Aurelian stepped back, but as he did, another group of attackers charged at him from the side. He surged his mana, tugging at their mental tendrils. One of them faltered, his movements becoming sluggish before turning against his former comrades.
Meanwhile, the mist-born Newman was slowly reforming his body. Aurelian seized the opportunity and dashed forward, only to be struck by a sudden, overwhelming pressure.
He yelped as his body smashed against the cold stone floor. But with the impact, his form dissolved into a swirling white mist. Mist cannot be pressed down!
In his misty form, he surged forward, gliding towards his foes. The most imposing Newman among them staggered backward, clearly drained—likely his power had entered a cooldown phase.
This is good.
Aurelian reformed, his blade slicing cleanly through a nearby Newman—a woman. The weapon cleaved from her shoulder to her waist, splitting her into uneven halves. Blood sprayed across the now-slick crimson floor, pooling around fallen bodies.
Others attempted to flee, edging toward the chamber’s exit. Aurelian’s boot, now coated in silver-plated armor, struck a nearby table, sending it flipping through the air. The makeshift barrier crashed against the exit, barricading their escape.
Several Newmans rushed to remove the obstacle, their backs turned to him. A fatal mistake. Aurelian moved in, hacking and slashing with calculated precision.
This is for order. All of this death is for order… But why?
He shook his head to clear the thought, pressing forward. Stepping over bloodied corpses, he approached the mist-born Newman, who was now fully reformed. The man’s frantic eyes darted about, his body trembling as Aurelian loomed over him.
Aurelian smiled coldly. “Where is your soul bomb vault?”
The Newman froze, his teeth clenching in defiance.
Oh? What’s he planning now?
The man reached into his robes, pulling out an unusually large soul bomb. Its bronze surface was netted with intricate designs, revealing faint wisps of white light within. Inscriptions etched across the device radiated a strange energy, sapping Aurelian’s strength as he gazed at it.
Snapping out of the momentary daze, Aurelian surged forward, his blade poised to strike. He had no intention of letting the bomb detonate; the consequences would be catastrophic. The ensuing explosion would surely draw invigilators and the garrison to the scene—an outcome that would doom his mission.
His blade descended, but just before the killing blow, a faint blue spark flared to life before the Newman.
Instinctively, Aurelian leaped back. The spark expanded into a constellation of glowing blue stars, hovering protectively around the man.
From the starlight emerged two figures, their forms solidifying into men clad in interlocking plated armor. Shard-bearers.
Impossible.
No, not quite. Aurelian’s sharp eyes caught the subtle flaws in their appearance. Though their armor resembled shard-armor, it was not the real thing. It was a cheap imitation, adorned with glowing inscriptions to mimic the genuine article.
Was this their purpose here? he thought, his mind racing. The Newmans are advancing far beyond what should be allowed. Are they attempting to replicate shard armor? If they succeed, what would become of the Ministry? Of peace?
Aurelian hesitated, confused by his own concern for the Ministry. Why do I care about the Ministry?
The fake shard-bearers charged with startling precision. Despite their inferior armor, they moved with the skill of seasoned swordsmen—likely hired freeblades.
Aurelian twisted mid-air, dodging a chain bladed swing that would have cleaved him in two. He dissolved into mist, avoiding another deadly strike, then reformed atop a table. From his perch, he eyed the Newman holding the soul bomb, who watched the fight with fevered intensity.
The soul bomb in the man’s hands had cracked. So it’s not a real soul bomb after all. What is it? A summoning device for these imposters?
Aurelian dismissed the thought. He had a mission to complete, and no obstacle would deter him. By order, I will see this through.
“You think you can just waltz in here and do as you please?” the Newman yelled, his voice rising in defiance. “The Newmans are the future! We are progress! And nothing can stop progress. Change is inevitable!”
Reaching into his robes, the Newman produced another soul bomb. As he touched it, another blue spark ignited, followed by the appearance of a crystal-edged blade.
Another fake shard? Aurelian smirked. “You’re far from inevitable.”
The Newman grinned mockingly. “Why? Do you think you can save yourself? Nothing can stop chang!”
Aurelian leaped gracefully, landing on a nearby table. “Everything has an order to it,” he replied. “Even change. And if something has order, it must also have disorder. Disorder is chaos, chaos is ruin, and ruin is death.”
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“What are you talking about?”
Aurelian sheathed his blade, retrieving a small bottle from his garments.
Drink the odium, and let disorder reign.
As the metallic-tasting liquid slid down his throat, a wave of distortion consumed Aurelian’s senses. Everything around him blurred and vanished, as though he were being dragged into an eternal abyss of darkness.
Is it just me, or did that taste like blood?
What happened next was lost to him. His awareness flickered out, replaced by fragmented flashes of chaos. When his senses returned, he found himself standing amidst sheer carnage. Time had passed—how much, he couldn’t tell—and now he stood at the epicenter of a bloodbath.
Blood pooled around him, splattered across the walls and floor, mingling with shards of metal and chunks of flesh. His once-pristine white garments were soaked in crimson, the deep stains blending into the air like falling dust.
Aurelian’s attention was drawn to the movement ahead. Against the far wall, a fake shard-bearer leaned with a gaping hole in his stomach. Blood poured from the wound in a grotesque fountain, staining the already macabre scene. The man’s eyes remained wide open, alive yet teetering on the brink of death. That state wouldn’t last long.
What kind of potion was that? Aurelian wondered, a mix of apprehension and awe twisting through his mind. Awe for the sheer might of the Knights of Order—their tools, their power, their devotion.
Scanning the ruined hall, his eyes froze at an eerie sight. Furniture—tables, chairs, and remnants of broken objects—was either pinned against the walls, suspended upside down, or floating mid-air, defying the very laws of nature.
"Disorder to order!" Aurelian exclaimed, dropping to one knee in reverence. He bowed piously, his voice low and reverent. "Praise Him!"
With renewed purpose, he dashed deeper into the hall. His goal was clear: the soul bombs. Once wielded correctly, these potent weapons would ensure the freedom of his master and God.
The priest will be allowed to play once again, he thought, though an unexpected scowl crept onto his face. The thought unsettled him, though he didn’t know why
----------------------------------------
Karl jolted awake with a gasp. Disoriented and groggy, he sat up, blinking away the remnants of sleep.
Across the table, Monica lay fast asleep, her breathing steady and undisturbed.
Damn it! he cursed inwardly. Why had he even expected her to stay awake?
He glanced down at the table between them, noting the remnants of half-eaten apples and scattered seeds. Without the energy-draining siphoning impairing him, his vision had cleared. He could now see reasonably well in the dimly lit hall.
The torch on the table had long since burned out, leaving behind only a faint trace of aftersmoke. Other than that and his own breathing, the hall was unnervingly silent.
Should we be moving now?
The stillness gnawed at Karl. Something about remaining in the hall unsettled him. Perhaps it was the cold, or his ever-present intuition. Either way, he had woken up startled, as if some unseen force had prodded him.
Of course, it could just be his growing paranoia.
Standing up, Karl scowled. A nagging sensation itched at the edges of his mind—a feeling that he was missing something important. He’d been asleep, and now he was awake... startled. Why?
What about my dream?
The fragments of an odd dream flashed briefly in his memory. At least, he thought it was a dream. It felt more like a memory—disjointed, elusive, and frustratingly unclear.
Karl tried to recall it, but every effort seemed to push the details further into the recesses of his mind. Even with the aid of his cognitive powers, it remained out of reach. Yet, there was one thing he remembered with certainty: the dream had terrified him.
Did I see Monica? he wondered. He thought he had. But unlike her usual entitled demeanor, the memory painted her face in stark horror. I think she said something...
Rubbing his temples, Karl strained to retrieve the elusive words. What was it?
Then, like a bolt of realization, the memory surged forward. Monica’s voice echoed in his mind, trembling with fear:
“We need to get out of this hall! We can’t sleep again.”
What kind of dream was that? Karl shook his head, dismissing the oddness of it.
He glanced again at Monica, who slept with such abandon that it would have been easy to kill her—if someone wanted to.
But that dream... he thought, uneasy. Karl couldn’t recall the last time he’d dreamed, much less one that left him so shaken. Perhaps he should share it with Monica. She had been here longer; maybe it was a symptom of the castle itself.
His gaze drifted to the table pinned against the wall. A sudden pang of hunger growled from his stomach, breaking his concentration.
Haven’t I already eaten? Karl frowned and looked at Monica again. No point waking her for a dream.
Sighing, he stood and focused for a moment, then summoned the face of the soul. Colored dots glimmered in his vision, his attention drawn to those glowing with white radiance—the white flames.
Even now, he missed that power. Maybe I should take action, catch and kill something.
Another growl from his stomach derailed his thoughts. First, I eat... again.
Karl’s movements stirred Monica. Her eyes snapped open, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw dread lurking in them. But just as quickly, it was gone.
Just imagining things.
“I thought you were supposed to keep watch?” Karl asked, his tone deliberately sharp. He needed her placid.
Monica shook her head, shaking off her grogginess. Her expression quickly hardened into annoyance. “Did you tell me to do that, huh?” she snapped. “Black! You’re the one who’s supposed to protect me, not the other way around.”
Karl scowled at her outburst. Shouldn’t she calm herself in a place like this? Without a word, he turned and walked forward, leaving her behind.
His attention was drawn to something on the floor. Broken chairs and tables littered the space. It struck him as odd—the hall had been in pristine condition before.
What had happened?
Though he couldn’t be sure, Karl couldn’t shake the feeling that a battle had taken place here. But how? Even weakened by the siphoning, he would have noticed something as significant as a fight.
Could I have missed it? His gaze shifted to the many crates in the room. Despite the wreckage, they were untouched.
That doesn’t make sense. Either the battle was to protect the crates, or I’ve gotten so dull I didn’t notice. He didn’t like either option. One seemed to reveal something deeper, while the ther simply mocked his competence.
Karl sighed quietly and approached the crates. Opening one, he found an assortment of fresh fruits. Strange, given the chaos around them. Still, with his stomach protesting and his head aching, the sweet aroma was irresistible.
He bit into the fruit. Moments later, Monica joined him, eating with the enthusiasm of a starving animal.
Is she still hungry? Karl cringed but continued his meal.
Monica soon exclaimed, “Found meat!”
Karl frowned. Meat? In these crates?
While the presence of meat wasn’t impossible, he hadn’t seen any icestones to preserve it. How could it be stored in pristine condition?
Then he noticed his breath—a misty exhale. Ah. The cold. Is this room meant for storing meat?
Monica held up two slabs of red meat, grinning widely. “I’ll have to tell the grand helper about this place when we get back,” she said. “Oh? Do you want some?”
Karl raised a brow. How does she plan to cook it?