Part 1: The King of Glass
The Royal Solar of the Gaan Palace was a room designed to intimidate. It was a cavernous space of polished mahogany and floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows that depicted the "Victory of the First Dawn." In the glass, golden-armored knights trampled demons underfoot, their faces serene and beautiful.
King Leonus stood before the window, his reflection ghostly against the colored light. He wasn't looking at the art. He was looking at the parchment shaking in his hand.
It was the report from Baron Valin.
The ink was smeared, likely from the Baron's sweat or tears, but the message was legible enough to stop Leonus's heart.
"Subject: Sir Kaelen. Status: Deceased. Method: Inversion. Message: The Faithful is Dead."
Leonus dropped the paper. It fluttered to the floor, landing on the thick carpet like a dead dove. He walked to the side table and poured a goblet of wine. His hands trembled so violently that the red liquid splashed over the rim, staining his white silk cuff. He stared at the stain. It looked too much like the color of the Copper Grove.
"He is here," Leonus whispered. The sound of his own voice seemed foreign, thin and reedy in the massive room. "Benedictus... he is actually here."
High Pope Benedictus sat in a high-backed velvet chair near the fireplace. The fire was roaring, despite the warmth of the day, casting long, dancing shadows that made the Pope's wrinkled face look like a shifting mask. Benedictus did not seem shaken. He was calmly reading a second report, one sealed with the black wax of the Church's intelligence network.
"Compose yourself, Majesty," Benedictus said, his voice dry and level, like old paper rubbing together. "Panic is the scent of prey. If you smell of fear, the court will tear you apart before the beast even reaches the gates."
"The court?" Leonus spun around, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "Do you not understand? Kaelen is dead! Kaelen was the Champion! He was the best of them!"
"Kaelen was a show pony," Benedictus corrected, not looking up from his reading. "He was bred for parades. He was trained to look magnificent in a tournament and to die beautifully if the Gods demanded a snack. Do not mistake the polish of his armor for the temper of his steel."
Leonus gripped the edge of the heavy oak table. "He was armed with Dawnbreaker! A holy relic! And the report says... it says Alaric caught it. With his hand. And turned it to dust."
The King's breathing was becoming ragged. The reality of the situation was crashing down on him. For a year, he had told himself that the sacrifice was necessary. That by betraying Alaric—his brother, his shield, his best friend—he had bought safety for millions. It was the utilitarian choice. The hard choice.
But if Alaric was alive... if he was back... then the transaction had failed.
"We have to mobilize the legions," Leonus stammered, his mind racing through military protocols. "We need to call the banners. The Northern Garrisons. The Iron Guard. We need to surround the capital."
Benedictus finally looked up. His eyes were pale, watery blue, devoid of any warmth. "To what end, Leonus? To feed him?"
The Pope stood up slowly, leaning on his gold-tipped cane. He walked over to the window, standing beside the terrified King.
"You are a student of history, Leonus. You know why the Kingdom of Gaan has enjoyed a thousand years of peace while the rest of the world burns."
"Because of our faith," Leonus recited the catechism automatically. "Because we are the Chosen."
"Because we are the Farm," Benedictus hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.
Leonus froze.
"Look at your knights," Benedictus pointed out the window to the courtyard below, where the Royal Guard was changing shifts. They moved with synchronized grace, their plumes fluttering, their armor shining silver. "Look at them. They are beautiful. Perfectly nourished. Pristine. And utterly useless."
"How dare you..." Leonus began, but the protest died in his throat.
"The Church has ensured this for centuries," Benedictus continued, his tone clinical. "We cull the strong. If a boy shows true aptitude for war—the kind of ugly, gritty violence that wins battles—we send him away. We send him to the border to die in skirmishes, or we recruit him into the priesthood where he is neutralized. We keep the breeding stock... docile. We keep them weak. Because the Gods do not want a fight, Leonus. They want a meal."
Benedictus turned his gaze back to the King.
"But Alaric is different. He is not consuming magic, Leonus. He is consuming Life Force. He drinks the years remaining in a man's heart. He swallows the vitality that keeps the blood moving. Sending your 'Knights of the Golden Leaf' against him is like throwing dry wood into a furnace. He will slaughter them by the hundreds, and he will grow stronger with every heartbeat he steals."
Leonus sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. "Then what do we do? If our armies are useless... if our walls are paper to him... how do we stop him?"
"We do not stop him," Benedictus said softly. "We divert him."
The Pope placed a hand on the King's shoulder. It felt heavy, like a claw.
"I have authorized the deployment of the White Flame," Benedictus lied smoothly. "My personal hunters. Men who know the taste of ash. They will hunt the beast."
Leonus looked up, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. "The White Flame? The legends? They are here?"
"They are en route," Benedictus smiled, a thin, lipless expression that didn't reach his eyes. "And while they keep the Dog busy, you and I must prepare the 'Second Rite.' A ritual of banishment. It will require focus. It will require isolation."
"Yes," Leonus breathed. "Yes, whatever it takes. Save my kingdom, Benedictus."
"I will do what is necessary for the preservation of the Faith," Benedictus vowed.
It was a carefully worded promise. Leonus, in his panic, didn't notice that the Pope had promised to save the Faith, not the King.
As Leonus began to shout orders to his scribes to prepare the ritual chamber, Benedictus watched him. The King was a broken man, a hollow shell held together by fear and gold. He was property.
And property, Benedictus thought as he turned to leave the room, is abandoned when the house catches fire.
Part 2: The Geography of Power
The Archives of the High Cathedral were silent, save for the sound of rustling paper and the crackle of a fireplace that was being fed too much fuel.
High Pope Benedictus was not preparing a ritual. He was liquidating a franchise.
He moved through the private chambers with a surprising speed for a man of his age. He wasn't packing clothes or holy relics. He was packing the only things that held value in the real world: bearer bonds, gems of concentrated essence, and the transfer papers for the Continental Bank.
He threw a stack of "Prophecies of the Gaan Savior" into the fire. The parchment curled and blackened, the lies turning to ash.
"Fools," Benedictus muttered to himself. "A kingdom of fattened calves believing they own the slaughterhouse."
He paused at a large map spread across his desk. It showed the known world—the Eight Kingdoms of Humanity.
In the center, small and green, was the Kingdom of Gaan. It was surrounded by mountains that acted more like fences than fortifications. Gaan was the "Oldest Kingdom," yes, but in the eyes of the Church, it was merely the nursery.
His finger traced a line North, across the jagged spine of the World-Edge Mountains, to a massive territory shaded in imperial purple and gold.
The Kingdom of Kailos.
Kailos. The very name commanded respect. It was everything Gaan was not. Gaan was the pasture; Kailos was the Fortress.
Kailos was not only the wealthiest nation in the human world, but it was also the true seat of the divine. While tradition kept the Pope in Gaan—to oversee the "maintenance of the stock" for the sacrifices—the real power of the Church resided in the Holy City of Othgard within Kailos borders. There, the Cathedral of the Ascendant Sun pierced the clouds, a structure ten times the size of Leonus's palace.
But more importantly, Kailos was where the strong lived.
The Human World was divided into eight nations, and each nation boasted its own champions—true heroes blessed by the Gods, wielding weapons of star-metal and wearing armor sanctified by High Angels. These were men and women of actual power, not the ceremonial show-ponies bred in Gaan.
Benedictus knew that if the beast known as Alaric was hunting "Faith" and "Valor," he would eventually tear through Gaan like paper. The Knights of Gaan were the weakest in the world—a deliberate design by the Church to ensure easy sacrifices. They stood no chance against a Revenant of that magnitude.
"He will eat this kingdom alive," Benedictus whispered, tracing the border of Kailos. "But there... there are walls that can hold."
Benedictus reasoned that the safest place in the world was behind the shields of the Kailosian Paladins. He had been secretly funneling Gaan's tithes into Kailosian banks for twenty years. He had prepared a "retirement" that would see him living as a Prince-Bishop in the safety of the true capital, far away from the mess Leonus had made.
He did not know the Hag's mind. He did not know that she had a specific list, or that she intended to hunt the heroes of all Eight Kingdoms. He simply calculated the odds: Gaan was weak. Kailos was strong. The smart money moves to the stronghold.
"Your Holiness?"
A voice from the shadows interrupted his packing.
Benedictus didn't jump. He turned slowly to see a man standing in the doorway.
It was not a Holy Knight. It was a man clad in mismatched, ostentatious armor made of dragon scales and mithril, carrying a massive sword that glowed with a manufactured magical aura.
"Guildmaster Vane," Benedictus said, his voice dripping with false warmth. "You are prompt."
Vane was the leader of the "Platinum Suns," a high-ranking mercenary company from the Guild of Heroes. He was a man who confused fame with power, and equipment with skill. He was exactly the kind of "Hero" the public loved—loud, confident, and expensive.
"The King has paid the contract," Vane said, patting a heavy pouch at his hip. "He thinks we are the 'White Flame.' Honestly, Your Holiness, I'm insulted. My boys are better than those church stiff-necks."
Benedictus smiled. The real White Flame—the Church's elite inquisitors—were stationed in Kailos, guarding the True Relics. He would never waste them on a cleanup mission in Gaan.
"The King is confused by grief, Vane. But the threat is real. A rogue necromantic construct. Heavily armored. It has been terrorizing the countryside."
Vane scoffed, flexing a gauntlet that cost more than a peasant village. "A construct? Please. We took down a Hydra in the swamps of Zuth last month. A walking tin can won't last five minutes against my team. We'll scrap him and be back in time for the evening taverns."
"Excellent," Benedictus said. "He was last seen moving toward the Sanctuary of the Silver Chalice. Intercept him there. Make it... theatrical. The people need to see a victory."
"Consider it done," Vane grinned. "We'll put on a show."
As Vane turned and marched out, his cape flourishing behind him, Benedictus watched him go with the look a man gives a worm he is baiting a hook with.
Vane and his "Heroes" were not going to win. Benedictus knew this. Alaric was a predator that ate life itself. These mercenaries, with their high vitality and over-inflated egos, were essentially a high-calorie meal being delivered directly to the Dog.
"Enjoy the show, Vane," Benedictus whispered, closing his chest of bonds.
He picked up the heavy case. Three days. That was all the time Alaric would need to chew through Vane and the rest of the Gaan defenders. And by then, Benedictus would be crossing the mountain pass into Kailos, leaving the "Farm" to burn.
Part 3: The Abattoir of the First Dawn
The Outermost Church of the Divine stood on a jagged cliff edge, overlooking the grey expanse of the Borderlands. It was a bleak, imposing structure of grey stone, battered by wind and time.
It was here, twenty years ago, that the "Battle of the Grey Ridge" had taken place. History books called it a heroic defense. Alaric knew the truth: it was a slaughter where his father, a low-ranking knight, had been sent to die to slow down a barbarian raiding party while the Highborn officers retreated.
It was also here that his mother had come every week, kneeling on the cold stone, praying for a husband who was already rotting in a shallow grave.
Today, the church was not a place of prayer. It was a kill box.
The "Platinum Suns" had turned the church courtyard into a fortified position. They were the Kingdom's most expensive problem-solvers, and they looked the part.
Guildmaster Vane stood by the statue of the "Weeping Saint" in the center of the plaza. He checked the edge of "Dragon-Bite," his enchanted greatsword.
"This wind is ruining my cape," Vane complained, adjusting the silk to drape better over his mithril pauldrons. "Where is this beast? I have a dinner reservation in the Capital."
"Stop preening, Vane," Garrick, the massive vanguard of the group, grunted. He was leaning on a warhammer the size of a tombstone. "The scouts said the forest died where he walked. Trees turning to ash. Grass turning to grey dust. That's not normal magic."
"It's theatrics," Isolde, the mage, scoffed, though her fingers were twitching nervously around her staff. "Necromancers love drama."
Suddenly, the heavy iron gates of the churchyard groaned.
They didn't open. They aged.
The thick black iron turned a sickly orange. Rust bloomed like a fast-forwarded infection. Within seconds, the hinges dissolved into red powder, and the massive gates fell inward with a heavy, dull crash that shook the ground.
Silence fell over the cliffside.
From the cloud of rust dust, Alaric emerged.
He was a walking atrocity. The "Iron Pillar" was gone. In his place was a hulk of fused, blackened metal that wept red fluid. The crimson moss on his armor wasn't just growing; it was writhing, feeding on the ambient mana of the holy ground.
He paused.
The single red slit of his visor scanned the courtyard. He saw the stone markers of the mass graves from the battle twenty years ago. He saw the stained glass window his mother used to stare at.
The Hag's voice hissed in his mind, sharp and eager. "Your father died in the mud just there, Alaric. He died for a King who didn't know his name. And now, these peacocks stand on his grave. Make it loud. Make it wet."
Alaric took a step. The flagstones cracked.
"Target acquired!" Vane screamed, his voice cracking slightly at the sheer size of the enemy. "Hit him with everything! Leave nothing but scrap!"
The Platinum Suns unleashed hell.
Isolde screamed an incantation, and a spear of lightning, thick as a tree trunk, slammed into Alaric's chest. At the same time, three archers loosed arrows tipped with explosive runes.
BOOM.
The explosion engulfed Alaric in fire and smoke. The mercenaries cheered.
"Too easy!" Vane laughed. "Add it to the invoice!"
The smoke cleared.
Alaric hadn't stopped. He hadn't even slowed down. The lightning had been absorbed, venting out of his exhaust ports as superheated red steam. The explosive arrows had merely scoured the dirt from his armor.
He walked through the fire, the flames licking his legs like obedient pets.
"Garrick! Stop him!" Vane shrieked.
Garrick roared, charging forward. He activated his "Titan's Strength" enchantment, his muscles swelling. He swung the massive hammer in a lethal arc aimed at Alaric's helmet.
Alaric didn't dodge. He raised his left hand.
He caught the hammer head.
The sound was sickening—not a clang, but the wet crunch of magic dying. The enchantment on the hammer shattered, the glowing runes flickering out.
Alaric looked at Garrick.
"You are... weak," Alaric's voice ground out, sounding like gravel in a blender.
Alaric twisted his wrist. The steel handle of the hammer snapped.
Before Garrick could let go, Alaric lunged. He didn't punch; he drove his rusted gauntlet straight through Garrick's mithril breastplate.
It wasn't a clean kill. It was an excavation.
Alaric's hand erupted from Garrick's back, clutching the mercenary's spine. With a violent, jerking motion, Alaric ripped outward.
Garrick was torn open. Ribs shattered, organs spilled onto the holy stones, and the massive man collapsed into two bloody halves.
The courtyard went silent, save for the wet slapping of meat hitting the ground.
"Oh gods..." a rogue whispered, dropping his daggers.
"Don't stop!" Vane screamed, though he was backing away. "Isolde! Burn him!"
Isolde, pale with terror, began to cast a high-level inferno spell.
Alaric turned his visor toward her. He raised a finger.
He didn't cast a spell. He commanded the blood.
"Boil."
Isolde's eyes went wide. She grabbed her throat. Her skin turned a bright, angry red. She opened her mouth to scream, but only scalding pink steam came out.
She fell to her knees, clawing at her own face as her blood literally cooked inside her veins. Her eyes burst like overripe grapes. She collapsed, steaming, a cooked husk in silk robes.
The remaining mercenaries broke. This wasn't a battle; it was a harvest.
They turned to run.
Alaric stomped his foot.
The ground ripple-fired with Sanguine magic. Spikes of crystallized blood, five feet tall and razor-sharp, erupted from the cobblestones.
They caught the fleeing rogues. One was impaled through the groin, lifted into the air, screaming as he slid slowly down the spike. Another was caught through the chest, pinned to the church wall like a butterfly in a collection.
Only Vane was left.
The Guildmaster stumbled back against the statue of the Weeping Saint. He held "Dragon-Bite" in shaking hands.
"Stay back!" Vane gibbered. "I am a Platinum Hero! I have immunity! I surrender!"
Alaric walked toward him. The red fluid dripping from his armor hissed as it hit the blood-soaked ground.
"Surrender..." Alaric repeated the word as if tasting it. "My father surrendered here."
He reached out. Vane swung the sword.
Alaric didn't catch it this time. He let it hit his pauldron. The "legendary" blade shattered on impact, fragments of steel embedding in Vane's own face.
Alaric grabbed Vane by the throat and lifted him effortlessly into the air.
Vane kicked, his expensive boots scraping against Alaric's rusted greaves. "Please... I have gold... I can pay..."
"The currency has changed," Alaric rasped.
He looked at the statue of the Weeping Saint behind Vane. The stone saint held a long, stone spear.
Alaric slammed Vane backward.
He drove the mercenary onto the stone spear of the statue. The stone tip entered Vane's lower back and erupted from his chest.
Vane gasped, blood pouring from his mouth, his limbs twitching as he hung suspended on the holy monument.
"A spectacle," the Hag whispered in Alaric's mind, purring with delight. "But he is still alive. Open him up."
Alaric didn't hesitate. He hooked his fingers into the hole in Vane's chest cavity.
With a barbaric roar, he pulled.
Vane's ribcage cracked open like a wet book. Alaric reached inside, past the screaming lungs, and ripped out the still-beating heart.
Vane finally died, his eyes staring in frozen horror at his own heart in the monster's hand.
Alaric squeezed. The heart exploded in a spray of gore, drenching the statue of the Saint in crimson.
He turned to the church doors. The massacre was complete. The courtyard was a gallery of horrors—men torn in half, boiled alive, impaled on blood-glass, and gutted on holy statues.
Alaric felt the familiar pull of the location. He walked past the carnage, toward the heavy wooden doors of the church.
He placed a blood-soaked hand on the wood.
This was where she had prayed. This was where she had begged the Gods to save her husband.
The Gods hadn't listened then.
Alaric pushed the doors open.
But they were listening now.