Lothorr’s head snapped back with a sickening crack, and one of his jagged fangs was sent spiraling through the air, clattering across the floor. Captain Marshall didn’t hesitate. She swung again, a savage backhanded slap with the flat of her shield that hammered into the demon’s torso, sending him sprawling. He skidded across the stone like some grotesque ragdoll, his biomechanical tendrils—those vile things that tethered him to the Blood Tower—ripped violently from his back. They recoiled as if burned, retreating swiftly from Marshall’s incandescent fury.

She wanted to speak, to spit venomous words at the creature that had stolen her future, her life. She wanted to tell him exactly how much she loathed his kind, the way they’d robbed her of everything she might have been. But there was no space for words now. The manastone in her grip surged with unimaginable power, flooding her with energy that only continued to build, unstoppable as an avalanche crashing down a mountainside. It pressed into her, threatening to tear her apart from the inside. And yet, she welcomed it. If she was to die, it would be in this glorious tempest of destruction.

Lothorr scrambled onto all fours like a beast, his shattered mouth crackling with crimson lightning. He growled, a low, murderous sound, and in the next breath, unleashed a torrent of otherworldly energy straight at her.

Marshall reacted instinctively, throwing up her shield just as the storm of lightning struck. She felt the force slam into her, jags of electricity writhing and screaming against the metal. She had intended to power through it, trusting in Cypher’s runes to deflect the worst of the attack. But the sheer intensity of it made her stagger, grinding her advance to a halt.

She gritted her teeth, dug her heels into the stone, and pushed forward with everything her legs could muster. The weight of the manastone’s power filled her, fueling every motion, forcing her battered body to obey her will. Another step. Then another.

The storm faltered. The relentless pressure suddenly eased, and in that moment of reprieve, Marshall sprang forward, ready to end this monster once and for all. She surged too fast, overcommitted, her momentum turning against her. Lothorr was waiting. His massive fist swung toward her with terrifying speed.

Marshall threw her shield up again, bracing for impact. The blow hit with the force of a battering ram, but she stood her ground. Neither of them moved. The battle had devolved into something primal, a brutal trade of strikes with no finesse, just raw power. Marshall struck again and again, the blunt edge of her shield chipping away at the homunculus’s flesh and bone, cracking through metal and sinew. Each blow spilled incandescent aether from Lothorr’s wounds, and she found herself grinning savagely beneath her helm. She had drawn blood—on her own. She had made this abomination bleed.

She had withstood what no ordinary human could endure. Lothorr’s monstrous punches landed squarely on her face and body, impacts that should have shattered her bones, crushed her under the weight of his strength. But they didn’t. Instead, each time the blows connected, Marshall felt the leyline energy churn within her, the first pool of power reinforcing her body, hardening her flesh and bones against the strikes. The second pool swirled like a healing current, mending the damage almost as soon as it was inflicted.

It was brutal, exhausting, and glorious. For the briefest moment, Captain Marshall allowed herself to believe—just for a heartbeat—that she was winning. She saw it in Lothorr’s eyes, that flicker of shame and embarrassment. He knew it too. The Lord of the Blood Tower, for all his monstrous might, was losing to a mere human.

But hope is a fragile thing.

“Enough of this!” Lothorr roared, his voice a thunderclap that shook the blood-soaked chamber. His enormous hands—grotesque, ape-like paws—clamped down on her shoulders with terrifying force, pinning her arms to her sides. His grip was like a vice, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Then, with brutal strength, he lifted her high above his head, shaking her with such violent force that it felt like her neck would snap at any moment.

A primal, desperate urge welled up inside her, an overwhelming need to break free. The sensation wasn’t her own—it was the manastone speaking to her, its raw, ancient power raging against the confines of her body. It demanded release, begged her to let it surge outward and obliterate everything in its path.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

And so she surrendered. She gave herself over to the power, letting go of her control, letting the force within her take command.

The explosion was instant, violent, and absolute.

Captain Marshall erupted in an outward burst of raw energy, a shockwave of overpressure radiating from her in every direction. The manastone’s power surged through her, draining every internal pool of energy in one cataclysmic burst. The unseen channels within her body funneled the energy out, adding to the storm that tore through the room. Everything within five feet of her—everything that wasn’t Captain Marshall or the manastone—was simply vaporized.

Her shield? Gone. Her armor? Obliterated. Every stitch of clothing, every piece of equipment, reduced to nothing.

And Lothorr? The blast ripped both of his arms clean off, along with half his face and part of his grotesque skull. But even in his mutilated state, the homunculus remained standing. His limbs had been just a little too long, his body just a little too far away for the blast to deliver a killing blow.

Marshall hung suspended in the air for a moment, weightless, before gravity claimed her. As she fell, she heard it—a low, malevolent chuckle, deep and terrible, like the rumbling of a cosmic storm against some forgotten shore in the abyss of space.

She hit the ground hard, barely having time to process the pain before Lothorr’s tail lashed out, wrapping around her bare legs. With a savage motion, he slammed her into the floor with bone-shattering force. Her vision blurred from the impact, but before she could even begin to gather herself, before she could let the leyline power restore her, Lothorr moved.

One of his massive, cloven hooves came down on the manastone, the one she still clutched in her ruined hand. The weight of his stomp pulped her hand into a mangled mess of flesh and shattered bone. Half of her right forearm was crushed beneath the immense pressure. The manastone fared better—its surface cracked but still held for a moment longer.

Marshall lay there, gasping, staring at the space where her hand had once been. She watched in helpless horror as fissures spidered across the manastone, widening into deep, jagged crevices. She knew what was coming. She could feel it. But without the stone, without its power surging through her, she had nothing left. No strength to move, no energy to fight.

She was empty.

And the stone was about to explode.

The manastone shattered in a brilliant explosion of raw, unchecked power. The force ripped outward, tearing through the chamber in a shockwave of pure destruction. Lothorr, caught in the blast, was hurled backward, his grotesque form slamming into the ground. Without his arms to balance him, he toppled like a felled tree. Captain Marshall wasn’t spared either—the eruption flung her limp body across the room like a discarded ragdoll. Sharp shards of manastone embedded themselves deep into her exposed skin, slicing through flesh and muscle.

But there was no pain. Only the unbearable weight of exhaustion. The kind of fatigue that seeped into her bones, dragging her mind into darkness. She didn’t want to watch, didn’t want to see what came next. But the way she had landed, face twisted toward the monstrous homunculus, forced her to witness it.

"Damn it," she thought, bitterly. "I don’t even have the strength to turn my head."

With a horrible squelching sound, Lothorr stood again. His hulking figure rose to its full, terrifying height, his flesh reforming in a grotesque display of regeneration. The hideous gashes in his skull sealed shut, his mangled face reappearing from the otherworldly gore as if it had never been harmed.

He laughed. It was a sound that grated on her nerves—cruel, mocking, and triumphant.

“Good show, human,” he crooned, the mockery thick in his voice. “Honestly, I didn’t realize I had so much pent-up frustration. Thank you for… giving me a hand.” He cackled at his own twisted joke, waggling the stumps of his arms. Even now, those too were healing, flesh knitting itself back together with obscene ease.

Marshall’s eyes drifted to her own ruined hand. She wanted to hope for a miracle, to believe that somehow her own body would mend itself as Lothorr’s did. But it didn’t. There was nothing but ruin where her hand had once been, and her heart sank.

Lothorr’s voice slithered into her thoughts again, dripping with sadistic amusement. “I tell you what,” he continued, “you’ve impressed me. You’d make a good pet. Or maybe a toy—something I can toss around when I’m bored. I could make you strong, give you the power to survive in this world. Would you like that, girl?”

A sickening grin spread across his face as he loomed over her, savoring her helplessness.

Captain Marshall summoned what little strength remained in her broken body, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his disgusting offer. Her lips parted, the words forming—

But then, in a blur of darkness, something streaked through the air, moving too fast for Lothorr to react. A black shadow descended, swift and deadly, and with a sickening wet sound, it tore Lothorr’s head clean off his shoulders and ate it.

The Lord of the Blood Tower was dead before his twisted grin could fade.