Jaywen remained silent. His subordinates — and Igyris — watched him, unmoving. Then, like a whisper beneath thunder, the carriage split in two.
The man's head and entrails fell with a wet crack, dissolving into the storm-soaked mud. A single motion had been enough. The thick, heavy rain washed away the blood, as if the sky itself sought to erase the crime.
From the shattered belly of the vehicle, a figure emerged.
Igyris's skin crawled — an infernal itch — he wanted to tear it off with his nails. The silhouette rising from the wreck was forged of shadow and power. When the smoke dispersed, his face was revealed: white hair tied back in noble warrior braids. Eyes shining like ancient constellations, set against a black military cloak trimmed with gray-blue patterns.
ShadowStorm pulsed like a dying star on the brink of collapse. The blade burned — alive, made of celestial dust and sacred wrath. The energy surrounding him trembled like the edge of a supernova. Every rune across his skin and sword shimmered in a silver, dying hue — like stars ready to explode.
The Storm...
Hundreds of translucent blades danced around him — comets orbiting the Noble Khaelis.
There were more than thirty men there. Warriors, supposedly. But now, their hearts beat like funeral drums. Fear spread like poison in water. Two of them wet themselves — in mud and shame — for here, they met true terror.
And then, someone saw it.
The sword.
Her.
The weapon they were supposed to capture — gleamed at his waist like a beacon in the storm. The key to their fates. The prize of their sins.
They regained focus. Raised their weapons. Fired, with desperation sharpened by hunger.
All except Igyris.
Because he felt something beyond fear. His muscles screamed, his skin burned, nausea overwhelmed him. But none of it mattered — not in the presence of that. It was like standing before an ancient god.
Then, the voice fell upon them like a veil of ice:
— By the name and honor of my house... this is your sentence.
Khaelis's voice was calm. Eternal. Cruel. And inescapable.
And the world stopped.
Air imploded. Time dissolved. The soldiers forgot their names, their bodies, their very essence.
Silence.
— YOU BASTARD, DIE—
The scream died before it was born.
Khaelis appeared behind them like a mirage forged in fury. His voice now thundered with the weight of a thousand verdicts:
— YOU DARED TO INTERFERE WITH THE MISSION? THEN I'LL SCATTER YOUR LIVES LIKE SPARKS FROM A PYRE… AND WATCH EACH ONE EXTINGUISH!
The roar wasn't human. It was biblical. A judgment.
ShadowStorm gleamed.
And in a flash, the field plunged into silver and crimson. The sacred, ancestral blade of Khaelis cried to the heavens — and from it, hundreds of swords were born. A celestial lament.
— AAAAH, MY LEG—
The screams cut through the rain like daggers.
Khaelis was a wraith of destruction, tearing through soldiers with the wrath of a primordial storm. A maelstrom. An abyss with shape. Bodies split like soaked scrolls. Life fled, trembling.
— For my house... — his voice was now hoarse, glacial — ...and for the souls you crushed beneath your filthy boots... I sentence you to death.
The blades fell like thunder. Heads flew. Entrails danced in the air. Each strike was fatal poetry, recited with the very blade they had come to claim. Irony carved into flesh.
— IGYRIS, PLEASE! DO SOMETHING! WE NEED BACKU—
They ran to him. Their last hope. A flicker of salvation.
Cyphon, eyes locked on the Gullbriser, lying next to Jaywen's headless corpse, moved in. One shot would be enough... right?
— YOU BASTARD, I'LL KILL YOU!
— SHOOT HIM! SHOOT THE DEMON!
The Arcane cannons roared. Runes lit up. Destruction took shape. The Gullbriser surged to life.
A chaotic symphony of light and death exploded.
But nothing touched the man.
With a single motion — a cut through the fabric of space itself — Khaelis tore the world.
And Cyphon, weapon and all, was split in two.
No mercy. No time.
Silence.
They were dead. Torn apart. Pulverized.
All... except one.
Igyris.
Still breathing. Still in a trance. Frozen — perhaps from shock? Or perhaps... from dread.
The Arcane radiating from Khaelis corroded him like venom in his bones.
He looked around.
Carnage. Fragments of humanity scattered like autumn leaves.
And there was something familiar... a cruel nostalgia.
Then, a survivor — split at the waist — dragged himself. Clutched at Igyris's leg.
— They said... you were our trump card... cof cof... liar... bastard...
Igyris awakened.
Despair consumed him.
The voice still echoed:
— For the lives of the men you took... today, I pronounce your judgment.
Sweat mixed with rain. His heart shrank. Every instinct screamed: run. But his legs... would not obey.
He turned.
But he was no longer there.
He was struck.
A vertical cut, from skull to groin.
Complete. Final.
Then why...?
Why does this feel so familiar...? Why do I feel so... alive...?