The monster collapsed into the snow with a hiss, steam rising from the ragged crater where its body had struck. No blood. No bones. Just slick, bubbling sludge that melted into the frost, vanishing like breath in winter air.
Asmodeus stood over it, chest rising and falling, the sigil on his chest now faint, burnt-out and dull, like a brand that had exhausted its fire.
He didn't move.
His fist remained clenched at his side, not from anger but restraint.
He could still feel the illusion's texture. The softness of skin that wasn't real. The weight of their voices. Their warmth.
A mockery of his harem. Of the bonds he had bled for.
Footsteps approached behind him—slow, uneven.
Asmodea's lips became swollen, one cheek flushed with a swelling bruise. She moved like a vine torn at the roots—limping, wobbling, bleeding petals with every step.
"You hit me," she said, voice low.
"I know," he replied.
