Laughter.
It didn't just echo—it invaded.
It slithered through the chamber like smoke, curling around the broken pillars and shattered statues of gods long forgotten. It was thick, guttural, and cruel—the kind of laughter that knew pain intimately and found joy in it.
Then—a voice, smooth as oil and twice as suffocating.
"You two are this dumb?"
The air changed.
It tightened, as if the chamber itself recoiled. The torches lining the walls flickered violently, shadows stretching like claws across the stone.
From the darkness between two collapsed archways, he emerged.
Varkas.
Not just a man—a force.
Ervin's right hand. His enforcer. His executioner.
The one who never spoke unless death followed.
His armor was a nightmare forged into metal—blackened steel, scorched and scarred, with jagged edges that looked like they had tasted flesh. Strange, ancient runes pulsed faintly along the plates, glowing a dull red like embers buried in ash.
His face was worse.
A permanent smirk twisted his lips, but it wasn't amusement—it was contempt. His eyes were pits of cold fire, and when they locked onto Shank and Elcos, it was like being seen by something that had already decided you were dead.
"You thought you could sneak into Ashvile," he said, voice low and deliberate, "cut down a few raiders, and win?"
He stepped forward. The sound of his boots on stone was like a drumbeat of doom.
"I expected more."
Shank's fists clenched, the veins in his arms bulging.
Elcos didn't move, but his hand slid slowly toward the dagger at his belt, fingers trembling—not with fear, but with fury.
Varkas tilted his head, mock curiosity in his tone.
"Do you know what happens to fools who challenge Ervin?"
He took another step.
"Do you know how your brother screamed before his body finally stopped moving?"
Elcos inhaled sharply.
The words hit like a hammer to the chest. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from rage.
Shank roared.
He charged, axe raised high, muscles coiled with vengeance.
The strike was perfect—a clean, brutal arc aimed at Varkas' throat.
But Varkas didn't flinch.
He moved like a shadow—a blur of motion, faster than a man in armor should ever be. He sidestepped, pivoted, and let the axe pass harmlessly through empty air.
Then—his fist lashed out.
It connected with Shank's jaw with a sound like a tree cracking in a storm. Shank's body twisted mid-air before crashing to the ground.
Before he could rise, Varkas was on him.
He grabbed Shank's wrist—twisted.
Snap.
The sound echoed louder than the laughter had.
Shank screamed, his voice raw and animal.
Varkas let go, letting the broken man collapse.
"Pathetic," he muttered, already turning away.
He raised a hand, fingers flicking lazily.
"Kill them."
And then—he was gone.The moment Varkas vanished into the shadows, the command still hung in the air like smoke.
"Kill them."
The raiders surged forward.
Shank was down—barely conscious, clutching his shattered wrist, blood pooling beneath him. He tried to rise, but his body betrayed him.
Elcos stood alone.
His breath came in short, sharp bursts. His dagger felt small in his hand—a sliver of hope against a wall of death.
But he didn't run.
He stepped forward.
First Raider: The Brute
The first attacker was massive—a wall of muscle and iron, wielding a cleaver the size of a wagon wheel. He charged with a roar, swinging the blade in a wide arc meant to split Elcos in two.
Elcos didn't meet force with force.
He ducked low, the cleaver slicing the air above his head. Sparks flew as it struck stone.
He rolled forward, came up behind the brute, and slashed across the back of his knee. The man howled, stumbling.
Elcos didn't hesitate—he leapt onto the raider's back, wrapped an arm around his throat, and drove the dagger into the side of his neck.
Once. Twice. A third time.
The brute collapsed, gurgling.A spear thrust toward his chest.
Elcos twisted, the tip grazing his ribs. He grabbed the shaft, yanked it forward, and used the raider's momentum to throw him off balance.
The man stumbled.
Elcos stepped in, drove his dagger into the man's thigh, then ripped it free and slashed across his throat in one fluid motion.
Blood sprayed. The raider dropped.From across the chamber, an archer raised his bow.
Elcos saw the glint of the arrowhead—no time to dodge.
He dove behind a fallen pillar just as the arrow struck stone, splintering into shards.
He rolled, grabbed a fallen axe, and hurled it.
It spun through the air—end over end—
—and struck the archer in the chest.
The man staggered, dropped his bow, and fell.The final raider hesitated.
He was young—barely more than a boy. His sword trembled in his hands.
Elcos stepped forward, bloodied and breathing hard.
"Run," he said.
The boy didn't move.
Elcos raised his dagger.
The boy turned and fled into the dark.Silence returned.
Elcos stood in the center of the chamber, surrounded by bodies. His arm bled freely. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
He dropped to one knee beside Shank, who groaned.
"You're alive," Elcos whispered.
Shank gave a weak grin. "You're insane."
Elcos looked around—at the blood, the bodies, the flickering torches.
And then—he remembered.
Mitsuki. Yelena.
He rose, limping toward the corridor beyond.
The battle was over.
But the war had just begun.