The blinding, crystalline light illuminated the shadow realm and tore it apart like parchment over a flame.
The transition back to reality was a violent, convulsive spasm. The liquid ink of the abyss rejected them, and Faust felt himself being literally spat out of the darkness.
At the final, fracturing microsecond before the realm completely shattered, Baphomet's obsidian-clawed hand gave him a cruel, parting shove, driving him deeper into the violent currents of the expulsion.
Thud.
Faust slammed onto the cold, blood-slicked cobblestones of the subterranean market square. The breath exploded from his lungs, but it was the phantom agony in his abdomen that truly paralyzed him. The scorching sensation where Baphomet had pierced him was still raw, flooding his mind with an all-consuming pain that anchored his muscular, nearly naked frame to the floor.
He couldn't move a single muscle.
Worse, Baphomet's parting shove had targeted him with precision.
Faust had been ejected right into the direct path of the massive, yellow-eyed male Tarasque.
The beast locked its sulfurous gaze onto the helpless, painted fool.
It bared its crocodile-like teeth, preparing to crush him.
"Shroud that devours the light,
Armor that rules the night..."
Through the haze of blinding pain and the distant roaring of the monster, a low, rhythmic murmur brushed against Faust's ears.
It was a man's voice, reciting a strange, cold mantra that vibrated with a bizarre kind of authority:
"Valerius of the Void,
Let the dark be deployed!"
The male Tarasque lunged, its massive claws scraping the stone.
But it didn't hit Faust.
A slim, pale young man suddenly materialized in front of him, stepping directly into the jaws of the beast. Instinctively, Faust's mind screamed paranoia—you are hallucinating again, but what followed was entirely, terrifyingly real.
The shadows beneath the street violently rose, coiling around the pale man's body like a swarm of dark hornets. Within a heartbeat, the liquid dark solidified, forming a sleek, matte-black set of spectral armor over his lean frame. Simultaneously, massive, writhing shadow tentacles erupted from the fissures in the cobblestones. They lashed out with explosive force, wrapping around the Tarasque's thick legs and slamming the multi-ton reptile heavily against the stone wall of the pharmacy, cracking the masonry.
The beast let out a stunned, breathless grunt, pinned entirely by the dark appendages.
Dispelling the shadow armor with a casual flick of his wrist, the slim man exhaled a long breath.
"That's the last one," he muttered, his voice calm despite the carnage.
He turned around and extended a pale, steady hand down to Faust. He blinked, his gaze sweeping over Faust's broad, athletic build, his basic underwear, the practical nipple patches, and the ghostly white greasepaint with the smeared red grin.
"What in the world is a clown doing down here?" the man asked, a touch of amusement cutting through his exhaustion. "I felt the shadows in this sector reacting strangely and came instantly."
Faust gripped the man's hand, his muscles protesting as he was pulled back up to his bare feet. The iron-bound Ars Goetia shifted heavily in his under-tunic pocket, but he kept it hidden.
"I am... Mephisto," Faust said, his voice a gravelly rasp as he leaned against a ruined merchant counter for support.
"I am Luke, an Initiated Hunter," the man replied, offering a polite nod. He gestured toward the distant archways of the market, where the heavy, armored footsteps of Church soldiers and the glowing staves of battle-monks were finally flooding the square. "You're safe now. All the Tarasques were suppressed in a timely manner. Luckily, the surface church noticed the spiritual turmoil early enough and sent its Bishop with full reinforcements to break the quarantine."
Faust exhaled a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
"My thanks, Hunter Luke. If you hadn't arrived, I would have been nothing more than a fool's breakfast."
Luke smiled, but as he looked closer at Faust's face, his expression suddenly hardened. He squinted his eyes, leaning in until he was mere inches from Faust's painted features.
"Um... Mephisto, right?" Luke asked, his voice dropping into a wary, guarded tone. "What... what is wrong with your left eye?"
"My eye?" Faust muttered, rubbing his temple. The residual pain from Baphomet's abdominal intrusion was still pulsing behind his skull, making it incredibly difficult to comprehend the hunter's sudden alarm. "It is just paint, my friend. A black star from the circus act."
Luke scratched his head, his hand moving instinctively closer to the hilt of a dagger at his waist.
"No, it's not the paint, clown," Luke said, his pale face turning a shade whiter in the dim light of the arriving torches. "Underneath the greasepaint... why is your iris glowing with a golden, amber fire? It looks exactly like the eyes of the High Demons."