Saarn had only been here for an hour, and she utterly despised it. She stood beside Lovataar, who had disguised herself based on intel from a contact in Russia, a man named Karcist Varis. Their mission was clear: Lovataar was to gather information while carrying a USB loaded with a virus designed by a Maxwellist Mekhanite. When Saarn had asked how Lovataar had managed to acquire such a thing, her companion had offered only cryptic remarks about her disguise and the curious fact that, yes, one could make cyborgs fall in love simply by knowing binary code. How she had come to know binary was a tale Saarn preferred not to delve into—it was already complicated enough.

Everywhere she looked, the sheer gaudiness of the lodge assaulted her senses. The place was draped in glamour and elegance, a blatant display of wealth that felt suffocating. Snobs, pompous blue bloods, and elites mingled with a handful of celebrities worshipped like gods in this villa—though 'palace' would have been a more fitting term. What turned her stomach even more were the so-called fellow 'Neo-Sarkics' who indulged in this excess, casually conversing with trust fund babies and moguls as if they were socialites. Saarn loathed them all, a deep disgust boiling within her.

The sight of these heretics making a mockery of everything she, her fellow Klavigars, and Ion had fought for—paying with dust and blood—was infuriating. They acted like Daevite nobles, believing that anyone who didn't share their status was less than vermin. They exploited the vulnerable to enrich themselves or simply for their own sickening enjoyment, much like her twice-damned masters had done. The urge to unleash her full assassination capabilities and paint the gaudy walls with their blood and viscera was almost overwhelming.

Just moments ago, she had overheard a group of businessmen laughing over a particularly distasteful joke. They bragged about how they had turned an entire country jobless, reducing its citizens to the point where they could barely access clean water. One corporate executive, with utter indifference, casually mentioned something about accidentally polluting the water near an endangered species reserve and causing mass poisoning of a village, dismissing it with a wave of her hand and a flippant remark about "blah blah money," a fancy way of admitting she was a greedy jackass and another casually talked about embezzling people's salary on mass. Saarn's stomach twisted at the memory, and a familiar look of entitlement flashed through her mind, reminiscent of her Daevite masters.

In just the first few minutes, Saarn had begun compiling a hit list in her mind, each name etched into her thoughts with the precision of a blade. She clenched her fists, her resolve hardening.

"Let's get this over with," she muttered under her breath, glancing at Lovataar, who was scanning the room with a calculating gaze.

"Patience," Lovataar replied, her voice low but steady. "We need to gather intel first. The USB is our ticket to dismantling their operation from the inside."

Saarn nodded, though her eyes burned with the desire for action. "I just hope we don't have to wait too long. I'd rather see them bleed than hear their laughter."

As the crowd swirled around them, the atmosphere thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the clinking of crystal glasses, Saarn felt a surge of adrenaline. The night was young, and she was ready to strike and 5 minutes and yet she was already making a hitman list.

This was a den of profligacy. Neo-Sarkic groups from around the world gathered among the elites at the Hunter's Lodge, converging on their prime target: the Adytum's Wake. Here, they mingled with greedy organizations like Marshall, Carter Dark, Anderson Robotics, and various criminal cells from Chicago's Spirit. The sheer irony of this cabal of rich wretches calling themselves the Adytum's Wake—self-proclaimed bringers of the glories of Kalmaktama—made Saarn grind her teeth in fury. The gall of it was infuriating.

None of them had ever seen Kalmaktama. They perverted what Ion fought for, the embodiment of everything she and her people had fought for. They battled slavers, warlords, and ancient horrors to free humanity from tyranny, and now these so-called 'kin' were tyrants themselves. How dare they call themselves kin?! The things she had read about this secretive cabal rivaled the depravity of Daevite nobles.

And it got worse. Some of these wretches were followers of the Scarlet King including Factory representatives or particularly wealthy cells of the Children of the Scarlet King. Just the thought of it nearly made her burst a vein. How dare these heretics bring the followers of the most vile of all gods into their midst? The very legacy of the Daevites, the cruel masters who had enslaved her people and countless others, was damning enough evidence to convince Saarn that calling them 'Neo-Sarkic' was a disservice. They were worse. They were not Nälkä, nor were they 'Sarkics' or 'Sarkites'—whatever derogatory term the Mekhanites had for her people. They were pretenders, making a mockery of everything Ion and her brethren had fought and died for while shaking hands with the enemies of freedom. The only solace she found in this unpleasant revelation was the knowledge that both sides would betray each other at any moment.

Clenching her fists, the Coiled Shadow took a deep breath to calm herself. In, out. In, out. She needed to steady her nerves; otherwise, she would make a foolish mistake.

She glanced at the Highborn Redeemer, who was adjusting her own disguise—a sleek, formal black suit that commanded attention. "Let's split up," Lovataar suggested, her voice low and purposeful. "I'll gather intel from the east wing. You take the west. We can cover more ground that way."

Saarn nodded, her heart racing at the prospect of diving deeper into this den of vipers. "Be careful. If you spot anything suspicious, signal me."

"I will," Lovataar replied, her eyes narrowing with determination. "Just remember, we're not here to start a war—yet."

With a final nod, they parted ways. Saarn adjusted her formal gray suit and skirt, a disguise she had donned as a businesswoman from some obscure Neo-Sarkic cult in Asia—one that no one had ever heard of. The clothing had been a gift from Lovataar, who had insisted her wardrobe needed an upgrade; some of her previous outfits were rather…withered away.

As she moved through the crowd, Saarn's mind raced with thoughts of Nethak'tal, the realm where the Lost Tribe had ended up. It was said to hold the secret to bringing back Grand Karcist Ion. But so many questions lingered: What was the society like there? Were they even Nälkä, or had they followed the follies of the Heretics? Were they alive? How could they access it? And what were the Neo-Sarkics planning for it? Whatever the last question's answer was, she was sure they were nothing good.

Determined to find out, Saarn steeled herself and plunged into the throng, ready to uncover the secrets that lay hidden within this palace of decadence.

The security here was tight, but thanks to her status as a Klavigar of Assassins, Saarn was a living weapon. Her body concealed non-organic weapons within her abdomen, shielded from X-ray scans. She recalled a conversation with Nadox, who had scoffed at her inquiry about the need for weapons and tools that weren't organic. "Tch. Simplistic, reductive. We reject that which robs us of our humanity, machine or not," he had said. It was a shame that most true Nälkäns missed the point, to the point of Technophobia and Isolation; moderation was essential in all things.

Pretending to admire the opulent decorations, Saarn's eyes roamed over a few ancient artifacts encased in glass. Some she recognized as remnants from both Normalcy and the anomalous side of history. Among them were broken pieces of an admittedly beautiful machine used by the Xia Dynasty, a Mekhane-worshiping empire that, unlike other sects, sought to prevent Mekhane's reconstruction. They believed that if all the pieces were assembled, Yaldabaoth's prison would be undone. Nearby lay broken Tesla-like coils from the 7th Occult War, dead plants conjured by Ancient Daevites, and the remains of a once-living Sarkic construct known as Kiraak—biological temples that had long since perished.

Her gaze fell upon a few damaged cogs of alien design from a long-dead civilization on Venus, made of Fuladh—or 'Mekhanium,' as that lost race had called it. There was even a statue of Mither, the goddess of the Finnfolks. But what truly made Saarn pause, filled with pity and anger, was the taxidermied body of a Vasasoonenütä, known to the Foundation as SCP-1000, or more commonly as Bigfoot, Yerens, or Children of the Night.

Her people had been given derogatory titles and categorized as malevolent beings, so Saarn understood all too well what it was like to be viewed with prejudice, to be seen as monsters and savages. The Vasasoonenütä had been so advanced in the art of crafting life that they created computers from wood—devices that would make the greatest organic manipulators of this age weep with envy. To her and the other Nälkäns, the destruction of the Vasasoonenütä civilization by the Children of the Sun was not a revolution for freedom against a superior force but a tragedy. The Night Walkers had mastered their civilization not through the howls of gods or demons, nor by stealing from Mother Nature's resources, but through curiosity. Their tools and devices existed in harmony with nature, to the point where their cities coexisted with the environment.

To witness something so pure lost due to mankind's insatiable greed and unreasonable fear was to learn of the greatest tragedy in the history of Earth. Sometimes, Saarn wondered how the world might have been if humans had sought cooperation with the Mountain Keepers. Perhaps she and the 'Sarkics' were wrong, and they were the oppressive race keeping humanity shackled, as those human supremacists loved to preach. But even if that human-centric narrative were true, did one mourn the lamb that was butchered to make kebabs? For all anyone knew, humans had once been mere animals crawling in the mud. Nothing in the marrow-seeing of the Elders suggested that the Siblings of the Deep Wood had enslaved or waged war on mankind; they simply learned what they could and left once they discovered humanity had a will of its own.

To this day, no one truly knew who or what had armed the Children of the Sun against the Mountain Keepers. Was it the Trickster Forest God? The Folk Under the Hill? There was even a crazy theory that someone had gone back in time to instigate it or perhaps the predecessors of what would become the Daevite Empire, as Ozi̮rmok Ion himself had once claimed. Or maybe it was simply humanity's dark nature, destroying all that was beautiful out of fear of not being able to control it—or perhaps it was a combination of all these factors.

Scattered among the artifacts were pieces of art that made Saarn weep for the modern-day creations. All of them were non-anomalous, likely to prevent any disruptions from Anartists like Are We Cool Yet? or Gamers Against Weed.

Each piece was strategically placed to showcase the levels of power and influence wielded by those present.

Saarn found herself in a grand ballroom, where a formal dance party was in full swing. Live classical music resonated through the air, played by an orchestra that filled the expanse with rich melodies. Some guests joined in the dance, while others feasted at lavish dinner tables stacked with enough food to feed entire families. The rare and exotic delicacies on display baffled her; she never understood the fascination that the wealthy had for fish eggs. It revolted her further to see some of the Neo-Sarkics abusing their mastery over their bodies, indulging in potions and dishes that wouldn't affect them—like pufferfish served with lethal poison still intact, simply for the thrill of it.

Her eyes darted through the crowd until she spotted her targets: Vivian Durant-Croÿ and her husband, Alexander Croÿ, the heads of this wretched company. The couple laughed and enjoyed themselves.

Saarn knew she couldn't just kill them openly; cameras were everywhere, and bodyguards surrounded the couple. Some of those bodyguards were former pit-fighters from the Hunter's Lodge, men and women who had maimed and killed just to secure their roles. This would require a level of stealth and cunning.

Just then, a voice interrupted her thoughts. "May I have this dance?"

She turned to see an average-built man with glasses. He looked to be around 34 or 35, possibly of Korean descent, though his American accent was distinct. There was something about his eyes that suggested an age and wisdom beyond his years.

Saarn realized she could use him to get closer to her targets under the pretense of dancing. If she refused, he might attract attention and create a scene. So, she smiled and replied, "Of course, Mister…"

"Jax. Jax Light," he said, taking her hand. As he did, Saarn swore she saw a glint in his eyes, akin to that of a mischievous imp.

"Men are so easy…" Lovataar mused as she passed by the unconscious guards. She hadn't even needed to produce pheromones; all it took was a little act—pretending to be a damsel with a broken leg, and they were quick to volunteer for a closer look at her skin. To be fair, even women would find it hard to resist her charm and flirtations. After living for thousands of years, she had ample time to perfect her skills.

She entered the hardware room using one of the cards from the unconscious guards.

Interestingly, it appeared someone had already disabled the cameras inside. Someone was already—

Her senses tingled, and she quickly dodged a sudden knockout attack. Despite wearing high heels and a red cocktail dress, she moved with agility. In one of her acrobatic maneuvers, she discreetly inserted a USB drive into the panel, deploying a virus to extract the information she needed.

After a few swift dodges, she pushed the assailant away with a kick that made him huff.

"May I have this dance?" Lovataar smirked.

The unknown intruder was bulky, with a scarred face, dressed head to toe in black for infiltration. He squared his shoulders, readying his fists. "Stand down, lady. I'd rather not fight women."

"You're saying you'd fight me if I were a man? Here I thought we lived in an equal country," she jeered, extending her nails through fleshcrafting to make them longer and sharper.

"I don't think you've ever met a man like me," he replied, a hint of menace in his voice.

Lovataar smiled in response. "I don't think you've ever met a woman like me."

With that, she bolted toward him, ready to attack.

As Lovataar danced with the man, his erratic and chaotic body language quickly dispelled any doubts about his true identity. The American accent was a dead giveaway, even if she could tell he had been born and raised in Korea. She noted the glint of chains peeking out from behind his collar, a hint of a medallion hidden there.

"I know you're with the Foundation," she whispered near his right ear, her voice a sharp hiss.

"Oh? What gave it away? My charming personality?" he replied playfully.

"No, it was the medallion you're trying to hide under your collar."

"You saw that? We haven't even had our first date yet. Damn, I'm really good," he retorted, a smirk dancing on his lips.

Lovataar was not amused and cut to the chase. "Nice try with that rhyming fake name, Jax Light. You're the crazy one—Jack Bright."

Jack chuckled, amusement lighting up his features. "That's me! The crazy one!" he sang.

"What are you doing here? Tell me, or I'll fill your veins with a particular venom I've concocted. You may find a new body, but I'm sure you'll feel a lot of pain before getting a new one—like a magma fish in magma without its magma-resistant shell!" To underscore her point, she briefly displayed two snake-like bites, his venomous droplets hissing ominously.

"Whoa, chillax! No need for threats, lady. In fact, I didn't even want this mission. I was just trying out my new Chainsaw project, and… you know how that song goes—forced into a mission by possessing this guy you see before me. But hey, I got to ask a pretty Sarkic out for a dance, so that's a win, right?" he joked.

"I don't care how you got here. What is the Foundation doing here?" Saarn asked, knowing that while he had recognized her as a Sarkic, he likely didn't realize she was Klavigaar Saarn herself. That brought her a small measure of solace. The last thing she and Lovataar needed was for the Skippers to catch wind of their plans.

"Same old, same old—protecting Normalcy and stopping the bad guys and monsters from bringing about an apocalypse. Your turn?" Jack replied, as if they were engaged in a casual Q .

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I didn't like seeing these Heretics make a mockery of Nälkä. I came to kill them, and that's all you need to know," she growled, a threat lurking in her tone.

He chuckled off her threat. "Simple enough! Though it doesn't quite make sense, this whole gathering…"

"It doesn't make sense?" She raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Nah! It makes perfect sense! It's just that the sense is out of reach!" Jack chirped, delivering the rather nonsensical statement with conviction.

The Coiled Shadow stared at him flatly. "...I feel like I'm going to regret asking, but what?"

He elaborated further, "My dear, all things are explainable. Even anarchy is bound by the rhythms of unseen principles. There's no true randomness, only unexpected whimsy!"

"I'm surprised that a White Suit possesses such a... not-detached view of the world. Particularly someone infamously…chaotic like you," she replied, tilting her head slightly and nearly said Suicidal.

He huffed and insisted in his eccentric way, "Nonsense! Everything is arranged and can be understood. Even turmoil resonates with the rhythm of unseen laws! True 'randomness' does not exist; only capricious spontaneity! Blossoms fade, seasons come and go, hearts break and mend, and Sarkics consume! Yet, there is always a purpose behind it all. Structure and marvel are intertwined! Whether deciphering disorder or reveling in its unpredictability, the universe around us is an unending realm of shadow and joy! Just as there is happiness in grasping one aspect, there is equal pleasure in realizing that much more awaits exploration! The journey continues, carnomancer! And regardless of the foe, my chainsaw advances boldly!"

As surprisingly philosophical and thought-provoking as his words were, especially coming from a Foundation scientist dedicated to finding ways to end his own immortality, they drew closer to her targets, allowing Lovataar to execute her plan to assassinate the two heads of this sham.

Suddenly, she swung her partner away with a flourish and leaped into action. Summoning her two favorite blades housed within her abdomen, she activated them, the steel shining as she hurled them at her targets.

The blades struck—one embedding in Vivian's head while the other pierced Alex's heart, killing them instantly. Screams erupted in the crowded ballroom as guests began to flee.

Lovataar knelt beside the dead bodies, her expression shifting to confusion. "What in the Pits…?"

They weren't the real Alexander and Vivian; they were plants! Though they appeared to be flesh on the outside, their interiors were wooden, housing plant-like organs. She had seen Davite Plant Constructs before, but nothing this intricate or lifelike!

"Target took the Grimwalker bait; kill her now!" one of the guards shouted, and heavy-hitting Sarkics from the Hunter's Lodge began to surround her.

'Stupid! I thought this was getting too easy!' she scolded herself internally before dodging an incoming bullet and using a nearby table as a makeshift shield.

"...dammit, I've gotten rusty in my art," she muttered to herself. She then extended sharp, bony edges tipped with poison from under her sleeves, flinging them at her enemies as she moved swiftly. The projectiles struck several of them in their internal organs; even if they managed to regenerate, the poison would finish them off.

High-level Sarkics, especially those from harsh environments, could resist many poisons, but these cocktails were crafted by the Klavigaar of Assassins. With millennia of experience, she had created some of the deadliest potions on Earth—potions that even a Karckist-level Sarkite would find challenging to withstand.

As a few more opponents closed in, attacking her with claws and sharp teeth, she dodged repeatedly until, with a powerful summoning, she recalled the sleek blades that had killed the fake Vivian and Alex. They reappeared in her hands, and she swiftly cut one attacker's throat, slashed another's stomach to let his guts spill, and then thrust both blades into the neck and shoulders of a third man, ripping upward to finish him.

She surveyed the carnage around her, her blades slick with blood. "Flesh Tearer and Meat Ripper said hi," she mocked, spitting at the dead Heretics.

Another Neo-Sarkic approached, and Lovataar braced for battle. But before she could act, a chainsaw tore through the chest of the attacker, splitting him in half. Lovataar turned to see Jack, brandishing a one-handed fully automatic bladed melee weapon the size of a small sword.

For a moment, she stood dumbfounded, not expecting a literal chain-dagger, and managed to say, "...nice chainsaw."

"Hey, nice blades! How did they just appear in your hands?" he asked, grinning.

"Blood magic, bound to me." She informed fast and nodded toward him, signaling to follow as they began to run, chaos erupting behind them.

'Who was this woman?' Captain Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov wondered to himself. He was certain she was a Sarkic, but after knocking out those guards and catching her disdainful glances at the other Sarkics on the monitors, he realized she likely wasn't a Neo. More probably a Proto, he thought, and she was definitely holding back, toying with him.

Despite her restraint, Dmitri had to admit that fighting her was becoming increasingly tiring. In contrast, the mysterious Sarkic seemed to be enjoying the challenge. In one of their exchanges, he made a mistake, leaving her an opening to sweep his legs out from under him.

"Blin!" he cursed in Russian as he fell, and before he could react, a sharp knife was just millimeters from his nose, with her perched atop him.

"Hehe, big and dumb—just the way I like!" she taunted.

Dmitri was not the type to give up easily. "What? This was just me being reluctant to hit a lady. Consider yourself the exception!" He kicked her knife away, sprang up, and tackled her down, snatching the blade before it hit the ground. He pressed it against her throat while drawing a sidearm from his hidden holster, aiming it at her head.

"You sure, dear? Seems like we're at a tie," she pointed out, and that's when he felt a sharp edge pressing against his stomach—likely her nailed sharp hand.

Slam!

The door burst open, and Jack entered with a woman he didn't recognize, both covered in blood.

"It was a trap—!" Saarn began, but her words died in her throat as she took in the scene. A loud facepalm echoed in the room. "Oh, for love of—ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" she exclaimed in outrage. In hindsight, she should have expected this. Lovataar, forever devoted to Ion, would go to the ends of the Earth and even wrestle with Yaldabaoth itself if it meant reuniting with her lover. Yet, she still had a penchant for teasing, even after thousands of years.

"Oooh, nice job, Dimitri, my buddy!" Jack grinned, giving a thumbs-up, while Saarn turned back and shot at him a glare that said she was on the verge of strangling him.

"Uh, for the first time ever, this is not what it looks like," Dmitri stammered.

"I don't give a Daevite frak what it looks like! Get up, you two!" Saarn replied tartly. 'Am I the only adult in this luxurious hellhole?' she thought as they disentangled themselves, Lovataar discreetly pocketed the USB.

Screeching sounds echoed as unfriendly company rushed toward them.

"Company," Saarn announced. This time, instead of Neo-Sarkics, their monstrous creations appeared—hellish hounds with chitinous shells, the size of direwolves, and furious eyes, charging at them.

"Me and my date will take the left; you and your boyfriend will take the right," Lovataar said, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Alright—wait, Lovataar, he's not my—! AGH!" Saarn groaned in frustration as she moved.

Bright drew a pistol, firing a couple of shots at the approaching hounds while plunging his working chain-dagger into one's chest. Saarn moved with the elegance of an assassin, ducking and ripping through the hounds with her blades. Lovataar reshaped her body, growing sharp bony protrusions from her arms and legs, enhancing her agility and allowing her to strike with raptor-like speed as she tore through the beasts, evading their attacks. Meanwhile, Dmitri began shooting at the hounds, plunging his knife into the neck of one that got too close, narrowly dodging a claw aimed at him.

As they fought, Neo-Sarkics appeared, some armed with firearms while others utilized their fleshcrafting abilities to morph and attack. One bullet struck Bright in the shoulder, making him grunt in pain. Saarn retaliated by throwing more poisoned darts at their foes, while Dmitri dispatched a nearby enemy with his pistol, then grabbed the fallen's rifle to take down two savage Sarkics approaching him. Lovataar moved like a blur, ripping through the hounds with deadly precision.

During the chaos, Bright was ensnared by a long-range flesh tendril, its poisoned teeth impaling his other shoulder. Despite managing to sever a few tendrils with his chain-dagger, he was slammed backward. The Sarkic, with two pupils in each of her two eyes, snarled as its elongated secondary mouth revealed rows of sharp teeth, drawing closer to Bright's face.

"Ugly," Bright said, unfazed by the grotesque sight; he had seen worse.

Just then, the Sarkic gurgled blood as two blades plunged into her, twisting with a sickening sound as they tore through flesh, ripping the creature in half. Bright, weakened and bleeding from multiple wounds, dropped to the ground. When he glanced up, he saw Saarn—but she was different. Her lower body had transformed into a slithering snake, and bat wings sprouted from her back. Even the attacking Sarkites seemed momentarily stunned, and Dimitri froze, giving a nearby Sarkite the opportunity to slam his rifle away. Dmitri grunted, struggling to fend off the attacker with a knife.

The Sarkic trying to kill Dmitri was suddenly ripped in half, its body parts flung at its comrades, revealing Lovataar, who had also taken on a monstrous form. She now had four bat wings on her back—two smaller ones below the larger pair—and antler-like horns on her head, exuding the same unsettling aura as Saarn. With newfound efficiency, she dispatched the remaining enemies in a shower of blood and gore.

Holding onto one of his many injuries, Bright grunted, "I... don't think I asked your name when I requested the dance..." He jested despite his condition, as Saarn slithered closer, extending a hand with elongated, needle-like fingers reminiscent of an aye-aye lemur. She slowly plunged one finger into one of his wounds, making him grunt in pain.

Dmitri, seeing this, instinctively pointed his pistol at Saarn, but Lovataar gently placed a hand on the weapon, bringing it down. The Russian tried to resist, but her grip was unyielding, stronger than he anticipated, as she looked at him with an oddly gentle expression.

"I'm injecting something that will temporarily stop the infection and help your blood clot faster around your wounds," Saarn explained as she lowered Bright to the floor.

Once he was settled, she slithered back to Lovataar.

"Is it done?" the Coiled Shadow asked the Highborn Redeemer, who nodded in affirmation.

Lovataar then turned to Dmitri with a serious expression, a far cry from the playful mask she wore before. "I suggest you and your friend report to your superiors. Head south; the virus I implanted in the system didn't stay contained. What's coming won't be pretty."

"What's going to happen?" Dmitri asked reluctantly.

Lovataar's gaze turned venomous, sending a shiver down his spine. "Cleaning house."

With that, she and Lovataar moved swiftly, leaving the two Skippers behind before either could protest.

The guests ran, desperately trying to flee from the exits, but the emergency lockdown had sealed all doors shut, trapping them like scared sheep in a pen.

Their cries became increasingly feeble as the lights dimmed to a haunting twilight.

From one side emerged a monstrous half-snake humanoid, slithering menacingly, gripping two sharp blades that glinted ominously under the fading light. Slit-snake eyes regarded the crowd with cold contempt, while the rest of her features remained shrouded in darkness; occasionally, a serpent-like tongue flicked out as she assessed her prey.

On the opposite side, a creature with long, razor-sharp claws, horns and a singular, hateful eye advanced, radiating malice.

Both monsters were aware that this was insufficient; not every Neo-Sarkic was present, much less their leaders. They were scattered across the globe, thriving on the suffering of others like parasites. For every weed they cut down, another would grow back, and the true leaders remained hidden, plotting their schemes. Vivian and Alex were not here. Yet still, this was merely the beginning; soon, all who dared to pervert the tenets of Nälkä—who exploited the suffering of others—would pay.

The one-eyed monster, an even more monsterous version of Lovataar, uttered in a low, mirthless voice as she moved closer, forcing the crowd to lean back in fear. "Ladies and gentlemen, you have enjoyed yourselves well. You reveled in exploiting those 'lower' than you, embodying the stereotype of cannibalistic demons that the world condemned us to be. Most of all… you enjoyed slandering my love's legacy and work while shaking hands with tyrants, petty gods, and our ancient enemy."

Descending from the top of a chandelier, the sinister Naga—Saarn, now manifested as the Coiled Shadow—loomed over them, her slitted eyes and serpent jaw hissing ominously. "I'm afraidsss to sssssay…your feasssssst is over."

The one-eyed monster, who was Lovataar now the Highborn Redeemer, growled with a low growl, "Rejoice, for you will die by his Klavigars—an honor you do not deserve. When he returns... none of you wretched Daevite wannabe colleges will be safe."

An hour later, the Foundation and GOC operatives flooded the mansion, even the most hardened and jaded members retched at the scene that lay before them in horror—a scene that transcended all notions of savagery. No one was spared, the only thing they found was what remained of them.

From that day forward, it would forever be known as the Red Hour.

Notes:

Venusians are SCP-2474.

SCP-6783 is the reference to time travel back in time and causing the Children of the Night's Fall.

SCP-788 are magma fish.