It was night. This was good. Havoc was never more powerful than when the night-sun glowed at dark. In its pale light, his captive spirit grew—and that power was his to command. Whatever they had to say about it, it mattered little.

The Midnight Urn thrummed within. Spiritual mist curled about his heels. In his grip, the Truecourse hung low—its tip angled toward his gathered foes. In his arm, he held Naereah, her skin flushed with warmth, her breath trembling and deep.

'Where were you?' Naereah demanded. Her tone was clipped—quietly angry, tinged with exasperation and relief.

'Now isn't the time—' Havoc began.

'Where were you?' she asked again, louder.

She wrenched herself from his grasp and stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the apostate Enforcers, their weak-kneed footmen, and the victims kneeling in the dirt.

Her eyes were damp—sharp and cutting despite the tears. Her lips pulled into a tight scowl. Her chest heaved with seething breaths—and then she slapped him.

Not once.

Not twice.

Three times across the cheek.

She drew her arm back for the fourth, but Havoc caught her and pulled her close. She pounded on his chest, her tears streaking down in broken silence.

'By your side!' she wept, her balled fist striking him again—heedless of the enemies' cautious approach. 'You promised me. You swore it.'

She lifted her hand once more, but Havoc caught both wrists. Her lips parted—admonishing words rising to spill. But then she faltered…

She folded into him, letting his arms draw her in—as he silenced her rage with a kiss.

An enemy lunged. Eagan, if Havoc's memory served.

Halberd gripped in both hands, the corrupted Enforcer swung the spear's axe down toward them. With fluid motion, Havoc twisted—sweeping Naereah safely aside. The Truecourse caught the shaft, glided along its length, then fell clean through Eagan's centre, cleaving him from crown to groin.

The enemies staggered backward—panic-eyed glances darting between one another, then settling in horrified stillness on Havoc.

'He's just one boy!' Iris hissed. 'Do not shame yourself in the Master's service.'

'The list of things you have to be ashamed of is ankle-long,' Sedrick said, emerging from the left side of the courtyard, Bethany at his side. 'But surrendering now—when you're this punishingly outmatched—there's no dishonour in that.'

Inheritors spilled from both ends of the fortress. The enemy had the numbers. Fewer than forty stood at Havoc's side as he pulled back to join them. Iris commanded over a hundred. More than thirty were Enforcers. The rest—conscripts, turncoats, and cowards—true believers in nothing, driven only by fear and the longing to survive. Havoc saw it in how they moved. In how they trembled when their eyes met his. They lacked the resolve to threaten him, Not as he was now—having taken the second Step of his Soldier Inheritance.

'Surrender!' Bethany called across the field. 'Release the hostages. Lay down your weapons. Your lives will be spared—and your trial postponed until the crisis is over.'

Some appeared to consider the offer. A few stumbled forward, as if ready to comply—only to be pulled back by those at their side. Lips pressed to ears. Heads shook.

The enemy ranks locked in whispered debate. Havoc heard his name pass from mouth to mouth. He could not make out the words, but he knew the shape of them.

They had numbers, yes—but no Soldiers. Five now stood against them.

None more terrible than Havoc.

Many had seen him slaughter. After the Devil's Smile, he had drifted in a fog of despair—reaping life like a farmer does grain. Dispassionate. Efficient. Without second thought.

Those who had not seen it had heard the tale. His legend had spread like rot. At the time, he had been too far gone for it to redden his cheeks—but he was not ignorant of the myth growing around him.

They had not even lied. A few flourishes. Theatrical nonsense.

But the bones of it? All true.

Down to the letter.

He really had hurled a man by his entrails. One who had just finished gutting another—flicking blood in a circle, singing shanties to demons, ringing a bell. There had been more victims ready. Some, Havoc could now see among the enemy ranks. Their bowels would have been no less despoiled had he not acted.

Still—he could admit it had made for a worrisome sight.

Even now, as the murmurs spread, several brought hands to their stomachs. They recoiled on instinct—gills greening, faces gone ashen.

'Not another step!' Iris growled, as a few broke from her ranks.

More began to follow—edging forward, defectors gathering resolve.

But then came the sound.

The night split with the baying of hounds.

Every step halted. Every eye turned to the dark beyond the walls.

'That's right,' Iris laughed—then moaned as though raptured in ecstasy. 'Nothing's changed. The mistress is at the gate. Soon, she will break in.'

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

She turned to one of the deserters, balled his collar in her fist, and with practiced footwork, threw him to the dirt. She climbed atop him as he struggled, trying to look away. But she would not let him.

Gripping a tuft of his hair, she forced his gaze to meet hers.

'I—I'm just a mason, ma'am. Never… never wanted any of this,' the man stammered.

'I understand,' Iris said softly—but loud enough for Havoc to hear without straining. 'I didn't either. All I wanted was to do my time with the Guild, find a suitor worthy of my name. But do you want to know what I learned?'

She arched her back, pressing down on the man's face. Her gaze swept the court, locking eyes with the defectors.

'When the eyeball meets the screw, no one gives a shit about what you want.'

Then she pressed down. His head split like a melon—blood and matter spilling into the dirt.

Iris rose. She turned to the others—her eyes gleaming with trauma-born mania.

'That's what you've got to look forward to when the mistress breaks in,' she said, grinning.

'I hated it at first. But now, the thought turns me wild.'

A flicker caught Havoc's eye—tendrils from the two halves of Egan's corpse were coiling together, dragging the pieces close.

'Oh… that she-wolf,' Iris sang. 'How she made me squeal until I obeyed—mending me as she went, as only she would.'

The two halves of Egan fused. His fingers twitched.

'But then the Master… for him, it was all worthwhile.'

The Soldier's eyes flicked open—whites blooming red.

'I understand now. He let her break me—because only once broken could I be mended whole.'

Egan rose from his grave. He came clawed and snarling.

'For the wages of life is death!' Iris howled, as the corrupted Enforcers summoned their Remnants. 'But the Master's gift is eternal self—unliving, undying, ever one.'

The first thing Havoc noticed was the Enforcer's strength.

It was wrong.

He was only a Servant—the Truecourse locked with his axe—yet Havoc found himself on the back foot, muscles screaming just to hold his stance. At first, he thought it was the Remnant. But it was not. The axe only returned when loosed. Havoc deflected the edge and pressed in.

No—it was the Enforcer himself who bore that hideous strength.

But strength alone could not save him. Not once the surprise wore off.

His head did not stay long on his shoulders.

Barbed wire spooled from an Enforcer's sleeve, shooting across the courtyard—twisting toward Naereah. Her back was turned. Her focus, split. In seconds, the cords would wrap her neck. Collar her.

Leash her.

Havoc would not allow it. Not for an instant.

He crossed the yard in a flash—but his mist-forged claws travelled faster. The barbs coiled around his blade, and he whipped them aside. At the same moment, his claws pierced deep—ripping back, and tearing the Enforcer's throat ghoulishly wide.

A flash.

An axe.

The Enforcer he had killed smirked a bloodied smile.

'Dying is for the living!' Iris shrieked, raising her arm—her fingers clenched around a silver chain, a yellowed fang hanging from its bail.

'We have outgrown that childhood ailment.'

Her grip loosened. The pendant slipped—sinking soundlessly into the earth. A moment later, the courtyard erupted. Spikes burst from the ground—ripping through flesh and stone alike. Enemy and ally were skewered. Even Iris was not spared; thorns tore into her sides, her back, her neck.

But while the resistance cried out in anguish and many conscripts bled and died, Iris laughed, mouth bubbling red—her body pierced, yet still upright. As if pain were proof of her faith. The Enforcers joined in her unhinged glee. They tore themselves free from the blades—flesh sloughing from wounds—and charged back into the fray.

As they moved, their blood thickened across torn bodies. It curled. Twitched. Stitched. Threading their broken flesh back together again.

'How are they… this mighty?' Sedrick grunted, sliding his rapier between the Enforcer's ribs as he stepped aside.

He twisted the blade. Blood burst from the woman's ears, nose, and eyes. Her body swelled—flesh bloating, eyes bulging from their sockets. But even as a crimson pool gathered at her feet, she did not fall.

Iris wailed as lightning surged through her. Her eyes melted down her cheeks, her mouth frothed with glowing blood. Yet when the last sparks flickered dim from Naereah's hands, the Enforcer was still standing.

'They won't —stay down,' Naereah said between breaths.

Well, my boy, what else did you expect? Havoc's Captive Spirit laughed into his mind.

Havoc did not press for an answer. There was no need. Perhaps they were bored. Perhaps they were scheming. More likely, they just wanted him mad with their word games. Whatever the reason, the Captive Spirit's tongue was ever-loose—prodigal with secrets it chose to spill.

The Crimson Umbrage.

A ritualistic sequence through which a Servant could temporarily ascend. It did not take for all, but for those it empowered, they reached the very edges of a Soldier's Inheritance. While its effects were less potent on those already Soldiers, they too would grow stronger. It was especially useful for those with Remnants attuned to blood.

Combined with the Vampir's Heart's regenerative powers, the practitioner became nigh-immortal.

Until their Harmony runs dry.

The path they walked to claim such power—they were monsters. Immortal or not, Havoc knew who he was.

He was the monster who would slay all the monsters.

He surged forward. The mist came with him. Limbs spiralled through the air as he carved a trail of violence. When the creatures reformed, he was already upon them again—his blade swimming their length, breadth, and width.

Again and again, he killed them. Even when the ground shifted to sand—struck by the force of a golden spear—he did not slow.

The blighted Enforcers began to mend slower. And then slower still. Soon, some did not rise at all. The tide turned—then surged. Before long, the resistance became overwhelming.

The turncoats went where the wind blew. Sitting out much of the clash, they slipped in among the victors once the outcome became clear.

The enemy was routed.

Victory—at hand.

Then the walls crashed in. Baying madness tore through the air, heralding the hounds. First, there was one. It pressed its snout against the membranous veil that held it back.

Then the veil tore.

Like an infant possessed with malice and spite, it clawed through the wound. A second followed, widening the tear. Then a third. A fourth.

They were surrounded.

A woman stepped through, and the battle stilled. Her shoulders were broad. Her waist, lean and honed. Havoc might have called her beautiful—if not for the madness. She howled at the night-sun, nuzzling the gore-slick hides of the hounds.

She advanced, a wolfish grin stretching across her face. Her eyes swept the courtyard—then locked on Naereah.

Her gaze lingered. Her smile widened.

'Mine. Only mine. Mine at last.'

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.