The once-quiet grounds surrounding the nobles’ meeting hall had become lively with the clash of metal and crackling spirit energy filling the air as allies and enemies gradually poured in from every direction.
It was a ruin of slaughter.
High Elder Verida Sinton surveyed the scene before her, her gaze lingering on the shattered remains of the once-grand castle. Its majestic towers lay in crumbling heaps, toppled stones half-buried in the blood-soaked earth. The garden, once a haven of serenity, was reduced to a grim wasteland; splintered trees twisted out of the ground like gnarled skeletons, their branches sagging under the weight of torn banners and the bloodied robes of fallen nobles.
The courtyard outside the hall was now a tangle of broken bodies draped across the cobbled stones in heaps. Corpses of highborn lords and ladies lay strewn about, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the grey morning sky. Scarlet rivers crept between the cracks in the stone, weaving through shattered armour and fractured weapons, pooling beneath the corpses.
The grand castle seemed unable to withstand the strength of so many Soulweavers and was quickly giving in.
And amidst the ruins, High Elder Verida stood, calm and calculating, as the cries of the wounded faded into the stillness, leaving her with the weight of a decision that would reshape the fate of her family.
‘High Elder’
Her father had once held this title. Before his death, and due to Verida being a Tier 4 Soulweaver herself, he had passed on his title and hard-won knowledge—a gift and a burden she now carried. Neutrality had served their family well thus far, keeping them untouched by the bloody disputes over the throne. But she knew why the nobles were being attacked and by whom.
‘It was only a matter of time,’ she thought, bitterness tingling her thoughts. ‘Neutrality can only shield us for so long. With that bastard Leifstein’s actions, this was always coming, wasn’t it, Father?’
“No one is innocent in this,” she concluded, her grip tightening. Yet, even in knowing this, her family’s safety took precedence. King Leifstein and his loyalists had only stirred the tempest with their ruthless actions; today, they were reaping the storm they’d sown. Under the weight of her father’s legacy and the certainty of what had to be done, Verida chose her side—not for herself, but to protect the family line her father had entrusted to her.
To her left, she caught the calm, steady gaze of High Elder Lawrence Kirin. A flicker of understanding passed between them, and Verida couldn’t help but feel a spark of kinship in his expression.
“Lawrence knows,” she thought. “He’s in a similar situation. And yet, even we cannot afford to wait any longer.’
"There's no turning back, is there?" Verida said, and Lawrence nodded solemnly.
They exchanged a brief glance—an unspoken acknowledgement, an agreement forged in silence. The risk was theirs to bear, but there was strength in unity, even the reluctant kind. Taking a breath, Verida summoned her Ancient Soulbound Spirit, letting its power settle around her like a mantle.
‘So be it.’
Without hesitation, she moved forward with Lawrence by her side, the two of them converging toward High Elder Tyris Remington, who was already locked in fierce combat with High Elder Ceryn Remington As her presence joined Tyris’s, she felt the shift among the nearby nobles—the flicker of fear and uncertainty turning into something sharper, more resolute.
“It seems my choice was the permission they needed,” she realized. “We are bound to this war chariot now. For better or worse.”
The nobles who had been paralyzed by indecision now raised their weapons, rallying to the call. It was a desperate choice, spurred by survival instincts and her own example, yet a choice nonetheless.
The loyalists banded together as the reinforcements from both factions poured in. But things weren’t looking too good for them.
As everything turned into pure mayhem, everyone was still wary of the distant clashes, where energy flared with incredible force, knowing that the outcome of that fight could potentially change the tides once again.
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Marcus Remington fought to keep his focus under Sullivan’s greater spirit pressure His muscles burned, breath becoming ragged, yet he pressed on, each strike empowered with the full wrath of a Tier 5 Soulweaver. The grandiose hall bore the scars of their clash. The marble floors were splintered, ornate pillars cracked, and the walls displayed deep gouges.
Sullivan moved with unnerving calm, evading each furious blow with an almost disdainful grace as if the battle were an inconvenience rather than a threat.
Even the castle’s defences, enchantments meant to absorb intense spiritual power, were beginning to falter under strain. Energy crackled through the air, splintering chandeliers overhead and throwing harsh shadows across Sullivan’s wooden mask, which remained menacing as ever. For all Marcus’s power, it seemed he was fighting against a wall of calm that absorbed his rage without breaking.
Marcus knew well what it meant to ascend the ranks of Soulweaving. As a Soulweaver ascended in Tiers, their bloodline was purified gradually with the help of the higher-ranked Soulbound Spirit. It was a natural process, like breathing.
A Tier 5 Soulweaver was far beyond human limitations; they had transcended what the ancient records called the ‘mortal shell.’ Each stage of bloodline purification refined body and soul alike, fusing them into something that bordered on the immortal. This transformation wasn’t without risk. As their spirit power and bloodline purity intensified, so did the demand on their physical form. The body and soul had to evolve in harmony, growing resilient enough to channel the immense power within, or the Soulweaver would be torn apart from the inside.
It was a perilous ascent, which is why Tier 5 Soulweavers and above were so rare in Solarisynth. Those who survived the journey emerged with a power that defied natural limits and a body that was a perfected vessel, hardened and refined. They had left behind the fragility of mortality, standing as nearly indomitable beings tempered by spirit and strength alike.
Yet even a Tier 5 Soulweaver couldn’t withstand blows from another of their rank with sheer flesh alone; such resilience defied all natural limits. But here stood Sullivan, an enigma, deflecting Marcus’s every strike with his bare hands as if the Spirit Infused blade, with a Tier 5 Soulweaver’s spirit energy coursing through it, was no more than a child’s toy.
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Marcus spat some blood, driving his blade forward with all his might. His Spirit Barrier which was a flawless shield of spirit energy enveloping his skin—was now riddled with fractures, like shattered porcelain barely holding together. And the worst part? Every single crack had been inflicted by Sullivan’s bare hands. Each punch and strike from him sent fresh splinters through Marcus’s barrier, battering his endurance to its breaking point.
Each hit Sullivan delivered seemed effortless, like he wasn’t breaking through Marcus’s Spirit Barrier but tearing it apart thread by thread, the way a predator toys with its prey.
On the other hand, despite his relentless assault, Marcus hadn’t even managed to scratch his opponent. He was a Tier 5 Soulweaver, a powerhouse beyond mortal limits. And yet, with every strike that failed to damage his opponent, he felt himself slipping back into the helpless rage of a novice.
“Pathetic” Sullivan’s tone was scornful, his movements so calculated they felt almost mocking. “I expected more… though I suppose I shouldn’t overestimate traitorous vermin like you.”
Fury bloomed in Marcus’s chest as he swung harder, pouring more spirit energy into the sword, each motion imbued with the raw might of Spirit Infusion. But as his sword bit down, Sullivan’s skin held, not even leaving a scratch. Marcus could tell that Sullivan’s aura was that of a Tier 5 Soulweaver, but his spirit pressure was much more condensed and solid than his own… And his body was seemingly far beyond the limits of a Tier 5 Soulweaver.
Marcus gasped, feeling panic claw at the edges of his composure. “What the hell are you?”
Sullivan’s gaze turned cold and unreadable, his expression hidden beneath his wooden mask. Marcus’s question hung in the air, but Sullivan seemed disinclined to answer.
“This has gotten boring,” he muttered, voice flat.
With a flash of spirit energy, Sullivan channelled Spirit Infusion into his fist, a monstrous force compressing into one strike. Marcus barely registered the movement before the blow shattered his Spirit Barrier, sending fragments of energy scattering as if it were glass.
The strike slammed into Marcus’s chest with crushing force. His ribs splintered, his sternum fractured, and he felt a sickening pressure as blood spurted from his mouth. His Spirit Barrier had absorbed only a fraction of the impact—enough to keep him from immediate death but not from agony. Wheezing, he frantically tried to reforge his barrier, feeling desperation crawl over him as he stumbled back.
Desperate, Marcus plunged into his final gambit, unleashing his Supreme Spirit’s Spirit Replication. Two spectral copies of himself appeared, mirroring his movements as they surrounded Sullivan, each one echoing his resolve. They struck as one, each of them converging on Sullivan from three sides.
Sullivan’s eyes flashed with a hint of amusement. With a sweeping motion, he released his own Spirit Replication, filling the battlefield with dark phantasms of himself. Each copy was perfect, carrying the same oppressive presence and deadly intent as the original, and in an instant, they overwhelmed Marcus’s copies. The doppelgangers faded, erased from existence.
Panic clawed at Marcus’s heart. His aura was fraying, his power running thin. He roared, surging forward in a last-ditch effort to break through Sullivan’s cold mockery.
But, Sullivan moved with methodical precision and drew his blade—the Starfire Blade. In one brutal sweep, the impossibly sharp weapon severed both of Marcus’s legs along with his Spirit Barrier. Marcus crumpled, a high-pitched scream tearing from his throat, agony exploding from the ruins of his limbs. But Sullivan’s hand moved again, snatching Marcus by his throat.
As Marcus thrashed and fought, Sullivan’s patience thinned. With grim efficiency, he clamped his hand down on Marcus’s head, activating the Soul Reaver technique. Spirit energy lashed out like cold fire, boring into Marcus’s Soul, not enough to kill but enough to leave him shattered, like a flame on the brink of extinguishing. His body sagged, slack and utterly broken. His eyes wide but dim.
Sullivan clamped onto Marcus’s hair and dragged his limp form through the castle’s corridors, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He then tossed him unceremoniously into the centre of the battle, where nobles and High Elders fought in fevered desperation. The nobles surrounding his broken form faltered, some shifting back by instinct. After registering his face, they gasped. And then for a moment, silence fell, eyes widening in shock as they took in the scene. The loyalists’ faces drained of colour, unwilling to accept that their final hope had been snuffed out. No one moved to help him; they simply watched, their silence echoing the fall of their once-powerful ally.
Marcus lay sprawled in a widening pool of his blood, breath coming in shallow, shuddering gasps. His once-proud form, battered and mutilated, was now a symbol of despair to his allies. Tyris Remington, among the first to recognize him, broke away from his clash with Ceryn Remington and stepped forward, a dark gleam in his eyes, lips curling in a twisted grin.
“So, you’re finally brought low,” Tyris hissed, voice choked with barely contained fury. He stepped closer, kneeling beside the fallen High Elder.
Tyris leaned close, his face contorted with a darkness that had lingered for years, his voice shaking with the intensity of barely contained rage. He drove his blade into Marcus’s chest, carving a slow, cruel path as he spoke.
“I want you to know, Marcus,” he hissed, his words laced with venom, “on the night you and you men attacked our manor, I was there. I was there when you slit my father’s throat. I saw him… choking on his own blood while you stood over him, watching him die.” Tyris twisted the blade viciously, drawing a shuddering gasp from Marcus, whose face contorted in horror as the realisation set in.
“I was there when you... violated my mother,” Tyris continued, his voice raw, the words forcing themselves out as he fought to keep his fury in check. “I heard every single one of her screams,” he snarled, his grip tightening, pressing the blade deeper. “I was there… when her dimming eyes met mine as her body fell next to my father’s corpse, her blood mingling with his.”
Marcus’s thoughts came in scattered fragments as he struggled to keep himself conscious through the searing pain. ‘The boy… so the boy knew all along…’
The boy he had thought to be too ignorant, too insignificant and too useful had come to claim his vengeance.
Marcus’s pupils constricted, a flash of fear passing through his expression as he began to comprehend the depth of Tyris’s rage. But Tyris gave no mercy, only a twisted grin that hinted at years of seething hatred.
Tyris’s hands trembled with rage and twisted satisfaction as he watched the horror of the revelation etching itself into Marcus’s face. A deranged laugh escaped Tyris’s lips. “You thought you had taken everything from me that night,” Tyris spat, voice breaking with madness. “But all you did was give me a purpose. I’ve waited, planned, obeyed, and played the role of a loyal hound, so I could see the life snuff out of your eyes myself.” Tyris leaned in, letting his words sink deep into the fading consciousness of his enemy.
He then raised his sword, bringing it down in sharp, calculated slashes, each cut deeper than the last, drawing pained howls from Marcus as the blade carved a path of destruction over his broken body. The nobles and High Elders around them were paralyzed, some too stunned to continue fighting as Tyris exacted his long-awaited vengeance with a fury that was terrifying to behold.
The battlefield trembled with renewed chaos as High Elders Verida and Lawrence, sensing the wavering morale, launched another attack on High Elder Ceryn Remington, who was already on his last legs. Energy exploded from all directions, screams and clashes reigniting as factions collided with fervour. Yet Tyris, lost in his own dark ritual, cared nothing for the carnage around him. He was fixated on his victim, watching Marcus writhe and convulse, his face a mask of tortured agony, his spirit weakening with each passing second.
Finally, as Marcus’s screams grew weaker, his voice no more than a tortured whimper, Tyris leaned close, his face twisted in a grim, victorious smile. With a final, merciless twist of his blade, he ended the suffering of the man who had haunted his nightmares, who had stolen everything from him. And as Marcus’s life ebbed away, the loyalists were left to face the reality of their shattered hope.
Tyris left the blade embedded in Marcus’s body, mirroring the way Marcus had abandoned his parents’ bodies that night, his work complete.