A desolate, gray planet. Two moons hung in a starless sky, casting their pale glow over the gray sands of the desert. Atop an immense rock, a lone figure sat in silence, wearing a grin. His attire and face were hard to distinguish, as he was positioned directly in front of one of the moons; the larger of the two framed his silhouette as if the entire scene had been planned.
From the kneeling man, only the gleam of his eyes and the whiteness of his teeth were visible, a result of the wide smile he wore. From afar, a young girl with black hair tied in a ponytail and pale skin watched him intently; it was almost as if the man wanted to be observed.
His piercing gaze was unnerving—an all-too-familiar look. Although she couldn’t see his face, the man could feel her presence. He knew that look well.
As he kept his focus on the man, he felt as if he weren’t truly there, as if he were a mere spectator seeing it all through the girl’s eyes. Suddenly, a purple flame burst to life behind the man on the rock, and as it did, the soft light the moons offered in the sky began to fade.
The man’s presence expanded immensely, his smile encompassing everything, and his unsettling gaze advanced toward the young girl, unrelenting. In the blink of an eye, the entire scene was engulfed in purple flames, and the massive silhouette filled the whole space, swallowing the girl in a single bite.
Seihem awoke with a start.
“Get away from me, damn it!” he shouted, irritated, as he swatted away what appeared to be a creature resembling a raccoon with red eyes and vampire-like fangs.
A Zorbite had been nibbling on his hair.
Seihem’s rest had been interrupted by a nightmare. He realized that his campfire had gone out sooner than expected. Dawn had yet to break, and the embers were still faintly warm, although he was sure he’d left enough wood for the fire to last through the night.
“Ugh~ Someday, I’ll learn how to build a proper fire,” he muttered to himself.
Despite his lack of sleep, the night was peaceful. The clear sky and the steady hum of insects and nocturnal creatures brought him a sense of inner calm.
Occasionally, he’d hear branches snap and bushes rustle, but none of this put him on alert. Seihem, with his superhuman senses, would detect any real threat from a great distance.
He was the heir of a powerful and ancient race that had once lived long ago on the planet Xerath but was now extinct. He was the last of his kind.
Although the cold didn’t affect him, he was in the habit of lighting a fire. It was something he did out of tradition, for it always brought back memories.
The first time he’d built a campfire was with Sergei Fraeyer, an honorable man and head of the Fraeyer family. Seihem had always admired him, though at first, he considered him just another inferior human.
He recalled that conversation and how ridiculous he’d felt once he realized just how naïve and inexperienced he’d been in understanding human life. Now, he was no longer the cold and arrogant being he had once been; he’d changed entirely.
As he sank into his memories, that particular moment came rushing back to him.
“Listen, Seihem, the importance of fire in a dark forest…”
“I don’t need the warmth of fire,” he interrupted coolly. “My body can withstand any kind of temperature.”
Sergei smiled gently.
“You’re right, but if you’d allow me to finish, superman,” he said, in a sarcastic tone, “the importance of fire in a dark forest is equal to the peace you’ll feel at night. As long as that flame is alive, no creature will dare to come near. They fear fire, just as light drives away darkness.”
“Hmm…”
Seihem stroked his chin, contemplating.
“I see. So you’re saying lighting a fire is like a sacred ritual to keep forest creatures at bay.”
Sergei looked at him with squinted eyes, like a sleepy cat, and showed a hint of confusion.
“If that’s how you want to see it, fine. As long as you understand, I don’t mind,” he shrugged, raising his hands in mild surrender.
“I understand, Mr. Sergei. You’re a man with great knowledge about this land. I think I’ve learned a lot from you.”
“Well, I suppose it’s an age thing. The closer you are to death, the more experience you gain in life. That’s just how it works in this world. At least, for us humans, and for most short-lived races.”
“…”
Seihem listened in silence.
Then, Sergei continued on with a lengthy sermon, sharing stories of his past, until sleep finally overtook him, and he went to bed.
“I suppose it’s time for me to get some sleep. I’m putting my life in your hands, Seihem. Here’s hoping a giant snake doesn’t strangle me in my sleep.”
“That would never happen, sir. I’d detect it from miles away before it got close.”
Sergei looked at him again with that strange expression, not of distrust, but because it was impossible to decipher what went on in Seihem’s mind.
“Hopefully, someday, you’ll understand a bit of humor, kid. Goodnight.”
Sergei waved him off with a small gesture and walked away.
That night, in the year 343 A.H.W. (After the Holy War), according to the Celestial Church’s calendar, near the capital of Nebra, Seihem remembered it as if it were yesterday. His memory, though perfect, had begun to falter recently.
He was no longer the same being he’d been a hundred years ago.
Unexpectedly, his trance was interrupted by a foul smell in the air, a scent he could easily recognize.
Undoubtedly, it was the stench of blood.
Something was happening near his position.
Seihem immediately grabbed his gear and sword—a weapon he’d bought from a merchant for a very low price.
It was a trinket, rusted when he acquired it, but after restoring it with proper care, it served well enough for self-defense.
He ran as fast as his legs could carry him through the forest’s darkness, wearing an old cloak of off-white brownish color that hid his face and armor.
Clink, clink, clink.
As he jogged, the metal plates of his armor, made from a substance called Xerite, couldn’t help but clink with each step.
Xerite was a material capable of resisting divine magic and other types of magic, with the exception of Veil magic. Any attack using Veil magic could easily bypass the protection offered by the armor on his chest, legs, and arms.
Despite its appearance of weight, the armor was quite light, thanks to enchantments that made the metal as light as summer clothing, almost as if he weren’t wearing anything at all.
******
Meanwhile, to the west of the forest, near the border between Roveria and Lerenia…
In the dead of night, under a yellow full moon and a starry sky, a cluster of houses built from clay, wood, and straw stood silently. In the more central areas of what seemed to be a village, there were slightly sturdier structures made from stone bricks, wood, and volcanic ash.
Within the village, a group of men in black cloaks and white masks resembling a raven's head were forcing families out of their homes.
Some of these men wore magical armor beneath their cloaks.
They drove the villagers out, separating the men from the women and children.
An immense number of these black-robed men gathered like a small army. If they wanted to take over a city, they’d likely be able to conquer it with ease.
Their appearance, movements, and posture gave away that they wielded magic, while others showcased skill with swords or martial techniques. There was no question about it: these men were no ordinary bandits.
They formed a varied army. One of them, the most imposing figure, wore an armor of Xerite adorned with strange symbols of unknown enchantments.
“Bring them all to the central plaza of this filthy village!” he commanded arrogantly.
“Yes, Your Holiness!” responded one of his subordinates.
A battle had clearly taken place here: the men in black raven masks had fought against the guards who patrolled the area, most likely under the orders of the lord of Roveria, the territory to which this village belonged.
Whatever the case, the guards had been defeated, and now the place was covered in blood and despair. The small village, with its wood and clay houses, some with straw roofs and others with more refined designs using higher-quality wood, lay in ruins.
The homes reflected the social standing of each family. Some of the wealthier ones served the local lord, while others were simple peasants. Yet none could escape these men.
The bodies of Roveria's personal guard lay scattered, their blood staining the dirt roads, mingling with the blood of some innocents. Around them, several houses burned like massive nighttime bonfires.
As this occurred, the villagers were forced out and dragged from their homes. All, without exception, were brought to the village center, where the men in black cloaks piled up bodies, dousing them in oil.
One of them, holding a torch, threw it onto the pile, and flames began to consume the heap of bodies.
“Perfect, this place was far too dark,” the man in charge commented.
The villagers stood in rows, separated by gender and age.
The adult men, bound at their hands and feet to prevent any acts of useless bravery, were forced to stand as a form of humiliation.
Then came the women, many of whom were likely the wives of these men. They stood in line, side by side. Some bore bruises and wounds from struggling. Their eyes, red from tears of helplessness, reflected a fight already lost.
Next to the women were the boys, the sons of the men. Their ages ranged from three to twelve years old. The older ones tried to comfort the younger ones, attempting to keep them from crying to avoid provoking the men in black cloaks.
It was an impossible task, but it was the duty of the older siblings and firstborns; no one could blame them. Finally, the line repeated with the girls. In this case, all of them sobbed uncontrollably, except for one, who stood defiant, fists clenched, as if challenging the men threatening her.
She was a girl of barely eight years, with black hair and brown eyes. Her worn and dirty clothing revealed her as the daughter of a peasant family. Thankfully, she bore no visible injuries; at least, the men had had the decency not to harm an innocent child.
“Good!” shouted the man in command, and continued, “Now that we’re all here, we can begin.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. It was natural; none of them knew what their fate would be, but they could sense it wouldn’t be good.
“Let me explain what we’ll be doing with all of you,” he said, pacing in front of the crowd. “You’re probably wondering, why are we here? Or why are we doing this? It’s simple,” he stopped in front of one of the women in the line, “we need livestock,” he said as he stroked the woman’s cheek.
The woman, with light brown eyes and chestnut hair, bore a slight resemblance to the girl who, instead of crying, maintained a defiant stance. Rather than being frightened by his words, her face only showed anger. Instead of staying silent, she decided to confront him.
“You bastard! We’ve done nothing to you, so let us go right now! I swear you’ll regret it if you don’t!” she shouted, and then spat in the man’s face.
The woman tried to strike him, but he caught her hand easily.
“This is unacceptable. Livestock doesn’t protest, livestock doesn’t dream, livestock has no rights. You miserable wretch! Do you think you have the authority to insult me like this? Don’t you know who I am? Listen closely, livestock: my name is Charles Stansfield, Apostle of Thelema, loyal servant of the prophet Aleister. How dare you sully my body with your filthy, repugnant saliva?”
Charles lifted the woman with one hand, gripping her neck with a startling strength. She struggled, trying to free herself, but the more she fought, the tighter he squeezed. The intensity was such that it seemed he might snap her neck. Yet the woman did not relent. Amid her desperate attempts to break free, muffled words escaped her lips.
“My… my…”
She tried to form a sentence, but it was nearly impossible due to the pressure on her throat.
“M-my n-name… is… E-Em-ma… and… and I s-swear… I… will… kill you.”
After uttering those words with her last bit of strength, Emma lost consciousness. Charles, seeing that she was out cold, threw her aside. She struck a wall as she fell, and a small cut opened on her forehead, where blood began to trickle down her face.
“Let this serve as a lesson to the next one who dares to disobey our instructions. From today on, you belong to us. You are no longer citizens of Reupa, nor residents of this village; you are simply livestock at our disposal, and we will do with you as we please.”
Charles resumed his pacing in front of the crowd.
“I want you to listen carefully: the adult men will become vessels for the inhabitants of the Veil. The women will be trained in magic, and the younger ones will have the honor of learning the teachings of Thelema. If you are faithful followers, you will always have a bed to sleep in and warm food on your tables. FEEL HONORED! This is the kindness of our lord Aleister. From now on, your lives no longer belong to you; your lives belong to Thelema.”
Charles signaled to one of his subordinates, and soon after, carts drawn by horses were brought in, prepared to transport all the villagers.
“Come on! Line up and get on the carts; we don’t have all day!” shouted one of the hooded men.
In a coordinated manner, all of Charles’s men guided the villagers to the carts, forcing them to form lines and dividing them among the different vehicles, keeping them separated as they’d been organized before.
The line moved forward as the villagers boarded, but suddenly it halted. A woman, desperate, clung to the man in charge of ensuring everyone got onto the carts.
Her face was the very picture of desperation. Amid sobs, she caused an uproar, refusing to get on.
“My baby… Where is he?! My baby!” she screamed, her face twisted in anguish, as though she feared the worst.
Suddenly, someone approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was Charles, calm as ever, seemingly unbothered by the woman’s distress.
“Calm down. Tell me, what’s the problem?”
“M-my… my baby…”
“Yes?” he said, smiling.
The woman seemed to take note of Charles’s calm demeanor, and despite her fear, she managed to compose herself just enough to speak coherently.
“I’ve been looking for my son… he’s only three months old, but I haven’t seen him… I can’t find him… please, let me see him. I need to feed him, or he could fall ill without me.”
“Oh!”
Charles exclaimed, with exaggerated surprise.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“So, that’s it… I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Charles removed his hand from her shoulder and immediately gestured for her to follow him.
“I’ll explain something very interesting about us, the faithful followers of Thelema. We love children. As you can see, these children are receiving better treatment compared to the adults. That’s because we protect them—they are our future! We invest in them, and we want them to receive the best care possible.”
As they walked beside the line of children boarding the carts, she could see how the men in masks and cloaks handed out bags of food and clothing to the children, unlike the adults, who were bound.
“I-I see…” the woman replied, hesitantly.
Charles continued, “So, you must know something about Thelema. Despite our love for children, when it comes to infants as young as your son, things get complicated. Much to our regret, sometimes we have to make difficult decisions for the good and survival of Thelema. It’s the most logical course, the best for everyone. Think of it this way: caring for a baby requires great effort, depending on his mother’s milk to grow strong and healthy. We can’t afford that luxury. We can’t waste so many resources and energy.”
“Please, Mr. Charles, let me care for him. I beg you; I’ll do anything,” she interrupted him, pleading.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not going to happen. Tell me, what’s your name?”
“M-my name is… A-Anna.”
“Hmm… Anna, what a lovely name.”
Charles wrapped an arm around her back, patting her shoulder as he guided her toward the large bonfire in the village center, built from corpses.
“Tell me, Anna, don’t you think it’s a beautiful sight?”
…
Anna fell completely silent; there was no way to answer that question.
“I truly believe it is because the darkness of night is inevitable; you know it will come sooner or later. However, we have found a way to fight that darkness: we found fire, and there it is… lighting up this dark night. As I said, we always find the most logical way to contribute to everyone’s well-being. That’s why, my dear Anna…”
Charles let go of her shoulder and stepped back a few paces, positioning himself in front of the blazing bonfire of bodies. Then he continued.
“That’s why, Anna, your precious son now forms part of that spiral of cooperation. Your baby is part of the light that brightens this dark night,” he said, extending his arms and showing his empty hands.
“No…”
A weak “no” was all Anna could manage before falling into complete silence. She seemed to understand immediately, but the weight of Charles’s words was too much to process. In that instant, her mind shattered, leaving her paralyzed. Her knees slowly gave way until she collapsed to the ground, motionless and in shock.
“Someone get over here and bring this woman back to the line, or do I have to do everything myself?” Charles said, his irritation evident.
“Yes, sir, right away,” one of his subordinates responded, dragging Anna back to her place in line for boarding the carts.
******
Seihem ran as fast as his legs could carry him through the forest trees.
The race he belonged to, the feared “Soul Hunters”—an apt though grim name—had fought in a brutal battle against humanity centuries ago. Today, they were reviled as demons, earning them that name. It was said that, on the battlefield, they wouldn’t stop until the last man alive was slain, behaving like beasts ravenous for souls. Their endurance far exceeded that of humans, allowing them to fight for weeks without needing rest, food, or sleep.
Though his race’s original name was “Penitents,” on Xerath they were known as “Soul Hunters.” But in modern times, few remembered their existence, as legends had turned them into feared creatures. Because of this, Seihem lived hidden among humans, working as a mercenary.
The characteristic traits of a “Penitent” included black hair, pale skin, an average height of two meters, and their most distinctive feature: their eyes.
His eyes were yellow, and his iris resembled that of a reptile.
To avoid discrimination or fear, Seihem usually employed basic morphic magic to change any aspect of his body, as long as it wasn’t too extreme. Changing the color of his skin, hair, or even his eyes was an easy task.
He remembered learning this type of magic from his younger brother, Zatharos, a prodigy in those arts.
In his altered form to resemble a human, he blended in seamlessly among mortals. His Caucasian features gave him an air of normalcy in a world that feared and rejected the unknown. His light skin, slightly bronzed by the sun, contrasted with his striking green eyes, which often appeared to conceal an unfathomable depth. The green of his irises could intensify in tense situations, hinting that there was something beyond his outward appearance.
His dark brown hair, soft in texture, fell carelessly around his face, complemented by a hint of beard on his jaw, giving him a slightly rugged yet attractive look. With an athletic build and well-defined muscles that weren’t overly bulky, Seihem had the physique of a well-trained warrior, someone who had spent years honing his combat skills.
His attire tended to be simple, usually functional clothing in muted tones like browns and grays that didn’t draw attention, typically concealed under his armor.
The forest’s darkness posed no obstacle to his vision; he could see perfectly well at night, one of the many abilities that marked him as a true “Soul Hunter.”
Finally, he began to close in on the source of that sickening stench. In the distance, he saw a faint glow at the edge of the forest. Emerging from the trees, he was met with a devastating scene. The glow he’d noticed growing brighter was from a massive fire consuming most of the houses in what appeared to be a village. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, and blood stained the dirt roads a crimson red.
In the distance, he saw a large bonfire in the village center and quickly realized that the fuel for that fire was not wood, but human bodies. The smell of burning flesh mixed with that of wood and straw engulfed by flames.
He approached cautiously, attempting to avoid staining his boots with blood, though it was impossible. The ground was carpeted with corpses, a bloody testament to the massacre. He had arrived too late. Then again, this wasn’t his problem. He thought that if he at least helped these poor villagers, he might receive some reward from the lord of Roveria or the village mayor.
What a mess, Seihem thought, surveying the horror that surrounded him.
He searched the bodies for any survivors who could tell him what had happened.
As he searched, the vacant eyes of the fallen told him the story: faces marked by the agony and helplessness of having been overpowered without a chance to fight back. Some clutched onto reliquaries, while others simply gripped their weapons, hands stiff with rigor mortis. Ironically, they held onto their weapons even in death—the very weapons that had failed to protect them.
There were no survivors. As a sign of respect, Seihem collected a few belongings from the dead, intending to take them later to the capital, Roshe, in Roveria.
While rummaging through the deceased’s belongings, he heard a faint sound among the rubble, as if someone were digging through it.
Maybe it’s a survivor, he thought.
He stood up immediately, instinctively, after crouching among the bodies, and headed toward the source of the noise. But just as he approached, his senses alerted him to danger. As part of his Soul Hunter abilities, Seihem could sense people’s malicious intent.
Instantly, he felt a piercing gaze on the back of his neck; someone, clearly unhappy with his presence, was watching him. Slowly, he turned to meet the gaze head-on, and to his surprise, he wasn’t facing just one person, but three.
Men in black cloaks and white masks resembling the face of a raven advanced toward him. The sight of those masked figures stirred something in his mind, awakening memories he’d buried long ago.
The vision of those masked men brought back memories Seihem had fought hard to forget. He could almost see the flames, the men wearing similar masks, the distant cry of a baby, and the frantic screams of a woman calling his name.
A fury so intense it threatened to paralyze him surged through his mind. Meanwhile, the three men who were now standing in front of him spoke directly:
"Are you lost?" one of them asked, noticing Seihem's distracted look.
Facing them, Seihem’s green eyes started to intensify, a yellow glow beginning to flicker as his anger flared. A rock fell beside his feet, snapping him out of his trance; his eyes returned to their usual green, and he immediately directed his attention toward the direction from which the rock had come.
A woman, her face smeared with blood from a wound on her forehead, was barely standing as her eyes met his.
"Get out of here, quickly!" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper.
The woman, visibly wounded, seemed more concerned about his safety than her own. Perhaps she believed she was already beyond saving and, as a last act of kindness, would sacrifice herself to save someone who could still escape and tell others what had happened. What she didn’t know was that Seihem had no intention of fleeing. Though his attire didn’t reveal it, he was confident he was strong enough to take on the three men without any trouble. Or so he thought.
Seihem looked at her with a faint smile, not out of sympathy but because he saw an opportunity. Information about incidents like this could be valuable, and she might be his ticket to a significant reward. With an agile leap, he was at the woman’s side in seconds, and she collapsed into his arms.
He held her gently, laying her softly on the ground.
"Wait here. When I’m done with these guys, you’ll need to explain what happened here."
"So, you’re not deaf?"
The same masked man spoke again, but this time received a response.
“Yeah, yeah, could you shut up? Do those masks not only make you look like lunatics but also make you stupid?” Seihem replied, his tone relaxed.
“Unacceptable. A lamb should never challenge its shepherd. Repent now, so we may offer you salvation.”
“No, thank you.”
Just after those words, Seihem sensed something heading straight for his head. With a swift movement, he dodged to the side. As he checked what had caused that feeling, he saw a humanoid figure. However, its flesh appeared decayed, with a stiff and decomposed texture.
Its face was concealed by a different mask from the other men; it covered the entire face, was pure white, and adorned with inscriptions that seemed to form an enchantment.
At a glance, it seemed these men were controlling some kind of human puppet.
Whatever it was, that thing was fast and reeked of rot.
Seihem drew his sword and readied himself, his stance somewhat careless, not what one would expect from a trained warrior. It wasn’t due to poor training or oversight, but rather the result of a worn technique that had withered and been neglected over the years. The reasons he’d once had to fight, centuries ago, were no longer the same, and now he no longer adhered to any refined protocols from the past. Honor had no place in his code; only the law of the strongest mattered to him now.
His current swordsmanship wasn’t something learned in prestigious academies or under the guidance of masterful instructors. What he expressed with his sword was pure street brutality.
Holding his sword diagonally, he leaned his body slightly and positioned one foot back, preparing to launch himself like a beast. At that moment, it was like a bull facing a matador.
(Seihem would be the bull).
The puppet remained still, keeping a safe distance, waiting for Seihem’s move. Finally, he lunged forward and swung his sword with force.
Slash!
The blade struck the puppet’s arm with the impact of a blow against a metal wall. Surprised, Seihem tried to jump back, but he took a kick to his ribs that sent him flying several meters. Despite the impact, he managed to stay on his feet.
“Not bad, for the limited-edition toy of a madman,” he joked, wiping blood from his mouth.
“Oh, this is wonderful! Our lord has tested us by sending this sinner who refuses to receive his grace. If you accept salvation and repent, I may spare your life.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not crazy enough to join you guys just yet. Maybe try again in a few centuries... I might consider it.”
“Then I’ll have to show you mercy… Anok,” he said, pointing at the puppet. “Finish him!”
The puppet adjusted its limbs, as if finding the perfect position, and emitted a hollow wail. Suddenly, a purple miasma began to emanate from its body. The symbols on its mask glowed, likely a sign that the enchantment had activated.
Seihem watched intently as the creature seemed to grow stronger, something that definitely did not work in his favor.
Once ready, the puppet lunged at Seihem with superhuman speed, aiming a blow at him. Fortunately, he reacted in time and managed to block it with his sword; however, the creature’s force pushed him back a few steps, leaving his hands trembling.
Almost immediately, the puppet launched a second attack, this time landing a hit on his right arm, cracking the bone. The blow hurled him several meters, landing him among smoldering rubble.
In an instant, Seihem’s confidence shattered.
Years of fighting mere thugs had made him overly confident in his own strength.
"I warned you, but you didn’t listen. Now you understand what it means to defy the will of Thelema. Our will is absolute! What a pity; with your skills, you could have been an asset to us. But no, you chose to defy us and mock us."
“Argh... I’d almost rather be dead than keep listening to your sermons.”
Seihem emerged from the rubble, his clothes torn and dirty. He held his right arm while coughing blood, but his gaze was fierce, with a bright yellow glow starting to radiate.
“Look… three guys dressed up in the middle of the night... I didn’t think this was serious. I thought it’d be easy, but I see you’ve brought some interesting toys. Well, now… let’s play, you bastards.”
“I didn’t expect this. You’re quite resilient, I’ll admit it; but your luck ends here. Though you may feel inspired to protect that woman, this isn’t a play or a fantasy tale... This is real life, and here, no one is going to save you. Your death sentence has already been passed.”
Seihem emitted a faint white aura, imperceptible to the human eye unless one had advanced knowledge in magic. To perceive a person’s aura, one needed to master ODA manipulation.
The ODA is the essence of the soul, the core of all spiritual power. Without the ODA, no living being would be able to manipulate the various energies that coexist in the universe. However, most people in this world don’t bother to learn how to control their ODA, focusing instead on manipulating sacred energy through hereditary techniques or spells.
As energy radiated from his body, Seihem’s right arm healed instantly. He gripped his sword, this time assuming a refined posture, and a golden glow enveloped the blade. Eight golden diamond-shaped marks appeared on the back of his right hand, empty yet faintly shining.
He rose from the rubble and slowly approached the puppet, which assumed a guarded stance, awaiting an attack.
Seihem’s face showed absolute seriousness; the relaxed and carefree attitude from before had vanished, transforming him into someone completely different. He held his sword in one hand as he advanced in silence.
He swung his sword, aiming at the puppet’s neck. However, it used one of its arms as a shield, which was severed with a single stroke. His sword remained surrounded by a golden glow.
“Im… impossible,” it stammered.
After the first cut, one of the diamonds on the back of Seihem’s hand lost its glow.
“Anok Mashir,” the masked man chanted, directing his hand toward the puppet.
The symbols on the puppet’s mask began to glow, and, like a creature unleashed, it leapt forward and struck Seihem with a fierce kick. He managed to parry in time with his sword.
“I see you still have some interesting tricks.”
“Don’t get cocky just because you cut off one arm... heretic.”
“We’ll see who’s cocky.”
With an agile movement, Seihem positioned himself behind the puppet, swinging his double-edged sword toward its neck. Unexpectedly, the puppet turned and used its remaining arm as a shield, with the same result: the arm was severed.
As before, a second diamond-shaped mark on Seihem’s hand lost its light.
With both arms gone, the puppet was defenseless; the third strike would be the finishing blow.
Without hesitation, Seihem followed through, swinging his sword in a horizontal motion that cut through the puppet’s neck. Its head rolled onto the ground.
“This... this can’t be! How... how? You couldn’t have defeated it! It’s inconceivable… the power granted by His Holiness cannot be surpassed by a damn heretic. You two, don’t just stand there, help me!” the masked man shouted at his companions, who had been observing silently until that moment.
The enforcers shouted in unison: “Anok.” Immediately, two more puppets emerged from a dark portal.
“What? You still have more of those things?”
“You’ll regret defying Thelema and going against the Will of our lord Aleister.”
“Hmmm… I don’t recall challenging you at any point. Was it when… no, I don’t think so… maybe...? Look, lunatic, I’m only here for information. I have no interest in defying your will. How about we leave it at that?”
“It’s too late for regrets. Kill him!”
Without warning, the puppets lunged at Seihem. He managed to evade their strikes by stepping back, but they followed him, coordinating attacks from both sides. He blocked one blow with his sword, but the other landed directly on his ribs.
“Argh!” he cried out in pain, catching the other puppet’s fist with his sword. He turned and, with a kick, pushed away the puppet that had struck him. Despite the injury, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for a counterattack.
The puppets launched another assault.
With his eyes closed, Seihem could feel time slowing down. His breathing grew slower and deeper; he could hear the beat of his heart and the blood coursing through his veins. Suddenly, in a blink, everything returned to normal. One puppet’s punch was coming swiftly toward his face, but with a deft move, Seihem severed the creature’s right arm and then the left. Now defenseless, the puppet tried to retreat, but Seihem lunged forward, spinning on his heel with practiced grace and slashed in a single motion, beheading the creature.
Soon, the second puppet attacked, and Seihem responded with a precise cut that took off one arm. He completed a sequence of eight strikes, one for each mark on his hand. As he completed the sequence, the diamonds on the back of his hand lost their spectral glow, which also faded from his sword. Yet, the puppet still had its left arm, and with a final punch, it struck Seihem’s stomach. The blow was powerful, but he held firm, using his sword for support.
A faint chuckle escaped from one of the masked men observing from a distance.
“This guy is quite resilient,” he muttered, his tone mocking.
Seihem could barely keep himself standing, hunched over with the puppet’s fist still embedded in his abdomen. The creature struggled, trying to pull its arm back, but Seihem held it with a strength that defied belief. When he raised his head, his eyes shone with an intense yellow. With a sudden surge of power, Seihem drew his sword from the ground and, with all his might, drove it into the puppet’s neck. The blade slowly pierced through until it emerged from the other side. Then, holding the sword with both hands, he twisted it.
With a sickening crack, the puppet’s head detached, and its body crumpled to the ground.
Pain rippled through Seihem, but his gaze remained locked on the masked men, who, once confident, now trembled with fear.
“W-wait…” one of them stammered, terrified.
Seihem said nothing, advancing toward them with steady resolve. When he got close enough, he swung his sword and decapitated them without mercy.
“I told you it was better to let things be. But you didn’t listen, you bastards,” he muttered, exhaling heavily as he surveyed the bodies at his feet.
A sharp pain gripped his insides, making him double over, but he braced himself, using his sword for support.
The Fraeyers’ reinforcement magic truly is ruthless. I felt like it liquefied my guts; an ordinary person would probably be dead by now.
The Fraeyer family was known for their brutal fighting style. Their hereditary techniques were among the most powerful of all combat-focused mage families.
One of the spells Seihem used was known as “Svastika.” This technique infused the user with divine energy, primarily enhancing physical capabilities such as strength, speed, endurance, and regeneration. But in return for this power, the user’s body would deteriorate over time. A normal person could withstand it for no more than twenty minutes.
The powerful light-cutting spell Seihem wielded was called “Slava Spasitelya.” This technique imbued his sword with magic, creating an illusionary double edge, capable of creating false trajectories and cuts so rapid they seemed to slow time itself.
Due to the immense energy consumption, this technique was limited to only eight strikes, with each mark symbolizing one cut.
After a brief rest, feeling slightly better, Seihem hurried to find the woman he had left lying on the ground. However, as he took his first step, his entire body went numb, and he felt his consciousness slipping away.
Lying on the ground, on the verge of blacking out, he heard footsteps approaching.
Before he lost consciousness, he glimpsed the blurry face of a woman who seemed familiar.
“Anastasia…” he muttered before succumbing to darkness.