Vescrutia: Legacy

Erigor did not move.

Not when the rumble first cracked through the roar of the storm. Not when the snow peeled back like a curtain before the approaching colossus.

He simply watched—as one might watch a tidal wave rise from the sea’s horizon, impossibly vast and inevitable in its descent.

Ku’ran, The Merciless, drew closer with the patient gravity of a celestial body. His steps left concave impressions in the earth, each one a muted catastrophe. The wind fled from him. The storm bowed.

Erigor scowled in defiance.

His fingers curled, joints stiff and deliberate, and the golden embers of Naten flowing around him gathered to his palm– answering the call of a dying king. From their glow he forged RuneBreaker: a black-bladed relic swathed in ancient malice. The blade shrieked silently as it took form, its edge echoing with the resonance of a thousand bound souls. It was a tool he swore to never use again on account of the occult magics used to forge it. The souls of those it had slain were bound to the ebony blade forever.

It was not merely a weapon, but a sentence. He had locked it away long ago—sealed it in the deepest vaults of the Den, where it could never again drink.
But today, the world had come to its edge.

And this was no malformed beast or heretic magus that stood before him.

This was a Mazoku Executioner.

A harbinger of the end. A creature whose arrival did not signal battle—but reckoning.

Erigor had read the records. He had seen the aftermath—entire cities erased from cartography, entire bloodlines culled into memory. Even gods, it was whispered, had chosen flight over confrontation.

But stories, no matter how dreadful, were little more than wind and words. And Erigor did not bow to the wind.

He stepped forward, the snow spiraling at his ankles. His boots crunched down into the fractured stone of what had once been Helidor’s sacred square, now hollowed by fire and ice. He closed his eyes, if only for a heartbeat, then raised his chin—not in hubris, but defiance. In solemn resolve.

“..Just you, then?” he asked. The words came out steady, though they stung like cold iron in his throat. “I expected the end to be.. bigger.. louder."

Still, the Mazoku said nothing. Not even a breath escaped him. Only the endless, suffocating silence of judgment. His crimson eyes did not blink. They simply measured. Weighed.

And found Erigor wanting.

The Guildmaster exhaled, a soft cloud blooming from his lips and vanishing into the storm. That single breath carried no fear. Only readiness.

If this was to be where he met his end, he would make them earn it.

He would not go in a whisper.

He would burn, lash, and smoulder.

In a single blink of motion, he vanished—then reappeared, less than a foot before Ku’ran’s towering frame, RuneBreaker already cleaving through the air in a wide arc aimed at the giant’s skull. The strike was not a probe. It was a declaration. All of his strength, his passion, his defiance, was condensed into that
blow. No preamble. No mercy.

His blade hummed with the power of a hundred lifetimes—of fury and memory and sacrifice—and sought blood from a creature that bled only for sport.
Erigor did not swing to test.

He swung to kill.

RuneBreaker's blackened edge carved through the air, trailing a corona of unholy fire. The ground beneath them, long since frozen solid, splintered under the weight of Erigor’s swing.

And yet—
Ku’ran met it.

Not with a weapon. Not with a braced arm or even a guarded stance.

But with the calluses on his hand.

He raised his palm, fingers wide, and intercepted the blade in mid-air as though it were no more than an ember in the wind.

The impact cracked the air like rolling thunder, shattering nearby walls and toppling what remained of Helidor’s crumbling spires. Snow lifted from the ground in a vast ring, forming a dome of whirling white that veiled the two titans within a private blizzard. Air folded in on itself. The storm recoiled from their presence.

RuneBreaker bit into Ku’ran’s palm. And it sank.

Not deeply. Not far. But enough.

Enough to matter..

The force of Erigor's stroke drove him backwards across the ruined square. Ku’ran’s eyes narrowed with quiet fascination, even as his heels tore trenches through the stone-paved earth beneath the snow. He did not stagger. He did not falter. His towering form remained upright, knees locked, posture erect, like a monolith refusing erosion.

The dark enchantments lacing the sword came alive, their curses seething through the contact point like ink through water. Black veins spread rapidly across the Executioner’s arm, tendrils of corrupted energy worming under his flesh. His skin, hardened by centuries of war, sizzled and peeled at the point of contact. Blood—thick and dark—welled in a slow crawl, then spilled onto the frost.

But not more than a few drops.

Smoke curled from his palm, and in moments, his the torn flesh had begun knitting itself whole. The cursed wound hardened into a fresh layer of hide—thicker, darker, stronger..

Ku’ran gazed down at his own hand, then up at Erigor. Still no words. But a grizzled snarl slipped from his clenched fangs.

He had intentionally absorbed the force of RuneBreaker and allowed himself to measure it. Gauge its temperature. Its intent.

He understood now, and what had been indifference now smoldered with curiosity. The enchanted weapon was more of a threat than he anticipated.. at least more so than the human hands that wielded it.

The war god drew a slow breath through his nostrils, and when he exhaled, the snow before him melted in a perfect line from the heat of his breath alone.

Then he shifted.

A simple thing. A subtle pivot of his left heel.

But to a trained warrior’s eye, it was unmistakable: The rotation of his shoulder. A loosening of the tail that had coiled behind him like a prowling serpent.

Ku’ran had moved from observation—to predation.

The true battle had begun.

Erigor’s grip on RuneBreaker tightened until his knuckles paled beneath the strain. Each breath dragged through clenched teeth, steam coiling from his lips like smoke from a forge. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Then he saw it.

The blood.

A thin, ink-dark pool slowly spreading at Ku'ran’s feet—more a rivulet than a wound. And yet, it was enough. Enough to make the colossus shift his stance. Enough to fracture the illusion of absolute invincibility.

Erigor smiled.

Not with arrogance. Not with triumph. But with the quiet, grim satisfaction of a man who had done the impossible—he had bled a god.

He planted his feet and lifted RuneBreaker with both hands. Golden veins lit up along his forearms and neck, tracing like molten circuitry across skin stretched taut with fury and purpose. But this wasn’t raw strength—it was something far older, something that predated fire and flesh. The world shivered in anticipation.

Reality recoiled from the Guildmaster's frame.

“For Helidor..” he whispered.

And then once again, Erigor had vanished.

But not by an effort of speed.

Erigor did not sprint. He did not flash or blink. He folded.

Space collapsed in on itself, warping like parchment in flame. Snow froze mid-air. Sound cut out. Light curved in silent protest. The distance between him and Ku’ran simply ceased to exist—like a breath that never was.

He folded again.

And again.

To the eye, he was a living fracture—a kaleidoscope of golden echoes, phasing through shattered buildings, flickering between molten craters. The laws of physics buckled around him, desperately trying—and failing—to account for his presence.

And then—

Impact.

RuneBreaker howled with its master’s fury, a black arc slicing across the white landscape with apocalyptic elegance. Each swing was a seismic event— scarring the planet beneath the Guildmaster's rage. Stone ignited. Frost turned to vapor. Entire chunks of the battlefield detonated in silence before the sound could catch up.

But there was no chaos in his assault.

Only surgical precision.

Erigor aimed for the hinges of Ku’ran’s immortal anatomy—the base of the skull, the cradle of the tail, the tendons behind those unbending knees. He struck with desperation, but with intent as well. Every time RuneBreaker met resistance—be it armor or hide—it released a volatile backlash of energy that cratered the battlefield further.

And still he moved.

Fold. Appear. Strike.

Fold again. Appear. Strike.

Even the storm couldn’t track him. The wind chased his afterimages in futility. The snow couldn’t settle. Space frayed and curled where he passed, like burnt fabric pulled through time.

This was Erigor’s most sacred and cursed technique.

Temporal magics, despite their unparalleled power and potential, came at the cost of a deadly ailment. Mastery of its art sacrificed longevity, and prolonged use certified death.

But this was more than just a battle.

It was defiance. A statement.

Even if it cost him everything, Erigor would leave behind a truth etched in blood and ash:

That a mortal could defy the divine.
That a man or an elf could bleed a god.

And if the world must remember him,
let it remember this:

Erigor struck first.

Golden arcs carved across the frozen battlefield in divine rhythm, each blow from RuneBreaker more savage than the last. Yet, Ku’ran would not yield.

He stood amid the storm of strikes with his head lowered and arms crossed before him, the thick cords of his forearms acting as a bulwark against Erigors onslaught. Naten surged through his veins, mending wounds even as they were made. Slashes bloomed across his body—deep, furious lacerations that split hide and muscle with thunderous force. But the blood that sprayed from them evaporated in midair, and the wounds closed. Not cleanly. Not beautifully. But with the raw, vicious will of a creature that refused to break.

He didn’t flinch. Not once.

Erigor folded through space again and again, RuneBreaker appearing behind his knee, at his shoulder, at his neck. Each strike certified a death sentence for any lesser being. But Ku’ran endured.

Not through brute instinct.

But through discipline.

He drew upon the ancient Bhalian art of Shinjutsu—a divine technique that would do more than scale battle in his favor.

Through meditation, rigorous training, adherents of Shinjutsu have been able to attune themselves to the ebb and flow of the universe, harnessing its power to achieve a state of transcendent consciousness and profound insight.

Ku'ran, like all living Mazoku, was a master of Shinjutsu.

That cosmic energies flowed through him like second nature– sharpening his senses, expanding his awareness. He could not see Erigor’s every movement—no mortal could—but he could feel the warrior’s rhythm. The shifts in space, the tension in the air, the small, subtle hesitations that even Erigor could not hide. Ku'ran could feel the cadence of the storm, like the rhythm of a distant drumbeat.

He gave no chase.

He did not attack.

He simply waited.

And then he felt it—a stutter in Erigor's pattern. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but it was there. Whether it was fatigue, desperation, or something deeper, Ku’ran couldn’t know. But it was enough. It was an opportunity, and Ku’ran would not waste it.

"..."

In the next moment, he dropped his guard, and Erigor next strike came with the speed of a falling star.

RuneBreaker cleaved down at the base of his neck. The air itself seemed to scream as the weapon fell, but it met Ku’ran’s shoulder with a bone-shaking impact. The blow dug deep, severing muscle and cutting down to his bone. The earth itself buckled beneath them, but the blade stopped—its progress halted as if caught in an unseen force.

Ku’ran let lose a gutteral snarl in response, but he did not falter.

Instead, his hand lashed out like a serpent—not toward RuneBreaker, but toward the man wielding it.

And he caught him.

Ku’ran’s fingers closed around Erigor’s arm like iron shackles—and then, he ripped.

And snatched.

And pulled until bone was wrenched from its ligaments and the arm was tore free in a wet, ragged snap. Erigor was slung in some arbitrary direction in effort. The Guildmaster's blood sprayed in an arc across Ku’ran’s chest—but the Executioner didn’t even blink.

He stood tall, unshaken, as his massive form shifted—his wounds already healing, the bloody lacerations closing as his body grew tougher, more resilient with each passing moment.

RuneBreaker, still embedded in his shoulder, barely elicited a twitch from him as he wrenched it free, a slow, deliberate motion that was as nonchalant as if he were removing a bothersome insect from his skin. His hide began to knit itself back together, tougher than before. Ku'ran's crimson gaze then found Erigor once more, and there was no mistake about it.

He was disappointed.

Ku'ran watched him silently, almost as if he were hoping for Erigor to rise. He wanted more. Demanded it even. But he would not strike a foe who could not lift his hand in defiance. If Erigor allowed himself to die, Ku'ran would bury him with beneath the ruins of Helidor.

Erigor crashed through a wall of ancient ice, skidding across the battlefield like a comet tearing through the sky. His body tumbled, limbs twisted, and snow exploded in his wake. When he finally stopped, he lay still for a moment, face half-buried in the frost, crimson pouring from the ragged stump where his arm used to be.

His breath came in short, sharp bursts—each one a hiss between clenched teeth. Steam billowed from his mouth like smoke from a dragon's maw, mixing with the curling vapor that rose from his wound.

RuneBreaker was gone.

Ripped from his grasp. Left behind.

Stolen..

Erigor's good hand curled into a trembling fist as pain lanced through him like lightning—but it was not the pain of injury that filled him. It was something deeper. Rage. Disbelief.

He pushed himself up with a guttural growl, the snow beneath him sizzling as his body temperature surged. His right side hung slack, blood still weeping from the mangled wound, but he didn’t care. The loss of an arm meant nothing. Afterall, why else would the gods bless him with two?

His eyes snapped open, twin orbs of molten gold burning with unholy fury. He stared across the distance at Ku’ran, who stood tall and impassive, RuneBreaker now clasped in his enormous hands like a war trophy. Erigor bared his teeth in a grin—not one of joy, but of hunger. Of challenge. Of madness.

"HA!! Is that it?" he rasped, voice low and trembling with wrath. “You think this ends me?”

He rose fully now, blood trailing down his side, muscles flexing against the biting cold. Each breath he took steamed through the air like furnace smoke. His body trembled—not with weakness, but anticipation. He spat out a glob of blood, and hacked up the rest of the weakness in his body before he spoke again.

“Not even close..”

With a sudden motion, he reached up and tore away the shredded remains of his cloak, revealing his torso—scarred, seared, burned from a hundred battles. Arcane sigils, half-buried beneath skin, began to glow with a furious light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

“You will not survive me, monster.” He said, as the golden veins of Naten began to coil beneath his skin once more. “..This I swear to you.”

And then he began to move. Again, the realm began to swell and throb around him. With every step the volume of golden energy roared from his unyielding body.

He vanished—not in a blur, but in a fold.

And then—he was behind Ku’ran.

No sound. No warning. Just a sudden warping of space as the Guildmaster re-emerged from the seams of reality itself, his lone hand already extended toward Ku'ran's lower back. The space surrounding the area began to contort and twist violently, compacting in on itself in a pulse of gravitational pressure until finally.



The air imploded, folding into a pinhole vortex that sought to tear a hole into the Mazoku soldier's spine. Light, blood, dirt, and snow warped inward toward the collapsing space like a black wind. But nothing remained at the eye of the singularity.

Erigor’s eyes gleamed with a manic hunger, teeth grit in sheer exertion.

“Let’s see you heal from this,” he snarled, voice trembling with spite and exhaustion as he maintained the vacuum. His entire arm shook, blood dripping from his fingertips as the spell drained him—but he didn't care. He'd expend whatever remained of his reserves to fell this demon.

If he couldn’t cleave Ku’ran apart with a blade, then he would fold the world itself to do

Erigor's spell hit its mark.

Ku’ran’s back—flesh, armor, and bone was sucked into the singularity. His tail was obliterated, shredded into nothing, and what little remained of his war-torn armor was vaporized. The blast left a gaping tunnel through his torso, an obscene window framed by blood, burned sinew, and bone—his insides exposed to the frigid air.

And yet—he endured.

He didn't scream. Or yelp in agony. Only grunts. Winces.. the thunderous hiss of his breath.

Then—movement.

Ku’ran’s massive hand reached backward like a guillotine, fingers blindly sweeping behind him until they clamped around something.

They found Erigor and clasped around his head so tight that no light or air could reach him. He brought the man forward like a child gripping a doll. Then, with the cold certainty of a butcher, Ku’ran plunged RuneBreaker forward—not in a calculated strike, but with the savage finality of a wretched monster.

The blade pierced Erigor's chest and Ku’ran’s fist followed through him, punching out the Guildmaster's back with a splatter of crimson mist. The runes on the blade screamed, igniting in hellish gold as Erigor’s body convulsed—and then stilled.

He was no longer there.

Not truly.

His soul howled as it was consumed, sealed within RuneBreaker’s ancient prison, forever locked in a weapon born to reap.

But Ku’ran did not roar in victory. Not yet.

He staggered—one knee hitting the earth.

Blood flooded from him in waves. The wound in his back had not closed. His spine was exposed. Wind howled through him, as if he were not a man but a broken monument.

And still—he rose.

He lifted his head to the heavens. His breath hitched. His chest cracked with the effort.

Then—

He roared.

And the sky split in response.

Not like thunder. Not like a storm.

There was no celestial crack to proceed it. It was simply annihilation. A frequency that twisted air into plasma, cracked tectonic plates, and obliterated. Mountains were unwritten from the horizon, turning to vapor in the wake of his voice. Trees were flash-burned into skeletons of ash, then swept away. Forests vanished. Valleys collapsed. Every structure, every monument, every memory of Helidor was reduced to absence.

There was no fire. No light. No time to run.

Just an expanding dome of obliteration racing outward, incandescent and absolute.

When it ended, there was no battlefield. No Helidor.

No soil. No snow. No stone. No bones. No ash.

Only a hollowed basin miles wide, smooth and glistening—like a new moon had fallen from the sky and pressed its mark into the flesh of the world. The crater could have cradled a small ocean, had there been anything left to weep for the dead.

And in the center of it all—

Ku’ran stood.

A black silhouette against the scar of creation, his wounds still slowly knitting, his body stitched together by fury and a will that would not die.

He had accomplished his duty, and now he turned his gaze upward. He lowered his stance and leapt, RuneBreaker still in towe.

A single bound launched him across the ruined sky, toward the distant silhouette of the Crimson Cloud Warship, gliding like a vulture above the death it had foreseen.

What remained beneath was a silent statement. One intended for all who refused to kneel before the Zenith.