Just as the Demigod of the Moonwell’s hope began to fade, the Curse Avatar spoke, its voice a low rasp that cut through her despair.

"There is."

Gima’s form dissolved into motes of light. A moment later, she reappeared on the rampart, a thick lock of silver hair in her hand. It was hair that Moon Elf Isilra had shed and collected over years of growth.

Orion took it, a faint smile touching his lips.

Beside him, the Curse Avatar collapsed, dissolving into a liquid mass of runic symbols that flowed with an unnerving purpose, absorbing itself completely into the lock of hair. Orion tucked the enchanted hair inside his coat.

"Alright," he said, his voice laced with unshakeable confidence. "I’m going to get my wife back."

Neither the Demigod of the Moonwell nor the Deputy Commander said a word. They just stared, their eyes filled with a potent mix of curiosity and disbelief, wondering if this was all some kind of ballsy bluff.

***

Unknown Space. The Dais of Judgment.

Even with the potent buffs from the Demigod of the Moonwell, Moon Elf Isilra was no match for the Witch.

Heeheehee... a soft, chilling laugh echoed in the sterile space. "Can you feel it, Moon Elf? That’s the chill of death creeping in. It’s like I can almost see the Reaper standing right behind you, just watching."

The Witch gazed at her opponent, her eyes a complex mixture of rivalry, clinical assessment, and even a flicker of admiration. She drew her bowstring taut, an expression of absolute control on her face. Unlike her previous Fallen Angel avatar, this form was also a master archer. Their entire battle had been a deadly duel of trajectories and reflexes.

"This is your true form, isn’t it?" the Witch continued, her voice a predatory purr. "Let me guess... your body of faith is in here with you, right? Oh, isn’t despair a beautiful sensation? This is The Dais of Judgment. Not even a demigod can save you now. All you can do is accept my touch and suffer." She let out another delighted giggle, high on the thrill of the impending kill.

"You lawful good types... you’ll always throw your lives away to protect the little people. It’s your whole identity, isn’t it? So, of course, your body of faith is here. I’m not wrong, am I?"

She wasn’t. Staghelm City was Isilra’s home. She would sacrifice everything to protect it.

Mother... is there really no way out?

The Witch’s psychological warfare was taking its toll. It wasn’t a debuff or a curse; it was the simple, crushing weight of futility blooming in Isilra’s own heart. The fighting spirit that had sustained her felt like a punctured balloon, steadily deflating.

"Hold on, Isilra!" the Demigod of the Moonwell’s voice echoed in her mind, a final lifeline. "The battle outside is won! Our reinforcements have arrived. Your husband, Orion—he’s here. He has joined the fight. Just hold on. He will come for you."

With those words, the last of Gima’s divine power flared, manifesting as a final, pearlescent moon-white shield around Isilra. If this barrier broke, she would have nothing left.

"Just give up, you beautiful, naive Moon Elf," the Witch cooed, never ceasing her assault. A relentless stream of shadowy bolts hammered against the shield. "Surrender your body to me willingly, and I promise, I’ll spare the people of Staghelm City. I’ll even let you choose a few seeds, a handful of survivors to carry on your legacy. See? The great and powerful Witch can be merciful, can’t she?"

She was a monster. Honeyed words and a heart of pure venom.

A flicker of hope ignited in the darkness. Orion... my husband? Is he really coming to save me? But this is The Dais of Judgment... He’s only at the peak of Archlord. How could he possibly get in?

The Demigod of the Moonwell’s final message had planted a seed of desperate hope. Deep down, every girl has a little bit of that fairytale princess in her, doesn’t she? The part that secretly waits for a hero in shining armor to ride in on a white horse.

BOOM!

Any fairytale princess in Isilra’s heart was just vaporized by a volley of shadow-laced bolts. The shield shattered.

With the shield gone, her hope was extinguished. True despair set in. Is this it? Is this how I die? I should just detonate my body of faith. At least then, I can still damage her. My body won’t fall into her hands... won’t become one of her puppets.

A pang of sorrow struck her. What a shame. I never even got married. I wonder what that would have felt like. And my fiancé... it would have been nice to see him one more time.

A brilliant moonlight began to radiate from her body as she gathered her power for one final, sacrificial act.

And then, a voice—heavy, imperious, and radiating an arrogance that bordered on divine right—boomed in the deepest recesses of her mind.

"You don’t trust me? You’re my wife now. That means you have absolute faith in me—in the Giant King of the Stoneheart Horde."

Isilra’s concentration faltered. I must be hallucinating.

"No one touches my wife."

As she wavered, she realized with a jolt of panic that she could no longer control her own body. A network of crimson curse runes crawled across her skin, appearing from nowhere with a terrifying, arcane speed. The sight was so bizarre it even made the distant Witch pause her attack.

In the space of a heartbeat, the blood-red runes writhed and coalesced. A monstrous form tore itself free from her own body, separating like a shadow coming to life.

It was a giant, its physique powerful and defined, easily as tall as Orion. It had the pointed ears and sharp fangs of a predator, its naked body a canvas of constantly shifting, blood-gold runes that flowed like a living tattoo. It was Orion’s bloodline curse avatar.

He had used the lock of hair as a sympathetic link, parasitizing her essence to manifest himself within The Dais of Judgment.

He glanced back at the stunned Isilra. "Don’t worry, babe. Wait here. I’ll deal with this traitor, and then I’m taking you home."

Isilra, who had never heard the casual endearment ’babe’ in her life, could only stand there, utterly bewildered.

The Witch, however, understood the implication perfectly.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her eyes narrowed, her expression grim. It wasn’t impossible for others to enter the Dais, but she had never seen anyone do it so silently, so completely undetected.

The avatar turned, a cruel smile spreading across its fanged face.

"Who am I? I’m the one who’s killed you twice already. You really think a third time will be a problem?"

"Traitor," he snarled, his voice dropping to a deathly whisper. "Time to die."