Rikash Grimmjaw knew death had come the moment the screams reached his estate.
They weren't the panicked cries of a few frightened servants or drunken nobles brawling in the streets—no. These were the shrieks of people witnessing the end of their world. And Rikash, seated on his throne like a king in exile from his own glory, felt them claw at his spine like icy fingers.
A guard burst into the ballroom where the nobles stood frozen, trembling, eyes wide with terror. The scent of wine and perfume still clung to the air, but now it was tainted by the stench of smoke and blood creeping through the windows.
The guard paused for a moment, his breath ragged, his armor dented, one eye swollen shut. He looked at the nobles—men and women dressed in silks and jewels, trembling like rabbits—and felt nothing but contempt.
Pathetic, he thought bitterly as he marched toward Lord Rikash, ignoring the others.
Nolan, Rikash's right hand, stepped forward before the guard could even kneel. "What is it?" His impatience cut through the silence like a blade.
"Sire," the guard acknowledged Nolan first, then turned fully toward the true power in the room.
"My lord," he said, finally addressing Rikash.
"There is ill news… my lord."
"Tch!" Nolan hissed, already annoyed. "Tell us something we don't already know."
The guard flinched slightly, but held his ground. "Sorry, sire… It's about Commander Nui."
Rikash's fingers twitched against the armrest of his throne.
"What happened to Nui?" His voice was low, quiet—but there was venom coiled beneath each syllable.
The guard hesitated again, glancing at the nobles who stood watching with wide eyes and open mouths. Then he returned his gaze to Rikash, jaw clenched tight.
"Rhygar and Nui… they both lost."
The words landed like stones in water, rippling outward in gasps and murmurs.
Rhygar's defeat was… conceivable. He was newly ascended, his core magnitude barely past 4.07. But Nui? A war veteran. A man who had clawed his way to the peak of the count rank through sheer, blood-soaked will.
For him to fall… meant that the enemy wasn't just strong. They were terrifyingly strong.
Rikash remained silent, his expression unreadable. But his knuckles whitened as he rested his chin on his arm, thinking. Planning. Praying.
House Grimmjaw was a vassal in name only—a ghost of what it once was. The Executioners, they had been called. The Grand Alliances' butchers, its shadowed blade, wielding slaughter like art. Their battle techniques were built for annihilation, for total destruction.
But time had dulled their edge.
Generations passed, and their influence crumbled. That was why Rikash had taken the lordship from his brother—not out of greed, but necessity. He had sworn to return House Grimmjow to its former glory.
And he had borrowed from the devil to do it.
Now, the debt had come due.
"How many attackers are there?" Nolan asked, his voice strained.
"Three… sire." The guard replied.
"Three!?" Nolan's eyes widened, disbelief cracking his composure. "That's impossible!"
Three Counts could take a city—unless that city had more than three defending it. But for them to be this bold… this certain…
They have a Duke.
The realization hit Nolan like a fist to the gut. Their only Duke was Rikash himself—and he was in no condition to fight. Not after years of indulgence, of letting his body soften beneath silk and wine.
Nolan's hands trembled. We're dead.
But Rikash stood. The throne groaned as his weight left it. His voice was steel.
"Ready my armor. Every warrior. Every blade."
"I'll slaughter those fuckers," he added, and the nobles' murmurs turned to cheers—desperate, feverish. They needed a savior. They needed a legend.
Rikash gave them neither.
Minutes later, Rikash stood on the balcony, the crown he stole from his brother absent from his brow. Below, the nightmare unfolded.
The city was burning.
Festival tents lay in smoldering ruins, flames licking hungrily at the night sky. The harbor churned with bodies floating in crimson waves, bloated and lifeless. Screams echoed from alleys and towers alike.
And in the center of it all—them.
Well, two of them.
The third—Code—lifted his head, as if sensing Rikash's stare. From hundreds of feet away, under fire and chaos, Code met his gaze.
Nolan's fingers dug into Rikash's arm. "We need to run. Now." His voice cracked. Just that brief contact with Code's gaze had sent ice flooding his veins.
His voice cracked.
"The mere gaze of that man…" Nolan shuddered. "How did he even know we were watching?"
Rikash's left hand burned. The scar—the Mark he had tried and failed to carve from his flesh—throbbed like a second heart.
"No," he said softly, turning away from the carnage below. His voice was hollow, empty of hope.
"They didn't come for the city."
He looked at Nolan, his eyes dark pools of understanding and dread.
"They came for me."
Then—
BOOM!!
The explosion tore through the palace wall like thunder, and Rikash leapt off the balcony without hesitation, a roaring force of nature, fury burning behind his eyes.
Vengeance in his heart.
Death in his path.