The assembly had co today expecting judgnt.
A trial for the architect of calamity. The curator of centuries of bloodshed. The man—no, the thing—that had fed generations to his machinery of corruption.
They were prepared for atrocity. Lists of cris, scread condemnations, the gavel of justice slamming down on history’s most blasphemous soul.
But this—This was not justice.
This was exorcism by humiliation.
It began, innocently enough, with a na.
Paschasius Yi.
Most of them didn’t know there was ever a beloved Apostle before Rouf, but for so, he was a na that glowed with the sacred sheen of martyrdom. A na ant to invoke sanctity, clarity, righteousness.
Instead, it struck Lancelot like a divine spear. Not in the chest, but in the pride.
And then… the mask cracked.
The Demon Lord didn’t deny it. He raged. He claid. Paschasius was his, he said. His victim, his masterpiece. He shaped him. Held him. Corrupted him.
He painted their bond not with remorse—but with possession.
A twisted intimacy spilled out in molten tar and bile, degrading the Apostle’s mory with every word.
Not at the magic. Not at the grotesque theatrics of cursed flesh and roiling ichor. But at the profanity of emotion Lancelot had let slip. The sorrow under the hatred. The grief dressed as desecration. He hadn’t just destroyed Paschasius. He’d wanted him.
And then Burn… smiled.
No spell. No sermon. Just a shrug. A taunt. A twist of implication.
"You were gay for him?" He said it like a joke—but it landed like judgnt. Not from heaven. Not from gods. From the world.
Because Burn did not accuse Lancelot of sin. He accused him of weakness. Of longing. Of building empires just to forget the warmth of soone else’s faith.
He turned a Demon Lord into a jilted ex. Turned blasphemy into cringe.
And Lancelot broke.
The beast that had devoured kingdoms sputtered, choked, convulsed in sha. It wasn’t the na of God that brought him low. It was the possibility that all his horrors were born not from genius or wrath—but from unwanted crush.
And the assembly, ancient and divine, did not know whether to laugh, gasp, or pray. They had co for justice.
But what they got instead was sothing far more disturbing:
Cringe.
Unholy, cosmic-scale, soul-curdling cringe.
It was fucking shaful.
This was a man—no, a mythic war cri on legs—who had once taken Burn’s most trusted confidant, his covenant brother, and twisted him into a weapon. Not just to destroy, but to degrade. He had warped Aroche into a puppet of guilt and mory just to keep control.
So really, why in all the hells would Burn pull his punches?
No—Burn saw the sore spot and went at it with the enthusiasm of a drunk surgeon wielding a spoon.
“I an,” Burn began, casual as death, “I bet he didn’t even know you.”
He let it hang in the air, deliciously cruel.
“Were you just one of the many he saved? Lancelot, Lancelot… our Father Pascha must’ve been quite the awakening for you, huh?”
And then—Burn turned his back. Not in disrespect. In dismissal. A move so arrogant, it ca full circle and beca art.
And in that instant, Lancelot—harbinger of apocalypse, splitter of heavens—flinched.
Because sohow, for just a flicker of breath, he saw Pascha in Burn’s silhouette.
Burn didn’t stop.
“Rouf must’ve been a real headache for you, huh?” he mused, strolling back toward his throne with a royal sort of spite. “My wife always said Pascha had more wisdom than that sanctimonious twink. Of course you’d fall for the apostle and feel bitter when Rouf Lumine turned out to be just… sparkly dogma with legs.”
Lazarus Lumine dry coughed.
Burn sighed, sitting down with the relaxed posture of a man who knew he'd already won.
“Honestly?” Burn added, idly brushing a fleck of ash off his sleeve, “I think Momo had the sa sentint as .”
The assembly, ancient and divine, once again found themselves helpless. Not against a spell, not against a curse, but against the kind of secondhand sha that made even gods look away.
They had co for a reckoning.
What they got… was a roast. A divine dragging. A humiliation so complete, it might as well have been a sacrant.
“Your Majesty,” Vlad muttered through clenched teeth, part mortified, part stifling an ill-tid laugh, “just because Her Holiness isn’t here doesn’t an you should—speak complete fucking nonsense.”
And yet, nonsense or not, Burn had done the unthinkable: he made a divine court deeply uncomfortable.
“What can I say?” Burn offered, mock-serious. “I’m a jealous husband. Lucia Elle’s, my wife’s past life’s na still gets dragged into the sa breath as that little shit Rouf, and he walks away with all the glory.”
He let the accusation settle like ash over holy robes.
“People love to forget it was Morgan Le Fay doing the cleanup. And she’s still the one stamped as a heretic advocate.”
His gaze swept the chamber, eyes gleaming like twin guillotines.
“And Paschasius? His quiet sacrifice? The one no one speaks of?” Burn’s tone turned venomous with reverence. “Oh, right—none of you talk about it because you were too young to rember his na. Less than a thousand years ago, wasn’t it? Co on, for people like you, it was practically yesterday.”
Then, he turned, razor-sharp and unrelenting.
“And you, Vlad.” He didn't raise his voice—but it landed like a crucifix dropped from orbit. “You senile old vampire. Still calling yourself the Original Saint’s holy cardinal? After you let her walk into the lion’s den and defend your bloodsucking ass while Rouf paraded around with his shiny, racist view?”
Ah, yes. Rouf. The one who famously detested the night-born—the Vampires, the Werewolves, the Beastkin, Dark Elves, Sirens. The one he branded Seeds of Heresy. Even most non-humans almost got the sa treatnt.
“And who, may I ask,” Burn continued, voice smooth as poison in wine, “gave them their… YOUR dignity back? Who defended YOUR right to exist in the light?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He already knew. So did they.
It was Morgan. And it sure as hell wasn’t Rouf.
So finally—inevitably—Vlad broke.
The ancient vampire, ever the image of stoic decorum, let slip the tiniest, most undignified wheeze.
He pressed a gloved hand to his face, as if trying to physically contain the centuries of dry, undead chuckling rattling in his ribcage. His shoulders trembled beneath layers of ceremonial velvet and holy regret.
Behind his veil, the sound of a very old man trying very hard not to cackle echoed like wind in a mausoleum.
He was trying to be respectful. Truly, he was. But God help him—he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much since the invention of sunscreen potion.
This wasn’t just Burn throwing shade. This was celestial stand-up. A courtly exorcism of every unspoken hypocrisy, delivered with the elegance of a brick through stained glass.
And Vlad, jaded and withered though he may be, found it utterly delicious.
If Morgan was here, this man wouldn’t be this unhinged, and now everyone regretted it for myriads of different reasons.
269: Verbal Napalm
The mont it started, Aroche knew it was going to be a shaless roast that would make everyone in attendance look down in sha.
But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t laugh either. He just exhaled—slow, through the nose—the way a man does when his best friend sets fire to a cathedral again and sohow expects applause.
Of course Burn ran his mouth. Of course he went there.
It was never enough to win with dignity. Burn had to salt the earth, repaint the sky, and tattoo his opponent’s sha across history’s face with verbal napalm. It was his nature. Not cruelty for cruelty’s sake—but an almost compulsive need to expose. Strip lies raw. Rip open the myth of authority and shout, “Look! See the ss beneath your sanctified robes!”
So when the bait landed—when Lancelot flinched at the na “Paschasius”—Aroche already knew Burn would press it like a bruise.
But what others might mistake as homophobic mockery, Aroche recognized for what it really was: Burn going for the throat of a liar.
He wasn’t surprised.
Burn wasn’t throwing shade at the sexual attraction, he was dragging the fact that Lancelot, the Second Demon Lord, had the audacity to twist a once-sacred na into a footnote in his pathology.
Like Pascha had ever belonged to him. Like what he did to that man was anything but a long, thodical desecration dressed up as destiny.
The entitlent.
The delusion.
Aroche just sighed.
“God help us,” Aroche muttered under his breath.
Still the sa familiar ache of standing beside a man who had learned long ago that if justice wouldn't co from the divine, he'd burn the heavens down to make it happen himself.
And make you laugh while he did it.
Even when it hurt. Especially when it did.
“Your Majesty,” Aroche said, massaging the bridge of his nose like he was trying to push the chaos back into his skull, “please, stop before you offend the ignorant. And kindly rember—there are children present.”
Burn didn’t miss a beat. “Jealous, brother?”
“Oh my God,” Aroche groaned, tossing both hands toward the heavens like he was offering them his last shred of patience. “Yes, absolutely. I’m seething with envy over Lord Paschasius. The last man you exalted like this was Belezak Edensworn—but this one? This one’s special, isn’t he?”
A reluctant flicker tugged at Burn’s lips—small, brief, involuntary. But it was enough.
Isaiah groaned aloud, full-bodied and pained. “Wretched cur…” muttered the Eastern Dragon, dragging a hand down his face, pausing to rub the jagged spot where his horn used to be—now reforged as Burn’s latest sword. “Anon, summon fair Miss Momo, that she might remind this man he is married, and allegedly walketh the path of heterosexual resolve.”
Vlad still valiantly trying not to laugh. The effort contorted his dignified old face into a near-caricature of composure. A few other mbers followed suit, each producing expressions that looked suspiciously like constipation.
Yvain Edensworn, Burn’s own adopted son, sank further into his seat, looking one snide comnt away from disowning himself.
“Sir, with all due respect—” Lazarus began, raising his voice, though it trembled slightly as he fought to suppress his laughter.
“Regarding the scripture about Lord Rouf’s view of certain races… Yes, it’s true that he once referred to beings like Vampires, Werewolves, Dark Elves, and others as the so-called ‘Seed of Heresy.’ But really, it was rely an acknowledgnt of their nature—sothing that couldn’t, or perhaps shouldn’t, be denied.”
“I’m aware,” Burn said, his voice low and deliberate, like the calm before a storm. “I also considered that, in those tis, those creatures were the most common—and conveniently vulnerable—when it ca to dealing with corruption. But those tis are long gone, Lazarus. Surely, you and I can agree that clinging to such a perspective now will do nothing but deepen the divide between us.”
“Yes, sir,” Lazarus replied with a practiced smile, his tone carefully asured. “And, to be fair, the interpretations of his words back then were already… less than pure. Skewed by the people, not the Lord himself. History, as always, has a way of distorting even the clearest of intentions.”
As Lazarus turned and exchanged a knowing nod with Vlad, the old vampire returned the gesture with the kind of ease that spoke of long-standing understanding. Both seed to silently agree on what everyone already knew: Rouf, for all his sanctity, had ant well—it was painfully obvious to anyone who had lived through those tis.
But as the Apostle who graced the earth for only a fleeting mont, his decrees—no matter how well-docunted—were bound to be debated, misinterpreted, and twisted to fit the agendas of those who followed.
Burn, however, found no satisfaction in the quiet camaraderie growing between the Luminus and the representatives of the night-born. Even the mild, understanding reactions from Onulph Sam and the other mythical creatures grated on him.
It wasn’t that he enjoyed disturbing the peace—though so might argue otherwise—but to him, this fragile harmony was built on an unspoken acceptance of sothing inherently flawed. It irked him.
“And what about his little inventions, hmm?” Burn finally broke the silence, his tone asured but laced with an edge of pettiness.
“The religious symbols he devised to fight the darkness. The formulas he crafted to concentrate holy power so intensely that the dwellers of the night—your people—couldn’t even worship God properly. What about those?” His words lingered in the air, heavy, deliberate, and cutting.
“BWAHAH!”
The question barely had ti to settle before Vlad broke into laughter. It wasn’t the soft, restrained laughter of soone mindful of the solemnity of the mont—it was loud, unrestrained, and utterly shaless.
The ancient vampire laughed so hard he hiccupped, his body trembling with mirth as Bella, standing dutifully at his side, reached out to stroke his back, her smile helpless but kind.
“Aaahhh,” Vlad exclaid between hiccups, his voice thick with amusent. “That Rouf boy truly hated so!” His laughter, raw and unabashed, echoed through the chamber, breaking through the veil of tension like a thunderclap.
Even Lazarus, who had been so composed until now, found himself faltering. He looked down, his discomfort evident as he shifted his weight, clearly unsure whether to join in Vlad’s laughter or maintain the solemnity of the mont.
“Now then,” Burn began, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the hall like a knife through silk. He turned toward the quiet figure suspended in the void seal at the center of the room, the weight of his gaze bearing down on the man who still writhed in impotent fury. “Returning to the matters at hand…”
Burn’s golden eyes narrowed slightly, his tone calm but razor-sharp. “It seems abundantly clear, from both your reaction and the tiline of events, that you were involved in the deaths of not one, but both beloved Apostles.”
“Paschasius… and Rouf,” he continued, his words slow and deliberate, each na dragging the weight of history behind it. “Even today, Rouf’s death remains shrouded in controversy—so many questions, so few answers. Convenient, wouldn’t you agree?”
Burn’s expression darkened, his voice taking on a cutting edge. “And speaking of my so-called ‘lover,’ Belezak Edensworn… hm, let’s not forget my father, Arthur. Or Akram Wysaris, the late King of Elves. Or the countless other assassination targets who all happened to be tied to corruption.”
He took a step closer to the void seal, his tone growing colder, more pointed. “Surely, most of the people in this hall have grievances with you, Lancelot.”
Burn’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile as he tilted his head, looking down at the man who still seethed silently, trapped in the binds of the void seal. “And why wouldn’t they? After all, your sins are as nurous as they are grotesque.”
“Let’s not forget the children,” Burn said, his voice sharp as broken glass, “Used in your experints as young as newborns, including Princess Blair of Inkia. Or the slaves you worked to death, treating them like disposable machines to churn out your precious corrupted mana stones.”
His gaze lingered on Lancelot’s twisted form, his disgust barely contained, “And those are just the sins we know about.” Burn’s voice dropped, low and venomous, “I’m sure there are horrors buried in the centuries of your existence that even we couldn’t uncover.”
Burn straightened, his expression hardening, the faint flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips. “But just for the sake of formality,” he said, “let’s give you the opportunity to voluntarily confess all your sins.”
He paused, his tone growing mockingly light.
“Not that it would earn you anything, of course. No rcy. No benefit. This isn’t a negotiation.” His voice sharpened again, cutting through the room like a whip, “You could also just sit there in silence. That’s fine, too. Either way, it makes no difference. I’ll just find sothing else to humiliate you with.”
The figure in the void seal sneered, his lips curling into an expression of disdain. He scoffed, the sound low and guttural, before finally speaking, his voice dripping with mockery.
“How benevolent.”
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