Date: August 1, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The door of the longhouse slammed shut behind Kazai with a soft, almost polite click. The prince walked a few steps away, stopping by the hitching post. His face remained impassive, as if he had just left a boring theatrical performance. He didn't turn around at the sounds coming from inside—the crunch of breaking bones and the first, choked cry of the elder were merely the logical outcome of failed negotiations.
Suddenly, the walls of the house shuddered. A wave of such dense and heavy power struck from within that the rotten planks began to crack. The next moment, the roof of the structure literally exploded into splinters, and six figures burst from the cloud of dust.
These were the Pillars of Rotten Bog—the village's finest warriors, its living shield. Their bodies, altered by the curse, were covered with bony growths, chitinous plates, and oozing sores that pulsed with crimson light. They understood: if they didn't kill the monster now, their home would cease to exist.
"Kill him!" roared one of the Pillars, whose arms had turned into massive bony hammers. "Tear the Prince apart!"
All six simultaneously brought their power down upon the center of the house, where the Spirit still was. The air in the village trembled with the density of their collective power. It was a blow capable of wiping a small fortress off the face of the earth.
But from the settling dust, no corpse flew out. From there, Darkness slowly emerged.
Pride glided above the ground, his shapeless black cloak billowing as if absorbing the very light of the summer day. Under the deep hood, the void still yawned, but in that void, such transcendent arrogance was felt that the warriors of Rotten Bog hesitated for a moment. Two pale hands in gauntlets clutched the paired double-edged blades, the edges shimmering with a cold, deathly gleam.
The Pillars surrounded the Spirit, creating a ring of crimson Energy. Dozens of Warriors and Initiates of the village, armed with whatever was at hand, joined them. The ordinary people of the Cursed Tribe, seeing their defenders, gained a moment's hope. But this hope was merely a bitter seasoning to their doom.
Kazai, standing to one side, took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped a speck of dust from his sleeve.
"Pride," he said quietly, not looking at the battlefield. "Finish it."
The Pillar with the bony hammers was the first to break. He lunged forward, putting all his fury and power into the blow. The air howled as his massive fists descended upon the black figure.
Pride didn't dodge. He simply vanished.
It wasn't teleportation—it was speed that even an experienced Warrior's eye couldn't follow. The black cloak flickered in the air like the beat of a raven's wing. A quiet, almost melodic whistle of steel sounded.
The Pillar froze. His bony hammers slowly slid from his arms, neatly severed at the wrists. A second later, his head separated from his shoulders. Pride didn't even slow down. His paired blades moved in a perfect, nightmarish rhythm.
The remaining five Pillars attacked simultaneously. One used the Spirit of Rot, releasing a cloud of caustic gas; another turned his ribs into sharp stakes; the other three attacked head-on, trying to overwhelm the enemy with numbers. But Pride was impervious to their attacks. His shapeless cloak seemed to consist of the very matter of shadows—the Pillars' swords and spears simply sank into it, finding no flesh.
Pride moved among them like a dancer. His blades drew circles in the air, leaving trails of black flame behind them. Every movement of the Spirit was filled with infinite grace and icy contempt. He didn't just kill—he demonstrated their insignificance to them.
One by one, the greatest warriors of Rotten Bog fell. Their power, which they thought unshakeable, crumbled under the blows of the paired blades that cut the very essence of life. When the last Pillar, whose body was almost completely encased in chitinous armor, tried to shield himself, Pride simply ran him through with both blades, ignoring the defense as if it didn't exist.
Then came the turn of the others.
This was not a battle—it was a harvest. A nightmare made real. The villagers tried to flee, but the Darkness emanating from Pride enveloped Rotten Bog, turning the streets into a labyrinth with no exit. The black cloak flickered here and there, and each time, silence followed.
Kazai stood by his horse, maintaining complete impassivity. He heard the cries, the pleas, the curses, but his face didn't flicker for a second. To him, these people were just statistics, an obstacle on the path to uniting the Tribe.
Half an hour later, it was all over. The cries ceased, replaced only by the quiet hiss of defiled gas from the swamps. Pride slowly returned to his master. His black garment wasn't stained with blood—it seemed to have absorbed it, becoming even darker. The Spirit halted behind Kazai, putting his blades away under the folds of his cloak.
The prince surveyed what remained of the village with a glance. The houses stood untouched, but there was no life within them. Rotten Bog had indeed become a monument—a monument to the pride of those who thought they could say "no" to the future.
"Cleanly," Kazai confirmed his own thoughts laconically.
He easily leaped into the saddle. His attendants, as silent as their master, followed.
"East," the prince commanded. "The people of the Dead Swamp must see the smoke of this pyre before I come to them. Perhaps it will make them more reasonable."
Kazai set his horse to a walk, not looking back. Behind him, Pride slowly dissolved into the air, returning to the depths of his Vessel, leaving behind only the scorched silence of Rotten Bog.