Demonic Po*nstar System Chapter 759: Divine Light

Lazarus Crane, a figure the world recognized with apprehension as Old Crane and the esteemed Guildmaster of the Crimson Dominion – one of the exclusive trio of guilds bearing the 'high-tier' designation within the United States of America – found himself engrossed in a live stream.

This activity was taking place from the comfort of his own couch.

Clad in sweatpants.

Amidst a collection of beer bottles.

His online persona was 'Divine Light.' The account had been created for him by his daughter after he struggled for forty minutes with the setup process, and she had selected the username herself, remarking that 'irony builds character.' Lazarus remained bewildered by this statement, then and now.

On the expansive screen projected by his interface, a slender woman with vibrant purple hair descended from the heavens, a crackling blade held aloft. She plunged it deep into the skull of a level 78 Granite Tyrant, a creature that had existed for an era surpassing that of many nations.

The entire engagement, from inception to conclusion, lasted a mere forty-one seconds.

Reaching for a beverage, Lazarus discovered his current bottle was empty. Without hesitation, he procured a new one, his movements automatic.

He recalled the initial instance of discovering this particular group. It happened months prior, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep evaded him. He was navigating the platform, much like elderly gentlemen explore domains they don't fully grasp. He chanced upon a gathering of disparate, unconventional youths who were preparing monster meat. This was unusual, as the platform was primarily dedicated to broadcasting the exploits of awakened combatants.

That night, the old man derived immense enjoyment from observing the streams of awakened individuals. Subsequently, the 'Sinners' had consistently provided similar entertainment.

However, at that earlier juncture, they were merely a low-ranking party composed of novices with unremarkable classes, struggling against a Silverback Mauler. A competent team would have dispatched such a foe in mere moments. The video quality was rudimentary, their strategies even more so, and the individual leading them was an F-tier nobody whose sole noteworthy attribute as a combatant was an obstinate refusal to perish when the universe seemingly willed it.

Despite these challenges, Lazarus found himself tuning into their streams whenever possible, fervently hoping these underdog rookies would somehow succeed in their audacious gambles.

And now, a mere couple of months onward, those very same individuals had vanquished a level 78 apex predator in under a minute, evolving into a cohesive unit that fought with the synchronicity of a single entity.

Lazarus's fist clenched involuntarily against his knee.

'Three months,' he mused. 'Three months, and they've transformed from barely surviving an encounter with a Silverback to achieving this.'

It was undeniable. A new power had risen on the global stage, ascending to prominence with a swiftness that made seasoned guild leaders appear stationary. This was the anomaly. The prodigy Vespera Ashborn had shielded from public view for years, now at the helm of his own guild, with his mother serving as regent.

The anomaly and the Shadow Monarch, a formidable alliance.

A broad, toothy grin stretched across the old man's face, a striking contrast to his beer-stained sweatpants.

"How truly captivating..." he whispered.

The front door creaked open.

Lazarus had no need to turn his head. The distinct sound of heels on hardwood flooring was unmistakable, as was the fleeting, oppressive silence that invariably preceded his daughter's critiques of his living habits.

Viera halted at the threshold of the living room. Her hip-length black hair framed a face partially obscured by mirrored sunglasses, despite the early hour. Her suit was so impeccably tailored it seemed capable of filing its own tax return. Her gaze swept over the scattered beer bottles, the sofa cushion's permanent indentation – a testament to his prolonged presence – and the man responsible for this tableau.

"Guild Master," she stated formally.

"My cherished daughter, the very jewel of my existence." Lazarus sighed theatrically. "Why not address Papa with a touch more endearment?"

"It is 8 AM, and your living room carries the distinct aroma of a brewery that has forfeited its license." She removed her sunglasses, folding them with mechanical precision into her breast pocket. This controlled action was a concession to the alternative: an uncontrolled outburst of shouting. "There are seven bottles currently littering the floor. I am deliberately refraining from counting those concealed behind the sofa."

"I was engaged in work."

Viera's expression remained impassive, yet her gaze intensified, a familiar sharpness whenever her father stretched the boundaries of conventional discourse.

"Work," she echoed, her tone flat.

"Reconnaissance." Lazarus gestured with his now-empty bottle towards the screen, which she couldn't even see. "Gathering active intelligence regarding an emergent threat to the national guild hierarchy. Conducting critical strategic analysis."

"You are viewing a stream while attired in your undergarments."

"Reconnaissance operations do not necessitate formal attire."

Viera clasped her hands behind her back. "You have fourteen unread priority communiques from the guild council, a quarterly review that was due yesterday, and a diplomatic dispatch from the Association that Grace herself specifically marked as urgent. I have been attempting to contact you for the past thirty minutes."

"Papa requires his respite."

"If Papa finds himself incapable of fulfilling his obligations, then resignation is the only appropriate course of action."

Lazarus emitted a piteous whimper.

Viera was unmoved by her father's perceived distress. Her eyes narrowed, growing colder, her countenance radiating disapproval.

Lazarus absently ran a hand through his beard. "I shall attend to it shortly."

"You will attend to it now."

"Give me five more minutes."

Viera observed him for a significant duration. Then, she retrieved her phone from her pocket.

Lazarus narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Since my father refuses to work and is, consequently, bottlenecking my duties as well, I find myself with a free evening." She tapped the screen. "I’ve been wanting to try one of those dating applications."

"..."

"Oh, this one appears popular." Her thumb scrolled with the same efficient precision she applied to all her tasks. "Let me just register quickly."

Lazarus sat up. "Viera."

"Done. Profile created." She turned the phone towards him. A man's profile filled the screen. Shirtless, a cigarette dangling from his lip, flexing a bicep that bore a swastika tattoo. His bio stated: Only interested in bitches who know their place. Must be good at cooking. Only virgins. Having daddy issues is preferred.

"Interesting. I have a lot of issues with the man who spawned me, so I suppose I fit at least three of his criteria." Viera commented, her voice clinically neutral. "He seems like a man of conviction. I believe I can fix him."

Lazarus was already on his feet.

"Give me that phone."

"He has already sent a message. He says, 'Bored, bitch? Come over to my crib.' with four winking emojis and a grammatical error."

"Viera Crane, you will delete that application this instant!"

"Why?" She had been managing this man since she was old enough to hold a clipboard. Her patience was ancient. "There’s no work to do."

Lazarus's mouth opened, then closed. His red gaze burned intensely. His own daughter dared to do this to him.

It felt like betrayal of the highest order.

He shut off the stream.

"...Fine. Pull up the council messages."

"And the quarterly review?"

"And the quarterly review."

"And Grace’s memo?"

"Yes, all of it!"

Viera pocketed her phone. The dating app had never actually been installed. The profile she had shown him was a screenshot she kept saved for precisely this purpose.

"Your coffee will be ready in two minutes," she announced, already walking toward the kitchen. "Black, no sugar. Try to find your pants. We're headed to the HQ."

...

Deep within the Howling Abyss, recognized as one of the most perilous dungeons on the East Coast, Raziel and Evangeline of the Radiant Order—the final high-tier guild alongside New Dawn and Crimson Dominion—sat upon a ledge, overlooking a vast cavern. The cavern was filled with the dissolving corpses of creatures that had been alive mere minutes before.

The dungeon was halfway conquered. Their strike team rested below, with medics attending to the wounded and supplies being redistributed for the progression into the deeper floors. This was standard procedure. Raziel and Evangeline could have pressed onward without any rest. However, they chose to wait because their people required it, and because both of them had accessed their interfaces the moment the break was declared.

They sat side by side, close to each other, observing their respective displays, their unique viewing angles, and their personal replays.

Neither individual spoke for a considerable period.

Evangeline broke the silence first. "Forty-one seconds."