The heavy oak doors of the Davis manor didn't just open; they disintegrated.
Baron Davis sat at his mahogany desk, a glass of expensive vintage halfway to his lips, when the shockwave hit. He looked up to see his son, broken and crawling, sobbing snot and blood onto the pristine carpet. Behind the boy stood a figure that turned the air in the room into a pressurized vacuum.
The Baron stood, his chair clattering back. He was a man who had navigated the cutthroat politics of Asheviliah for decades, but the moment his eyes met the visitor's, his knees turned to water.
He knew that face. Every noble in the neighboring kingdoms had a portrait of the King of Avangard locked away—a warning of the storm that lived in human skin.
"L-Leornars..." the Baron whispered, the glass shattering in his trembling grip.
As the Baron stared, the reality of the room seemed to warp. The shadows behind Leornars didn't just flicker; they rose, thick and oily, coiling into a monstrous silhouette. To the Baron's terror-stricken eyes, Leornars's aura manifested as a colossal, three-headed viper. The central head stared with cold, reptilian judgment, while the flanking heads hissed with the sound of a thousand dying screams. The sheer weight of the King's presence felt like a mountain resting on the Baron's chest.
"Baron Davis," Leornars said, his voice a low, rhythmic vibration that rattled the windows. "Your son has been very talkative. He mentioned a 'Gilded Cage.' He mentioned contracts written in blood. He mentioned a system you helped build."
The Baron collapsed back into his seat, gasping for air that felt like liquid lead. "It's... it's the way of the world, Sire! Asheviliah thrives on—"
"Asheviliah thrives on the marrow of the innocent," Leornars interrupted, stepping over the weeping boy. He leaned over the desk, the three-headed viper of his aura looming over the Baron, its fangs inches from the noble's throat. "I want names. I want the location of every cell, every buyer, and every corrupt official on your payroll. Give me the map to the Gilded Cage."
"If I tell you... will you spare us?" the Baron wheezed, tears of pure dread streaming down his face. "Please. My bloodline..."
Leornars stared into his soul, his expression unreadable and dark. "I will not kill you if you tell me everything."
The Baron broke. He scrambled for a hidden ledger beneath the floorboards, babbling names, dates, and the precise coordinates of the underground slave rig. He gave up every ally, every cousin, and every business partner in a desperate bid to breathe for one more hour.
When the last name was uttered, Leornars took the ledger. He stood up straight, the oppressive aura of the viper receding into a cold, flickering flame.
"I have what I need," Leornars said.
He turned toward the exit, dragging the Baron's son up by the collar with one hand and grabbing the Baron with the other. He didn't lead them out; he threw them into the center of the grand entrance hall.
"You said... you said you wouldn't kill us!" the Baron shrieked, clutching his son.
"I said I would not kill you," Leornars replied, his voice devoid of any warmth. "But I never said I would save you from the consequences of your own home."
Leornars stepped out onto the front lawn and raised a hand.
"Purgatory Flame."
A pillar of violet-black fire erupted from the earth, instantly engulfing the Davis manor. This was no ordinary fire; it didn't smoke, and it didn't flicker. It roared with a spiritual hunger, consuming the stone, the wood, and the very air.
Inside the inferno, the Baron and his son screamed, but the flames did not grant the mercy of a quick death. Purgatory flames burned the "weight" of one's sins first—prolonging the agony as the fire fed on their terror and their history.
Leornars watched the manor turn into a pyre of violet light. Behind him, the girl he had saved watched in stunned silence.
"The manor is burning," Leornars said, looking at the ledger in his hand. "But the fire is just beginning. We have a cage to break."