The outpost lay shrouded in an uneasy stillness, its occupants transfixed by the grim tableau unfolding before them. Amidst the ranks of warriors, a single Warlord dared to pierce the suffocating veil of fear.
"Nueness," Bellathos growled, invoking the name granted at birth. "Will you sever your own hand, or shall I do it for you?"
The brutal challenge shattered the onlookers' paralysis. Every barbarian was well-acquainted with the unbreakable law etched into their souls: fail to restrain yourself from unjustly slaughtering your kin, and you relinquish the right to ever wield a weapon again.
Bellathos harbored doubts about Raiking's commitment to their ancient customs, but Arshka was different. He grasped the profound significance of this decree—a necessity forged from their desperate plight as a minority among other races. Needless bloodshed was a luxury they could not afford.
"Times are changing, Bellathos," Arshka replied, his voice unwavering.
"There must still be order!"
"Then consider this," Arshka pressed on. "When our foes are vanquished, and we step into the Void Realm with none but our own beside us, what do you think will transpire?"
"Not everyone will succumb to darkness, Nueness."
"And what makes you so certain?" Arshka gestured to the spot where the human captive had disintegrated into dust. "Did we not just witness the true consequence of power?"
"Power didn't twist him; it was his own frailty that did," Bellathos snapped back. "That's why we have laws—to stop the weak from leading us astray."
"Consider this as weeding out the weak early," came the reply.
"Arshka!" Bellathos bellowed, barely able to keep his rage in check.
Before the Warlord could make his move, Raiking's steady voice sliced through the tension. "You're right. Steel is merely steel. It's only when held by a mortal that it becomes a sword. If a warrior's mind is resolute, a life without bloodshed is possible."
"Then..." Bellathos began to respond.
"But laws are not unlike the mind," Raiking interjected, his gaze piercing as he locked eyes with the Warlord. "They are only as strong as those who uphold them."
The tension in the courtyard escalated dramatically. Every barbarian present understood the unspoken challenge. The Demon King had made it clear he was standing as a barrier for Arshka. If Bellathos sought justice, he would need to confront Raiking first.
"I can withstand much," Bellathos growled, his muscles tensing like a predator ready to pounce. "My role as Warlord demands nothing less." The air itself seemed to respond to his rage, his Wind Magic erupting into a tempestuous gale. "But I would rather perish than betray our sacred traditions."
This was no idle threat. With a speed that defied belief, Bellathos became a blur, propelled by the very wind he commanded, and reappeared before Raiking with a punch that could split mountains.
The onlookers recoiled, yet Raiking remained unfazed, his eyes steady, without a hint of surprise.
While other Warlords had merely dipped their toes into dangerous waters, Bellathos was a zealot for the old ways. Such traditionalists are fortresses of conviction, their loyalty forged in the fires of time, not swayed by the transient pleasures of the flesh. Few can muster the indomitable spirit to uphold their beliefs to the bitter end.
"So be it," Raiking uttered with serene resolve, his voice cutting through the tempest. "Allow me to release you from the shackles of a past that the world is ready to leave behind."
With the Void coursing through Bellathos's veins, Raiking needed no physical touch. The entropy was already at work.
Bellathos erupted with a thunderous war cry, driving his formidable punch forward. As it closed in on its mark, a sinister grey aura enveloped his knuckles. His body convulsed violently—an instinctive response to the excruciating pain as his mortal form began to disintegrate into oblivion.
Yet, his spirit stood unyielding.
Even as his forearm disintegrated, skin peeling back and burning into ash with each heartbeat, exposing the raw, bleeding muscle beneath, he gritted his teeth and plunged further into the void.
"Your determination is admirable," Raiking acknowledged. "It's unfortunate that fate has led us to opposing sides."
Eliminating such a warrior of pure conviction was a heavy burden. Had destiny not placed him on the wrong side of this conflict, his name might have been immortalized among the stars.
Yet, Raiking had long since abandoned mourning for timelines that never were. In a single heartbeat, the Warlord vanished completely. A chilling breeze swept through the courtyard, carrying away the dust of a legendary Warlord into the eternal night.
The barbarians stood frozen in shock. Watching a man casually erase their champion drained them of any defiance, clearing the path to the next phase of conquest.
"Who will carry his legacy?" Raiking inquired.
Arshka emerged from the stunned crowd. "His daughter is the rightful heir. I will call for her."
Raiking nodded slowly. Instead of retreating to his throne, he turned his back on the horde and walked away, his steps deliberately slow. It was an open invitation—a chance for any remaining rebels to strike.
None dared.
---
As the carriage rolled along the serpentine road leading to Dawnfall's capital, Dia'Tia sat in contemplative silence, her gaze locked on the immense spires that soared skyward from the heart of the continent.
"There it is," Elinea muttered beside her, eyes filled with a mix of awe and anticipation. "The Royal Palace... and the Sacred Church of the Paladixtus."
Their expedition to the capital was fueled by mysteries that clung to them like shadows. A month spent poring over the archives of the Great War had only deepened Dia'Tia's puzzlement over Raiking's enigmatic actions. What could drive a man to ally with the age-old enemies of his kin?
"Perhaps the truth is hidden at its very origin," Dia'Tia mused softly, her voice almost lost in the gentle clatter of the carriage. "The crucible where Arshara and Raiking carved their names into legend."
The Compassionate General's records revealed a shocking detail: Raiking's sole reverence was directed toward the Paladixtus Order.
Celebrated as the continent's supreme force, the Paladixtus Knights were revered peacekeepers, their formidable power cementing the grand alliance. Their sway was so immense that even kings and queens would tread barefoot upon their sacred grounds.
Yet, a haunting mystery hung over Raiking's descent into darkness: why did the Paladixtus remain silent?
If Arshara, the Commander of the Paladixtus, wished to safeguard her legacy, she would have naturally chosen a worthy successor. But the once formidable faction, a bastion against the tide of war, had fallen into an unsettling, prolonged silence.