Snap.
The sound was sharp. Clean. Almost delicate.
But what followed was anything but.
The smoke-chains binding Mike dissolved instantly, melting into the air like embers fleeing a dying fire. The pressure around his limbs vanished. The invisible weight crushing his body lifted.
And all that was left… was rage.
Mike's eyes ignited red as he surged from the ground in a single, thunderous motion, dirt and ash exploding beneath him.
The Crone's face twisted in horror.
"No! You idiot!" she screamed at Mephistopheles. "Do you have any idea what you've just—"
She never finished the sentence.
Mike charged.
The Crone raised both hands, casting spell after spell in wild succession. Glyphs spun from her fingertips, snakes of shadow, spirals of freezing wind, bolts of sickly green light. They struck Mike across the chest, arms, throat, and legs, searing his skin, slicing through his aura.
He didn't slow.
One violet bolt carved through his shoulder, smoking the scales and exposing raw muscle.
Still he moved.
Another struck his thigh. Another burst against his neck, tearing a glowing gouge across his jaw.
Still he came.
Roaring from deep within, Mike ignited.
Black and red flames erupted from every inch of his body, a burning inferno of divine rage. The fire coiled around him, crackling and hissing, an aura of molten hatred as he closed the distance. He slammed into her with enough force to shake the red sand beneath them. The impact sent the Crone flying backward, her bones snapping as she collided with a jagged rock formation.
She crumpled to the ground in a heap, coughing blood, her robes smoldering.
Mike didn't give her time to recover.
He pounced, slamming both claws into the ground on either side of her head.
"Where is Kelsey?!" he roared, voice deeper than thunder, eyes glowing like forges.
The Crone coughed blood again, trying to summon another spell. Her lips moved, but before the glyph could form
Crunch.
Mike bit down on her index finger and tore it clean off.
She shrieked.
"I'll ask again."
"She's… gone!" the Crone gasped, eyes wide. "I devoured her! There's nothing left—"
Crunch.
Another finger.
Mike spat it to the side.
The Crone screamed again, kicking at him, trying to summon more magic.
He grabbed her wrist and slammed it into the rock. "Keep lying. See what happens."
"She accepted me willingly! She doesn't want you anymore—"
Another bite.
And another.
Four fingers gone. The last one trembled in her palm like it knew what was coming.
"Where," he growled, "is my wife?"
The Crone gritted her teeth. "I will destroy her! I will burn what's left of her soul if you don't let me go!"
Mike tilted his head. Slowly.
Thinking about what Thanatos had told him, he laughed.
"Nice try," he said coldly. "But you won't be able to do that."
She froze.
Mike's claw rose, and with surgical precision, he pierced her left shoulder. The entire limb jerked as her nerves ignited in agony.
Behind him, Mephistopheles was leaning forward in his conjured chair, eyes gleaming with sadistic glee. He clapped softly. "Delightful. Not boring at all. You've exceeded expectations."
Mike ignored him. The Crone tried to speak, tried to twist her body away, but Mike's weight bore down on her, his claws like shackles. She writhed. She begged. She cursed him, cursed his wife, cursed the gods.
He didn't care.
He bit off her entire forearm next, shaking it violently before spitting the bones aside.
Magic poured from her open wound, lightless, desperate, crumbling.
"You fucking monster!" she screamed, blood-soaked teeth bared. "I'll kill you and your bitch wife! I'll—"
Mike's claw drove into her other shoulder and pinned her like a butterfly on display. She convulsed under him, her mouth wide in a silent scream.
He leaned down.
"No," he growled. "You won't."
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her power was crumbling.
Her words were empty now.
Mike leaned back and raised his head. "You never were her," he said, voice low. "You never touched what made her real."
And with that, he bit off her head.
The final scream was muffled inside his jaws. Then silenced.
He stood slowly, letting her lifeless body collapse to the rock, twitching once before going still. Smoke coiled from the remains.
Mephistopheles stood, clapping harder now. "Truly marvelous," he said. "Bravo. That was art."
Mike turned toward him, eyes burning.
"Where is the Hecate who's using my wife's body?"
The devil smiled, calm as ever.
"Ohhh… you finally asked the right question," Mephistopheles said. "For that performance, I suppose you've earned a hint."
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers once more.
A ripple of smoke twisted open beside them.
"She's at an old military base," he said casually. "Virginia. Underground. You'd better hurry, she's preparing a new vessel to replace the one you just killed."
Mike's fists clenched.
Mephistopheles bowed low, his top hat dipping forward. "Till we meet again. I do hope it's this much fun next time."
Without another word, Mike stepped into the portal.
The smoke closed behind him.
Elsewhere...
Night had fallen.
In a conquered sanctuary, walls pulsing with sigils of blood and bone, the Witch stirred.
Hecate sat unmoving on her obsidian throne. Not in silence, her mind was screaming.
The Crone was dead.
Her first self. Her ancient root. The vessel of foresight, of hunger, of necromantic rage.
Destroyed. Consumed.
By him.
Her claws dug into the stone arms of the throne, carving trenches into it. Black smoke curled from her mouth as she breathed heavily, her body trembling not with fear but fury.
Mike had entered the Pit. Mephistopheles summoned the Crone. Giving her to that dragon. Mike tortured her. Killed her.
And now…
Now he was coming.
She had underestimated him.
She wouldn't do it again.
She lifted her hand and re-wove the inner wards, trying to reinforce the cage.
But it was too late.
Inside her mind, something was scratching. A whisper. A hum. A warmth that refused to die.
Kelsey did not sleep at all.
She scratched at the back of her own mind like a trapped animal, clawing through memory, clawing through illusion. She wasn't strong. Not like Mike. Not like Hamza or the others. But she had something none of Hecate's other vessels did.
A memory worth fighting for.
She remembered his hands. His arms. The warmth of his chest against her back when he hugged her in the kitchen. The sound of his laugh when she made dumb jokes. The look in his eyes when he said he loved her the first time.
She remembered.
Hecate's runes flickered.
Her mental seals trembled.
Her bone-wrought wards cracked.
And deep in the spirit realm, where things moved without form, where fate whispered in riddles—
Thanatos watched.
His expression unreadable, but his presence undeniable. He flowed through the spaces Hecate couldn't see. He whispered in languages she couldn't hear. He moved like a tide under her fortress.
He had made a promise.
And when the moment came…
He would keep it.