Of course, not everyone carried divine and unique power like the Scarlet King or the Crimson Exarch. So had to face the challenges of the world with wits alone.
"What should we do, big sister?"
The voice ca from a being who looked as though she had stepped from the pages of a myth. Her fur was thick and white as mountain snow, cascading over her shoulders like a regal mantle. Dark markings of black and crimson traced her body, pulsing faintly with inner light. From her forehead curved a long obsidian horn, smooth and deadly, giving her the air of both nobility and danger. Her eyes glowed a deep, shimring red, intelligent and sharp, frad by faint crimson streaks that shimred when she moved.
"I don't know, little sister," ca the answer, quiet yet edged with the weight of command.
The speaker was a warrior of equal majesty. The upper half of her form was humanoid-elegant, strong, every line of her body shaped by discipline and conflict. Yet below her waist, the sleek power of a beast erged: fur and muscle blending seamlessly with armor. Her eyes burned brighter.
The sisters were Anita and Akita, Peak ArchDeities of the higher realms who had descended with Tiramisu into the Third Realm of the Crimson World. Though they looked less ferocious than the legends claid, their nas were whispered across realms with both awe and fear. They were conquerors, tacticians, and symbols of divine might.
Yet this challenge before them was different. It did not demand brutality or sheer power but insight-a deep understanding of emotion, and mastery over The Flow.
Fortunately, along with them was a master of The Flow. She was a
woman draped in power and grace, her presence bending the air itself. Of course, she was no other than the True Depravita of Original Sin.
ylin inhaled slowly. Below her, the army of soul-forged soldiers moved in silent precision, each one born from the essence of her will. Their armor shimred faintly with spectral light.
Anita and Akita watched her work, exchanging a single, knowing glance. Though they often appeared easygoing, when it ca to command, the sisters were sharp, disciplined, and utterly in sync. A nod passed between them and the Depravita, and in an instant, their forces adjusted formation-silent, flawless.
The village before them was small, half-buried in fog and ruin. Wooden hos leaned under the weight of ti. Torches flickered weakly against the crimson twilight. Villagers gathered in trembling ranks, clutching spears and rusted blades, their faces pale with fear yet lit by desperate resolve.
"Hold your ground!" one of them shouted, his voice cracking.
The soul-forged army stopped. The only sound was the whisper of wind over steel.
Then ylin raised her hand.
The air itself seed to ripple as she connected her soldiers' spirits into a single psychic thread, channeling her consciousness through them. In that instant, she felt the hearts of the villagers-their terror. She wove those emotions using her Depravita abilities, amplifying them until fear blood so fiercely it swallowed every other sensation.
One by one, the villagers faltered. Weapons trembled, then fell. Eyes widened with animal panic. Soone scread. Then, as though possessed by survival itself, they turned and fled, scattering into their hos like leaves before a storm.
A breathless silence followed.
The soul-forged soldiers did not move. Their eyes-cold and luminous -remained fixed on the retreating humans until ylin lowered her hand. Only then did the army advance again, the sound of their march echoing like thunder against the hollow village walls.
Intimidating the weak was never nice, but it was sotis necessary. Between terror and bloodshed, rcy took the form of
fear. To pass through the village without massacre was the best path forward for the group.
ylin's pace was steady. Though slower than Cain or the Crimson Exarch, the six golden lotuses that glowed upon her forehead marked the depth of her growth. She was advancing rapidly, mastering The Flow without guidance-her evolution driven purely by instinct and hard work.
Eight months passed in that endless crimson realm as the trio pressed forward, and then a new figure reached the Third Ring.
Bradly.
His eyes burned with hatred, and his expression twisted into rage as he scanned the crystalline plains around him. But there was no prey to be found, only the vast expanse of glass-like ground stretching to
the horizon.
He stepped forward.
The mont his foot touched the crystal floor, his body convulsed. A surge of energy erupted from within him-soul separating from flesh. In a blinding flash, his essence fragnted and reford into legions: an army of mortal soldiers.
Bradly staggered but did not fall. His army stood before him, five tis the size of Cain's-proof of the Neo-Angel's unmatched soul strength. Yet as he gazed upon them, his expression darkened. Anger twisted through him, but willpower soon triumphed, his mind sharpening like tempered glass. Clarity returned to his eyes. "The Flow," he murmured. "It's always The Flow."
He rembered Cain-rembered the humiliation, the trap, the lesson carved into his pride. From that day, Bradly had sworn to master what had shad him. Power alone ant nothing without control, and emotion without understanding was a storm that devoured itself.
Kneeling, he placed his palm upon the crystal floor. The surface.
pulsed beneath his hand like a heartbeat. He could feel the rhythm of the realm-the pulse of emotion. Slowly, he began to understand the
essence of Resonance.
And then, his army moved.
He connected with the emotions and intent in the heart of every
soldier, guiding them, giving them purpose, and making sure they
remain at their peak.
The march began.
Step by step, the soul-forged army advanced down the road, their
armor glinting beneath the ghostly crimson sun. The wind carried the echo of their discipline, a sound like the heartbeat of gods.
Eventually, as it had for the others before him, a village appeared on the horizon-fragile, human, and dood to test his resolve. Figures gathered with weapons drawn, blocking the road.
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