The mist was not an ally.
It was an extension of his will, a cold cloak that enveloped the great hall and turned every shadow into a possibility. Ash moved within it like a knife between ribs: without noise, without resistance, with the precision of someone who had learned to disappear before being born.
Gunlaug planted his feet on the stone floor like the roots of an ancient oak. His transcendent armor glowed faintly beneath the mist, each plate pulsing with a dim light within the gray sea.
Gunlaug had changed from axe to twin curved swords, then to serpentine-bladed daggers, then to a short spear with a black shaft. Each transition was a heartbeat. Each weapon, a natural extension of his arms. His senses, still wrapped in the mist, remained those of a beast: he heard the displacement of air, felt the moisture that Ash's boots lifted from the ground, anticipated every movement with the memory of a thousand battles.
But the mist belonged to Ash. And within it, he didn't need to surprise. He only needed persistence.
The first strike came like a whisper. The pale needle—long, straight, deceptively fragile—struck the joint between the plates on Gunlaug's left side.
It wasn't a deep cut nor an attempt to wound. It was a touch. A kiss of steel at the exact point where the metal curved to allow movement.
The enchantment Breaking Point vibrated on the blade like the string of an out-of-tune violin, and a tiny vibration spread through the armor.
Gunlaug spun like a whirlwind, the spear sweeping through the space where Ash had been an instant before. But the mist had already swallowed the rider, and the strike only cut through vapor.
Clink.
Another impact. This time on the right shoulder. The same joint. The same exact spot.
The vibration grew, and on the surface of the metal appeared a gray line, fine as a hair, almost invisible. A microfracture.
Ash moved like a clockmaker. Without hurry, without pause. Each strike was a lesson in patience. He wasn't seeking the mortal wound. He wasn't seeking blood. He was seeking the crack. That tiny, nearly inaudible sound that announced the breaking point was near.
Gunlaug changed again: long spear, wide sweep, hip turn. The steel tip whistled as it cut through the mist in a perfect arc, but Ash dropped to the ground, slid between the warrior's legs like a liquid shadow, and as he rose, he stabbed the needle twice into the lower back, along the line between the lumbar plates.
Clink. Clink.
Gunlaug's fury overflowed. His movements became wider, more violent. The spear spun in his hands like a propeller, clearing the mist in a three-meter radius around him.
Ash's eyes gleamed with that pale light Gunlaug so hated. There was no tiredness or concern on his face — only a mask of tranquility.
Gunlaug understood then. This wasn't a fight. It was an execution. Ash wasn't trying to overpower him. He wasn't trying to surprise him with tricks. He was breaking his armor. Joint by joint. Strike by strike. Until he left him naked.
The Bright Lord tried to pull away.
He stepped back, then again, spear raised, seeking distance to regroup, to change tactics.
But it was too late.
Ash stood before him.
There was no mist hiding him. No deception. Only pure speed. The pale needle pierced the air and struck the chest plate exactly at the same point he had been hammering since the beginning.
A point where the metal already had a network of invisible microfractures, a perfect fault line waiting for the final push.
CRACK.
The sound was dry, like a rib breaking inside a chest.
A fragment of the chest armor flew into the air, spun slowly, and fell onto the mist. Beneath it, Gunlaug's bloodstained tunic peeked through.
Ash didn't stop. The needle turned in his hand, changed angle, and the second strike drove the tip into the seam of the left side.
CRACK.
Another plate.
The metal bent outward with a groan of agony.
Gunlaug attempted a butt-stroke, but Ash was already behind him.
The needle came down like a whip and struck his back.
CRACK.
The lumbar piece split into two halves that fell to the floor with a metallic echo.
A fourth strike, a fifth.
Chest, back, shoulders — each impact tore a fragment from the transcendent armor, exposing more flesh, more torn fabric, more vulnerability.
Gunlaug staggered backward.
The wounds were superficial — scratches, bruises, nothing mortal — but the psychological impact was devastating.
His transcendent armor — the very armor with which he had killed the previous Lord, the armor that made him invincible in the dark city — was breaking apart like the shell of a boiled egg.
He abandoned the spear and returned to the axe. The axe seemed to come alive in his hands.
He didn't charge. He simply went. One step, and the distance between him and Ash evaporated. The axe rose from his hip in an unstoppable arc, a line of death that parted mist, stone, and flesh.
Ash blocked it.
He shouldn't have been able to. The force of the blow was enough to split an oak. But Ash didn't try to stop it; he deflected it, spun on his axis, and the impact still lifted him off the ground. He flew backward like a leaf in a hurricane, losing the needle in the process, which spun several times in the air before sinking into the mist.
For an instant, Ash was suspended above the sea of mist.
From there, three meters high, the great hall unfolded before him like a map of misery.
The sleeping hundreds lay on the ground like toppled statues.
They all looked upward. All of them staring at him.
Ash felt not fear, but a strange calm.
Gunlaug roared from below, raising the axe for a second blow that would end the battle.
Still in the air, Ash avoided the axe, grabbed the Pale Needle firmly, and threw it in a straight line, turning it into a projectile.
The needle crossed the distance in a fraction of a second and embedded itself in Gunlaug's face.
The impact was a dry thunderclap.
The helmet of the armor — the last intact piece of his transcendent armor — exploded into fragments. Not from brute force, but because Ash had been striking the head joints throughout the entire fight, and Breaking Point had done its work. Metal pieces rained down at the warrior's feet, and for the first time in years, Gunlaug's face was exposed.
Hair golden as wheat in summer, long and matted from battle.
Eyes blue as the sky of the high mountains, now bloodshot. Thin lips, chiseled jaw, a straight nose that could have belonged to a statue.
A beautiful face, bloodied by the gash the needle had opened on his left cheek.
Ash fell.
He landed inside the mist without a sound. His feet found the needle on the ground, picked it up without looking, and while Gunlaug was still bringing a hand to his naked face, surprised by the cold air against his skin, Ash was already moving.
His free hand searched his belt.
He found the small leather pouch. He opened it. The red flower powder gleamed for an instant with an ominous crimson tone, even amid the gray mist.
He crossed the distance in two silent steps.
Gunlaug looked up just in time to see Ash's hand before his face. He blew. The red flower powder expanded into a fine, nearly imperceptible cloud that enveloped the Ruler of the Dark City's head.
Gunlaug blinked, confused. Then he inhaled. By reflex, by the habit of breathing with his mouth open in the midst of exertion.
He breathed in.
Immediately, Gunlaug stepped back, staggering, and then another step, and another.
His body moved as if the floor were the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm.
Ash extended his will. The mist began to dissipate. Slowly at first, then faster, as if an invisible window had opened in the ceiling of the great hall and a gust of wind swept the mist toward the corners.
The eternal torches regained their full light.
The bare stone of the hall was revealed.
Gunlaug kept retreating, but his steps were increasingly erratic, as a cough began to emerge from his body.
The mist disappeared completely.
"What? What did you do to me?!" Gunlaug asked.
Ash spun the pale needle in his hand. His body had received a wound or two throughout the fight. Looking at Gunlaug, he said:
"I killed you... just like I said."
Gunlaug couldn't speak again — another cough took over.
Blood began to emerge from his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears.
Despite his situation, Gunlaug smiled.
"Ah... really? What... a surprise..."
"Don't screw with me... no... I can't die like this," he said as he staggered. From his shoulder emerged an irregular protuberance, like a reddish branch, that began to bloom. A scream full of pain and agony echoed through the hall, freezing the hearts of all who witnessed it.
Ash remained calm, watching the suffering of the former Ruler.
Gunlaug stood up slowly and began to walk. His golden armor had been destroyed long ago, revealing an ancient, faded tunic beneath. His steps were slow. Once he reached the throne, he let himself fall onto it as more branches emerged from his body.
Ash looked at Gunlaug and said: "Rest easy. Your nightmare is over."
Gunlaug raised his face, stained with blood, and then, gathering his last strength, said:
"Good... this is too good. But yours... yours is just beginning." He then murmured in a weak voice, as if to himself, but everyone heard him.
"I... tried. At the beginning, I really did..."
Then he looked toward the other end of the great hall, and the light in his eyes disappeared completely, leaving behind only a corpse from which a beautiful red flower grew.
Ash heard the voice of the spell in his mind.
[You have killed a Latent Human: Gunlaug]
[Your soul strengthens.]
The place fell silent as they witnessed the death of their lord. Then he turned and looked at the crowd of lower district inhabitants and then at the members of the Host.
The giant stopped. His voice echoed throughout the great hall.
"...What are you waiting for? Kill them a—"
His voice never finished. A great sword pierced his back and emerged from his chest.
Tessai spun around, seeing a demonic figure wrapped in armor as black as night, holding the enormous heavy sword with terrifying ease.
The demonic knight made a gesture, splitting the corpse in two.
Ash smiled. And with that, chaos erupted.