The hall smelled of iron and fear, a quiet echo of the chaos I had just caused. The heroes lay unconscious, bodies sprawled in positions that betrayed their overconfidence. The black sword hummed faintly in my hands, patient and deliberate. Voraciel. Alive. Waiting. Watching.
"…kill."
I ignored the whisper, letting it settle. It had served its purpose for now. Observation is cheaper than action. Patience always comes first.
I stepped over the bodies, noting minor injuries, the way a limb had fallen, the way pride had made them predictable. Ordinary mistakes. Ordinary people, ordinary ambition. None of them were ready to survive in a world that measured intent more than skill.
The palace itself was silent. The tapestries on the walls depicted battles long forgotten. Statues of kings with frozen mouths stared down at me as if judging. I didn't care. Observation has no loyalty.
I examined the hall, every corner, every crack in the floor, every potential choke point. The whisper from Voraciel returned, softer, patient. "…wait."
Patience. Always patience.
The first kill—their leader, the tall man with the scar—had left a mark on my mind. Not satisfaction. Not thrill. Calm. Detachment. His mistake had been predictability, and that is a trait the sword respects in theory, but despises in practice. Voraciel had reacted perfectly, amplifying my intent into motion.
I knelt beside the unconscious body and studied him. Observation is more informative than haste. He had moved with confidence, but his mind had been too focused on performance. The sword had guided me, but I had chosen the moment. Intent is everything.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
I whispered it softly to myself, testing the power that surged faintly under my skin. The blade responded, warmth pulsing through my arm. It would grow stronger with intent, with calculated rage. Bloodlust is power. Not anger, not hatred, not morality—just intent. Controlled, deliberate, pure.
The other heroes were less experienced. Hesitation marked every movement. Their pride made them predictable. I could read them like open books. Observation always pays.
"…kill—Crimson Tide."
The second strike was cleaner. Not chaotic. Not forced. Voraciel amplified my intent again, shadows stretching, force guided subtly, and the blade ensured efficiency. Bodies fell in silence, and the whisper grew patient once more: "…wait."
I stepped back, cleaning the blade. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures.
The hall, once alive with light and anticipation, now felt colder. Shadows moved differently, stretching into corners I hadn't noticed before. Voraciel pulsed faintly in response. Alive. Waiting. Watching.
I left the hall the way I entered, unnoticed by anyone outside. Soldiers patrolled, unaware of what had occurred beyond the gates. Civilians slept. Merchants counted coins. Children dreamed of heroes who would never arrive. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe. For now.
The whisper returned faintly as I exited the palace: "…kill."
I ignored it. Patience is always first. Observation is always necessary. The sword would wait. I had chosen the moment, controlled the outcome, and survived. That is enough for now.
Outside, the city appeared unchanged. Banners flapped in the evening wind. Lanterns glowed faintly along cobbled streets. Heroes paraded back, unaware that one of their own had fallen permanently, their leadership fractured. The world continued, oblivious, unremarkable, ordinary.
I walked among them like any other citizen, cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed on my back. No one noticed. No one cared. Ordinary life continues when it is convenient. Observation always pays.
I stopped in an alley and drew the black blade. The whisper was patient, almost approving: "…kill."
I breathed slowly, testing it. Each movement resonated with intent. Not anger. Not morality. Pure intent. Bloodlust, refined, controlled.
Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, waiting, watching.
"…kill."
Not yet. Patience. The first blood had been shed. The power had been claimed. The world had not noticed.
I returned to my cheap room above the tailor's shop. Coins counted. Bread purchased. Routine maintained. Ordinary, unremarkable, invisible. Observation continues. Patience endures.
But somewhere deep within, I felt the faintest thrill. The whisper had chosen me. And I had chosen to answer when necessary.
Bloodlust is awakening. The first technique is mastered. Intent is everything.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet.
I breathed.
And the world waited.