1561 Opening Tartarus
That is why in Mister Moscow eyes, the most dangerous man in the world is not Death Monarch.
It is the Magician who schemes for the destruction of the world.
"It would not be long now" he thought to himself. He could feel the disturbance in Tartarus as he holds one of the keys
And what he holds is the literal key. The literal key to enter Tartarus
By intertwining this key with the Magician Advanced Concealing Formation, he deftly severed the threads of alarm that might have otherwise alerted the vigilant senses of the other eight guardians.
In this moment, the mantle of awareness was his alone to bear.
Right now, the only one who could sense anything that is happening in Tartarus is him.
With a languid exhale, he allowed his eyelids to descend, attempting to surrender to the embrace of slumber.
Yet, as the tendrils of drowsiness began to enshroud him, an electric current of unease surged through his being, rousing him from the brink of rest.
A sudden clarity coursed through his senses, dispelling any remnants of weariness. His eyes snapped open, wide and vigilant, a testament to his keen awareness.
"Shit!' he curses
A single expletive slipped through his lips as his mind raced to discern the source of this unsettling disturbance.
The gnawing sensation of imminent danger crept over him, setting his nerves alight.
His gaze darted around his surroundings, scanning the terrain with acute focus, seeking the elusive origin of the disquiet that had jolted him from his respite.
The air hung heavy with tension as he pieced together the enigmatic puzzle that lay before him.
A whisper of intuition tugged at his consciousness, painting a picture of impending arrivals—forces moving inexorably closer to his secluded vantage point.
A grim realization settled over him, etching lines of urgency onto his brow.
"Somebody is making their way here," he muttered to himself, his voice laced with a mixture of apprehension and determination.
A palpable disturbance rippled through the delicate fabric of the space-time continuum, reverberating with an unsettling resonance that pricked at Mister Moscow heightened senses.
His poised form, ready to launch into action, faltered as a shadow of hesitation wafted over him like a phantom breeze.
A fraction of a moment hung suspended, laden with the weight of choice and consequence.
"If I get up…..then my involvement…"
An internal struggle unfolded
A contemplative gaze swept across the expanse, eyes locking onto the horizon as if seeking answers in the distance.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips.
"I have extended my hand enough," he murmured, his words a whispered acknowledgment of the boundary he had set for himself.
He and the Magicians are not friend. They are simply people bound by benefits.
He sighed
Mister Moscow form remained seated, an embodiment of stillness amidst the tumultuous backdrop of the erupting geyser in the distance
In his chosen stance, he harnessed the art of concealment, blending seamlessly into the environment.
His very presence is shrouded, his aura mingling with the cacophony of chaos that echoed through the area
Even the disturbance of time space continuum could not rips apart the space and time around him..
And so, he became a silent observer, an unseen spectator to the unfolding drama that was poised to erupt.
Swoosh!
A peculiar distortion in the very fabric of reality itself painted an arcane spectacle across the area
As if an unseen hand is weaving intricate patterns of chaos, space quivered and writhed under some unseen force, like a canvas being unravelled from the edges.
The ground, once solid and steadfast, seemed to lose its grip on reality, juddering and trembling under the weight of the cosmic disturbance.
An eerie effect of space manipulation unfolded—a space and time paradoxes that manifested in the swaying of the ground and the disorienting twist of time's tapestry.
Time itself seemed to waver, one side of the tumultuous disturbance area is experiencing a furious acceleration while the other recoiled into a haunting reversal of moments past.
one side having experienced time acceleration and the other experiencing time reversal.
In the very heart of this maelstrom, the space parted like a veiled curtain, birthing forth a portal from which emerged nine figures—eight men and a lone woman.
They emerged from the portal like apparitions forged of determination and resolve, stepping onto the shifting ground of the Geyser with an air of unwavering purpose.
Amidst the tempestuous backdrop, Mister Moscow's gaze narrowed, a bemused glint sparking within his eyes.
"Well, isn't this a sight to behold?" he mused aloud, his voice carrying a thread of sardonic amusement.
He recognizes all ten people. He just never expected to see them here.
Among the figures that materialized from the portal, a woman stood out like a rare gem amidst a sea of shadows.
Her presence seemed almost paradoxical, an intricate tapestry woven from threads of fragility and immense power.
Her petite form belied the tempestuous forces that swirled around her
The defining feature that immediately captured attention was the patch that adorned her left eye.
Yet, it was the gaze of her remaining eye that held an aura of depth, veiled by a misty haze that lent an otherworldly air to her countenance.
As if a sorceress whose origins were etched in the annals of ancient lore, she exuded an aura that transcended time itself.
Her very presence seemed to beckon whispers of bygone epochs, drawing the tendrils of history to curl around her like a shroud of arcane secrets.
Her attire, a resplendent robe of regal purple, bore runic sigils that shimmered with an ethereal light, their faint luminescence dancing in harmony with the very energies of heaven and earth.
The fabric seemed to drink in the raw vitality of the cosmos, resonating with an almost sentient connection to the fundamental forces that wove the fabric of reality itself.
The air around her seemed to ripple and hum, carrying an ancient resonance—a chorus of ages past that sang in harmony with her every step.
She is a vessel of arcane knowledge, a harbinger of truths that transcended the mortal realm.
It was as if the world itself bowed in deference to her presence, acknowledging her as a conduit between the realms of known and unknown.
This woman…..this aura….that eye patch that covered that gaping hole of the eye socket….this woman is none other than the One Eyed Oracle Erika
Most people however called her the Great Oracle.
Her demeanour exuded a sense of quiet strength
"She's here? What did she see? Did she see me?" Mister Moscow could not help but think of such question.
The Great Oracle has always been a headache to many forces of the world. After all, how could you fight someone who could see your future.
From what most people understand about Erika abilities, it is that the only future that she could not see is the future of people who are stronger than her in realm or in comprehension.
Or if those who she wanted to divine have some kind of concealing artifact or some kind of mystical technique to hide from her gaze.
Mister Moscow's gaze shifted from Erika to the imposing figures that trailed behind her—a pantheon of power and might that seemed to embody the very essence of Greek mythology.
Seven men, each a Warlord in their own right, exuded an air of authority that commanded attention.
"The Seven Warlords"
Then he look at the men that is beside Erika.
Two figures flanked Erika, standing like sentinels.
On her right, Antonious stood with an air of maturity that only enhanced his stalwart demeanour.
His once-youthful countenance now bore the rugged touch of experience, accentuated by the confident assertion of facial hair.
Curly locks framed his face, a striking complement to his physique that bore witness to years of merging to evoke a vision of heroism and strength.
13:42
He embodied the very essence of a living legend, a guardian of Erika whose presence radiated both training and discipline.
Adorned in war armor, he emanated an air of valour, a figure reminiscent of a Hellenic deity sculpted with divine precision.
But it was the shimmering gold that lent him an almost mythical aura—the golden hair and armor merging to evoke a vision of heroism and strength.
He embodied the very essence of a living legend, a guardian of Erika whose presence radiated both protection and unwavering loyalty.
Yet, Antonious' presence held no surprise for him.
It is only natural to find the Seven Warlords of Greece and her steadfast guardian accompanying Erika.
After all, the whole world knows their connection with each other
However, it was the figure on Erika's left that jolted Mister Moscow's senses—a twist of incredulity that briefly punctuated his thoughts.
"Lockpick Master," he murmured
"He is also here?" the more Mister Moscow thought about it, the more he frowned.
There is the Lockpick Master, a middle-aged man of around six feet five, stood with an air of quiet confidence.
His hazel eyes held a depth of experience, and his brown hair framed his face under the shadow of his hood.
His attire, a snug-fitting dark yellow ensemble, accentuated his lean and well-toned physique.
His presence in this situation caught Mister Moscow off guard, a surprise in the midst of unfolding events.
Erika's entourage prompted Mister Moscow to instinctively conceal his breath, ensuring he remained unnoticed nearby.
Amidst the scene, the Lockpick Master's voice cut through the air, his words directed at Erika,
"You should have informed Jean about this, as I suggested."
Erika's response was a knowing smile coupled with a gentle shake of her head
"He's occupied," she calmly countered.
"Now, let's proceed. Unveil the entrance to Tartarus," the Lockpick Master commanded with an air of authority, his tone carrying a sense of urgency.
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