There he was.
Hair white as snowfall after ashfall, untouched by time, by mercy, by regret. His armor gleamed like polished bone, layered with protection slaves—enchantments stolen from dying relics , screaming as they flickered across the surface. His crimson eyes locked onto them with the calm calculation of a predator who had already eaten.
The sword in his hand wasn't just a blade—it was a statement. Thin, curved slightly, but etched with imperial runes that pulsed with breathless energy. A weapon that didn't reflect light but consumed it.
Behind him, his men appeared in tight formation. Knights, draped in black-and-gold, their breastplates stamped with the unmistakable royal numeral: IX—Prime Nine.
"My lord Prime," one knight grinned, voice laced with laughter, "you were right. One bait, three fishes."
Another one, younger and hungrier, sneered as his eyes landed on Kury's bloodied form. "The red-haired one... she looks fun. May I take her, my lord? First pick?"
