Alucard walked over to the rib-vault entrance, tightening his blindfold as he stared at the three.

  “Once you enter, I assure you that there will be no tourism. You’ll be transported straight into Medea’s primary spot along with all the refugees.”

  “All the other refugees?” Dara’s right eyebrow raised, “How many people are there!”

  “I’d say at-least over twenty if we include our own.” Alucard let out a soft chuckle before walking into the abyss of darkness.

  His laughter fading into the fog.

  “I guess we have no choice, it’s either here or Invalia.” Psylaiso itched her slime hair, “What a pain.”

  “Pain in the ass right?” Saraline walked forward, “Pain in the ass I swear.”

  All three walked in.

  “Our first set of Floria’s failed rebels arrive!”

  A loud and cunning voice was the first thing they heard as they entered.

  Twenty-one silhouettes.

  Some sitting down beside each-other on the dark-black wooden rows whilst others stood firm on the bold, geometric and monochrome floor tiles. A rug forward toward a pedestal where one bold and muscular shadow stood on, confidently. Wielding a massive book in their right palm. A clerestory window behind the figure shun bright, an artwork of Medea’s sign was painted with blood.

  A skull wrapped in thorny flames.

  The other stained darkened glass windows parallel on the right and left side columns had illustrations of all Slavi of now: Ozymandias breaking a man’s spine within a dark alleyway, Ivory calmly fishing with other Medeans, Hecate sipping tea in a cafe and finally Alucard alongside a strange man praying beside each-other.

  The glasses all lead up to the ceiling, with a pattern of an evil eye in heart of the plan. Painted with blood once more.

  However the room didn’t stink of blood but instead it had a pleasant aroma.

  Like a flower.

  “Heya Saraline!”

  Paris Guildford — The Evil, Former First Saint of Floria.

  The man was eagerly waving from the left side of the wooden rows, beside him were two other silhouettes that spun around. He was the first voice, the loud and cunning one that yelped beforehand.

  “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding!”

  Gloxer Levy — The Wrathful, Former Fifth Angel of Floria.

  He was sitting on the right beside Paris, other than the three on that row— there was no one else.

  Ten columns on each row and these three sat in the third closest to the pedestal.

  “Gloxer? Why you hanging out with this bastard?” Dara rolled her eyes, she nudged Saraline in the shoulder causing the Failure to snap back.

  “My bad.”

  “It is.”

  “Where is Alucard?”

  Saraline shrugged, glancing around the room and seeing him speak to the unfamiliar person from the artwork.

  “I’ll answer the first question on his behalf.”

  Hecate Cross — The Principle, Third Slavi of Ostra.

  She snapped her fingers, her left hand holding a cup of tea as she swirled it around.

  “We are only sitting next to this cretin because we await the Lord’s speech.”

  “The Lord’s speech?” Saraline itched her head, “Medea’s welcoming us?”

  “Precisely.”

  “S—Saraline!” A hulking werewolf ran up to the woman, enclosing her in a bear hug.

  Merlin Pronasces — The Ravenous, Former Ninth Saint of Floria.

  He had tears in his eyes, dripping onto the Rebel’s collar as she pat him on the back.

  “Oh Merlin…” She spoke softly.

  “I haven’t even seen your face in so long!” He bellowed, clutching tighter. “After that Reprisal! It’s been absolute torture, I love the new guys but I spent decades with you as comrades! You are practically my family!”

  “Pronasces…”

  “After all! Invalia was my home and it did this! I barely survived the genocide— it was a miracle even meeting you!”

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  “It’s okay.”

  The werewolf let go of her, dropping her to the ground. Wiping a tear off his cheek.

  “It’s good seeing you alive and well.”

  “T—Thank you.” Saraline hesitated, she rubbed her arm as she awkwardly averted her gaze.

  “Merlin, are you really associating yourself with a traitor?” A smug voice that was standing up called, causing both he and the Rebels to look forward.

  Lianous Cragis — The Lusted, Former Sixth Saint of Floria.

  The man flicked his hair upward, standing in-between the rows as he gave a callous expression.

  “Look who it is,” Psylaiso held Saraline’s chest as she stepped forward, “It’s the guy that lied about his friend’s death.”

  “Alabendo was not a friend of mine.” Lianous emphasised both ‘friend’ and ‘mine’ as he scoffed, “If the strongest Angel grabbed you by the collar and said you jump— you’d jump.”

  “Sounds like you don’t have a backbone.”

  “For a mere object that Thidos used, you have a lot of gull speaking toward me like that.”

  “Floria’s destroyed, what do you have? A name from that place? You hold no title of ‘The Lusted’ in Ostra, am I right?”

  Lianous’s right eye twitched as he snapped his head. Snootily walking toward one of the seats on the right-hand before sitting down beside two other individuals. The fifth column closest to the pedestal.

  “Sara—line Grover and co.” A cocky and arrogant voice bellowed from the seats.

  Felix Nightingale — The Atlas, Former Second Saint of Floria.

  He was one of the two that Lianous decided to sit next to, he eyed down all three rebels before shrugging.

  “How’s Nightingale Corpo?” Dara smugly lifted her head, “Shambles?”

  Felix’s face dropped, a vein ripping on his forehead as he violently shook in his seat.

  “You know that’s an extremely sensitive topic, he hadn’t even said anything yet. Why so defensive? Is it some coping mechanism for your dissociative identity disorder.” The voice next to Felix chimed.

  Ozymandias Ramses (Formerly Heroney) — The King of Kings, Second Slavi of Ostra.

  He pouted his lips as he petted Felix’s shoulder. His eyes still looming on Dara.

  “Well I’d like an answer.”

  “Ouch.” Dara hit her right shoulder, “Bringing up my mental health problems really molds a dent inside of me.”

  “Well is being a smug asshole a coping mechanism for you?”

  “You can ask those two right beside you that same thing.”

  “You avoid the question like it’s the Eclipse— good grief.” Ozymandias grinned, fixing his crown of thorns.

  “I assume we’ve never met. I am Dara Sepers, a Cassette of the now deceased Floria. A hyde.”

  “Ozymandias Ramses, and yes we have never met but I did see you on television. Oh boy, what a show you three put on. Especially you Saraline, kickstarted your rebellion phase. Like a Jaegarist. I mean, you have a bod so maybe you should’ve went to—”

  “Please stop antagonising our friend.” Two synchronised voices from two rows columns ahead chimed.

  Pollux Wilson — The Former Eighth Saint and Castor Wilson — The Former Sixth Saint of Floria, both representing the Arcana.

  “Is the venue open for children?” Ozymandias scoffed fixing his hair, “Wait, you are those two.”

  “What?” The androgynous duo both tilted their head.

  “You’re the two that Ivory congratulated right— you have his blessing or some sort.”

  “He was supposed to kill that boy beside you.” They both pointed at Lianous, a snide grin on both of their faces. “That’s why we worked so hard.”

  “I have question for you pre-teens.” Dara was about to continue but Saraline held her mouth shut.

  Pollux raised their hand, mumbling, “We’re actually twent—”

  “Don’t.” She sternly spoke, “I love you Dara but majority of these Saints did nothing wrong to me. We are Cassettes right? We play back the correct history and these folks were in there— they’re special.”

  “You forgot about them! You barely even speak about any of them.” Dara shoved off Saraline’s hand, “How’d I know you secretly love them! You’re pissing me off!”

  “Pissing you off?”

  “Yeah you are!”

  “Enough.” Psylaiso barged in between both, “Dara is right though! You don’t speak on them so how’d we know!”

  “I shouldn’t have to— I spent decades with them so they’re my blood basically. We fought underneath the same treacherous God and even Lianous wasn’t bad at the time!”

  “It’s ok.” Psylaiso cupped Saraline’s cheeks, “Let go.”

  “That’s so sweet.” A feminine voice came from the left side, directly in front of Gloxer were two silhouettes sitting down.

  Ilya Phillips — The Platinum, Former First Seraphim of Floria.

  She cooed as she stared at the three, budging the person beside her.

  Nyx — The Dead, Former Tenth Saint of Floria.

  “It’s quite sweet.” The Jiang-Shi vampire nodded his head, an arm around Ilya’s neck.

  “Ilya I have a small question— really small.” Gloxer placed his fingers together, leaning out of his seat.

  “What is it?” The Seraphim slumped her head into Nyx’s arm.

  “Are you two… a couple?”

  “N—” Nyx was about to speak but Ilya put her finger on his lips.

  “Floria just got destroyed by a malevolent tyrannical bastard girl and you ask me that!”

  “It was simply a question, you two are seriously close…“ Gloxer backed away, mumbling to himself as he slouched in his seat.

  The two snapped back around.

  “Hah. Loser.” Paris gave a mocking leer to Gloxer before speaking with Hecate.

  “It seems everyone’s quite cozy in here.” Dara slid her hands into her pockets, gazing around.

  “I’d say we’re blessed.” A commanding, deep and feral voice came from behind.

  Dara, Saraline and Psylaiso slowly turned around and saw an even taller shadow casted upon them.

  Ivory Timpleson — The First, First Slavi of Ostra.

  “He’s even…” Dara mumbled.

  “Could Rallio take him?” Psylaiso gazed at Dara who began to tremble.

  “Rallio?” Ivory coldly spoke— his eyes landing on Dara, “That city-destroying terror in Floria? You are that creature?”

  “D—Did you not watch the Reprisal?” Saraline gulped.

  “I was… hunting.”

  “It was viral— everywhere. Technology was still a potato for civilians and they saw, you’re a fucking Slavi.”

  “Are you speaking to me like that? Come to recognise it, you three tried to make a joke out of me on your last entrance here.”

  “D—Did we?”

  “Where is your Imp to save you? Or maybe during his tirade, he’ll kill you.” He jabbed a finger in-between Saraline’s breasts, pushing her backward.

  “Watch where you push.”

  A foreign voice spoke, laying a hand on Ivory’s shoulder.

  Peria Tatajuri — The Omniscient, Former Second Angel of Floria.

  Ivory’s gaze averted to the hand, his body twitching.

  “You wish to face me one on one— whilst you almost died in a group attack? I reminded you just in case I gave you amnesia with how I dealt with you.”

  “Don’t do that to Saraline.” Peria’s eyes glinted yellow, “Leave her alone.”

  “Are you some white-knight? Will you seriously risk your life over someone who doesn’t even know your name?” Ivory gnarled his teeth.

  “Am I not a protector?”

  “You can be a dead man instead.”

  Dara, Saraline and Psylaiso snooped out the altercation, sitting on one of the right side rows near the entrance.

  “I’d say we never met.”

  The three got spooked by another ensemble of three on the same wooden seats.

  Babael Mammon— The Spokesman, Former Second Seraphim of Floria.

  Sir Beelzebub Liabuul — Lord of Flies, Former Third Seraphim of Floria.

  Azrael Modeus — The Protector, Former Fourth Seraphim of Floria.

  “We are the Seraphims.” Azrael flicked his unkempt hair upward, “We were introduced as soon as you were… fired.”

  “Only lasted half a decade.” Saraline held her chuckle, “Is that really a feat?”

  Dara eye-rolled as Saraline finished her sentence, Beelzebub noticed.

  “Compared to a trait—” Beelzebub was about to retaliate but Psylaiso cut in.

  “You now know the evils of Thidos! Do you seriously still abide by him? She’s not a traitor— you’re just a reta—”

  “Oh hello.” A familiar voice called from behind the row.

  Alucard Pareal (Shadowy Head) — The False, Fifth Slavi of Ostra.

  Beside the Slavi was a strange figure with a sinister mystique around him.

  A huge young man: warm brown skin as he was wearing a plain black t-shirt stained with a blood pattern of a snake.

  His trousers were pitch-black along with his shoes.

  He had curly hair cut around his neck as he stared with dark, soulless eyes. Slim physique, with high-set cheekbones in his youthful face.

  “Is this the Fourth Slavi?” Dara narrowed her eyes as she stared around.

  It had to be…

  “Yes.” Alucard nodded his head calmly, “This is our replacement for the presumed deceased, Gabriel Khan.

  This is a Medean native with a unique quirk about him.”

  “Which is?” Psylaiso snapped her fingers.

  “It is that he is normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “He tamed the dragon Fafnir— one of the founding members of the Seven Deadly Sins in Invalia so many years ago!

  His name is..”

  Silas Marange— The Liar, Fourth Slavi of Ostra.