The grand doors of the castle detonated in a thunderclap of splintered wood and twisted iron. Bolts snapped free and hinges tore loose as the entire structure blasted inward, crashing to the stone floor with a deafening boom that sent tremors through the walls.
Bootsteps followed—fast, hard, and many. Norsefire soldiers stormed the foyer in tight formation, wands raised and blades drawn. And behind them, casual as a man arriving at a dinner party, strolled Lamar Burgess. Hands in his coat pockets. A slow, swaggering grin carved across his face.
"Knock knock," he announced, his boots tapping lightly over the shattered threshold. "Daddy's home."
He paused in the heart of the ruined hall, gaze drifting up toward the grand staircase. The silence struck him first, thick and unusual. A stillness that did not belong in a school. The crystal sconces along the walls flickered low, and the only light came from pale afternoon rays slanting through the tall, iron-rimmed windows.
Burgess turned slightly, addressing the officer behind him. "As planned. Five squads—one for each dormitory."
"Yes, sir."
"The rest of you," he said with a gesture to the others, "comb the castle. Every wing, every corridor. That includes the slave quarters."
"Understood."
He held up a finger. "By the way, do not underestimate them. Any of them. Students, professors, the caretaker's bloody cat—I don't care. You think you've seen magic? You haven't. Windsor may be a sanctimonious fossil, but he wasn't wrong. Men like him don't keep fools at their side."
The lieutenant swallowed, nodding again. "Yes, sir."
"And another thing—"
A voice rang out, loud and commanding, echoing across the marble like thunder through a tomb.
"I've seen my share of filth, Lamar. Detestable, deplorable wretches crawling through every shadow. And I've ended more than a few—on your command."
Burgess froze. His smile dropped a fraction.
"Serfence," he muttered, the name venom on his tongue.
His voice cut through the still air again.
"Didn't think I'd live to see the day I'd put down the worst one of all."
Burgess scoffed, stepping forward into the light. "You've always fancied yourself the hard man, haven't you? Serfence the Black. The ghost in the rafters. The silent blade of the Tower." He tilted his head. "The one they all feared."
His smirk returned, colder now. "But I know you, Edward. Behind that cloak, behind the theatrics… you're still that frightened little boy. The one who couldn't save her. The one who's been running from that night ever since."
****
Concealed behind a towering pillar, Serfence stood motionless, the shadows cloaking him like a second skin. His gloved fingers clenched around his wand, leather creaking under the strain as Lamar's voice echoed through the vaulted chamber.
"Did you truly think the Tower gave a toss about some second-rate smuggler scraping coin off dungeon walls?" Lamar's words rang, casual, cruel. "The man was irrelevant. A speck. Not even worth the parchment his name was scrawled on." He took a slow step forward, his gaze cutting through the dark. "Ask yourself, Edward—why did his name land on your desk? Why you?"
His expression darkened. "Because I put it there."
A tremor ran along Serfence's jaw.
"I heard your little tragedy. I knew you wanted him dead. So badly you could barely sleep for it. So, I gave you what you wanted. I handed him to you on a silver plate." Lamar spread his arms. "Call it a gift. An offering. I thought perhaps it might buy your loyalty… your trust."
He scoffed, shaking his head with disdain. "And what did you do? You turned your back. Gave up your badge, walked away from everything—from me." His words sharpened. "Oh, you showed up now and then, skulking in the dark doing favors, but your heart… your heart was never with the Tower again."
He paused, drawing a breath that trembled with fury.
"And now you stand against me. Me. After everything I've done for you," he growled. "I took that frightened whelp, that boy shaking in his boots and blaming the world for his weakness, and I forged something useful out of him. A blade. A weapon. A force of bloody reckoning."
Lamar's eyes flared with fury. "And this is how you repay me?" He bared his teeth. "You dare to raise your wand against your maker? Against the one who pulled you from the dirt and gave you meaning?"
He stepped forward again. "You're nothing without me, Edward! Just a hollow coward in a black coat, clinging to ghosts and guilt. You were mine. I made you! And now I'll break you."
A hush fell over the foyer, draping the space in a heavy, anticipatory silence. For a moment, all that could be heard was the low hum of crystal light and the faint whistle of wind through shattered glass. Then came the sound of boots tapping against stone. Each step echoing like a metronome of death.
Serfence emerged from the shadows, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the upper landing. At once, the Norsefire guards snapped to attention, wands raised, tense and ready. But Serfence didn't so much as blink. He stopped at the apex of the grand staircase, his gaze fixed coldly upon Lamar below, the stare of a man who had already buried him in his mind.
"How grotesquely predictable," Serfence said. "You can't resist it, can you? That insufferable urge to wrap every foul deed, every manipulation, every whisper of consequence in the cloak of your own ego." He raised a gloved finger. "Let's get one thing painfully clear, you lamentable, pitiful monument to insecurity. You didn't make me."
"My skills, my magic, my instincts, they were earned. Forged in blood, sharpened in shadow, refined by pain. Mine. I suffered because I chose to. I killed because I had to. And I became who I am because I wanted to." He narrowed his eyes. "You were never more than a passing shadow. An insignificant little flea barking from the edge of a battlefield you were too afraid to bleed on."
Lamar made to speak, but Serfence cut across him with a raised hand and a slight tilt of the head.
"Yes, I sought vengeance," he continued. "For a man who thought himself untouchable. And when I found him, I ended him. Effortlessly. And I enjoyed it." His lips curled. "And if you think that earns you some pathetic semblance of loyalty, you're dafter than I gave you credit for."
He took a breath.
"You've always seen the world as your banquet. Everyone else, scraps to pick from your teeth. But power's rotted your mind, Lamar. You think yourself the architect of all things. A kingmaker." His gaze darkened. "But you're nothing more than a mirror of every self-obsessed despot the Tower has buried over the years, and when we bury you, no one will remember the name Lamar Burgess without cursing it."
A twisted smile curled at the corner of his lips. "And I'll speak plainly, on behalf of everyone in this castle, when I say that we'll take great, savage delight in putting you and your slobbering curs down."
"You ungrateful, treacherous little—" Lamar snarled.
Serfence raised his voice just enough to speak over him, not in anger, but with quiet conviction.
"I've done monstrous things," he said. "Things no priest nor penance can absolve. I will never know peace. Never know love. But I can live with that, because unlike you, I did not slaughter innocents to stroke my ego, nor did I ever delude myself into believing the world owed me reverence for it."
He scoffed softly. "Though, I will say this, I do find your arrogance oddly admirable. It's not every day one meets a man who not only parades his atrocities with pride, but does so while earnestly believing he stands on the side of righteousness."
He swept a gloved hand through his hair, slicking it back with all the calm in the world.
"But as the old saying goes…" Serfence's smirk deepened. "The bigger the pride, the harder the fall. And let me tell you, Lamar—it's a long, agonizing drop to the fiery pits of Hell… assuming Valerian doesn't get to you first."
Burgess let out a furious snarl, whipping his wand from his coat with a snap. A violent bolt of magic tore through the air, sparking crimson and gold as it screamed toward the upper landing—only to strike stone. Serfence was already gone, vanished into the shadows like a ghost slipping through the cracks.
"Coward!" Lamar roared. "When the sun sets on this cursed institution, I'll have every last one of you filthy professors dead at my feet! Your precious students. Your little insurgents, dragged in chains to Revel's End, or sold to the highest bidder! I swear it!"
His voice echoed through the vaulted space, bouncing off the marble and wood like a war drum. Then—silence.
From somewhere in the dark, Serfence answered, calm and cold.
"Good luck."
Lamar's breath hitched, fury coiling in his chest like a serpent. "Move!" he barked, turning sharply to the Norsefire soldiers behind him. "Take this castle! Burn it if you must—kill anyone who dares stand in your way!"
The order was met without hesitation. Boots thundered across the stone floor, spreading like a swarm through every corridor and hall. The storm had begun.
Lamar remained at the foot of the grand staircase, his gaze rising to the empty bannisters above. His jaw clenched tight as his fingers curled around his wand. Whatever resistance awaited him, whatever defiance these relics and runaways had left—it would end tonight.
Excalibur would fall. The professors would fall. And long after the last ember died, the world would remember that it was he, Lamar Burgess, who brought the greatest magical academy in Avalon to its knees.
And he would enjoy every bloody second of it.
****
The thunder of boots flooded the Great Hall but what awaited them was silence and shadow.
Only slivers of sunlight from the tall, iron-rimmed windows pierced the gloom. The enchanted ceiling was gone, replaced by an oppressive black void that loomed high above like the mouth of a sleeping beast. The Norsefire guards moved in tight formation, wands raised, each tip glowing dimly—casting pale light across the deserted room.
The tables stood untouched, eerily preserved. Plates sat half-filled, goblets left mid-toast. Platters of bread, toast, and cheese littered the surface. A milk jug had toppled, the slow, rhythmic drip from its lip pattering onto the floor below—soft, wet impacts that struck like pebbles against glass in the stillness. The air hung thick with the scent of stale breakfast. Burnt coffee and sour cream clinging to the stone like fog. Dust danced through the wandlight like motes of ash, weightless and haunting.
Nerves frayed. The guards shifted uneasily, fingers twitching on their wands despite their numbers. For all their bravado, they knew the stories—told over ale and crackling firelight. Serfence the Black, the Clock Tower's old reaper, whose name alone could sour wine. Workner the Annihilator, the White Whistle who once collapsed an entire dungeon system in a single breath. And the worst of them all… the one they whispered of only as Nosferatu.
One of the guards sniffed the air, his brow creasing. "You smell that?"
The one beside him glanced over. "Smell what?"
"Smoke," the first muttered, inhaling again. "But not from any pipe I've known. It's… off. Sharp. Acrid." His face twisted in a grimace. "Like something's burning that shouldn't be."
Behind the towering chair at the head of the hall, Ryan pressed his back to the polished wood, a lit cigarette between his teeth. His eyes dropped to the magazine in his hand. He slid it into the rifle with a click. The guards heard it. The shuffle of boots paused.
He pulled the lever.
Ryan exhaled a trail of smoke, slow and steady, before a wicked smirk crept across his face.
"Alright then…" he muttered. "Let's rock."
He stepped into the open. The wandlight caught him full-on. For a moment, time held still. Their eyes widened, caught on the barrel of a matte-black rifle aimed squarely at their hearts.
And then—Hell.
A flash erupted from the muzzle. The crack of bullets echoed through the Great Hall like cannonfire. Shells spat in every direction, rounds tearing through enchanted cloaks, flesh, and armor. Blood painted the floor in streaks as chaos erupted.
The Norsefire guards fired back, spells lighting the air in jagged bolts of color. Ryan moved. His rifle roared again and again, its recoil rattling in his grip, casings clattering to the stone. Every squeeze of the trigger dropped another soldier, until the walls sang with ricochets, the air choked with smoke and screams. It wasn't just a firefight. It was a reckoning.
He moved like a phantom through the shadows, weaving around the long teacher's table, muzzle flashes painting bursts of light across the darkened hall. Each blast from his rifle landed like a hammer against the eardrums. The guards had never seen a weapon like it, much less one wielded by a man who handled it with deadly precision. Every trigger pull was a death sentence. Each round tore through flesh and bone, ripping the breath straight from their lungs. Wands fell from limp fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone.
Some tried to adapt—those wielding swords leapt atop the long tables, charging with wild cries. Ryan dropped them mid-sprint, bullets shattering kneecaps and blasting skulls apart in sprays of red mist. Bodies collapsed in heaps between goblets and shattered plates.
He dropped the spent magazine with a flick of his wrist, the metal clinking against the stone. A fresh mag was pulled from his side, slammed home with practiced ease. A blast of magic streaked toward him—a split-second decision and Ryan hunched, whipping up his jacket. The spell struck it dead-on. Lines of blue circuitry lit up across the fabric, dispersing the energy harmlessly across his back.
The caster froze, eyes wide in disbelief.
Ryan's rifle barked once. The guard dropped, skull caved in.
Another guard ran up from behind, dagger raised. Ryan, unfazed, plucked the cigarette from his lips. Without so much as a glance, he drove the burning tip straight into the man's eye.
A scream tore from the guard's throat as the cigarette hissed against flesh.
Ryan turned, leveling his rifle, and pulled the trigger. The burst tore through the man's chest, shredding muscle and bone in a spray of red before he crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
Chaos swallowed the hall. Gunfire, screams, and the sharp shriek of spells colliding filled the air. Shimmering bursts of magic lit the walls, blasts ricocheting and ripping through stone, splintering chairs and blowing platters into clouds of meat and ash.
Ryan dropped behind a row of chairs, one knee on the floor. Plates shattered around him. A spell flew inches past his ear, slamming into the table leg and exploding in a mess of splinters. Gritting his teeth, he swiped a hand in front of him. Holographic panels unfurled in the air—sleek sapphire blue, floating like cards drawn from an invisible deck. One open slot waited.
He slid the rifle in. It vanished into the panel, going flat and silent.
"Shotgun. Armor-piercing," he said.
"Shotgun. Twelve-gauge slugs. Armor-piercing," came the cybernetic voice in reply.
A new panel spun to life. The shotgun appeared, floating and waiting.
Ryan glanced up as another blast tore the corner off the table beside him. He narrowed his eyes.
"Come on, I ain't on a diet. Gimme something with more meat on its bones."
"Of course, sir. My apologies."
The panel flipped, revealing a beast of a weapon—a drum-fed automatic shotgun, matte black and heavy.
"The AA-12, sir."
"Now that's more like it!" Ryan grabbed it. The panels folded away behind him.
He racked the slide with a metallic clunk. Then, rising to his feet, he aimed and fired.
The first shot boomed like a cannon, vaporizing the closest guard in a mess of pulverized armor and torn limbs. The recoil kicked into his shoulder, but Ryan didn't stop. He moved sideways along the table, pumping shot after shot. Each slug hit like a battering ram. Stone blasted from pillars. Flesh tore like parchment. Blood sprayed in arcs. The Norsefire guards had no chance to scream, no time to flee. They fell one after another, their formation buckling.
And by the time they realized what they were up against—it was already too late.
A handful of Norsefire guards tipped one of the long banquet tables on its side, scrambling for cover behind it. It was a desperate move. The next slug from Ryan's shotgun tore through the wood like wet paper. The blast boomed through the hall like rolling thunder, turning the table into splinters and sawdust. Screams followed as blood sprayed the walls, limbs shredded, tendons snapping like cords. One guard collapsed, clutching what was left of his arm—only ribbons of meat dangling from shattered bone.
Then came the click.
Ryan swiped his arm sideways. A holographic panel flickered to life. He tossed the empty shotgun into it. It vanished with a hum.
Another panel spun open in front of him. He reached in and pulled out a fresh weapon—sleek, black, deadly.
"M4A1. Took the liberty of loading it with FMJs," said the voice.
Ryan grinned. "You always know what I like."
He raised the rifle, squeezed the trigger, and swept the barrel across the room. The muzzle flashed. The shots cracked like whip cracks. Full metal jackets tore through armor and flesh alike. Guards dropped one by one, jerking violently as red mist filled the air. Bodies hit the floor hard.
"Hit me," Ryan said.
A new panel flicked open, and a grenade dropped into his palm. He yanked the pin free with his thumb and let the spoon fly. "Fire in the hole!" he called, flinging it into the clustered guards.
Then he moved—vaulting onto the table, sliding across the polished surface, and diving off the other side, landing hard on his back.
The explosion ripped through the hall, a brutal shockwave of sound and flame. Screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke poured across the room, thick and choking. As it began to clear, the carnage came into view. Bodies motionless, others writhing in agony, bleeding out onto the cracked flagstones. Some guards coughed, disoriented, blinking through tears and dust. Others just stared, faces pale, hands trembling.
They hadn't come for this. They weren't ready. And deep down, every single one of them knew—
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
****
The castle hallway was bedlam. Spells screamed through the air, scorching ancient stone, blowing craters in the floor, and hurling rubble and dislodged shrubs in all directions. Amidst the chaos, Serfence moved like a phantom of precision. His obsidian wand flicked without flourish, loosing arcs of emerald light that tore the breath from lungs and the life from eyes. One by one, the Norsefire guards dropped where they stood, collapsing in heaps with barely a gasp.
In his other hand, his shillelagh staff spun like a storm. The gold-caged stone at its head shattered steel, cracked bone, and painted the walls with bursts of blood. Blades met it and splintered. Skulls fractured beneath its weight with a sickening crunch.
Serfence struck without hesitation. Every motion swift. Every blow fatal.
A sword came for his back—he ducked, twisted, and thrust a blazing orb of fire into the attacker's face. The man barely had time to scream before he hit the floor in flames. Another guard charged. Serfence swept low, caving in the man's kneecap with his staff before rising and smashing it down on the back of his skull. Bone, blood, and grey matter burst across the stones.
He surged forward, kicking another soldier square in the chest. The man stumbled backward into the courtyard fountain. With a flick of his wand, the water erupted up behind him, freezing mid-flight into jagged icicles that impaled him clean through. The man gurgled, blood seeping from his mouth—until Serfence ended it with a cold strike to the temple, snapping off the frozen spike as the body crumpled.
More guards poured in from the corridor. Serfence didn't hesitate. He leveled his wand and snarled, "Bombarda."
The explosion tore through them like a thunderclap. Bodies were launched backward, smashing through the display cabinets in a hail of broken wood and glass. Before the dust had settled, a blade came howling past his ear. Serfence caught the attacker's wrist with his staff, twisted hard, and drove a knee into the man's chest, then his face. The guard doubled over, blood streaming—just in time to meet the staff's head crashing down, splitting his skull against the stone with a splatter of red.
Serfence stood in the wreckage, blood dripping from the tip of his staff.
He turned slowly to the next wave of guards, clustered together, their wands trembling in their grip. His piercing black eyes found them.
"You know who I am," he said, calm and cold, each word cutting deeper than any curse. "You know what I've done. What I do. So, ask yourselves—" He flicked the gore from his staff. "Is Lamar Burgess worth bleeding for? Worth dying for?"
The guards hesitated. One backed up. Another lowered his wand.
"If your answer is no, then remove yourself from my sight this very instant," Serfence continued. "If it's yes…" He tilted his head, lips curling into the faintest smile. "Then let's get this over with."
****
The sharp clap of boots thundered through the crumbling stone corridors near the slave quarters, each frantic footfall a drumbeat of rising panic. Creedy's breath came in ragged gasps, sweat streaking down his grimy brow as he ran, casting wild glances over his shoulder at the shadows chasing him—Norsefire specters in black, their wandlights bobbing like hunting lanterns in the dark.
He threw himself against the first door he came across, hammering with his fist and the rusted iron hook that had long replaced his right hand. The wood shook beneath his blows, but no answer came. Not even the whisper of a breath from within.
"Let me in!" Creedy cried out. "Let me in, you bastards!"
A bolt of blue light whistled past his ear, searing the air and forcing him to duck. He yelped and broke into a desperate sprint once more. The next door, the third he'd tried, was no different. No matter how hard he pounded, how desperately he shouted, silence met him.
Not one soul moved. Not one hand reached for the latch. And deep down, he knew why.
They remembered. Every last one of them remembered.
The agony. The beatings. The humiliation. What he'd done to Raine. To Godric. The years of cruelty he'd overseen as Caretaker of Excalibur weren't forgotten, nor forgiven.
His sentence, a decade in chains, had reduced him to the very thing he once lorded over. A slave, despised and discarded. The others treated him like a ghost, a smear on the wall. They gave him no shelter, no food but scraps, no kindness, no aid. Not even hatred anymore. Only cold stares, silence, and the occasional foot to the ribs when he forgot his place. They'd exiled him to sleep in the cellar beneath the kitchens, and in their minds, he had already died long ago.
He staggered to another door, slamming his hook against it until the metal bent. Still nothing. No one came.
His lip curled, face twisted in fury and desperation.
"Screw you!" he screamed at the wood. "You heartless, low-born filth! I'll make you all pay for this, I swear I will!"
But even as the words left his mouth, they rang hollow—echoing off stone and shut doors that would never open again.
A crack of magic slammed into Creedy's side, lifting him clean off his feet. His body struck the wall with a sickening crunch, the wind torn from his lungs. He gasped, eyes wide, coughing violently as he slumped to the floor, his back scraping down the stone before coming to rest in a heap against the base.
Footsteps approached.
One of the guards broke from the others, wand still trained on the crumpled figure. He paused a few feet away, then reached up and peeled off his black mask. A young face emerged—hard-eyed, with a smirk curling the corner of his lip.
"Well, would you look at this?" the younger man said. "If it ain't Creepy bloody Creedy."
He turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder at the other guards. "Back when I was still studying here, this bastard strutted the halls like he owned the place. Thought he was king of the dungheap. Biggest tosser this side of the city. Can't name a single soul who didn't hate his guts."
A few of the guards chuckled behind their masks, dark and humorless.
The young man turned back to Creedy, crouching slightly to meet his eye. "You're lookin' rough, mate. Bit wiry since the last time I saw you. What's the matter? Food not up to snuff these days?"
His grin widened as he gestured to the iron collar fastened around Creedy's neck, then tapped his own throat mockingly with his wand.
"Nice accessory," he said. "Suits you, really. Always figured you'd end up on the wrong side of the leash. Looks like you finally got what was comin'."
Creedy gave a dry, nervous chuckle. "O'Brien. Fancy seeing you here. Taking a trip down memory lane, are we? Feeling nostalgic for the good old days?"
He tilted his head slightly, a thin smile playing on his lips.
"I recall you spent more time in detention than class. Got close to expulsion once or twice, didn't you? All those little grudges that slipped outside the castle walls—dangerous habit, that. The Congregation doesn't tend to overlook blood spilt off school grounds."
He gestured toward O'Brien's uniform with a faint sneer. "Though I must say, that getup suits you. Quite the loyal lapdog look. Still, you might want to brush up on current affairs. Norsefire's been officially branded an enemy of the state."
O'Brien's eyes narrowed at the remark, the accusation landing like a slap.
Creedy leaned forward. "Best case for you? You die a nobody, bleeding out for a man who values you no more than a chewed-up toothpick. Worst case? You survive, and spend the rest of your miserable life rotting in a box. That's if the courts don't hang you with the rest of your lot."
O'Brien scoffed, wand unwavering. "Minor setback. In an hour or two, this castle'll be ours. Burgess'll have his boot on Windsor's throat, and we'll be hailed as heroes."
Creedy laughed—a hoarse, sardonic burst of laughter that echoed down the corridor. "Oh, O'Brien… you've always been a pompous little prick, but clearly the years have done more than rot what was left of your brain."
His grin turned cruel.
"You studied here. You know the faculty. The Visionaries. The ones who sit at the Table. You know exactly who you're up against—and yet here you are, blindly charging in like some bootlicking fool. What in the name of the Old Gods makes you think you stand a chance?"
A few of the guards behind O'Brien shifted, visibly uneasy.
Creedy raised his chin and tapped the iron collar around his throat. "Yes. I did what I did. And yes, they locked this thing on and called it justice." His voice darkened. "But I will have my reckoning."
Then, with a venomous smirk: "And don't delude yourself into thinking you're any better than me. I wear a collar. But you? You're still a dog. Snarling, obedient, begging at Burgess' boots for scraps. You and your entire bloody pack."
He exhaled, the grin still clinging to his lips.
"Twelve years in chains is a mercy compared to what's waiting for you in Revel's End. Word is… they don't take kindly to traitors. Especially the ones who used to wear the Tower's crest."
O'Brien's lips curled in a snarl, teeth bared as his nostrils flared. His knuckles whitened around the wand, but after a beat, he exhaled and let a smirk slide across his face.
"You know," he said, "I used to wonder what it'd feel like. Killing Creepy Creedy."
He took a slow step forward.
"As a lad, I imagined it over and over. A thousand times, in a thousand bloody ways. Sometimes quick. Sometimes slow. Thought about the spot, the hour, even the words I'd say right before I put a Killing Curse through your skull."
His smile twisted, bitter and cold.
"Back then? They'd have painted me the villain. A murderer. Maybe you'd have gotten a nice little service. Some poncy headstone with marble lions and lilies. A eulogy from the Headmaster—something poetic and forgiving. That was the world before."
He tilted his head, and the tip of his wand pulsed with a sickly green light.
"But now? Now no one gives a toss. The only thing you'll get is a ditch and maybe a beast or two gnawing at your bones. No tears. No tomb. No memory. Just silence. Even the rats wouldn't mourn you. The name Peter Creedy won't be whispered in hate or reverence—just forgotten."
Creedy's smirk faltered. The jab hit deeper than he expected. O'Brien was right. He had nothing. No friends. No family. No legacy. No one waiting to speak his name.
He gave a hollow chuckle. "Well then," he said, lifting his chin with a defiant glint, "what the hell are you waiting for? He sneered. "If you're expecting me to beg, don't bother. I won't give you the bloody satisfaction."
O'Brien's expression didn't change. "Didn't think you would."
The glow at the end of his wand flared, bright and blinding.
Then came the sound. Steel tearing through flesh.
O'Brien froze, a strange, startled grunt catching in his throat as blood sprayed across Creedy's face. The older man flinched, instinctively shielding himself, eyes wide in disbelief.
O'Brien looked down. A long, jagged blade now jutted from his chest—four feet of forged steel, dark and glinting, slick with blood. The hilt was olive green, the grip wrapped in aged, weatherworn cloth. At its base, a thick cable coiled from the weapon's butt, pulsing faintly with light. Blood dripped in steady lines from the folded edges of the blade.
He turned his head slowly, eyes wide and dimming, following the length of the weapon behind him. His lips parted to speak, but only a choking cough came. Blood spilled from his mouth in a splatter of red before the cable gave a shrill whir.
In an instant, he was yanked backward. His body jerking violently off the ground, dragged like a ragdoll into the black corridor behind him. The guards could only watch, frozen. Then came the scream—inhuman, wrenching. The gurgled wheeze of lungs filling with blood. The harsh rip of blade on bone.
And then… silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
Until the slow sound of bootsteps echoed from the shadows.
One by one, the guards turned toward the corridor, pale with dread. Sparks flickered in the darkness, briefly illuminating the silhouette of a tall figure emerging from the gloom.
Professor Workner stepped into the light.
His steely gray eyes scanned the group as he adjusted the thin frames of his glasses with a single gloved hand. In the other, he held the weapon. Unfolding with a mechanical clack, glistening with gore. It had taken its full shape now: part scythe, part pickaxe, jagged and brutal, forged for one purpose only.
"Is that…?" one of the guards muttered.
"It's Workner," another whispered, as if saying the name too loudly might summon something worse. "Workner the Annihilator."
Workner's gaze narrowed.
"So even the rabble know me by name."
He took a step forward, dragging the weapon behind him.
"I'll give you one chance," he said. "Lay down your wands… or stay standing and learn why they earned me that title."
And just as expected, the guards raised their wands.
Spells flashed, bolts of light searing the air, but Workner was already moving. His silhouette weaved through the chaos like smoke through flame. He ducked, spun, and pivoted, the shriek of steel dragging against stone echoing behind him, casting sparks that danced like fireflies in the dark.
The first strike was merciless. His weapon cleaving through one guard's chestplate as if it were paper, severing ribs, splitting him in two. The second barely had time to scream before his neck was opened wide, arterial blood painting the walls in a sweeping arc.
Workner moved like a specter born of nightmare. Each motion was precise. Efficient. Every swing of his weapon a blur of serrated steel and gore. Flesh parted, bones shattered. Armor offered no salvation. One by one, they dropped, screaming, choking, twitching.
The last guard, eyes wide with terror, fired his spells in a panicked frenzy. Bolts whizzed past, crashing into stone, shattering glass. Workner didn't flinch. He dodged with surgical grace, his gaze never wavering. There was no anger in it. Only judgment.
The man turned to flee.
He didn't make it far.
Workner lifted the weapon and brought it down like the hammer of a god. The blade punched through the top of the guard's skull, exiting clean through his jaw with a sickening crunch. The body dropped instantly. Dead weight.
Workner planted his foot on the corpse's back and yanked the weapon free. Bone cracked. Flesh tore. Blood splattered in thick ribbons as the body convulsed one final time beneath his boot. Silence followed, broken only by the soft drip of blood onto the stone.
Creedy sat frozen. Trembling. His back pressed to the wall, staring wide-eyed at the man before him—the man he once called friend.
This couldn't be Workner.
Workner had been the quiet one. Calm. Methodical. The student who'd flinch when a beetle was stepped on. Who once wept after accidentally shattering a bird's wing during dueling practice. While Serfence was an icy blizzard and Amelia a fiery storm, Workner had always been the steady, gentle hand in their little group.
But the man before him wasn't that boy.
This was something born of death and flame.
Creedy's gaze dropped to the weapon now folding back into itself with mechanical precision—its blood-soaked edges gleaming faintly in the crystal light. And he recognized it.
Blaze Reap.
He remembered the sketches from years ago, messy lines and scribbled notes, scrawled in the margins of textbooks during lecture. The dream of a boy who wanted to build something extraordinary.
He had built it.
And now, it had become his scythe.
His judgment.
His vengeance.
Workner's gaze remained steady as he turned from Creedy. He took a single step forward, then paused.
"My office," he said without looking back.
Creedy blinked. "What?"
"Head there. Lock the door. Stay put until this is finished.".
Creedy let out a bitter scoff. "I don't need your mercy, Workner. I—"
"You misunderstand," Workner cut in. "This isn't mercy. Not for the pathetic shell of a man before me. Not for the coward who hid behind authority and excuses. What you did, what you let happen, is unforgivable in more ways than you can possibly count."
He finally turned his head, just enough to meet Creedy's eye. "This isn't for you. It's for the boy I once knew. The boy who laughed too loudly, dreamt too big, lived like the world couldn't touch him. My friend."
There was a faint pause. A breath caught between memory and resignation.
"Serfence says I'm a fool," he continued. "That I cling to ghosts. Maybe he's right. Maybe you think the same. That I'm deluded, still holding onto the idea that somewhere, buried deep beneath the filth, that boy might still exist."
His voice dropped, quiet now. "Maybe I just want to believe there's still something left to save."
He turned around, his back fully to Creedy.
"But make no mistake. This is your final reprieve. If you choose to take your chances on your own, you won't survive the next encounter. And I won't stop it."
Without another word, Workner vanished into the gloom, his footsteps fading down the corridor behind him. Creedy remained frozen, alone in the blood-soaked hallway. The air thick with silence.
And the war for Caerleon still raged on.