Deep beneath the ocean, in the heart of the Demon Cult's hidden stronghold, a well-dressed man collapsed to the ground, foam spilling from his lips as his body convulsed violently.
Agony wracked his frame as he gasped for breath, the pain unlike anything a mortal could endure. A full quarter of his soul had been torn from existence—ripped away without mercy. Any lesser being would have succumbed to the sheer torment, slipping into madness or death.
But the Prophet clung on.
With blood filling his mouth, he bit down hard, anchoring himself to the last fraying thread of consciousness. Slowly, desperately, he began the harrowing process of mending his fractured soul. An hour passed—each minute stretched by searing pain—before his condition stabilised.
At last, his blurred vision began to clear, the haze parting just enough for him to see. He had survived.
Barely.
"Huff… Huff… Power of Law… It was the Power of Law! How could someone other than the Goddess possess it?!"
