The capital of Windham erupted in celebration.
Flower petals rained from every window as the Band of the Hawk marched through streets packed with cheering crowds. Minstrels sang hastily-composed ballads about the impossible victory at Doldrey. Children threw wreaths. Women wept with joy. Men who'd lost sons to previous failed sieges stood in stunned silence, processing a triumph that shouldn't have been possible.
Kars observed it all from his position near the column's rear, separate from the main formation. The humans celebrated a lie—victory without cost, triumph without sacrifice. They had no conception of how trivial their "impregnable" fortress had been to one who'd conquered death itself.
"GRIFFITH! GRIFFITH! GRIFFITH!"
The crowd's chant focused on their White Hawk, the beautiful leader who'd achieved what generations of generals couldn't. Griffith rode at the formation's head, armor polished to blinding radiance, accepting their worship with practiced grace. He was their symbol now—proof that common blood could rise to legendary heights.
"You're not enjoying the parade?"
Judeau fell into step beside Kars, juggling three knives with casual precision. Of all the Band's inner circle, the acrobat showed the least fear around him. Not from bravery—from pragmatism. Judeau understood that fear served no purpose against something so far beyond human capability.
"Parades celebrate deception," Kars replied. "These people believe their prayers were answered. That their suffering meant something. That good triumphed through righteousness and determination."
"Didn't it?"
"I triumphed through biological superiority. You survived through proximity to that superiority. Neither involves good, evil, or cosmic justice." Kars watched a child place a crown of flowers on a soldier's head. "They need to believe otherwise because the truth—that power determines all outcomes—would break their spirits."
"Maybe." Judeau caught all three knives, sheathing them smoothly. "Or maybe they're celebrating survival itself. Doldrey's been drinking Midland's blood for generations. Now it won't. Isn't that worth celebrating, regardless of how it happened?"
"An interesting perspective." Kars noted how Judeau's heartbeat remained steady despite their proximity. "You're not afraid of me."
"Would fear help?"
"No."
"Then why waste the energy?" Judeau smiled slightly. "Besides, you haven't killed any of us yet. That suggests either patience or purpose. Either way, fear won't change the outcome."
Before Kars could respond, the procession reached the castle gates. Royal banners snapped in the wind. Trumpets announced their arrival with brass authority. The massive doors swung open, revealing an honor guard in ceremonial armor.
The trap was so obvious Kars almost laughed.
The throne room had been cleared of courtiers. Only King of Midland remained, seated on his throne with the Queen beside him. Princess Charlotte stood to their left, hands clasped nervously. To their right, Minister Foss failed to hide his displeasure behind court etiquette.
And arranged throughout the hall, positioned at strategic points that would allow crossfire while preventing escape, stood fifty knights in full plate. Their hands rested on sword hilts. Their formation suggested casual honor guard to untrained eyes.
To Kars's perfect vision, the minute tension in their muscles, the micro-adjustments of stance, the way their breathing synchronized—all screamed ambush.
"Griffith of the Band of the Hawk," the King's voice resonated with practiced authority. "You have achieved the impossible. Doldrey has fallen. The Hundred Year War moves toward conclusion because of your efforts."
Griffith knelt with perfect form. "We live to serve Your Majesty."
"Yes. About that service..." The King rose, descending throne steps with measured intent. "Reports from Doldrey are... unusual. They speak of inhuman speed. Of monsters torn apart by something beyond mortal ken. Of gates opened by impossible strength."
His gaze fixed on Kars.
"They speak of a demon in your ranks."
The knights' hands tightened on their hilts. Kars counted heartbeats—fifty knights, twenty more hidden behind tapestries, archers in murder holes above. Adequate for killing humans. Laughable against him.
"Your Majesty," Griffith began, but the King raised a hand.
"I would hear from the creature itself. You—Kars, they name you. Step forward."
Kars moved with deliberate slowness, each step human-normal, non-threatening. He stopped at the prescribed distance—close enough for conversation, far enough to seem respectful.
"Your Majesty fears what he doesn't understand," Kars observed. "Understandable. Kings must control their kingdoms. My existence suggests forces beyond royal authority."
"You admit to being inhuman?"
"I transcend humanity. Whether that makes me inhuman depends on perspective."
Minister Foss stepped forward, voice dripping false concern. "Your Majesty, this creature admits its unnatural nature. The church speaks of demons walking among us, of—"
"The church speaks of many things," Princess Charlotte interrupted, shocking everyone. She moved between Kars and her father, chin raised despite visible trembling. "Father, this being—whatever he is—saved thousands of Midland lives. Doldrey would have consumed armies for another century without him."
"Charlotte," the Queen warned, "you don't understand—"
"I understand that results matter more than methods." The Princess's voice gained strength. "If we exile or execute our strongest asset against Tudor, what message does that send?"
Kars studied the girl with new interest. Sixteen years old, sheltered, politically naive—yet she grasped pragmatism most adults missed. Her defense stemmed from affection for Griffith, obviously, but the reasoning was sound regardless.
"Your daughter shows wisdom," Kars told the King. "Though I wonder if she'd maintain that position knowing what I truly am."
"Then tell us," the King commanded. "What are you?"
"I am evolution's endpoint. The ultimate lifeform. Biologically perfect, functionally immortal, superior to humanity in every measurable way." Kars raised his hand, letting it transform—fingers becoming blades, then tentacles, then wings, then returning to normal. "I can become any living thing, adapt to any environment, survive any physical threat."
Gasps rippled through the hall. Several knights drew steel reflexively.
"Demon!" Minister Foss cried. "You see, Your Majesty? It admits to being a monster!"
"Monster?" Kars tilted his head. "I suppose, from your limited perspective. But I haven't harmed a single Midland citizen. I've killed only enemies of your kingdom. My... nature... has been purely beneficial to your realm."
"Thus far," the King said carefully. "But what happens when our enemies are defeated? What purpose does a perfect predator serve in peacetime?"
"I'm not here for your wars, Your Majesty. I'm here for my own curiosity." Kars gestured toward Griffith. "Your White Hawk interests me. His ambition, his methods, the way he transforms common mercenaries into legends. I study him as you might study a particularly fascinating text."
"And when your study is complete?"
"Then I leave. No revenge, no conquest, no interference. I have no more interest in ruling humans than you have in ruling ants."
The throne room held its breath. The King studied Kars for long moments, weighing options.
"There are reports," the King said slowly, "of you using some form of golden light. Witnesses say it burned those monsters—apostles, the survivors called them—to ash."
Kars considered how much to reveal. These humans had no context for Hamon, no understanding of life energy cultivation. But complete mystery bred more fear than partial understanding.
"Every living thing generates life energy," he explained. "Through perfect biology, I can concentrate that energy into a form that destroys creatures of darkness. Your people would call it divine light, perhaps. Holy power. It's simply optimized biological function."
"Can others learn this power?"
"No. It requires biological capabilities your species won't develop for millions of years, if ever."
The King nodded slowly, decision made. "Griffith, your... ally... may remain. But under conditions. He acts only on your orders. Any aggression against Midland citizens results in immediate execution—"
"You couldn't execute me if you tried," Kars interrupted calmly. "But I accept the spirit of your conditions. I'll follow Griffith's commands within reason and harm no Midland citizens without cause."
"You dare interrupt the King?" Minister Foss sputtered.
"I dare speak truth. Would you prefer pleasant lies?" Kars addressed the King directly. "Your Majesty is wise enough to know that controlling me through force is impossible. But controlling me through mutual benefit? That's achievable. I want to study your kingdom's mysteries. You want those mysteries solved in your favor. Our interests align."
The King leaned back in his throne, a slight smile playing at his lips. "You speak like a diplomat, not a monster."
"Intelligence transcends form, Your Majesty. A lesson your court would benefit from learning."
Several nobles bristled, but the King actually chuckled. "Indeed. Very well. The Band of the Hawk shall receive their rewards, and you... you shall be tolerated. For now."
The ceremony proceeded with practiced efficiency. Griffith received a court title—Viscount, with associated lands and income. The Band gained official military recognition. Individual members earned gold, honors, accolades.
Kars received nothing official, which suited him perfectly. But the King did approach him privately after the ceremony.
"That golden light you wield," the monarch said quietly. "Is it divine? The church speaks of holy warriors who could channel God's wrath against demons."
"It's not divine. It's biological." Kars studied the King's face, reading the calculation there. "But you didn't ask me here to discuss theology."
"No." The King glanced around, ensuring they were alone. "I asked you here because threats to Midland go beyond Tudor's armies. There are... texts. Documents the church has deemed heretical. They speak of creatures like those you killed at Doldrey. Of worse things that may come."
"And you want me to investigate these threats."
"I want to understand them. A king must know all dangers to his realm, even those the church would prefer stayed hidden." He paused. "Grant me this—study these threats, report what you find. In exchange, I'll give you access to the royal archives. The real archives, not what we show visiting scholars."
Kars considered. The King was offering exactly what he wanted—knowledge about this world's stranger mysteries.
"Acceptable. Send the texts to my quarters."
"There's one more thing." The King's voice dropped even lower. "My brother Julius leads a faction that opposes Griffith's rise. They see a commoner earning noble rank as a threat to the natural order. I fear they may take... action."
"You want me to protect Griffith?"
"I want you to ensure stability. Griffith is useful to the crown. Civil conflict is not." The King met his eyes directly. "Can that golden light of yours do more than destroy?"
"It can do many things. But I don't intervene in human politics without reason."
"Consider this your reason—Julius and his faction may align with forces beyond mere political opposition. Some nobles dabble in old practices, forgotten rites. If they summon something like those apostles..."
"Then I'll deal with it." Kars turned to leave. "Send those texts tonight. All of them."
The King nodded, and Kars left him to his political machinations.
That night, while the Band celebrated in Windham's taverns, Kars studied the texts the King had secretly provided. Most were useless—religious hysteria and superstitious nonsense. But three held genuine information.
The first described something called the Eclipse—a moment when the boundaries between dimensions weakened, allowing beings from the "Abyss" to manifest. It happened every 216 years, triggered by someone called "The Chosen" using a "Crimson Behelit."
The second mentioned the God Hand by name—four angels or demons (the text wasn't clear) who served something called the Idea of Evil. They granted power to chosen humans, transforming them into apostles through sacrifice.
The third was just fragments, partially burned. But it showed diagrams of Behelits—egg-like objects with scattered facial features. And at the bottom, barely legible, a warning: "When the Eclipse comes, the Chosen must sacrifice what they love most. The Hawks will feed the Crimson Lake, and from their blood, a new god rises."
Hawks. Griffith led the Band of the Hawk. He carried what could only be a Crimson Behelit.
The pieces clicked together with elegant horror.
Griffith was chosen for something. The Eclipse would demand sacrifice. The Band of the Hawk—the people who loved and trusted him most—were the intended payment.
But when? The texts suggested the Eclipse couldn't be forced, that it came when the Chosen reached their moment of absolute despair. When their dream seemed lost forever.
Kars set the texts aside, considering. He'd joined this Band seeking interesting phenomena. He'd found something far more intriguing—a cosmic conspiracy to transform a human into something more through betrayal and blood sacrifice.
The God Hand thought they were orchestrating fate. But they'd never encountered a perfect being before. Never had to account for something that transcended their carefully planned causality.
This would be... educational.
A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts. Rickert entered, carrying a wrapped bundle.
"Lord Kars—"
"Not lord. Never lord."
"Right, sorry. Kars. I made something." The young boy offered the bundle. "After watching you fight. I know you don't need weapons, but..."
Kars unwrapped it carefully. Inside lay a bracer of unusual design—metal worked with techniques that shouldn't exist in this era. Channels ran through it in patterns that seemed almost organic.
"You observed the golden light I use," Kars noted with something approaching approval. "These channels would theoretically amplify and focus such energy."
"I thought... maybe it could help. Even perfect beings might benefit from tools sometimes."
For the first time since arriving in this world, Kars experienced genuine surprise. Not at the bracer—a trivial creation he didn't need. But at the intent behind it. This child, this fragile human, had observed a being beyond comprehension and thought: 'How can I help?'
"Interesting," Kars murmured. He slipped the bracer on, letting a trickle of Hamon flow through it. The channels glowed briefly, focusing the energy into patterns of surprising efficiency. "You have potential, Rickert. In another ten thousand years, your species might produce more like you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation. Whether you take it as complimentary depends on your perspective."
After the boy left, Kars stood in contemplation. The bracer was meaningless—his Hamon far exceeded what any tool could amplify. But the gesture...
Humanity's strength had never been in individual perfection. It was this—cooperation beyond logic, sacrifice beyond benefit, hope beyond reason.
The God Hand preyed on humanity's darkness. But they seemed to ignore its light.
An oversight that might prove fatal.
Kars looked out his window at Windham sleeping below. Somewhere out there, Griffith clutched his Behelit and dreamed of kingdoms. The Band celebrated, unaware they were marked for sacrifice. The God Hand watched from impossible angles, confident in their orchestrations.
None of them understood what was coming.
Neither did Kars, entirely. But that was what made it interesting.
The Eclipse would come. Griffith would betray. The Band would bleed.
But between those certainties lay infinite variables. And Kars, perfect in body but still evolving in understanding, intended to explore every one.
Evolution never stopped.
Not even for gods.