Chapter 542: We found it.
Strax dove.
Again.
But now, there was no anger, no haste. Just a silent conviction that clung to the center of his being like invisible claws. The previous explosion had left a deep crater, but it was only the surface skin of what lay beneath the world. Whatever had caused that ritual with draconic blood was not just hidden. It was below. Far below.
He cut through the smoke and dust like a living arrow, descending at an absurd speed. The heat tried to keep up with him, but he left it behind. The edges of the fissure glowed red and gold as he crossed the chasm, the echoes of the explosion still dancing across the walls of the volcano like living memories.
That’s when he realized.
This was not just a volcano.
It was an entrance.
The volcanic rock walls did not end in a lake of magma or a pressure chamber as one would expect from a natural structure. They widened, transformed. Ancient runes glowed in the cracks of the rock. Geometric lines spiraled down to an invisible horizon.
“This is a temple,” he muttered to himself, his eyes narrowing.
And then he felt it.
Three presences appeared behind him, like stars lighting up in a vacuum.
Tiamat. Ouroboros. Scarlet.
He stopped in midair, his body suspended by his wings, and turned with a look of frustrated surprise.
“I told you to wait,” he said, with a harshness that hid more concern than authority.
Scarlet stood in the center. Her wings, now completely regenerated, vibrated with energy, slightly illuminated by a scarlet aura. Her eyes met his firmly.
“And there are things you can’t control, Strax.”
She took a firm step in the air. “One of them is our concern for you.”
Ouroboros smiled slightly, floating beside her, his ancient eyes sparkling. “We are not your subordinates, Strax. We are your wives, you idiot.”
Tiamat finally crossed her arms, her golden wings curving elegantly. “Come on, dear. We don’t have time, do we? Let’s go after your mother.”
Strax closed his eyes for a moment. He sighed.
“All right,” he said at last. “But if any of you get hurt, I’ll end up losing control completely.”
“It would be romantic if it weren’t so threatening,” Scarlet replied with a smirk.
Strax turned forward again. The ground was approaching.
But it wasn’t exactly “ground.” It was a colossal platform of black, molten rock, smooth as glass, stretching for hundreds of meters. Around it, pillars of magma rose in curved columns, like the ribs of a sleeping titan. In the center of the platform was an altar. And around it, the runes continued.
He descended with everything he had.
At his feet, the impact.
Strax’s landing was like a comet.
His body collided with the ground in a brutal squat, his knee driven into the black rock. A crater exploded beneath him with a deafening roar. Cracks spread like petrified lightning, and a wave of force swept across the site, clearing away smoke, soot, and accumulated dust.
The earth shook.
And everything fell silent.
He rose slowly, steam dancing around him. His gaze fixed on the altar ahead, but he did not move. Behind him, his allies landed less brutally, but no less imposing.
Strax narrowed his eyes, scanning the platform carefully. The altar in front of him, initially imposing, now revealed its true nature: it was ancient, yes—carved millennia ago with almost reverent precision—but empty of power. No magical traces, no flow of essence. Just stone. A marker of what had been, not what was.
He approached, touching the cold, uneven surface with his fingers. The carved runes were worn, faded by time, and no longer carried any power. It was symbolic. A vestige of the cult or entity that had once existed there. Nothing more.
While the others surveyed their surroundings, Strax noticed something to his right. Discreet, partially concealed by a fallen column, was a narrow opening in the rock wall—a passage carved into the living stone. Unnatural, but not recent either.
He pointed with his chin. “There.”
Without waiting for a response, he moved forward, his footsteps echoing firmly. The walls of the passage were smooth but damp, exuding a slight heat—not from magma, but from alchemy. It was a subtle, almost organic heat, like the steam escaping from a regenerating body. The dim lights of sporadic runes illuminated the path in amber tones.
Tiamat, Scarlet, and Ouroboros followed him in silence. The environment was narrow, curving slowly downward in a spiral. The air grew denser. The smell changed. From molten rock to an aroma of sulfur mixed with something else… metallic. Artificial. Like rust, dried blood, and burnt herbs.
It was a ten-minute walk in absolute silence until the passage suddenly opened into a large chamber.
The room was vast, oval-shaped and low, with arched ceilings covered with pipes and grooves. The floor was polished stone, but covered with circular marks from reagents, stains from experiments, fallen bottles, and alchemical symbols hastily scratched into it. The place smelled of unfinished work—and danger.
In the center stood a large black iron table, covered with alchemical instruments. Test tubes filled with thick, multicolored liquids, rolled-up scrolls, fragments of scales, coagulated blood, black feathers, and the skull of an unknown creature.
Flasks held in place by stands were still bubbling.
Nothing there had been abandoned for long.
On the contrary.
“This isn’t a temple,” Tiamat muttered, looking around suspiciously. “It’s a laboratory.”
“And still in use,” added Scarlet, examining a vial that was still emitting violet vapor.
Strax did not respond. His eyes were fixed on a single thing at the back of the room.
A large stained glass capsule, sealed by steel rings with runes engraved on its edge.
Inside it… something was moving.
Strax approached the capsule slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration. The glass was foggy, stained on the inside with residues of alchemical energy and condensed moisture. He raised his hand and wiped it with his palm, creating a faint clearing in the glass—just enough to see what was inside.
Something was moving.
Something… alive.
He narrowed his eyes even further, moving closer. His heart was pounding, but not from fear—from a strange, inexplicable attraction. A silent, primal call. The figure on the other side of the glass was female, he could tell. Long, embers-red hair flowed within the liquid of the capsule. There was a gleam in her eyes. A wild green. Almost hypnotic.
He took a step forward.
And then—before he could react—the glass exploded into a thousand fragments.
A hand emerged from inside like a living spear, grabbing him by the neck with superhuman strength. Strax was thrown against the wall with a crash, his breath knocked out by the force of the impact.
The figure leaped out of the capsule in a beastly jump, with the fierce grace of a predator.
The room exploded with energy.
She landed on her feet on the stone floor, crouching, her red hair plastered to her naked, drenched body. Her skin was tanned, marked with runes and thin battle scars. Her muscles were toned, precise like those of a warrior sculpted by the gods. A brutal beauty — and undeniably threatening.
From the top of her head, two horns curved elegantly backward, black as obsidian, with red veins pulsing with energy. She raised her eyes to Strax, still sprawled against the wall, and stared at him for a moment.
And in that moment… everything stopped.
Strax saw. Not with his eyes—but with something deeper.
He saw what was inside her.
Fragments of memory. Echoes of laughter. Glimpses of a voice he had never heard, but recognized as part of himself. A figure shrouded in mist. A hand reaching over a cradle. A sword wielded in fury. A woman screaming, fighting, protecting—dying?
“…Mother…?”
The word came out uncontrollably. A whisper. An involuntary acknowledgment.
But it was Scarlet who broke the moment.
“SCATHACH!!!!!!!!!!”
Her scream reverberated like thunder in the chamber, shaking the structure as if she had summoned an earthquake. Strax staggered from the wave of pure fury that followed, the sound entering his mind like a blade.
He turned his face instinctively toward Scarlet.
What he saw was terrifying.
She was burning. Her eyes were no longer eyes—they were flames. Her wings fluttered with power, spread out violently. The earth beneath her feet cracked. Her magic trembled in the air like a storm about to break loose.
“YOU!” she screamed, her fists clenched, her body tense with deadly energy. “DON’T YOU DARE ATTACK YOUR OWN SON!”
The atmosphere in the chamber grew thick as molten iron.
Scathach’s silence as she watched was more terrifying than any threat. She did not respond to Scarlet’s words. She did not scream. She did not hesitate. Her green eyes—now filled with a reddish shadow that corroded them from within—remained fixed on Strax with an almost animalistic fixation. There was no compassion there. No doubt. Only calculation. Instinct. Dominance.
Scarlet took a step forward, preparing for an attack, but something—something ancient—made her freeze. Tiamat and Ouroboros also stopped, eyes wide, sensing what was about to happen.
And then, she moved.
It was too fast.
Scathach cast no spells, uttered no magic words. She just moved.
In the blink of an eye, she was upon Strax—a blur of physical strength and murderous intent. Her left hand grabbed his shoulder with brutal force, and before he could react, before his magic could activate, his right arm was torn off with a grotesque snap, the sound of breaking bones and tearing muscles filling the room.
“AGHHHHHHH!”
Strax screamed, the world curving in pain. Blood spurted like a fountain, splattering the stone and alchemical instruments, staining everything red.
Scarlet took a step, her mouth agape in sheer horror. “STRA—”
But it was too late.
In the same fluid motion, Scathach was already behind him, and with absurd precision, she stole his own sword from him and kicked Strax, sending him toward the wall.
The blade reacted. It vibrated. It kicked. It emitted a high-pitched sound of resistance, as if it were crying.
But it did not resist for long.
Because it recognized Scathach.
The Creator.
Runes dormant on the sides of the sword lit up like eyes awakening from a nightmare, and with a dull thud, the sword slid out on its own, breaking free from Strax’s seal as if returning home.
Scathach held it with both hands. A moment of absolute silence fell over the room.
The sword stopped struggling.
She raised it reverently, like a goddess of war.
“No…” Strax whispered, fallen on his side, pressing his mutilated shoulder. His skin trembled, his eyes darting between pain and disbelief. “Who was… the bastard who did this… to my…”
Scathach did not answer. Not verbally.
But the blade answered for her.
The ancient runes reconfigured themselves. Those that had previously borne the mark of the bond with Strax were erased. In their place, new ones appeared—older, more archaic. Runes that belonged to an era before language itself. The connection was sealed again. Reclaimed.
“…Attack her.” Scarlet spoke, appearing in front of Scathach and delivering an explosive blow that sent her flying and crashing into the wall.
“Strax, she’s not your mother,” Tiamat said. “Recover. We’ll bring her back.”