placing a heavy suitcase on the table. "As per your orders, we recovered the artifact and the Beyonder Characteristics of the enemies you felled."

Gregor unlatched the case, lifting the lid to reveal its contents. Resting inside were three distinct Beyonder Characteristics, shimmering with an otherworldly glow, each sealed within reinforced glass canisters. At the center, lying within its own containment unit, was the artifact—the very same twisted tablet once wielded by Silas Andariel.

Gregor stepped forward, his movements measured as he handled the artifact with utmost care. He lifted the containment vessel just enough to give those present a brief but careful look.

The tablet was a disturbing sight to behold—its silver-white surface shifting like liquid metal, yet appearing solid at the same time. The glyphs etched into its form never remained still, constantly rearranging in an indecipherable script that flickered between cold moonlight luminescence and abyssal darkness. At its very core, an illusory rift pulsed faintly, an unnatural void that created the terrifying impression of endless depth, as though one wrong glance might drag one's soul into oblivion.

Gregor quickly closed the container, his expression grim. "This is Sealed Artifact 1-344, known as the Gate of Pale Reverence," he announced. "It was once part of a High Summoner of the Apothecary Pathway and carries immense power over the Spirit World."

He set the vessel back into the case, securing it before continuing.

"The artifact allows the wielder to summon powerful entities from the Spirit World while warping the battlefield, imposing the Moon's influence to make Spirit World-related abilities easier to wield. However, its power comes at a dire cost. Each summoning rapidly depletes the user's Spirituality, and with prolonged use, the artifact progressively weakens the boundary between the user and the Spirit World, making them increasingly unstable. Over time, they become vulnerable to possession, forced displacement, or worse—permanent entrapment beyond the veil of reality."

A tense silence filled the room.

"As if that weren't enough," Gregor continued, his voice lowering slightly, "the Gate does not always heed its user's will. On occasion, it chooses what to summon, sometimes bringing forth creatures that cannot be controlled. If overused, the wielder risks irreversible spiritual erosion, their mind and soul scattered across the Spirit World, never to return."

With that, he firmly locked the containment unit and secured it inside the reinforced case.

"The sealing method," he explained, "requires a lead-lined vessel, reinforced with blessed moonstone and engraved with sigils from the Church of Evernight. The artifact must remain isolated from external influences, especially during the full moon, when its connection to the Spirit World is strongest."

The officers exchanged uneasy glances. Even sealed, the Gate of Pale Reverence exuded an unnatural presence.

Observing the remaining cases within the briefcase, Nivlek turned "His" gaze toward the assembled captains, "His" voice steady and authoritative.

"Due to your exceptional contributions and unwavering efforts in this critical operation, I will be sending a letter of commendation to Headquarters recommending each of you for potential advancement and promotion. Additionally," "He" gestured toward the sealed containers, "these three Beyonder Characteristics—retrieved from the fallen Saints—belong to the Mutant, Criminal, and Planter Pathways. I have already shattered and cleansed them of any remnant imprints, ensuring their safe refinement. Under my authority, you will have the opportunity to select one of them for the creation of a Sealed Artifact tailored to your strengths."

A ripple of surprise swept through the room. The captains, seasoned officers accustomed to hardship, found themselves momentarily taken aback. Then, as one, they bowed in reverence and gratitude.

"We cannot express enough gratitude for 'Your' benevolence, General!" Elias, speaking for the group, offered in a firm yet deeply respectful tone.

Nivlek chuckled at their reaction, a rare glint of amusement flashing in "His" gray eyes. "Be at ease. It will take time before everything is finalized. In the meantime, carefully consider which Sealed Artifact you wish to obtain—choose wisely."

The captains exchanged determined glances, nodding in acknowledgment.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted the moment. Without waiting for an invitation, a small procession entered—the clergymen of the Eternal Blazing Church, their golden robes embroidered with crimson sunbursts marking their station. At the forefront stood Bishop Everett Sloan, a middle-aged man with neatly combed silver hair and sharp, discerning eyes.

The Bishop placed his hand over his chest in a gesture of reverence before speaking, his tone composed yet firm.

"Good morning, General. Pardon our abrupt arrival and intrusion into 'Your' meeting, but we have been sent by the Church with important matters to discuss."

Nivlek studied them for a moment, raising a brow. "No issue, Bishop. Speak—what are the Church's intentions?"

Everett inclined his head respectfully before stepping forward, retrieving a set of official documents from his satchel and placing them on the table.

"After reviewing the recent activities of the heathens and devil-worshippers in Azan Port, the Church has come to the conclusion that our absence in this city allowed such heretical forces to fester. As such, we have been ordered to present these official documents to the commanding officer, granting authorization for the construction of a Cathedral of the Eternal Blazing Sun here in Azan. Its presence will solidify our faith within the city, ensuring such corruption never takes root again."

The captains exchanged knowing glances. A cathedral in Azan Port meant more than just faith—it was a political statement and a strategic foothold.

Everett extended the documents toward Nivlek.

Nivlek's eyes flicked over them briefly before "He" calmly pushed them toward Elias.

"I understand. However, I am not the commanding officer here," Nivlek stated, "His" voice carrying an air of finality. "That responsibility belongs to Captain Elias."

Elias stiffened, eyes widening in surprise. Before he could muster a response, Nivlek continued.

"Under my authority, Captain Elias will serve as the Interim Governor of Azan Port until the proper legal processes are finalized."

Silence followed.

Elias quickly recovered, straightening his posture before bowing deeply. "Your benevolence knows no bounds, General! I shall uphold my responsibilities to the utmost of my ability, ensuring that 'Your' decision is honored!"

Nivlek merely nodded, "His" expression unreadable.

Turning his attention to Bishop Everett, Elias took the documents with steady hands. "Regarding the Church's decision, I fully agree. Azan Port must be safeguarded. I will ensure the necessary paperwork is completed swiftly so that our residents may share in the grace of Our Lord."

"Praise the Sun!" the clergy chorused, their voices a resounding declaration of faith.

Nivlek rose from "His" seat, adjusting the cuffs of "His" coat before turning to Elias.

"It seems this meeting is drawing to a close. You may handle the remaining arrangements with the Bishop and the other captains—I trust you'll see it through."

Elias saluted crisply. "You may rest assured, General!"

Nivlek made "His" way toward the exit but paused at the threshold, glancing over "His" shoulder.

"Prepare an announcement for later today—I will be addressing the civilians before my departure."

Elias bowed deeply. "It will be done."

Without another word, Nivlek exited the meeting room, striding purposefully back to "His" office.

Arriving at "His" office, Nivlek strode toward "His" desk, lowering "Himself" onto the high-backed leather chair. The material creaked slightly under "His" weight, yet the moment of stillness was fleeting.

A sudden shift in the air whispered of something unnatural—a ripple through space that carried the distinct scent of embers and charred wood. The very temperature of the room wavered, the air thickening with an oppressive warmth. Then, without sound or warning, a figure appeared.

She was small in stature yet overwhelming in presence. Six fiery wings unfurled behind her, their searing glow casting erratic shadows across the walls, flickering like flames devouring an unseen fuel. Her black hair, deep as the abyss, cascaded to her shoulders, framing an ethereal yet commanding face. Dark eyes, smoldering with crimson embers, held the weight of something beyond mortal comprehension—like dying coals buried in an eternal void.

She hovered effortlessly, bare feet untouched by the mortal plane, her simple black linen robe eerily unaffected by the shifting heat radiating around her. The air itself bent to her presence.

This was Nivlek's personal messenger.

Without a word, she materialized a sealed envelope, her delicate fingers curling around it with an unnatural stillness. Her gaze briefly scanned the room before locking onto Nivlek. In one fluid motion, she extended the envelope to "Him". Then, as swiftly as she had arrived, she vanished in a speck of warm, golden light, leaving only the residual heat of her presence lingering in the air.

Nivlek clicked "His" tongue, rolling the envelope between "His" fingers before opening it.

Ho, did that clown finally reply to the information I sent a few days ago?

Inside, "He" found a letter—and two blackened charms, riddled with traces of Abyssal corruption.

Unfolding the parchment, "His" gray eyes skimmed over the familiar scrawled handwriting.

"It seems the soldier did not request for backup. Oh, you'll hurt my feelings like this! I've been rather busy on my end, so I thought it only fair to leave some trouble for you to handle. At the very least, we've now confirmed our suspicions regarding the Rose School of Thought. Great job, hothead!"

"As a token of appreciation for your valiant efforts, I've enclosed two charms for your convenience. Made from a Bloody Archduke, no less. A real treat!"

"The first—Foul Curse: Slow—binds the target and surroundings with a delayed effect, dragging them into a near standstill. Should give you an advantage in a heated battle."

"The second—Foul Curse: Corruption—is, well, exactly what it sounds like. A delightful bit of chaos. Destabilizes the target, with a chance of forcing them into loss of control. Use them wisely; these are Limited Edition, after all! Haha."

"Oh well, that's it for now. Seriously, keep me posted. Your little adventures are hilariously entertaining to keep track of."

Nivlek exhaled sharply, "His" lips curving into a half-sneer.

Tsk. Conceited idiot. As if I'd actually need them.

Still, "He" continued reading, committing the details to memory before "His" fingers curled slightly, igniting a faint heat between them. The parchment withered into ash, curling and vanishing in wisps of embered smoke.

Only then did "His" gaze shift toward the two talismans resting on the desk.

Small, rectangular talismans, crafted from an eerie blackened parchment that shimmered subtly under the light. Their blood-red inscriptions pulsed faintly in an archaic script, while silver-etched edges glowed with a restrained, ominous energy. A lingering scent of burnt incense and iron clung to them, an unsettling reminder of their Abyssal origins.

Nivlek hummed, rolling them between "His" fingers.

"Since he sent them, I might as well put them to use. The more, the merrier."

With that thought, "He" tucked them into "His" coat's inner pocket, leaning back into "His" chair.

Now, all that remained was to await "His" guests.

… 

Hours later, a firm knock echoed through the chamber. Nivlek, seated behind "His" desk, exhaled slowly before signaling for the visitors to enter.

The doors swung open, revealing two figures dressed in military garb, their disciplined steps carrying them forward with quiet authority.

Colonel Emory Vale, a Justice Mentor and Lieutenant Colonel Alistair Caine, a Demon Hunter—two of Nivlek's most trusted subordinates.

They halted a few steps before the desk, spines straight, boots clicking against the polished floor, and saluted with practiced precision.

"Good afternoon, General. We have arrived as requested," they spoke in unison.

Nivlek observed them briefly before responding.

"At ease, soldiers."

Their stance relaxed, though their posture remained sharp.

"I take it your journey was uneventful?"

Alistair nodded. "Yes, General. As ordered, we traveled under secure routes and retrieved the artifacts from the designated base. We now have possession of The Shackled Marionette and The Judgemental Scales."

At this, Nivlek's grin widened.

Both relics were potent Sealed Artifacts—one belonging to the Chained Pathway, the other to the Justiciar Pathway. Tools of subjugation and law.

"Excellent, Emory," Nivlek mused, fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk. "And the team?"

Emory, always one for efficiency, smirked slightly. "They are stationed at a neighboring city, secured in a hotel under false aliases, awaiting further orders. Five members in total—a Wraith, a Prometheus, an Artisan, an Interrogator, and an Ocean Songster. All highly trained, as per your specifications."

Nivlek let out an amused exhale. "And you're certain of their loyalty?"

Emory's smirk remained, but there was a hint of steel in his tone. "Unquestionable, General. Alistair and I personally ensured their loyalty would remain solely under your command."

Alistair, ever the pragmatic one, added, "They understand what happens if they betray us."

Nivlek's eyes glowed faintly, "His" satisfaction evident.

"Good."

There was a brief pause before "He" leaned forward slightly, tone shifting. "And Trier?"

Alistair stiffened marginally.

"The response is… mixed," he admitted, carefully choosing his words. "After your initial report, there was displeasure from the higher-ups regarding the target's escape. Some claim you acted recklessly, engaging without reinforcements to ensure mission success. Others, however, acknowledge the scale of the victory and the seizure of critical intelligence. Opinions are divided."

Nivlek clicked "His" tongue, "His" gaze turning sharp.

"Tsk. Short-sighted fools."

"He" reclined slightly, running a hand through "His" long crimson hair, before scoffing.

"No matter. Nothing beyond repair."

"His" gray gaze flickered toward the window, where the cityscape of Azan Port stretched below.

"After my speech today, they will have their hands too full to move against me."

Both Emory and Alistair exchanged brief glances, understanding exactly what their General meant.

A speech, yes. But not just any speech.

One designed to rally the people, solidify control, and set the flames of war in motion.

Nivlek stood, "His" imposing presence filling the room.

"Make your preparations. After the speech, we go hunting. Every last one of those bastards—buried seven feet under."

The weight of "His" words filled the air like the promise of a storm.

Emory and Alistair snapped into another salute.

"Understood, General!"

With that, they turned sharply and exited the chamber, the briefcase of artifacts securely in their grasp.

…

The town square was filled with tense anticipation, the air heavy with the weight of uncertainty. The people of Azan—merchants, dockworkers, craftsmen, and soldiers alike—stood gathered beneath the waning light of dusk. The battle that had nearly torn their city apart was still fresh in their minds, the scars of fire and blood still visible in the streets. Whispers wove through the crowd, some speaking of the sudden shift in leadership, others of what would come next.

Then, silence fell.

A lone figure strode onto the raised platform, "His" long crimson hair flowing with the evening wind, golden clasps barely holding its wild strands in place. "He" stood tall, broad-shouldered, "His" military coat lined with silver accents, a sharp contrast against the smoldering embers of destruction that still lingered in the city. "His" gray eyes, piercing and unwavering, swept across the crowd—not with cold indifference, but with the quiet intensity of a man who had waded through war and emerged unscathed.

 "He" raised "His" hand, and the hush deepened.

Then, "He" spoke.

"People of Azan Port."

"His" voice cut through the tension like a blade, carrying the weight of authority and purpose. "Days ago, devils and heathens sought to break this city. They thought they could crawl from the filth, strike from the shadows, and shatter what you built."

A murmur of anger ran through the gathered crowd.

"They were wrong." "His" voice was like a storm on the horizon—steady, powerful, and inevitable. "You stood. You fought. You bled. And now, you live."

"His" gaze swept over them, sharp as tempered steel. "But survival alone is not enough. I do not tolerate those who believe they can defy order, who scheme and fester like vermin beneath our feet. And so, we will hunt them."

A beat of silence. Then—movement. Men straightened. Soldiers clenched their fists. Dockworkers, even those with no stake in battle, found their spines stiffening.

"They think they can slip away. They think the fire has died down. Let them believe that—so that when we strike, they will have no time to run."

"His" expression was unreadable, but the fire behind his words burned bright. "I will not remain here to govern. Azan Port has its protector." "He" turned slightly, gesturing behind him. "Elias will serve as the Interim Governor, and he will see to the restoration and security of this city in my stead."

Elias, standing at the edge of the platform, gave a solemn nod.

"But I—" Nivlek stepped forward, the very air seeming to tighten around "Him", "—will lead the campaign to hunt them down."

The crowd's breath hitched.

"Those who dared defile this land will find no sanctuary. No shadows to hide in. No gods to shield them. Whether they are devils, traitors, or heathen filth, they will be found."

A ripple of energy coursed through the gathered men, a mixture of resolve and grim satisfaction.

Nivlek exhaled, and for a moment, the fire in "His" voice cooled—replaced with something quieter, yet no less fierce. "I do not make empty promises. When I return, it will not be with words, but with the heads of those who thought they could challenge you."

A charged silence settled over the square.

Then—

A single voice roared its approval. Then another. And another. Until the entire square erupted with the fervor of men whose blood now burned with the desire for retribution.

Nivlek let them shout, let them embrace the righteous fury of the hunt to come.

And when "He" turned away, leaving Elias to his new role, "His" mission was already set.

The hunt was just beginning.