The haze of dust and turbulent energy settled slowly in the plain's dead wind. The earth was scarred by radial, blackened fissures and still-smoking, twisted metal remnants of the golem. The air smelled of ozone, molten rock, and the hollow, charred scent of energy violently spent.
At the center of the battlefield, Grey Cloak Executor 74 knelt on the cracked ground.
The terrifying corona of mixed dark gold, sickly white, and violent energy that had wreathed him earlier was gone—extinguished like spent embers. His already-tattered robe was now reduced to mere rags, hanging from a rune-etched undersuit that was itself cracked and dull. His arms hung limp at his sides, fingertips trembling slightly, unable even to make a fist. His hood had fallen back completely, revealing a face pale as paper, streaked with blood and grime, lips cracked, blood still fresh at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, once cold and sharp, were now bloodshot and unfocused, only the deepest ember of stubborn will still faintly alive within them.
He had exhausted everything—his own Marks, his colleague's life—to buy that cataclysmic, near-mutual-destruction strike.
Yet, not far ahead, the golem that had taken the full force of that energy torrent was not completely shattered.
Its once-rapidly spinning, maw-covered structure was now severely deformed and collapsed, riddled with great fractures and molten holes. Its inner mechanics and energy conduits lay exposed, crackling with wild sparks and sputtering crimson flows—the grisly viscera of a dying beast. It had lost the ability to spin, lodged heavily in the scorched earth.
But it was still moving.
With a slow, twisted, deeply unsettling motion, like a steel worm with most of its body severed, it relied on some residual, unknown drive to inch forward toward the kneeling Executor. Each tiny advance shed more charred plating and internal components, which fell with heavy thuds. A final, stubborn death crawl. From its few semi-intact 'mouths', weak but still-dangerous spurts of crimson energy occasionally hissed out, burning new pocks into the ground.
It meant to crush the enemy that had cost it so much. Even if only by the last inch.
Watching the spark-spewing death crawl toward him, the last flame of fight in the Executor's eyes finally guttered, replaced by deeper exhaustion and despair. He could feel it—he lacked the strength to raise a single finger in defense. Inside, he was hollow. His Marks felt like burnt-out filaments, offering only searing pain and void.
With immense effort, he slowly tilted his head back, looking up at the vast, cloudless, brilliantly blue sky. His cracked lips moved. With his last wisp of breath, he uttered a barely audible, delirious prayer—his voice a broken rasp, yet carrying the fervor of a martyr and a final surrender:
"Merciful… my Lord… please… forgive… your unworthy… servant…"
His gaze was empty, fixed on the heavens as if seeking a divine light that wasn't there—seeking final solace, final release.
But then, as his unfocused eyes drifted across the sky, they snagged.
Against the backdrop of blue, a small, dark speck had appeared from high above—from somewhere near the Black Tower's upper reaches.
At first, it was tiny. A bird, perhaps, or distant dust.
But it was descending fast. And it was falling straight down, toward the very center of the battlefield.
The Executor's frayed senses instinctively tightened. Not a bird. Not debris. The speck grew rapidly, its outline clarifying—a human shape. And as it neared, a palpable pressure—deliberately restrained, yet instinctively terrifying—descended like an invisible tide, slowly enveloping the entire field.
Friend? Foe?
No… Here. Now. From the direction of the Tower. It could only be—
The dark shape grew larger, but its descent slowed abruptly just above the ground, as if caught by an unseen hand. It halted, hovering about ten meters up.
The downdraft scattered some of the lingering smoke.
It was the Black Tower Sorcerer.
Suspended in the air, he looked down upon the ravaged battlefield. His eyes first swept over the twitching, crawling golem wreckage. A slight frown touched his features, as if inspecting an unsatisfactory prototype.
Then his gaze fell upon the kneeling, broken figure of Grey Cloak Executor 74.
The Sorcerer's face showed no expression—no victor's triumph, no pity for the devastation. Only a pure, researcher's assessment, and a trace of… detached interest, as if finally stepping into his own experiment.
The hovering figure radiated an absolute, existential pressure far more chilling than the broken golem—the calm scrutiny of a predator confirming its prey is utterly spent.
Seemingly satisfied that the Sanctum's 'cleaner' was drained beyond resistance or self-destruction, the Sorcerer descended. His boots touched the still-warm scorched earth without stirring a grain of dust.
He stood, first glancing at the kneeling Executor with a look as flat as if viewing a roadside stone. Then his attention shifted to the stubbornly twitching, sparking golem wreck beside them. His brow furrowed slightly, a hint of impatience for the construct's 'persistence'.
The Sorcerer raised his free hand toward the golem wreck and gave a casual, dismissive wave.
No incantation. No visible surge of power.
But the instant he waved, the golem wreck—still driven by its last chaotic energy—froze mid-crawl. The weak beams dying in its mouths. The screech of grinding joints cut off. Then, from deep within the wreck, came a series of muffled hisses as billowing clouds of scalding white steam erupted from every crack and hole—a long, sharp "SSSSSSSS—!!!" The final, unwilling sigh of a steel beast.
Steam filled the air, smelling of hot metal and burnt oil.
The Sorcerer paid it no mind. He even tossed his other metal staff aside; it clattered on the ground. Then he walked over to the now utterly still, steaming metal heap.
He crouched, ignoring the heat and sharp edges, and plunged his hands directly into the golem's severely deformed, cracked-open chest cavity. He began rummaging roughly. The sound of metal tearing and wrenching filled the air, punctuated by small components or melted chunks being tossed aside. His movements were practiced but graceless—less an interaction with a powerful war-construct, more like salvaging scrap from a junkyard.
"You know," he said, as if to himself or perhaps for the benefit of the immobile Executor, his voice somewhat muffled by the hissing steam, "decent raw materials… are getting harder to come by lately."
His tone held plain complaint, like a craftsman grumbling about supply.
"Anything with a bit of 'resonant activity' gets locked up like treasure…" He wrenched free a large piece of blackened plating and tossed it aside with a crash, digging deeper. "Makes building a proper 'toy' such a hassle. Tch."
Executor 74 remained motionless, kneeling as if already resigned to his fate, a statue. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest and the occasional drop of sweat tracing through the grime on his face proved he still lived. His eyes were downcast, staring vacantly at the charred earth before him, deaf to the Sorcerer's complaints—or simply too spent to react.
Finally, the Sorcerer's search yielded results. His hands seemed to lock onto something. His arms tensed, and with a low grunt, he yanked.
CRUNCH-SNAP—!!
Amid the sound of shearing metal and severed conduits, he pulled free a sphere roughly the size of a human head, half-wrapped in rough metal casing, its surface flowing with intricate red-and-black energy patterns.
The sphere seemed immensely heavy. Even cradled in his hands, the red-black patterns could be seen pulsing faintly, emitting an energy rhythm far more contained, yet more ominous, than the golem's earlier fury. It was the golem's core. Its 'heart'.
The Sorcerer examined the softly throbbing metal sphere for a moment, a look of 'worth the trouble' satisfaction on his face.
Then, holding the golem's heart, he turned and walked, step by step, toward the still-kneeling Executor 74—who waited like a condemned man for final judgment.
The soft crunch of boots on scorched earth and debris was deafeningly loud in the silent field.
The Sorcerer stopped before the kneeling man, looking down. He glanced at the pulsating red-black sphere in his hands, then at the Executor's pale, desperate, exhausted, resigned face.
He smiled then. The smile held little warmth, but a strange, almost appreciative quality.
"You held out quite a while."
He paused, then added, with a touch of dry mockery:
"Hah."
The laugh echoed drily across the desolate plain, stark against the surrounding devastation.
Then he fell silent. Simply standing there, holding the softly pulsating heart, looking down at the kneeling Grey Cloak. His eyes traveled over the broken figure, assessing, as if weighing whether this particular wreckage still held any… unclaimed value.
Was this the end? Or another beginning?
Executor 74's head remained bowed, as if whatever came next was now beyond his strength to face, or his will to resist.
The corner of the Black Tower Sorcerer's mouth still held that icy, mocking smile. Cradling the heavy, pulsing heart of the golem, he looked down at the kneeling, barely-breathing Grey Cloak Executor 74—a man who seemed to have exhausted even the strength to lift his head—and gave a slight shake of his own.
The Sanctum's "cleaner"? This was all he amounted to. He had drained his comrade, spent himself, and managed only to destroy a heavily experimental model. The core remained. The data was valuable. As for the executor himself…
The Sorcerer tossed the red-black sphere aside. It rolled a few times before coming to rest near the wreckage, its patterns still stubbornly flickering.
He could feel the faint aura clinging to the other man—a mixture of blood, char, and the peculiar decay of utterly exhausted energy. He reached out and placed his hands firmly, almost roughly, on the Grey Cloak's slack shoulders, covered only by a tattered undersuit and rags.
Beneath his palms, the bones were rigid, the muscles cold. Not a shred of resistance remained.
He began to shake him. The motion was small, deliberate—like testing the integrity of an object. Executor 74's body swayed limply, his head lolling with the movement.
The Grey Cloak's lips twitched. They parted a fraction, closed, then parted again. The motion was tiny, repetitive—an unconscious spasm, or a desperate, failed attempt to speak.
"What?" The Sorcerer leaned closer, his voice thick with undisguised scorn. "Still whispering your last prayers… to your all-loving god?"
He lingered on the words all-loving.
Seeing the other man reduced to this mute collapse only deepened his sense of control. He stopped shaking him, but did not release his grip.
"How about…" he drawled, his tone taking on a cruel, almost charitable quality, "…you beg me instead?"
He tilted his head, as if making a perfectly reasonable suggestion.
"I might grant you… a final mercy."
He leaned in even closer, until he could almost count the flecks of dust and dried blood caught on the other man's lashes. His gaze was sharp, intent on piercing those unfocused pupils—on reaching whatever remained behind them.
"That's right."
"Beg me."
"Just like… before."
Executor 74's throat convulsed violently.
The sound was faint at first, nearly lost to the wind and the distant hiss of cooling metal.
The Sorcerer's brow furrowed—just slightly.
The Grey Cloak's voice continued, growing clearer, faster, as if a long-suppressed mechanism had finally been released.
Grey Cloak Executor 74 forced the words out with what seemed like the last shred of his life force. At the same time, his perpetually bowed head jerked up! From the depths of his unfocused, despairing pupils, two points of fanatical, purely rational white light ignited, blazing like a martyr's fire! His gaze was not fixed on the Sorcerer, but past him, toward the distant forest at the Sorcerer's side and rear.
"For your... cooperation..."
The hoarse, trailing sound of the Grey Cloak's voice had not yet fully faded—
The Sorcerer turned his head, following the Grey Cloak's line of sight.
A point of white light,
Unnoticed until this moment, now filled his entire vision.
A point of pure, concentrated, unadulterated destructive white light.
BOOM—!!!"
The light of pure white destruction erupted!
Then, only the wind.
Despite the cover of the forest, nothing could be seen.
"For your cooperation."
"Threat level revised. Marking confirmed effective."
His voice sounded, flat, devoid of any inflection.
"The conclusion is singular."
He retracted his gaze, looking at his unsteady colleague beside him. That gaze was like two cold steel nails.
"—Unavoidable."
As the words fell, the two figures stirred slightly.