A minute after Orwell’s warning, Xerxes Enma and his fellow attendees retreated from the Armageddon of flame and righteous fury for dear life.

They were fortunate that Ophelia had the juice to conjure the golem and transport the injured. Most of them were still unconscious after the wrangling with the Fairies. Xerxes was still surprised that these enemies existed and that he survived the battle. No, surviving implied he accomplished the deed. They were saved by the same man who protected his daughter.

It was the debt he could never repay, but something told him that man never wanted a payment.

Beside him, Rubric was having a mental crisis.

“How did we know nothing about him?”

Xerxes shared the opinion. Most believed the Venistalis Incident was exaggerated. They bureaucratically slapped Orwell and Wayward on the wanted list and called it a day — an act of ignorant audacity.

They were wrong.

Samuel Wayward was a monster. The fact Chronicler stood shoulder-to-shoulder with that thing spoke volume about how outrageously low-profile the man and his comrades were.

Sonovia Da Attra picked that moment to regain some modicum of consciousness. The first thing she noticed was the intense blue light bathing her face.

“What is that damn light?” Sonovia muttered, opening her eyes to find the source of her discomfort.

What she saw sucked her breath away.

An azure bird of fire towered above all, reducing the sky-scraping pagodas into mere toys with its presence. Pillars of blue fires, rivaling those towers of murky darkness erected to the cloud, painted the entire city in a hostile blue glow. Comets of flame fell from the sky like a meteor shower, seasoning the entire Danghai in flames.

“What the hell is that?” Sonovia felt like an ant watching a forest fire.

“That is Samuel Wayward,” Ophelia answered. “He bathed everything in flames and created that giant bird which rains fires all over the city. The guy is torching everything.”

“Wait,” Sonovia lost the plot. “Wayward? What happened?” Then she recalled the beating they received. “What about those bastards?”

It was Aquilla Enma who spoke.

“I don’t think they will be around for long. Those people aren’t planning to take things easy.”

…

Jester didn’t have many regrets in life. For the race created like the Fairy, regret was an alien emotion.

However, he was capable of learning, and he learned that regret sucks.

As the ground washed in blue flames, melting concrete and rocks, Jester fought for his life. It was the fight that started as planned and veered off into a train wreck.

Contrary to his humanoid appearance, Jester wasn’t a person. He was a killing machine. His body was created by a combination of exoskeleton designed to take on high-ranking magic. His mind was programmed with predatory instinct. The most advanced mystical weapon lined his body, creating a deadly combination with multiple limbs of weaponized appendages.

As his ringmaster’s costume burned, he brandished the limbs equipped with mystic razor blades in a bid to intimidate his enemy.

The helmet knight wasn’t amused. He readied his psychokinetic blades and took on the clown.

Things went south real quick.

Jester’s limbs, swinging at the speed of a well oil-machine, produced roughly 42 strikes per second. Each of the strikes from his eight arms came at a different angle with speed and ferocity to overwhelm any swordsman with blades that could cut through reinforced enchanted armor and magic. Jester also added the Fea’s license eldritch blast to make his strategy to destroy the poor fool daring to fight him. His very motion ripped the battlefield and ruptured every obstacle against.

But Chronicler received the Primus' assault by rooting himself down like a mountain against the storm of savagery.

With one blade against eight, the knight took on the barrages. His parries were light, adjusted in power for every defense, optimized for every movement. The swordsmanship of Chronicler was tight. He didn’t lash out, or mounted an attack. Instead, he dropped all notions of offense in favor of tight, efficient blocks and parries. Ten strikes came within a blink. Three were blocked. Two evaded and five deflected.

Seconds passed, and Chronicler remained calm amid the songs of blades. Still mounting an attack, Jester was getting impatient. This man was shunting his effort into the void. Slash after slash and Chronicler wouldn’t break. He needed to try something.

He lunged with eight limbs, but found his feet wouldn’t move. They were immobilized in rocks.

Jester never realized his mistake. It never occurred to him that Chronicler already prepared an Arcane and was waiting for the right moment to deploy it — the one instance in which Jester slowed down for an over-committed attack.

Jester’s immaturity and unrestrained tactic failed him like the stock market in free-fall. The sudden immobilization of his feet surprised him, giving a single opening for a sword to deftly slide past his guard and lopped off two of his hands.

Things unraveled from there. Jester let the setback get into his head. Like a gambler doubling down on the losing horse, he amped another blast of eldritch power. In his imagination, blasting this mere mortal would be as easy as leveling the Conference Center.

Chronicler didn’t bother stopping the blast.

[Paradiso]

The Primal Arcane governing the concept of sealing, containment and separation originated from the boundary that divided planar of the multiverse. Its caster could create the highest level of barrier, ward, and seal. Although the best user of this Arcane was Cytortia Tianshang, code-names Saint, Chronicler was still considered a seasoned expert in this skill-set.

It was simple for the Chronicler to create the seal to trap the eldritch blast and cause it to backfire. He sniped the Arcane into the arm building with energy. Jester’s face was hidden behind the theater mask but, even with that disguise, the sheer sinking realization was visible in his eyes.

The commencing explosion spiked the sky.

Across the city, all who saw the flash of light felt relief. The flaming bird caught them by surprise, but that could be a cruel trick by the invader. But this blast of light was a signal that there was a fight. Someone out there was still battling against the disaster of the invaders.

Jester still stood after his attack backfired. The right side of his body had caught the brunt of the explosion, covering it in soot. Still, the durability of that exoskeleton frame was excellent. A backfired attack didn’t accomplish much in affecting its functionality. His mask, however, had cracked, revealing the gross mass of flesh of his face.

Jester’s face was a red mass of meat held together by a metal frame. His eye was a bead of red crystal. He gasped in anger at the damage the short bout with this man had cost him. He looked around, trying to find where that damn interloper was.

The Fairy who held the Rank of Primus never saw through the simple bend in the reflection of light. It never dawned on him the Chronicler used the prior explosion to cast a simple Arcane and render him invisible. Only when the psionic blade ignited behind him at the unavoidable range did Jester realized he couldn’t defend against what came next.

The Chronicler’s invisibility faded away as he bisected Jester by the waist. He appeared into existence behind the Primus of Fairy with the mantle of blaring the symbol of hope fluttering in all its grace.

[Electro Supreme]

A pulse of electricity hit Jester before his top half could touch the ground.

[Geo Supreme]

Two massive pieces of rock in the shape of the Buddha’s palms flipped from the ground, crushing his torsoless legs to make sure he couldn’t put himself back together.

A psionic blade hummed and slashed, taking all of his remaining limbs but one in two swipes.

One brief distraction reduced the Fea who mocked all from untouchable height to a mere electrocuted torso, neck, an arm, and a face. It was the end Jester never fathomed. He looked up at the man who made it happen.

The Chronicler wasn’t finished.

[Paradiso]

Several ropes of binding mystic wrapped around the torso of the Fairy.

Jester was aghast at what he had been reduced to.

“Please excuse me for attacking from behind,” Chronicler sheepishly said to Jester. “I know that is a cheap shot, but my friends insisted that all is fair in love and war.” He shrugged. “‘Honor is the pillar of vows. Necessity is iron for the sword,’ that is something my master said.”

“You dare!” Jester screeched. “You dare reduce me to this. I will rip your throat out and force your children to feast on your innards. I am going to kill everyone you ever know! Do you hear me? You piece-”

“Manners Maketh Man,” Chronicler interrupted the rant. “I know the concept of civility is alien to you, but threatening me after destroying innocent people’s lives doesn’t make you powerful. The only things yours spewing serve is destroying any legitimate dignity you have.”

Jester’s mouth closed. His mind was failing to wrap around the fact this man wasn’t afraid or threatened by them at all.

“Your city is burning, and this is your reaction?” Jester couldn’t understand that calm composure.

“Oh, I am angry,” Hikma explained, looking at the clown with disgust. “But yelling pointlessly and wailing on a beaten enemy is both gross and a waste of energy.” Chronicler pointed his blade at Jester. “Here is what is going to happen. You will not die, Mr. Clown. We will capture you — alive. Then we will pry everything in that brain of yours out. When we are sure we got everything we need, you will be shipped to be judged — publicly and fairly — by the Dark Elves and people you betray. You will face justice for all you have done.”

Jester growled, “You have to beat us before that.”

The fire roared, and the waves of vibration cracked the very earth around them.

“I believe we are doing that just fine,” Chronicler said.

…

Shandler was faring much worse than Jester.

As the Praetor of the Insect Clan, the healing-factor and adaptation ability of Shandler was ridiculous even by the Fea’s standard. Endure and adapt was the designed creed behind the creation of this killing-machine. The heat of Wayward flames already scorched him before, and he had already developed the country measure. After several baths in Wayward’s sapphire fires, Shandler had grown a heat resistance shell, and several pockets of additives in his flash. Theoretically, this material should react with his flesh to form a protective layer when exposed to flames, akin to solid phase char-layer formation in plastic such as Melamine.

It did work perfectly. Yes, the roaring inferno caused his shell to glow red-hot, but Shandler’s adjustment of the nervous system reduced the damage he experienced to mere nothing. His flesh also survived the roasting.

But the flames hurt. The roaring jet of fire licking across scalded his very mind like molten metal being pure over ants. It tore his mind asunder, torturing the helm of his through with heat and slowly scorched the mental fortitude instilled inside the Fairies of the highest echelon. The pain was incomprehensible, the termite of the mind invaded through every avenue and capillaries, wreaking havoc on his memories and identities.

Shandler screamed to the skies until the fire faded and left the steaming Praetor on the earth.

“What is this?” Shandler’s raspy voice leaked out to no one. “My body should be immune to fire. This isn’t fire!”

The man, wreathed in flames, marched, leaving a burning footprint with every step. His answer was bone-chilling despite the flames and gigantic fire-bird at his beck and call.

“It is fire,” Wayward confirmed. “I simply mixed in a quantity of psyche destroying properties in the flames.” His hand drew an arc of tire in the air. “My fire can burn matter, soul, and the fabric of worlds. Your little trick won’t stop it.”

His hand flung and released the torrent of flames.