The chamber echoed with screams, steel ringing against bone and steel again, until the sound began to dull—swallowed by the inevitability of Kane's will.
The last of the twelve elite guards staggered, bloodied and broken, their perfect discipline reduced to desperate slashes and labored breaths. They had trained to stand against armies, but they had never stood against a Warlord who was an army in himself.
"Warlord's Execution."
Kane's voice cut through the din like the toll of a final bell.
His sword arced downward, glowing crimson. One guard's head parted cleanly from his shoulders, rolling across the marble floor. Another, who dared to thrust at Kane's exposed side, found himself caught by Titan's Grasp—Kane's gauntlet crushing his wrist until the bone snapped, then dragging him into a savage knee that shattered his ribs.
The Necromancy General bellowed, its ogre arm slamming another into the ground with the weight of an avalanche, serpent-tail constricting until bones cracked in a grotesque harmony. The crustacean claw clamped shut on one man's torso, and with a wet, final crunch, silence followed.
And then—the horror deepened.
The fallen began to stir.
Bones snapped back into place with Kane's will. Flesh stretched, tearing as black fire coiled through their corpses. Eyes that moments ago had held loyalty to the Patron now burned with hollow, spectral flame. The twelve guards returned—not as men, but as his undead.
The Patron's face drained of color. He took a step back, his breath sharp, fingers curling against his armrest.
"You… you dare—turn my guards against me?"
Kane's smile was cold. "They were yours. Now, they're mine. That's the difference between you and me. You hoard power. I command it."
The Patron's façade finally cracked. Snarling, he reached beneath his throne, fingers closing around a hidden mechanism. A rune-lit trigger, carved with desperation—a self-destruction vault key.
"If I am to fall, then so will you!" he roared, yanking the device free. The vaulted chamber's sigils pulsed as the trigger activated, walls humming with unstable energy.
But before he could press it—Kane's hand closed around his wrist. Iron-strong, unyielding.
The Patron gasped, straining to force his thumb down. "No—you can't—"
Kane leaned in, his other hand rising, and in it glowed a sphere—a coalescence of dark crimson energy, swirling with runes, pulsing with restrained annihilation.
The Patron's eyes widened. His lips trembled.
"What… what is that?"
Kane's grip tightened, locking the man in place. His voice dropped to a growl that shook the chamber itself.
"Your end."
And as the orb pulsed brighter, the Patron froze—caught between terror and helplessness—while the chamber's hum cut into silence.
Kane did not hesitate. His gauntleted hand forced the glowing orb into the Patron's mouth. The man thrashed, muffled screams spilling from his throat as the sphere lodged itself deep, burning his flesh from the inside out. His eyes bulged, veins blackening in streaks across his face. The guards-turned-undead stood in eerie silence, as though watching their former master's damnation with satisfaction.
The Patron's body convulsed violently, his limbs jerking in unnatural spasms. The runes etched into the orb began to flare. In seconds, his chest swelled grotesquely, light searing through his veins like molten cracks. The explosion was inevitable.
Kane, however, was already prepared.
With a snap of his fingers, a layered barrier enveloped the Patron's writhing form—an arcane cocoon of reinforced mana, woven with his command over Dominion Tactics. The chamber shook with the pressure, but the barrier held fast, containing the impending blast.
BOOOOOOM!
The muffled detonation erupted within the barrier, flames and gore splattering like a trapped inferno. The chamber lit up for an instant, then went silent. When the glow faded, nothing but blackened ash and fragments of the Patron remained inside the shimmering shield.
Kane lowered his hand, and the barrier dissipated, scattering what little was left of the man who had once tried to style himself as untouchable.
"Pretender," Kane muttered coldly. "That was all you ever were."
There was no pause. Kane immediately turned to the practical aftermath. He ordered his Ironbound Legion and summoned undead to sweep every corridor, hauling whatever could be salvaged:
Equipment and weapons—blades, rifles, crates of ammunition, and half-finished experimental tech that Greywatch's appraisers had noted.
Materials—rare ores mined from the mountain, alloys, enchanted minerals, all packed into reinforced containers.
Food supplies—warehouses stacked with preserved grains, dried meat, and ration packs; they would be invaluable to sustain Sanctuary Isle.
Documents and schematics—bundled scrolls, blueprints, and ledgers stuffed with coded information on the Patron's dealings, his contacts, and other potential benefactors lurking in the shadows.
Every last item was accounted for and stored, Kane's Infinite Storage swallowing whole inventories like a hungry abyss.
His eyes lingered on the structure itself. The fortress wasn't simply a stronghold. It was position.
The mountain at its heart towered like a jagged spear above the island, perfect for his vision. Already, his mind was calculating:
Drone Launch Platforms carved into the higher ridges.
Observation arrays and turrets installed along the cliffs.
Underground storage bays hollowed within the mountain itself.
"This place won't be abandoned," Kane murmured. "It will be merged."
The island beneath his feet was vast, nearly half the size of Sanctuary Isle. Once integrated, his domain would expand by a third again—a staggering advantage in territory and resources. The mountain would provide not only defensive height but also a natural stronghold for launching large-scale operations.
Kane could already see it: two islands becoming one, their strengths fused, their defenses layered into something no outside force could casually breach.
His undead and Ironbound Legion worked tirelessly as the living fighters and Greywatch personnel assisted in cataloging what could be moved. Survivors freed from the prison cells were being escorted to waiting vessels, their eyes wide with relief at the prospect of real safety.
The fused mutant general stood like a colossus at the prison gate, watching over the flow of refugees with serpentine patience and crustacean-clad menace.
Finally, Kane's steps echoed down into the lower levels—the heart of the fortress where the real military secrets would be kept.
Massive reinforced blast doors loomed ahead, their sigils half-scorched from the earlier missile drone barrage. Beyond them, the faint smell of machine oil and old fuel drifted out.
"The hangar," Kane muttered, his tone low and calculated.
He placed a hand on the cold steel, already imagining what might lie inside: fighter jets, prototype war machines, or perhaps abandoned relics of pre-apocalypse militaries. Each possibility could tip the balance of power further into his hands.
Behind him, the stormbreaker crew and several of his elite fighters caught up, their weapons at the ready. Even the Greywatch leader stood silently, eyes flicking nervously between Kane and the sealed doors.
Kane's sword glowed faintly at his side, and his lips curved into a dangerous smile.
"Open it," he commanded.
And as the gears began to grind and the doors inched open, the promise of new weapons—and new dominion—waited within.
The colossal hangar doors groaned as they dragged open, dust falling like a curtain of forgotten years. The stale air inside hit them with a mix of machine oil, scorched fuel, and iron dust. When the dim emergency lights flickered on, Kane's eyes narrowed.
Inside, his instincts were proven correct.
Two aircraft sat on elevated landing clamps, their wings folded inward like beasts at rest. The sleek metal frames were marked with scorch and patchwork repairs, but the engines glimmered faintly with residual power. They were military-grade—old world fighters, no longer pristine, but far from obsolete.
Lined beside them were three attack helicopters—their stubby frames bristling with missile pods and rotary cannons, rotors secured with heavy clamps. Next to them, two larger transport helicopters, hulking and reinforced, clearly meant for carrying troops or cargo across hostile skies.
And then—at the far end of the hangar—stood something far more intriguing.
Two mech prototypes, towering metal husks, each about five meters tall. Their armor was bulky, unfinished, and covered in glowing runic stabilizers, but their skeletal frames hinted at massive power. Hydraulic limbs hissed faintly, and mana conduits pulsed along their arms. These weren't battlefield-ready yet, but they could be.
Kane's eyes immediately darted to his research team, who had followed behind. The scholars and technicians stared at the machines as though they had just been shown a glimpse of gods.
"Mechs," one of them whispered. "Patron must have poured all his stolen resources into their development. They're crude now… but with time, we can refine them. Improve them. Perhaps even field them."
Kane gave a satisfied nod. That was what he wanted to hear.
Turning to the assembled fighters and Greywatch appraisers, Kane's voice cut like a blade through the hum of the hangar.
"These aircraft and helicopters will not sit idle. They will serve Sanctuary Isle." He scanned the group, his gaze sharp. "Who among you has piloting experience?"
Hands rose hesitantly. Two of his veterans—former military survivors—stepped forward. "We can fly jets," one said firmly.
From Greywatch's delegation, one appraiser admitted his pre-apocalypse training. "Helicopters," he said. "Attack models."
Two of Kane's own men stepped forward for transport helicopter roles—they had handled heavy aviation equipment in the old world, and though rusty, their hands did not shake.
"Good," Kane said. His tone brooked no hesitation. "You will begin retraining at once. When this island is merged with my main domain, these skies will belong to us. Not Greywatch. Not the Patron's remnants. Only us."
The chosen pilots stood straighter, resolve hardening in their eyes under the weight of Kane's command.
Kane's gaze returned to the mechs, towering like slumbering titans in the dim light. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword as he considered.
"These prototypes will be moved to the Sanctuary's workshops," he said finally. "Our researchers will strip them down, study their flaws, and rebuild them into weapons worthy of the new world. I expect them not just to walk… but to crush battlefields."
His words weren't spoken as hope, but as an order.
Elysia, standing at his side with Reina nestled in her arms, spoke softly. "With this… we'll control the land, sea, and sky."
Kane's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Exactly. The Patron's fortress will serve as the foundation for our dominion."
His mind was already shifting ahead. This island—fortified, resource-rich, and now boasting air assets—was too valuable to leave separate. Once merged with Sanctuary Isle, the mountain would provide a natural shield and elevation for launches.
Kane turned back to his commanders.
"Prepare the merging sequence," he ordered. "Once we strip this place clean and secure the skies, the fortress and mountain will belong to Sanctuary. From there… the world will see who truly rules these seas."
The Ironbound Legion saluted silently, their skeletal hands clattering. The living fighters gripped their weapons tighter, fire in their eyes. Even the Greywatch leader—though wary—could not hide the awe.
Above, the aircraft engines groaned faintly as backup power cycled. The helicopters loomed, ready to be unleashed. And the mechs stood still, like guardians waiting to be reborn.
Kane stood at the heart of it all, watching his empire grow piece by piece.
"This," he whispered to himself, "is only the beginning."