When Amanda was at last convinced of her inability to dissuade Henry from his present course of action, she instead decided to try and be helpful.

“Wait,” she said, but Henry’s feet did not stop.

“I can transport us there if you’ll let me,” were the magic words required for his mechanical footstep-trance to be broken.

“Why didn’t you do this before when we fought Zorvilon?”

“It’s hard, takes a long time to cast, is super obvious to anyone nearby, and starts forming a connection at the destination that almost anyone can sense.”

“Fine, then do it,” Henry commanded, and she obliged.

He stood with arms crossed as she began to trace runes into the earth using blood poured from an open wrist. Apparently she carried a dagger for this or a similar purpose, but Henry did not care to comment on it. Seemingly this was normal, and so he watched as she drew intricate little symbols on the dirt and smeared them across the lacking grass now absent beneath the thick trees that said nothing as crimson light began to pulse and the pink candle flame went out overhead. At first the night grew almost to a pitch-black darkness, but over the span of ten or fifteen minutes it began to grow brighter and brighter until at last it was like the light of the moon— no, brighter— something just darker than the sun was shining from below their feet. Power continued to pour in from beyond sight behind the countless tree-trunks in great red swirls of mist that seemed like columns of fog ready at any time to flip and become a vertical tornado.

The leaves rustled violently overhead and the wind buffeted Amanda’s long and ragged orange hair. Just as it had spread out to two or three times its normal volume and was whipping her in what surely must have been an almost painful way, the light evened out to something more reasonable and the wind died completely. Amanda seemed exhausted as she collapsed, but the runes did not stop pulsing. Henry unfolded his arms as the light pulsed one final time and the two were transported an unknown distance toward their destination.

They arrived to find a desert. All the buildings were scarred with scorch-marks as though a massive fire had burned away all life, and yet life remained. The buildings were lit, and a small number of inquisitive townsfolk had gathered around the flashing light that accompanied the arrival of he who would soon end them. Some were nonhuman: a wolf on two legs with matted gray hair and a scar under his left eye, a small fishlike child in a dress with bright blue glittering scales, a massive beast of a man standing some ten feet tall with horns that seemed to be a minotaur, but the vast majority of those gathered were human or demihuman with mostly human characteristics. Some wore clothes, some did not. Of those that did, all were ragged and describable as nothing more than scraps shoddily sewn together.

“Block their escape,” Henry commanded to an exhausted and bleeding Amanda who did her best to comply. She stood shakily, right hand gripping left wrist to stem the flow of blood, and began an incarnation that summoned an almost-transparent dome around the village built of burned sticks and rubble. As it slowly began to solidify, no one ran away.

“Hi,” the fishlike child said.

“What are you doing here?” an unknown voice inquired.

“Can we help you? Are you hurt?” the minotaur rumbled.

Henry did not speak, and Amanda did not deviate from his expectations of her. Her back turned as she began to walk away in as much speed as she could muster given her exhaustion and active incantation. She trusted Henry enough to protect her— or at least not to let anyone harm her until she could place herself outside the dome— but as much as she wanted to watch him and learn everything she could about his nature and power, she just couldn’t. She knew he needed to be stronger, she knew Xevis could not be opposed with half-hearted resolve, and yet what was she expected to do here? Watch as innocents died by what may as well have been her own hand? She needed to steel herself, but as much as this understanding was present the nature of what was going to happen next was beyond what she was capable of withstanding the sight of. No matter how long she lived it never became any easier to watch others die. It didn’t just remind her of those she had lost over the years but also of her own inability to stand with them. An acknowledgement of cowardice burned hot as she ran away from even the sight of her victims.

No matter how many times she told herself she wouldn’t run, if the enemy seemed overpowering it was inevitable that she would. Amanda was one of the few with absolute mastery of teleportation of the self, but she knew this was merely a fruit born of her cowardice rather than any sort of talent. It was something she was ashamed of, and yet despite this shameful skill she couldn’t leave this time. Despite all the times she had ran away and let those she cared about die, she just couldn’t anymore. Xevis needed to pay, and she would do what it takes to make that happen, even if watching the act of killing so viciously was a step beyond her capabilities.

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Henry, meanwhile, smiled just slightly. His lips parted just enough for it to be seen in the dim light of the moon. He didn’t listen to what those present began to say. The reaper didn’t care what the stalks of wheat had to say, only that their grain would soon come to fuel his harvest in the form of a long-awaited breakfast after awakening from slumber.

Henry strode forward, and the bull-man stepped in front to block his path.

“You need to tell us why you’re here.”

Henry had no idea what the minotaur said, not for lack of understanding but rather because he wasn’t listening. Henry merely reached out to grab the man’s massive calf and the overpowering frame of a minotaur began to shrivel. His voluminous chest began to shrink and the shout that came from it rose sharply in pitch as it did. While others began to run, the small fish-girl collapsed in panic and began to scream, sobbing. The minotaur was gone so fast Henry did not break his stride. A demihuman catgirl some thirty or forty years of age in a rotting maid outfit with holes all throughout the sleeves and skirt reached out to the girl and tried to pull her away, but she was too weak to carry her and ultimately allowed her own terror to pull hands away from the next victim of this slaughter.

There was a pang of doubt that entered Henry’s mind as his left hand reached out to grip the child’s tear-covered face. Was he really this much of a monster? Was this really the best course of action? Was this who he really wanted to be?

The answer came quickly,

Yes.

This was the path to power necessary for him to face Zorvilon and defeat Xevis. If he tried to join someone else they would ultimately falter. Normal mages were limited by their humanity. Bodily and mental weakness hamstrung them and prevented them from doing what must be done. No matter how much this act hurt him, he would carry it through. No matter how monstrous what he was doing here, it was ultimately necessary on his path to power. He needed power and he needed it yesterday. Ten years had gone by as Henry slept. Ten years for Xevis to conquer the world and Zorvilon to mature in his freedom and power; to consolidate his position and gather allies. If he was to fight insanity his morality needed to give way.

Besides, Zorvilon was worse. He wouldn't have given this child a quick death. Xevis was possibly worse-still, using her as a tool until her purpose was accomplished and the arrival of her ultimate disposal. In a way he was doing these people a favor. The unaffiliated did not have a nice life during times of war. They would eventually be conquered, the men surely butchered and women meeting a far crueler fate. This was an act of mercy. This was an act that would allow him to gain power enough to protect those who would follow him in the future. If he hesitated now it would mean giving up the life’s purpose he had found in this new world.

Henry reached out and gripped the girl's face as one might palm a basketball. Her sobs rocked his hand momentarily before they ceased. His hand was left slightly moist from the tears left behind as she was sucked up into his palm. This was all that remained of her when the end of the next second passed: a few tears in the sand and a few drops of moisture on the palm of her killer.

Henry continued to steel himself further in the cold white static of power that hummed and pulsed inside his core. It radiated throughout him as he felt the space warping around him. There were no remnants of Yaldaboath’s power here. They must have been spent on repairing the landscape which itself was still not healed. Instead of feeling pieces of himself ripped away, Henry felt strength fill him like never before.

He took a single stride and was behind the maid. He gripped her by the back of the neck, fingers wrapping tightly around her throat where even if she had time to breathe again it would have been impossible, but she did not. Cat ears twitched and though she had begun to fall backwards, there wasn’t even enough time to register the beginning of a fall, much less to actually strike the earth.

He jumped backward and found himself atop the shoulders of a bipedal wolf who tripped and fell under Henry’s weight. Henry kicked him, and his head came off, flying into the distance beyond sight. He bent over and the wolf was gone, not even a drop of blood left of him on the wooden stairs he had been trying to climb.

Henry climbed them in his stead, and found himself in a makeshift saloon. He first appeared in front of the bartender and drank him like one would a shot; one hand gripped the man by his side, bringing him to parted lips that swallowed his ever-shrinking content until nothing was left.

One by one the men, then women, then children, were removed from the building.

Building by building the remaining villagers fell. House by house each was emptied. There was no resistance possible. This was less the act of a single man and more the inevitability of a fire raging in a tightly-packed space. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. As the last buildings were rendered vacant he didn’t even bother using his power on movement speed. He merely strode up to those who stared at the floor. He did not acknowledge the sobs of those all at once forced to make peace with a swiftly-coming death. Some tried to fight him, but he did not step aside as pipe and knife and fire struck him. A small bruise quickly faded. A small cut quickly closed. An insignificant burn quickly disappeared in time with the one whose wrist was bared for an easy grip and a fast death. He did not begrudge these people for their resistance. They stared at the inevitable and absolute end of their lives, whether they fought him or allowed themselves to be laid easily to rest was irrelevant as the end would come all the same without fluctuation or slightest effect on timing no matter the scale of resistance posed.

At the last house he allowed the last girl to give her last words before ending her.

He did not remember them.