The air in the desolate inner district tasted like ashes and despair. Dunce, the Reaper, moved like smoke, senses stretched to their limit. Satisfied no immediate threats lurked, he ghosted towards the imposing structure that had become a symbol of Frostbone's torment: **The Ominous Splendor Casino & Club.** The city below was a tomb, a stark reminder of yesterday's divine fury – or rather, the catastrophic aftermath of Holy Evil's Dragon Tongue Curse. He passed row after row of tenements, until the landscape opened into a vast, smoldering crater. Over a hundred square kilometers, flattened, pulverized, rendered barren by scales and primordial power. A grim satisfaction tightened Dunce's jaw. *Let them burn.* He accelerated, the night swallowing him whole as he sped towards his first target.
The Ominous Splendor seemed insulated from the city's ruin, oblivious, its gaudy neon signs defiantly bright. Two women, clad in shimmering, barely-there dresses, lingered by the entrance, boredom etched on their faces under the garish lights.
"Seriously, *what* was that gold light yesterday?" the younger one hissed, stifling a yawn. "Asked Mr. Bo. Got my head bitten off."
Her companion shot her a sharp glance. "Mind your business, girl. Curiosity gets you buried in places like this. Heard the Lord's men have everything locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Word on the street says it was divine retribution for Shadow City's sins… a cleansing fire. Scared the life out of everyone. Half the tables are dead tonight. We got what, two dozen suckers?" She glanced inside through the ornate glass doors.
"God?" the younger voice trembled. "You mean that was… *God*? More like the Grim Reaper himself, wiping out thousands in a blink! What if it happens again? Right here?"
"Shut your trap!" the older woman snapped, looking around nervously. "Blasphemy doesn't help. Boss is gonna be sweating bullets though. Heard whispers the boss *is* the power behind the throne here. This mess… cost millions, easy. Millions he couldn't bleed outta the marks tonight." She straightened her dress. "Enough gossip. Slow night means maybe we clock out early…"
A cruel smirk touched Dunce's scaled lips. *God?* If God were just, Shadow City would have been glassed long ago. Since He wouldn't act… the role fell to him. *Dunce.* He materialized before them, an apparition forged from nightmares. Clad head-to-toe in iridescent, reptilian armor stolen from some forgotten crypt, he was the embodiment of their whispered fear.
Screams died in their throats as steel-like hands clamped around their delicate necks. "Where's Goldwave?" Dunce's voice was gravel grinding over ice. The sheer terror in their eyes fueled the cold fire within him. "Scream, and you won't need to know the answer." He loosened his grip slightly on the older one.
She gasped, rubbing her throat. "Jin… Goldwave? He's inside! Which floor… we don't know! Please…"
Dunce's bio-energy pulsed. A subtle shove. Both women crumpled, unconscious, deposited in a shadowed alcove nearby. Disposable casualties in a city built on pain.
Stepping through the gilded doors felt like stepping into the belly of the beast, into the very epicenter of Frostbone's eight-year nightmare. Luxury screamed from every polished surface, the stink of desperation and cheap perfume thick in the air. Only a handful of servers moved listlessly in the cavernous **Grand Fortune Hall.** One, wide-eyed, approached hesitantly.
"Welcome, sir? Care to… play?" Her voice quivered.
Dunce's armored visage remained impassive. "No play." His gaze swept the near-empty room. "Where is Goldwave?"
The girl froze. Confusion turned to stark terror. A shriek tore from her, echoed by the others as they scattered like startled pigeons. Dunce ignored the panicked retreat, striding towards the pit boss who'd stepped forward, face a mask of belligerent authority.
"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded, flanked by thick-necked enforcers emerging from alcoves. "What do you want with Bo?"
"I want his life," Dunce stated, matter-of-fact. The air crackled with latent power.
The pit boss barked a harsh laugh. "You picked the wrong damn place to mess with, freak! Get him!"
A dozen men charged – muscle hardened by violence. Dunce sighed inwardly. "You are tainted souls. Slaves to the poison here. Time for release." Twin blades of condensed yellow bio-energy coalesced in his hands – extensions of his rage, formed subconsciously by mimicking the essence of **Hades' Slash**.
The pit boss lunged with a serrated blade glinting wickedly. Too slow. Time seemed to distort. Dunce moved like liquid lightning, twisting through the attack space. The yellow blades became extensions of his fury, intersecting lines drawn with lethal precision across each forehead as he flowed through and past the charging pack.
He landed silently behind them. In the stunned silence, punctuated by the whimpers of hidden gamblers and terrified cocktail servers, his voice cut through. "Gambling is cancer. Quit while you still can. Remember the name of your end: **Dunce.**" He vanished, leaving behind statues painted grotesquely in crimson and grey.
The **Platinum Heights** floor upstairs suffered the same fate, the scant resistance crushed beneath swift, savage efficiency. By the time he reached the exclusive **Emperor's Vault** – devoid of patrons, guarded by Goldwave's elite cadre – Dunce moved like a well-oied killing machine. These men were skilled, hardened fighters with implants and illegal augmentations. It took effort, the morphing tendrils of his bio-energy adapting – needles becoming shields, whips morphing into crushing weights – but the result was the same. As the last enforcer fell, neck snapped back at an impossible angle, a peculiar warmth bloomed in Dunce's chest. A deep, primal satisfaction. *This* was release. *This* was justice. He took a moment, savoring the eerie silence, the scent of blood and ozone.
*He would come.*
The frantic clatter of boots on marble stairs announced their arrival. Goldwave burst onto the landing, a knot of heavily armed enforcers – some sporting military-grade cybernetics – bristling behind him. His face, usually a mask of oily charm, was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. Seeing the carnage in the Emperor's Vault had shattered his composure.
"You!" Goldwave choked out, failing to place the scaled figure in the gloom immediately. Only the aura of death told him this was the architect of the slaughter. "What the *fuck*?! What did we do to warrant this? Who sent you?!"
Dunce turned slowly. His voice, devoid of emotion, echoed in the silent hall. "Tandor't recognize me, Goldwave? The mage you poisoned. The man whose friends you tried to feed to your dragon traps. You can call me **Dunce** now. Your debt to the dead is overdue." His gaze swept over the assassins who had ruined Frostbone. "This is just… settling the tab."
Recognition, cold and awful, dawned on Goldwave's face. He knew what had leveled a sector of Shadow City yesterday. Knew who stood at the heart of that cataclysm. Terror vibrated through him. "Dunce? Master Mage! This… this wasn't me! Horton! Viscount Master Horton, he—"
"Save it," A'Dunce cut him off. The pressure in the room intensified, a psychic blanket of dread laid by Dunce focusing the latent power coiled within him. "He's next. Where is Horton? Where is the Catwoman? Where is Frostbone? Tell me. Your men's lives might be… quick."
Goldwave glanced desperately at his loyal thugs. Saying Horton's whereabouts was signing his own death warrant. But refusing…? He saw the implacable void in A'Dunce's eyes. He thought of the incinerated blocks. The stakes weren't just his life, but perhaps his soul. Better to die at *Horton's* hand later – maybe find an antidote to the poison he ingested daily – than face the nightmare before him *now*.
"Horton!" he blurted. "He's at the Shadow Citadel! Lord's Manor! North quadrant! He's got… he's got everything there! Security like you wouldn't believe. The Catwoman, Mimi… she's with him! Frostbone? No idea! They keep their… prizes… locked down tight!" He panted, desperate. "You got what you wanted! Now let me go!"
A'Dunce's head tilted, a predator considering prey. "Why does a spoiled Trust Fund brat like Horton wield the power? His uncle's a dying figurehead. How?"
"He *is* the power!" Goldwave gasped. "The Lord hasn't stepped outside his sickroom in months! Horton's running everything! Deals, military, the cops! And he's got backers… high-level. MegaCorp level. Old money, old power! That's how! Now, please… we had a deal!"
A'Dunce nodded slowly. He knew enough. Then, he asked the key question, his voice devoid of mercy. "Goldwave. How many? How many lives have you… and these loyal attack dogs… snuffed out? For Horton's coin? For convenience? For sport?"
The blood drained completely from Goldwave's face. Panic ignited. "No! No, please! It wasn't me! He *ordered* it! They *made* me! You said you'd—"
A'Dunce cut him off with a raised finger, glinting like polished obsidian. "I recall no promises. You served the rot. You *are* the rot. Consider this a mercy. **Hades' Slash**—unleashed." His hand rested on the worn scabbard strapped to his chest.
Goldwave saw it then, the utter absence of humanity in those eyes. Survival instinct overcame terror. "KILL HIM! KILL HIM OR WE'RE ALL DEAD!" he shrieked, stumbling back into his enforcers.
The thugs surged forward, cybernetics whining, blades drawn. Too late. The air in the Emperor's Vault dropped twenty degrees in an instant. An unseen wind, thick with the scent of decay and ancient tombs, howled silently. Time froze. The pulse of unimaginable *evil* slammed into them, radiating from the weapon Dunce now held.
**Hades' Fang.**
The blade that fed on souls.
Cobalt blue, like frozen depths under a winter moon, carved with runes that whispered of torment millennia deep. As the unsheathed blade cleared the scabbard, the enforcers locked mid-stride. Their eyes rolled back, pure primal terror stripping away all thought, all resistance. Dunce moved, not with speed, but with the inevitability of death itself. Less than twelve inches of glacial steel found its mark with unerring precision.
The blade slid soundlessly into Goldwave's forehead. No blood gushed. Instead, the dark metal pulsed greedily. Goldwave's eyes went grey and flat as polished stones. His body convulsed once, violently, then shriveled, desiccated, collapsing into a papery husk in seconds. His soul, essence, life-force – siphoned. Simultaneously, the paralyzing wave of pure entropy radiating from the blade washed over the frozen enforcers. Their weapons clattered uselessly to the marble floor as they toppled, life extinguished, souls added to the Fang's endless chorus.
Dunce withdrew the blade slowly. Surging life energy shielded him from its all-consuming hunger. He studied the sword in his hand. It felt lighter, satisfied. The runes glowed faintly. He felt… clean. Purposeful. Goldwave's end had scoured a layer of darkness from his soul. *So satisfying.* He slid the evil weapon back into its scabbard, the death aura instantly contained.
Silence again, thick with the smell of dust and sudden, unnatural absence. Dunce turned. His job at The Ominous Splendor was done. Time to move. As he descended through the echoing splendor, his voice, amplified by bio-energy and psychic force, boomed through the silent, hidden corners of the luxury prison.
**"ATTENTION ALL REMAINING PERSONNEL OF THE OMINOUS SPLENDOR! YOUR EMPIRE OF FILTH IS OVER! EVACUATE NOW! ANYONE REMAINING IN THESE WALLS WHEN THE FIRE FINDS THEM WILL BE REDUCED TO ASHES! YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES!"**
Screams erupted. Running feet pounded marble. Hysterical weeping. Slamming doors. He felt them flee, the building's parasitic life rushing out into the sick city air. Satisfied he was alone with the dead and the decadence, Dunce stepped out beneath the garish neon facade.
He stood for a moment, contemplating the monument to greed and suffering. A cold, calculated smile touched his lips. This place was a wound on the city's face. Time for cauterization. He raised his hands, palms facing the towering structure. Inside his armor, veins pulsed with controlled power.
"**Fire.**" His voice was a low command. Not a plea to elementals, but a directive to the fundamental forces of destruction. Energy coalesced, swirling, condensing. The air above his palms shimmered violently. Not arcs or bolts.
**Plasma.**
Concentrated spheres of star-core fury, white-hot at the core, wreathed in shimmering cerulean blue, spun into existence. Dozens. Scores. He pushed them outwards with a thought. A silent, spreading wave of incandescent death.
They struck the ornate facade. Glass exploded inward, not from force, but from the instantaneous, searing heat vaporizing its molecular structure. Glowing spheres punched through walls, ignited support beams instantly into pillars of blue-white flame, melted decorative metals like candle wax. The fire didn't spread; it *consumed*. Whole sections of the building simultaneously ignited in a roaring furnace of blue radiance. The opulent nightmare was dissolving into a bubbling inferno. The sheer heat forced Dunce to step back.
He watched as the symbol of Frostbone's torment blazed, the fire a cleansing blue pyre against Shadow City's perpetual twilight. Reaching into a sealed pocket against his chest armor, he drew out a small holoprojector. With a soft beep, it activated, projecting a flickering, three-dimensional image of Frostbone's face – sharp, fierce, haunted. He held the emitter gently, angling it towards the roaring spectacle.
"See, Frostbone?" His voice was softer now, almost gentle against the roar of the collapsing building. "The nest of your pain… purified. Blue fire, just like the ice in your soul. Beautiful, isn't it? The rot burns clean." He paused, the reflection of the blaze dancing in the holographic eyes. "The debt isn't finished. Only interest paid. Time to collect the principal. Horton. Mimi." He deactivated the projector, securing it back within the armor. With a final glance at the consuming inferno, Dunce turned and dissolved into the deep shadows cloaking the northern district, a vengeful wraith headed for the source of Shadow City's malignancy.
---
**Within the Shadow Citadel – Viscount Master Horton's Panic Room**
Deep beneath the fortified manor, thick armored walls encasing a space stuffed with surveillance feeds and blinking consoles, Horton paced like a trapped animal. His expensive silk shirt was stained with sweat. Mimi, the Catwoman, sat perched on a sleek black console, tension radiating from her coiled frame even as her visible wounds from yesterday's chaos had sealed. They hadn't fought a battle. They'd fled an apocalypse.
"Will you STOP pacing?!" Mimi hissed, her voice gravelly, claws unconsciously scoring the metal surface beneath her. "You're grating on my nerves like rusty steel."
Horton whirled, his usually handsome face pale and drawn. "Stop?! How?! My whole damn empire is unraveling! That fire!" He pointed a shaking finger at a monitor showing the distant, hellish glow in the city's heart. "That's The Splendor, Mimi! My crown jewel! My fortune! Burning! How do I explain *that* to the Granduke? 'Sorry, Uncle, I got a little carried out-maneuvered by a sorcerer and his pet kaiju, lost a couple billion in assets and good will...'? The *army* practically disintegrated! And that… that Mage! He'll come! You felt what he did! What his *dragon* did! We got lucky yesterday! What if he brings it HERE?!" His voice cracked with panic.
Mimi's slit-pupiled eyes narrowed. "Your empire? Your pathetic cash flow barely oils the gears of the Serpent Armor's Fang! Without our protection, your little fiefdom collapses overnight." She flexed a clawed hand. "And don't blame the dead dancer for your failure. Without her meddling, the Mage *would* be ash! He's the problem. He's a threat to *us* too. That power… even without the drakon, he's formidable. My enhancements barely scratched him."
Horton ran trembling hands through his perfectly styled hair, dislodging it completely. "So what?!" he nearly shrieked. "Run? Hide in your… swamp? Wait for him to find us? Abandon everything I've built?" Leaving meant abandoning the Lordship that was almost within his grasp – his dying uncle, a stroke-riddled puppet barely breathing in the opulent suite above, was his ticket to legitimate, hereditary power he couldn't just *buy*.
Before Mimi could retort, frantic pounding echoed from the blast door. A security feed flickered to life, showing a pale-faced guard, helmet askew.
"Viscount Master Horton! Viscount Master Horton! It's The Splendor! It's… it's gone! Lit up like a damn plasma furnace! Looks… unnatural! Entire building's… collapsing!"
Horton stared, frozen, then his gaze snapped to another monitor showing the eerie blue inferno consuming the landmark. All color left his face. Mimi leaped to her feet, tail lashing furiously. "He *is* here," she snarled, the realization hitting them both like a physical blow.
Horton's survival instincts kicked in hard. He slammed his fist onto the comm panel. "Lockdown level *maximum*! Alert all inner security – *Alpha Priority*! Every asset, now! Gather in the courtyard! Get the perimeter guard force to stand down *outside* the inner walls – say it's an internal drill! I don't want any stupid cops getting themselves killed and making news!" He couldn't afford witnesses to what came next. Turning, he strode past Mimi to a heavily shielded weapons cabinet. With a biometric scan and key turn, it hissed open. Amidst energy weapons and sonic disruptors, he pulled out one item.
A sword.
Its blade was nearly four feet long, forged from shimmering, near-white alloy. The hilt was intricately wrapped with gold wire, the crossguard shaped like stylized wings, the pommel a large, flawless diamond. Runes glowed softly along its length. It radiated… calm. Purity. Healing light. It felt profoundly alien and yet reassuring in his sweaty grip – a masterpiece looted from a ransacked Sanctuary temple on the southern frontier. A symbol of everything his organization desecrated. Holding it felt absurd, almost sacrilegious, but the soothing warmth it pulsed directly into his nervous system was undeniable. It anchored him against the rising tide of panic.
Mimi recoiled slightly, a low hiss escaping her. "You're bringing *that* thing? Sanctified slag!"
Horton managed a shaky, humorless laugh. "It keeps me from losing my damn mind! He might bring the *dragon*! He burned The Splendor! How do we fight *that*?"
Mimi's claws extended with an audible *shink*. Her cybernetic eye whirred, zooming on tactical overlays. "We fight dirty," she hissed, malice glittering in her feline gaze. "He wants vengeance? Let him taste the fury of the Fang. He dies tonight." She stalked towards the heavy door.
Horton took a shuddering breath, gripping the sacred sword like a lifeline. Power seemed to thrum in his muscles, pushing back the terror. He turned his back on the screens showing his crumbling empire. "Bring him down, Mimi. End him. My resources are yours." His voice hardened with desperate resolve. He followed her out, into the dimly lit corridors of the citadel, the holy weapon a bizarre counterpoint to the death awaiting them in the courtyard below, where his assembled killers – cyborg enforcers, tech-priests wielding unstable energy weapons, even a pair of rogue telepaths – awaited their orders beneath the shadowed towers of Shadow Citadel.
Dunce was coming. Viscount Master Horton would meet him head-on.