Benedict Emerson leaned against the bar, the river town’s tavern a haze of smoke and sour ale. Post-Trial of Primacy, he’d drifted here—some nowhere burg warped by the World Tree, its wooden beams etched with faint ethera scars. The bartender, a wiry girl with a crooked smile, slid him a mug. “You’re new,” she said, eyeing his Trial-honed frame, the flicker of charm he’d learned in Nexus Town. “Trouble follows new.”

“Hope not,” he muttered, sipping. His Imps—three shadows of claw and ember—lurked cloaked nearby, a habit from dodging Sadie’s wrath. The bar hummed—traders, militia, a drunk crooning off-key. Then it turned.

A burly man in militia gear shoved past, shoulder slamming Benedict’s. Ale splashed, and the guy wheeled, red-faced. “Watch it, pretty boy!” he barked, spotting Benedict’s sharp jaw, the ethera gleam in his eyes. “Think you’re better’n us?”

“Just drinking,” Benedict said, hands up. But the room shifted—heads turned, murmurs grew. Another joined, a squat woman with a cudgel. “He’s got that look—Trial stink. Bet he’s one o’ them wannabe rankers.”

“Leave it,” Benedict warned, voice low. His Imps stirred, unseen. The burly man swung—a meaty fist aimed at his jaw. Benedict ducked, instinct kicking in—Trial reflexes—and shoved back. The man stumbled, crashed into a table, and roared up swinging a dagger. The woman charged too, cudgel high.

He didn’t want this. But the Trial taught survival. A flick of will—Ritual Spike flared—and an Imp burst free, claws raking the man’s chest. Blood sprayed, a scream cut short as he crumpled. The woman’s cudgel grazed Benedict’s shoulder; he spun, Soul Siphon threading her life into a Malicious Guard. She gasped, eyes hollowing, then fell, neck snapped by the hulking summon. The bar froze—then erupted in yells, chairs toppling, blades drawn.

Benedict bolted, Imps cloaking him in shadow, but militia swarmed the streets. They dragged him to Ironreach’s heart—a steel-and-timber sprawl, its canals glinting, towers jagged with ethera scars. Overseer Lira Voss, a judge, presided, gaunt and whip-sharp, her council of six in a stone chamber. Witnesses—ten from the bar—lined up, faces grim.

“He attacked unprovoked,” one lied, a trader who’d ducked the fight. “Killed ‘em cold—summoned demons.” Another nodded, the drunk, slurring, “Monster, he is.” Benedict stood chained, shouting, “They swung first! You saw!” But the crowd jeered, “Liar!”—and Lira’s gavel fell.

“Guilty,” she declared, voice cutting. “Benedict Emerson, your powers threaten us—your kind’s a blight. Death or exile.” The council nodded—five to one, the lone healer dissenting, silenced by glares. Later, whispers leaked: Lira’s coin had turned the witnesses, bribing them to scrub this “Trial freak” with his eerie summons and sharp looks. Ironreach wanted him gone—threat, outcast, different.

They chose exile—spears prodding him to the wilds, a mob’s stones bruising his ribs. He collapsed in brambles, ethera-twisted pines looming, Ironreach’s glow a taunt. Though it stopped hurting due to his high stats, it brought back the memories.

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While in thought, his Imps swarmed, claws tapping, voices shrill. “They’re askin’ for it, Boss!” one cackled, sparking. “Remember the Trial—‘Torch the lot!’ you yelled! City’s a fat blaze waitin’!” Another gnashed, “Walls’ll melt! ‘Burn the bastard’s heap!’—you loved it! Roast ‘em crispy!” The smallest hopped, “Speared ya, they did! ‘Fry ‘em dead!’—my turn! Towers to ash!”

Benedict swiped at them, hoarse. “Quiet.” But their fire sank in. He paced, blood crusting, and spoke to the dark. “Bullies. Thought it was only the bad ones—raiders, bandits, thieves—beating down the weak. But Lira? A judge? Her ‘just’ council? The bar rats who lied for coin? They’re bullies too—hiding behind justice, bribing truth, stabbing what’s different. Good, bad—all the same. They crush you ‘cause they can. I’m done breaking.”

The Imps hooted, sparking, stomping, shrieking, “Burn ‘em all!” Benedict’s eyes burned. “Yeah. Ironreach ends tonight. Burn it to the ground.”

---

The city’s annihilation was a tempest of ruin. Benedict struck under a moonless sky, Imps swarming its veins. One hit the granaries—flames roared, grain silos bursting into ash plumes, embers raining like stars to torch shanties below. Another ravaged the canals—oil-slicked boats ignited, fire rivers surging, steam scalding flesh as barges sank in boiling wrecks, fish bubbling dead. The smallest scaled the towers—ethera runes glowed molten, then cracked, stone spires toppling onto militia barracks, screams swallowed by dust and blaze.

Benedict wove the carnage, runes flaring—Soul Siphon drinking lives, Shadow Dominion cloaking him in writhing dark. Malicious Guards rose—hulks of ethera and bone—smashing steel gates to slag, tearing through Lira’s lines. Forges erupted, blue-white ethera blasts leveling smithies, molten steel pooling like blood. Canals churned red, choked with charred bodies; walls melted, their iron frames twisting into grotesque skeletons. The plaza—ringed by jagged obelisks—became a slaughter pit, Lira’s glaive flashing ‘til a Guard crushed her skull, her council scattering as flames took them. Benedict saw the healer that had voted against his exile being set ablaze. *unlucky*, he thought, before shifting his focus to the summoning circle.

He drove Ritual Spike deep, black ethera surging—a dome of death swallowing Ironreach. Towers dissolved, obelisks shattered into glowing shards, the ground splitting, swallowing streets in fiery maws. Thousands of souls bled into it—screams spiraling into a vortex, ash storms blotting the sky. The air tore, a faint hum birthing his new summon.

She flickered forth—veiled, horned, her skin smoked glass. Rune-chains bound her wrists and neck, dull and straining, her form a wisp of caged power. She stepped onto the ruin, ash crunching, voice a fractured whisper. “Who summons me?”

Benedict reeled, drained. “Benedict. I called you—to end the bullies... the lies. Good, bad—they’re all the same in the end.”

Zera’s embers glinted beneath her veil. “I am Zera, the Shrouded Sovereign, bane of the Sundered Abyss. A city’s ruin for my whisper. I clawed from the Tree’s roots—bartered, bled—to breach this plane. Yet your will binds me, frail in these fetters.” She probed, sharp. “What is your purpose?”

“They rigged me,” he spat, ash streaking him. “My powers, my face—they fear those that are different. I’ll bring it all to the ground. All I wanted was to be left alone. They've got my attention now.”

Zera hummed, amused. “A soul like mine—scarred by the scorn of others. Feed me more, and I’ll forge your world.” Her lie coiled: *His fire’s my freedom.*

Zera trailed, plotting beneath her shroud, "Onto the next city?"

Wordlessly, Benedict turned and left, leaving behind the remains of a once growing city, all of its inhabitants turned into a memory.