Far from the borderlands, the sea boiled black beneath a rising storm.
A great ship drifted through the fog, its sails torn and its deck gleaming with rain. Two men stood at the prow, staring toward the distant coast.
One was broad-shouldered, the kind of man who seemed carved from war itself. His hair short, his jaw scarred, his arms marked with sigils that pulsed faintly beneath the skin.
The other was tall and narrow, his face pale and his eyes sunken, he looked as if he were afflicted by some sickness.
The muscular one spoke first, voice like iron striking wood.
"It's time now. Seal the area before the Argathos family notice and spread the word."
The slimmer man nodded.
"As you command, Mr. Leokard."
He drew a small dagger from his sleeve and sliced his palm, letting blood drip onto the deck. His voice turned guttural, ancient words no human tongue was made to form.
"⟡⟊⟢⟞ ᛉ☉Ꙩ Ϟ⟁⟁Ꚛ⟆ ⸸⧫⸸ ᚠᚢᚱᚾᛇ⟰…"
The symbols burned into the air like molten iron.
The wood beneath them began to blacken and twist. A circle formed, then deepened—not into shadow, but into something hungrier than shadow.
From it, a massive claw emerged, followed by a body made of smoke and muscle, its horns scraping the ship's masts as it rose.
The creature bowed its head. He spoke with it in that same dark tongu. The language even made the air vibrate. Then, as quickly as it came, the creature sank back into the portal. The hole sealed with a hiss, leaving behind the faint smell of burnt iron.
The sea went still.
Then the world turned black.
It wasn't darkness as men knew it. It was as if the sky itself had folded shut, the oceans and continents trapped within a vast, living sphere of shadow.
Leokard turned to his companion.
"What's the price?"
The slim man smiled, his eyes glinting red in the dark.
"A thousand virgin women."
"Then send the signal. We begin the ritual."
He unsheathed two curved swords from his back, tossed one skyward—it hung there, spinning. Another followed, then another. Soon ten blades floated above him in perfect stillness, their edges humming with yellow light.
From beyond the horizon, a golden beacon flared and a column of light pierced the black sky.
The slim man shielded his eyes.
"Can you handle all of them?"
Leokard grinned.
"I'll have to. The opponent is Vivira Argathos."
Thunder rolled.
"Then get ready," the pale man said quietly. "She's coming."
A beam of radiance tore through the clouds and from it descended Vivira.
Her armor gleamed like sunrise on metal, though it was cracked and scorched from battle. Light coiled around her hand, forming a spear of pure brilliance.
Leokard raised his arms causing the ten floating swords to whirl into a formation, circling him like metallic hawks.
Vivira's sprinted forward.
Leokard's fingers twitched and the blades dropped.
They fell like meteors. The first struck the deck where she'd been standing; splinters and sparks burst upward. She rolled, the second blade slicing the air inches from her back. The third came low, spinning horizontally; she caught it with a wall of hard light that cracked under the impact.
She countered and her hand shot out, and a beam lanced through the smoke, searing across his cheek. The smell of burned metal mixed with salt air.
Leokard smiled through the pain. He lifted his arm, and the remaining swords fanned out, orbiting him in two layers.
He thrust both palms forward. The swords surged outward, weaving in a spiral. They spun so fast that the wind howled, the edges tracing perfect arcs of silver around her.
Vivira's eyes narrowed. She closed them, whispered something under her breath, and light blossomed from her body. The first swords struck her barrier and ricocheted, but she didn't stop, she stepped through it, forcing her way toward him.
Leokard kept directing the blades, one after another, faster, harder. Two of them crossed paths mid-air, slicing toward her from opposite angles. She ducked,but one sword grazed her shoulder, another struck her gauntlet, leaving molten streaks.
The ninth sword came down in a vertical strike; she caught it with her bare hand wrapped in light, twisted, and sent it spinning away. The tenth one darted from behind, silent as a whisper—she spun, deflected it, but the impact sent her skidding backward, boots tearing grooves into the scorched deck.
Leokard took the opening and leapt in,with two blades iin his hands. They met in the middle—his swords clashing with the radiant arc of hers.
The shockwave split the ship's main mast.
Up above, the remaining flying blades regrouped at his command, forming a tight cluster.
Vivira crossed her arms, calling the full force of her power causing light to erupt from her, a column reaching the sky. The swords hit it, one by one, exploding outward in bursts of metal and white fire.
When the brilliance faded, both stood amid the wreckage, breathing hard.
The throne hall was chaos, the guards were dead, piled on top of one other, banners torn, the floor slick with blood.
At the center stood the King of Averholth, pale and trembling, his robes soaked red. A young woman supported him from behind, her eyes wide with terror.
Before them stood Abraham— tall, calm, wearing a pristine white coat and trousers, one hand casually in his pocket.
The king spat blood.
"So, Mr. Abraham… you've woken from your slumber. The news of our offensive — all of it, the reports, the messengers were fabricated by you, I presume?"
Abraham smiled faintly.
"That is correct."
"To lure my strongest awakened away… while you entered through that infernal portal. Clever," the king growled, standing upright with effort. "You've played your cards well."
Abraham's eyes flicked to the girl beside him.
"Is that your daughter?"
The king's eyes narrowed.
"What's that to you?"
Abraham's smile widened.
"She'll make for a fine slave."
The king roared and blurred forward, his sword glowing gold.
They clashed. Abraham's forearm flew off from the impact, but before it hit the floor, the limb reattached itself, reformed as if nothing had happened.
He leaned close, voice cold.
"Feeling weak, Majesty?"
The king faltered, breathing heavily.
"You… So it was your doing?"
"Me?" Abraham said lightly. "I just tilted the board."
He drew a golden pistol. It was elegantly crafted, absurdly beautiful—and fired once.
The king's crown split. He crumpled where he stood.
The girl screamed. Abraham didn't even look at her.
The clash had gone on far too long. The air inside the black sphere was thick with dust, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood.
Leokard stood crooked, his left arm was torn and nothing but fabric and a cauterized stump remained. Three swords still floated weakly around him.
They looked dented and dull with their glow flickering like dying stars.
Vivira faced him, chest heaving. Her once-white armor was a mosaic of shattered plates and dried blood. Her right eye was gone; a single line of blood traced from the hollow down to her jaw. Light still pulsed from her, faint and uneven, like a candle about to go out.
They circled each other.
Vivira tightened her grip on her blade,
She was ready to move, when the world suddenly changed.
The black sphere that had sealed them away began to crack. Thin lines of light split through the darkness like fractures in glass. Then, with a sound like a sigh, it shattered, vanishing into the air.
The sky returned to gray. Grey clouds rolled above them, carrying the smell of ash and rain.
A whisper passed through the wind. Then silence.
Leokard tilted his head, blood dripping down his chin.
"What's wrong, Vivira?" he asked, almost gently.
Her fingers trembled. "The king…" Her voice cracked, barely a whisper. "The king of Valenh is dead."
Leokard's laugh deepened into something hollow, almost joyous. He threw his head back, the sound echoing through the ruined plain.
The last of Leokard's floating swords fell to the ground with a dull clang. The echo lingered longer than either of their breaths.