Vescrutia: Legacy

The Crimson Cloud drifted like a silent monolith above the lifeless basin where Helidor once stood. The airship’s engines murmured low, reverent. Below, the world was ash and crater—a lake of silence, still expanding.

Among the returning parties, the last to arrive of the B'halian Infantry was not a legion of soldiers—but a looming shadow.

Ku’ran.

The Executioner did not board as others did. He descended—his massive, smoking frame landing on the outer deck with a thud that cracked the reinforced plating. His body bore the unmistakable signature of a cataclysmic battle—his tail was obliterated, he was covered in gaping wounds yawning across his back and side, and scraps of armor barely clinging to his body. And yet, he walked unaided.

He immediately moved to the Medical Bay—escorted not by guards, but by silence and sideways glances. The corridors cleared instinctively before him. Not out of courtesy. Out of survival.

Inside the MedBay, the lights were dimmed to accommodate the Sylva Dryads, whose hands weaved slow, humming sigils into Ku’ran’s skin. Their vine-like limbs pulsed with bioluminscent light– tendrils knitting the Mazoku's ruined flesh with the patience of deep forest spirits.

He sat motionless, broad back hunched forward– the hole through his lower back now a flowering lattice of new flesh.

And then—

Delion entered.

The air thickened the moment he stepped through the threshold, as if the warship itself recognized his presence. He was a high commander of B’halia—an elven war tactician of the Joro Tribe, his record etched into the silver halls of the Empire's Citadel. Decorated by Emperor Akundae himself.

And yet, before this being–Delion’s felt small. Ornamental.

His breath faltered in his presence. Ku’ran did not rise. He did not acknowledge the commander. But Delion bowed, deeply, as was custom when addressing the Mazoku.

“Ah.. The Scourge of B’halia, The Merciless One.” Delion said softly, clasping his hands behind his back. “The physicians tell me your healing has begun.. And while I have great faith in The Dryads capabilities, your body seems to be doing the brunt of the work.”

He said, watching him calmly. “..Hmph. Mazoku physiology truly is something special.”

Ku’ran’s eyes—deep, bottomless pits of gold—glanced toward Delion, but nothing more. He would not speak.

They all knew what his voice would do.
Helidor still smoldered from its wrath.

Delion continued. “Your mission was absolute. The Human Kingdom of Helidor and its elven Guildmaster is no more… gone. As the Zenith has willed.” His words were chosen carefully, reverently.

Still, only silence was his response.

The Dryads worked around Ku’ran with a surgical focus. They did not speak either. Only the rustling of their bark like flesh and the rhythmic pulse of emerald green energy filled the room.

Delion stepped a touch closer, his heart pounding through his armor.

“I know you don’t look for gratitude,” he said quietly, “but you have it. From every soldier aboard this ship.”

Ku’ran’s chest rose and fell slowly, like a forge cooling. The hole through his body was closing, replaced by a deep, spiraling scar that gleamed faintly beneath the MedBay’s low light.

For a moment, Delion imagined what it must have felt like to face him. To see that terrible figure rise from the ruin of his own broken body and tear a soul from the world. Erigor's bravery would become a legend of conquest– simply filtered through tales of B'halian glory.

“..truly magnificent.”

Then silence again. Until Delion shifted, straightened, and spoke once more—this time, not as a sycophant, but as a messenger.

“That being said, there has been another directive.. issued by the Zenith himself.”

The Dryads paused momentarily in their healing song. Even they recognized the weight of such a declaration. Kuran's gaze narrowed in focus.
Delion continued.

“We’re bound for Muu. A cartographic sweep has identified a dense forest along the continent’s southern edge.”

He moved to a nearby console and tapped in a sequence—projecting a glowing sigil-map into the air.

“Our latest intelligence indicates the presence of a living specimen that registers as an A-1 threat on the Muzan Index.”

He paused, allowing the severity of his words to reach the still titan.

The Muzan Index is the Imperial compendium of biological anomalies, constructed to catalogue all known species across the B'halian Empire by threat-level. From the supernatural to the unexplainable– it is the scale by which they determine if a creature should be studied, salvaged, or exterminated.

Bhalia had already purged hundreds of species catalogued on the Muzan Index. Not for sport, but for control. Anything that shattered the illusion of the Mazoku's omnipotence—anything that could level the playing field—was deemed an existential threat.
And this creature, the Velkyr, met those qualifications.

“A small pack of Valkyr has been sighted.”

Delion said, as he tapped a few buttons on the console, generating a comprehensive detail from the Index itself– detailing an image and description of the aforementioned creature.

“Relics from before my time,” He murmured. “They've somehow managed to evade detection and survive hidden here, within the Verdant Spine.”

He said as he turned to Kuran.

“As per the index, the Velkyr has been sanctioned for extinction. We are to locate its pride… and eradicate them at all cost.”

He paused again, gauging Kuran's response. A weighted stillness that was practically impossible to read.

“I’ve already dispatched a recon team to survey the forest. Should they fail…” He gestured to the Executioner. “..you will be called upon once more."

Still no reply. A small grunt, but that was all that was needed.

Ku’ran’s silence was answer enough. He was not one to shuck throes of duty. Mazoku soldiers were bred for one thing–combat, destruction, and devastation. It was his purpose; to see his Zenith's will made flesh. Regardless of the task, The Mazoku shared Akundae's ambition and his vision–they followed him proudly.

Delion gave a small, respectful bow. “We descend into Muu by nightfall.”

He turned and exited the chamber without another word. Behind him, the Dryads resumed their diligent work, and Ku’ran remained as he was—still, towering, daunting.

But deep within that healing body, something ancient stirred.

[Continued Here]