Hespera brushed dirt from her hands with a casual flick of her wrist, as if this moment — this titanic moment — was simply another task to complete before breakfast.
She turned to Albion, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing loosely toward the roots still groaning and creaking above them.
"Now, little Albi," she said, her voice light but undeniably firm,
"I think it's time to do your duty, hmm?"
Her emerald and amethyst eyes gleamed.
"Go wrap your body around the roots and the Tree—just like your mother did."
She paused, smile sharpening. "And while you're at it, I need you to bite onto the most corrupted part of Yggdrasil you can find."
Albion stiffened slightly, spectral wings fluttering.
"…Bite it?"
Hespera nodded. "Yes. Bite it. Clamp those pretty little fangs down like your life depends on it."
She tilted her head. "Because, little Albi—it just might."
He hesitated only a moment longer. Then closed his eyes, letting instinct guide him.
---
Albion's spectral form pulsed once—then twice—then began to grow. Not in a smooth, seamless shift, but in a slow and solemn unfolding, like a flower forced open by the coming of the sun.
His wings stretched wider, bones crackling with new old weight. His scales, once pale and thin as breath, thickened and deepened—changing into a brilliant white infused with faint rivers of silver and gold. His body lengthened, coiling with slow majesty through the gnarled hollow chamber of the World Tree's base.
Not a beast.
Not a monster.
But a guardian.
A Warden of Rot.
The new Devourer.
---
He rose, tall and vast, his body now strong enough to entwine the exposed veins of Yggdrasil's wounded heart.
The ancient roots—so long without their protector—seemed to lean into him instinctively, wrapping around his long, sinuous form like old friends finding each other again after endless separation.
Albion wrapped himself around the roots.
One full loop.
Two.
Three.
A living braid of silver-white and ancient bark.
His claws anchored into the earth—not tearing it, but binding it.
His tail laced through the cracked veins like threads stitching a wounded tapestry.
And then—
he found it.
The source of the deepest corruption.
A root thicker than a mountain, blackened and pulsing with foul magic—pustules of decay bubbling across its surface.
It reeked of everything wrong with the world: war, greed, betrayal, forgotten promises, polluted prayers.
Without hesitation, Albion opened his jaws—
and bit.
His fangs sank deep into the rot-infested root.
Rot spewed into his mouth like venom, thick and viscous.
It was agony.
It tasted of suffering that stretched across epochs.
But Albion didn't release.
He tightened his jaws until his teeth scraped the very marrow of the Tree itself.
The corruption howled—an echoing scream through the roots, through the canopy, through the ley lines themselves.
The rot fought him.
Tried to pour into his soul.
Tried to make him another mindless beast of decay.
But Albion was ready.
He was the son of Nidhoggr.
The student of sacrifice.
The Devourer reborn.
And as he clamped down harder, he consumed it.
Piece by piece.
Thread by thread.
The sickly blackness began to dim.
The pulsating boils began to deflate.
The veins of the World Tree started to glow—not with gold or green—but with a faint, stubborn silver.
Like hope buried beneath centuries of grief.
---
Hespera watched silently, arms folded across her chest, the silver crystal ring on her hand pulsing gently in rhythm with the Tree's struggling breath.
The ceremony was almost complete.
She spoke, her voice low and resonant:
"Let it be recorded in the marrow of Yggdrasil—
that Albion, Son of the Seer, Moonborn of the First Dream, takes the Burden.
That he shall devour the rot until the stars fall and the last fruit blooms.
And when the roots crack and the heavens dim,
he shall be the last flame in the dark.
The guardian. The anchor.
The Silent Warden of the End."
As her words wove through the roots, the Tree itself responded.
A low, ancient hum vibrated through the cavern.
The roots tightened around Albion protectively.
The corruption—what was left of it—withered back into dormancy, cowed by the new warden now entwined within the Tree's living bones.
Albion's body pulsed once—
a final surge of power as he anchored fully.
The Devourer's Duty complete.
---
Hespera stepped forward and placed her hand against a nearby root, feeling the Tree's exhausted gratitude ripple through her veins like a prayer finally answered.
She smiled softly.
"Well done, little Albi."
~☆~
The portal snapped open with a ripple of magenta and silver light.
Hespera stepped through without ceremony, wings half-folded, boots clicking softly against the Game Field's shattered stones.
It was empty.
The Phenex Clan was nowhere to be seen.
She tilted her head, sensing their cowardly retreat beyond the field's perimeter with a small, disdainful breath through her nose.
"Typical."
Without wasting another second, she opened another portal — this one humming with layered dimensions — and stepped through.
The Gremory estate's grand dining hall materialized around her in a blink.
The room was a scene of anxious recovery:
Rias's family — Zeoticus, Sirzechs, Venelana — sat tense at the massive crystal-inlaid table. Grayfia stood poised behind them, eyes sharp despite the polite tea service spread out before them.
And at the far end, lounging in casual grace, sat the Hesperides — her daughters, sipping tea and nibbling cakes as if nothing catastrophic had happened at all.
Ophis, serene as a river stone, quietly stirred her cup with a tiny silver spoon, observing everything with lazy, ageless calm.
Hespera ignored them all.
Her focus zeroed in on the unconscious figures lined up on velvet-cushioned divans:
Rias.
Kiba.
Koneko.
Gaspar.
Asia.
Akeno.
Hespera's gaze narrowed.
She moved to them without a word, footsteps light but crackling with restrained force. She knelt briefly beside Rias, brushing a gloved hand across her forehead.
The girl stirred faintly, her energy depleted but intact. Her spirit was battered, yes — but not broken.
The others…
They were stable.
Except—
Hespera's lips thinned.
She stood smoothly, lifting her silver-ringed hand.
In a single, fluid motion, she withdrew Noctis from her dimensional ring — the blade singing softly as it entered the physical plane.
Without hesitation —
without pause — she plunged the katana straight through Akeno's heart.
The blade buried itself deep, sinking between ribs, drinking into corrupted flesh like a whisper of inevitability.
The room exploded into chaos.
Zeoticus and Sirzechs shot to their feet.
Grayfia's eyes widened in horror.
But before they could take a single step—
Hespera's aura unfurled.
Not her full strength. Not even a fraction. Just a silvered sliver of Nihility's Domination—an ancient force that predated will, predated existence.
The room collapsed beneath it.
Marble cracked.
Chandeliers shuddered.
Every devil present was crushed to their knees, their magic suffocated instantly.
Sirzechs, High-class Devil and Maou, fell flat onto the floor with a grunt, his body pinned by a pressure so alien it rendered his cosmic magic irrelevant.
Zeoticus gasped, trying to rise — and failed.
Even Grayfia, proud and unshakable, trembled violently, blood trickling from her lip as she fought to keep her gaze raised.
Hespera never once looked at them.
Her eyes remained locked on the girl she had stabbed — on Akeno — whose body twitched faintly under the blade.
Her voice, when it came, was cold and sharp enough to fracture stars.
"It would be in your best interest to stop with your pretense."
The blade twisted slightly.
Akeno's body jerked.
"I know you're awake."
The air thickened even further, the silver vines of her aura tightening invisibly around the room.
"That foul stench your kind gives off…" Hespera's lip curled slightly in disgust, "...is almost impossible to ignore."
The dining hall trembled around them — glasses cracking, ancient tapestries wilting from the pressure alone.
Hespera leaned closer, her tone dropping to something far more dangerous.
Something primal.
"Don't make me even angrier, Zeus."
The silence that followed was thunderous.
"You won't like the consequences."