Turlesh hissed in pain. Pesky light, radiant light, guided light, it burned around the palm of the Monk. How long had it been since he had fought a Divine Hand? Dozens of years? Hundreds?

Its two foremost limbs slammed down where Maltos had stood. Only half a swift step had taken the old man out of the reach of his arms. The Deathhound́’s head parted all the way down, a grotesque level of split jaws that even sea creatures would have found abominable for its lack of bones. Those wide awake eyes, Turlesh wished to see them crushed and hear them squelched. The jaws snapped close.

Maltos dug his heels in. The radiant glow around his hands consolidated further, into pockets of golden light that hung from his palms like the morning dew off a blade of river grass. The hands moved clockwise and the halves of the demon’s heads sputtered in opposite directions.

Growling, Turlesh rapidly recovered from his confusion. Teeth were about to realign, when two of his eyes caught combatants coming in from either side. Lower left and right arm effortlessly caught the shield charges from Vulk and the Paladin teacher. Tower and kite shields came to an immediate halt. “You annoy, you obscure, YOU MAKE ME LEAVE THE EMPRESS WAITING!”

“NOW!” Vulk thundered. A demand without good reason, the person the signal was meant for was already leaping off from his shoulders.

High up in the air, the black-haired elf raised her Runeblade. The sound of whirling mana screamed over the battlefield. The Overplay was in full effect, turning the already powerful weapon into a terrible one. Mai plunged down, staring into two of the demon’s eyes.

Turlesh raised a single arm in defence. Demon blood splattered everywhere. Leathery skin and greyish black flesh were excavated by the teeth of the flowing Edge. Mai’s face reflected a moments panic, when her weapon hilted in the gory wound. She twisted towards Turlesh’s left side.

“Veeeeery basssssic,” Turlesh cackled. The dagger coming for his side was anticipated from the moment she had revealed herself. Coated in noxious purple energy and dripping poison, the inconspicuous sidearm had been the true goal. Flesh wounds on demons were of so little value. “Mediocre assassin. Simple-minded Rogue. Broken bones!” With those last words, Turlesh cracked Mai’s arm with such force that the bones of her lower arm broke through the skin.

The Deathhound would have cackled and tortured, had the fight not continued around him. With terrible force, he spun around, keeping the charging teachers at a distance, before launching Mai as a living projectile at Vulk’s shield. A satisfying CRACK and a scream from the elf were all the sadistic demon could get, before he was struck in the chest by another hit of Maltos’ palm.

The radiant energy blasted through him, bouncing around inside his skin. Where the Runeblade remained stuck in his arm, golden light momentarily suppressed the drifting black mist of demonic regeneration. Turlesh let out a clicking growl that sounded like a mixture of crocodile and gigantic ant. His muscles refused to tense as intensely as before, poisoned by the energy of the divine.

“Thankless gods! Entitled mortals! Final warning!” Turlesh spread out his four arms, like a spider in a threat posture. The shadow of acknowledgement hushed over Maltos’ face, that he would not be able to dodge all of these.

“RANGERS!” The voice of Pronthin shouted from above. A salvo of seven arrows needled Turlesh’s side. A tiny distraction, cascading into a small distraction.

“I WILL SQUASH YOU!” Vulk roared, swinging his halberd overhead. The spike at the back slammed into one of Turlesh’s shoulders, barely scraping skin off the bone. A small distraction, cascading into a large distraction.

“THUNDER, HEED MY CALL!” the teacher of the Shamans finished his ritual. A single lightning bolt descended from the sky. It struck true, filling the towering form of the giant demon with magically fuelled volts. Turlesh screamed, in frustration more than pain. His arms closed and narrowly missed Maltos.

Immediately the demon set after the old Monk. Trampling on four limbs, while swinging the upper pair, like an eldritch centaur, the resentful embodiment of the Omniverse’s immune system engaged in the constant exchange of blows.

Behind the wall, Apexus quivered. Every fibre of his existence was in ready mode. Everyone around him was the same. Gulps were as frequent as held breaths being released. Outside, they saw Maltos desperately push away the Deathhound’s limbs. No attack was met head-on, all were dodged or redirected. No matter how far Maltos would have pushed his Ironskin, the destructive force of the demon would always outpace direct defences. It was only the constant stream of other teachers’ attacks taking the heat off the Monk for seconds at a time, that allowed the Monk to put up the valiant fight that he did at all.

“It's coming over here,” the leader of this segment of the wall whispered. Get ready. Apexus nodded, more to himself than the instruction, and grabbed the shaft of the weapon tightly.

Maltos carefully moderated his breathing. Had he had the luxury of thinking, he would have regretted his age, would have chided himself for his complacency in this late stage of his life. Alas, there was only the next three steps. That was as far as he could think forwards. To think backwards was impossible. There were only the next three steps.

And the terrible act he had pushed onto himself.

First step and the wooden wall entered the corner of his vision. Second step and he narrowly dodged to the side of the Deathhound. Third step and he trusted in his fellow teachers to keep the monstrosity in position. He closed his eyes for a split second and brought his hands together in front of his chest.

He exhaled twice, letting all the air leave his lungs.

He took one rapid breath.

Mana rushed through his circuits. To his left shoulder, through the three meridians that connected the joint through the ribs, the heart, and the right pectoral to his other shoulder. Then through the five meridians that were equally spaced out on the back, the upper edge and points of the shoulder blades and the spine, back to the left shoulder. The mana flowed in a closed circuit. Pain was the immediate reaction. Pain and that disgusting feeling of swelling veins, shifting under the skin. The circular flow was unsustainable. A mortal’s body was not designed for this constant taxation.

The first Physical Gate was open.

Maltos opened his eyes again and wrestled down the urge to roar. He was in control, even as torment pumped adrenaline into him. Almost twice as broad as before, almost absurdly bulky, Maltos bull-rushed the Deathhound.

Turlesh let out the first cry of true pain when the old Monk slammed into his chest, palms and shoulders clad in holy light. It paralysed the creature for just long enough that Maltos could slam him against the wooden wall. Hardwood thirty centimetres thick creaked under the impact. “NOW!” the leaders behind shouted. Maltos hastily retreated and ended the taxing Technique.

Hooked spears pushed out between the gaps of the walls. Oriented horizontally, they had been hidden. Now, they turned vertical, and were swiftly pulled back. “I GOT ONE!” one of the students shouted.

Turlesh shook his head, recovered his bearings, and spotted the hooks of thick metal pulling two of his arms tightly against the wooden wall. “Bothersome pests! Edible brats! Clean vermin!” the Deathhound screamed immediately struggling against the binding. One arm, he freed with a massive tug. It ripped the person holding the spear towards the wood with such intensity their forehead fractured.

Two factors kept the other two arms pinned. One was the barrage of spells unleashed on the immobilized Deathhound. All teachers that had carried the melee so far retreated backwards, tended to their wounds and exchanged their weapons for crude steel nails that looked like they belonged in a shipyard, not a battlefield. Up on the wall, Pronthin signalled one team after the other to pepper Turlesh with attacks. “HUNTERS!” “SHAMANS!” PRIESTS!”

Aclysia let loose the Lance of holy light. It was one of three in the swarm of spells from the holy casters. Her own, that of Pronthin, and finally that of Mehily, whose heart swelled with grim satisfaction when she could see the pitch black insides of the demon distort in response to the impacts. It was not much, but every little bit counted.

The second fact was the hasted movement behind the wall. Those who had not grabbed anything successfully, which was most of them, dropped their spears without a second thought and helped those who had. Four adventurers on each of the three weapons, two around one arm, one around the other. All of them were pulled forwards, and ripped it back barely each time the Deathhound tugged against their hold.

Demonic claws tore into the wall, ripping the nailed and tar glued plank of the frame like it was an unwelcome wallpaper. “Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaave,” Turlesh growled, his boneless head curving all the way around and crushing the head of the poor man that was first in the closest row. Blood and brain matter exploded onto the rest, the messy bite of the demon bursting the skull like a spoiled egg.

“FUCK!” the second man screamed. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” The tirade of curses did not let up. Dripping acidic spit and viscous blood, the nightmare leaned in closer, ready to continue his work. Then, the four eyes on its head turned around. The nearly 360-degree vision of the Deathhound alerted him to the resumed charge of the teachers.

With only two arms and immobilized, Turlesh was like a cornered animal against the carefully executed storm of attacks by the teachers. A glowing blade, radiant palms, a furious halberd, all of it distractions while other teachers rammed nails into the immobilized limbs.

In a daring action, Vulk tossed aside his shield and halberd and grabbed two of the long, thick nails. Turlesh’s arms were busy pushing back Maltos, so he whipped his tail towards the Warrior.

And Vulk grit his teeth.

His chest plate caved in, several of his ribs broke, the Ironskin did just enough to protect him from being crippled, and he pushed the tail back. “RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHR!” the man screamed, summoning pure rage to tap into even a fraction of outsized power. With Berserker might, he drove the two nails into the tail and the planks behind. A smack of his iron paw and they were hammered deep in there.

“ENOUGH! ENOUGhenoughoughoghghg!” Turlesh screamed incoherent, barbaric noises. He struggled with all his might against the grip, freeing one of his arms, leaving only one stuck where it was. The one with the Runeblade deeply embedded in it.

Mai’s presence did not reveal itself until she had her hand wrapped around its hilt. With the wordless, deathly glare of a murderer, she pumped her mana into the weapon and the shriek of the whirling mana once more filled the battlefield. She pushed the weapon forwards through the dense flesh, towards the shoulder, aiming at the neck and then…

Turlesh ripped his bound limb off.

Black ichor exploded from the wound, then crusted over instantly. Taking one squelching, ripping stride forwards, the Deathhound let the nails rip half his tail in two. Maltos was mid charge. His form long deflated back to a normal appearance. He was just an old Monk and the full speed of the Deathhound suddenly descended on him.

A single arm came down on Maltos. He twisted his body to the side. What could have been his neck became his shoulder. At a speed only he and the creature could properly perceive, Turlesh’s double-thumbs closed around his upper arm and kept ripping downwards.

Everyone else barely realized what had happened, until Maltos stumbled a couple of feet away. “Equal exchaaangeeeeee,” Turlesh hissed gleefully and raised the part of the Monk that he had taken. The left arm had been ripped out at the socket, seeming to still twitch with some last nerves firing off in confusion. The limb had been taken alongside the sleeve that had covered it. The high grade gear had done nothing to stop the Deathhound.

Turlesh let the air whistle between his teeth on the inhale. He tasted the fear, the moment of hesitation. One of his eyes inspected the empty socket where his own right arm had been. The flesh would be replaced, by his regeneration or by his master. This flesh shell ultimately did not matter to the demon. The wounds were an insult more than a threat. An insult was enough to stoke the infernal hatred of its kind.

“Cover us!” The two words caused his four eyes to turn away from the arm and the situation at large. They came from the grey robed man that had been ordering barrage after barrage to strike the demon. The many coloured spells were still burned into Turlesh’s retina. He growled with hatred. The many tiny cuts on its hide oozed black mist as they crusted over. Wounds cracked open and sealed again as he moved.

Pronthin ran towards the middle of the battlefield. Turlesh dropped the arm of the Monk and lowered down to five limbs. His parted tail curved behind him, limp from the halfway point. Flesh slowly knit itself back together. The pain was common, so common that the demon barely even cared. What was a torn limb compared to the mana sucking bite of a Parasyte?

“Oh no you do-“ Vulk shouted. His announcement was violently interrupted by Turlesh meeting his charge with a swipe. The arm folded, as the bones were turned into shards, the enchanted steel burst like glass, and he spat out blood. One of his lungs collapsed in one strike.

Turlesh placed a foot on his chest and gleefully put all his weight on that leg. Then, the spell Pronthin had been charging was unleashed. A nova of omniversal silver washed over the battlefield. Mortal flesh was mended, while the demon felt the touch of holy fire crawl over his skin. It dried out his eyeballs for a second and he reared, in pain and annoyance. “GIVE! GIVE UP! ANNOYING CATTLE! STRUGGLING MORTALS! DESPAIRING WEAKLINGS!”

Blinking rapidly, Turlesh tried to regain his vision. Barely, he made out a second, charging glow of radiant energy. Another one of those terribly bright lights was being prepared. Uncaring for anything at all besides the elimination of these offensive colours, the demon charged forwards. None alone could stand against his charge anymore.

Screaming, Turlesh leapt at the target. His eyes recovered more and more, until he realized that this was not the grey-robbed man – this was the unfallen angel. The companion of his target. Aclysia stared fear-struck at the demon flying straight at her. The spell would not complete. Turlesh could not stop himself. He knew the Master would not be able to give the order to kill her.

The order to hurt Apexus had been given, however, and murdering her, that would certainly work.

Turlesh howled triumphantly. Around him were the exhausted, the crippled, and the powerless. Somewhere, the demon heard the desperate cry of his prey, mixed in with two other voices. His maw was opened wide, ready to bisect the angel. A grey form tackled her from the side.

Where he expected to taste the dullness of angelic metal, he found the exquisite taste of holy flesh. Skin and stomach acid and spinal fluid, muscles with next to no fat, kidneys liver and guts. “Mentor!” the voice of the angel rung out shrill, while the bisected body of Pronthin fell down. What of his body was missing was messily being chewed by the Deathhound.

Viscera dripped from his maw, as he cackled. Uncaringly, the demon backed off from the angel, basking in her tears. “Privileged creature… bright creature… frozen deep in fear…” Turlesh whispered. She was hovering a mere two metres away from him. It would have been as easy to catch her as it was to pluck the wings of a butterfly.

Then Turlesh had to jump back. A golden palm barely missed him. As superior as his situation was, the demon had to acknowledge that his victory was not yet guaranteed. This flesh was weakening and the Monk still had the means to hurt him. Maltos, his shoulder willed to stop bleeding, stared at the Deathhound with tempered steel in his eyes.

“Do not despair, children of the Progenitor!” Maltos shouted. “A loss is only certain when you have breathed your last!” The words were answered by grim, determined silence. All around, the teachers healed by Pronthin’s Holy Nova encircled the Deathhound. The most grievous wounds were only partially healed and mana reserves remained taxed.

Still, none would back off before the oldest teacher did.