WebNovels

Chapter 6 - Episode 6 「The Axe that Reaps the Moon」

The sound was the first offense. An orchestra played a grandiose waltz, but its notes were lost in a cacophony of thunderous laughter, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the arrogant murmur of hundreds of side conversations. The air, heavy and dense, smelled of expensive perfume, exotic wines, and a staggering variety of canapés—a mixture so rich it bordered on sickening.

All of it would have been expected of a gala, were it not for one dissonant detail: outside, through the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, the morning sun shone brightly, painting the Chisanatora sky a limpid blue. The natural light invaded the ballroom, fighting a losing battle against the golden glow of the crystal chandeliers, creating an atmosphere of misplaced excess and decadence, as if the hosts had decided to ignore the very passage of time.

This was the City's Apex, an Olympus of polished steel and ambition floating above the clouds of rust, and gathered here was the cream of the crop. Human barons with oily smiles and calculating eyes gestured to Dukes from distant kingdoms, their clothes adorned with more jewels than a royal treasury.

But the nobility was not limited to humans.

Near a fountain that spouted sparkling wine, a group of Orcish Tribal Chiefs guffawed, the guttural, explosive sound making the glasses vibrate. They were mountains of green muscle squeezed into formal wear that looked ready to tear, their broad shoulders and tusks adorned with solid gold rings. The pride of their warrior heritage was evident in every exaggerated gesture, in every scandalous toast.

Hidden in the shadows of the marble columns, small Goblin Kings, with their green skin and smiles full of sharp teeth, whispered amongst themselves. Their tuxedos, though expensive, looked like ill-fitting costumes on their wiry bodies. Their small, cunning eyes darted around the hall, assessing, conspiring, with the unmistakable expression of scoundrels looking for the next big opportunity.

In a more secluded corner, Dwarven Aristocrats, with beards braided with threads of silver and mithril, watched everyone with a perpetual scowl. Ill-tempered and petty, they clutched their mugs tightly, their greedy gazes weighing the value of every jewel, every piece of silverware, every guest. The air around them was cold, charged with a millennia-old suspicion.

Moving with lethal grace among the guests, the Phantherians stood out. Humanoid felines, with pelts that mimicked those of lions, tigers, and panthers, they exuded a predatory elegance. Their muscular, flexible bodies were adorned with fine silks and leathers, and their feline eyes observed everything with a dangerous calm. Occasionally, one of them would stretch, and sharp claws would escape for an instant from their gloves, a subtle reminder of the beast beneath the noble attire.

And, as if they were living sculptures, isolated from the vulgarity of the party, were the High Elves. With their ethereal features and hair that seemed woven from starlight, they maintained a polite distance. Their robes flowed with a simplicity that humbled the surrounding ostentation, and in their ancient eyes was a deep boredom, a silent disdain for this mortal celebration.

Mingling with this fauna of power and privilege was Gunder.

His usual purple overcoat was gone, replaced by an impeccable gala suit, of a black so deep it seemed to absorb the light. The outfit, a product of his own magic, fit him perfectly, but Gunder wore it with the discomfort of one wearing a lie. He held a glass of champagne he had no intention of drinking, a mere accessory to complete his disguise.

While Tom had been sent into the filthy bowels of the ducts, Gunder had ascended to the pinnacle of power. He believed, correctly, that his ability to sense the invisible currents of the soul would be more useful here, in the nest of vipers.

The feeling he got from these people crawled through his body, going beyond disgust, anguish, and any revulsion to mere depravity. This scene was draining…

It wasn't something visible. It was a resonance, a fetid vibration that emanated from almost everyone in the hall. The Dwarves' greed was a cold, heavy pressure in his mind. The Orcs' arrogance, a harsh, irritating noise. The Goblins' covetousness, an uncomfortable itch under his skin. And from the humans, the worst of all: an empty ambition, a hunger for power so insatiable it created a spiritual vacuum around them.

His feline eyes swept the hall one last time, seeing beyond the smiles, the bows, and the toasts. He saw wolves in sheep's clothing, demons disguised as gods.

"These people…" he murmured to himself, his voice a breath lost in the loud music, "are the rot of their races…"

The disgust was a physical sensation, a bitter taste in Gunder's soul. He moved through the party like a ghost, his presence ignored by the cacophony of inflated egos. Every handshake he witnessed, every false toast, every forced laugh, was an insult to existence itself. They were frauds, all of them, puppets dancing to the tune of their most pitiful vices, and Gunder's sharp perception forced him to see every string.

Still, it's not like they're going to give me the answers I'm looking for, he thought, his feline eyes scanning the crowd with veiled contempt. He could feel the surfaces of their souls—the greed, the lust, the arrogance—but they were shallow, murky waters. There was no depth there, no secrets, just a void that echoed their own superficialities.

Walking to a long table covered in a silk cloth and adorned with a mountain of canapés, his hand moved to return the untouched champagne glass. I'm not going to get anything from here… They're so empty you don't even need to talk to them to read them completely.

The instant the crystal base of the glass touched the polished wood, he felt it.

It wasn't a simple shiver. It was a spear of ice that shot up his spine, a coldness so absolute and threatening that his muscles contracted instinctively. It wasn't the warm, passive emptiness of the other guests; it was an active vacuum, a black hole of avarice that seemed to suck the heat and life out of everything around it.

Surprised by the intensity of the sensation, Gunder turned his head abruptly. Standing beside him, observing him, was a man whose appearance was the personification of indulgence. Fat, with a flushed, sweaty face that his receding hairline made seem even larger, he wore a brocade vest so tight it looked about to give way.

The man blinked a few times, his small, piggy eyes momentarily confused by the sudden encounter. But then, a slow, venomous smile spread across his moist lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I believe… you're new to Chisanatora."The voice was soft, almost syrupy, but it carried an unmistakable weight.

Gunder composed himself instantly, surprise giving way to a mask of politeness. He placed the glass firmly on the table and turned to the man, straightening his posture. An equally false, yet charming, smile appeared on his face. "I arrived just yesterday. I'm merely getting to know the famous City of Commerce."

"Ah, of course!" The portly man smiled, this time with his teeth and eyes, a gesture of false cordiality. "A pleasure! My name is Vicent! I am the host of this little celebration!"

"Lamont," Gunder replied, the fake name sliding from his lips with ease. "The pleasure is all mine."

They shook hands. Vicent's hand was soft and damp, but the grip was surprisingly strong, and Gunder felt that soulless cold intensify with the contact. Vicent, then, with the grandiosity of an emperor displaying his domain, invited "Lamont" for a tour.

They ascended to the upper floors of the hall, walking along suspended glass catwalks that offered a dizzying view of the party below—a whirlwind of colors and vanities—and of the vast desert outside, an indifferent ocean of sand stretching to the horizon.

"I own most of the commerce that takes place in the Upper City," Vicent boasted, gesturing dismissively at the golden metropolis. "It took years! Years of hard work and… astute negotiations. But I finally managed to monopolize the market. Today, I am the greatest merchant in Chisanatora!"

"And what about the metal trade?" Gunder asked, his voice calm, walking beside him. Inside, however, a cold fury was beginning to form.

"The metal?" Vicent let out a short, disdainful laugh. "Ah, the metal keeps the lights on, so to speak. It's the foundation, the old backbone. But the real wealth, my dear Lamont, the soul of this city… are my businesses." He turned to Gunder, his eyes gleaming. "Chisanatora was born a mining city, it's true. A dirty, forgotten colony. Today, it is a beacon of prosperity, the City of Misfortune, where fortunes are made and lost in the blink of an eye. And that is thanks to the barons. It is thanks to me."

"A remarkable achievement," Gunder commented, his voice perfectly neutral.

"You may not understand the true power of money," Vicent continued, patronizing. "This forgotten city would never have the relevance it has today if it were only for the steel. Look down," he ordered, pointing to the party. "When would you see so many peoples gathered in celebration? Orcs, Dwarves, even the damned Elves!"

Gunder followed his gaze. "Indeed. Outside, the world is largely human."

"Exactly! Elves love their damp forests, Dwarves wither without the cold of their mountains, and Orcs detest the dry air. Even the Phantherians, who come from the steppes, hate this desert. But they are all here. Why?" Vicent turned, his greedy smile wide open. "For the money, of course! Gold is the only universal climate."

He didn't give Gunder time to respond. "And you, Lamont? From where have the winds brought you?"

"From Faraam," Gunder answered, observing the man's reaction.

Vicent's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. "Faraam! One of the last duchies to unify with the Kingdom. Fascinating. I have not yet had the opportunity to extend my… interests there. It seems fate is truly on my side." He gave Gunder a friendly pat on the shoulder. "The winds of fortune have brought you directly to me. We can begin discussing business in Faraam."

Gunder maintained his polished smile, the fury within him now contained beneath a layer of ice. "I look forward to discussing it."

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

Dust rose in slow spirals, carrying the metallic scent of rust and the acrid odor of the chemicals that once flowed through here. The pale cloud, born from the duct's partial destruction, blurred the gray light that barely managed to pierce the depths of the fissure. In the center of the clearing of twisted metal, the silence was heavy, broken only by the distant drip of some leak and the whisper of the wind rising from the abyss.

Tom's gaze was colder than that wind. Fixed, implacable, like shards from the abyss's own ice, it bored into the man cowering before her. The faint, bluish glow emanating from her irises seemed to suck the warmth from the air, promising a contained violence far more terrifying than any scream.

"Surrender. Now." Her voice was a command devoid of emotion, a final sentence. She walked slowly, each step echoing with a dreadful purpose. The triple-staff, now back in its original form, spun with a deadly fluidity in her hands.

The arrogance the man wore like armor crumbled to dust. Before this small figure, who exuded an overwhelming pressure, he saw not a boy, but a predator. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. With a strangled whimper, he fell to his knees, hands raised in the universal gesture of supplication. "Don't… Please… I surrender!"

Tom stopped, the glow in her eyes fading, but not the contempt in her expression. With swift, efficient movements, she cuffed the man's wrists with a pair of metal restraints she produced from an inner pocket.

"So," she said, her voice still sharp, "what were you doing here?"

The man, now restrained, seemed to recover a spark of his audacity. He spat to the side and glared at her with disdain. "I'm not saying anything without my lawyer!"

"Oh, really?" Tom murmured, a contained anger making her fingers tighten around the metal rods. The triple-staff, held with one end in each hand and the central shaft arched behind her back, vibrated subtly. She aimed the right end at the man's face. "Want to share your partner's fate?"

A grunt of pure fear escaped the prisoner's throat. It was then that the sound of clumsy footsteps and labored breathing broke the tension. Kael appeared at the edge of the slope, making his way down the makeshift staircase with the grace of a sack of potatoes. He stopped, leaning on his knees, his face pale and covered in sweat, looking as if he was about to cough up a lung.

"You… didn't… have to… be… so rough… Herald…" he gasped, fighting the urge to vomit.

Tom glanced at him sideways, impatience written plainly on her face. "If you weren't so incompetent, this wouldn't have been necessary."

The accusation seemed to wound Kael more than any physical blow. He straightened up, his eyes welling with an almost childish frustration. "That's just mean, Herald!"

Tom ignored the lament and turned her icy attention back to the prisoner. "Alright… so tell me—"

Her words were cut off. A sharp instinct screamed in her mind. She leaped backward, the movement so fast it was a blur. In the exact spot where she had been standing, shards of the duct itself, sharp as razors, tore through the air like a swarm of metallic hornets, embedding themselves in the ground with a dull thud.

"You bastard!" she yelled.

In the same instant, Tom released the staff from her left hand, preparing to throw it, but the man who was supposed to be cuffed was faster. He dove and snatched the silver rod out of the air. The previous attack had been nothing but a distraction. Tom's eyes widened as she saw the needle-thin blades, made of the same shattered metal, dance through the air with deadly precision, realizing they had sliced through the prisoner's cuffs.

"It's over, Herald!" the first man shouted, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. A black, oily liquid began to crawl up his free arm, running down his skin before solidifying into a grotesque, sharp spear extending from his forearm, ready to strike her down.

Her mind processed the scene. The second man, the one she had knocked out, was now on his feet, staggering, blood running down his forehead but his arms raised, his fingers trembling as he flung the metal fragments at her.

Cornered, she let go of the staves and jumped toward Kael, dodging the attacks that targeted her, leaving her weapon in the enemy's hands.

The other man, the metal-wielder, staggered over to his partner, calling the shards to orbit around them like a deadly halo, all aimed at Tom and Kael.

"And now, Herald?" Kael's voice was suddenly firm, without a trace of weakness. The atmosphere shifted. Kael's slumped posture straightened. The tired look in his eyes was replaced by a spark of determination as he drew a short, simple wand from his belt.

"You really pull yourself together when it counts, huh…" Tom commented, a hint of surprise in her voice.

Kael just answered with a focused grunt. "Pay attention, Herald!"

The two men laughed, the sound echoing in the silent duct. "What are you going to do without your little toy now?" the one with the spear mocked. To prove his point, he held Tom's staff with one hand and, with the other, struck it with the tip of his shadowy weapon.

The impact produced a dull thud, like metal striking diamond. The black spear shuddered, but the silver staff remained untouched, without a single scratch.

"You won't destroy it that easily," Tom said. A thin smile appeared on her lips. She held her hand open in their direction. "It's a bit… attached."

Like loyal hounds responding to their master's call, the staves vibrated violently and shot through the air, returning to her hands with stunning speed.

Tom raised her arm, catching one of the rods by its end. The instant her hand swept down in a smooth arc, the weapon's other end floated with an intelligence of its own, nesting perfectly in her left hand. Holding it that way, with the central shaft connecting the two, felt like the metal's natural state, an extension of her own will.

A taunting, dangerous smile danced on her lips. "Surrender."

Fury exploded on the metal-wielder's face. "DON'T FUCK WITH ME!" he bellowed, and with a savage gesture, he flung every fragment of metal orbiting him. The air hissed with the swarm of deadly projectiles that flew toward Tom and Kael.

Still wearing that mocking smile, Tom took a single, slow step back, as if the attack were a mere inconvenience. In contrast, Kael moved forward, his body low, the arm holding the wand cutting through the air in a precise, elegant arc. "Deflectio!" he cried. A translucent wall of compressed air rose from nothing, and the metal shards slammed against it with a cacophony of dull thuds, deforming before falling inert to the ground.

Without wasting a single moment, Tom used the distraction to leap. She launched herself into the air with a force that defied her size, drawing the shocked attention of both opponents. In the air, holding a single rod with both hands, the weapon reconfigured. The second rod transformed into a chain of liquid silver that circled her in an ascending spiral, while its tip unfolded into a sphere studded with spikes: a lethal morning star.

Mid-air, Tom spun her body, using the motion to build momentum in the orbiting chain. The rotation transferred an absurd centrifugal force to the weapon, which she then hurled at the man with the shadow spear. The speed was so surreal he didn't even have time to think about dodging. The impact came. Instinctively, he crossed his arms to protect himself. The morning star hit him with the force of a battering ram, and the metal floor beneath his feet cracked and buckled from the sheer violence of the blow.

As Tom landed back on the ground, the manipulator, recovered from the shock, raised the shards again and launched them at her. But the projectiles stopped in mid-air, striking an invisible barrier. By the time he realized who was responsible, it was too late. Kael was in front of him, the tip of his wand pressed against his forehead. "Phantasma!" With the incantation, the manipulator's eyes lost their focus. He began to stagger backward, babbling fragments of conversations with ghosts only he could see.

The spearman, throwing the morning star aside, screamed in frustration. "Do I have to do everything myself?!" He charged toward Kael, who, seeing the approach, was already raising his wand. But Tom's metal whip whizzed between them. The man looked back. The morning star was gone. Tom, holding the chain, was running in his direction.

She pulled the chain from the right; the staff at its end came back like a boomerang, forcing the man to jump to avoid it. With her left hand, Tom lowered the chain, throwing it behind her body and stepping on it with her heel. The man saw the play: the right staff was returning to her from below, while the left one, which had reverted to its rod form, was coming in an arc from above. He always has to keep one of the ends with him for this ridiculous weapon to work, he thought. So…

"YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING UP CLOSE!" he yelled, lunging at Tom.

He dodged the left staff that came from above and launched a piercing strike with his spear-arm. Tom was forced to jump back, violently pulling both chains toward her. The man unleashed a sequence of thrusts, forcing Tom into a desperate dance of evasions.

It was then that Kael's voice echoed. He touched his wand to the floor, raised it, and shouted: "Terrae Motus!" The metal floor groaned and rose like a solid wave, a tsunami of steel that rushed toward the man. Tom and her adversary leaped to opposite sides to avoid being swallowed. But the spearman didn't lose his rhythm. The black liquid flowed down his legs, molding into springs of pure shadow energy.

"Are you serious?!" Tom complained, seeing him leap in her direction with superhuman speed.

The rods finally returned to her hands, but he was already on her. The attack came, a direct thrust at her heart. It was stopped with a sharp clang, the spear-arm blocked by the two staves, one in each of her hands.

The man laughed, his face inches from hers. "Up close, you can't fight, brat!"

Irritation flashed in Tom's eyes. "Wanna bet?!"

The two ends of her staff molded themselves. The silver metal flowed like mercury, sharpening into short, cruel blades that caught the duct's gray light. The dance of sparks and steel began, a frantic and dissonant duel fought without a single real sword. The air filled with the sharp clang of steel against the shadow spear, each impact an explosion of orange sparks.

But the man was right. Tom didn't have the raw strength for a direct confrontation. With every blow they exchanged, his were heavier, faster, more visceral. The tables turned. The offensive became a desperate defense. Now it was he who attacked, a storm of piercing and slashing strikes, and Tom could only defend, the shock of each block sending a wave of paralyzing pain through her arms. Feeling exhaustion sap her resistance, the overwhelming pressure about to break her guard, she yelled, her voice strained with effort:

"Are you done yet?!"

The man seemed to realize too late that he had fallen into a trap. Kael, who until then had seemed a mere spectator, held his wand pointed at the dark ceiling, finishing his chant. The air around him crackled, blue sparks dancing on his fingers. His eyes glowed with the raw power of a storm. "Fulgur!" he shouted, bringing the wand down like a judge delivering a sentence.

Lightning leaped forth, not as a magical imitation, but as the pure, untamed fury of the heavens, enveloping the man in a cage of crackling electricity. His muscles contracted violently, a scream of agony torn from his lungs. Tom jumped back, out of range, watching him being fried alive. But his determination was unshakeable, forged in desperation. Before collapsing, in a final act of defiance, he roared in anger and "threw" nothing. His spear detached from his arm and shot through the air—not toward Kael, who dodged instinctively, but toward his still-dazed partner.

The black blade pierced the metal-wielder's shoulder. He fell forward with a cry, and it was then that Tom understood, a shiver of dread running down her spine. He can't control big pieces, she thought. But now… the floor is all shattered.

Before his body even hit the ground, the manipulator turned to them, his eyes filled with tears of pain and a fanatic, brotherly love. "I'LL SAVE YOU, BROTHER!!"

The fragments of the floor—now small enough for his will—rose up. Not as projectiles, but as a swarm, a storm of shrapnel that flew like torpedoes. They hit Tom and Kael like a machine gun, the deafening sound of metal tearing flesh and ricocheting off hastily erected energy barriers. A cloud of dust and debris exploded, swallowing the scene, and then, a heavy silence followed.

The spearman ran to his brother, who was on his knees, his arm bleeding profusely.

"Brother, are you okay? Sorry about the arm!"

"It's alright, brother… This is nothing!" They looked at each other, a victorious and exhausted smile on their faces. "Let's get out of here!"

The fraternal moment didn't last. The dust was blown to the back of the duct by a sudden gust of wind. From behind a makeshift barricade of twisted metal, Kael emerged, his body marked by multiple cuts, blood running from his forehead and staining his face. His gaze was pure steel. "Wasn't that enough?!"

"He's one of the Captains, of course he wouldn't go down that easy!"

"Damn you!!!"

Kael glanced discreetly over his shoulder. I hope the Herald is okay, I couldn't protect him…

"But now it's two against one! I doubt that kid made it out of that alive!"

The taunt hit Kael like a fist. His teeth clenched, the hand holding the wand trembling with rage. However, back in the heart of the now-thickening dust cloud, a blue light shone, intense and cold as the void. The three men turned, hypnotized. Where Tom had been, ethereal runes materialized in the air, humming with an ancient power and forming a crescent moon that orbited her body. Her eyes glowed with a light-blue, almost lifeless sheen.

Unblinking, Kael whispered, his voice filled with a reverent fear. "Lunar… Magic…"

The two brothers screamed, a mixture of fury and primal panic. "DON'T FUCK WITH US!!!!!!"

Tom just leaped. The motion was the same as before: holding one of the rods with both hands, the chain circling her in spirals. This time, however, the other end didn't transform into a morning star. The metal flowed and expanded, forming the disproportionate blade of a gigantic half-moon axe, its edge glowing with the promise of oblivion. She spun in the air, and then, the weapon was thrown.

The spear-brother pushed his partner aside, knocking him out of the direct impact. Upon hitting the floor, the axe exploded. A bluish light, clear and lifeless, emanated in all directions, a wave of annihilating energy, a tsunami of frigid light that didn't burn, but extinguished.

Dust rose. Coming from the destroyed part of the duct where they stood. Tom's cold, freezing gaze fell upon the man, who was crawling toward his unconscious brother.

"It's over…" She walked slowly, each step a nail in her opponent's coffin. "You've already lost…"

The man then turned, collapsing over his brother's back, terror stamped on his face as he pleaded for his life.

As Tom approached, staff raised, ready to knock out the final adversary…

"WATCH OUT!"

Kael's desperate shout ripped through the air. Tom turned instinctively toward the sound of something slicing through the air.

And then the world was swallowed by a blinding white light.

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