CHAPTER 387: JOY OF DEMONS-II

When the demon finally closed Arabella’s eyes, the silence shattered. Sounds Cassius had grown accustomed to losing crashed back into his ears like a volley of arrows, sharp and disorienting. He winced, clutching his temple until his keen hearing gradually adjusted. By the time he steadied himself, he found her green eyes again, softer now, much more humane and filled with the gentle emotion that she would always face the world with.

But Arabella’s expression shifted as she realized her position: reclined against Cassius’s legs, head resting there like a contented cat begging for affection.

"Ah, I was standing beside you," she murmured, flustered, pushing herself up.

Cassius’s hand caught her shoulder, pressing her gently back against his leg. His smile was faint but warm, rare in its honesty.

"Don’t worry," he whispered. "Just stay there for a while."

The words weren’t about her comfort, she realized. They were about his. He wanted her closer, as though her presence alone steadied him against the lingering shadow of the demon.

She nodded, subdued, while Xavier shifted uneasily in his seat. His discomfort at first seemed like embarrassment at their closeness, but soon Arabella noticed the restless way he rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flicking toward the window again and again.

Her frown deepened. "Did you see something?"

"Ah? Oh, no," Xavier said too quickly. His unease lingered before he admitted in a low voice, "I didn’t see anyone, but... I felt it. A presence. Strange. Heavy. Didn’t you sense it?"

"Odd?" Arabella tilted her head, brows knitting. She felt nothing at all. Driven by curiosity, she rose, crossed to the window, and unlatched it. Cold air swept in as she leaned out, scanning the courtyard below.

Only ordinary life met her eyes: a pair of servants escorting the doctor from the Baron’s chambers. Nothing more. She drew back with a quiet shake of her head. "No. I didn’t feel anything."

Cassius’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful, unsettlingly sharp.

She truly hadn’t sensed it. If even Xavier, a half bake witch nor sorcerer, could feel the shift, but Arabella could not, then the reason was clear. The presence wasn’t outside her.

It was inside.

The demon.

And her blindness to it was proof enough.

"The rest of the story," Cassius continued picking the book from where he was, "Seems that after Arabella talks to the demon, they came to an agreement. But the agreement about finding me to Hell." He pressed his tone when he reached the last word of his sentence. "Is it possible for a human to enter Hell?"

Arabella turned sharply toward him, her pulse quickening. It was strange enough to think she could converse with a demon, stranger still to believe one might dwell within her.

And stranger still... a demon who promised to drag her into Hell in search of Cassius.

"But the way the story insinuates," she said slowly, her brows furrowing, "it sounds as though you will go to Hell first."

Cassius didn’t flinch. The prospect seemed to amuse him rather than unsettle.

"I suppose," he drawled, leaning back with a soft hum. "There’s only one way to learn whether someone can enter Hell at will."

Arabella’s green eyes widened as the realization struck her. "By asking the one who’s already been there."

"Correct." Cassius’s smile curved, dangerous and knowing, before his gaze shifted lazily toward the great grandfather clock. The pendulum swung with steady, merciless rhythm. "And if I’m not mistaken, she should be awake- any moment now."

While the castle slept in heavy midnight silence, Atlas alone remained wakeful. His eyes burned with fatigue, lids heavy from days without rest, but still he read. A cavernous yawn escaped him as he turned another fragile page of the battered book in his hands, Circe’s old notebook, filled with her studies on demons.

When he reached the final section, he paused. The last page was jagged, torn clean through.

Frowning, Atlas carefully undid the ribbon binding the notebook, easing the brittle papers loose. From within, he uncovered a half sheet, its words unfinished, abruptly severed.

His eyes scanned the fragment. It spoke not of demons, but of something beyond them:

The possibility of transcending... a power even demons could not attain. A power that could raise a mere human beyond the reach of gods and monsters alike.

The rest was gone.

Atlas’s grip tightened on the fragment as unease prickled down his spine. What had Circe discovered, and who had stolen the answer from these pages?

He sighed, laying the broken book aside, though the weight of it pressed heavily against his thoughts.

When Atlas reached for his teacup, his elbow struck the porcelain vase beside it. The crash startled him awake as cool water spilled across the table, soaking the notebook he had been poring over.

"Damn it—" Atlas hissed, snatching the battered book from the spreading pool. He pressed the damp pages against his shirt, trying in vain to blot the moisture. That was when he noticed it, the dark lines rising where the water touched. Ink, hidden until now, bleeding into legibility.

Heart pounding, Atlas set the book flat beneath the candlelight. The words glistened faintly, written in a hand he recognized at once.

To the person who has found this note.

Circe’s handwriting.

Atlas’s breath caught. His fingers tightened on the paper as he devoured the words, penned in hurried strokes as though written under great strain.

Foolish it is, for humans to seek the knowledge of omnipotence. Yet hunger, greed, and hate drive us to repeat this cycle. Again and again, century after century. That is how demons were created, not angels abolished from Heavens but humans who had gone and steal the power of the light without its blessing. Thieves would always be caught, red handed, and to suffer the consequence of their own action. If you have taken this book in hopes of claiming the power all covet, I beg you, stop.

Her voice, usually sharp and commanding, carried here an unfamiliar tremor, like a plea carved through desperation.

But... if you still intend to proceed, then heed me well: never let this book fall into the wrong hands.

Atlas’s stomach knotted as the words continued, jagged where the pen had pressed too deep.

And if you are Morpheus, leave. There is nothing here you do not already know. Your greed for power, your dream of a world of witches and sorcerers alone, your plan to tear this world apart with your lies... may all my descendants curse me for binding the coven with this spell that keeps them caged.

The ink here had bled almost black, as though her fury had gouged the paper itself.

Do not mistake me. If it keeps you imprisoned in that damned castle, then I rejoice. But I will leave you with two truths.

One, the future I have seen speaks of your death.

Two— it comes at the hands of those you least expect.

Atlas’s throat went dry as he read the final line, every word etched like a blade into the page.

Some sacrifices will be made... but if they stop you, then the price is cheap.