The moon, a pale and distant eye, watched over the city of Grisel. From the battlements of the Weaver's Nest, the night air smelled of gunpowder, freshly sharpened metal, and the anxiety of men awaiting death. The Golden Anvil's ultimatum had expired. The purge was about to begin.
Kaelen moved among the mercenaries, a shadow among shadows, his tall and slender figure silent. He no longer wore the simple clothes of a villager; his outfit was now dark leather, functional, almost like a second skin. His silver-white hair was an iridescent beacon, but his amethyst eyes, now darker, seemed to absorb what little light there was—locked on the breach the Golden Anvil would force open.
Gorok, his face ashen like never before, reviewed the improvised defenses, his commands hoarse and heavy with resignation. Zoltan stayed at a distance, his elegant figure a contradiction to the air of despair, his onyx eyes watching Kaelen with a mix of curiosity and caution. Darian, his hands still bandaged, wielded a warhammer with one arm, the other resting in a sling, but the silent fury in his gaze promised hell.
Seraphina, by his side, was a specter of ecstasy, her ice-blue eyes shining under the moonlight, a mad smile on her lips.
"A symphony of screams, Kaelen," she whispered, her melodic voice cutting through the tense silence. "And we are the conductors."
Blood will flow. Purification is just a massacre with a pretty excuse, echoed the voices in Kaelen's mind—a cold, dispassionate truth.
The first blow came like a battering ram. Not against the main gate, but against the Nest's weakest flank, where a narrow alley opened into a poorly defended warehouse. The roar of impact was followed by the splintering of wood and the screams of the defenders. The Golden Anvil had arrived.
Kaelen didn't wait for orders. He leapt into action, his hand axe a murderous blur. He hurled himself toward the breach—Seraphina a dancing shadow beside him, Darian a train of fury behind them.
The battle was brutal chaos. The Golden Anvil warriors, disciplined and well-armed, struck with the strength of a tide. But the Nest's mercenaries, though outnumbered and poorly equipped, fought with the desperation of those with nothing to lose.
Kaelen was a manifestation of nightmare. His Shadow Echo Vision allowed him to see the fears of his opponents, the invisible hesitations, the echoes of their weaknesses. A Golden Anvil warrior, face hidden behind a closed helmet, lunged at him. Kaelen saw the man's fear beneath the steel—a deep fear of the dark.
Open his mind. Let him see the void, the voices whispered.
Instead of swinging his axe, Kaelen reached out. His pale fingers brushed the warrior's helmet, and his Torment Echo was unleashed. The man staggered, his screams echoing inside his armor as images of his worst nightmares flooded his mind. He collapsed, convulsing, his comrades recoiling in horror.
Seraphina laughed—a high note in the cacophony of war. Her daggers danced, not always killing, but slicing tendons, stabbing eyes, disabling with a cruelty that was pure art.
Darian, unleashed, was a force of nature. His warhammer shattered shields and armor, each strike a muted cry for his lost family. His rage was blind fury—but brutally effective.
Thorn. Their leader. Their pride. Break him, the voices screamed to Kaelen.
Then he saw him—Theron the Unyielding, leader of the Golden Anvil. A giant of a man, his silver armor gleamed under the torchlight. He wielded a warhammer as large as Darian's. He wasn't at the front, but in the rear, directing his men with the cool mind of a strategist. His steel-blue eyes radiated unshakable conviction—a faith in his mission.
Kaelen didn't hesitate. He ignored the mercenaries around him, the corpses at his feet. His mind—sharpened by madness—fixed on Theron. This wasn't just a battle. It was a message. For Vane, for Grisel, for the world.
The heart of faith. Break it.
He carved a path through the chaos, using his Shadow Skin to deflect blows, his axe and new powers to leave behind a trail of broken bodies. He wasn't fast—but he was relentless. An unstoppable force.
He reached Theron. The Golden Anvil's leader showed no fear. Only cold determination.
"Ghost," Theron growled, his voice like steel striking an anvil. "This ends now. Your evil won't poison Grisel any longer."
"Grisel is already rotten," Kaelen replied, his tone flat and emotionless. "I'm just a symptom."
Theron raised his hammer—a steel mass that moved with devastating precision. Kaelen dodged the first blow—the air whistled past. The second struck his Shadow-Skinned arm. The impact was brutal—a dull crack—but the bone held.
Kaelen didn't counter with his axe. He reached out with his free hand, pale fingers aiming for Theron's steely blue eyes. The fury in Theron's gaze—his absolute conviction—was a feast for the voices.
Feed on his faith. Shatter his purpose.
Kaelen unleashed his Torment Echo with savage force. Visions of the Sereno Valley massacre, of Master Elias falling, of Lígia being pulverized—of all the horrors Kaelen had inflicted and suffered—invaded Theron's mind. His "justice", his "honor", were drowned in a tide of pure suffering.
Theron let out a cry—not of physical pain, but existential agony. His eyes widened, his faith wavered, his face contorted with disbelief and nausea at the abyss Kaelen showed him. He clutched his head, staggering, his hammer falling with a crash.
Theron's convulsion was brief—but enough. The Ghost doesn't kill leaders. He breaks them.
Kaelen stepped back, activating his Touch of Rot. He brushed Theron's hammer. The once-shining metal began to rust, to decay. A stench of corrosion filled the air. The Golden Anvil's sacred weapon crumbled to dust before its leader's eyes.
Theron dropped to his knees, his face ashen, his once-unbreakable blue eyes now hollow—full of silent horror. No faith. Only the image of darkness.
Theron's fall struck the Golden Anvil like a hammer to the gut. Their leader broken, their sacred weapon corrupted, their troops faltered. The Nest's desperation turned into renewed fury. The battle raged on—but momentum had shifted.
Seraphina approached Kaelen, her smile now pure delight.
"You see, my love," she whispered, brushing his cheek with a cold finger. "Faith is fragile. And you... you are the slayer of gods."
The Nest didn't win the war. The Golden Anvil retreated, yes—but it wasn't a victory. It was a pause. Too many dead, too many losses on both sides. But the message had been sent.
In the Royal Palace's halls, news of the battle reached Lord Valerius. A trembling servant recounted it all—the corrupted hammer, Theron's madness, the trail of rot.
Lord Valerius, seated on his throne of shadows, showed no surprise. His deep purple eyes glinted with inscrutable light.
"Interesting," he whispered, his voice ethereal. "The white worm doesn't just squirm... it bites. And with unexpected venom."
He stood, his figure wrapped in dark silks.
"The game has become... more complex. And more entertaining."
A barely perceptible smile crossed his lips. The Alley Ghost had proven more than a mere pawn. He was chaos incarnate. And Lord Valerius—the ultimate puppeteer—was beginning to feel genuine curiosity toward his new "piece."
The true battle for Grisel's soul—and perhaps for something far greater—had just begun. And Kaelen—the Ghost, the bearer of madness and rot—stood at its center. His descent continued, dragging the world with him.
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