Northern's body cut through the air like a blade, cleaving the atmosphere as he soared higher into the sky, his figure blurring with velocity.
In a heartbeat, he halted abruptly and fixed his gaze on the rift with its strange blanket of darkness looming above the city, partially veiling the sky in an eerie mist.
He furrowed his brows as he studied the rift. The massive burnt hand of the abomination hung lazily outside, resembling a titan that had failed to squeeze through a tiny hole—its colossal hand trapped in the breach, unable to retreat inside yet incapable of fully emerging.
The whole scene defied logic and reason.
Everything about rifts and monsters was inherently unnatural, but that unnaturalness had—in this world—become a twisted kind of normal. So within that new normal, this situation stood out as particularly wrong.
'...very, very wrong.'
Several possibilities could explain this anomaly.
One theory eclipsed the others in its strangeness, yet Northern had grounds to believe it. The foundation of his suspicion was the fact that Rughsbourgh and certain Paragons had managed to manually create the appearance of rifts through some wicked spell art.
This tampering had triggered repercussions that probably only Northern knew about, and even his understanding remained murky.
What he did know was that instability now plagued the boundary between the underworld and Tra-el, and as this instability grew...
'I don't know what's going to happen, but it's going to be catastrophic.'
At least that much he recalled deducing from his conversation with Sura.
'Now, if Dante somehow is replicating this process... or if he's collaborating with Rughsbourgh...'
Northern's eyes narrowed to slits at the thought.
To hell with wishes—he wouldn't forgive anyone endangering the world for their selfish desires.
Dante might proclaim his intention to revolutionize the world, to usher in a new Era, but ultimately, didn't he just want to stand above it all?
'I guess humans truly are selfish at their core...'
Yet strangely, Northern found himself thinking of one person who seemed to defy this fundamental trait.
He frowned at the realization.
'...seriously, did I crack my skull on a rock?'
But when he considered it with an unbiased mind—giving Raven the benefit of doubt and attempting to understand without his preconceptions—the truth became apparent. Or at least seems so.
Her actions brought her no personal gain. She was a social recluse like him; in fact, he suspected her condition might be worse than his own.
With her power she could easily have led, but she chose not to, because she understood what people needed versus what they should receive.
For someone who had united everyone through her strength, molding them into a single, cohesive mind, assuming leadership would have been both satisfying and responsible.
But Raven wasn't like that. She worked closely with Sage Gilbert for everyone's betterment in Lotheliwan, while simultaneously pursuing a greater goal.
All this without any visible personal benefit, at least none that Northern could discern.
She fought relentlessly, committed terrible acts so the people could escape that land of destruction, and then decided to surrender herself as a prisoner—someone who would shoulder the burden and weight of all sins while the people returned to their homes.
Being a devoted fangirl, Terence probably anticipated her intentions and would never allow Raven to walk that path… at least not alone.
Yet this didn't alter the fact that Raven demonstrated true selflessness in everything she did.
'Have I been viewing this all wrong?'
Of course he had. Anger had clouded his judgment. It was impossible to see anything clearly when drowning in resentment toward it.
But all of that still remained buried in the fact that she used him, even if it was for her selfless goal. Telling him plainly about the destruction of the ship would have been better.
Of course, at that time he probably wouldn't have gone. But it still would have been better.
Northern let out a sardonic chuckle and then materialized the Illusion Hefter.
He fixed his gaze on the rift that was now rippling yet again. Something was emerging from its depths.
Northern could see the burnt skin, tearing out of the little space left around the trapped hand.
With a little more effort, the first one managed to break through. What Northern saw made his eyes widen with cold horror.
As the charred creature tore out of the rift, it unfurled something that resembled a decrepit wing. Actually, a burnt wing would be more accurate.
The feathers looked like those of a ruined bird that had somehow survived an undulating inferno—viciously long and thin, sleek and seemingly efficient for flight. Two of them spread out like heralds of imminent death.
At that moment…
Northern shook his head.
'Why the hell is my luck so terrible.'
The point of his plan to trap them mid-flight was to prevent them from freely moving and attacking the civilians escaping into the rift.
But the moment these damned Behemoths started having wings, that plan now stood like a table with three legs.
It wasn't impossible, but it would demand a greater effort from him.
Northern gritted his teeth.
'Fucking terrible luck, fucking bitch-ass behemoths.'
Northern stifled the rest of the curse as he plunged through the air, shooting towards the Behemoth that was already diving down with frightening speed.
The creatures were charred through and through. The first wave had no facial features, the next wave had hollow eyes, and this wave seemed to have burnt, grotesque maws hidden behind broken beaks that made them look like they were perpetually grinning—albeit one hell of an ugly grin.
Instead of a pair of gruesome limbs with devious talons, the charred behemoths possessed three pairs of these monstrous appendages. And "devious" was an understatement for their talons.
They curved like scythes forged specifically to harvest the souls of any creature they encountered.
Before Northern could engage one, something streaked past him—a black sinister trail of steel that flashed across the air as the figure rolled past the winged Behemoth before momentarily suspending in free fall.
One of the creature's wings separated with a sickening spray of black ichor.
Night Terror landed on a rooftop below, four curved blades carved from shadows clutched in each hand. Without pausing for breath, he launched himself skyward, catastrophically destroying the slate tiles beneath him. Everything around the launch point shattered and disintegrated in the terrible shockwave that radiated outward as Night Terror soared into battle.