Part 8  – A Hero’s Welcome

Sheral’s flight back to Eldoria was a lonely, silent journey through a sky streaked with the colors of dawn. The exhilarating rush of battle had faded, leaving behind the hollow ache of exhaustion and the haunting images of the dead and dying.

Her return to the capital was nothing like her quiet departure. As she descended towards the Grand Plaza, a massive, joyous roar erupted, a wave of sound so powerful it was a physical force. They chanted her new name: “Angel! Angel! Angel!”

She landed softly in the center of the plaza, a vision of divine perfection. Her form, sculpted by the artifacts’ power, was breathtaking—a perfect synthesis of feminine grace and warrior strength. The crimson costume accentuated every powerful, elegant line of her body, from her strong shoulders and toned arms to her slender waist and the legendary length of her incredible legs. Her face, framed by the red mask and a cascade of dark hair now free from its practical braid, was a portrait of solemn, untouchable beauty. The adulation was overwhelming, and she felt profoundly isolated, separated from her people forever by the very power that had saved them.

She was quickly escorted to the Grand Council chamber. The mood among the Elders was one of ecstatic relief. General Kaelen was also present, his face a mask of cold, unreadable stone.

“You have exceeded all our hopes, child,” Elder Theron said, his voice thick with emotion. “You fought with the power of a god, but the restraint of a true Lemurian.”

General Kaelen stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply. “The asset performed its function adequately,” he said, his voice clipped and dismissive. “Her chaotic, brute-force assault created the tactical opening my command required to rout the enemy and achieve victory. A crude tool, but an effective one.”

A clear line had been drawn. Sheral, the hero of the hour, now found herself a political pawn in a new, more subtle kind of war. Later, in a tearful reunion with her parents, the change was undeniable. They saw not just their daughter, but a powerful, perfect being, and it terrified them as much as it made them proud. Her old life was truly over.

Far to the east, in a mobile command fortress carved from obsidian and augmented with stolen technology, the Warlord Xarthos was not raging at his defeat. He was a scientist, and he was studying his new data.

Holographic recordings of the Battle of Aethel played out around him, freezing and zooming in on the crimson-clad figure of Superwoman. His second-in-command, a hulking barbarian chieftain, watched in grim silence.

“Invulnerable to plasma fire,” Xarthos murmured, his fingers dancing across a console. “Capable of supersonic, unaided flight. Strength exceeding all theoretical limits.” He brought up a final, complex energy scan. “And the signature… a perfect match for the ‘symbiotic amplification system’ from the forbidden archives. The Wizards actually built it.”

His tone shifted from purely analytical to something more personal, more obsessive. He zoomed the hologram in, focusing on a high-resolution image of Superwoman hovering over the battlefield.

“But look at the vessel itself, Captain,” Xarthos said, a strange, predatory admiration in his voice. “The Wizards, in their infinite wisdom, chose to pour this power into… perfection. A flawless form. An incredible body, radiating a power that is almost… divine. They didn’t just build a weapon; they created an idol, an object of worship.”

The chieftain grunted. “She is strong. We will need a bigger army.”

“No,” Xarthos said, shaking his head as he continued to stare at the hologram. “You are thinking like a barbarian. To fight a god, you do not use soldiers. You use science. We cannot break her.” His smile turned cruel. “So, we must unmake her. Strip away the power, the costume, the myth… until only the woman is left, helpless.”

He zoomed the image in further, focusing on her magnificent, knee-high red boots as she stood defiantly on the city wall.

“And when she is neutralized—powerless and kneeling before me—I will have her boots removed. Slowly,” he whispered, the promise a venomous caress. “It is a fitting humiliation. To take the very symbols of her power to stand tall against us and leave her barefoot and broken. It will be the perfect, final victory before we dissect the secrets of her power for ourselves.”

The first great battle of the war was over. In Eldoria, its hero was being celebrated, feeling more alone than ever in a crowd of worshippers. And miles away, her true nemesis was no longer plotting the destruction of her city, but the intricate, personal, and humiliating destruction of its soul.