Marcus strode beside Azazel through the labyrinthine halls of the Grigori headquarters, towards their destination—the armory. The Fallen Angel governor-general had been tight-lipped about the details of their trip until now, and Marcus's curiosity was getting the better of him.

"So, where exactly are we headed?" Marcus asked, breaking the silence.

Azazel gave a smirk, clearly enjoying the suspense. "Ireland. More specifically, Tír na nÓg—the land of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Celtic gods. I've been requested to assist with a bit of a problem."

Marcus's brow furrowed. "What kind of problem?"

"A human connected to the Celtic pantheon has awakened a Sacred Gear—a Twice Critical, to be precise—and it's developed into a subspecies," Azazel explained, as they reached the large, reinforced doors of the armory. "It's causing some issues, and the Celts have asked for my expertise."

Marcus immediately recalled what Cyran had taught him about Sacred Gears, including the Twice Critical. "A Twice Critical… that's the one that contains a sealed lesser dragon, right? Doubling the wielder's power when activated?"

Azazel nodded. "Exactly. But this one developed a subspecies immediately upon awakening."

Marcus frowned, trying to remember what Cyran had mentioned about subspecies Sacred Gears, but he came up blank. "What exactly is a subspecies? Cyran never mentioned them."

Azazel tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Subspecies Sacred Gears are the result of the wielder's emotions and desires warping the original gear, giving it unique characteristics. They're more powerful than the base form and sometimes gain entirely new abilities. In this case, it seems that the subspecies is causing some sort of leak between the wielder and the sealed dragon. The Celts mentioned that the wielder's personality changes significantly when they activate their sacred gear."

Marcus nodded as Azazel opened the armory doors, revealing row upon row of weapons, armor, and enchanted items.

Azazel gestured to one of the lockers. "I've prepared a surprise for you. It's in Locker B47. Go ahead and get ready while I prepare the transportation spells."

Marcus raised an eyebrow as he made his way through the armory, stopping at the designated locker. As the door swung open, he was greeted by a familiar sight, his armor—black and crimson, crafted from dragon scales and wyrm-forged steel. The last time he had worn it, the armor had been damaged far beyond what he thought was repairable. But now, it gleamed as if it were brand new.

He ran his fingers over the scales, noting the circular glyphs slowly flickering across the armor, a telltale sign of Wyrmfire enhancement. "You fixed it?"

Azazel's voice echoed from behind the row of lockers. "Told you I'm the best armorer in the Three Factions. Sourcing those dragon scales wasn't easy, so try not to wreck it again."

Marcus chuckled and donned the armor, feeling the weight settle on his shoulders like an old friend. The familiar snugness brought a sense of comfort, and for the first time since his arrival in this world, he felt fully prepared for what lay ahead.

He emerged from behind the locker to find Azazel tinkering with a complex magical array on the floor, glowing with the faintest hint of divine energy. The fallen angel glanced up with a satisfied nod.

"All set? Good," Azazel said, clapping his hands together. "Any last-minute questions?"

"Just one," Marcus said, tightening the straps on his gauntlets. "Do you have any curatives? I used to carry a good supply of them."

Azazel looked momentarily puzzled before his expression cleared. "Ah, medical supplies. Don't worry about that. This trip shouldn't involve any major combat, and I'm proficient in healing magic. If either of us gets hurt, I'll get us back in one piece."

Azazel finished arranging the magical circle on the floor, the intricate lines glowing softly as the energy flowed through them. He stepped into it, motioning Marcus to stand beside him.

"Stay close," Azazel said. "This will be quick, but the crossing dimensions can be tricky. Best not to drift too far from me during the teleport."

Marcus gave a curt nod and soon after the magical circle lit up and began to spin, pulling at the edges of reality itself. The symbols flared bright, and in an instant, the world around them dissolved into a blur of light and motion.

When the light faded, Marcus found himself standing in a place unlike any he had seen before. The air was crisp and clear, the sky a vivid blue that stretched endlessly above them. Rolling green hills and ancient stone structures dotted the landscape, each one radiating a deep, ancient power. It was a realm untouched by the modern world—Tír na nÓg, the mythical home of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

Waiting for them at the entrance of a grand stone hall was a tall, golden-haired figure, clad in gleaming armor. His eyes sparkled with the light of a thousand suns, and his presence was both commanding and welcoming. Beside him stood a smaller attendant, equally regal in her bearing.

Azazel grinned and stepped forward. "Lugh! It's been too long."

Lugh, one of the most powerful gods of the Celtic pantheon, smiled warmly as he clasped Azazel's hand. "Near a thousand years by my count. It's good to see you again Azazel." glancing at Marcus he continued, "I see you've brought a companion."

Marcus gave a respectful nod, unsure of the proper greeting for a god in this world. Lugh studied him for a moment before turning back to Azazel. "Shall we get down to business?"

Azazel nodded, his playful demeanor giving way to professionalism. "Yes, tell us what's going on with the Twice Critical."

Lugh's expression turned serious as he led them toward the hall. "The wielder is a spirit inheritor of Beowulf. They awakened their Twice Critical a few weeks ago, and it immediately evolved into a subspecies; granting them physical attributes of a dragon—scales, claws, horns, and even a breath weapon–when the gear is active."

Azazel nodded, intrigued. "A unique subspecies for a Twice Critical, but nothing too alarming so far. Why the concern?"

Lugh sighed, his golden eyes darkening slightly. "The problem isn't just the physical transformation. The Sacred Gear is altering their mind as well. They've become prone to violent outbursts, and have started hoarding anything they consider valuable. We fear that if this continues, they may lose control."

Azazel stroked his chin, clearly intrigued. "So, the subspecies is affecting the wielder's mind... It's possible that the seal on the dragon's soul weakened, allowing its instincts to bleed into the user. That would explain the hoarding—standard dragon behavior. The violent outbursts are interesting, though."

Lugh's attendant, who had been quietly observing until now, stepped forward. Her movements were graceful and deliberate, and when she spoke, her voice was like soft bells ringing through the air.

"We've tried to help them," she said, her eyes momentarily meeting Marcus's with calm intensity. "but nothing worked. We unfortunately lack experience with the finer aspects of sacred gears. That's why we've called upon you Lord Azazel. Your knowledge of Sacred Gears is unrivaled."

Azazel grinned, clearly pleased with the praise. "Flattery will get you everywhere. I can certainly lend a hand."

Lugh gave a small smile, and then gestured to his attendant. "Before we proceed further, allow me to introduce my trusted aide. This is Áine, a druid and scholar well-versed in the magics of our land."

Áine gave a respectful nod, her regal bearing never faltering. She had long silver hair braided intricately and wore simple but elegant robes with golden thread woven into sophisticated patterns. Her eyes, a deep emerald green, held an intensity that immediately caught Marcus's attention. Despite her unassuming appearance, there was an unmistakable power radiating from her presence, a silent confidence that spoke of countless battles fought and victories earned.

Marcus inclined his head in return. "An honor to meet you, Áine."

Azazel's eyes gleamed with interest. "I assume you're the one who's been keeping tabs on the wielder?"

Áine nodded, her gaze steady. "Indeed. The wielder is strong, but their mind is slipping further into draconic instincts. Their personality and behavior continue to worsen, even when the sacred gear is not active. They've become more volatile, more… possessive."

Lugh cut in, his tone grave. "The problem is more urgent than we anticipated when we originally contacted you. If the wielder's mental state deteriorates any further, they could lose themselves entirely to the dragon's nature. We cannot allow that to happen."

Azazel's expression shifted into serious contemplation. "Dragons bound in Sacred Gears tend to retain their consciousness. We'll have to see if the dragon is doing this purposefully."

Azazel continued as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. "A Sacred Gear affecting its wielder's mind is a rare issue. If I had to guess I'd say its spirit has grown too powerful for a standard Twice Critical to properly contain. What have you tried so far?"

Áine spoke next, her voice calm but laced with concern. "We've attempted magical barriers to suppress the influence, and healing rituals to restore the balance of their mind, but the results were temporary at best."

Marcus, who had been listening intently, furrowed his brow. "Azazel, do you think there's a chance the dragon is breaking free from its sealing?"

"Impossible. For all the things I could say about my old man, one thing's for sure—no one was better at creating seals." Azazel's tone was casual, but Marcus had spent enough time around him to sense the complex emotions behind his words. "His seals were capable of containing the most dangerous creatures in existence. But... there is a very small possibility he might have made a minor mistake in this Sacred Gear, it might explain what we're seeing. But let me be clear—it wouldn't be enough to allow the dragon to break free. Not entirely. Just enough to... leak.

A polite cough from Lugh drew their attention. "I must take my leave," Lugh said, his voice resonating with authority. "There are matters I must attend to regarding our realm. Áine will escort you to the wielder's home and provide you with any assistance you require."

Azazel nodded in understanding. "Of course, Lugh. We'll take it from here. Hopefully, we can get to the bottom of this without too much trouble."

Lugh's eyes briefly flickered to Marcus, as if assessing him. "Tread carefully." With that, Lugh turned and disappeared down one of the side passages, his steps silent but purposeful.

Marcus, puzzled, looked to Azazel who just gave him a shrug. Áine, who had remained quietly composed during the exchange, stepped forward with a serene expression. "Shall we?" she asked, gesturing for them to follow her.

Marcus's thoughts churned as they followed Áin, the mention of the Sacred Gear's influence dredging up memories of the Dragonsplague, an affliction that had haunted his Pawn companions back in his world. The symptoms were eerily similar: after facing down drakes, his Pawn comrades would sometimes exhibit strange behaviors. Subtle at first—a tendency to isolate themselves, an unsettling fixation on items they'd looted—but it always escalated. Soon enough, they'd grow brazen and angry, their eyes glinting red. Their personalities would shift, quick to anger, prone to violence. The memory made his stomach twist. He hoped that the ultimate outcome of the Dragonsplague would not befall the Twice Critical wielder.

Unknowing, or uncaring, of his dark thoughts, Azazel hummed a tune, his mood considerably lighter than the situation called for. As they approached the house, Marcus's gaze sharpened. The structure was more like a dwelling from his homeland than any of the modern buildings he had seen since his arrival. It had the same kind of sturdy, weathered appearance, though its craftsmanship was far superior—clearly a home that had been well cared for.

Áine paused at the threshold, her hand hesitating before she gripped the handle of the heavy wooden door. Marcus's keen eyes noticed the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly. She wasn't afraid of them—Marcus could tell that much from the way she carried herself earlier. No, there was something about the situation that unsettled her deeply. It wasn't fear for herself; it was fear for whoever was inside.

The door creaked as Áine pushed it open, revealing the dimly lit interior of the house. The air was thick with tension, a palpable unease settling over them as they stepped inside. The faint scent of herbs and wood smoke lingered in the air, mixing with something more acrid, like a storm brewing in the distance. Marcus tensed, his hand instinctively flexing open ready to summon a weapon.

As they moved further into the house, a figure emerged from the shadows. She was a tall woman, her posture proud but fraught with the same tension that clung to the air. Her auburn hair, wild and untamed, cascaded down her shoulders and her sharp blue eyes housed the slitted pupils of a dragon gleaming with an intensity that unsettled Marcus. Yet, it was her demeanor that gave Marcus pause. She stood with a forced calmness, but there was a dangerous edge to her, as though she could snap at any moment.

Áine stepped forward, her voice gentle but trembling slightly. "Niamh, we have guests. They've come to help."

Niamh's eyes flickered toward Áine, softening briefly, before settling on Marcus and Azazel. "Help?" Her voice was sharp, biting. "I don't need help."

Azazel smiled, stepping forward with his usual casual air. "I'm sure you feel that way," he said smoothly, "but Áine is very worried about you."

Niamh's eyes narrowed as she glanced at Áine. Loosing dragon-like slits in her eyes for only a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Áine worries too much. I'm in control."

Áine's hand twitched, her concern palpable. "You've been struggling, Niamh. I've seen it. We all have."

Niamh's posture tensed, her hands curling into fists as scales shimmered faintly across her skin. "Struggling?" Niamh scoffed, her voice laced with frustration. "I'm handling it."

Azazel, sensing the fragile balance of the moment, stepped forward, his voice softer but still laced with confidence. "I'm sure you are, but it can't be comfortable. Let us take a look at what's happening with your Sacred Gear. If we can figure out what's causing the instability, we can help you—on your terms."

Niamh's sharp gaze settled on Azazel, her dragon-like pupils dilating ever so slightly as if measuring his worth. Her body tensed again, the shimmering of scales more pronounced this time.

"I don't trust you," Niamh said bluntly, her voice tight. "But if Áine says you can help…" Her gaze flickered again toward Áine, a look filled with unspoken words, raw with emotion. "But if you try to manipulate me or hurt Áine, I'll kill you. And don't think I won't."

Azazel chuckled softly, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Marcus stepped forward next to Azazel, feeling the weight of the situation settling around him. Niamh's words were sharp, but they didn't rattle him. He had faced down dragons and worse—this was familiar territory, albeit this time he wasn't here to kill anything. He glanced at Áine, whose expression held a quiet plea for Niamh's well-being, and nodded to Azazel. It was time to begin.

Azazel produced a small, intricately designed crystal from his coat pocket and tossed it to Marcus. "Place this on her Sacred Gear," he said. "It'll help me map the flow of energy between the dragon's spirit and Niamh's."

Niamh gave a terse nod, though her eyes never left Marcus. She extended her arm slightly, her Sacred Gear appearing in a faint flash.

Marcus gently placed the crystal on the Sacred Gear, and immediately the room filled with a soft hum as the crystal began to glow. Azazel's eyes lit up as he studied the readings forming on the tablet in his hand, his expression growing more focused by the second.

Azazel's brow furrowed as he examined the data streaming from the crystal. The tablet in his hands flickered with complex patterns, glowing faintly in the dim light. Marcus stood beside him, his eyes trained on Niamh, noting the tension in her posture. Now that her Sacred Gear was active curved gold horns had formed on her forehead and black dragon scales covered her skin.

Azazel spoke, his voice low. "It's as I suspected. The dragon sealed within her Twice Critical has grown too powerful for its seal. The connection between them is being overwhelmed, allowing more power to be transferred, but not in a controlled way."

Niamh tensed, her gaze narrowing. "So, what does that mean? Can you fix it?"

Azazel looked up from the tablet. "I can modify the seal to reinforce it. Right now, the extra energy is leaking out and influencing your mind, imparting draconic instincts—hoarding, aggression, territorial behavior."

Niamh's eyes flicked between Azazel and Áine, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "And you're sure this won't disable my abilities? The subspecies is... it's a part of me now."

Azazel gave her a reassuring nod. "It won't affect the Sacred Gear itself. The extra energy isn't helping you—it's hurting you by twisting your mind into a dragon's. Strengthening the seal will stop that influence without affecting the power you've gained."

Niamh's lips pressed into a thin line. "Do it."

Azazel knelt beside Niamh, placing his hand over the crystal. "This might cause a spike in power as I work. Don't be alarmed, but stay ready." He shot a glance at Marcus. "Just in case."

Marcus gave a curt nod, already feeling the shift in the air. He stood ready, his hand open, prepared to summon his weapons. Niamh clenched her fists, her dragon horns glowing faintly as Azazel began to weave his magic into the seal.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a pulse of energy surged through the room. Niamh gasped as her body tensed, her scales shimmering more intensely. Azazel's magic forming glowing gold circles around her Sacred Gear.

Suddenly, Niamh's body jerked, and her eyes glowed with an eerie red light. Her voice deepened, her words distorted by a draconic growl. "You... dare... touch... my seal!"

Azazel's brow furrowed as he poured more focus into his work, but the power spiked again, and Niamh's body convulsed. Her form shifted rapidly—her hands transformed into clawed talons, and her back arched as she let out a guttural roar. The dragon within her had taken control.

"Niamh!" Áine cried out, stepping forward, but Marcus held her back, his eyes focused on the transformation.

Niamh was no longer in control; the dragon's consciousness had surfaced, and it was not friendly. Her eyes, once blue, now burned with wild fury, glowing a bright crimson. The dragon's voice boomed through Niamh's mouth, echoing with rage. "Beowulf! I will not be shackled you!"

Azazel's eyes widened in realization as the pieces fell into place. The dragon sealed inside Niamh wasn't just any lesser dragon—it was the same one that Beowulf had defeated.

The dragon, fully possessing Niamh's body, lashed out, knocking over furniture with a vicious swipe of her taloned hand. Marcus leapt into action, summoning Grianmhar, he launched a Fortalice bolt at Azazel, which upon impact formed a protective barrier around him. "Azazel, we need to get her under control!"

Azazel didn't miss a beat, his hands glowing as he worked to stabilize the seal. "I'm on it, but you'll need to keep her from tearing the place apart until I finish!"

Marcus pointed his magickal bow at Niamh. He didn't want to harm her, but he had to keep her restrained. With that thought in mind, he fired a Lifetaking Arrow, targeting her chest. It traveled slowly, but began to sap her strength before it even connected.

Niamh staggered as the Lifetaking Arrow struck her, the magickal force draining her strength with every second. She let out a deafening roar, thrashing as the power of the dragon struggled to maintain control of her body. Her crimson eyes flickered with confusion and fury, and her movements became sluggish as Marcus's arrow took hold. But even weakened, the dragon's presence was fierce, and its control over Niamh remained strong.

Marcus gritted his teeth, focusing his energy on keeping the strength draining arrow active while also preparing for what might come next. The dragon wasn't going to go down easily. He needed to buy Azazel more time to reinforce the seal.

Azazel's voice cut through the chaos, firm and controlled. "Almost there! Just hold her a little longer!"

Niamh let out another roar, raising her taloned hand to swipe at Marcus. He dodged swiftly, rolling to the side just as the floor beneath him splintered from the force of her strike.

Áine, her face tense with worry, moved cautiously closer, ready to intervene if needed. "Niamh! You need to fight it! Don't let the dragon control you!"

For a split second, Niamh's gaze shifted toward Áine, and Marcus saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

Marcus seized the moment. Launching a Boltchain Stake, a stake imbued with magickal lightning that would restrict Niamh's movements. He mentally apologized to her for the pain he was about to inflict. The bolt pierced through Niamh's foot, locking her in place. She thrashed as the magickal lightning raced across her body stunning her.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can restrain her without causing more harm!" Marcus called, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to maintain stake.

Azazel, his hands glowing with intense golden light, finished the final adjustments to the seal. The magical circles surrounding Niamh's Sacred Gear flared brightly, and with a loud snap, the energy within them stabilized. The dragon's furious roar echoed one last time before fading, and Niamh collapsed to her knees, her body trembling as the scales and horns slowly receded. Her breathing was ragged, and her eyes returned to their normal, exhausted blue.

Azazel exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow. "That should do it. The seal is reinforced—no more dragon bleeding through."

Marcus let out a sigh of relief, releasing the Boltchain and allowing Grianmhar to disappear. He moved forward cautiously, kneeling beside Niamh, who was gasping for breath, her body still weak from the struggle.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

She looked up at him, her expression weary but relieved. "I... I think so," she whispered. "Thank you... all of you."

Áine rushed forward, kneeling beside her and wrapping her arms around Niamh. "You're safe now. We've got you."

Niamh closed her eyes, resting her head against Áine's shoulder, the tension in her body finally easing as the effects of the Sacred Gear's instability were brought under control.

Azazel stepped forward, his usual playful demeanor returning as he clapped his hands together. "Well, that was a bit more exciting than I expected. But all's well that ends well, right?"

Marcus gave him a tired smile. "Just another day in the life of Azazel, I suppose."

Azazel chuckled, giving Marcus a pat on the shoulder. "Good work, Marcus. I knew I made the right choice bringing you along."

As they helped Niamh to her feet, Áine gave Marcus a grateful smile. "Thank you. I don't know what we would have done without your help."

Marcus nodded, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. "Azazel did the hard part. I'm just glad I was able to keep Nimah from going too out of control."

Azazel turned toward the door. "All right, let's give Niamh some time to rest. We'll check in again later, but for now, I think we've earned a break." He paused, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I hear the pubs in Tír na nÓg are some of the best there are. What do you say?"