Silence settled between them as fine ash drifted down across the churned ground.
The red-scaled predator smiled, horns catching and bending the firelight as if the flames themselves were drawn to him. His posture stayed loose and confident, weight balanced on the balls of his feet like a man who expected violence and welcomed it.
Across from him, Arion exhaled once. Steam coiled from his lips in a controlled release, warm against his skin as he met the stare without blinking, cold and calculating while he measured distance, balance and space.
They stood unmoving, a pocket of stillness amid the camp's collapse.
Around them fire tore through canvas, earth split open and men died screaming. None of it mattered anymore. All that remained was the man standing right in front of him.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Shouts of spells and pain flooded the camp, overlapping until meaning dissolved into raw noise.
The smell of iron, ash and scorched wood swallowed everything. Braziers exploded as a titan of earth barrelled through the tents, scattering flame in violent arcs that stung the eyes. Canvas tore like paper. Poles snapped. Blood and mud churned together beneath boots that no longer knew where to run.
"Flame Dart!"
"Frost Needle!"
Elemental projectiles streaked through the smoke and slammed into the moving mass of stone and soil, only to fracture, disperse or fizzle harmlessly across its hide. Sparks danced across the surface. Ice shattered on impact.
"You fools! Tier-one magic ain't going to do anything!" shouted a man with tied-back blonde hair and a thick beard, voice hoarse with authority and panic. "Don't waste your Vitalis—lead it away from the camp!"
"But Vix, he doesn't seem interested in lea—"
The sentence ended as a massive arm of rock and compacted earth swept through the space where the man stood, pulverising flesh and bone in a single indifferent motion. What remained barely resembled bodies.
Vix hurled himself aside, hitting the ground hard. Debris and gore sprayed past his face as he rolled, came up coughing, eyes wide and stinging.
"Where's Karlon, damn it!"
He scrambled to his feet and ran for the centre of the camp, boots slipping in mud and blood alike.
…
As Vix reached Karlon's tent he yanked the fabric aside. "Karlon!"
Inside, the roar of destruction dulled abruptly, replaced by the low crackle of firelight and the smell of ink and parchment. Karlon wasn't there.
Instead a man stood amid scattered documents—dark skin, red eyes catching the glow, black hair falling loose as he rifled through notes with unsettling calm.
"Draven? Where's Karlon, have you—" Vix's words cut short as his gaze dropped to the papers in Draven's hands.
"Ah, Vix," Draven said mildly, not looking up. "No, I haven't seen Karlon. But I did hear he went to deal with our little intruder."
Something cold and heavy settled in Vix's gut.
"Why are you going through the boss's things?" he demanded. "You know he'll kill you for this."
Draven turned slowly. Red eyes lifted to meet his. A grin lingered there, lazy and unbothered.
"Hah… Vix-Vix-Vix. You've always had such an annoying eye on me," he sighed along with a shrug. "Why so suspicious?"
"Because a little birdy told me all about you," Vix snapped. "Your history with the organisation. You think I'd believe you crawled back without an ulterior motive?"
With a flick of his wrist he summoned his weapon—a three-headed flail bristling with cruel spikes. The chains rattled softly as it settled into his grip.
Draven's grin never faltered. Then he began to clap. A mocking ovation.
"Vix. Amazing," he said. "That's exactly what I liked about you. You weren't stupid like the rest of these rats. I'm honestly surprised they haven't gone extinct already."
"Funny," Vix growled. "You should have gone extinct yourself. You demon scum."
Draven frowned for the briefest moment—then chuckled.
"Mmm. I nearly did." He reached out, summoning his own weapon—a large curved blade fitted with nine loose rings along its spine. "But that's the thing, Vix."
The rings sang as the blade settled into his hand. Nearby nails vibrated. The air itself seemed to hum.
"I'm quite a tenacious motherfucker," Draven said pleasantly. "And I mean that literally."
The blade gave a brief pulse in his grip, as though amused.
"Hard to kill. Even harder to extinguish."
Vix stepped forward. "Bold words for a dead man."
Draven stared at his blade, caressing its edge with his fingers. "Don't worry. I'll make this quick."
A grin formed—
—and motion exploded.
Flame tore outward from the tent as metal clanged and wood splintered. Vix burst through the canvas, skidding through mud as blood traced his path. Draven followed, stepping through fire as if it were smoke, the rings of his blade singing in cold harmony.
Vix staggered, realising too late how much damage he had taken. He roared and swung his flail, carving through the earth.
Luminary Art—Earth Fang.
The ground ruptured. Large jagged spikes of stone tore upward, racing toward Draven.
Draven dodged and lunged in the same motion, one step carrying him inside the first spike's reach. One clean deflection sent sparks flying as his blade scraped stone mid-flight, boots striking the next spike as he flipped forward. Draven sprinted down the jagged line, another earthen fang rising to meet him. His blade spun in a tight arc, cutting the air with a low hiss.
The nine rings along its spine began to shiver—first a faint tremor, then a rapid metallic crescendo.
Ching–ching–ching–ching—
"Luminary Art—9-Ring Choir."
Each collision rang out with a new note, the nine tones rising into discordant harmony.
Then the sound turned vicious.
One sweeping strike released the stored resonance.
The rings screamed together, a metallic choir that shattered the spike as if marble had been struck by a bell. The air snapped cold as the released resonance warped the space around him. The nine rings kept singing as the stored force tore the earth apart.
Draven leapt clear, swinging again. The sound screamed toward Vix, who slammed his flail down, murmured a spell and raised a wall of earth.
The vibrations cracked through it, fractures spider-webbing outward—
"Black Fang."
Shadow as sharp as a blade cut through the cracks and blew the wall apart, only for red flame to surge out through the break. The shadow drove the flame forward in a wave that engulfed Vix.
Skin singed. He swung his flail and ripped the flames apart, only for a curved blade to replace them and slice through his shoulder. He managed to step back before it bit any deeper.
Draven pressed forward, grinning.
They crashed into one another in a flurry of tight, punishing exchanges.
The flail had more weight and crushing power, forcing Draven to deflect each blow at the perfect angle.
The blade had speed and a nasty bite. Vix kept him at a distance with footwork, where the flail had the advantage for wider arcs.
CLANG!
THUMP!
CLING!
They fought like men who had survived too many real battles to waste motion, each mistake punished the instant it appeared.
But Vix was already coming apart. Blood kept running into his eye. It was only a matter of time before he made the mistake Draven needed.
Which Draven saw.
Vix finally misjudged his overhead power strike—overextending. The flail came down at an angle, a miss—footing slipping. Blood running into his eye turned the battlefield red and blurred.
Draven stepped inside the flail's arc and punished it with brutal precision.
A blade slid into Vix's chest, cutting deep—biting through flesh and armour.
Strength fled as he groaned. His body stopped fighting him. His grip loosened as he fell backwards, surrendering to exhaustion and damage.
Draven stood over him, glaring from above.
CORUGHH—GAH.
A bloody wet cough rasped out.
"Ha… haha, tenacious, I'll give you that. But the past always catches up, Draven… just like me."
He coughed out more blood. Then continued.
"Killer. Bandit. Mercenary. Justicator. Doesn't matter what you become. The past lingers."
Draven crouched, eyes cold.
"The past can take what it wants," he said quietly. "When I let it."
He stood, turning toward the chaos.
"For now, people have some dying to do."
Vix tried to speak again—
—but the words never left his mouth.
"So you can go shove that shit back up—oh…"
He looked back at Vix, only to realise he had finally bled out.
Draven sighed. "Fuck. Talking to dead guys now. How embarrassing."
He flicked blood from his blade. The rings sang once more.
"Let's see how Karlon's doing…"
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
A shockwave rolled between the tents, throwing embers through the space between two figures locked in a standoff.
Karlon grinned. "Those fragile valuables behind you, they might want to back off. Don't you think, Mr Hero?"
"…Sure, pal."
Arion glanced back. "Step back, guys." His gaze returned, steady. "Us adults have business to settle."
Karlon chuckled. "Pal? No, that just won't do, friend."
He caught a piece of charcoal flying near him and proceeded to smoke it like a cigar.
"Call me Karlon."
After one deep inhale he roared, and flame burst from his throat in a searing jet.
…
The flames thinned and the wind reclaimed the silence.
"Mmm? Nothing?" Karlon groaned. "Really, that always gets some kind of reaction out of the lads…"
I seriously can't get a read on this guy. That's the part I hate.
Karlon let out a tired sigh, rubbing his chin.
"Guess we have to go through our usual script…"
"So, the villain enters… The brave heroic stand… Villain's introduction…" He pointed. "Then the Hero gives his speech."
"Fuck off."
Karlon blinked.
Then narrowed his eyes, as if counting something in his head.
"One-hundred and seventy-nine."
Arion frowned. "…What?"
"You're the hundred and seventy-ninth person to say that," Karlon said, smiling with a gentleness that felt all wrong on him.
"I always wonder why it's the last thing they say."
Arion needed a moment to process that.
Karlon brightened.
"Now!" Karlon clapped. "The heroic speech."
A moment passed. Then Arion shifted his weight.
He spun Recall, her pulse whistling through the air.
"I'm getting tired of your games. I've put plenty of assholes in the dirt… and, unsurprisingly, you're just another one of them."
Karlon stood there, taken aback.
Then—
Clap!
A second clap.
Then a third—slow, theatrical, delighted.
"Bravo. Truly. And look at that, you're the first person to say that one to me." His smile dropped into something mournful, almost tender.
"A shame, really. Well, at least I'll have something to remember you by."
Arion's eye twitched.
"I'm gonna enjoy putting you in your place."
Karlon leaned in slightly, teeth glinting.
"Careful now, friend. I might actually enjoy that."
Something about the way he said it made Arion's skin crawl harder than the threat itself.
Then, with a sudden soft voice—
"But killing you? That will wound me. Deeply."
They stepped forward in tandem, the distance collapsing between them.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Black Fang
Tier 2 — School of Darkness
Description:
Black Fang summons jagged spikes of condensed shadow that erupt upward from existing cracks, seams or points of weakness. The manifested darkness hardens instantly, tearing through stone, timber and armour alike as it surges skyward.
Rather than striking a surface directly, the spell exploits what is already broken—forcing shadow into fractures until resistance fails and the structure bursts apart from within.
Frequently used to breach fortifications, impale clustered foes or punish enemies who rely on cover or terrain.
Essence Principle:
Darkness does not create force—it claims absence. Where light, matter or integrity is already compromised, Luminary Essence yields, allowing shadow to take form. The deeper the fracture, the sharper the manifestation. Shadow does not cut like the blade; it replaces what should be there, and reality gives way around it.
Solid structures fail not because they are pierced, but because the darkness denies them cohesion.
Practitioner's Note:
Black Fang is strongest where the world is already wounded. Cracks, gaps and faults invite deeper penetration and more violent emergence.
Forcing the spell against flawless surfaces greatly increases Essence expenditure and reduces stability. Darkness resents being made to carve where it can instead invade.
Maintain distance—shadow eruptions are indiscriminate once released.
Maxim:
"All walls have teeth marks. Shadow simply bites where the world is weakest."