After all forces had returned from the Western Region, they wasted no time resuming the search within the active zones. From that same night until the following day's noon, the hunt continued without pause. Yet, just like the fruitless sweep of the Land of Ruins, nothing emerged—no trace, no clue, nothing to bring them closer to finding Sheila.
But while their efforts remained barren, something else began to rise.
In the days that followed, hybrid sightings surged drastically across the continent. The situation escalated to a point where it became nearly impossible to keep the truth from the public. Two days after the failed Western search, whispers of panic began to seep through the civilian population as word of hybrid encounters spread.
There was a distinct difference between the fear of demons and the fear of hybrids. Demons, at least, were a known terror—monsters from beyond that could be fought, feared from a distance, or imagined breaking down your door. But hybrids? Hybrids could be anyone. A neighbor. A friend. A parent. A child. That was a different kind of fear. The kind that gnawed at your soul. The kind that turned homes into ticking time bombs.
And so, another continental announcement was made.
A broadcast that swept across all of Amthar's regions, reaching every zone and every settlement, rural or royal. It revealed the truth in full—no more half-truths, no more silence. The people were told of the Demon Lord that now walked their land. Of Sylvathar and his grotesque ambition to forge a new demon race by twisting humans into half-Gaia demons. Of Princess Sheila Granger's abduction, and how Sylvathar needed her divine light to complete his master plan. And, most terrifying of all, the looming possibility of a fourth demon war—one not waged against demons from another plane, but against those who once were human.
A war unlike any before.
The reactions across Amthar were exactly what Lucy had expected.
From the Crescent Kingdom to Solara to Tempest, cities erupted with emotion. Fear gripped the common folk. Disbelief echoed through the halls of scholars. Terror rooted itself in the hearts of children. Some civilians turned their panic into anger—outraged at how long the truth had been withheld from them by their monarchs. Why were they only hearing this now? Why had they been kept in the dark?
Lucy anticipated all of it—and she didn't hold it against them.
Together, she, Valemir, and Tharion stood before their people and made their vow. Amthar would not fall. Not now. Not to Sylvathar. Not to despair. Humanity had always survived. It had always adapted. And this time would be no different.
In response to the growing fear and the spike in hybrid sightings, mass house sweeps were launched across every zone. Knights, handpicked and trained, were dispatched to inspect homes, strongholds, estates, and villages, ensuring no hybrids were hiding among the people.
The three days that followed were intense. Hybrid sightings increased exponentially. But so did the response.
Thanks to Dove and the collaboration of alchemists from all three kingdoms, the production of detection crystals accelerated rapidly. These tools made it possible to find hybrids much faster. And what they found was sobering.
Hybrids were everywhere.
From nobles' mansions to merchants' manors. From orphanages to military barracks. From Zone 1 to Zone 19—no region was untouched. But strangely, none of these hybrids were powerful. Not one posed the threat level of even a horror-class demon. At most, their strength rivaled that of an evolved feral-class. Dangerous, yes. Deadly, absolutely. But not unstoppable.
Still, they had to be hunted. Had to be killed before they turned on the innocent.
Yet, what disturbed the monarchs and their councils most wasn't just the widespread infiltration—it was the victims. Most of the hybrids seemed unaware they'd even been turned. They lived normal lives, held conversations, raised families, trained as soldiers—completely ignorant of the monster lying dormant in their bodies.
How could something like that happen without anyone noticing?
How could hybrids be created under the very noses of the Kingdom's finest minds? Moreover, how could the people themselves not know of what they had become?
No one had answers. So the questions were shelved, and the hybrid sweeps continued.
Meanwhile, a smaller force remained stationed in the Land of Ruins. The official search had ended, but Lucy had given orders for a quiet, continued investigation. Just in case something had been missed. Just in case there was a trail buried deeper than their spells could initially reach.
But as five days passed, even that hope faded.
Nothing surfaced. Not a clue. Not a sound. Not even a false lead to follow. The Land of Ruins remained as it always had been—dead, silent, and scarred by the wars of the past.
On the fifth day of the hybrid sweeps, knights continued their relentless patrols across cities and towns, moving from house to house with sharpened focus. Their orders remained clear: eliminate hybrids on sight. Yet, as straightforward as the command was, many knights found the task emotionally taxing. Most of the hybrids still bore their human appearances—faces of neighbors, friends, family. But mercy had no place in this war. It had to be done.
Meanwhile, within the royal palace of the Tempest Kingdom, Queen Lucy sat in her private study. Composed and regal as ever, she faced two hovering magical projections: King Valemir of the Crescent Kingdom on her right, and King Tharion of the Solara Kingdom on her left.
The monarchs were locked in serious discussion. The topic: civilian safety.
They debated the logistics of relocating the population to secured sites, perhaps even underground shelters. With no way to predict when—or if—a horde of stronger hybrids might suddenly emerge, keeping civilians in exposed cities was a risk they could no longer afford. An unannounced assault would overwhelm defenses, increase casualties, and scatter their forces into chaos.
"We must remain ready for anything," Lucy said, her voice steady but firm, her emerald gaze shifting between Valemir and Tharion. "Keeping our people stationed in what could become a battlefield isn't preparedness. It's a countdown to our own downfall."
She paused briefly, then continued. "It's been five days since Sheila's abduction."
At the mention of his daughter, Valemir's expression shifted—barely, but enough. Lucy saw it.
"And yet," she said, "Sylvathar has made no decisive move. No major offensive. Only these weak hybrids that continue to appear. That can mean only two things: he's preparing for a larger strike, or he has yet to use Sheila's divine light—or possibly both."
"Either way," she added, "we cannot keep dealing with these scattered hybrid threats while civilians are exposed. A war could break out any moment."
A heavy silence followed, the weight of her words sinking in. Then Tharion finally spoke.
"You're right," he said. "We need to relocate every civilian to secure sites. Underground camps would be ideal. If battle reaches the surface, they'll be protected."
"Fortunately," Valemir added, his tone distant, "each of our kingdoms has a secure underground shelter built for contingencies . They were designed for wartime emergencies. We'll put them to use."
"Then it's settled," Lucy said, leaning forward slightly, her voice decisive. "We begin immediate evacuation. I'll send orders to my commanders and initiate preparations on our end."
"I'll do the same," Tharion replied with a short nod.
Valemir said nothing, only offering a single, curt nod—confirmation that the Crescent Kingdom would act accordingly.
"Then, gentlemen," Lucy said, her expression calm, "I wish you both strength and success."
Tharion's projection bowed slightly in farewell before flickering out of sight.
Just as Valemir's image began to fade, Lucy spoke again.
"Valemir," she said softly, her voice laced with quiet sincerity. "I want you to know—Sheila will be found. Before this crisis ends."
Valemir looked at her. His eyes were tired, hollow, as if hope itself had long since slipped through his grasp.
"Don't make promises you can't control, Lucy," he said. "You know those are your father's words. So don't offer me false hope. My people need me focused, not clinging to comfort I didn't ask for."
And with that, his projection vanished.
Lucy sat still for a moment, her gaze lingering on the space where Valemir's image had been. Then she sighed, quiet and low.
"I know my father's words," she murmured to herself with a faint smile. "And I honor them."
Her smile faded into a determined stillness. She would do everything in her power to find Sheila—the young girl whose father, a king, had already begun preparing himself to mourn her.
Deep within the underground wing of the Tempest Palace, in the same training hall Liam had frequented since his arrival, the air hung with a familiar tension. He stood in silence, dressed in a finely tailored dark tunic—crafted for mobility but not without elegance. Silver embroidery traced the collar, cuffs, and hem in delicate patterns that caught the light only when he moved. Gray, form-fitting sleeves wrapped around his arms, adding a blend of comfort and utility, while a double-buckled leather belt crossed neatly at his waist, securing the look without restricting motion.
In his right hand, he held his fire–shadow javelin, its sleek design flickering faintly with embers of red and shadow. His stance was relaxed but alert, his crimson eyes locked on the figure standing across from him.
Mabel stood poised a few paces away, clad in the sleek black uniform of the Royal Corps. Her dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her expression, mostly hidden behind her mask, left only her sharp hazel-brown eyes visible. They didn't waver as they met Liam's gaze.
In her hand, she held a blade Liam had only seen her wield once—the first time they fought. It was a long, elegant sword, forged in a deep, obsidian black as though it had been dipped in night. Its curved edge glinted with a deadly shimmer, and the blade hummed faintly, whispering promises of precision and danger. The hilt was carved with jagged, tribal motifs, ornate and brutal in design. Veins of gold threaded through the pattern like molten light, and the pommel was crowned with a sharp, spiked end—lethal even in retreat.
"Ready, Liam?" Mabel asked, her voice cool and even behind the mask.
Liam spun his javelin once with ease, adjusting his footing and lowering his stance.