Vescrutia: Legacy

The realm of Helidor hummed with an uneasy energy, a stark contrast to its usual bustling harmony. The skies above the golden city were heavy, as if nature itself held its breath in anticipation of the coming storm. On the streets, the orderly chaos of evacuation unfolded as families hurriedly packed their lives into carts, children clung to parents, and the elderly were aided by neighbors to make their way to safety. The shining spires of Helidor, usually a beacon of peace and prosperity, now cast long, foreboding shadows in the dim light of dusk.

Helidor’s residents, while predominantly human, had always prided themselves on their resilience. That resilience now bore the weight of grim resolve. The Gilded Fang Guild, a coalition of monster hunters renowned across Muu, had taken command of the city’s defense. They had served as Helidor's protectors for centuries, their reputation as warriors and tacticians unmatched. At their helm was the noble Erigor Pharlonius, a descendant of the legendary hero Valor Rin, whose deeds were etched into the annals of history. Erigor's presence alone was a beacon of hope for the people, though even his calm determination could not entirely dispel the fear in the air.

Erigor stood atop the walls of the Den of the Golden Lion, the guild’s sprawling citadel that doubled as Helidor’s stronghold. Below him, a perimeter of warriors stretched out, a sea of shields, spears, and grim faces. The guild’s ranks were bolstered by every capable fighter the realm could muster—mercenaries turned militia, retired veterans, and wandering adventurers who had heeded the call. The defenders were an eclectic mix, but their shared purpose united them.

The preparations were relentless. Scouts and rangers patrolled the outskirts of the city, watching for the first signs of the Bhalian forces. Engineers and blacksmiths worked tirelessly to reinforce the walls, crafting siege weapons and traps with whatever materials they could salvage. Arrows were fletched, swords sharpened, and potions brewed by alchemists who labored alongside warriors. Every street corner became a checkpoint, every alley a potential choke point.

Inside the citadel, the guild's strategists pored over maps of the surrounding terrain. The Crimson Cloud, the Bhalian Empire's infamous warship, had been spotted on the horizon days ago. Its ominous silhouette was a reminder of the enemy’s relentless advance. The Bhalian Empire was no ordinary foe; their military machine was vast, disciplined, and bolstered by the might of several allied races. Helidor’s defenders knew that they were not just fighting for their city, but for the freedom of Muu itself.

As the evacuation continued, Erigor turned to a man known more for his tactical mind than his flair with a weapon. His name was Uri, and he was among Erigor's oldest friends. "Have the last of the civilians been moved to the inner sanctum?" he asked, his voice firm but carrying the weight of his concern.

Uri nodded. "The sanctum is secure, Guildmaster. We've stationed our best healers and a small contingent of guards there. If the walls fall, they'll be our last line of defense."

Erigor’s jaw tightened. He knew the sanctum was a sanctuary in name only. If the Bhalian Empire broke through, there would be no refuge, only a delaying tactic. Still, every moment counted.

“We hold them at the perimeter,” he said, his voice steady, carrying the conviction of a man who had seen countless battles. “Give me a synopsis of our forces.”

Uri pressed his hand against the surface of Erigor's table, generating a holographic image of all of Helidor. “Kamari, the Primal Fang is stationed at the outer edges of the Kingdom. They are prepared to meet the Bhalian Infantry before they encroach our borders.”

He then waved his wrist, generating another holographic live feed. “Cyrus and Aisha and Axel are commanding our hunters gathered along the gates themselves. Aurelia and Noctilis occupy the main wall, as it is our most vulnerable entry point, their strength will level the field. Finally, Clara and the Spectral Fang remain within the Den– maintaining communications and prepared to intercept our wounded.”

Erigor nodded as he watched Uri maneuver through the holographic imaging. “And Zol?” He asked, solemnly..

“Zol is currently evacuating what remains of the citizens.” Erigor nodded his gaze softening but his chest swelling. “Then we are ready. Upon his return, the two of us will convene with Kamari at the Frontline. Helidor must not fall.”

"Please, everyone, follow the directions. Pace yourselves; we will ensure enough room for you all."

One of the attendants yelled out as his team members continued safely escorting the civilians. They operated in droves, waves upon waves of people, which brought to mind his admiration for their guild halls' architecture. A hub that solely operated as Helidor mainline for defense and a nigh impregnable fortress that has held fast through previous attempts at the city, and its legend stopped many others from attempting the same. Yet, as Zol's eyes lay on the thick clouds of impending doom, he could not help but feel like something was different about this fight. Perhaps it was the looming lore of Bhalia's legend, the stories of their fearsome advanced military. If he honed in on this feeling, it was the anxiety that came just before a terrible storm...something in his bones told him that this was going to be a life-changing experience not just for Helidor but for him as well, what that change would become, he couldn't allow himself to become lost in. So many people had laid the foundational blocks of his path thus far, given so much to see him and Hodleior prosper.

"I failed to protect my home twice now."

During the event that saw his former family massacred, he was powerless before the destroyer's power. When the world of Carna was set ablaze by the Crimson Moon's army, he was helpless to protect those closest to him, the Demon's forcing nearly wiping the Aymara from existence.

"This time, though..."

He said this as he tightened the talents his father had given him. They hummed with a subtle yet palpable aura.

"I will not falter, Meru, buddy; let both do our part!"

"Ah, there you are, Zol; the evacuation is complete. Shouldn't you be heading over to the Guildmaster?"

It was his friend, Amir. He inhaled a deep breath, and upon his inhale, his body became a bit lighter, shrugging the weight of what he had to shoulder from his mind—the time for contemplation and lamination had ended. His only goal, his only objective right now.

He was crushing the empire and saving his home.

"Oh, Amir, so you're leading the evacuation squad. Heh, you've gotten stronger, haven't you?"

Amir blushed slightly, a bit embarrassed by Zol's praise. His eyes danced over the horizon, aglow with the twin sun's light. Since he learned of Zol's return, he had been training rigorously to avoid being left behind. They were rivals in their youth, and now they worked hand in hand to keep their home safe.

'Heh, well, can't leave everything to you. Besides, it's time some of us got in on the glory, don't you think."

Zol smiled

"Ha, guess I have a habit of stealing focus."

Zol's face became heavy once more, reflecting the reality of all that was at stake. Amir's gaze became laden with such concerns.

"Listen, Zol. Whatever your past mistakes, whatever the thing you wished you did but couldn't do...there nothing, nothing that can be done about the past."

"...."

"But that is the beauty of the future, a slate unturned, a page yet written. So, my friend."

He stuck his hand out to Zol, his eyes persistent and determined.

"Let us write the next page about Helidor's future and the future of the Gilden Fangs!"

Zol could feel Amir's resolution embrace him like the comfort of a warm ember in the middle of a tundra. His brows became weighted with his own resolve as he gripped his friend's hand tightly.

"For the Glory of Helidor."

They exchanged a head nod before Zol vanished in a plume of light, which now appeared a few feet away from Uri and Erigor.

"Guild master."

He said as the motes of light foretelling his arrival faded into thin air.

"The evacuation of the last three districts is just about done; I surmise they will be completed within the next half hour, sir."

The Lion’s Den, hidden deep within the mountains of Helidor, was a bastion of stone and sorcery. Its walls, etched with runes older than the kingdom itself, pulsed faintly beneath the dim torchlight, as if breathing in tandem with the warriors who had once stood guard.

Now, only silence filled the vast chamber at its heart, save for the ragged, uneven breaths of Erigor Pharlonius, Guildmaster of the Gilded Fangs.
He stood motionless before the shimmering veil of the scrying window– an arcane portal shifting like liquid glass, revealing the carnage beyond.

The war had not merely been lost—this had been an annihilation.

Six million souls depended on him. Humans and elves alike, once proud denizens of Helidor, now huddled in the darkness of the Lion's Den, their futures hanging by the thinnest thread. They had trusted him to be their shield, their unbreakable bulwark against the encroaching tide. And yet, beyond these sacred walls, his finest warriors—the strongest fangs of the guild—had been torn asunder in mere hours.

Kamari, the Primal Fang, had fought like a beast unchained, his savage strength carving through the Bhalian ranks until sheer attrition dragged him to his knees. He had not fallen like a man—he had been broken like a force of nature subdued.

The Blistering Fang, Aurelia, had burned brightly until the end, her fire fading to embers as the frozen ruin of their city consumed her. She had as many as she could, guiding lost hunters through the howling storm conjured by the enemy general, but in the end, her light had dimmed forever beneath a otherworldly blizzard.

The Noctural Fang fell soon after– culled by the likes of an actual God, or at least what seemed like one. Had the Bhalian's employed the likes of celestial dragons? Its size was reminiscent of prehistoric titans.. Beyond the scope of what this Guild was prepared for. Let alone a single Fang.

Azele, the Spectral Fang, had given her last breath to erect the barrier that shielded Helidor from the Empire's final push. She had stood alone, pouring every ounce of her essence into the weave of magic that defied the inevitable. And when the barrier fell, so too did she, her body crumpling as the last echoes of her heartbeat faded into oblivion.

Erigor's fingers clenched, his nails digging into his palms as grief warred with rage. It was not the fury of battle, nor the wrath of vengeance—but the cold, hollow anger of a man who had been powerless. A man who had watched his family die, unable to lift his blade in their defense.

And then, like a whisper in the void, a name surfaced in his thoughts.

Okoye.

The girl who had claimed to be the rightful heir of the Bhalian Empire. She had come to him, desperate, weeks ago. She had warned him. Pleaded with him. Urged him to take his people and flee before the storm came. But he had turned her away, too blind, too proud to believe that Helidor, his Helidor, could fall.

Had his arrogance doomed them all?

The chamber trembled with a sudden shift in the air. A ripple of energy, a tear in the fabric of space—and then, in a flicker of silver-blue light, Zol materialized before him. His arrival was quiet, yet his presence loomed heavy in the space, the weight of unspoken understanding hanging between them.

Uri stood nearby, his arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. He had been watching, too. And he was battling the gnawing dread at the back of his head with false bravado. He didn't look shaken, but Erigor new the truth. Just with a glance.

The old, grizzled Guildmaster inhaled slowly, as if steadying the tempest within him. But when he opened his mouth, no words came. What could he possibly say? That he was sorry? That he had been wrong? That he had failed?

The shame coiled around his throat like a serpent, choking any semblance of command from his lips. He could not even meet his own son’s gaze.

Finally, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he forced out the only word he could muster.

“..Zol.”

He began to hack and cough up blood immediately after. Uri rushed to his side but Erigor shoved his friend to the side. He couldn't afford to be seen as weak.. not now. He wanted to simply cross the room and embrace his son, considering the magnitude of casualties they'd suffered already, he could muster his son being among the damned.

But he withheld his emotions. He stifled his weakness. He couldn't afford to simply be a father, he was GuildMaster first.

“Do you know what has happened?” He asked, clearing his throat and wiping his blood on his armor. “Are you aware of our situation?”

Zol materialized into the room, the air saturated with dread so potent it felt like a physical weight pressing down on him. The scene was a tableau of devastation. Heliodor, once a vibrant jewel of commerce and laughter, was now a husk. He could almost hear the ghostly echoes of bartering merchants and the joyous shouts of children playing in the square, all swallowed by the chilling silence of loss. Millions had perished in what felt like a single, horrifying heartbeat.

His father, Erigor, stood hunched by the scoring apparatus, his aura dimmed, almost extinguished. Zol felt a pang of compassion, but it quickly morphed into something more substantial. He understood the despair that clung to his father like a shroud, but he refused to succumb.

Unlike most, Zol had witnessed his entire adventuring party, his closest friends, be brutally slaughtered – twice. The memories of their camaraderie, shared laughter, and the battles fought side-by-side were etched into the very fabric of his being. To surrender to grief, to let the darkness consume them, would be a betrayal of their sacrifice. He would honor them by fighting, by remembering, by refusing to let their light be extinguished.

"Zol," his father's voice was a hollow rasp, a testament to the crushing weight of his grief.

Zol strode towards him. As he did, his aura ignited a vibrant, somber gold that pushed back the gloom with its sheer force of will. The light emboldened his father, pulling him further from the abyss.

"The fangs have fallen, and Heliodor, she is now a frozen waste..." His words were devoid of emotion, a clinical recitation of the horrific truth. Zol placed a hand on his father’s shoulder, a gesture of strength and unwavering resolve. "And yet, the Citadel remains strong. We, Father, must remain strong."

His naten, the raw energy that pulsed through him, began to swell, coalescing around him like living embers of defiance. The room seemed to brighten, the faces of the assembled councilors lifting slightly, their eyes drawn to Zol’s radiating presence.

"We have not fallen yet," Zol declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "The people still breathe we must carry hope." He turned to address those who remained, his gaze sweeping across their faces, igniting sparks of determination. "And there are six million souls, six million life embers who are still beating strong behind us." He paused, letting his words sink in. "They are waiting for us, relying on us. Let us not fail them."

Erigor stood motionless as his son's words filled the chamber, the fire of conviction in Zol’s voice burning against the cold despair that had taken root in his heart. He had always known this moment would come—the moment where he would have to tell his son the truth, where he would have to break his heart to ensure his survival.

He exhaled, slow and heavy, his shoulders rising before slumping beneath the unseen weight. Finally, he turned, his gaze locking onto Zol’s with something beyond sorrow. Beyond regret.

"Zol," he began, his voice quieter now, yet carrying the unmistakable gravity of finality. "You will not be fighting alongside me."

Silence. The words felt like a hammer striking iron, ringing through the chamber with an unbearable weight. The embers of defiance in Zol's golden aura flickered, the faintest trace of hesitation creeping into his sharp, unwavering eyes.

Erigor pressed on before his son could interject. "I need you to take the survivors of Helidor to Hojoku." His voice was steady now, though the pain beneath it could not be hidden.

"This was my plan.." Erigor admitted, turning back to the scrying window, watching the last embers of Helidor flicker and die in the frozen ruin. "If the Four Legendary Fangs could not turn the tide… if the hunters fell, then I knew this would be our only course."

A deep breath. A pause. The moment stretched unbearably.

"You– You are my successor, Zol." Erigor finally turned back to him, and for the first time, his voice trembled—not with fear, but with the enormity of what he was entrusting to his son. "You will take my title as Guildmaster. You must. And you will rebuild the Fangs in Hojoku."

The chamber felt smaller now, as if the air itself recoiled from what had just been spoken. The gathered councilors, Uri included, remained silent, knowing that this was a moment between father and son.

"This is why I pushed you to strengthen the World Tree," Erigor continued, his tone softening ever so slightly. "Because it was never just a sanctuary. It was never just a project. It was our last bastion. Our only hope against Bhalia."

"You will not be fighting alongside me."

Silence. The words felt like a hammer striking iron, ringing through the chamber with an unbearable weight. The embers of defiance in Zol's golden aura flickered, the faintest trace of hesitation creeping into his sharp, unwavering eyes.

The silence was a predator. It stalked the war room, a tangible thing, pressing against Zol's throat. He choked back a gasp, a small act of defiance against the suffocating weight of Erigor's words. A strangled sound, his first and only protest.

He hadn't grasped the meaning. Not really. Erigor, his father, Guild Master of the Gilden Fangs, couldn’t mean what he implied. Perhaps it was a strategic feint, a maneuver to divide the enemy forces. They'd flank the Empire, attack from different angles. That had to be it. Relief, fragile and hopeful, began to bloom in his chest.

"I need you to take the survivors of Helidor to Hojoku." His voice was steady now, though the pain beneath it could not be hidden.

He opened his mouth, ready to clarify the logistics, to confirm his father's plan. But Erigor's voice, heavy with an uncharacteristic finality, cut through his thoughts.

"Eri- Guild-… father…”

Zol stammered, the titles tumbling out in a desperate plea.

A maelstrom of emotions churned within him. He saw the stoic facade, the warrior’s mask Erigor wore, but behind it, Zol sensed the truth: the sharp, shattering pain in his father's heart. This wasn’t strategy, it was sacrifice. They weren’t dividing the enemy, they were being divided.

"You can't... you can't ask me to do this..."

Zol's voice cracked, barely a whisper. His gaze locked onto Erigor's, his eyes wide with disbelief and a rising tide of panic.

"Fangs don't abandon fangs… Sons,"

Zol said, his voice raspy, each word a heavy stone.

Tears stung Zol's eyes. He, Zolgarious, whose soul had traversed starless voids, felt himself regress. He was no longer the seasoned warrior, but a small, frightened child. A child who, for the third time in his long life, was about to lose his family. He couldn't bear it. The death of the fangs was a blow to be sure, but this...this was something nearly profane to demand of him.

He remembered entrusting the World Tree to Meru, knowing he was capable, yet painfully aware that his presence fueled its growth, its vibrant life. He had chosen to remain, to fight the encroaching Empire, torn between his duty to the World Tree and his loyalty to his people. But this… this was an impossible choice.

"Don't abandon fathers…" he choked out, the words laced with a raw, childlike desperation.

The stale air of the chamber thickened, saturated with Zol's emotions. His fear, his grief, his utter helplessness, swirled around him like a suffocating fog. The flickering candlelight seemed to dim in response to his despair, mirroring the fading light within him.

Rebuild the guild? Relocate to Hojuku? Fine. He could accept those burdens, he could shoulder those responsibilities. But to leave his father to die? To abandon him to the Empire’s clutches? How could Erigor expect him to do this? The weight of the unspoken order pressed down on him, crushing him beneath its unbearable weight. He was a son being asked to bury his father, and the grave he was being asked to dig was his own heart. Yet, even Zol couldn't theorize with what they had witnessed so far how he would be able to fight the empire and protect the many civilians left here. What...what was he to do, with a choice like this?

A sudden cough wracked Erigor’s body, violent and shuddering. His breath hitched, his ribs seizing as something hot and wet bubbled up in his throat. When he pulled his trembling hand away from his lips, it was slick with blood. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue.

His vision wavered, the world tilting for a brief, nauseating moment. But he forced himself to remain upright, to meet Zol’s gaze with unwavering clarity. His son needed to see the truth in his eyes—to understand the weight of what must be done.

"You are not abandoning me.." he rasped, voice raw yet steady, a dying man’s unyielding resolve. "You are protecting those who cannot protect themselves. You are ensuring the future of Helidor... guaranteeing its survival."

His breath shuddered, but he pressed on. There was little time left.

"As Guildmaster, you will inherit more than a title." His fingers curled slightly, as though clutching the invisible burden that had rested on his shoulders for decades. "The duties, the tomes of our forebears, the secrets we have sworn to guard. And the relics—artifacts of power, forged in the fires of forgotten wars, passed down through the Fangs for generations. They are yours now."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the chamber.

"In the archives of the Den, there is knowledge that must never fall into Bhalian hands. Techniques lost to time, weapons that defy the ages, histories they would see erased." His jaw tightened. "You will guard them. And when the time comes, you will wield them."

Another violent tremor wracked his frame, a fresh gout of blood staining the stone at his feet. He didn’t waver. This pain was nothing. This was the result of him channeling Naten through his body. He was preparing his old bones for combat, and the disease he was afflicted with seemed to metastasize whenever he did so. But it mattered not. His condition was already terminal, and he'd always known his last breath will be drawn defending his loved ones

He exhaled sharply and placed a firm, bloodstained hand on Zol’s shoulder, his grip strong despite the growing weakness in his limbs. A bitter smile, tainted red, flickered across his lips.

"I hid my condition from you all," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was always going to die here, Zol. Even if we had won today, my body would not have lasted much longer."

For the first time in years, Erigor allowed himself to break the barriers he had built between them. He pulled his son into an embrace—tight, unrelenting, filled with everything unspoken between them. No orders. No commands. Just a father holding his son.

"You will live," he murmured against Zol’s shoulder, his words heavy with quiet urgency. "You will lead. And you will make sure that Helidor does not end here."

He pulled back, his eyes burning with finality.

"Take Uri. Go to Clara and take the survivors. Go to Hojoku," he commanded, the last of his strength poured into those words. "And when the time is right… strike back."

His fingers clenched one last time—a warrior’s instinct, a final act of defiance against the inevitable.

Then, softer now, almost pleading:

"Please, Zol… I haven’t the strength left to fight you off."

Zol’s chest grew tight, a cold band constricting his lungs. Erigor, his father, the rock of Helidor, listed his… inheritance. It was a torrent of responsibility, cascading down upon Zol faster than he could brace himself. Guildmaster. Him? He’d dreamt of it, yes, in the quiet moments of ambition that flickered in his heart. He’d hoped to build a legacy, to one day stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the heroes of old, to amass renown and respect even half as grand as Erigor’s. But not like this. Not with the air thick with grief, the unspoken specter of loss hanging heavy in the sanctum.

How many times must he suffer through this? The thought was a bitter taste in his mouth. To witness those closest to him, those incandescent lights in the darkness, extinguished one by one. He still felt the phantom ache of Lyra's passing, a wound that seemed to reopen every time the winds of fate blew cold.

"In the archives of the Den, there is knowledge that must never fall into Bhalian hands. Techniques lost to time, weapons that defy the ages, histories they would see erased." His jaw tightened. "You will guard them. And when the time comes, you will wield them."

Zol’s mind flashed back to his childhood, to nights curled by the hearth, listening rapt as Erigor narrated tales of the Consortia’s battles. Of monstrous beasts hunted in the shadowed wilds, of potent artifacts forged from their spoils, weapons whispered to bend the very fabric of reality. These legends, these secrets, this power… his now. His to guard.
"..."

He choked on the words he wanted to say, a desperate plea forming in his throat. There had to be another way. There always had to be. He’d only been back in Helidor for a few fleeting months, and since his return, a chasm had seemed to widen between him and Erigor. Stolen moments, clipped conversations. He’d yearned to talk of the future, to map out their plans for the guild, to bridge the distance of their separate paths. But Erigor had erected walls of time, their interactions brief, punctuated by formal pronouncements and urgent mission briefings.

Another violent tremor wracked his frame, a fresh gout of blood staining the stone at his feet. He didn’t waver. This pain was nothing. This was the result of him channeling Naten through his body. He was preparing his old bones for combat, and the disease he was afflicted with seemed to metastasize whenever he did so. But it mattered not. His condition was already terminal, and he'd always known his last breath will be drawn defending his loved ones

A cold dread settled in Zol’s stomach, heavier than any fear of battle. When he’d returned, he’d foolishly believed his father's weakened state was the aftermath of some fierce, unseen conflict. But this… this was a creeping darkness consuming him from within. An illness, relentless and unforgiving, had already taken hold. Even Zol, with all his strength, all his training, felt powerless. And something deep within him whispered that even if he could find a way to fight it, Erigor would stop him.

He gazed into his father’s eyes, searching for a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. But he found only… acceptance. A serene, heart-wrenching peace.

Erigor had already made his peace with death. With leaving behind the myriad threads of his life. His guild, the vibrant heart of Helidor. His friends, the steadfast companions who had fought alongside him for decades. His son… Zol, his pride and his legacy. For centuries, Erigor had been the bastion of Helidor, a cornerstone of its defenses, an integral part of the vast Consortia network. Zol… wasn't sure he possessed the strength, the unwavering fortitude, to fill those impossible shoes..

"I..."

For the first time in years, Erigor allowed himself to break the barriers he had built between them. He pulled his son into an embrace—tight, unrelenting, filled with everything unspoken between them. No orders. No commands. Just a father holding his son.

"You will live," he murmured against Zol’s shoulder, his words heavy with quiet urgency. "You will lead. And you will make sure that Helidor does not end here."

Tears streamed down Zol’s face, hot tracks against his suddenly cold skin. He returned the embrace, his arms wrapping around his father’s weakening frame. Erigor, the man who had braved a dragon’s fire to save him as a child, the man who had instilled in him the very meaning of honor, was now facing his own twilight with the same unwavering courage. He was entrusting his entire world, his life’s work, his very soul… to Zol.

He melted into his father’s arms, the echoes of the young boy who had looked up at this mountain of a man with such awe resonating deep within him. Now, he looked across at Erigor as he pulled back, staring into his father's eyes with a reverence that transcended childhood adoration. Erigor was a paragon, a legend etched in the very stones of Helidor. Zol… he would honor that legacy. He… he wouldn't fight this anymore.

"I swear to you...Erigor...."

He said as he held his right hand firmly on Erigor's shoulders while wiping his tears with his left.

"I will see it done and...."

His eyes, though still wet, burned with a newfound gleam, a spark of resolute determination ignited in the ashes of grief. As much resolve as a heart heavy with sorrow could muster.

"You better give them hell..."

He said tightening his grip as well.

"That's my first order... as Guild master..."

He looked over to Uri, Erigor’s most trusted advisor, who stood silently nearby, his own face etched with grief but his eyes firm with resolve. Uri nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. They would make their way to the Den. The archives. The legacy. They would need to use Erigor’s personal transportation device, a marvel of ancient technology, capable of transporting them and the knowledge safely. Pushing it to its limits, Zol knew, would likely destroy it, but they possessed the schematics for another, a seed for the future.

Before he turned, before he stepped fully into the mantle of leadership, Zol looked back at the Sanctum doors, heavy and imposing. How many times had he stood before them, steeling himself for his next mission, his next stride towards becoming the hero he aspired to be? Now… now the time had come to forge something new. Something stronger, something tempered in the fires of loss and fueled by the weight of his father’s legacy. He would not just be a hero. He would be Helidor's shield. He would be its future.

----
----

The ancient doors of the Lion's Den groaned as they opened, the enchanted hinges resisting the final march of their guildmaster. Warm torchlight spilled across the threshold, devoured instantly by the desolate cold beyond. Erigor stepped forward, his cloak billowing behind him, swallowed by the blizzard’s breath.

Heliodor was gone.

What remained was a graveyard sheathed in ice. Snow blanketed the once-glorious city like a funeral shroud, draping over shattered towers and broken archways. The streets of Helidor, where laughter and music once echoed, were now lined with corpses—frozen mid-scream, their eyes peeled open in horror.

Mothers clutching children. Elders shielding kin. Citizens who had not made it to the Den in time.

Erigor said nothing. He didn’t flinch.

Each step crunched against brittle frost and broken stone, his boots stirring the silence like a whisper at a funeral. No soldiers waited for him. No Bhalian war cry split the air. Only the wind howled—long, mournful, and cruel. But he knew better. The Empire was not finished. This stillness was not peace—it was a breath drawn before the killing blow.

He stopped at the center of what was once Sunspire Square, now reduced to rubble and frozen bone. He turned slowly, scanning the horizon of ash-grey snowfall, his eyes narrowing against the biting wind. No movement. No enemy. Just the oppressive cold and the weight of so many lost.

But he could feel them. The Bhalian vanguard, lurking just beyond the veil of the storm. Preparing. Watching.

“Come on, then,” he whispered, his breath curling like smoke into the void. “You haven't won yet, monsters...”

His naten flared to life, golden embers sparking against the snow, a beacon of defiance against the deathly pall. Light radiated from him, pulsing through the ice, stirring the air like the heartbeat of a dying god refusing to fade quietly.

Erigor lowered himself to one knee and placed a hand against the frost-covered ground. His fingers trembled—not from cold, but from the sheer force of power building within him.

“You will not take this land... without facing me.”

The frozen city offered no reply. The dead made no sound. The wind carried no mercy.

He rose slowly, back straight, shoulders squared, gaze unflinching. The silence did not unnerve him—it called to something deeper, ancient and unyielding.

This battle was not over. It had only just begun.

The snow began to fall again—soft, spectral flakes drifting from the ashen heavens above Helidor’s grave. Erigor stood alone amid the dead: frozen remnants of lives once lived in joy and fear, lovers caught mid-embrace, children curled in the last instinct of flight. Now, they were porcelain effigies strewn across a ruined city—silent, brittle monuments to a kingdom’s end.

And then, the planet seemed to tremble.

Not from beneath, nor from above—but from within the marrow of the storm itself. A slow, pulsing resonance that beat like a second heart deep within the blizzard’s throat.

He emerged as if born of the frost, snow sloughing from his shoulders like mounds of ash. Thick fur, bleached pale by the cold and flecked with ice, clung to the hulking figure as he stepped forward. Yet he did not shiver. The cold recoiled from him, parting in ripples before the silent heat radiating from his immense frame—a heat forged in the crucibles of ancient battlefields and tempered by eons of warfare.

He was called Ku'ran the Merciless—a sobriquet, earned not given.

And he was one of the last Mazoku Executioners.

There was no fanfare to his arrival. No dark omen. No sound but the dull, deliberate crunch of permafrost beneath his feet and the subtle pressure of air folding around his presence. He stood nearly ten feet tall, sculpted in proportions that mocked the natural world—arms like siege pillars, a torso carved in stonework muscle, and legs that could rupture mountainsides.

His body bore the geography of battle: calloused ridges, furrows of scarred hide, the hardened patina of a living weapon. His very existence denied fragility.

With each step, he left behind wide gashes in the snow, his tail dragging lazily through the frost—an afterthought, as if the land itself were too insignificant to notice.

He moved with a predator’s grace, unnervingly silent, like a storm that had learned to walk.

The ruins of Helidor sprawled before him, broken and shivering beneath the ice. Splintered towers leaned like mourning sentinels. Spires snapped in half like shattered bone. Corpses froze mid-breath, their final moments flash-frozen into grotesque tableaux.

Ku'ran regarded none of it.

No hatred burned in him. No joy. No mourning. He was not here to grieve nor gloat. He was a blade honed in stillness, wielded by doctrine, and tempered in silence.

His command was simple: erase what remained.

Only one figure stood before him—a black silhouette against the pale carnage.

His crimson gaze fixed on the lone man with neither curiosity nor malice. The snow swirled between them, indifferent and patient.

Ku'ran’s jaw remained clenched, sealed behind layers of fur, flesh, and bone. He did not speak—he would not. The ancient mechanism buried in his brain’s speech center thrummed with restrained potential. A single utterance could annihilate the ruins in an instant. But this was not the moment. It had not been earned.

To speak was to end things. And Ku'ran relished beginnings.

He would not rob himself of the rhythm of combat, of the ballet between destruction and resistance. He was a Mazoku—a titan whose culture revered war not merely as necessity, but as art. He did not seek victory. He sought struggle.

And this... human?

He saw no worthy foe. No rival born from myth or prophecy.

Only a delay.