The fading sunlight painted Stella in hues of gold and orange, but Zerutod didn’t care for such trivialities. His senses were locked on the chaotic energy radiating from the temple ahead. It was a mess—an unfocused, jagged buzz that grated against his electroreceptive field like static tearing through a symphony. It was enough to draw his attention away from the carefully ordered research he had been piecing together all afternoon.

The crowd ahead was alive with murmurs and erratic movements, their fear practically palpable. He let out a soft sigh, leaning against a nearby wall and gripping the hilt of his katana as he tried to block out the noise. But it was no use. A sharp, cruel laugh echoed through the air, followed by a booming voice from the spire above.

"Your souls will be mine!"

Zerutod’s head tilted, his expression unamused. The magical energy coming off the woman was potent but unfocused, like a child swinging a broadsword they could barely lift. Yet it was causing enough of a commotion to disrupt the city and, more importantly, his work. The streets were packed with frozen gawkers, their erratic fear patterns ricocheting through his senses like a thousand out-of-tune instruments.

He was already debating whether to bother when another voice cut through the chaos. This one was smaller, quieter, and carried a tinge of uncertainty beneath its firm intent.

"Does anyone want to help?"

Zerutod let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. Of course, someone had to try and rally the sheep. He remained still for a moment longer, torn between ignoring the situation and silencing the chaos just so he could get back to his work. The latter won out.  He pushed off the wall and began walking toward the commotion, his stride steady, deliberate. The crowd instinctively parted, unease rippling in his wake. He had no interest in rallying people or making speeches. He wanted this distraction eliminated so he could get back to work. He stopped a few paces behind the woman who had spoken—the one who had foolishly called for help. A massive wolf at her side turned its head toward him, blue eyes narrowing in warning. Zerutod didn’t flinch, his pale lavender eyes unblinking as he addressed her, his tone flat.

"You're wasting your breath," he said. "No one here is going to help you. Most of them are too scared to move, let alone fight." "Lucky for you, I despise the distraction," he said, his voice carrying a calm sharpness that cut through the anxious murmurs of the crowd. "So, I’ll help deal with it."

His fingers flexed briefly at his side, the faint hum of time magic coiling beneath his skin as if eager to act. But he stayed in place, tilting his head slightly upward toward the source of the chaotic energy above. The patterns were sloppy, the glyphs amateurish. Whoever this was, she had power, but no sense of finesse. It was an insult to the art of magic itself.

He clicked his tongue softly, shaking his head with mock disappointment. "That is, unless you have a brilliant plan I should wait around for?"

The words came slow and deliberate, his tone hovering between condescension and faint amusement. He turned his head slightly toward her, not enough to make eye contact, but enough to let her know she had his attention—at least for the moment.

Zerutod adjusted the collar of his coat, a slow, deliberate motion that conveyed more irritation than it did practicality. His pale lavender eyes, unfocused but keenly aware, shifted ever so slightly toward Ulyssia and her towering wolf companion. The magic emanating from the spire above buzzed against his senses, a cacophony of disorder that begged to be silenced. Yet here he was, standing in the midst of a crowd frozen in indecision, wasting his precious time.

He let Ulyssia’s words hang in the air for a moment longer than necessary, savoring the faint awkwardness that filled the space between them before speaking.

"Face her head-on, huh?" His tone dripped with dry amusement, his words carefully chosen to cut. "Bold. Borderline suicidal. But bold."

His lips curled into a faint smirk as he tilted his head, feigning contemplation. "At least you’re honest about the lack of a plan. That’s...refreshing. Rare, even."

He let his gaze shift briefly to the massive wolf at her side, the creature’s energy practically radiating eagerness. Jasper’s icy blue eyes were locked on the spire above, his frame taut with anticipation. Zerutod studied the wolf for a beat longer than necessary before letting out a soft snort.

"The dog’s ready to charge in like a battering ram," he remarked, his tone as dry as ever. "You? Not so much. But you’re still standing, so I’ll give you that much."

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, before turning his attention back to Ulyssia. His expression shifted slightly, the faintest trace of something resembling approval crossing his face—though it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

"As for not leading you to your demise..." He trailed off, his voice softening to something less mocking, though no less cutting. He turned his head toward the spire, letting the chaotic energy fill his senses once more. The power radiating from the figure above was raw but sloppy—a crude display of strength with no finesse. It was loud and attention-seeking, and worst of all, it was wasting his time.

A faint smirk returned to his lips as he finished his thought. "...That depends entirely on how well you follow instructions."

Zerutod stepped forward, brushing past Ulyssia and Jasper as if they were little more than background noise. His katana shifted slightly at his side, though it remained sheathed for now. He stopped at the base of the temple steps, his head tilting as he spoke without looking back.

"The crowd’s useless. Forget about them. Their fear’s as heavy as their feet. If you’re serious about this, don’t waste your energy worrying about what they think—or if they’ll join in. They won’t."

He let his words linger for a moment, turning his head just enough to glance back at Ulyssia. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried an unspoken challenge.

"Here’s the deal," he continued, his voice as sharp as the edge of a blade. "You keep her distracted while I deal with the source of her power. Whatever it is, it’s unstable—too loud, too chaotic to last on its own. Take out the focus, and the rest collapses. Simple enough?"

Without waiting for a response, he adjusted his coat again, his fingers brushing lightly against the hilt of his katana. The air around him seemed to ripple faintly, a distortion of time that hinted at the power coiled within him, ready to strike. His tone shifted back to its usual dry sarcasm as he added one last remark.

"And try not to die. Cleaning up a corpse is more effort than I’m willing to put in today."

He flickered for a moment, his form distorting slightly as his time magic flared to life. But he didn’t move just yet. Instead, he remained rooted in place, his presence a calm, cold storm of readiness.

He didn’t bother glancing back again. If Ulyssia and her wolf wanted to prove themselves, this was their moment. He’d given them the opening. Whether they took it or stumbled was entirely up to them. All Zerutod knew was that the chaos above needed to end, and he wasn’t about to wait forever.

The villain’s laughter grated on Zerutod’s nerves, a sharp, echoing sound that vibrated through the air like nails raked across stone. He clenched his jaw briefly, tilting his head toward the spire as her taunts spilled over the plaza.

"So, the valiant few come forth!" her voice mocked, dripping with overblown theatrics. "How beautiful! I will be glad to dissect you all, bit by bit!"

Zerutod’s lips twitched into a faint, humorless smirk. “I don’t know what’s worse—her magic or her sense of drama,” he muttered to himself. The woman’s energy was chaotic and raw, but her control over it was pathetic. She was power without precision, noise without substance. A walking annoyance in every sense of the word.

His attention shifted momentarily as Ulyssia spoke. Her introduction was curt, her tone laced with the determination of a soldier. "I'm Ulyssia, by the way. Ulyssia Hailstar, and that's Jasper. May the spirit of the wolf guide and protect you."

Zerutod turned his head slightly, his blank gaze tilting in her direction. “Zerutod. Let’s hope your wolf spirit knows how to handle explosions,” he replied, his voice dry, but not entirely dismissive. He wasn’t here to bond, but her confidence and quick action kept her in his peripheral attention—at least for now.

Before he could say more, Ulyssia and Jasper sprang into action. The Dharga Werewolf darted forward, her massive wolf companion moving with an uncanny, almost feline grace. Zerutod watched them split and maneuver with a quiet hum of approval. “At least they’re not completely useless,” he mused.

As they charged toward the tower, chaos erupted around them. The villain hurled beams of searing green light, each one tearing through the air with lethal precision. Zerutod felt the disruption ripple before the light even descended.

The werewolf and her wolf companion wove through the destruction, their movements instinctive and synchronized, as if no century-long separation had ever existed. Cobblestones shattered beneath the assault, debris flying in all directions. Zerutod stood still in the midst of it all, his trench coat flaring slightly with the force of the blasts as he assessed the situation with cold calculation.

“Hmph. Not bad,” he murmured, watching Ulyssia and Jasper create their diversion with practiced efficiency.

The villain snarled something unintelligible as she unleashed another wave of green energy, but Zerutod’s focus had already shifted. While the woman wasted her time on the werewolf and her companion, Zerutod moved.

He stepped forward with deliberate calm, the world around him seeming to slow as his time magic rippled outward. The cobblestones cracked beneath his boots, frozen mid-fall, and the chaotic energy pulsing from the spire dulled into a steady thrum in his perception. To the untrained eye, his figure shimmered faintly, distorting as if out of sync with the present moment.

He slipped past the chaos like a shadow, his focus narrowing on the spire and the unstable magic surrounding it. He could feel it now—the source of the woman’s power, hidden somewhere within the temple’s upper reaches. It was a crude artifact, no doubt, but potent enough to amplify her otherwise lackluster talents. Zerutod’s lips curled into a thin smile.

“There you are,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

With one final glance at Ulyssia and Jasper, Zerutod allowed a faint ripple of approval to cross his mind. They were holding their own, creating the chaos he needed to act. His katana remained sheathed as he vanished into a flicker of temporal distortion, his movements swift and surgical as he ascended toward the source of the power.

Time and chaos intertwined around him, but Zerutod moved with the precision of a clockwork machine. The priestess would soon find herself without her crutch, and when that happened, he’d ensure the show was over. For good.