Hi readers, sorry for the late update! I've been really busy and stressed the past few months. This will be the last chapter of the arc.

So I basically made Doom in this story much more powerful than he is in the game. I mean sure, he has cool skills like devouring creeps (like lawyers) and gaining their abilities, but he should be able to do much more than those four skills he has in the game. After all, the dude rules the Seven Hells.

Chapter 67: Into the Pit

It was a typical, packed weekend night at the Ion Shell. The trendy nightclub pulsed with the thundering beat of the music, its massive dance floor rippling with hundreds of partygoers. College students, young professionals and tourists, dancing and drinking away the week's stresses. The main stage was a dizzying visual cacophony of giant screens and dancers in neon cages hanging from the ceiling. All around the club's interior, mirrored walls reflected fractured flashes of laser lights that pulsed on and off in patterns or strobed in time to the songs.

For Mortred, the night was all work and no play.

She sat in a quieter, darker area at the edge of the club, nursing a glass of apple juice as she watched her target from a distance. A thin man of unremarkable height and hair that was graying at the temples, walking up the stairs to the second floor. He had a cigar in one hand, a buxom woman on one arm and two black-suited men trailing behind. He didn't look like he was here to have a wild time - he was too old for that.

Mortred had agonized over whether to take up the job, especially when she'd learned that her target was Ish'kafel, the owner of the nightclub. But it paid too handsomely to be ignored. With the money, she would be able to fulfil her dream of having her own apartment. She'd finally be able to move out with Magina into their own place and raise their little family.

This would be the last one, she'd promised herself.

Her quarry strode along the walkway towards the VIP area hovering above the main stage. The cube-shaped private lounge, enclosed by glass walls on all sides, offered a perfect view of the house. As the night drew on, the energy levels showed no sign of dipping. The dance floor remained a mass of gyrating, sweaty bodies illuminated by purple light.

Taking a sip of her juice, Mortred allowed herself a moment to savor her past accomplishments. So far, all the assassinations had gone without a hitch. After that first one with the man who lived in his car, her second had been done in a dark alley, her third outside the victim's own house, and the fourth in an office parking lot.

This was her first time at the Ion Shell. Besides getting used to the noise, the smell of alcohol, smoke and sweat, she intended to take her time gathering information before making her move. She had no idea who Ishkafel's enemies were, and why they wanted him dead. Nor did she care. To her, it was just a matter of how and when.

Slipping a hand into her pocket, she fingered the sleek metal of the pin-sized cat figurine. Is this one going to go smoothly? She'd asked her agent, not really expecting an answer. Nerif was an oracle who could see into the future, but the stark truth was that Nerif didn't care if she lived or died. Even her own parents had washed their hands off her; nobody would notice if she disappeared from the face of the earth.

Nobody, except Magina.

He's the only one in the world who cares.

Refocusing herself, she watched Ish'kafel enter the transparent private lounge and shake hands with a few well-dressed patrons. The boss himself looked frail and probably wouldn't put up much of a fight. All she needed was to wait for an opportunity when he was alone.

Her eyes flitted to the bouncer patrolling the second floor, a beefcake in military-style pants and leather jacket with tattoos all over his arms. He was speaking into his headset, probably discussing with his team which man looked like trouble, or which woman was wearing the most revealing dress.

The club's reputation wasn't squeaky clean. There had been a murder last year, and since that incident, security had been ramped up, surveillance had been increased and all patrons had to submit to bouncers with metal detectors at the entrance. Yet they had still missed her fiberglass-reinforced plastic dagger.

Noticing the security camera right above her, she bared her teeth at it deliberately. She even waved at it. Those things were all over the club, in the hallways, entrances, parking lots. Some were visible, some hidden. Mortred wasn't bothered by them. On CCTV footage she would appear as nothing more than a blur as long as she didn't attack anyone. She'd attained this level of self-concealment only through hours of daily training and meditation, and not wanting that training to go to waste was one reason why she'd continued to accept assignments.

It seemed Ish'kafel was going to be inside the VIP room for some time, so she put her glass down on the interactive table and lounged back against the leather sofa. A lone, suspiciously-pregnant woman in a club did draw a few odd looks here and there, but it wasn't the kind of attention she was afraid of. No one came forward to chat her up.

Not that she wanted to be noticed, of course, but…

Guess I look like crap, she sighed, getting up to check herself out in the mirrored wall behind the sofa. Besides giving the illusion of a larger space, she realized the reflective walls served another purpose: they made it easier for her to watch her back.

Yeah, frumpy, she pouted dismally at the sight before her. Shapeless figure, wrapped in an oversized black sweater and jeans. Unfashionable flat boots. Puffy face, plain except for a dash of lipstick. Unplucked brows. Overgrown fringe.

"Do you like me?"

Mortred gave a start. Did her reflection just… talk? She was sure she hadn't opened her mouth at all. After frowning at her own puzzled face for a few moments, she did a test, lifting a hand to her forehead and brushing away her bangs.

The girl facing her didn't follow suit. Instead, she crossed her arms in a confrontational manner, appraising Mortred with her own slate gray eyes.

So this isn't a mirror after all. But then… who's this girl who looks exactly like me?

Tentatively, Mortred reached out her hand towards the girl. The move wasn't reciprocated, but her fingers met an invisible, hard surface. The surface of a mirror.

"I'm asking you a question," her replica said in a low, rough voice. The pounding rhythms had slowed down to a softer ballad, and the words could be heard clearly. "Do you like me?"

Mortred flinched back. Sucking in a deep breath, she tore her gaze away from the mirror and turned to look behind her. The dance floor was still crowded with revellers. Couples were pairing off, clinging to each other and swaying to the romantic crooning. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves too much to notice or care about what was happening in her corner. At the next sofa, a couple was engrossed in making out, their limbs tangled together, tongues sloshing over each other's faces.

"Am I hallucinating?" she muttered. She had not touched a drop of alcohol as she didn't want to harm her unborn baby. Her apple juice could have been spiked, but she had been careful to get the drink directly from the bartender. She'd even watched him prepare it.

"Nope, you're not."

She snapped her head up at the voice - her own voice, sounding so alien coming from another mouth.

A hand shot out right through the mirror to make a grab for her.

Mortred's body moved faster than her mind, pivoting aside as if she were dancing. Her fingers closed around the incoming wrist, which felt solid and corporeal. Great, now I'm fighting my own mirror image.

Her reflection moved closer, creating silvery ripples in the transparent barrier between them. "Do you think abortion is bad?" it sneered, its eyes unnaturally dull. "And killing people is fine?"

Feeling heat rising in her cheeks, Mortred tightened her grip on the captive forearm, holding her aggressor at bay. Her mind flailed about trying to make sense of everything. She'd prepared herself for many kinds of scenarios, but this wasn't one of them. "Look, I don't know who you are," she spoke, quickly lowering her voice to a soft hiss. "But you'd better get back in there before I hurt you."

"You're a sad person," the replica continued taunting. Its free hand reached for the side of its jeans.

"Oh no, you don't," Mortred warned. The good thing about fighting one's reflection was that she knew where her opponent's weapon was hidden.

"Your boyfriend is even sadder," the figure in the mirror added with a callous chuckle.

"Shut your trap, bitch," Mortred snapped, her heart was racing far beyond the rhythmic bass of the music. Her rising nerves were affecting her baby, and she quashed them in favor of anger.

Crack. She twisted the wrist till she heard the breaking of the fragile bones.

"Ugh!" Her replica recoiled with a groan of pain. The injury slowed it down, but didn't stop its good hand from whipping out its dagger.

Mortred's jaw tightened at the sight of the coal-black blade pointing at her. Adrenaline filled her veins, but she quickly regained control. Just a clumsy amateur who looks like me, she assured herself as she reached for her own weapon. After all, she had the advantage with her opponent wounded and the mirror between them slowing down its movements.

But – her hand froze on the hilt of the dagger. Exposing it was a really bad idea. The brief scuffle with her reflection had already disrupted her concentration, making her visible to the security camera. Drawing more attention to herself would land her in deep trouble.

I need to get out of here, right now.

She backed off from the mirror, whirling around. A woman from the next sofa was staring at her, her wavy brown locks falling over her flushed cheeks and bare shoulders. She had paused making out with her lover, whose body was still pressed against hers.

Mortred ignored her and headed towards the mass of swaying bodies across the dance floor. She had to make her exit quickly but inconspicuously. One step after another she gained speed. Squinting past the effervescent lights flickering over her head, she shot a glance up to the second floor. Ish'kafel was nowhere to be seen.

Forget about him. I want to be as far from this place as possible. She weaved through the labyrinth of party-goers, warily darting a glance or two over her shoulder, scaling her gaze along the shimmering walls. Hope it's not following me.

"Ugh!" Someone pushed roughly against her, and her arms instinctively shielded her midsection. There was a commotion nearby. Unintelligible shouting, sounds of glass breaking. She paused her footsteps just long enough to see that a brawl had started between two clubbers. Two security guards were hurrying over, and the sea of onlookers parted for them.

Good, good, keep them distracted. Mortred kept moving, slipping into the cloakroom to retrieve her bag and thick jacket. Winter had arrived unexpectedly early, and she disliked having to bulk up with layers of clothing as this meant reduced agility. Before exiting the club, she ventured to take one final look over her shoulder.

To her relief, the aggressive mirror-image wasn't following her.

At the door, there was a long line of people queuing to get in. She maneuvered past them, stepping out into the main road away from the bright and noisy row of bars, their inebriated patrons singing loudly and throwing up at the roadside. Putting on her gloves, she searched for the sign for the train station. She inhaled deeply, and the frosty air filled her lungs and cleared her head.

Had she been hallucinating after all? Why, of all the hundreds of party-goers, had she been the only one to be attacked by her mirror image? Perhaps, someone or something in the Ion Shell had known about her intent to murder its boss?

She shook her head. It hurt to think right now. The weather was bitter cold and her stomach was grumbling. Pulling her coat tighter around herself, she crossed the road briskly. All she wanted to do now was to grab supper and go home and curl up in bed, snuggle with her boyfriend if he –

Someone was following her.

Her heart lurched. Picking up her pace a notch, she changed course and headed for the nearest alleyway between two pubs. Such places were supposed to be dangerous for girls, but Mortred was most comfortable in dark areas.

The guy was still tailing her. He would be in for a surprise, once she merged with the shadows.

She walked fast, but not so fast that she would fall and hurt her baby. As she entered the alley, her boots struck a patch of ice and she felt herself starting to slip, when a hand grabbed her arm. She almost jumped. Inwardly she cursed herself for her unusual clumsiness, cheeks flushing with embarrassment that she was the one being surprised instead of the other way round.

It was Magina.

She relaxed, lowering the dagger clutched tightly in her fist. Magina stood in a leather jacket and jeans, staring at her. What was he doing downtown? He had told her he would be traveling eastwards to look for Mireska Sunbreeze. Surely, he hadn't been following her all this while?

"What are you doing here?" they both asked at the same time.

He answered first, sharp bright eyes following her dagger as she tucked it back into her jeans. "I'm working," he said. "I've been assigned to patrol this area."

Before she could get in another word, he spoke again. "You brought a knife out with you?"

She shrugged. "It's for self-defense."

He let that go, and sniffed her. "You smell of...booze and smoke," he remarked a little incredulously. "You were clubbing?"

"Just hanging out with a friend," she mumbled without meeting his eyes. Who was she kidding? They both knew she had no friends, at least none that she could hang out with.

"Who?" he pressed.

"Someone you don't know."

"A guy?" Magina's tone sounded more curious than reproachful.

"No," she huffed in annoyance. She was getting tired of his endless string of questions, like he was interrogating her. "I wasn't cheating on you, if that's what you think. Not in my current condition anyway."

"Exactly. So you should be resting at home instead of being out on the streets at this hour."

"I know how to take care of myself," she brushed aside his concerns as though she was swatting away gnats, turned and proceeded to make her way out towards the train station.

Her snappish answer didn't seem to anger him at all. Quietly, he slipped his hand around hers, changing his tone into something softer. "I was just worried for your safety. You know I love you more than anything in the world."

She felt a lump in her throat and stopped in her tracks. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not mad at you," he assured her. Gently, he drew her close, letting her lean against him. Solid as a rock, he was always there for her no matter how much she screwed up. "I just wish you could be more honest with me," he said.

Mortred winced in guilt. Magina had been treated her with nothing less than complete honesty but in return she had served him nothing but lies. "I know," she mumbled. "I've been keeping a lot of things from you. Like the pregnancy."

He nodded patiently, but didn't move on. He seemed to be waiting for her to tell him more.

He's the only one in the world who cares.

She dropped her eyes to the ground, the guilt chewing up her insides. She recalled the times she told him about the errands, the babysitting gigs, all the lies whenever she had to spend the night on an assignment. Sooner or later she'd have to tell him the truth. If she got an apartment, he'd ask where the money came from. Magina wouldn't let up on such things.

"You don't trust me?" he sighed. "It hurts."

Tears welled up as her wide eyes met his. She couldn't do this anymore. "No it's not that," she sniffled a little. "It's because, well... you're a cop… and…"

"And?"

She withdrew from his arms. "I have been doing… unlawful things."

Magina's face remained calm as a lake, and his voice never wavered off its even keel. "It's alright," he said, lifting a hand and wiping away the tears from her cheeks. "You can tell me everything. I just don't want you to sink in any deeper."

Mortred swallowed, and was now conscious of her own breathing. "I've been doing... assassination jobs." She recoiled in horror at what she'd just blurted. But it was too late.

Her boyfriend's gloved hands tightened around hers. "Assassination?" He drew closer, searching for her gaze. "You killed people?"

She bit her lip and nodded. She wanted to add that she had stopped doing it, but that wouldn't make any difference.

"How many people?"

"Don't ask anymore." She suddenly felt weak and leaned against the dank wall of the alley.

A few moments of unnerving silence ticked by, making her wonder what was going on in his mind, beneath that placid expression. He would definitely forgive her, right? After all, she was carrying his child. The child needed a mother.

From the near distance, there were sounds of a car stopping and its door opening and slamming shut. She glanced towards its direction.

Click. The cold steel against her skin made her gasp. Her wrists had been cuffed together.

"WHAT? How could you?"

She looked up but Magina wasn't there. Instead, facing her was a tall, slim woman dressed in a long coat and flowing scarf. Wavy turquoise tresses cascaded down her shoulders. Eyes of the same shade leveled coldly on hers.

"I'm Detective Morphia," she said, flashing her badge. Her voice carried a hint of smugness.

It can't be. Her rubbery legs couldn't hold her upright and she was too dazed to put up a struggle. Mortred gaped at her own cuffed hands, at her dagger being confiscated, and back at the taller woman who had proceeded to frisk her, starting from her neck and working her way down. The blue of her eyes seemed to swirl and fluctuate like the ebb and flow of the tides. How the hell had the woman appeared, and where had Magina gone to?

The woman peeled away her leather jacket, checking it for more weapons, and then patted her down slowly and methodically, even lifting her sweater to make sure her belly was real.

No, it can't be. Those long fingers touching her - they were supposed to be Magina's. Those hands had been his, just minutes ago.

Mortred's blood roiled. She could probably out-maneuver the detective if she tried. But the chances of this diminished greatly when a man hurried towards them, another plain-clothes officer with a gun on his hip.

"I'd like you to come down to the station to answer some questions," Detective Morphia said, the firmness of her voice contrasting with her soft features.

Mortred took one last glance at the ever-shifting blue eyes. White spots began to cloud her vision as she allowed herself to be led away to the waiting car.

Akasha

"Carl." She clung on to his name as a sinking person would to a life-raft. The name had no face to it. She remembered nothing else about him but the name, and the memory of his kiss, and she held on to if it were an invisible thread that connected her to him.

She had reached the basement, breathless from combing through the entire mazelike mansion, including its chilly outer grounds. A sense of déjà vu haunted her as she navigated through a strange house inhabited by strange people. She had once searched for Carl like this, sweeping room after room, floor after floor. And now she was being put through the same agonizing motions.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, a lavish coat and gown draped over a hollow ghost of a person. Within her the dark pit of nothingness boiled and swelled, pushing at her and yet also pulling her into itself, where she would end up as a thing with no identity, no thought. She writhed in dull desperation. Only the memory of his lips touching hers could soothe her like a balm.

The basement was her last hope. It was a cavernous chamber, and in its middle a vast organic-shaped swimming pool stretched out before her, the light of the wall sconces casting an otherworldly glow on the water.

All was still and empty at first.

And then a figure emerged from the changing room at the other end: a tall, hulking male wearing nothing but a loose open bathrobe. He sauntered over to her.

She tried to walk towards him, her legs barely supporting her. "You're?"

The man extended his hand gallantly. His wet dark hair was slicked back and she could not help but gawk at his glistening bronzed skin and sculpted chest. Inhuman perfection.

"Mr L. Pleasure to meet you," his squarish jaw curved into a wide grin as she accepted his handshake. The name seemed familiar, with a distant ring of recognition just out of reach. "You look flustered, Madam," he chuckled as if he were holding back some grand secret. "Looking for Carl?"

"Yes," she almost cried with relief. It didn't matter that those glowing Stygian eyes burned into her soul and read her every thought. "Where is he?"

"Saved," he declared.

"Saved?" she echoed. "From what?"

"I did say I could help, didn't I?" Mr L walked leisurely over to a large lounge chair, reaching for a bottle of Cognac on the side table. "The offer's still on."

"What offer?"

"Freedom from Ostarion's curse," he explained, pouring himself a drink. "A new lease of life. To be restored to your former glory."

"Curse…" Akasha frowned. Who's Ostarion, and what's this curse about?

Shaking his head, he took a sip of his drink. "What a pity. You aren't even aware of what you've lost."

Whether it was due to artificial heating or something else, the underground chamber was turning uncomfortably warm, and she felt perspiration forming on her skin. Steam was rising from the pool. On the side table, a leather document folder lying on the table, as if waiting for her.

"Ah, the power you used to wield," Mr L continued, gesturing dramatically. "You brought down kings. You got men hopelessly lost in the curves and valleys of your exquisite body. You had them crawling into your temple of pain and pleasure!" He smacked his lips. "Don't you wish you could have that all back?"

Akasha shuddered at his recount, at the predatory look in his eyes. "I don't know," she muttered. "I just want to find Carl."

A smirk stretching the sleek line of his lips, Mr L picked up the folder from the table and pulled out a thin stack of papers, dangling it before her.

"Carl has signed the contract."

She peered at the document in the lawyer's large hands. Before she had a chance to read it, he produced a similar document, drawing her attention to it.

"All you need to do is sign on the dotted line."

She skimmed over the neat rows of printed text. It looked like a standard contract, except that her own name appeared in various places. Apparently, everything had been prepared for her signature. Heart thumping faster, she read it from the beginning again, going through each word.

This AGREEMENT is made on the (present date) _ between

(Name of the employer) Lucifer, the Doom whose location of operations is at The Infernal Regions and

(Name of the appointee) Akasha (hereinafter called the Employee).

The employer is desirous of appointing Akasha as his

(Designation) Human Servant and the Employee has agreed on the terms and conditions outlined here below.

The said (Name of the appointee) Akasha is hereby appointed as the (Designation) Human Servant of Lucifer, the Doom,

and she will hold the said office for the term of (Duration with the organization) five hundred years from the date of this agreement.

Akasha paused, a frown pulling her features. Under the dim lighting, the words seemed to shift and slip out of focus, like tiny black ants scurrying across the white paper. She was unsure if she could trust her eyes.

"Five hundred years?" she stared at the man towering over her. He, too, had changed into something else, something definitely not human.

But when she blinked her eyes, he went back to who he was: a man in a dark red bathrobe relaxing after a swim.

"Indeed, that is the length of your bond," he nodded. "The choice is yours, of course. I leave it to your free will."

She averted her gaze quickly. Lucifer, the Doom, she whispered, somehow not daring to utter the name too loudly. The name continued buzzing in her mind, and with it, the image of its owner's true form, winged and horned. The Infernal Regions. Carl had gone in there. She could not imagine what he was doing as a human servant. Fighting a bout of surreal dizziness, she flipped to the next page of the contract, where the words rearranged themselves into an unknown language.

"This part is in Ozkavosh," he explained. "The language for reciting the Sempiternal Cantrap."

"I don't understand."

Lucifer set his drink down and leaned against the table casually.

"Immortality. It is my gift to you, although some consider it a curse. Regardless, it is an absolute requirement for serving me. Wars in the Infernal Regions are long by human standards, each lasting a few human centuries. I cannot have my warriors dying of old age when things have barely started heating up."

She inhaled a deep breath. "You want me to help you fight wars? But how do I do that?"

He sighed in suppressed impatience. "Once again, I have to remind you of the powers you used to command. Do you know, woman, that there was a time you could teleport short distances, and your voice alone could shatter one's innards?"

Hands on her cheeks, she stared at him with the awe of a child listening to a fairy tale. Suddenly, her memory jolted. Pushing her hand deep inside her coat pocket, she found the smooth, warm stone. And then it came back to her: the slightly bruised sensation on her skin, the wind whipping her ears whenever she relocated her form.

She took the rounded black stone out and held it in her palm. Lucifer narrowed his eyes at it, picked it up and rolled it between his enormous thumb and forefinger.

"What is this?" he sneered.

"It's a magical stone," she said with great certainty. Perhaps he was unaware of its properties.

"A mere pebble?" he roared in amusement, his sonorous voice reverberating through the basement, every echo taunting her ignorance. "Down in the Infernal Regions, there are entire castles made out of this material!"

"…what?"

His laughter stopped as quickly as it had started. "Surely you understand now," he lowered his voice, "how great an honor it is to serve me? I have traversed the universe in search of talent, and have found you humans - such beguilingly soft and fragile creatures – to be more useful than I thought. You and Carl possess great potential."

"What if I break the bond?"

Lucifer smiled, but this time in a less friendly manner. "It's all spelled out here," he said, tapping the contract. "It's troublesome to explain what will happen if you refuse to carry out your duties. In short, I'd strongly advise against doing so. You can have short vacations back in the human world – subject to your performance in the underworld. And after you have repaid your debt, you are free to do whatever you want," he concluded in a perfectly reasonable tone.

Akasha let everything steep in her fogged mind for a moment. What he was proposing was, in fact, slavery. Five hundred years of slavery, of battling hell's horrors, five hundred years of violence and pain - she would be submitting herself to that if she signed.

She would be freed from one tyrant, only to become a slave to another. Her skin tightened at the thought of it.

"Well?" he asked.

"I don't think I…"

He threw up his hands and shrugged. "Well, Carl has made his choice. And as I said, it's up to your free will."

Her heart twisted. Trepidation and yearning filled her in equal measure. "Carl's already in there. He must be lonely," she thought aloud. "I wonder if he misses me." Carl had gone without leaving a note, and she wasn't sure if he would recognize her if he saw her.

From his robes, Lucifer produced a gleaming dagger. This, too, looked familiar.

"It is better to be feared than loved," he said, caressing the gem-studded hilt of the dagger. "But what if you could be both?"

Yes, Akasha nodded. She wanted both. The idea of everlasting youth and beauty was indeed enticing, as was the prospect of being powerful. Deep in her bones, she knew she was destined to be powerful, and Lucifer affirmed that. But all the power in the world would be pointless if she did not have Carl by her side. Even if she had to make him fall in love with her all over again, or be hated by him for five hundred years.

The worst thing that could happen was not to be hated, but to be forgotten.

"You have made your decision," Lucifer announced, once again intruding into her thoughts. "And the agreement shall be sealed with your blood."

He offered her the dagger, and she took it with trembling hands. She pricked her finger and signed in blood.

Lucifer waved his hand in a flourish, and a symbol began to emerge from the paper. A pentagram, glowing a blindingly red.

His voice dropping an octave, he began to recite the paragraph in Ozkavosh, line by incomprehensible line.

From the distance a low growl could be heard, like that of a giant, stormy wave building up. Breath held, Akasha gaped at the massive swimming pool, where a disturbance was growing. Just a ripple at first, and then the water began to bubble.

Lucifer paused to instruct her. "Go."

He resumed chanting in the alien language that rolled off his tongue effortlessly. The guttural snarl of his voice clawed at her insides. Akasha staggered forward, flinching at the scalding heat on her face. The pool had turned into a deep, massive pit of furiously gurgling water, the steam was billowing out faster and forming a dense cloud. The putrid smell of sulfur assailed her nose.

Her new master barked out the final words of the incantation.

Akasha screamed, her voice drowned out by the boiling pool. Sparks exploded in her head, her insides were set on fire and she was burning out from the core.

"Pain is a necessary ingredient in the creation of an immortal," Lucifer boomed clearly above the rumble of the waves, which seemed to ebb when he spoke. "Just as diamonds are forged in the molten depths of the earth's mantle." His velvety voice penetrated into her mind. "And as we know, diamonds last forever."

A great, terrible laughter rode on the turbulent waters, and everything crescendoed into a deafening roar. The thick fog hovering before her had become a swirling vortex.

Akasha closed her eyes and jumped.

(End of Chapter 67)

Characters/heroes

Mortred – Phantom Assassin

Ish'Kafel – Darkseer

Magina – Anti-mage

Detective Morphia - Morphling

Akasha - Queen of Pain

Mr L - Lucifer the Doom

Short Epilogue

Mortred was sentenced to twenty-five years' imprisonment for the murders she committed. Magina was, expectedly, devastated. He was initially so upset that he abandoned everything and ran off to a monastery. But after a year of trying to live as a monk, he realized he couldn't forget Mortred. And so he returned to his worldly duties, taking care of the son she gave birth to in prison and visiting her every now and then.

Carl and Akasha duly paid their debts to Lucifer, spending five hundred years Down Under (I mean, in the Infernal Regions) fighting Doom's wars and helping him to expand his territory. Akasha did manage to make Carl fall in love with her again, but due to differences in personality (her being controlling and him being free spirited), they maintained a tenuous relationship that was mostly physical.

At the end of their bond contract, Akasha was once again lured by power, when a demon lord asked her to be his Queen and convinced her to stay in the underworld. Carl, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get back to the human world. Wary of making the same deadly mistake of offending a king, Carl resolved to cut off all ties with Akasha, to forget her completely and to never mention her name again. After claiming the fortune that Mr L had preserved for him, he proceeded to spend the rest of his life roaming the earth, living life as he pleased.

This chapter concludes the stories of Carl, Akasha, Mortred and Magina. You will not be seeing them anymore. I'm taking a break now, and it will be a long time before I post the next chapter.

Thanks to everyone who's read and supported me throughout the story! The final chapter will probably be titled 'Graduation'.