CHAPTER 260: INTRODUCTION OF FIVE DEAD SINS.

The cavern breathed like a living thing, a slow, damp exhale that carried the scent of iron and rot.

At the center of that gloom sat a throne made of layered bone and rusted metal.

The Shadow Disciple lounged on it as if the seat were his right, though its crooked crown was a mockery: small, cracked, and suited only to a weak lord.

He rose now with an impatient snap.

"My beloved strong ones... please, come in," he said, and the words slid through the cavern like oil.

He swept his hand in a swift motion.

The motion cut through the stale air and the shadows answered — not as loose whispers but as deliberate ripples, summoning those who had been waiting beyond the veil.

Five figures stepped through the dark like five different storms.

They moved from the shadows as if emerging from a mirror: human in shape, but not human in presence.

Each wore simple clothing that would not look out of place in a town square — a cloak, a leather vest, a pair of boots — and yet their eyes were not ordinary.

The light caught them and revealed faint traces of something wrong: pallid skin with a hint of smoke, irises that never quite reflected the cavern’s red light, smiles that didn’t match their faces.

The Shadow Disciple watched them with a tired half-grin. "I keep the strong ones and kill the weak ones," he said.

"As for the throne — ahh — I grow weary of sitting at the seat of a weakling. I must deal with the weak ones day by day, and my lord grows impatient with every delay."

"They’ll come," one of the demons said softly.

"Mortals are always predictable."

The Shadow Disciple snapped his fingers. "Here’s the plan. Listen."

He stepped down from the throne and approached them.

"Our... human contractor has sent word. Arcadia Academy plans a demon-clearing at Silverroot Glade Valley, East Arcadia, in six days."

"The heroes are first year and if i assume right, they will be weak right now"

A murmur threaded through the five.

Faces turned to one another, head flexed.

The Shadow Disciple smiled thinly. "We will not meet them as weaklings. We will meet them as the worst they can hope to face."

He swept his hand again and the cavern walls shimmered.

Symbols formed in the air and a map of the valley unfurled, inked in shadow: ridges of trees, a wide stream that cut the glade in half, an old stone ruin at its heart.

The projection showed paths and potential ambush points.

"Before we speak of strategy," he said, "introduce yourselves in turn. Tell me your names and — more importantly — your sin. The Five Deadly Sins will not be a meaningless flourish. Each of you will embody what your enemy fears most."

The first stepped forward. His fingers are long and precise.

When he spoke his voice was soft.

"Varrun," he said. "Mage of Envy." He touched his cloak; frost crawled where his fingers passed.

"I study what others have and take it. Mana, memory, sight—whatever I desire, I can borrow and make it my own."

Varrun’s eyes glittered with a strange hunger. The Shadow Disciple inclined his head. Envy was a useful blade.

Next came a broad-shouldered figure, armored in plain leather but moving with the easy grace of someone who’d spent years in single combat.

A faint scar traced his jaw. "Kaelthor," he said. "Pride incarnate. I am the blade that will be remembered. I fight for glory and I break those who dare stand before me."

He drew a short sword and spun it in one hand, watching it carve the air as if eager for blood.

"You love the spotlight," the Shadow Disciple murmured, amused.

"Good. Let the students remember what pride tastes like."

The third was wide and silent, a shadow of a man built like a boulder.

His armor seemed to eat light. When he spoke his voice came from the chest with a rumble, slow and heavy.

"Grathun," he said. "Gluttony of steel. I take what the world throws at me and grow larger. Hit me and I will swallow the blow as if feeding." He smiled, and the smile was hungry in a way that made even the bones on the throne seem fragile.

"An immovable wall," said the Shadow Disciple.

"Use it to shield our offenses."

Number four had knotted arms and a look of barely contained flame.

His movements were quick, his jaw set as if always on the edge of breaking.

"Rylik," he said. "Wrath. I am the fist that refuses restraint. I do not plan; I act. I break, I burn, I end."

He clenched his fingers and the air near him seemed to pulse.

Wrath would scatter lines and break formations. Excellent, thought the Disciple.

The last was slight, eyes like a hawk, fingers forever in the motion of drawing a bow that did not exist.

He smiled thinly. "Serath," he said. "Avarice. I take what I find valuable and leave the rest to rot.

Steady hands, patient eyes. I steal the lifelines."

The five — Varrun, Kaelthor, Grathun, Rylik, Serath — stood before the Shadow Disciple with their human faces.

Together they would be a blade with different edges: mind, honor, body, fury, and precision.

The Shadow Disciple turned and fixed each of them with a gaze that might have been expectation or condemnation.

"We move in six days," he said. "Our human contractor sent this message. He claimed the academy intends to clear Silverroot Glade Valley to root out our lesser lairs. He is often paid well for truth. This time he brought more than words. He brought us an opportunity."

He paused. On the map, the ruin at the glade’s center pulsed faintly.

"He says a group of first-years will go. They are bright, they are loud, and they are naive. If we leave none, then our second lord will not be bothered. This will please him. This will be the story they tell."

Varrun stepped forward, fingers tapping a rhythm on his palm.

"What of the human contractor? How did he learn this so precisely?"

The Shadow Disciple’s smile sharpened. "He owes us favors. He trades secrets for protection. In the city he plays both sides: he sells information to hunters and to demons. He keeps one hand dirty and the other clean. When he told me this, I checked the truth with the lesser spies. The date fits. The academy’s march will pass the old stone ruin."

Grathun grunted.

"Bodies then?" His mouth showed a brief crimson of hunger. "Or trophies?"

"Trophies," Kaelthor said without hesitation. "We will take their weapons and we will take out their lungs and feast them. The academy will weep at their loss."

He glanced at Elysia’s name in the Disciple’s report and then looked away. Pride liked headlines.