"And then there was one…" Seth murmured, his voice calm and emotionless as his gaze shifted to Boyle, who continued to writhe on the ground, still screaming in agony over his severed hands.
He approached slowly, each step measured and deliberate. But as he closed the distance, his right arm suddenly went limp. The sword it once held slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.
Glancing down, Seth noticed the purple patches and swelling along his arm- clear signs of a fracture. It was the price he had paid for forcefully executing a powerful sword technique with his frail body.
But he remained unfazed. The state of his arm didn't matter.
What he was about to do required no sword.
As Seth reached the noble boy, he loomed over him like a herald of death, poised to reap his life.
For a brief moment, his gaze shifted to the carnage around him the bodies of the noble children he had executed lay scattered across the ground, lifeless and broken.
"You know," he said calmly, his voice cold enough to freeze the air. "They would've had a better chance if you'd helped. Not that it would've mattered... I was determined to kill you."
He looked down, locking eyes with Boyle. Terror filled the noble boy's gaze, his pupils trembling as if his very soul quivered under Seth's stare.
"Can you feel it? The cold embrace of my animosity?" he whispered, his tone chilling. The air around them seemed to grow colder, as if his hatred had sunk its claws into reality itself.
Without warning, Seth delivered a brutal kick to Boyle's face. Blood, spit, teeth, and saliva splattered into the air as Boyle squirmed in pain, his screams echoing in the stillness.
Without giving Boyle a moment of respite, Seth mounted him, fury burning coldly in his eyes. He began delivering punch after punch, each strike landing squarely on Boyle's face.
The terrifying part wasn't just the brutality- no, it was the fact that Seth used his fractured right arm, completely ignoring the agonizing pain coursing through his body. He punched relentlessly, over and over, long past the point where Boyle had stopped moving.
For nearly an hour, the sickening rhythm of fists meeting flesh echoed through the blood-soaked battlefield. Eventually, the sound shifted from the dull thuds of bone on bone to a grotesque, wet squelching.
By the time Seth finally stopped, what remained where Boyle's head had once been was nothing more than a crimson pool littered with fragments of bone and brain matter.
But Boyle wasn't the only one who had suffered.
Seth's right hand was a mangled ruin- broken, swollen, and twisted beyond recognition. "Mangled" was an understatement for the state it was in. Yet despite the damage, he sat there in eerie silence, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Several of his fingers now bent at unnatural angles, twisted and broken. He had lost the ability to form a fist long ago, yet he had kept punching through sheer willpower and fury.
A jagged piece of bone jutted gruesomely from his torn flesh, slick with blood. The sight was ghastly- a testament to the relentless violence he had inflicted, not just on Boyle but on himself.
And yet, despite the unbearable pain that should have left him trembling, Seth sat there in eerie, unsettling calm. His breaths came heavy and ragged, the blood on his broken hand dripping steadily onto the crimson-soaked ground.
Soon, the clearing fell silent once more.
Seth finally stopped. Rising slowly from Boyle's mangled corpse, he tilted his head back, gazing up at the sky. The silence was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant calls of the creatures lurking in the forest. The stench of blood and gore hung thick in the air, clinging to his skin, sickening in its intensity.
But worst of all was the feeling in his chest- the fleeting satisfaction of vengeance, already fading, leaving behind a familiar, hollow sorrow.
With staggered, uneven steps, Seth made his way toward Emily's body. His breathing was ragged, his movements sluggish. When he finally reached her, he tried his best to hold her in an embrace- but his mangled hand made it nearly impossible.
Even so, he cradled her gently, as if holding something fragile, his broken fingers trembling against the fabric of her clothes. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the rage in his eyes gave way to something else.
Grief.
A few feet away, Casper's body twitched slightly a faint, involuntary movement that revealed he was still alive albeit barely. But Seth paid him no mind. He simply sat there, holding Emily close, the emptiness in his deep purple eyes as vast and hollow as the night sky above.
At the edge of the clearing, the rustling of bushes signaled the arrival of more figures. If Seth had bothered to glance their way, he would've recognized them immediately- the instructors had finally arrived.
They emerged from the shadows, but as their eyes fell upon the scene before them, they froze in place.
Blood soaked the earth. Bodies lay twisted and broken, scattered like discarded dolls. The air hung heavy with the stench of death, thick enough to choke on, to top it all off there was the corpse of the dead owl bear that still inflicted terror.
One of the instructors finally broke the silence, his voice trembling in disbelief.
"By the gods… what happened here?"
*****
The eastern continent, known as Skyfall, is home to the Arcanian Empire- a powerful dominion renowned throughout the world of Nanscent Aether for its vast military strength, abundant resources, and advanced development. However, its greatest achievement lies in uniting six diverse provincial nations and territories under a single rule.
Like any great empire, Arcania was home to numerous religious movements and organizations. Yet, the one true faith officially sanctioned by the emperor himself was the Order of Eternal Light, commonly known as the Zenith Church.
Rising from the heart of Arcania's imperial capital, Briarwood, the Cathedral of Eternal Light stands as a towering monument to faith and power. Its colossal spires pierce the heavens, veined with molten gold that shimmers under the sun and pulses faintly in the moonlight.
The cathedral's stone walls are carved from obsidian-black granite, etched with ancient runes said to ward off demons and dark forces. Inside, the vaulted ceilings soar to dizzying heights, supported by towering pillars resembling entwined dragons, their jaws agape in silent, eternal praise.
At the heart of the cathedral lies the Altar of Pyro, forged from pure silver and adorned with shimmering crystals that pulse with an inner light. Rows of lit candles flicker in iron sconces, their flames unwavering- an eternal fire said to be blessed by the gods. The air is thick with incense, carrying the rich scent of myrrh and burning oak.
This is a sacred place, usually cloaked in reverent silence, where noise itself is seen as desecration. Yet today, the altar hall is anything but quiet- it is chaotic. A small crowd of priests, priestesses, and cathedral knights stands in turmoil. The reason? The Saintess, a figure ordained by the gods as their herald and proxy, has received a vision.