The morning after the Choir's fall was choked in silence. No birds, no wind—just the lingering stench of blackened feathers and divine rot. The Vale of Cinders had become a graveyard. Ashrend, still humming in Kael's grasp, had darkened in hue. The blade's runes pulsed as if alive, feeding off the divine ichor it had tasted.
Kael stood at the edge of the cliff, the shard pulsing faintly beneath his armor. His companions gathered behind him—silent, wounded, watchful.
"They'll come harder now," Garros grunted, binding his ribs. "We just cut down a choir of what used to be angels. That'll stir the Sovereign's hornets."
"Let them stir," Kael muttered. "Let them all come."
Nyra gave him a sideways glance. "You're enjoying this too much."
"I'm becoming what they fear," he said without looking back. "That means I'm doing something right."
They pushed forward through the Hollowing Paths, entering the long-dead kingdom of Velnar. The skies above were always overcast here, choked by the lingering magic of a cataclysm from a thousand years prior. It was said that this land had no gods left. Only bones and echoes.
Kael found it fitting.
But they weren't alone.
By nightfall, they saw them—marching through the blight, armored in bone, bearing standards dipped in human skin.
"The Black Host," Lyra whispered. "They've come…"
The Dreadmarch had begun.
Thousands of soldiers, resurrected by profane rites, moved without sound. Their commander rode a beast sewn from drakes and chained spirits. And atop it sat a knight in shattered crimson armor. His helm was horned, his gaze dead silver.
"The Red Hand," Garros muttered. "He serves the Sovereign directly."
"Then he dies directly," Kael said, drawing Ashrend.
They didn't wait.
They charged.
Kael led them, his blade sparking crimson arcs through the mist. The first line of undead shattered under the blow of Vermillion Wrath—his latest sword art, a cleaving strike that split three knights and their steeds in half.
Nyra moved like smoke through the chaos, disabling archers and mages alike. Lyra summoned radiant serpents to devour spell-bound constructs, while Garros slammed into shield walls like a thunderclap in armor.
"Push forward!" Kael roared. "No hesitation!"
And then… he saw him.
The Red Hand.
Their blades clashed.
Shockwaves exploded outward, turning the battlefield into broken earth.
"You're the cursed one," the knight hissed. "The Sovereign marked you."
"Then I'll return the favor," Kael growled, parrying a corrupted spear and driving Ashrend into the knight's shoulder.
The Red Hand screamed as Kael activated a chained art:
"Crimson Cascade!"
A flurry of slashes blurred like red lightning—each strike tearing pieces of the knight's cursed armor. The undead around them were pulled in by the energy, shredded mid-charge by the raw force of Kael's will.
The knight dropped to his knees.
"You… are becoming a Reaper," he croaked.
"No," Kael whispered coldly. "I already am."
One clean strike—and the Red Hand's head was taken.
Beheaded by flame and fury.
The Dreadmarch crumbled.
Without its commander, the Black Host faltered, lost, and finally collapsed into scattered ruin. The cursed earth drank their remains.
Kael stood in the quiet aftermath, surrounded by corpses and fire.
His companions gathered slowly, breathing hard, injured—but alive.
"That was a commander," Lyra said, wary. "What happens when we face a general?"
"Then we kill them too," Kael said.
He looked ahead, toward the dark mountain looming beyond the horizon.
"Because after that… the real war begins."