“Huh? It’s you, Masters?” Yvain blinked in disbelief. “I thought you’d return tomorrow now that it’s so late!”

“This is your first day of school, right?” Morgan smiled, stroking the boy’s head that was now almost her height. “How’s the investigation?”

Yvain saw Burn walked out of the portal with Mnemosyne Aeons with him and his eyes glimmered in awe. “Nemo!”

“Brother!”

“What?!” Yvain yelped in shock. “She talks?!”

“She talks now,” Burn said. “How’s the investigation?”

“Huh?” Yvain blinked, and his face became worried. “Sir Tristan and Dame Yvolt hadn’t returned…”

Morgan and Burn’s eyes met each other’s, and they also looked worried. Especially Morgan.

“Should we go and find them?” Morgan asked.

Burn sighed, pondering for a bit.

***

Ahlgrath’s story began in filth—literal and figurative. He was born filthy. He didn’t know his mother or anything similar, and he wasn’t sure if he even was born through any birth canal like creatures created by God. Not even a dim recollection of some… any womb.

The earliest memory he had was huddling in the back of a damp cave, coated in some viscous, black substance that clung to him like a second skin. Was it tar? Oil? Or maybe just the liquid rejection of the universe itself? He didn’t know. What he did know was hunger—bottomless, gnawing hunger.

When he finally stumbled into the light, society was kind enough to make one thing clear: he didn’t belong. His form, a grotesque amalgamation of misshapen limbs, too many joints, and glistening skin like spoiled meat, was enough to send anyone screaming.

Children cried. Livestock panicked. Villagers whispered legends of beasts and demons, though none of their stories were quite horrific enough to encapsulate him.

They called him a monster. Fair enough, he supposed. He did think about eating their children—adorable little morsels that they were—but he hadn’t actually done it. He’d thought about snatching a cow or two, too, but he hadn’t gotten around to that either.

Yet thoughts, it seemed, were crime enough. It didn’t take long before the torches and pitchforks came for him.

That’s when he arrived. A figure cloaked in shadows, with a voice like honey laced with poison. He didn’t speak much at first, but he acted. The men hunting Ahlgrath down? They didn’t last long, their screams echoing in the woods before silence claimed them.

Then came the village. The place that had cast him out as if his very existence were an affront to decency. Together, Ahlgrath and his savior returned. The villagers barely had time to panic before the massacre began.

Ahlgrath was allowed to revel, as he put it. He could indulge himself, whether that meant playing with the livestock and children as toys or something darker. Either way, by the time the village was silent, Ahlgrath’s hunger had finally been sated.

Of course, loose ends were tied up. The blame was laid at the feet of a nearby orc camp, and Ahlgrath emerged reborn. No longer nameless, he was christened “Ahlgrath” by the only being who had ever given him purpose.

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From that moment on, he followed him, the only master worthy of his devotion.

Years turned into decades, and Ahlgrath did what all monsters do best: adapt. In the shadow of his savior, he learned more than survival; he learned cunning, patience, and the fine art of turning malice into power.

His brilliant mind—yes, brilliant, despite what those drooling villagers might have thought—soaked up knowledge like that cursed black substance had once soaked into his skin. He wasn’t just some brute; he was evolving.

He rose from pathetic prey to a weapon, a hand and foot of him, as loyal as he was grotesque.

Living in the shadow of greatness wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was freeing. As long as he obeyed the orders given to him—and, let’s face it, he never asked for anything Ahlgrath wasn’t dying to do anyway—he could indulge in all the things society once condemned him for.

Want to raze a village? Done. Toy with the weak? Why not. Experiment with new ways to make people scream? Just part of the job description.

Along the way, he took up the blade and the magic, though neither felt quite as satisfying as his claws. Still, they had their uses, and Ahlgrath was nothing if not practical.

He also learned what made him tick—or, rather, what had created him.

The foul darkness that had birthed him, that had clung to him like guilt, was no curse. It was power. It was the essence of something ancient, something forbidden, and it strengthened him with every kill, every act of destruction, every ounce of terror he inspired.

The darkness wrapped itself around him, a shroud he no longer feared but embraced. He became a walking nightmare, a weapon so finely honed that even those who hadn’t heard his name trembled at the thought of what he represented.

Ahlgrath wasn’t just a monster; he was his savior’s monster, and that made all the difference.

In his mind, this was justice. The world had cast him out, after all. Labeled him a freak, a mistake, before they even understood what he was capable of.

Now, he got to return the favor, one village, one kingdom at a time. And the best part? Every atrocity he committed, every act of destruction, only deepened his bond with the darkness and with him.

Ahlgrath had finally found his place in the world: as a force to be feared, a weapon to be wielded, and a creature who had turned rejection into unholy purpose.

Two knights. Two mere knights from the oh-so-glorious Round Table, paragons of honor and justice and whatever other noble nonsense they sang about in their little halls. Did they really think they could stop him?

Ahlgrath—the creature cast out by the world, molded by shadow, and sharpened into perfection by horrors they couldn’t begin to imagine? The thought alone made him laugh—a deep, guttural sound that rumbled like thunder across the battlefield.

“Tristan and Yvolt, was it?” he drawled, his voice practically dripping with disdain. “Born into lives of privilege, groomed for greatness by your precious knights. How quaint. You had teachers, comrades, shining armor polished daily, and a cause to fight for. A prepackaged life of purpose, served up with all the trimmings of nobility.”

He stepped closer, his grotesque form unleashed, towering over them like a shadow cast by their own inadequacies. His clawed fingers flexed, dripping with malice and a lifetime of rage.

“Well, aren’t we the same?” he sneered. “Working like dogs for your master, thrown into life-and-death battles, forced to face the monsters and defects of the world. But in the end, you’re nothing more than slaves to the man above you. Just like me.”

He expected shock, denial, outrage—anything to remind him of their supposedly noble lineage. Instead, Tristan and Yvolt turned to each other, raised their eyebrows, and then—smiled.

“Yes,” Tristan said lightly, his tone so casual it felt like a slap in the face. “We are the same. Like you, following your master, we’re just following orders. So, no hard feelings, okay?”

“Fascinating,” Yvolt added, her eyes gleaming with what could only be described as curiosity. “What kind of creature are you, anyway? And who commands you? You’ve got to admit, this is interesting.”

Ahlgrath froze, his mind reeling. The same? They, the sanctimonious knights of the Round Table, were actually admitting it? Acknowledging, without hesitation, that they were as much slaves as he was? The idea was... disorienting.

He opened his mouth, ready to launch into a scathing tirade about how they were nothing alike, how their shiny titles and noble causes made them a different breed entirely—but they’d already shrugged it off. Dismissed him. Like he was some petulant child throwing a tantrum.

For the first time in years, Ahlgrath was at a loss for words. And it infuriated him.

But by the time he was awakened from his confusion, the two had chugged up the second dose of the potion.

“With this, we’ll also get serious.”