The moon hung like a silver eye over the shattered plains, its pale light painting the jagged rocks in hues of blue and black. In the distance, war drums echoed—a slow, steady beat that matched the thrum of Altharion's pulse. The air was cold, but beneath his obsidian armor, his skin burned with the restless tide of qi and blood magic coiling inside him.
He stood atop a ridge, the wind tugging at his tattered crimson cloak, his gaze fixed on the battlefield below. The armies were gathering, but Altharion's war was not with soldiers. His war was with the shadows themselves—and with the destiny he had sworn to claim.
Behind him, the Veil shifted—an invisible wall of shimmering darkness that only those attuned could sense. He reached out with his mind, the threads of shadow magic responding like loyal hounds. The whispers came first, old voices from the centuries he had walked between worlds.
"The Oath must be kept."
He closed his eyes. The oath—sworn in the dying embers of the First War—had bound his soul to a purpose greater than kingdoms and crowns. Once, he had been a protector, the shield of the Celestial Dominion. Now, he was the blade in the dark, the hand that struck before the enemy even knew fear.
A flicker of movement below caught his attention. A scouting party—five figures, cloaked and swift—slipping between the ruins. Their qi signatures were faint, but Altharion felt the pulse of foreign magic in them. Assassins.
He didn't descend. He fell.
One heartbeat he was on the ridge, the next he was a streak of shadow cutting through the night. He landed amidst the scouts with an impact that shattered stone, shadow tendrils lashing out like living chains. The assassins reacted instantly, blades flashing with runes of warding—but it was too late.
Altharion's hand blurred, his qi flaring in violent bursts. One assassin fell, his chest caved in by a strike that twisted his own life force into implosion. The second tried to vanish into the ether, but Altharion's shadow magic dragged him back screaming, tendrils piercing flesh and soul alike.
"Who sent you?" Altharion's voice was a low growl, layered with an unnatural resonance that made the air tremble.
The third spat blood and muttered a curse in a tongue long dead. That was enough of an answer. With a flick of his wrist, Altharion invoked Blood Rend—the man's life force tore free in a crimson stream, absorbed into Altharion's veins, fueling his qi with a surge of power that made his vision sharpen to predator's clarity.
The survivors tried to scatter, but he was upon them before they took three steps. One was cut down by a Shadow Rift—a tear in space that swallowed him whole, sealing shut with a hiss. The last faced Altharion directly, trembling but defiant.
"You will not stop what's coming," the assassin whispered.
Altharion leaned in, his eyes burning with molten silver. "I am not here to stop it. I am here to decide who survives it." His blade moved in silence, and the man crumpled.
When the last body hit the ground, Altharion stood still, listening to the wind. He could feel the tremor in the Veil—the sign that greater forces were already on the move. This small skirmish was a mere ripple before the storm.
He looked toward the distant horizon where faint, ominous lights burned in the clouds. Somewhere beyond them was the heart of the coming war, and within it, the answers he had hunted for centuries.
Altharion lifted his gauntleted hand, letting the shadow flames dance along his fingers. "The Oath will be kept," he murmured. "Even if I must drown the world in darkness to fulfill it."
The wind howled as he vanished into the night, the ridge once again empty—save for the silence he left behind.