Iris tossed Occult Cube forwards. Its dark metallic surface lit up, separated top and bottom, and pushed each other apart. Scarlet light sparked between the upper and lower half, attacking space in the centre. The fabric of reality twisted, curving onto itself until it snapped. A creak manifested, and turbulent chaos gushed out.

Crimson lightning struck the surroundings. Black smoke rose from the charred cracks and formed looming clouds whose vapours tainted the streets and buildings with acidic blood. Murmuring curses reverberated from the rift, where distortion gave way to a crimson hellscape of bones and fleshes.

Secain and Lorient positioned themselves between Iris and the widening portal. Secain drew out her purple-tinted daggers and stirred her shadow while Lorient flicked her flowery whip.

“Secain, Lorient, have you seen Abyssal Plane before?” Iris said.

“Only in paintings,” Secain said.

Lorient shook her head. “Have you, Mistress?”

“This’s my first time as well.” Iris smiled. “I wonder, how different are we compared to the succubi?”

“We could capture them for you.”

“Why would I want them when I already have two seductresses beside me?”

While watching the portal stabilising, Iris tilted her head. She turned around, her eyes glimmering. A few silhouettes walked out of a dispersing sea of evil mist.

The leader, a white-haired sickly man draped in pale-white clothes, disregarded Iris. His eyes focused on the portal, staring at Abyssal Plane’s infernal view. Three cultists behind him observed Iris and her two assistants.

Another group of four cultists, led by a tall lady of luxurious attire, also walked out of the mists. The lady glared at the corpse-like man and scoffed at him before looking at Iris and licking her lips.

“I’ve never had the freshly curated Monster Girl’s flesh before,” the tall lady said. “Will you be more delicious than a virgin maiden?”

“You’re not worthy.” Iris drew her right hand to her side, caressing it to Secain’s cheek. “Only those whom I hold dearly can taste me.”

Secain blinked, held Iris’s soft, bouncy arm, and nibbled on it. The sweetness incomparable painted her lips lustrous. Such a reward tensed her arms, abdomen, thighs, and legs. Her mistress knew how to provoke her the best.

“Please don’t worry, Mistress. They’ll never taint your body.”

Secain took a step back, tightened her grip on her daggers, and held them before her chest. Her shadow bubbled, its silhouette morphing from her slender figure to countless outlines of everyone but her mistress.

While Secain instilled unto the atmosphere her ever-present shadow, Lorient perked up and struck her whip against the ground. Its thorny tip shattered the concrete street, revealing the greyish dirt beneath.

Tiny grasses and bushes sprouted from the crack, and flowers bloomed on their peaks. Heart-soothing scents exuded by them permeated the surroundings. They swayed according to Lorient’s heartbeat, staying ever so close to their creator and her mistress.

Mistress wouldn’t have to make any move. She only needed to enjoy the flowery view as her maid and knight performed an aggressively stunning dance with their enemies.

“As you wish, my Dears. I’ll let you two handle them.” Iris drew back her hand. A hand-held fan manifested in her palm, and with it, she covered her mouth. “Still, punishment awaits the reckless.”

The sickly man raised his left hand at Iris, but Lorient blocked his view of her mistress. Narrowing her eyes, she exhaled a puff of rosy fragrance and dashed to him. Various flowers on her whip blossomed, and the thorns on it quivered.

The man grabbed his thick, messy cloth and tore it apart, exposing his rotten, worm-infested body. A vomit-inducing stench and horrid gases emanated from his flesh, but he and his three followers immersed in them as if they were holy water. He tensed his right arm, splitting his flesh open. Rusty chains ruptured out of his wounds and rushed forward.

“Mere heretics,” he smirked. “For The Chained One, you must die!”

“Perish by my whip, Madman. Your appearance is a crime against Mistress.”

Lorient swung her whip. Its sharp tip rattled through the air, crackling the sound barrier. Colourful petals detached from its vines and drifted aimlessly yet deliberately. While the strike met the chains, shattering them into shrapnel, the swarm of petals annihilated the fragments and rushed for the man.

His eyes widened, the man braced for impact. His speed couldn’t keep up with the strike. It cut his abdomen, splattering oozy worms in his flesh. He staggered a few steps backwards. Concrete under his feet fractured under intense pressure.

He gagged and retched out a blob of skinless hands fused together. It flew to the swarm, its hands extending forwards. They grabbed the petals, getting sliced, but still crushed the petals, whose remains got assimilated into its body.

“Sir Marlot!” Marlot’s followers rushed up to him.

They bit their tongues and spat out misty black blood. It formed a visage of an eroded lock, whose blackened surface radiated oppressiveness. It hung above the street, towering over Marlot, and released rusty fluid from its keyhole. The flood swirled around him, corroding the petals into withered husks.

A tide of metallic fluid splashed at Lorient. Her vines and flowers met it head-on, but the liquid slithered around them and touched her. Her silky dress decayed, and her soft green skin darkened.

Grunting, she retreated while focusing her Corruption Power on her wound. Dead worms emerged from the liquid and rotted all healed flesh. She narrowed her eyes and decisively carved out her infected wounds. Her greenish blood dirtied her dress, though she paid them no attention.

“Such a disgusting method,” she said. “I’ll never let your filth near Mistress.”

“You’ll soon become a husk of our Great One. He’ll devour your flesh and make you a vessel of his,” Marlot said. “And once we finish gutting you, your mistress will be next.”

“Ignorant and arrogant. Your greed will be your downfall.”

“No one can escape The Chained One.”

Lorient drew her left hand to her side. A flower below it rapidly grew until it bloomed, revealing a sword made of magical wood on whose tip rested a black rose. She drew the sword to her side and exchanged it to her right hand, her whip to her left. Her demeanour shifted, from relaxed to solemn.

Florae and greenery crawled on her body. They moulded their shapes according to her figure and hardened into armour. She peeked behind her, at her mistress who admired her knightly spirit, before she returned to her enemy.

While Lorient brandished her sword, Secain played with her daggers. Her tight bodysuit danced with her movement, leaving faint shadows in its trails. These black yet translucent ghosts moved ever so slightly out of sync with her. They mimicked her yet also diverted from her as if they were alive.

“You dress luxuriously to compensate for your foulness,” Secain said. “The jewellery would only lose its glimmers on you.”

The three followers of the female leader hissed. They wanted to rush up, but their leader raised her hand and stopped them. They held back their urge and accepted the command.

“And you, body wrapped by a bodysuit, hands hidden by tight gloves, are you too afraid to show yourself?” the leader said.

“My body, my hands, my skin, my flesh, they belong to Mistress. Only she can see them.”

“I’m quite curious about her expression when I make you my toy.”

The rich leader grabbed her scarf and pulled it out from her neck. The thick fur trembled, came to life, and grew wildly. Their sharp, long strands crawled towards Secain like a tide of spiky tentacles.

Secain ignored the tide. She closed her eyes and, humming a song her mistress once sang to her, stepped forwards. The tide swamped her. Their slightest touch, grazing her uniform and hair, disintegrated her into a puddle of blackness.

The shadow beneath her figure, beneath the tide, and beneath the cultists bubbled. Slender arms reached out from the nonexistent depth and grasped their enemies’ legs.

The female leader looked down and shook her right hand. Multiple rings on her fingers glowed. They generated gales of multi-coloured lights which turned into gemstones and ornaments. These luxuries rained on the shadow, flashing their brilliant worth.

Their rays penetrated the shadow, which dissipated, leaving behind black stains on the ground and the legs. The black spots spread throughout the legs, infected the veins, and traversed the body.

The female leader winced. She clenched her fist and crushed a small crystal in her hand. Fine dust fell from the gaps between her fingers and on the wound sites. The blackness, fusing with the alchemical powder, brightened itself and ceased to spread, though the contaminated flesh remained rotten.

“Lady Yassul!” Her followers gasped and rushed to her.

One of them tipped and fell but never got up. Her cloaked body turned dark purple before dissolving into a puddle of toxic blood. A purple bubble rose from the blood, enlarged and enlarged until it burst.

Secain stepped out of it, her heels landing on the puddle, splashing the toxin.

“You have a lot of high-quality items,” she said. “But you’re too weak. You’ll die before you can use them all, like your little follower here.”

Yassul made a prayer gesture and closed her eyes. “The Angel of Gold has received her soul. It’s her honour to be transmuted into our Lady’s wealth.”

“Lunatics.”

“Said a human slaved to a Monster Girl. Was she unwilling to Corrupt you?”

Secain hmphed. She dropped the dagger in her right hand, which sank into the purple-blood puddle, and tensed her hand. An ethereal claw materialised. She licked the sharp, poisonous blades, tasting the exciting flavour of death.

“My body’s not worthy enough for her Corruption. I shall become the darkest gem in her possession.”

And so the dance continued.

Iris chuckled. Her handheld fan pressed on her lips, which curved into a smile. Her eyes focused on the rift into Abyssal Plane, though they occasionally drifted toward her delightful Secain and chivalrous Lorient.

Lorient and Secain pushed back the two Masters, but when their followers joined the battles, those two fell on their back feet. They retreated and resisted and overwhelmed and defended against their enemies, who seemingly cared not for their lives, only their objectives.

For their respective faith, they could sacrifice themselves. Such insanity.

Fiery flames blazed from the rift, attracting Iris’s attention. The infernal landscape spewed out corrosive fumes. Within the mist, burning Demons rushed to the stabilising portal. They pushed their hands against the translucent barrier separating the two Planes, trying to break through it.

Iris sighed. She was about to cast a spell when she frowned and looked around her.

Multiple groups of cultists caught up with the first two. Each group, led by a Master-Tier cultist, brought with them followers of varying powers. They stared at the rift and then at Iris, whose presence radiated nowhere, empty like the void itself.

“You must be a supervisor from Court of Indulgence,” a cultist leader said. “Your two attendants are busy. I suggest you stand aside to help them. The rift isn’t something you can hold.”

“I activated Occult Cube; I can also destroy it.” Iris swept her gaze across the surroundings. “Come at once. None of you can defeat me otherwise.”

“Preposterous!”

Laughing, Iris grasped her long, flowing hair and pulled them. They detached from her head, knitted into fine strings, and connected with the ground. Countless flowers and vines surrounding her rose from their slumber. They morphed into humanoid puppets of wood and plants, turning into warriors of nature.

As Iris puppet them, the cultists shouted their war cries, rushed forwards, and prayed to their dark masters. Their Evil Powers soaked the battlefield while their unholy spells flashed, shone, and dimmed.

They fought with Iris’s warriors while Iris herself shifted her attention to the rift. The Demons had gone silent. A powerful presence seeped out of the portal.

A curvaceous silhouette loomed within the crimson mist. She stabbed her hand through a weaker demon’s chest and gouged out his heart. She crushed it and threw the corpse away before she turned her head toward the rift, peering at Iris.

“You possess Infernal Star Path,” she said. Her haunting voice arrested Iris’s soul, compelling her to tell the truth. “Tell me, Corrupted One, where is Safalion?”

Despite the interplanar distance diluting the influence, Iris still trembled under the piercing gaze. The nearby buildings quivered, the streets quaking. The Evil Powers of the cultists paled before this presence.

This Demoness was a Demon King!

“You’ll have to force it out of me,” Iris smirked. “Unfortunately, the rift is too weak. Your overwhelming power will tear it apart.”

She raised her right hand. Memory Forever Cherished glimmered.