The city was restless.
Not in the way it had been during the battle. Not the chaos of screaming men, burning homes, or bodies hitting the dirt.
No, this was different.
This was anticipation.
Word of Zareth's victory had spread fast. Even now, in the darkened streets, whispers traveled through alleys and corridors, spoken in hushed, fearful tones.
"He slaughtered them like nothing.""The Dominion won't let this stand.""So where are they? Why haven't they struck back?"
That was the question gnawing at the back of Zareth's mind.
It was why he hadn't stayed idle.
The Dominion was not hesitant. They did not wait. If they hadn't retaliated yet, there had to be a reason.
So he went out, moving through the city's underbelly—scouting for information, potential threats, anything of use. But as he moved, the streets seemed... emptier.
The deeper he went, the more the city's usual noise faded into an unnatural silence.
And then—
A whisper of movement.
He didn't think. He moved.
A crimson blade of energy speared toward his back.
He twisted, the deadly strike grazing past his ribs.
Then—another attack.
Not from the same foe. Not even from the same direction.
A second assassin struck from the side, blade flashing toward his throat. Zareth deflected it, but the moment his balance shifted, a third presence struck from behind.
A dagger whistled toward his spine.
Impossible—
He barely wrenched himself free, retreating several paces as he surveyed the shadows.
And that's when he saw them.
Five figures, cloaked in black, standing in perfect formation.
The Inquisitors had come.
Zareth exhaled, steadying himself.
They didn't attack immediately. They didn't need to.
They stood like executioners waiting for the sentence to be carried out.
Then, from above, a voice cut through the silence.
"So this is their answer."
Zareth didn't glance back. He had already sensed Veyron watching from the rooftops. The rogue leaned casually against the ledge, though there was a clear tension in his stance.
"Inquisitors again," Veyron murmured, eyes narrowing. "That was fast."
Dalen's voice rumbled from behind. "No. These aren't the same as before."
Zareth agreed.
The ones he had faced under Kaldros had been powerful, but they were still individuals.
These?
They did not move like men.
They moved like limbs of a single entity.
They were not a team. They were one.
"Their Aetherbrand signatures," Dalen muttered, eyes darkening. "They're linked. It's almost like… a hive."
That explained their perfect synchronization.
They didn't react individually. They responded as a collective.
Veyron whistled low. "Well, that's horrifying."
"That's the Dominion." Dalen's tone was grim. "They don't just create warriors. They create weapons."
The Inquisitors moved.
There was no warning, no hesitation—just action.
They struck in unison.
Zareth met them head-on.
A blade slashed at his side. He dodged—only for a second strike to intercept his retreat.
A third presence loomed behind him.
He spun, blocking just in time. But the moment he did—
Then a boot hammered into his knee.
Then—a dagger nearly buried itself into his spine.
He barely evaded it, retreating once more.
His mind raced.
"They aren't just fast. They aren't just strong."
"They are fighting as one."
"They have no openings."
If he tried to overpower them with sheer strength, he would lose.
They struck again.
Not in hesitation. Not in fury.
In precision.
Every move calculated. Every step deliberate.
And then—Zareth noticed it.
They didn't signal each other.
They didn't speak.
Yet they always knew exactly where the others were.
How…?
Then it hit him—Aetherbrand linkage.
They weren't just working together. Their Essence was connected.
And that meant—if he could sever the connection, their formation would collapse.
The next time they struck, Zareth did not retreat.
Instead—he let one attack land.
A shallow cut across his shoulder.
But the moment their blade touched him—
He reached out.
His Tyrant's Aetherbrand flared.
And the second their Essence made contact—he felt it.
The connection.
The web that linked them all together.
They realized what he was doing.
But it was too late.
Zareth's power tore through the link.
The effect was instantaneous.
Their formation wavered.
Just for a second.
But that second was all he needed.
Zareth exploited the break.
He drove a fist into one's ribs—shattering bone.
A blade followed.
A clean execution.
The first Inquisitor fell.
The others recovered fast. But the damage had been done.
Their movements were still precise, but no longer absolute.
Zareth exhaled, blood dripping from his wounds.
Four left.
They hesitated now. Not in fear, but in calculation.
They knew he had figured them out.
And in the shadows, far beyond the battlefield—
the Vice Captain was watching.
A predator observing his prey.
Waiting.
Calculating.
Preparing for the moment he would strike.