Chapter 82: Echoes in Shadow
Word had already spread among the dukes' ranks: the weapons delivered by the Ir'Zhak Consortium were powerful beyond imagination—but also terrifying. There were only a thousand of each: the lightning rifles, the corrosion pistols, the frost cannons, the energy swords that crackled with plasma, and the massive gravity hammers that could collapse walls with a single strike. Not nearly enough to arm an army, but more than enough to tip the scales—if used correctly.
In a private war tent on the outskirts of the port city, Dukes Vorgrave, Halbrecht, and Draylen sat around a glowing map table. Their highest-ranking captains and arcane advisors stood in a semicircle around them. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt, iron, and anxiety.
"We can't give one of these to every soldier," Duke Halbrecht said, gesturing to a small replica of the gravity hammer on the table. "The supply is too small, and the risk of misuse is too great."
"They'll go to the elite," Draylen declared. "My Silver Talons and your Night Warden assassins will put them to better use than fresh recruits ever could."
One of Vorgrave's older commanders, a grizzled man with a silver-streaked beard and missing fingers, cleared his throat. "What happens when your men grow addicted to the strength these weapons offer? They drink from a poisoned well, my lords. And the more they sip, the harder it will be to stop."
"We're not debating morality," Draylen snapped. "We're debating victory."
Vorgrave said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the map. "Distribute the weapons. Test them. But quietly. The capital must not know what's coming. Our armies will move in stages—spread out across the wilderness, across lesser-used trade roads. It may take months to arrive at the gates… but when we do, it will be with precision and fire."
Two weeks later…
Alarcus trudged into a small, dusty town on the border of the northern territories, his hood drawn low and a worn traveler's cloak hiding the subtle markings of a rebel. He carried no sword—he preferred it that way. He wasn't a knight or some glory-seeker; he was a strategist, a survivor. Most of his tools were stowed away in his spatial bag, including the few Imperial Arms entrusted to him. His goal was simple: locate individuals who could resonate with the Imperial Arms—those rare few with the innate spirit to awaken and wield their dormant power. With such people, the rebellion might have a fighting chance.
The town was smaller than he expected—just a few dozen stone buildings lining a central road, the kind of place forgotten by war until it was convenient to remember. The cobbled streets were uneven, patched with dirt where repairs had been abandoned.
At the edge of the square, a bent old man sold withered vegetables from a crooked stall. A single child sat nearby, staring at Alarcus with wide, unblinking eyes until his mother dragged him inside.
Soldiers lounged in half-armor near the barracks, betting coins over cards. Further down, a young blacksmith hammered a dented horseshoe, his forge too small to serve war, too loud to ignore.
Alarcus passed a chapel with its doors half-open—no priest in sight, only empty pews and a cracked stained-glass window that once depicted a saint. It now cast broken light across the floor like a warning.
"These people aren't loyal to the Empire," he thought. "They're just clinging to whatever lets them sleep at night."
Then he saw them. Wanted posters—his own face and Zetsuei's crude outline beside it, tacked sloppily to a message board.
"Damn it…" he muttered, tightening his cloak. "Those information brokers sold me out. Knew I shouldn't have trusted that lot back in the northeastern trade hub."
At the edge of town, near the barracks…
A pair of townsfolk—one an everyday peasant, the other a greedy and desperate merchant—approached a pair of guards lounging near a wooden outpost draped with the crest of the local lord.
One of the guards squinted at them, bored. "You got business?" the younger one asked, sipping from a canteen.
The blacksmith leaned in. "That bounty—Alarcus. Think I saw him."
That caught the guards' attention. The older one stood, his hand dropping to the hilt of his short sword. "Where?"
"Downtown. Just passed the baker's shop a moment ago. Hooded man, just like the poster said. Looked shifty."
The merchant added, "You catch him, we get a cut, right?"
"Officially? No," the guard replied with a smirk. "But if Lord Brennen's feeling generous… maybe."
They waved over a third soldier, and within minutes, a horn sounded faintly in the background—not an alarm, but a signal. Coordinated. Controlled.
Alarcus was already walking the cobbled street toward the edge of town when he heard it—a sharp whistle. Not casual. Tactical. He paused, posture relaxed, but alert.
Then came the sound of footsteps, light and rapid, not the heavy thudding of boots but the sprint of smaller, trained feet.
He turned, calm and unhurried, just in time to see two young girls—no older than thirteen or fourteen—rush toward him from opposite sides of the road. Both had long black hair, tied back for battle, and each wielded a gleaming sword etched with glowing enchantment marks. The blades shimmered slightly with reinforcing spells—not just for sharpness, but for durability and speed.
What made his stomach churn were the slave collars around their necks—thin, metallic, and laced with glowing red glyphs. Magical bindings, clearly.
He caught a glimpse of their eyes—hollow, focused, yet distant. Not rage. Not cruelty. Just programming.
Alarcus clenched his jaw. This was beyond cruel. Turning children into slaves was vile enough—but to then chain them to a sword and point them at a target like mindless weapons? That was true injustice. Whoever ordered this didn't deserve power—they deserved to fall.
Alarcus didn't panic. If anything, he felt steadier than he had in weeks. This wasn't fear—it was clarity. Ever since he had taken revenge for what happened in the southern borderlands, his mind had been sharper, his emotions colder. Calm came easier now. Purpose had a way of silencing the noise.
The girls didn't speak. No threats, no hesitation. They just attacked. One came from the left, her sword cutting low toward his legs. The other struck high, aiming for his head.
Alarcus leapt back, barely dodging between them. His fingers flicked toward his spatial bag, and in an instant, a swirl of blue light appeared beside him—Zetsuei, his golem companion, emerged like a coiled serpent unbound. Its form was lean, agile, and thrumming with energy.
Zetsuei intercepted the second blow, its steel whips and leg raised to absorb the enchanted blade, sparks flying as the sword scraped across its crystalized hide.
But Alarcus held up a hand. "Stay back," he murmured. Zetsuei paused, confused. Alarcus didn't explain further.
He had been leaning on Zetsuei too much lately. It was time he reminded himself what he was capable of without the golem. If he wanted to wield Zetsuei's full potential without collapsing under the strain, he had to get stronger—on his own terms. The last time he unlocked its true form, it had nearly drained him in seconds.
Focusing his mana inward, Alarcus cast a series of quick body enhancement spells—lightfoot glyphs for speed, tension runes for reaction time, and a mana skin veil to lessen the impact of direct hits. He felt the warmth of the spells wrap around his limbs like coiled muscle.
Then, he drew both hands together, palms flat, channeling two elemental streams—earth from beneath the stones and ice drawn from the air's moisture. The magic met between his palms, shaping itself into a jagged, crystalline short sword. The hilt was reinforced stone wrapped in frost, and the blade shimmered with glacial edges and heavy mineral density. It wasn't elegant, but it was solid and sharp—his own hybrid creation.
"Let's see if I can still keep up," he muttered as the girls came at him again, fast and lethal.
Their attacks were relentless, but there was something in their movements—not bloodlust, but compulsion. As if their blades moved before their minds could stop them.
He called out, "You don't have to do this!"
No response. Only the clang of steel against stone as Zetsuei, obedient but watchful, stepped back, maintaining distance like a sentinel in waiting.