The Defiler stood atop the rise, overlooking Kaisarius's company. Behind him, his hounds and hunters waited in eerie silence.
Now that Amon saw the man up close, he was both disgusted and horrified. The Defiler was tall, at least seven feet, if not more. After a moment of stillness, he began removing his armor. Plates of graish steel slipped from his body and crashed to the ground with dull, dusty thuds.
And then Amon saw it, a hideous wound running down the man's chest, like someone had split him open entirely and stitched him back together with rusted wire. His face was a tapestry of scars, crisscrossing violently across his cheeks, jaw, and neck. Amon noticed the subtle twitch of fingers, the habitual scratching of the throat. He didn't need more. He could already guess where those wounds came from.
The bastard did it to himself.
Insanity was one thing, but Amon never understood why anyone would mutilate their own body.
The man wasn't just tall; he was massive, towering over everyone like some twisted super soldier. But he didn't resemble Captain America... no, he looked more like Thanos. Though, dude wasn't purple...
And then there was his arm or rather, the lack of one. His right forearm was gone. In its place, a wicked, jagged blade had been grafted directly into the flesh, fused into his very being.
His skin was the same pale, graish hue as his armor, and his eyes… crystal blue, cold and vast. Like staring into the bottom of an ocean. There was no hair on his head, he was completely bald, with not a single hair on his body either. Now that Amon was close enough to really look, he realized...
He didn't look human at all...
Amon trembled slightly, a cold, familiar grip of dread tightening around his heart. Was this the effect of that guy's aspect ability? It sure felt like it. There had to be some synergy between his power and his terrifying appearance. The guy was built like Shrek if Shrek had grown up in a warzone and made friends with a meat cleaver.
"Hey, Bernak..." Amon muttered, his voice low. "What the heck is that hideous monster?"
Bernak offered a smile, but it was strained. The usual warmth and mischief in his eyes were gone, replaced by a sober, guarded focus.
"That's the second prince," he said softly. "His name is Alekar. And no, he wasn't born looking like that. He's not one of the Corrupted. He's human… at least technically."
Amon nodded grimly, processing the information then paused. His expression twisted into an unimpressed frown as he turned back to Bernak.
"Honorable elder," he said dryly, "you forgot to actually explain again."
Bernak blinked, then let out a nervous chuckle and ruffled Amon's hair in a weak attempt to reassure him.
"Right, right. Don't worry, we can win," he said hastily. "As for his... appearance..."
He hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly.
"That's because of his aspect. He grafts the skin of his enemies onto his own body. Every patch of that pale, gray flesh is skin of someone he killed."
Amon raised an eyebrow. That didn't sound like anything good. Still… Skin? Seriously?! What the fuck? What kind of fetishes do people have these days? Tsk, tsk.
But then he froze, the humor draining from his face.
His eyes shifted, catching the seething rage in his companions' expressions. All of them were gripping their weapons tightly, their eyes locked on Alekar with such bloodlust and malice that it sent a chill down his spine.
And in that moment, Amon understood something horrifying.
The skins Alekar had grafted onto his body weren't just taken from nameless enemies.
They were the skins of these people's friends. Their families. Their brothers and sisters.
No wonder they hated him so much. That wasn't just battlefield rage. That was some generational shit.
Alekar stepped forward, inhaling deeply before exhaling a thick plume of smoke. It curled out from between his lips like poison, cloaking him in an even more chilling presence.
Then, he spread his arms wide, that grotesque smile stretching across his scarred face like a mockery of joy.
"Blood of Varin still lives… Well then, do you remember these wounds?"
His finger pointed toward the ghastly scar on his chest and the blade that had replaced his severed arm.
"I still remember the day you gave them to me… Kaisarius, the Oathkeeper. What a joyful day to meet you again, scum."
Kaisarius's gaze darkened. He knew the Defiler was trying to provoke him. But instead of responding, he turned to his companions and gave a firm nod. In unison, each of them stepped into defensive positions, weapons ready and expressions grim.
Amon swallowed hard. The situation was bad, really bad. It wasn't just that they were outnumbered… those hounds were a problem too.
They didn't look like mindless corrupted beasts. No, they were worse.
They moved with unsettling discipline and awareness, like Noble Creatures. That made them far more dangerous. A corrupted beast might be savage and dumb, but these? These things thought while they killed.
They reminded Amon of hyenas. That vile, coordinated, and hungry beasts.
Kaisarius stepped forward as well, his expression calm but his posture sharp, disciplined, prepared, and ready for combat.
"I thought I killed you," he said coldly. "From which abyss did you crawl out?"
Alekar's smile widened, revealing serrated, fang-like teeth perfectly aligned like a predator's.
He gave Kaisarius a slow, mocking nod, then raised his blade.
Behind him, one of the Hunters approached, dragging a bound man whose head was covered with a bloodied cloth.
Without a word, Alekar tore the cloth away, revealing a man of athletic build. He was tall, though next to Alekar, everyone looked like Tyrion Lannister.
His black hair and eyes were unmistakably the same as Kaisarius's… but his face was almost unrecognizable. Bloodied, beaten, his nose crushed, left eye gouged out. Two fingers were missing, the rest broken at crooked angles.
He looked more like a mutilated corpse than a living man.
Alekar grabbed a handful of the man's long hair and lifted him effortlessly into the air, smirking with cruel satisfaction.
Amon shivered, glancing at his companions but all of them were frozen in place.
Nika and Gray were staring at the captive man with wide, fearful eyes, tears welling up in them. Arias was more composed, but his clenched fists gave Amon the answer he needed.
And Liparik...
Amon stilled as he looked at him. The fearsome hunter's gaze was dark, sharp, and ice-cold. One hand was already on the arrow in his quiver, the other gripping his drawn bow. There was no grief. No sorrow. Nothing but a deadly, murderous will to end Alekar's life, once and for all.
Bernak remained much like Amon, seemingly calm. Though, in truth, Bernak was calm. Amon was just better than most at pretending.
And as for Kaisarius...
His grip on the sword softened as he took a slow step forward. His eyes were a storm of grief, pain, fear, anger… emotions bleeding together so densely that even with Amon's Superior Observation, he couldn't quite pull them apart.
But then, just for a second an clear emotion flickered in Kaisarius's eyes. One Amon didn't recognize. It was there and gone too fast, like a whisper lost in the leaf... Oh, yeah. Wind.
Then Kaisarius spoke, voice barely a whisper.
"B-brother?"
Amon's eyes widened. Brother? What do you mean, brother?
This was bad, really bad.
If that was true, then their situation was far grimmer than he'd imagined. Alekar now had perfect leverage. He could demand anything: ransom, surrender… even their lives in exchange. And they'd be forced to consider it.
A sick twist knotted Amon's stomach.
Alekar's eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered joy as he took in their stunned expressions. It was clear, torturing Kaisarius and his people gave him some kind of profound pleasure. The way he savored their pain, the way his cruel grin widened... it wasn't just sadism but obviously personal.
Hiss! That was some Lex Luthor-level shit in hating.
Alekar laughed, a sound devoid of sanity, staring down at the broken man in his grasp... and then at the people who looked at him like he was already dead. Their faces twisted with horror, grief, and despair.
Amon's expression slowly darkened. His breath was cold. This was no longer just a fight. It was already becoming a tragedy.
And he knew the truth, they were cornered. Unless some miracle happened, they'd either be captured… or die right here, right now.
Because of that man. He wasn't judging him. That was just their reality.
But contrary to Amon's expectations, Alekar's face didn't twist with glee but with disgust. He stared at the beaten man in his grasp like he was filth, like his touch alone was offensive.
"This one dies first… then your exiled, miserable kin... and lastly, you, Oathkeeper," he said, his voice vile and rumbling with quiet fury.
"You'll watch as everything you care about is torn away."
And then, without hesitation, he plunged his blade into the man's chest.
The victim thrashed violently, choking, blood gushing from his mouth. His one remaining eye locked on Kaisarius and the others, his broken body trembling with pain. Blood and tears mixed down his face as he forced out a single word.
"Run…"
Kaisarius screamed.
"NOOOOO!!"
His black eyes widened with a void of anguish and rage, as helplessness washed over him like a flood from the underworld itself.
But Alekar wasn't finished.
With terrifying ease, he ripped the man's body apart, cleaving him in two with a savage twist of blade and flesh. Intestines spilled out like coiled rope, blood and organs splattering the ground and Alekar alike. He stood there for a moment, trembling... Not from pain, but from sheer, horrific pleasure, as if he had waited an eternity for this exact moment.
"One less scum of Varin," he muttered, his voice filled with satisfaction.
Amon stood behind the group, motionless, staring at the scene in front of him.
What... what just happened?
Did he really...? D-Did-
Blegh-
The nausea hit like a punch to the gut.
He had seen dead bodies before. In the outskirts. In alleyways. Sometimes on the newsfeeds or in blurry footage passed around like horror stories. But this… this was different. This was real, up close. Intentional and cruel.
His stomach twisted violently as bile surged up his throat. He stumbled to the side, barely making it behind a rock before vomiting. Again and again. His eyes stung, watering from the pressure, from the shame, from the sickening sound still echoing in his ears.
When it was over, he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, tried to blink the tears away, tried to pull himself together. But it was hard, so hard lately.
Calm down. Just breathe.
Inhale. Exhale. Focus. You can do it.
"Think of something else," he muttered under his breath. But his mind wouldn't shift. It was stuck, locked on what he'd just seen.
Fuck! I can't think of anything else!
But then, a gentle hand steadied him.
A firm grip closed around Amon's trembling arm. It was Bernak. The old man met his gaze with a warm, encouraging smile, though sorrow lingered deep within his eyes.
"Don't be afraid, my boy," Bernak said softly. "Keep your eyes on Kaisarius... I think you're about to witness the OathKeeper in battle. The Guardian of Free People."
Arias stepped forward, his smile proud, his gaze fixed on the man now advancing alone.
"he's right. Watch closely, little thief," he said. "That is the one we follow. The only man I've ever called king. Kaisarius! Son of Melris! Last descendant of Varin!"
Amon's breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, mind racing to keep up. What were they talking about? Someone had just been slaughtered. why were they smiling, laughing even? What a hell is wrong with you all!?
But then he saw it.
Kaisarius stood tall, shield gleaming like a promise, sword resting with solemn authority in his hand. Each step he took forward sent ripples through the soaked ground, and behind him, they followed.
They didn't hesitate.
He watched as Nika stepped forward, calm and focused. Gray followed, silent but resolute. Then Arias. Then Liparik. And finally Bernak, staff in hand, eyes forward.
One by one, the warriors fell into step behind their king.
Kaisarius struck his shield with the flat of his sword, the sharp clang tearing through the roar of the rainstorm. It echoed like a war drum, like a challenge. Then, with steady hands and burning eyes, he raised his gleaming silver blade to the sky.
"Adárań Tarimon!"
His voice boomed like thunder.
Across the battlefield, Alekar's grin twisted wider, savage and cruel. Without hesitation, he mounted his pale, monstrous hound and raised his blade high into the storm. From the shadows behind him, dozens of hunters emerged. All of them silent, armored, each astride their own beast, eyes gleaming with malice. Weapons shone under the stormlight, eager for blood... Preferably not for Amon's blood.
Alekar stood still for a moment longer… as if savoring the fear, feeding on the weight of silence. And then he roared, swinging his sword downward with such force that the earth itself cracked beneath him.
"Ûrgan Barai!"
Amon didn't recognize the words, not exactly. But somehow… he understood.
Because in the next second, both sides surged forward, steel flashing under rain-soaked skies, war cries tearing through the storm.
The inevitable battle… had begun.
Holy shit. Why does it feel so cinematic?
Amon didn't know why. Maybe it was the way the thunder roared. Maybe it was Kaisarius standing like a living legend. Maybe it was the sheer madness of watching six warriors charge into an battalion like it was nothing.
But in that chaos… He felt calm. No, more than calm.
He was hyped.
A grin tugged at his lips, eyes gleaming with a dangerous kind of delusion.
"Avengers… Assemble!"
He roared... and dashed in the opposite direction.
Still a cowardly bum. Some things never change.