Matty didn’t think of himself as emotional. He maintained a degree of calmness and rationality in the midst of strife. He had been a pilot in his previous life. His training and personality were suited to combat terrible situations. Even so, when Jules remarked, “Good Lord,” he couldn’t help but purse his lips in silent agreement.

At first, as they flew over River Liffey and the areas west of the capital, the battle was what they expected. Two sides fighting each other in equal violence. They saw the greatest sorcerer of the land, Bróðir, fight his brother Ospak in what seemed to be a clash of a thousand soldiers, the Dublin forces having successfully cut off a decent portion of the Dal Cais.

But as Matty and Jules came closer to the capital, past Dugball Bridge, a fog of blood-red began to block their view. What was an ordinary war became something else. The stench rose up to the clouds and Matty grimaced, pulling Jules close to his chest to cover her. The flaps of his black vest whipped in the air, his dark attire tightened by the belt on his stomach holding a pouch of smoke screen. His brown tunic was underneath the vest and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The pair were high, high up—a thousand feet if his piloting experience served him well.

“Let’s go lower!” Jules exclaimed. “Lower!”

Matty frowned as their makeshift plane did as she said. Jules and Matty were perched atop the mighty Roc, their hands gripping the feathers of its majestic plumage as the massive bird soared through the sky. A thousand feet above the ground, the Roc went lower and lower, not quite diving but still building up immense speed.

The Roc itself was a sight to behold, a creature of mythic proportions and unrivaled majesty. Its wingspan, wide enough to bash away several humans at once, caught the wind with effortless grace. The physics were slightly out of the realm of possibility, so Matty tried not to think about it too much. It was Jules’ power and it was powerful. That was all that mattered.

The Roc landed with an audible crunch, its large feet unable to avoid flesh.

A thousand bodies. A thousand corpses. What should have been greenery was replaced by the blood of war. What should have been an even battle between the forces at Dublin City and Connacht was a slaughter.

“He’s alive!”

A player by the name of Cillian was lying amongst the bodies, the Templar helmet half broken, revealing terrified open eyes. He was trembling, his chest bleeding out, and Jules jumped right towards him. Matty wouldn’t have been able to stop her even if he tried.

“Summon: Ibong Adarna.”

She extended her right hand and created a blue-green magic circle. The magic circle shattered as a shiny, metallic bird burst out. Its body was long and it flew into the air before promptly coming back down. “Please! I want you to heal everyone!”

Matty jumped down from the Roc and crossed his arms. “Is healing everyone the right choice?”

“We need to help them, enemy or not,” Jules said. Her concern was palpable and he wasn’t sure if he blamed her. There was too much death here.

The pair had spawned amongst the Dublin-Leinster alliance. They were supposed to be stationed at Dublin City, but because of Jules’ class and a piece of information they received, they had to leave. They flew over to the Isle of Mann and fetched the necessary resources. Of course, neither anticipated to return to destruction of this scale.

“...okay.” Matty nodded. He wasn’t a healer and neither was Jules, technically speaking. However, her new bird companion, Ibong Adarna, was. With seven distinct colours came seven beautiful songs. The bird sang and its wings glowed and particles of healing magic fell upon the corpses. Not just Cillian, the player they had found, but everyone in a ten foot radius.

Matty’s two shields were attached to his wrists. He wasn’t like Jules. He wasn’t special. ‘So what’s this nagging feeling I’m getting? Why is my body telling me to move?’

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His thoughts were accompanied by a ragged breath. A chill went down his spine as his gaze attempted to penetrate the red fog. The silence and the fog, they were like tissues clogging his nose.

“Come on! Let’s get going.”

“...sure.”

Jules kept going and kept healing without so much as a second thought. Unlike him, she wasn’t afraid. They came closer and closer to the increasing number of bodies. They came closer and closer to the gates of Dublin City.

“Mmph!” Jules threw up halfway there. Matty grimaced and gently pointed her elsewhere. She wouldn’t have it though. She wanted to keep going. “Sorry for being so selfish.”

“It’s okay.” He peered down at the cold hand he stepped on. “I get it. It’s hard to look away when it’s this bad.”

He said that despite his instincts screaming at him. ‘Bad idea. This was a bad idea. If we go to the gates, we will die!’

But he trusted Jules. He trusted her with his life and so much more. If she told him to jump, he would do it without thinking. If she said to bring her water, he would do it. If she told him she wanted to quit, he would help her do just that.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. It was nigh impossible to avoid the corpses of soldiers and players alike. Templars, Holy Knights, martial artists of various Sects, and everyone in between. The sheer silence and tempo of their steps were eerie.

The gates of Dublin City were wide open, though not by choice or force. Rather, it was incinerated to the point that the only reason Matty knew of the gate’s existence was because he had personally seen it. Bodies were strewn everywhere but three stacks of them were at the gate. The stench worsened and Jules put a hand to her mouth in revolt. Matty remained steady and listened. In between the harmonic singing of the Ibong Adarna, there was a battle happening through the seven foot tall stack of corpses.

“You should summon the Roc to gain aerial support,” Matty said. “I think there’s a fight going on.”

“S-sure.” Her right hand was raised out in front of her and she uttered, “Summon: Roc.”

From the intricate dark brown magic circle, the massive mega-sized eagle manifested. The Roc let out a whistle and let the two climb its back. Afterward, they dashed up into the skies.

“You were right! Someone is fighting!”

Dubgall mac Amlaíb and Gilla Ciaráin mac Glún Iairn, the two warriors protecting Dublin City, as well as Sigtrygg Silkbeard, their leader. The Roc flew closer. His instincts screamed at him and the Roc jerked back as Matty proclaimed, “Wait!”

It wasn’t a battle. No, it was a slaughter. Dubgall and Gilla were dead, their corpses high in the air and lifted by a black-ish tendril. Only Sigtrygg remained, the Hiberno-Norse king of Dublin refusing to submit. The reserved garrison he left in the city as part of their ambush was wiped.

Alone he remained against the black figure of malicious intent—of a name that Matty couldn’t believe was here.

Jack the Ripper.

He was the cause of everything. He was the stench of death itself.

Amongst the dark aura enveloping him was a golden rapier in his hand, so sharp and bright that Matty thought he imagined it. A blink and it was gone, with Jack staring at the Norse leader empty-handed. The middle-aged man wore glistening armour that fit a man of his prestige and silent rage that suited a devil.

“I will not submit, ifreannach!” Sigtrygg brandished his sword with both his hands, ignoring the gaping hole in his stomach. Jack seemed pleased judging by his body language, turning to him with open arms.

“Come then. Strike me down.” Balls of darkness appeared in both hands. Matty instantly knew something was wrong. Magical power that a non-sensor like him could sense meant what they were seeing was very, very bad.

And he threw that immense ball of darkness like it was a dodgeball. Sigtrygg slashed the attack down and charged at him. Jack threw the other ball and it narrowly missed his target. Sigtrygg stepped over the floor of corpses, leapt high into the air, and swung his blade.

Jack caught the silver blade and crushed it.

Sigytrygg was dead.

At least that was Matty’s presumption before he released his own blade and brought out a knife. It nicked Jack’s side and nearly scratched his mask. However, after several attempts, it became quite clear that Sigytrygg simply lacked the speed to land a fatal blow and he decided to switch gears.

Too little, too late. The moment he tried to step back, a knife appeared in Jack’s hand which he drove directly into his heart.

“You wounded me,” Jack noted calmly. He pulled the knife back and added several stabs. Blood gushed out of the Norse’s body and he toppled over. “That is not something most can say. Die with pride, O Great King of the Uí Ímair dynasty.”

An ankle torn by a misstep, a hole in the shoulder and stomach, and eight stab wounds. Those were the wounds that Sigtrygg Silkbeard experienced in his final battle. For his time, he was a king of the arts, of intelligence, of smart and dirty wealth. A rebel to the very end.

Jack witnessed that end with an eerie stillness. Slowly, Jack craned his head over. First, he looked down, then left, and finally…

“You two, flying on that eagle. I see you~”

Directly at them. He summoned a ball of darkness and hurled it at them.