Demonic Kitsune (Old Version)

The location of the Demonic Armory Vault, like the Demonic Treasure Vault, was unknown to most of Salamander’s powerhouses. Only a select few Arrancars knew about it—Grandmasters, Grand Rooks, and Arrancar Knights/Generals. Even some Arrancar Vikings knew while Arrancar Pawns had only vague ideas or rumors.

But knowing about it didn’t mean entry was guaranteed.

The dense, crimson-misty forest near a volcanic magma pool was unforgiving—barren, rocky, and pathless. Illusionary inscription arrays created unpredictable shifts, and the temperature was scorching.

As if the environment wasn’t challenging enough, the hidden paths leading to the vault were heavily guarded. Only those who had been there or knew the exact location could navigate the paths, which led to a tunnel. This dark, steep tunnel, reminiscent of the Gate of Hell, was constantly patrolled by mysterious high-level combatants. They denied entry to anyone, even Arrancar Grandmasters and Grand Rooks, without explicit permission from the Demoness.

These combatants were shrouded in secrecy, their masks concealing their power levels. Their uncommon, pointed horns and bizarre robes added to the mystery. Because of their appearance, many speculated they were Hidden Grand Rooks of the Fourth-Chain Arrancars—or something more powerful. Some believed their leaders might be hidden Grandmasters, which would explain the strict regulations.

However, these rumors remained just that—speculation.

In truth, the squad guarding the Demonic Armory Vault belonged to the "Escapada of the Demonic Arrancars." Unlike regular Arrancars, they existed outside of the clan’s day-to-day activities. Their existence wasn’t even recorded in the clan’s history.

The Escapada were like phantoms—deathly presences that didn’t officially exist. They never attended events or summons from the Demonic Arrancar Royal Palace. No one knew their numbers, only that they obeyed the contractee of the Demon God and had followed the Demonic Arrancar Clan for generations.

Despite this, they allowed Clare and Edgar Le Nigel to pass once the duo handed over the "grand slip of approval" from the Demoness. Now, the two rushed through the tunnel like gusts of wind.

Hours passed quickly. As they neared the end of the tunnel, a blinding light grew closer. Finally, they leaped into the dense crimson forest, far from their starting point. It had taken them two hours since midday to reach this mysterious place. Here, despite the sun’s peak, the thick canopy of trees cast the forest into cool darkness. Life brimmed all around, but the atmosphere was still—a stark contrast to the Erebus Crimson Forest.

Clare followed Edgar, their footsteps crunching through the leaves. The mist created an eerie, otherworldly ambiance.

“It’s this way,” Edgar said, breaking the silence. "We’ve entered the illusion barrier of the Armory."

As they continued, Clare felt a sinister energy envelop her. The illusion barrier had been apparent the moment the mist swallowed them. Her bushy tails curled as she tried to resist its effects using only her physique, but it was futile. She remembered feeling something similar when Instructor Jasmine had taken them to the Demonic Treasure Vault.

Were these barriers made by the same creator? She decided not to dwell on it. The rules seemed similar—stray from the predetermined path, and you’d fall into the illusion, suffocating in despair before meeting an agonizing death.

Clare sighed. Compared to legendary ancient illusion techniques that deceived even high-level Saintesses, this barrier wasn’t as strong, but it was still impressive. The path ahead now appeared different, splitting into dozens of trails. Only one was real, and a single wrong step would trap her in the illusion.

“If you take even a single wrong step, you’ll be lost,” Edgar warned. “Except for a Grand Rook or an Arrancar Grandmaster, no one will find you before you get confused and suffocate to death. So be caref—”

Edgar stopped mid-sentence. He turned, eyes widening. Clare was gone.

She had been right behind him just a moment ago. Now, she has vanished.

“Did she let her guard down?” he muttered, scanning the misty surroundings.

He knew the entire area was part of the Demonic Armory Vault’s illusion barrier, just like the one before the Demonic Treasure Vault. If she disappeared here, it was likely by her own choice—something she had a habit of doing.

With a sigh, Edgar shook his head. “She’ll be fine.”

Clare had just become an Arrancar Knight/General. She wouldn’t die to something like this, Edgar reassured himself. Besides, he couldn’t proceed even if he wanted to. Only she was allowed entry into the Armory Vault.

With that, Edgar began his return to the tunnel, wishing Clare the best of luck.

— — — — —

The leaves beneath Clare’s feet crackled with every step, a dry and brittle sound that echoed through the still air. She strode forward without hesitation, piercing the distorted illusion of the barrier as though it were nothing. Another crossroad appeared one of many that had dotted her path. She barely paused before choosing a new direction, her gaze sharp as she moved with purpose.

Seventh Mind.

Her hypercognitive traits—part demon instinct, part fox’s senses—sliced through the illusion like a blade. Whoever had crafted the barrier may have been a Grand Rook or even an Arrancar Grandmaster illusionist, but to Clare, it was child’s play. In her past life, she had been the Heavenly Saintess. The "Seventh Mind" was no mere ability; it was a tempered one that rendered even the most intricate illusions powerless before her.

How far does this go?

The road seemed endless, a labyrinth stretching on forever. Clare had chosen her path more than ten times now, yet each decision felt automatic. Her ears flicked at the faintest of sounds, her tails stiffening as she sensed the correct way forward. Each wrong path disappeared in the haze of illusion, but she never faltered.

After an hour of relentless walking, Clare’s ears drooped, and a tired sigh escaped her lips. For a moment, her shoulders slumped, frustration creeping in. The endless paths were wearing her thin. But with a deep breath, her expression returned to indifference. Her "Seventh Mind" activated once more, spraying, and she felt it—the right path calling her.

The end was near. She could feel it.

When she reached the next crossroad, she stopped. This one was different.

Two paths. Both are real.

She stood at the junction, her green eyes narrowing. For a moment, uncertainty clouded her thoughts. Then she closed her eyes, trusting the instincts that had carried her this far. Her choice wasn’t random. It wasn’t luck. It was the whisper of the wind, the subtle tug of fate guiding her steps.

Clare chose the right path.

The scenery shifted with every step. The dense, suffocating forest gradually gave way to open ground. At last, the towering structure of the Demonic Armory Vault loomed on the horizon, its silhouette stark against the sky. She glanced around, noting the absence of her Senior Instructor.

Maybe Edgar Le Nigel couldn’t come this far, she thought with a shrug.

It didn’t matter. Her eyes were on the prize. Sixty meters away, the fortress stood like a sentinel atop the caldera’s peak, imposing and silent. The undergrowth had stopped abruptly at the caldera’s edge as if nature itself dared not approach the fortress.

As Clare ascended the well-worn stone steps, the fortress rose even taller before her. Soon, she stood at its entrance, facing an enormous red-black titanium double door. The word “Armory” had been inscribed on it in bold, sweeping strokes. The fortress walls were a different material, ancient but well-maintained. The door itself, though heavy and weathered, seemed untouched by time, its sturdy hinges holding strong despite the ages.

Clare wasn’t concerned.

She placed her hand on the door, letting a whisper of demonic energy pulse through her fingertips. The inscriptions carved into the metal glowed faintly, lighting up in intricate patterns that spiraled outward from the center. With a low, groaning creak, the massive double door gave way, opening just enough to reveal the dark interior of the Demonic Armory Vault.

“Hm.”

Looking inside, Clare made a small sound of appreciation. The inside wasn’t as large as she had thought based on the exterior and was full of weapons with barely any room outside of the 650 square feet hall that shouldn’t be considered one.

On the racks were numbers of heavy single-edged swords, light double-edged swords, green bows and arrows, steel rapiers, lightsabers, katanas, broadswords, greatswords, jians, gladii, spears, triple-headed spears, thin lances, battle axes, war hammers, longbows, halberds, shields, daggers, maces, chains, and a good number of scythes.

Like the Demonic Treasure Vault, this was only the first floor. It was filled with low-grade legendary weapons from all of Salamander. Each sparkled and gleamed with an otherworldly temperament and power.

The Demonic Armory Vault consisted of five floors, but not everything from the First Floor was visible now.

Fascinating, Clare thought, swallowing hard as she stepped inside. The moment her feet touched the well-tiled, dark floor, the double doors slammed shut. Her ears twitched, her tails curled. It was a familiar sensation. She swallowed dryly, feeling the air distort. A dense, chilling voice echoed through the room like steam.

“You have only one and a half hours.”

Clare nodded instead of answering aloud. It didn’t matter whether the member of the “Escapada of the Demonic Arrancars” saw her gesture. She was already examining the weapons—spotless and free from cobwebs. Even low-grade legendary weapons would tempt any Combatant, saint, or assassin alike, to stop and admire the collection.

As Clare stepped forward, her once-relaxed nine tails shot up, terror coursing through her. Her perked ears twitched at a sudden premonition. Her face changed.

Clare clutched her head. “Ugh!” She was surrounded by weapons on all sides. Above her, dim magical fluorescent beads flickered uncertainty. The pressure of the First Floor suddenly crashed over her, making her bones tremble and her skin sizzle. It felt like the energy of countless Arrancar Grand Rooks pressing down on her. Goosebumps crawled over her skin—no, they retreated.

Backward? Right, it was as if the terror and despair were...

Cold sweat trickled down her forehead, across her cheek, and down her neck. It fell to the ground with a soft drop.

...an incredibly strong illusion, one that attacked the mind. Anyone with less mental fortitude or weaker will have collapsed by now, frothing at the mouth. But Clare exhaled, calming her mind. She cycled her energy through her body.

Gradually, the feeling lifted. The sensation of being stabbed by countless weapons—like on that bloody day—began to fade.

It was a nostalgic feeling, twisted as it was. Though Clare didn’t completely understand it, she knew that she had just faced—the unique energy of the Armory itself.

As one stepped onto the First Floor of the Demonic Armory Vault, anticipation reached its peak. Fear clouded judgment. And blunted judgment could cause anyone, regardless of origin, to miss opportunities. If one didn’t overcome this test, they would fail to choose the right weapon.

Clare, however, had passed the test smoothly. In truth, this felt more like the second test, didn’t it?

Her bushy tails twitched with excitement, but Clare’s sharp gaze made them stiffen back into place. This wasn’t a time to celebrate. It was merely a child’s test. Still, deep down, her foxy heart felt a spark of satisfaction. As her mind eased, the once-dim room became clearer, and she scanned the racks more carefully.

Was there anything truly impressive?

Despite the glittering aura of power, most weapons seemed underwhelming. These were low-grade legendary weapons, after all. Sure, they were more refined than the "Rare" rank weapons found in Salamander, but to her, they were nothing special. Anyone with influence and money could obtain them.

It was a trap. Clare understood now. The first test had been about intuition; the second was a trial of willpower and mental fortitude. A weaker person would have failed the first test. Someone with a fragile mind would have fainted in the second. She had to stay cautious. Her eyes narrowed as she picked up a scythe, swinging it experimentally. It handled well, but when she infused it with energy to test her advanced technique, it fell short.

Having seen enough on the First Floor, Clare ascended to the second. This hall was slightly larger, with fewer, higher-grade legendary weapons. Their gleam was deeper, their presence more profound. But when Clare tested them, the results were the same. The energy flowed more smoothly, but the techniques were still lacking.

Some of the scythes had potential—worthy of namesake weapons, perhaps—but they drained too much energy. Others were sealed, their full abilities hidden until they bonded with their wielder. Clare found that troublesome. She needed a fully developed weapon, not one that required a slow relationship to unlock its strength. In her previous life, she might have considered such "growth-type" weapons.

"Hm," she mused aloud. After all, she had given one of those weapons to Isolde, the Ice Saintess—the very same weapon Isolde used to stab her in the back. Clare glanced at a few swords that caught her eye, but she clicked her tongue in frustration. She no longer wielded swords.

Though the weapons here were good, none were perfect.

Maybe she had gotten too excited. Standing at the circular stairs to the Third Floor, Clare felt a twinge of disappointment. If she didn’t find anything that truly called to her, she would have to settle for one of the durable scythes below.

But as her foot touched the Third Floor, something changed. A chill crept up her spine, not from external danger, but close to her skin. The crystal embedded in the emerald-blue jade necklace on her chest glowed faintly. Clare’s whole body trembled as her gaze was drawn to a corner of the larger hall. Unlike the plain rooms below, this one bore the emblems of the Demonic Arrancar Clan, and the racks held even fewer weapons.

In the far right corner, a dark scythe with crimson linings caught her eye. It had been easy to overlook. In a daze, she moved closer and picked it up. The moment she touched it, the scythe responded to the necklace around her neck. The rust on the curved blade began to flake off.

The air around her vibrated with sinister, mesmerizing energy, silencing the power radiating from the other weapons nearby—.

—Right, this scythe, a weapon of Death itself, had finally revealed its true form.

— — — — —

There was something familiar about the scythe as Clare held it in her jade-like hands. The artifact of the 13th god, Kyūbi no Kitsune, resonated with it.

The scythe’s curved blade was about 90 to 120 cm—three to four feet—of dark, enticing metal that gleamed ominously. The shaft was a little longer and thicker than a typical scythe. On the blade, an inscription was etched: Κρανίο Δαίμονα Θειάφι του Βαθέως Στυγός. She lightly traced the bold letters with her fingertips. Despite its age, the inscription was perfectly intact. As she focused, the words began to form meaning in her mind.

“Made of Demon Skull Brimstone of Deep Styx.”

But that wasn’t all. She noticed smaller markings just above the letters. Bold, yet faint enough to be easily overlooked without a careful eye. The letters were embroidered in such a way that made them nearly indecipherable—backward, upside down, and layered. Even when Clare focused her bountiful but thin Holy Mana around her retinas, she could only see the letters in a yellow spectrum. When she circulated Asura energy instead, two denser hues mixed in, but it still wasn’t enough.

Why couldn't she read this?

Clare tried to concentrate. Her Seclusion Training had improved her abilities, but this inscription was beyond her current grasp. She alternated between Holy Mana and Asura energy, managing to decipher only a few coherent words.

From the Forgotten Star to the Escapada, Keep and Safeguard for the day, the flower blossoms: Από το כוכב הנשכח στην הבריחה, Κράτησε και προφύλαξε για την ημέρα, το λουλούδι פורח…

The scythe had clearly been passed from one chosen hand to another. But why was it here, of all places?

Clare swung the scythe experimentally. It resonated with her. Her heart pounded, her blood surged, and an unfamiliar excitement took hold of her. She could feel a burning flame ignite within her very soul, and a smile curled across her lips.

The blade was made of an unknown, majestic dark metal with red linings. Despite a few scratches, the scythe was in excellent condition. This was the weapon she had been searching for. The supernova of destiny she'd felt recently had led her here—to this moment.

But something didn’t add up.

Clare absentmindedly thumbed the necklace hanging around her neck. Why was the artifact of Kyūbi no Kitsune, which she had worn for over fifty years in her previous life, reacting to this scythe? The moment she had grabbed it, the artifact stopped humming. The scythe then fragmented, wrapping itself around her wrists like a brand.

It felt as if the weapon had chosen her.

She sensed it would attack anyone else who dared touch it, even if she handed it over. The fragments on her wrist tingled, as if hot iron had seared a symbol into her skin. Yet, Clare found the sensation oddly amusing. Her fluffy tails swerved, whispering to her, reminding her of a strange demon girl she had once known. Clare could relate.

But how was she supposed to return the weapon to its original state? Before she could ponder further, the crimson marks on her wrists shimmered ominously. A burst of demonic energy erupted, and the fragments reassembled themselves into the scythe in an instant.

"Ha..."

The sudden development left Clare breathless, her heart skipping a beat despite her lifetimes of experience. Conveniently, this meant she could hide the weapon without carrying it openly. Sighing, she probed the scythe, searching for traces of the 13th god, but found none. However, at the bottom of the weapon, another inscription had been engraved: Απόλυτα Δεσμά του Ζοφερού.

Absolute Binds of Grim…

It was forged from the Demon Skull Brimstone of Deep Styx—a scythe as sinister and hollow as the twilight abyss.

Clare liked the sound of it but decided to shorten its name. “Absolute Scythe” had a nice ring to it. The original name, “Absolute Binds of Grim,” was far too much of a mouthful for a granny like her to say.

Clare swung the Absolute Scythe again.

The feeling was indescribable, as though fate itself had guided her to this moment. The scythe shimmered ever so faintly, pulling energy from the atmosphere into her hand. She felt soothed. It wasn’t just resonating with her artifact; it connected to something deeper within her.

She spent time experimenting with its unique ability. The scythe’s fragments would always wrap around her wrists, sealing with a sharp locking sound with just a wishful thought. It unsealed just as easily, with ominous speed. She tested its range by placing the weapon across the hall and attempting to call it back with the words, "Absolute Scythe, return."

Nothing happened.

No matter how hard she tried, the scythe refused to respond to her verbal or non-verbal commands. Yet, when she clenched her fist in frustration, a lock snapped on her waist, and the scythe imprint appeared once again.

Either she hadn’t yet mastered the necessary proficiency for interacting with the scythe’s energy, or the weapon hadn’t fully bonded with her yet. Clare sighed. She was confident the answer would come in time. For now, she was satisfied with her experiments.

With only thirty minutes left given by the "Escapada of the Demonic Arrancars," she decided to check the last two floors of the armory. There were many high-grade legendary divine weapons, gleaming with profound elegance and glory. However, none resonated with her quite like the Absolute Scythe.

Clare exited the Demonic armory Vault with an indifferent mask, but inside, she felt a sense of pride and satisfaction as she clenched the Absolute Scythe tightly in her hand.