Page 177 of Demon’s Snack

He stands near the ruined dais with horror overtaking arrogance. The summoning circle beneath him burns in broken lines while the creature he raised collapses inward instead of outward.

“You cannot contain it!” he yells.

“Funny,” I rasp. “Seems like I’m doing exactly that.”

The devourer surges again, desperate now, trying to force itself loose before I finish compressing it into manageable current. Pain explodes through my chest hard enough to make my knees slam against the broken stone.

Isolde catches my face between both hands instantly.

“Corin. Look at me.”

I drag my focus toward her again.

“You are still directing it,” she says firmly. “Do not let the pressure decide the shape.”

The bond tightens around the words.

I inhale sharply.

Then I split the devourer apart.

Not physically.

Conceptually.

I stop treating it like a single monstrous presence and break its essence into raw infernal streams, separating hunger from structure, force from will, energy from identity. The process tears through me like broken glass soaked in fire. Every channel under my skin burns white-hot as I force the devourer’s consciousness apart into smaller fragments that can no longer coordinate against me.

The thing screams inside my head.

Then the scream fractures too.

Raw infernal current floods my core.

Too much.

Far too much.

Gold light bursts from my eyes so brightly the entire courtyard flashes white for one disorienting instant. Black-gold flame spirals around my arms, shoulders, and horns in violent coils. The pressure inside me becomes almost unbearable, dense enough to crush thought if I hold it another few breaths.

The energy needs somewhere to go.

This time, I know exactly where.

I turn toward Vaerith’s summoning sigils.

The broken circle still burns beneath the courtyard stones, held together by desperate scraps of control and stolen civic infrastructure. Red lines pulse weakly under the rain, each one tied to the remaining anchor points feeding the unstable breach.

Perfect.

“Corin?” Isolde asks.

I grin at her despite the blood running down my chin. “Watch this.”

“That sentence has historically gone very badly.”

“Probably still will.”

I slam both hands into the courtyard.