THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

The sound of shifting rubble filled the air, the crumbling debris rolling like gravel in the eerie silence that followed the chaos. From beneath a mound of shattered stone, a hand punched through the wreckage, sending jagged pieces flying.

Slowly, Count Nicalo emerged, dusting himself off as a dark, corrupted aura swirled around him. His crimson, predatory eyes glowed with barely contained fury, cutting through the dim light with an unnatural intensity.

"What in all that is considered unholy, happened ?" he growled, his voice a guttural snarl as he surveyed the destruction around him. His gaze swept across the hall, falling on the Knights of Flame standing in a protective formation around the Archon. Their crimson shields shimmered like embers, forming an impenetrable barrier as three figures in white cloaks and jagged blue masks loomed at the center of the scene.

Recognition dawned on him like a dark curse, his veins bulging in anger as the realization struck. The sight of those cloaks, those masks—symbols he knew all too well—sent his thoughts spiraling into fury. "Abyssus Nullara," he hissed, venom dripping from each syllable.

How dare they attack Castrum Belli Et Ignis—his territory—without his knowledge or consent? The audacity of their actions was an insult he could scarcely comprehend, a breach of the fragile balance he had worked so hard to manipulate.

Before he could dwell further, a faint whisper broke through his thoughts. "Please... help me..."

He turned to see the noblewoman he had been dancing with earlier. She was crawling toward him, her fine gown now torn and dust-covered, her expression a mixture of desperation and fear. Blood trickled down her forehead as she reached out with trembling hands, her wide eyes fixed on him as though he were her savior.

Count Nicalo sighed, a low, disdainful sound that carried more frustration than pity. He stepped closer, his corrupted mana thickening around him, creating a suffocating atmosphere of malice and decay. The noblewoman's breath hitched as the true nature of the man before her became horrifyingly clear. His once-handsome face twisted into something demonic, his crimson eyes flaring with predatory hunger.

"No! Stay back! Please!" she screamed, her voice echoing in the ruined hall as she scrambled backward, her nails clawing at the floor in vain.

Nicalo tilted his head, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "Such a waste of beauty," he muttered, almost to himself. "You could have served a better purpose."

Before she could utter another plea, his clawed hand shot forward, grabbing her head with merciless precision. With a sickening crunch, he crushed her skull, her lifeless body collapsing as blood and bone splattered across the ground. He stared at the mess for a moment, his expression unreadable, before clicking his tongue in irritation.

"Such a waste," he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

A dense blanket of darkness coiled around him, shrouding his figure in shadow as his corrupted mana pulsed ominously. His mind burned with fury as he replayed the sight of the masked figures in his mind. "Number One," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with malice. "You have much to answer for. Such disrespect cannot go unanswered."

He glanced back at the formation of Knights of Flame and the chaos unfolding around him. The hall was filled with battle cries and the clashing of steel, yet his focus was singular. Abyssus Nullara's presence here was not just an insult; it was a challenge—a declaration of war on his plans and authority.

His red eyes burned brighter as he stepped forward, the corrupted energy radiating from him spreading like a noxious fog. Whatever happened tonight, there would be blood. And Nicalo was determined to make sure it wasn't his as he vanished into thin air.

****

Sir Fredrick held his stance, his crimson aura flaring like a wildfire as the hulking masked figure stepped forward. The feminine figure retreated slightly, the hulking one now fully taking center stage. Without a word, the masked intruder reached up and gripped the edge of his white cloak. With a sharp tug, he tore the fabric from his form, letting it fall in tatters to the ground.

The hall seemed to grow heavier as the figure was revealed. He radiated an aura of dark dominance, an oppressive energy that weighed on everyone present.

His tattered black cape flowed like liquid shadow in the faint moonlight, complementing the gleaming armor that encased his form. The plates were engraved with intricate patterns, etched by ancient hands, their artistry whispering of an origin steeped in forgotten power.

Straps crisscrossed his frame, fastening tools and pouches to his armor—each a testament to meticulous preparation. Explore more adventures at empire

But it was the weapon he wielded that drew the most attention: a colossal greatsword of jet black metal. Crimson runes shimmered faintly along its blade, pulsing like a living heartbeat, as though the sword itself were alive, feeding on the malice that surrounded its wielder. It was a symbol of destruction and artistry combined, its weight promising obliteration to anything it touched.

The figure crouched low, his imposing form still somehow radiating agility despite the bulk of his armor and weapon. His voice, distorted and cold, echoed from behind his mask. "You're fast, swordsman," he said, the metallic edge of his tone slicing through the tension. "But I can be fast too."

Sir Fredrick's eyes narrowed, instantly grasping the intruder's intent. "Richard, move!" he bellowed, shoving Sir Richard with all his strength.

The masked intruder launched forward, faster than seemed possible for someone of his size. His greatsword came down in a devastating arc, the crimson runes blazing with an unholy light. Sir Fredrick barely had time to react, raising his blade to intercept. The clash sent a deafening shockwave through the hall, but the sheer force behind the blow overwhelmed him.

Fredrick's cry was cut short as the dark blade sliced cleanly through him, cleaving him in two. Blood sprayed across the ground as his lifeless body crumpled, his crimson aura flickering out like a dying ember.

"FREDRICK!" Sir Richard's voice tore through the air, raw with grief and rage as he scrambled to his feet, only to freeze when the masked figure turned to face him.

The intruder casually slashed his greatsword through the air, the motion clean and deliberate, flinging Fredrick's blood from its edge. The crimson runes pulsed brighter for a moment before dimming once more.