Demonic Miasma possessed a vile toxicity and a putrescence that corroded nature, causing it to wither. Every inch of land the demonic miasma infiltrated and crawled across was destroyed, rendering it uninhabitable for life. That was the signature of the energy of death. Thus, though the young man had never truly fought a demon in earnest, he was certain that the toxic aura and the twisted energy emanating from Desden Cave were assuredly the foul Demonic Miasma!

  Seraph commanded the Sphera to drift into the cavern, the fireball moving slowly, pushing back the encroaching darkness. Inside was a large, solidly constructed mine tunnel. Great timber beams reinforced the structure, preventing collapse, and extinguished lamps hung along the walls of the passageway.

  The cave held not a single trace of life energy. Demons were not considered living creatures in the traditional sense; the only presence within Desden Cave was the thick, oppressive weight of the demonic miasma.

  “The flame doesn’t extinguish or explode. It seems there are no toxic gases here; the atmosphere is stable,” Seraph analyzed, his voice flat. “This must be why they haven’t completely transmuted the place into a proper den of death yet. The universe, in all its indifference, sometimes grants small mercies.”

  Every stronghold of the Demon Legion was saturated with virulent poison and the energy of demise. Humanity could not survive within a demonic domain filled with acidic miasma and savage demons. Should they wish to tread that cursed earth, they required protective artefacts or specific defensive mageia.

  The walls of blackened thorns and the Demonic miasma that manifested without cause upon the outer frontiers established conditions and constraints that hindered human armies. Every kingdom found itself unable to march their legions directly to purge the demon lands, regardless of how fiercely they desired it. This singular truth had caused the plight of the human race to spiral into ruin over the past century, with no salvation in sight.

  Once he was certain the atmosphere within the cavern was somewhat stable, Seraph gradually stepped into the dark. Upon entry, he noted the ceiling was quite high; as the primary maw of a mining operation, the structure was reinforced with formidable mageia metal.

  The uniformity of the walls revealed that the miners had smoothed the stone with precision, and timber pillars and frameworks were braced throughout the tunnel. Yet, despite the sturdy construction, the cave exuded a suffocating narrowness. Those who harbored a dread of confined spaces would find themselves unable to tread within Desden Cave.

  As he ventured deeper, Seraph perceived a surge of demonic miasma and a violent stench of rot wafting into his nostrils. It was a putrescence so potent it became unbearable; even by holding his breath, the foul odor seeped through, invading his senses.

  Simultaneously, a low moaning sound, akin to the grinding of teeth, echoed from a short distance ahead. Seraph swiftly commanded The Sphera to drift toward the source. Instantly, the firelight unveiled an undead within his line of sight. Its frame was still draped in the tattered garments of a miner, crowned with a steel helm. It stood striking its head against the cavern wall repeatedly, as if oblivious to pain, failing to notice his presence.

  Seraph could endure no longer. The rot of the undead was far more pungent than he had anticipated; the young man believed this demonic miasma carried a stench far more volatile than mere carrion. It compelled him to urgently weave a protective mageia.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Ventus Aethus!” Seraph intoned the defensive ward.

  Immediately, the air surrounding him was purified. The mageia of the wind’s breath filtered the toxic atmosphere, providing a vital shield. While it was not a spell of overwhelming power, it excelled at siphoning foul odors and mild poisonous gases, ensuring a supply of breathable air even within the most suffocating voids.

  The undead miner snapped its head toward the source of the mageia manifestation! Demons react with violent celerity to the presence of spells. It let out a guttural roar that echoed through the tunnel; the audacity of a human treading into its demonic den ignited a frenzy that the demonic instinct could no longer restrain.

  Its eye sockets were as pitch-black as the bottom of an abyss. Dull green saliva sprayed and trailed from its maw, where jaws and fangs had elongated into terrifying implements of slaughter. Though the creature wore the outer shell of a human corpse, its corrupted soul was entirely that of a demon!

  Seeing this, the young man leveled his wooden staff and chanted without pause.

  “Flamus Bulletrix!” Seraph unleashed the spell.

  [Bang!]

  A mote of crimson light materialized before him, no larger than a pebble. Before the undead miner could even perceive the threat, the small bead of fire tore through its skull with blinding speed. A streak of red light pierced the cavernous gloom; the projectile impacted the undead’s cranium with devastating force.

  The skull of the undead detonated, scattering brain matter in its wake. Clotted gore painted the cavern walls. The undead miner froze mid-stride, its fangs still bared and its arms outstretched to seize the human.

  However, the creature could no longer fulfill its dark desire. It collapsed like a puppet with severed strings. The shriek of the demon faded into a faint whisper, drifting as if from a vast distance—the final, resentful cry of a demon being unmade.

  Incarnation and emergence were but a cycle without end. Crimson droplets gradually seeped from the hollow sockets of the corpse lying upon the earth, akin to tears of blood. A murky white soul-light drifted upward from the undead remains, manifesting as a miner with a translucent, pallid form. The countenance of the human soul bore a tapestry of profound sorrow and sublime joy. He turned his gaze toward the young magis who had granted him liberation.

  “...”

  The miner’s soul offered a melancholic smile to the young man, his lips parting to utter words that remained unspoken. It was a tragedy that though his mouth moved, no spiritual resonance reached the young man’s ears. There was only the wind carrying a breath of lament; there were only the ashes entreating the hope of the next generation; there was only the silent gale, a torch passing on an unfulfilled legacy. Within moments, the human soul dissipated into the air.

  Human souls were entombed within undead shells, anchored by agony and grief; only when the undead vessel was unmade could they finally find release.

  As the spell had been unleashed, the sound of the mageia thundered throughout the cavern. Though it lacked the roar of a true explosion, the difference was negligible. The resonance of the mageia echoed through the distant reaches of the branching tunnels.

  The Bulletrix incantation was a spell that had never before existed upon Laurasia. It was Seraph who had fashioned this art himself, synthesizing the principles of a ballistic projectile with the processes of mageia theory. This fusion resulted in a strike of extreme violence, compressing mageia particles to their absolute threshold.

  Because it was a precision-point strike requiring minimal energy, the mana expended was negligible. It was a masterpiece of mana conservation that yielded devastating mageia potency.

  Yet, every advantage bore its weight. Because Bulletrix was a miniature spell compressed to fire with the ferocity of an arrow, it produced a crackling report no different from a slug ejected from a weapon of war. The sound of the Bulletrix rang through the mine shafts the instant it was triggered.