Vasco had many names, depending on the tongue that called for him. They all painted a different picture of the man...albeit with two commonalities.

His absolute strength – and his aptitude for violence.

To his old rivals at the Academy, he was the Knightly Genius; a standoffish man who'd mastered the Talent of Lordship better than any aside from Aspreay. His peers thought of him as lacking in ambition or passion, and bereft of any interest in courtly matters.

Yet they too knew of his strength. One simply couldn't witness his skill and not be awestruck. Many nobles had breathed sighs of relief upon learning that he would be stationed far away from their Realm. More than once during training, he had shattered a Lord's Realm with his warhammer – and no use of his Talent at all.

To his loved ones and citizens of his city, he was Vasco, Lord of Gama; the kind, gentle giant who would sooner experience his final breath than allow injustice to stand. It was common knowledge that he hardly partook in luxuries, and would (had, even!) given up on the few he did for the sake of preparing his citizens for the oncoming winter.

Yet they too knew of his strength. One simply couldn't witness his slaughter of foolish would-be bandits, attempting to raid the port city, and not thank the heavens that he was a benevolent ruler. Merely banishing the invaders from the city would've been enough, but Vasco dealt with them personally to ensure their devilish feet never tread upon any of the Empire's lands again.

To his enemies, he was the Butcher of Greenisle; the vicious madman that had stopped the massacre of the elves by slaughtering his very people – even crossing the line of patricide to do so. Every Lord and noble in the Empire muttered curses with his name. They murmured how he'd nearly committed treason against the Holy Emperor himself, slaying his father and brother in order to protect the filthy elves.

Yet they too knew of his strength. One simply couldn't curse a man for his murders...and not fear him for much the same. Within that ocean of battles and corpses, Vasco had single-handedly carved open a path, reaching his own father and promptly killing him in just one strike to end the slaughter of the last great elven city.

But, to Valente, the Dark Captain of the Hangmen? He was only known as 'Vasco'. No other titles were granted. Only friends and worthy opponents were deserving of that.

Vasco wasn't so sinful as to be counted among the Hangman's friends. And as for his prowess in battle...although Valente knew full well of the man's achievements...

To the Dark Captain, that meager level of strength was irrelevant.

The Lord of Gama was nothing more than his next target – and not for long.

'I could've ended this days ago,' Valente thought, observing their clashing armies. 'Our difference in might is as clear as Ciro's divinity. And yet...'

He glanced at his fist and found it shaking slightly. Visions of the capital city – of collapsing buildings and crushed bodies – flashed in his mind. The memory of the dozens of corpses his recklessness had wrought made him sick to his stomach.

'I was afraid. I feared that Vasco of Gama could be like the former Lord of Penumbria. That he would use common people as his shield to face me in battle.'

Ernanda had chastised him for his concern, cursing his weak heart. She'd accused him of wasting precious time in this so-called war – the execution of a Pretender is a more honest description – and she had been correct. Until now, Valente had wanted to settle the matter with as few casualties as possible, prioritizing caution over a quick victory.

But since that decision, two changes had occurred.

The first was that after engaging with Vasco in battle over the past few days, Valente became convinced of one thing: his opponent was an honorable one. He couldn't figure out why such a man would associate himself with this rebellion, yet of his heart's nobility, there was no doubt. At the end of each day, Vasco allowed the Dark Captain to recover his wounded soldiers from contested land, sometimes even returning them with basic medical care applied.

'He fights a gentleman's war,' Valente thought absently. 'Unlike any other General I have seen. Were it only that every opponent of mine possessed his grace.'

Vasco's kindness had forged doubt into certainty. By now, Valente knew that this man would not use his soldiers as a shield, nor was he hiding some cowardly scheme to make the Dark Captain hesitate in striking.

Yet had this been the only change, mayhaps Valente would've held back the worst of it out of respect for his magnificent opponent. It was the second piece of news that forced him to reconsider his approach – and it came in a distant shout that only he could hear.

'The assault on Penumbria failed.'

Ciro informed him through the Lord Talent. It was difficult to send messages to another so far away, even inside of his Realm, but Valente's Rank allowed him to purposefully welcome the distant thought.

'I haven't the slightest idea what our Little Painter is planning! Enough of this! Kill Vasco of Gama right now – RIGHT NOW, you hear me? I don't care how many of his men get in the way! I don't care how many of OUR men get in the way! He cannot be allowed to live! Finish this before they pull any more absurd tricks!'

The Dark Captain closed his eyes and allowed himself a deep sigh. He was reminded of a sacred vow he'd sworn long ago...though at the time it was merely a peasant speaking to himself, with only the Gods as his witness.

Duty before his own life. The innocent before his duty.

'And the Emperor's wishes above all else.'

His eyes snapped wide open. "All troops – to Ernanda!" Valente declared, gesturing at his vice-captains. "Reinforce her flanks and carry this order to her: we must win as soon as possible. No matter the cost."

While Ernanda was amongst the strongest of Hangmen, unlike Valente, she was not so overwhelmingly strong as to be near-invulnerable. A stray arrow could've killed her under the right circumstances. As such, she was leading an uphill charge against the left flank, which the Undying Elf of Gama had been defending most fiercely.

Her resistance wouldn't last much longer. With reinforcements at Ernanda's side, the Hangwoman should be able to quickly break through and capture the rebels' position.

There was a reason why they hadn't enacted this plan until now...but the Emperor's orders were absolute.

–

On the other side of the battlefield, Vasco of Gama noticed the change immediately.

'They're retreating,' he thought. 'And not just a few troops, either. This is a complete withdrawal. But...why? Even if they outnumber us, they must know we can smash their flank and rout many of their troops while they reposition. This isn't just a reckless strategy – it's an impossible one.'

"My lord?" asked one of his men. "Should I give the order to pursue?"

Vasco cursed beneath his breath. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones.

Yet not giving chase was a luxury they could scarcely afford. For one, they couldn't let the Hangmen penetrate their defensive lines through the left flank. If Valente's forces made their way to Adam before he learned the secret of countering Rot, then the war was over. Just like that.

And for another...Solara would die.

Vasco could not, would not, allow either to happen.

"On me," he declared, mounting his horse. "Draw up formations. We're going to slaughter every single one of the Emperor's mongrels." 'I can only hope I notice their trap before they unleash it – and pray that I am making the right decision.'

'Twas a false choice and a vain hope.

A man of his Rank didn't have the enhanced senses to hear the Dark Captain heralding the song of corpses.

Nor could he have prevented it regardless.

–

Valente stood alone, eyeing the charging rebel army from a distance. Hesitantly, he withdrew a few Orbs from his pocket.

'The last time I did this was in the Capital,' he recalled, his thoughts filled with regret. 'And at that time...I held back. I tried to keep my attacks from destroying our city – from harming innocents.'

For all the good that had done.

'But now...there is no city before me.' He nodded, confidence surging as he tightened his grip around the Orbs. 'Our army is behind me – my men are out of range. In an open field, there will be no casualties other than the enemy.'

Which was still a steep price to pay.

Those poor men in the rebel's army were innocents as well. Mere pawns tricked by the Pretender and his allies, then sent to die in a sinful rebellion against their rightful Emperor. Commoners knew nothing of righteousness and duty; their only true quality was loyalty. Valente knew this better than anyone – he'd been a commoner himself before Ciro bestowed the honor of a title upon him.

But cruel as it was, they had to die. Such was the way of things. The Emperor had declared it so.

Only because the rebels had held them as shields for too long, though. Their blood was on the Pretender's paintbrush, not their Emperor's orders.

'If artists are champions of imagination, Painter, then I pray that tales of this battle reach your ears and haunt your dreams until your dying day. My Emperor would not have wished for this.'

With an inevitable slowness, the Dark Captain held up two fingers and muttered two words.

'Ethereal Sonata.'

–

"Steady!" Vasco warned his men. "We cannot waste this chance! There must be a trick, but even so–"

He gestured at the distant Hangman. "–He's just as human as us! Doesn't matter what ruse he's got in store! If he fucks up – we'll FUCK HIM UP!"

His declaration was met with a chorus of roars from his men as they galloped forth. "STAND PROUD!" Vasco bellowed. "LET OUR NAMES BE REMEMBERED AS THE ONES WHO FELLED THE WORLD'S STRONGEST...THE...world's..."

His voice faded and his horse came to a halt. A second later, his brain finally processed what lay before him.

The speed of the savagery he now witnessed surpassed the speed that sound touched his ears. 'Have...have my eardrums burst?' was Vasco's Lord-hastened thought. 'No...just...'

'The sound is yet to occur.'

The land around, behind, and before him had already been torn asunder.

Until now, the ground between the Hangman and themselves had been a nondescript plain. Of that he was certain – yet his eyes challenged him to question that reality. Now stood a broken tapestry of chaos, marked by a series of massive interwoven holes, as though a giant had raked the land with an enormous shovel.

Chunks of earth and rock were strewn about, creating a jagged terrain that seemed almost alien. Smoke rose from the deep fissures, the ground still smoldering from the sheer intensity of the attack. It was as if the very essence of the earth had been torn apart and left to fester in its own ruin.

Vasco the Lord of Gama, Vasco the Butcher of Greenisle, Vasco the Knightly Genius, Vasco the one who remained unyielding before death itself...felt his will falter as he beheld the injuries left on the planet's surface.

It was only then that he started to comprehend Valente's attack.

A chorus of shooting stars had blasted out from the Hangman's grip, flying violently in every direction and leaving behind a trailing red mist. The eyeball-sized meteors flew mostly straight, seeming as likely to soar upward as downward – until they would bounce off each other, or even bounce off the air itself, changing directions abruptly and at random. One suddenly started moving in Vasco's direction–

It was then, and only then, that the Lord of Gama's distorted senses heard something. A faint whisper that had been muttered what felt like an eternity ago.

"Ethereal...Sonata..." Valente had declared, as he unleashed murder upon them.

And murder they had felt.

'Im...I'm alive,' Vasco told himself. 'That means we can still kill him. Even if I don't understand what's going on. How many men did that attack–'

He turned to check on his army.

Horror flooded his senses.

Soldiers who – just moments before – had filled the battlefield with their cries were now wholly unrecognizable. Those whose misery stopped at death were the lucky few; many weren't even whole. Their bodies had been grotesquely contorted by the Hangman's meteoric Orbs, the ground now littered with remains torn from their corpses.

Others hadn't been so lucky as that. Their families would be incapable of burying the unrecognizable heaps of flesh and bone they now blended into. Blood soaked the earth, creating streams of crimson that flowed into the deep craters left by the attack, as if a macabre river had just spawned into existence.

The air was filled with the metallic tang of blood and the sickening scent of seared flesh, a visceral reminder of the Hangman's power. Shattered weapons and torn banners lay amongst the dead, silent witnesses to the massacre. Vasco's heart pounded in his chest as he took in the overwhelming destruction, the weight of his losses crashing down upon him.

Vengeance and fury were the first emotions to return to him as he whirled to face the Hangman. "MONSTER! YOU SHALL PAY FOR–"

It was here he realized that his horse could not lead him on this march, as it, too, fell down headless. Vasco fell with it, collapsing onto the ground in a pile of tangled limbs. For just a second he felt – imagined? – those detached arms from his dead men holding onto him, begging him to stay down.

He hurriedly rose to his feet – only to stumble again, his legs shaking. Instinctively, the Lord of Gama dragged his fingers across his chest.

His hand came back stained with blood.

'I...I didn't avoid it completely,' Vasco absently thought, as the Dark Captain stalked towards him. 'Even with my Lord Talent, even though he wasn't aiming for me...I barely...'

A bloody cough stopped his trailing thoughts. The Butcher of Greenisle, named thus in one of the Empire's worst massacres, sank to his knees in a state of shock. He couldn't even muster up the appropriate fear he should rightfully be feeling as the Dark Captain approached him.

Vasco had led 371 men on the right flank. Out of those, 148 had participated in the charge against the Hangman.

239 had died just now.

–

'It's...over.'

There were three men in existence whose Talents reached the peak of the Painted World's logic. Only three men still living, and seven in total recorded history, who had managed to achieve the elusive glory of reaching the 1st Rank.

Those belonging to that elusive trio held illustrious titles of their own. There was the Emperor of the World, there was The Grandmaster of the Puppets–

–And there would always be the Dark Captain of the Hangmen.

Despite the clear line separating those three and the rest of the Painted World, within those three, the difference was far blurrier. Throughout the years, across virtually every Imperial tavern in the land, many a drunken debate had risen over whether the Hangman or the Emperor was truly deserving of the title of Strongest. Vasco himself had occasionally indulged in a cup of wine and partaken in that same argument.

Now, as he stood in the aftermath of the Dark Captain's melodic massacre...he realized how foolish those arguments were.

There had never been a question.

Valente was the best there was, the best there is, and the best there would ever be. The Dark Captain of the Hangmen, slowly stalking toward the fallen Lord of Gama, was indisputably the Painted World's Strongest.

And Vasco didn't give a damn.

"Order your troops back!" he bellowed, with a confidence that his useless knees did not share. Vasco pressed his warhammer against the ground, attempting to forcefully push his way to uprightness. 'Be who you want to be – I will not let my daughter die before my eyes!' "I told you to ORDER THEM BACK!"

Valente didn't respond, continuing his slow march towards the lord. His deadened gaze was enough to cause Vasco to feel as though he'd been attacked again. 'Steady, feet of mine! Do not fall!'

But for the first time...the lord found an order of his disobeyed. His knees trembled weakly, and he had to tighten his grip on his weapon in order to remain standing. 'Not yet! I have to kill him – have to get to his troops! Now, now, NOW!'

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The Dark Captain was just ten feet away now. Vasco's hands started to twitch, and he desperately threw his shoulder over the weapon's hilt to keep it from slipping out of his reach. 'I have to kill him! Move, move, mo–'

His mighty warhammer snapped in two, sending the lord tumbling down onto the mud. Whether it had been the Hangman's previous attack that did it, or merely his own weight, he did not know, and did not care. There was but one thing on Vasco's mind at that moment.

"My daughter!" He raised his voice, shouting at the approaching Hangman as if defying a specter of death, "She will die if I don't kill you now!"

"Yes," Valente acknowledged, in a solemn tone. He paused for a moment, then said, "You have my sympathies...yet she must die. Our Emperor has decreed it so."

The Lord of Gama crawled toward him. "Take me as a prisoner," he barked out. "I'll have Gama surrender, I'll bend the knee to the Emperor, I'll sell my fucking soul – but KEEP HER ALIVE!"

Solara had suffered far too much to die here. She was too young, only now beginning to make genuine friends. The girl had barely interacted with others since...since Greenisle.

Vasco could live a thousand lives and still not be able to apologize for what his family had done to her kind.

'Just a normal child – and she had to witness her family, her friends, and her neighbors all butchered like animals!' Those nightmares haunted her every night. The girl rarely spoke of it aloud, yet it was plain from the way she'd flinch at open doors, or stutter upon seeing a ship she did not recognize arriving at Gama's docks, or how she would look away while muttering something about her lack of sleep.

And it was Vasco's family that had inflicted that suffering upon her. Her, and countless other elves – the few 'lucky' enough to have survived the butchery of Greenisle. The least he could do for her and them, the very least, was to keep Solara safe and give her the chance to grow up happy and strong.

Until the day she could shape Gama into a haven for her people.

"I'm sorry, Vasco," said the Dark Captain. He withdrew another Orb from his pocket, then promptly placed it between his closed index finger and his thumb. "I wanted to say this to you in person before killing you: I respect you for not using cowardly tactics. Thank you...and I'm sorry. I'll make sure that your tombstone speaks of your valor, and not of your part in Greenisle."

Valente lowered his hand, aiming the sphere at him. "May you meet with your daughter in the life beyond this one."

'Gods...demons...anyone that can listen!' Vasco's thoughts surged with desperation. 'I deserve to die a thousand deaths, but not yet! I have to keep her alive! Please! Please!'

Valente angled his hand at him.

'Gods! Answer to this prayer of mine, and you may have my life!'

No such beings heeded his request.

'Dark Sorcerer! You may burn my very soul to ashes if it will save her life!'

Even the most malevolent of beings did not respond to him.

"Farewell," Valente said, quietly and sadly, "my dear gentleman General. I shall remember you for as long as I live."

'ANYONE! HELP ME – HELP SOLARA!'

Vasco closed his eyes and thought of any deities, malicious, or otherwise, that he could offer his soul to. None responded.

'ANYONE! PLEASE...JUST THIS ONCE!'

But deep inside, he knew there would be no answer. There was no one to help him.

There never had been.

Ever since the day he went against his father, Vasco had been alone. For the sin of patricide, he was doomed to die in miserable solitude, without even a single gentle hand on his shoulder to help share the burden of life. He had accepted this – so long as he could atone for what he'd done and save Solara.

But now...

"Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Don't...don't do this..."

Valente closed his eyes and moved his finger to snap the–

"STOP!" proclaimed a new, familiar voice.

It wasn't a Royal Order declared inside a Realm, yet it was spoken with the confidence and regalness of one. Mayhaps that was why even the Strongest Man in the Painted World found himself unconsciously obeying the command, slowly turning his neck as the color drained from his face.

"Are you...kidding...me?" Valente muttered. "That's not – you're not real."

A lone horse galloped across the shattered battlefield, its rider's long golden hair fluttering like a banner of defiance in the wind. In the midst of smoke and ruins, that indomitable presence made its way through a backdrop of death and destruction, each moment an eerie silence punctuated only by the rhythmic thudding of hooves on broken ground. His hair trailed behind the speeding animal like a ghost's echo, catching the sunlight and casting an almost ethereal glow.

'Ah...I was wrong,' Vasco thought weakly, his wounds nearly causing his conscience to fade. 'I was never really alone, was I? Even when I tried to push you away...you were always there, waiting for me to step closer to you again.'

Although the onslaught of death, carnage and pain had done little to crack the Lord of Gama's stoic expression, he was now thrust into a losing fight against his own tears. "I've...I've missed you so much," he said. "More than my lips can say."

The gallant rider stopped before him. "Oh, I know," Aspreay remarked, a taunting smirk curving across his lips. Without waiting for a response, he dismounted from his horse, then approached Valente in that same motion.

Grimacing, the disgraced Lord examined the stunned Hangman from head to toe. Their eyes met, Aspreay's gaze filling with disgust and derision. "You hurt Vasco," he said, as if in disbelief. "How dare you?"

"How are you ALIVE?!" Valente cried out. "When we fought in Penumbria, I–I might have...caused casualties...but I definitely killed you! I killed you!" The Hangman's anguished cry was both an accusation and a question. "How could you survive with such wounds?"

Aspreay let out a haughty, imperious laugh. "Oh, rest assured that your memory does not fail you. Our showdown went as you recall – it just so happens the strings of my fate have yet to be cut."

He slowly dusted off his clothes, like the movement was unfamiliar to him. "Nonetheless, you most definitely killed me."

"Yet here you stand."

"Yet here I stand," Aspreay acknowledged, his grin growing wider and more mocking. "What do you intend to do about it?"

The Hangman stammered back as if he'd been struck. "Are you mad?" Valente wildly gestured around at the broken battlefield. Even the walls leading into the ruined Santuario das Chamas had been shattered by his earlier attack. There was a harrowing silence in the air, and corpses littered the red-stained dirt.

"Have you not witnessed what I am truly capable of?" There was a brief stutter to Valente's tone...and although Vasco could scarcely believe it, a hint of nervousness in there somewhere. "At the capital, I held back for fear of collateral damage." His voice trembled with fury. "Though you still forced me to kill many innocents that day."

Aspreay laughed again. "Oh my, you're still dodging your responsibility?" He tilted his head and frowned in concentration. "Or are you simply so idiotic that you're incapable of recognizing your own sins?"

Valente rapidly shook his head. "You won't trick me this time, cretin!" He stepped forward, a nervous satisfaction punctuating his heavy breaths. "Do you not see how strong I am when I care not for holding back?"

The Lord made a show of looking around before facing the Dark Captain with a raised eyebrow. "Yes, what of it?"

"And what say you to it?" Valente insisted. "Tell me you're scared–drop your knees–beg for forgiveness–admit to your sins in our duel!"

Aspreay took a step forward toward the Hangman, now so close that either man could have reached out and touched the other. A smirk adorned his features. "This is what I say to it."

Then he slapped Valente.

He slapped the Strongest Man in the Painted World.

Slowly, like a rusted wheel, Valente turned his head back in disbelief. "What did you just...do you not see how easily I could kill–"

Aspreay slapped him again.

This time Valente said nothing, and when he stared, it was in more than mere disbelief. The nervousness from earlier had morphed into outright fear, surpassing his manic confidence in his powers.

"Silence, mongrel." Aspreay tone was utterly derisive, as if disgusted by the Hangman's very existence. "Filthy flesh, mothered by the basest of alley whores. That tongue of yours is not fit to speak to a trueborn lord. You and the Emperor have sinned most gravely – and you will restitute my city, as well as Gama, for this baseless war."

Vasco watched in astonishment as Valente reflexively drew a step back. There was still no question in his mind that the Dark Captain was the strongest being in the world, one of the only three living beings to bear a Talent of the 1st Rank, and that Aspreay's own Talent was barely of the 9th.

Yet the malevolent, dark arrogance of the former Lord instilled terror in the Hangman's heart.

"Baseless...baseless?" Valente almost seemed at a loss for words. "This is a sacred war against a thief who dared to steal lands from the Empire. Worse than a Pretender, he is guilty of treason, of sacrilege against his Holy Emper–"

"He is not." Aspreay's voice was cold and firm. "Adam Arcanjo is my bastard son. I willingly stepped away from ruling the city of Penumbria. Thus, the basis for this war is unlawful."

His glare hardened. "Withdraw your troops. Now."

"What does that even mean?" Valente hissed. "He isn't your son! We both know this!" The Hangman jabbed an accusing finger in Vasco's direction. "It's clear as day that you couldn't have fathered–"

Aspreay slapped him again. "Still your tongue, or I shall have it served on a platter. Your stupidity knows no bounds – do you not comprehend how this changes matters? Think, or you will have even more innocent blood on your hands."

Valente gaped at him blankly, confusion and distrust coloring his expression.

In contrast, Vasco caught his meaning immediately. 'The Emperor's true reason for wishing Adam dead is his Talent,' the Lord of Gama thought. 'Specifically that he can help cities survive the Rot without Imperial protection. But that isn't enough for the Emperor to declare war – to obtain support from his vassals.'

His eyes widened. 'Even if Ciro could crush whichever vassals oppose him, their subjects would be dissatisfied, and dissatisfaction leads to a poor yield of taxes. The Emperor's goals might be mysterious...but his need for Orbs is not. Without a proper reason for declaring war, his vassals would grow very, very discontent. They might start to wonder if they could be next, and then purposefully bleed the Empire's coffers dry.'

It was, at its core, the same reason why the Empire had only sent a limited army – consisting of frontier lords and their personal retinues – rather than send their own soldiers through desolate lands.

Money.

Everything came down to Orbs in the end.

A sense of realization gradually dawned on the Hangman's face. "And what...what would stop me from killing you right here?" Valente spoke slowly and hesitantly, seeming to lack confidence in his own threat, like he knew there would be a counterargument. "That way, no city lord could hear your lies of the Painter's parentage. There would be no revolt."

Aspreay laughed maniacally. He opened his arms wide, as if that macabre stage of death and destruction belonged to him rather than the Hangman, as if he were the one welcoming him. With a deliberate slowness followed by a swift movement, similar to conducting an orchestra, his arms rose and fell along with his voice.

"Ask your Emperor," he said, evil in his eyes and derision in his tone. "Be a good little mongrel and wag your little tail at your master – beg him for guidance. I know he can hear you."

Many things happened at once. First, a murder of crows suddenly made their presence known across the battlefield, appearing so suddenly it was like they had approached beneath the cover of battle-strewn dust. But surely crows could not be trained for stealth, could they?

And second, the Emperor's voice entered all of their minds.

'You play a dangerous game, Aspreay,' Ciro stated angrily. 'Yet I must admit...you play it well. Valente, have Ernanda withdraw her troops.'

"But, Your Highness, I–"

'–And Aspreay?' Ciro's voice was colder and more piercing than an ice pick stabbing at their brains. 'You will regret this.'

Aspreay took a bow at the unseen Emperor. "I am nothing but a collection of my regrets, Your Royal Highness." His eyes twinkled with confidence. "As are you."

'Careful now,' Ciro warned him. 'And know that my orders cannot reach the Hangman inside the city. If my Gryphon happens to hunt the Little Painter before he can hear otherwise...oh, that will not be my fault now, will it?'

"Of course!" Aspreay approved, in a regal tone. Then, in that same tone, he went on to say, "No one can be blamed for what happens in such chaotic areas, where neither your powers – nor even those pesky little crows – can reach."

His eyes were sharp with a glinting taunt, and there was the ghost of a chuckle in the air. "Which is why you won't object should my oh-so-real heir slay your Hangman."

There was a pause. 'Naturally.'

"Well then, I believe you have an army to stop and a Hangman to recall." With eyebrows raised, Aspreay turned to face Valente. "Ernanda is still attacking Solara, is she not?" The Lord patted at his legs, then pointed at the army, as if directing a dog. "Come now – hurry along, little mongrel! You must make haste!"

Valente hesitated, a barely-suppressed fury apparent in his every moment, before finally turning away with a quiet nod. He moved out at a rigid, deliberate pace, like every step was an affront to his pride.

Then, just as he'd started to put distance between them...he cast one last furious, anguished look at Aspreay, his face twisting with a storm of venom, hatred and fear. "Out of every monster I've ever met, you're the worst of them all," he muttered. "I shall rid the world of your stain. This, I swear – on my honor."

Before the Hangman had fully left their vision, Aspreay glanced at Vasco, then spoke loudly enough so that Valente could still hear. "He swears on nothing then, the whoreson." said the Lord, laughing once again.

Aspreay waited until the Hangman had disappeared before continuing further. "And now...this brings us to you." The former Lord stared directly at Vasco. "What say you in your defense?"

Vasco, nearly unconscious from blood loss, and still crawling in the mud, peered up in confusion. "Defense for...what? Surely you will not blame me for being unable to stop that...that monster by myself. Can't believe you said all that to him. You know he could lay waste to the entire Empire by himself if he wanted, rig–"

"–I blame you for not protecting the one thing I left you in charge of," Aspreay whispered, his words filled with a cold poison. He stepped toward the fallen lord and crossed his arms, an air of annoyance about him. Annoyance and...hurt, somehow? "Don't think I didn't see it. You offered your own life back there, just before I arrived."

"It was my duty," Vasco said, grumbling through his pain. "As Lord of Gama...and as Solara's father. A man's life is nothing if he forsakes the titles that shape him."

"On that we agree. Yet you forgot another duty and another title." Aspreay knelt down so his face was mere inches away from Vasco. "Your most important ones. You forgot what else you were, aside from a father and a lord. There is something else you are – and you're not allowed to forget it, bastard."

Vasco stared blankly. Confusion, exhaustion, disbelief, and pain all blended into a feeling of mystified silence. "And what is that duty?" He looked up at him. "What else am I, that I forgot?"

Aspreay lifted up the lord's chin with two fingers and gazed deep in his eyes. "You're mine," he growled.