Sacred Altar
Ouranos observed the dungeon from his sacred altar, his consciousness weaving through the familiar labyrinth as it had for centuries. Everything appeared normal that evening. The past days had been calm, with no crises demanding his attention—only that lingering mystery of the comet that had fallen from the sky, origin unknown. Everyone was waiting for Vana Freya to return with his findings, but under the stone and city, peace reigned.
Then Ouranos felt it—a tremor sharp and unnatural, not of rock but of purpose. An abnormal monster spawn rate erupted within the dungeon, so sudden it sliced through his meditation like a blade of icy water. His attention narrowed, focus falling with precise clarity on Floor One. The spawn rate there had become astronomical, monsters emerging in numbers far outside the dungeon's patterns. The labyrinth itself was deliberately increasing monster generation, concentrating its efforts in a single place. Alarming, certainly, but what truly disturbed him was the shadow he sensed at its core.
He extended his awareness, searching for the origin—the Falna-marked soul that must be at the heart of such a commotion. Instead, he found nothing: an absence, a void where a blessed soul should have registered. Yet the dungeon reacted as if something powerful stood there—a presence it could not ignore.
"How could this be?" he murmured aloud, his brow knitting in genuine surprise.
Fels, compelled by the rare uncertainty in Ouranos's voice, emerged from the shadows. "What is it, Ouranos?"
"There is an unblessed individual in the dungeon," Ouranos said, his consciousness still circling that impossible emptiness on Floor One. He felt the dungeon's behavior changing, its chaotic attention tightening around that unnatural void. "And by the looks of it, the dungeon is trying to integrate them."
Fels stiffened, alarm flickering in their hollow eyes. "Integrate them?" they echoed.
Ouranos clarified, slow and deliberate. "The dungeon isn't trying to destroy or repel this one as it would most adventurers. It's attempting to claim them. To make them part of itself, as if there's a shared nature at the root. The dungeon senses something it recognizes—something compatible with its own essence."
"But that's impossible," Fels objected, almost whispering. "Nothing living shares the dungeon's origin except the monsters it creates. How can a mortal—?"
They broke off. Ouranos shook his head. "This one is alive, yes. Mortal in form. But their nature is not that of a typical person. Their essence…" He glanced at Fels, his gaze cool and searching. "It resembles yours in the barest sense—a deep magic not meant for the surface world. But where you are death given movement, a lifeless thing stirred by magic, this one is very much alive. Alive, yet carrying an essence that shouldn't belong to any living being. As if something from the primordial darkness took mortal form. Demonic, rather than necromantic."
The chamber fell silent as Fels tried to comprehend what that meant. Was there truly another being who defied the world's natural order? How had such a one come about? What purpose could they have in Orario?
While Ouranos kept his focus on the struggle below, observing as the dungeon unleashed its full psychic assault on the unknown figure. He watched the pulse and clash of force—a massive pressure pressed upon that solitary spark, an attempt to subsume it. Yet that essence, dark and unfamiliar, pushed back with absolute conviction, refusing to yield. The dungeon recoiled, not vanquished but startled, perhaps even impressed for the first time in centuries.
In all his centuries anchored here, Ouranos had never witnessed the dungeon retreat from anything save direct divine intervention.
Fels, sensing the scale of events, asked urgently. "Who are they? Where did they come from? Should we send someone to investigate?"
"No," Ouranos said, calm and final. "The dungeon has tested them and found them... acceptable. We observe. We wait." He opened his eyes, meeting Fels's gaze directly. "Keep watch on them. Note their movements, their associations. Learn what you can without interference. If they prove dangerous to Orario, we act. But for now, curiosity serves us better than intervention."
Fels hesitated, then bowed. "As you command, Ouranos." They melted back into shadow, departing to fulfill their assignment.
Alone once more, Ouranos returned to his meditation. But his attention remained divided—one part anchored to the altar, one part tracking that anomalous presence as it moved through the city above. Waiting. Watching. Patient as only the ageless could be.
Freya
She stood by the window of Babel's highest floor, her fingers idly brushing the cool rim of her wine glass. Tonight, the drink didn't matter.
Patience came easily to her. It was a part of her charm by now, woven into her divine nature like silver thread through silk. But tonight, something unfamiliar flickered beneath that practiced composure. Not the shallow lust mortals imagined defined her, but need—raw, honest, and impossible to ignore.
She wanted him here. In her city. Close enough to touch.
Allen would succeed. She trusted that with the certainty of centuries. Still, she let herself imagine it—that first meeting, the moment their eyes would lock, the delicious uncertainty of how he'd react. The anticipation fizzed under her skin like champagne bubbles, giddy and addictive.
Then, the world shifted.
Soul-gazing from her room, Freya caught a flicker of that familiar color—close. Impossibly close. Her divine sight snapped into focus, and there he was. Already in Orario. Making his own way toward Babel as if he had been summoned by invisible threads she hadn't even pulled yet.
She nearly laughed aloud, the sound caught between delight and disbelief.
He's here, she realized, watching his soul move with quiet determination through the streets. Like fate decided to skip the chase and drop him directly into my lap.
Well then.
She was a goddess. Waiting was what she did best.
She watched with a mix of amusement and awe as he approached Babel's entrance and vanished into the Dungeon's waiting mouth. No panic surged through her, no urge to interfere. Just a patient, electric hum vibrating through her divine core.
"Ottar," she commanded softly.
The Boaz appeared from the shadows instantly.
"Come. We are going down."
They took their position at the fountain plaza, the water cascading rhythmically in the silence of the late night. Hours passed. The city settled into its slumber, the magical lights dimming, and still, they waited.
Finally, a figure emerged from Babel's corridor.
Freya's eyes narrowed slightly.
His appearance didn't match the one she'd seen entering—neither physically nor spiritually. The shift was seamless, natural, as effortless as breathing. Transformation magic, she deduced instantly. But this was nothing like the crude glamours or illusion veils she had seen mortals use. This was real. Complete. Structural.
Fascinating.
But the truly surprising part came next.
He froze. He hadn't seen them yet—Ottar was perfectly concealed in the shadows, and she was veiled—but he sensed them. She saw the hesitation in his step, the sudden tension in his shoulders.
He didn't panic. He didn't run blindly. He simply... altered course.
He skirted the fountain entirely, hugging the shadows of the western shops, trusting his instincts even when his body was clearly screaming for rest.
Freya felt a pang of disappointment war with delight. She wanted to reveal herself then, to extend the invitation under the moonlight. But watching him evade Ottar—the strongest adventurer in the city—through pure, gut-level instinct?
That is worth the delay.
"Do not pursue," she signaled Ottar with a gesture.
Instead of intercepting, they observed from a distance. They watched him weave through the backstreets until he slipped into the side door of a familiar establishment.
The Hostess of Fertility.
Freya smiled. Perfect.
She gave him time. She let him eat, let him settle, let exhaustion finally claim him. Then, once she was certain his consciousness had drifted into sleep, she approached the pub's entrance.
She pushed the door open. The brass bell hanging above it threatened to chime, alerting the entire building, but a pulse of magic from inside silenced it instantly.
Freya stepped across the threshold.
Mia Grand stood behind the counter, one hand resting on a rune carved into the wood. The faint glow of silencing seals woven into the walls flared to life and then faded, sealing the main room off from the upstairs dorms.
The dwarven woman looked unsurprised. She had always been perceptive.
"Lady Freya," Mia said, her tone carefully neutral, though her eyes were sharp. "What brings ye here at this hour?"
"I have an interest in the young man you sheltered tonight," Freya said simply, gliding toward a table. "I'd like to invite him to the Familia."
Mia's expression didn't change, but the air around her shifted. She sighed—the sound of someone who knew arguing was futile but intended to do it anyway.
"Knowing you for long, I know better than to try changin' yer mind once it's set," Mia grunted. "But I've got conditions."
Freya raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"
"It happens after he wakes up," Mia stated firmly. "In front of me. And ye accept his decision, whatever it might be. This is my pub, Freya. I won't have guests pressured under my roof."
Behind Freya, Ottar shifted. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his greatsword—subtle, but unmistakable. The audacity of this old hag for setting conditions for their Goddess—
Mia's gaze snapped to him. Her eyes narrowed into slits.
"What's that, Piggy?"
Ottar froze.
Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand moved away from the blade and returned to his side. His expression remained the usual stoic mask, but Freya caught the faintest flicker in his aura. Not fear, exactly. But a deep, ingrained respect born from very painful memories.
He remembered her training methods far too well.
Freya bit back a smile. The dynamic between her former and current captains never failed to entertain.
"Acceptable," she agreed, turning back to Mia. "But I would like to observe him until dawn. I will wait downstairs afterward—patiently—until he wakes."
Mia studied her for a long moment, looking for deception. Finding none, she nodded.
"Aye. But from outside the room. I'll make sure he's decent first."
"Agreed."
Mia disappeared upstairs briefly, heavy boots thudding on the wood. When she returned, she gestured toward the stairs. "Ye can look. Don't go touchin' anything."
Freya ascended the stairs, her steps silent. She approached the doorway of the guest room where Max lay.
She extended her divine sight.
And there he was.
Her breath caught in her throat.
And his soul—gods, his soul—was everything she hoped for and more.
It was dark. Not evil, but layered with a darkness she recognized from the deepest dungeons, from adventurers who'd stared into the abyss and had the abyss cheerfully wave back. But this darkness had a peculiar quality—it pulsed with a rich, burgundy glow, potent and intoxicating, like aged wine mixed with something forbidden.
Yet beneath that, impossibly deeper, she saw it: a pure, gleaming core of silverish-blue light. Radiant. Untouched. A contradiction that made her longing heart race with need.
Such layers. Such complexity. A soul that was simultaneously tarnished and pristine, jaded and innocent, dark and luminous.
But now—oh, now—his soul had transformed.
It hadn't dimmed or lost its luster as mortal souls often did after experiencing the dungeon's cruelty. Quite the opposite. The silvery-blue core burned deeper, brighter, as if purified by holy flame, its radiance intensified beyond anything she anticipated. And simultaneously, the dark outline had deepened, no longer merely waving at him from the abyss but dyed with the obsidian of that infinite void, as if it had become part of him, woven into his very essence. The inner layers of burgundy glow had darkened to the color of freshly spilled blood—richer, more potent, utterly intoxicating.
Just looking at his soul made her heart fill with desire, igniting a primal flame deep within her core. The urge to claim, to possess, to make him irrevocably hers surged through her with an intensity that should have been impossible for her.
But she held herself still, savoring the anticipation.
That insipid wretch Ishtar often spread rumors painting her as a base creature of lust, a slave to her own whims. Freya smiled inwardly. She had never needed to debase herself. She was Freya—the personification of desire, the embodiment of beauty. She didn't chase. She didn't beg. Things happened because she willed them. Her children came to her through salvation or circumstance—Allen from the brink of death, Ottar from the crucible of battle, Horn from purposeless wandering. Each one bound by debt, gratitude, or worship.
But this one... this one was different.
She hadn't saved him. She hadn't rescued him from anything except perhaps minor inconvenience. He didn't owe her a thing.
She simply... wanted him. Purely. Honestly. Without the usual justifications of potential or duty.
And gods, doesn't that realization thrill me?
She settled against the doorframe, content to watch. She observed the way his chest rose and fell in the rhythm of deep sleep. She noticed the small blue slime nestled beside him in a bag, recovering alongside its master—such fierce loyalty in such a simple creature. She could see the crimson threads of contract magic binding them, pulsing faintly in her divine sight.
Hours passed. Night gave way to the gray of pre-dawn, then the golden light of morning filtering through the window.
True to her word, Freya descended to the pub's main room as the sun began to climb. Mia was already up, wiping down tables with practiced efficiency.
"Satisfied?" the dwarf asked without looking up.
"Very," Freya replied, her voice soft. She settled at a table by the window, the morning light catching her silver hair. "I'll wait here until he wakes."
Mia grunted acknowledgment and continued her work.
Freya rested her chin in her hand, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams. She let her divine sight drift upward occasionally, checking on that brilliant, contradictory soul. Still sleeping. Still recovering.
But soon—soon he would wake.
And then, finally, they would meet properly.
The anticipation was delicious.
Max
Max gasped, his eyes snapping open as he bolted upright in bed.
Disorientation hit him instantly. This wasn't the starry sky of the desert, nor was it the sterile white ceiling of a hospital. Above him stretched unfamiliar wooden beams, dark with age and smelling of beeswax and old timber.
Panic surged for a heartbeat—Where am I? Who took me?—before clarity washed over him like a cold bucket of water.
Right. The Hostess of Fertility.
He let out a long, ragged sigh, his shoulders slumping knowing he was safe.
His thoughts immediately snapped to his companion. "Kairu?"
He twisted frantically, searching the bed. A soft, familiar jiggle answered him from his right. The blue slime was poking out of the open storage bag, vibrating lazily.
Relief crashed through Max, loosening the knot of tension in his chest. "You're okay. Good."
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the wood floor cool beneath his feet. His mind booted up, loading the agenda for the day. Research. Wandering Orario. And... joining a Familia.
He couldn't stay solo. Last night proved that. He needed backing, he needed a status, and he needed a place to sleep that didn't involve looking over his shoulder every five seconds.
He opened the door, intending to find Mia to ask about facilities. He didn't have to look far.
The massive dwarven woman was walking down the corridor, carrying a stack of linens that would have crushed a normal man. She stopped when she saw him, her one good eye narrowing critically.
"Bathroom's that one," she grunted, jerking her chin toward a door at the end of the hall before Max could even speak. "And ye better hurry up. Breakfast stops servin' when I say it does, but ye are pushin' yer luck."
Max blinked, glancing at the clock on the wall. It read 10:00 AM.
I slept in, he realized. The magical exhaustion hit harder than I thought.
"Thanks," he called out, already moving toward the washroom.
Twenty minutes later, scrubbed clean and wearing the spare set of traveler's clothes he had used in River Village—simple, durable, and unassuming—Max headed downstairs.
He expected the morning rush—adventurers hungover from the night before, waitresses shouting orders, the clatter of plates.
Instead, the tavern was silent.
Empty chairs sat pushed in at every table. The bar was clear. The only sound was the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of Mia chopping something behind the counter.
Save for one table.
In the center of the room, a lone figure sat. A plate of steaming food sat opposite them—waiting.
Max paused at the bottom of the stairs, his instincts prickling again.
"Good timing, kid," Mia called out without looking up from her chopping block. "Come on. Yer breakfast will lose heat."
She pointed with her knife toward the occupied table.
"The lady sitting there has somethin' to discuss with ye."
Max's eyes drifted to the figure. From the back, he saw silver hair cascading like moonlight over a dark cloak.
Silver hair.
Surprise flickered through him, followed quickly by curiosity. He didn't sense hostility—at least, not the overt kind he'd felt last night.
Thinking not much of it—or perhaps just too hungry to argue—Max made his way to the table. He pulled out the chair opposite the woman and sat down.
"Thanks for the meal," he muttered, reaching for a piece of bread.
He looked up to offer a polite greeting to the mysterious lady.
The words died in his throat.
Sitting across from him, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers, was Freya.
The Goddess of Beauty. The unofficial Queen of Orario.
Max froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. She was on his list of potential Familias to visit today. But seeing her here? Waiting for him?
Stunned silence stretched between them for a long moment.
Then, Freya smiled.
It wasn't the predatory smirk of a conqueror, nor the distant mask of a deity. It was warm, inviting, and terrifyingly potent.
"Good morning," she said, her voice like silk wrapping around his senses. "Do you like what you see that much?"
The question threw Max into immediate denial—his mouth opened to deflect, to make some flippant comment—but he caught himself. Heat crept up his neck as he realized he'd been staring.
He shook his head, forcing his brain to reboot. He lowered the bread, carefully setting it on the plate. Since no one is attacking me, I have all the time in the world to reply properly. No need to panic.
He let his eyes close for a heartbeat, then reopened them, meeting her gaze directly. "I do like what I see," he said evenly, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in his veins. "But I'm more interested in knowing what brings you here. Lady Freya."
Something flickered in Freya's expression—approval, perhaps, or intrigue. But beneath that carefully maintained surface, confusion stirred. His words registered clearly enough, yet the usual resonance that accompanied mortal speech was absent. It was as if they spoke in completely different languages yet understood each other perfectly.
Her divine perception—her instinctive gift to sense truth from falsehood—returned nothing. No deceit, no sincerity. Only silence. Blank static where divine certainty should have existed.
Then it hit him—another jolt of embarrassment. He'd sat down without even introducing himself.
"Forgive me," Max said as he recovered, finally taking a bite of the bread to settle his nerves. "I am Max. Please forgive my lapse in manners."
Again, Freya felt that strange emptiness. His apology sounded genuine, felt genuine, but there was no divine proof behind it. Nothing for her to read. It was maddening—and thrilling.
Freya's smile deepened, carrying warmth underneath its polished calm. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Max."
"As you are aware, I am Freya."
Max nodded, chewing and swallowing quickly.
"Lady Freya," he said carefully, his tone shifting to something more formal as he reached for his fork. "This is... unexpected."
"Is it?" She tilted her head, her silver eyes studying him with an intensity that made his skin tingle.
Before Max could respond, Freya's expression shifted slightly—still warm, but carrying a weight that made him pay closer attention.
"Before we discuss why I'm here," she said, her tone becoming more serious, "there's something you should know. Last night, you were being followed."
Ice shot through Max's veins. That feeling at the gate. The danger sense that screamed at him to avoid the plaza.
"Followed?" he asked, memories of the dread resurfacing. He slowly lowered his fork back to the plate, his appetite wavering.
Freya nodded, her eyes never leaving his. "A dark god took interest in you."
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. "The followers of that god continued searching for you through the night. They were asking questions. Offering coin for information about a blue-haired young man who entered the dungeon alone."
Max felt his hands tighten around his water glass. I've been in Orario less than a day and already had a target on my back.
"Who?" he asked, his voice harder than he intended.
"That doesn't matter right now," Freya said smoothly. "What matters is that you're being hunted, Max. And without protection, without a Familia backing you, you're vulnerable. Your instincts saved you last night—but instincts won't be enough if they corner you properly."
She paused, letting that sink in before continuing.
"I saw your soul fall from the sky. I see it burning brighter than ever now. And I recognize the potential in you that eclipses nearly everything in this city." Her smile returned, warmer now but edged with something possessive. "I would like you to join me. To become part of the Freya Familia. Under my protection, no one will dare touch you."
Max processed her words, his mind racing. He mechanically speared a sausage, not really tasting it as he chewed.
The hunted feeling at the gate. The other options he'd instinctively avoided. Another god actively searching for him with followers offering coin for information.
He'd known joining a Familia was necessary for safety and growth, but he hadn't realized how urgently he needed it. Without backing, he was prey in a city full of predators.
And Freya was offering the strongest shield in Orario.
His Devil side preened at the attention—of course it did. Being personally invited by the most powerful goddess in the city stroked his ego in ways he hadn't expected. But beneath the satisfaction, relief flooded through him. He'd planned to approach her anyway. Having her come to him, offer protection against an immediate threat?
That was more than luck. That was salvation.
"I'm honored," Max said, and he meant it. He washed down the food with a long swallow of water and met her eyes directly. "Genuinely. I know what it means to be prey, and I'm grateful you're willing to extend your protection to someone you barely know."
He paused, engaging his tactical mind. He ate another bite of stew, buying a moment to weigh his next words carefully.
"I would like to join your Familia, Lady Freya. But before I do, I need to be honest about something." He leaned forward slightly, setting his cutlery down with a soft clink. "My nature—the contradiction you mentioned seeing in my soul—it's going to cause complications. Last night proved that. I've been here less than a day and I'm already being hunted. That won't stop just because I have your Falna."
He held her gaze, needing her to understand. "If I join, I need to know you'll stand by me when things get messy. Because they will get messy. I can feel it."
Freya's smile deepened, carrying both amusement and iron certainty.
"I would like to see anyone willing to go against my Familia," she said, her tone light but carrying the weight of an absolute promise. "You will be one of mine, Max. And what is mine, no one touches. Not gods, not mortals, not anyone."
The conviction in her voice sent a thrill through him—half relief, half something else he couldn't quite name.
Max exhaled slowly, tension he hadn't fully realized he was carrying draining from his shoulders. He pushed the half-empty plate slightly away, his decision made.
"Then I'm ready to join."
Freya's entire presence brightened with satisfaction, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"However," Max added, raising a finger. "Before I receive your Falna, I have one request."
Freya's eyebrow lifted, intrigued rather than offended. "Oh?"
Max glanced past her toward the hulking shadow standing guard by the door—Ottar, unmistakable even in stillness.
"I'd like to have a duel with the Warlord," Max said, turning his attention back to Freya. "With Ottar."
Crash.
A sound from the counter. Mia had dropped her knife. She stared at Max as if he'd grown a second head.
Max pressed on before anyone could object. "I need to see where I actually stand. Not where I think I stand, not where I hope to be—but the reality of the gap between me and the peak of what Orario has to offer."
He glanced toward Ottar again, then back to Freya. "Last night at the fountain, even exhausted and barely conscious, I felt his presence. The sheer weight of it. If I'm going to join the strongest Familia in Orario, I need to know the baseline. How far I have to climb. What I can accomplish without your blessing amplifying me."
For a moment, genuine surprise flickered across Freya's features.
She'd expected gratitude, perhaps questions about the Falna process, maybe even negotiation about his position in the Familia hierarchy. But this?
He wanted to fight Ottar. Unblessed. Voluntarily.
The sheer audacity of the request sent a thrill racing through her, sharp and electric and utterly delicious.
Most would have leapt at the chance to receive her Falna immediately, knowing it would multiply their strength several times over. Most would have seen Ottar as a distant benchmark, a summit to strive toward someday—not a challenge to face now, while still mortal and untested.
But Max wanted to know exactly how far he had to climb before her blood gave him an advantage.
She studied his soul again—that radiant silverish-blue core wrapped in obsidian darkness, the burgundy layers pulsing between. As he spoke, as conviction hardened his voice, the burgundy glow deepened and swirled faster, as though his very essence hungered for the challenge he'd just named.
The boldness of his request compelled her. She found herself eager to see what he could accomplish, to understand what power and potential lay behind the man who requested a duel with Ottar.
"You wish to fight Ottar," she said slowly, savoring each word. "Unblessed. Knowing he is Level 6, renowned as the Warlord whose strength surpasses nearly every being in Orario. Knowing the gap between you is… substantial."
It wasn't a question, but Max answered anyway. "I do. I need to know where I stand. What my ceiling is before you give me the tools to break through it."
Freya's lips curved ever so slightly. His conviction was driving him—analytical, honest, relentless. He wouldn't accept her blessing without first understanding his own worth.
That determination thrilled her more than it should have.
"I see," she murmured, amusement and anticipation flickering in her gaze. She turned her head slightly toward the door. "Ottar."
The air shifted as the towering figure of the Boaz stepped forward, moving with controlled power.
"My goddess." His deep voice rumbled through the space, calm and certain as stone.
Freya gestured toward Max. "Our guest has requested a duel. He wishes to face you—unblessed."
Ottar's eyes drifted toward Max, assessing—not dismissive, but measuring. The silence stretched briefly. "If that is your will, Goddess Freya," he said at last.
"Tomorrow morning would be appropriate," Freya replied. "Folkvangr's training grounds are empty at dawn."
But Max shook his head. "Tomorrow isn't necessary. I'm rested and recovered. Putting it off won't change the outcome—I just need to see where I stand now."
Freya turned her gaze back to Ottar. The Boaz met her look and gave a single nod. "As you command."
Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Very well, then. Now it is."
She rose, grace and poise wrapped in anticipation. "You will have your duel, Max. Fight as long as you can stand. I will be watching."
He stood as well, wiping the last crumbs from his mouth, calm confidence settling over him. "That's all I ask, Lady Freya."
Freya glanced at Mia, who was still staring at Max like he'd lost his mind. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mia."
The dwarf just shook her head slowly. "Crazy kids," she muttered.
Freya's smile brightened. "Come then. Let's proceed to Folkvangr."
Together—Goddess, Warlord, and unblessed challenger—they made their way through Orario's morning streets toward the grand training grounds of Folkvangr.
The city hummed quietly around them, but soon the wide, open space of the baptism ground awaited—the stage for a duel about to unfold.
-~ Devil in a Dungeon ~-
AN:
Well that's how it happened. Who do you think this Dark God is? Also Mia is introduced, yay! For those wondering, the Hostess usually operates from the afternoon, that's why the workers didn't come yet.
Btw, this Arc's name: Life with Freya
Let's see how the duel goes in the next chap. Do share your thoughts on who will win in a review/comment.
If you want to read at least 4 chaps ahead or support me, visit p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash.
Please note that they are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Next update will be on Sunday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.