The report came during breakfast—a village three days' ride north had been destroyed. Not by war or bandits, but by something that left buildings painted in blood and bodies arranged in grotesque displays.
"Black Dog Knights," the messenger said, hands shaking. "They're sweeping through the northern territories. Killing, raping, burning everything in their path. The survivors say they're led by a monster."
The King looked at Griffith. "Take your Band. End this."
Griffith nodded, already calculating logistics, supply lines, march times.
Kars said nothing. Just smiled.
The Black Dog Knights had claimed an abandoned fortress two days north. A crumbling ruin that had once guarded a mountain pass, now repurposed as a base for organized atrocity.
The Band approached at dawn, five hundred strong, with Kars walking alongside Griffith at the front.
"Something's wrong," Casca muttered. She was right—the fortress was too quiet. No patrols, no sentries, no defensive preparations.
"It's a trap," Guts said, his hand on his sword.
"Obviously." Kars inhaled deeply, his perfect senses cataloging scents on the wind. "Approximately two hundred humans inside. And one Apostle. Large, powerful, recently fed." He glanced at Griffith. "Your men can handle the humans. The Apostle is mine."
"We fight together," Guts said.
"No. You'd die." Kars's tone was matter-of-fact. "The Apostle inside isn't like the scouts I killed in Windham. This one is a warrior. Experienced, brutal, strong enough to slaughter your entire Band in minutes."
"Then how do we—"
"You don't. I do." Kars started walking toward the fortress gates. "Clear out the humans. I'll handle the monster."
The Black Dog Knights reacted with confusion when a single man walked through their gates. Then with laughter. Then with screams as Kars moved.
He wasn't trying to hide anymore. Wasn't restraining himself for political benefit or strategic advantage.
His first target—a knight raising a crossbow—died before he could process movement. Kars's hand went through his chest, extracted his heart, crushed it, all in the space between heartbeats.
The second and third died as Kars passed them, his arms extending into blade-appendages that carved through armor like parchment.
By the fourth and fifth, the Black Dog Knights were trying to run.
Kars let them. They'd reach the Band outside, and Guts could have his fight. These humans weren't his target.
He walked deeper into the fortress, following the scent of something that wasn't quite alive, toward the central keep where reality bent slightly around concentrated malevolence.
He found Wyald in what had once been a great hall, now decorated with the remains of victims arranged in artistic grotesquery. The Apostle was in human form—a massive man with scarred flesh and wild eyes, casually eating from a platter of meat that Kars's senses identified as decidedly not animal in origin.
"You," Wyald said, looking up. "You're the one who killed Conrad's scouts."
"Yes." Kars stopped in the hall's center. "And you're the one who's been painting the countryside in human suffering. Impressive commitment to pointless cruelty."
"Pointless?" Wyald stood, his full height making the massive hall feel smaller. "I'm enjoying myself. Life's short—well, not for me anymore—but the principle stands. Take what you want, fuck what you want, kill what you want. That's freedom."
"That's waste." Kars examined the grotesque decorations with clinical detachment. "You sacrificed your humanity for power, then used that power for... entertainment? No greater purpose? No ambition beyond hedonism?"
"What else is there?" Wyald grinned, showing too many teeth. "I was going to die. The Behelit gave me a choice—stay human and rot, or transcend and take everything I wanted. I chose transcendence."
"And now you arrange corpses like an artist who never learned technique." Kars's smile was sharp. "How disappointing. I was hoping for something more interesting."
Wyald's grin vanished. "You talk a lot for someone about to die."
"I talk because I'm curious whether you'll prove more entertaining than your decorations." Kars's body shifted subtly—muscles optimizing, bones reinforcing, reflexes accelerating. "Show me what you sacrificed your humanity for."
Wyald transformed.
His human form exploded outward, flesh tearing, bones reshaping, mass increasing impossibly as the true form emerged. Twelve feet of corded muscle and bestial rage, somewhere between ape and demon, with a face that was almost human but wrong in ways that made reality itself uncomfortable.
The transformation cratered the floor. Wyald's roar shattered windows and made the entire fortress shake.
Kars just watched, analyzing. Interesting. The transformation adds mass through dimensional manipulation—he's pulling matter from somewhere else. Demonic enhancement rather than pure biology. Strength increase is approximately... forty times human maximum. Speed is... surprisingly high for that mass. Regeneration appears active but slower than Apostle scouts. Weakness to—
Wyald charged.
The attack was faster than human eyes could track—pure explosive power translated into forward momentum. His fist, the size of a man's torso, drove toward Kars's head with enough force to pulverize stone.
Kars tilted his head six inches left.
The fist passed through empty air and cratered the wall behind him, punching through three feet of solid stone.
Predictable trajectory, Kars noted. Raw power but limited technique. Fighting style emphasizes overwhelming force over precision. Exploitable.
Wyald's other fist came around in a backhand that would have decapitated a normal opponent.
Kars ducked under it, stepped inside Wyald's guard, and drove his palm into the Apostle's solar plexus.
The impact sent Wyald flying backward, crashing through two support pillars before slamming into the far wall hard enough to crack granite.
Durability is high, Kars observed, watching Wyald shake off the hit. That should have ruptured organs. He's barely winded. Demonic physiology is more resilient than biological optimization alone.
Wyald laughed—a sound like grinding metal. "Finally! Someone who can take a hit! Do you know how boring humans are when they break after one punch?"
He charged again, faster this time, learning from the first exchange. His attacks came in combination—left jab to draw the guard, right hook to punish the defense, knee strike to catch any duck, tail whip to sweep any dodge.
Kars blocked the jab with his forearm, deflected the hook with his palm, caught the knee with both hands, and simply held Wyald's enormous leg in place.
"Better," Kars said. "You're adapting. But you're still thinking like a human who got strong. You need to think like something that was never human."
He twisted Wyald's leg, using the Apostle's own momentum to throw him across the hall. But this time Wyald caught himself mid-flight, tail whipping around a pillar, redirecting motion, landing in a crouch that transitioned immediately into another charge.
Good, Kars thought. He learns quickly. This might actually be entertaining.
Wyald's next attack was pure savagery—claws, teeth, tail, horns, every part of his body weaponized and striking in seemingly random patterns that were actually calculated chaos.
Kars met him head-on.
His body flowed, adapting in real-time. Arms became blades to parry claws. Skin hardened to deflect teeth. New limbs sprouted from his back to catch the tail. His bones restructured for maximum leverage, his muscles reconfigured for explosive counter-strikes.
They collided in the hall's center, and the resulting shockwave blew out every remaining window.
He's strong, Kars analyzed while blocking a strike that could have shattered steel. Stronger than the scouts. But still limited by his sacrifice's nature. He traded humanity for bestial power—linear strength increase without the flexibility of true perfection.
Kars caught Wyald's next punch, stopped it cold, and headbutted the Apostle with enough force to crack the bone plating on Wyald's skull.
Wyald reeled back, blood streaming from his split forehead. The wound started healing immediately, flesh knitting together, bone reforming.
But Kars was already moving.
He closed the distance in a blur, his strike too fast for Wyald to process. His fist drove into Wyald's ribs with surgical precision—not maximum force, but perfect placement. Exactly where the demonic physiology had a structural weakness.
Three ribs cracked.
Wyald's eyes widened in genuine surprise.
There, Kars thought. The transformation adds mass and strength but creates stress points where human biology meets demonic enhancement. Those points are vulnerable.
"You're actually hurt," Wyald said, his tone caught between pain and delight. "No one's hurt me since I became this!"
"Because no one you've fought understood anatomy well enough to target your specific vulnerabilities." Kars smiled. "I understand all anatomy. Every biological system, every structural weakness, every point where force application creates cascading failure."
He demonstrated by striking again—same precision, different location. Another structural weak point, another cascade of damage.
Wyald stumbled, his regeneration struggling to keep up with targeted destruction.
"This is the difference between power and perfection," Kars continued, circling. "You're strong. I'm optimal. You overwhelm through force. I dismantle through understanding."
Wyald roared and charged again—pure desperation now, abandoning strategy for overwhelming aggression.
Kars let him come.
At the last second, he sidestepped, caught Wyald's extended arm, and used the Apostle's momentum to throw him into the ground. The impact cratered the floor, sent dust and debris exploding outward.
Before Wyald could recover, Kars was on him. His hands became claws, his fingers extending into surgical instruments, finding the weak points in Wyald's demonic physiology and exploiting them.
Not killing—that would end the analysis prematurely. Just systematically demonstrating the gulf between them.
"You're wondering why you can't win," Kars said, almost conversationally, while Wyald struggled beneath him. "You're stronger than me in raw force. Faster than most. Your regeneration should let you outlast conventional opponents."
He applied pressure to a nerve cluster that shouldn't exist in human anatomy but was present in Wyald's transformed state. The Apostle screamed.
"But I'm not conventional. I achieved ultimate biology by understanding every aspect of life itself. Your body—this demonic form you're so proud of—I comprehend it better than you do." Kars's smile was sharp. "I know where you're strong. Where you're weak. How your regeneration prioritizes. What your pain threshold is. Every secret your physiology holds."
Wyald managed to break free with a desperate burst of strength. He rolled away, putting distance between them, his breathing labored despite not technically needing to breathe.
For the first time, Kars saw genuine fear in the Apostle's eyes.
"What are you?" Wyald asked.
"The end result of ruthless optimization. I sacrificed my entire species to achieve this." Kars stood slowly, making no aggressive moves. "You sacrificed your humanity for demonic power. I sacrificed my species for biological perfection. We're not the same."
Wyald's regeneration was working overtime now, healing the targeted damage, but Kars could see the strain. The Apostle was burning through energy reserves, his movements becoming sluggish.
"The God Hand gave you power," Kars continued. "Made you into a monster. Told you that you'd transcended humanity." He started walking forward. "But you're still operating under rules they defined. Still bound by the metaphysical contract you signed. Still theirs."
Wyald backed away—a predator suddenly recognizing it had become prey.
"I'm not theirs. Not yours. Not anyone's." Kars's voice dropped. "I'm just perfect. And perfection doesn't negotiate with fate."
Wyald transformed again—pushing his demonic form further, growing larger, more bestial, more desperate. His final form was pure nightmare fuel, a grotesque hybrid that abandoned any pretense of strategy for raw survival instinct.
He lunged with everything he had left.
Kars caught him by the throat mid-leap.
"Disappointing," Kars said. "I was hoping for more."
His free hand drove into Wyald's chest—not a strike, but an intrusion. His fingers found the Apostle's heart, the demonic core that sustained the transformation, and simply... took it.
Wyald's eyes went wide. His massive form shuddered, the transformation beginning to unravel.
Kars extracted his hand, holding something that pulsed with stolen life and malevolent energy. The Behelit-given heart of an Apostle.
"This is what you traded your humanity for," Kars observed, examining it. "Interesting structure. The God Hand's power works by replacing core biological functions with demonic analogues. Clever, but inflexible."
Wyald collapsed, his transformation failing, his body reverting to something between human and monster as death claimed him.
"Please," he gasped. "Don't... I don't want to die... I don't want to..."
"You stopped being capable of death when you accepted the Behelit's bargain," Kars said, not unkindly. "This isn't death. This is just the end of your temporary transcendence."
He crushed the heart.
Wyald's scream was brief. Then silence. Then ash.
Kars stood alone in the ruined hall, surrounded by destruction, unblemished and contemplative.
Wyald was stronger than the scouts, he analyzed. But still fundamentally limited by his sacrifice's nature. The God Hand's power system requires trading humanity for demonic strength—a fixed exchange with defined parameters. Inflexible. Predictable.
I achieved perfection through understanding and adaptation. My power isn't fixed—it'sinfinite within biological constraints. Every fight teaches me. Every opponent reveals new possibilities.*
The God Hand can't beat me this way. They need a different approach.
He heard footsteps behind him—multiple people, moving cautiously.
The Band had cleared the fortress. Now they stood at the hall's entrance, staring at the destruction, at Kars standing in the center of it, at the complete absence of Wyald's body.
"Is it dead?" Casca asked.
"Yes." Kars turned to face them. "The Black Dog Knights' leader was an Apostle. He's gone now."
Guts walked forward, examining the cratered floor, the shattered pillars, the walls that looked like a siege weapon had been tested on them from the inside.
"Did you even try?" he asked.
"Not particularly." Kars stepped over debris as he walked toward the exit. "He was strong but predictable. Powerful but limited. Interesting for about five minutes."
He passed the Band, noting their expressions. Fear mixed with awe mixed with the dawning realization that they were allied with something that made Apostles look manageable.
"The fortress is clear," Kars said to Griffith. "The Black Dog Knights who survived are fleeing north. Your soldiers can pursue or let them go—either way, they're no longer a strategic threat."
"And the Apostle?" Griffith asked.
"Analyzed, defeated, absorbed. I understand their physiology better now." Kars smiled. "The God Hand's power system is elegant but rigid. They grant strength through sacrifice, but the strength has defined parameters. Useful information."
Griffith was studying him with that calculating intensity. "You're learning from them."
"From everything. That's what perfection does—it adapts, it optimizes, it improves." Kars started walking toward the fortress gates. "Your Band fought well against the humans. Minimal casualties, good coordination. You should be proud."
He left them standing in the ruined hall, trying to process what they'd just witnessed.
That evening, around the campfire, Judeau voiced what everyone was thinking.
"We're not actually useful, are we?"
The question hung in the air. Everyone looked at Guts, waiting for him to contradict it.
He didn't.
"Against Apostles? No," Guts said bluntly. "We're not. Kars killed that thing like it was nothing. We would have died."
"So what's the point?" Pippin asked. "If we can't fight what we're actually up against, what are we even doing?"
"Fighting humans," Casca said firmly. "Which is what the King pays us for. Apostles are... something else. Something beyond normal combat."
"Something beyond us," Corkus muttered. "Meanwhile, Kars walks in and handles it before breakfast."
Silence.
Finally, Rickert spoke up. "Maybe that's okay?"
Everyone looked at him.
"I mean... we can't all be the strongest. Can't all be perfect." The boy's voice was tentative but determined. "But we can be useful in other ways. We can handle things Kars doesn't care about. We can protect normal people while he deals with monsters."
"Kid's got a point," Judeau said. "We're not competing with Kars. We're operating in parallel. Different threats, different capabilities."
"Easy to say when you're not the one training to fight things that can kill you in seconds," Guts said.
"You train anyway," Rickert pointed out. "Why? You know Kars could kill anything you fight faster than you. But you keep training."
Guts was quiet for a long moment. "Because I don't want to be useless."
"None of us do." Casca looked around the fire. "So we train. We improve. We handle what we can handle and trust Kars to handle what we can't."
"Trust him?" Corkus laughed bitterly. "He doesn't even pretend to care about us."
"He doesn't have to care," Judeau said. "He just has to keep killing Apostles before they kill us. That's enough."
The conversation moved on, but Kars—listening from the darkness beyond the firelight—filed the exchange away for analysis.
They're adapting to my presence, he noted. Accepting their limitations, finding value in capabilities I don't replace. Resilient. Impressive, in a way.
But they still don't understand what's coming. Don't see that Griffith views them the same way I do—useful tools with defined purposes.
When the Eclipse happens, when Griffith makes his choice, they'll understand. And by then it will be too late.
He walked away from the camp, into winter darkness, contemplating the pieces moving into position.