The castle erupted with chaos as Norsefire troops poured in from every direction. Boots thundered across the ancient stone floors—up stairwells, through corridors, bursting through doors with brutal force. Classrooms, offices, even lavatories were ransacked, but they found nothing. Not a servant. Not a slave. Only silence.
They knew the students were holed up behind fortified dormitory doors.
The primary battalions moved toward their targets with mechanical precision—Ignis, Ferrum, Terra, Aecor, and Ventus. The soldiers marched in formation, masks obscuring their faces, but beneath them, wicked grins stretched wide. Fingers twitched on hilts and wand-grips, eager to punish the children who dared defy their master. To watch fear flood their eyes. To make them scream.
****
At the gates of the Terra dorms, buried deep within the stone belly of the castle, Genji knelt in stillness. His blade lay at his side, sheathed in obsidian black, the lacquered scabbard catching the faint glow of the crystal-lit cavern. His eyes were shut, hands resting gently in his lap, breath slow and even, like the steady rhythm of a temple bell.
Beside him stood Sarissa, one hand adjusting her glasses, the other holding a palm-sized book open before her. The flickering lantern-light danced across its delicate pages. Behind them, a dozen warriors of Masamune stood in formation—clad in crimson and black, their lacquered armor adorned with house crests, swords sheathed at their waists, wands gripped tight.
Genji's voice broke the silence, calm and composed.
"A curious time to indulge in reading, Sarissa-chan," he said without opening his eyes.
"There's never a bad time to read," she replied without glancing up. "Weren't you the one who said a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone?"
He offered the faintest smirk. "Not I. A man I once knew. His wit sharper than any blade I've ever crossed."
Sarissa gave a soft shrug. "Doesn't matter who said it. After all we've been through, even the wildest stories pale in comparison to what we've seen in this place."
"I do not disagree," Genji murmured. "But should we survive this day… ours will be the tale that outlasts all others."
She chuckled under her breath, sliding her bookmark into place. "Always the poet, even on the eve of slaughter."
"It is in darkness," Genji said, eyes fluttering open, "that even the faintest light must shine." His hand moved to his sword. He rose to his feet in one smooth motion, sliding the scabbard into his sash. His dark eyes sharpened. "They're here."
From the far end of the cavern, torchlight flickered. Shadows grew. The Norsefire platoon emerged in formation. Their boots echoed against the stone like war drums.
Sarissa snapped her book shut and tucked it into her robes. Her wand was drawn in the same motion, gleaming in the pale light. Behind her, the Masamune warriors moved as one—swords sliding free from scabbards, spears lifted high, wandtips glowing with anticipation. A wall of resolve.
Genji stepped forward, the soft tread of his fur-lined boots the only sound, placing himself between his warriors and the advancing enemy.
"I have always believed," he began, "that battle, like life, must be met with truth… and honor."
He glanced over his shoulder at his students, the warriors who stood at his side.
"Those are principles I have lived by. Principles I will not discard. But what stands before us now are not men of principle. They are butchers. Cowards hiding behind masks. They come not to parley, but to pillage. Not to test their strength, but to slaughter the innocent."
His thumb pressed against the guard of his katana. The blade clicked free an inch, its polished steel glinting.
"So today, my warriors… you fight without restraint. Without hesitation." His expression darkened. "Show no mercy. For what stands before you are not men, but beasts. Let their blood paint the cavern floor. Let it be a reminder to the world: that evil will not be tolerated… and it will never go unpunished."
His eyes narrowed to slits, like a drawn bow.
"And if they will not learn reason… then let them learn fear."
Behind him, a battle cry thundered through the cavern.
The blades of Masamune rose.
And then, they charged.
****
The echo of boots striking stone rolled down the vaulted corridor drum. At the far end, shrouded in the dim flicker of torchlight, stood the great arched bridge leading into the Ignis dorms. Before it—unyielding and still—stood Artoria and Arthur, side by side.
Artoria's plate gleamed dully beneath the crystal light, her stance unwavering, spine straight, sword drawn and angled low. Her face was carved in the image of discipline—cold, resolute, and battle-bound. Beside her, Arthur leaned casually on one foot, wand balanced between his fingers, a wry grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Behind them, ten others waited, each one draped in full armor, bearing the proud colors of their Clan. A bowstring was drawn taut. A lance dug into the stone. Steel whispered from scabbards.
"Just like old times," Arthur said, glancing sideways with a lopsided grin. "Though I've never quite understood your obsession with steel corsets. Rather unladylike, don't you think?"
"Save the commentary," Artoria muttered, eyes fixed ahead. "I am a knight before I am anything else. My armor is not vanity. It is vow. A promise to crown, to kin, and to cause."
Arthur rolled his eyes with mock offense. "And that, dear sister, is precisely why no man dares court you."
Artoria exhaled sharply, unamused.
Arthur, undeterred, chuckled. "Burgess. I always suspected he was a few candles short of a chandelier. But this? This is madness." His grin faded slightly, eyes narrowing at the mass of armored Norsefire troops gathering at the far end of the corridor. "I daresay Father will be apoplectic."
"Let him," Artoria said curtly. "We've witnessed betrayal in our time… but never one this vile. Treason, blood, and chains. There is no atonement but death."
Arthur nodded. "On that, we are in full agreement."
He cast a brief glance behind them at their knights, still and ready.
"You think the others will hold?" he asked.
Artoria's gaze remained fixed. "Chair of the High Table aside, they are still Visionaries—each one tested, tempered, and proven. They rose not through pride, but through purpose… through wit, strength, and unshakable resolve. They will not fall. Not here. Not today."
Arthur's grin returned, sharper now, dangerous. "Splendid. Then shall we begin the symphony?"
She tilted her head just slightly.
Arthur flourished his wand with a dramatic wave. "The stage is set, dear sister. Kindly do the honors."
Artoria lifted her sword high.
"To me, my knights!"
The warriors behind her fell into formation.
"We are the Knights of Chaldea!" she cried. "This is where we stand. This is where we fight. For valor, for chivalry—for Excalibur!"
A thunderous cry answered her call.
Then, without pause, Artoria surged forward, her sword gleaming in the gloom. Arthur loosed the first spell, laughing as arcane fire burst from his wand. Steel and magic collided across the bridge—clang for roar, flame for oath.
The storm had begun.
And when the dust finally settled… only one side would remain.
****
Lucian grunted as his back slammed into the wooden wall, the jolt rattling his spine. Sparks screeched between clashing blades as his gloved fingers tightened around the sapphire-and-chrome hilt of his rapier, holding firm against the broadsword bearing down on him. The Norsefire guard leered through his mask, breath rasping, a sick laugh muffled beneath metal.
Gritting his teeth, Lucian drove his knee hard into the man's groin.
The guard howled in pain.
Lucian shoved him off with a cry, twisting his wrist as his rapier screeched free. In the same breath, his wand was raised.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A flash—sharp and precise. The guard snapped upright, arms pinned to his sides as his weapon clattered from his grip. He toppled like a felled tree, crashing onto the carpet with a dull thud.
The corridor roared with chaos. Prefects clashed with Norsefire troops—swords biting steel, staffs cracking bone, spells bursting through the air in vibrant arcs. Tapestries smoldered. The stone walls chipped and shattered. A nearby explosion rocked the hall, sending shards of floor and flame into the air.
Lucian flinched. Another attacker lunged.
Steel sang. Lucian ducked, adjusted his glasses, then surged forward. His rapier danced. For all his scholarly air, Lucian Graymark was not merely a man of books and ink. As with any son of noble blood in Avalon, he had been trained since boyhood to master both blade and intellect. Honor demanded it. Survival required it.
Though his nature leaned toward reason over violence, when forced to fight, he did so with surgical precision. He twisted, parried, and drove the blade straight into his opponent's chest. The guard's eyes widened, mouth slack with shock as he slumped backward, a spreading bloom of red soaking through his uniform.
Lucian withdrew the blade cleanly.
Then pain seared through his right arm.
He stumbled with a hiss, glancing down to see the charred mark where a spell had clipped him. His jaw clenched. Foolish. He turned sharply, wand already up—but the guard who had cast it was ahead of him, already mid-incantation.
The light at the tip of the man's wand flickered an unmistakable green.
Lucian's heart lurched.
But before the curse could fly, the air cracked with a thunderous snap—a flash of crimson lightning burst from the hall's edge. The stone wall beside the guard twisted, warped, then exploded outward into a pillar. It slammed into the man's ribs with brutal force, sending him sailing over the staircase railing with a strangled cry.
He disappeared down the steps in a tumbling blur of limbs and armor.
Lucian stood breathless, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm, the burn on his arm flaring with pain. Blood slicked the length of his rapier, his grip tight around its hilt. Then his eyes caught movement—an older man approaching with unhurried steps.
Professor Hohenheim.
The elder's long blond hair was pulled neatly into a ponytail, his crisp white shirt flecked with ash and soot, black slacks unwrinkled, jet-black suspenders drawn taut across his frame. He adjusted his glasses calmly, amber eyes narrowed with quiet focus behind the fractured glow of the crystal light.
"Professor Hohenheim," Lucian called out.
Before another word could pass between them, a Norsefire guard lunged toward the professor with a shout.
Hohenheim didn't even glance.
The floor beneath the guard surged. Two thick pillars of stone erupted with a hiss of red lightning, closing in like the jaws of a vice. They struck the man's head from both sides in a sickening crack, caving his skull inward. Blood and fragments of bone sprayed the walls. The stone retracted as the limp corpse crumpled to the floor, twitching once before going still in a pooling mess of red.
Without missing a beat, Hohenheim stepped past Lucian and placed a steady hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Gather your prefects and make for the gardens," he said calmly. "I'll handle things here."
Lucian frowned, turning to him. "But Professor, we can't just leave you. Not alone."
A quiet laugh rumbled in Hohenheim's throat.
"Still the same principled boy," he said with a small smile. "But don't trouble yourself on my account."
Another guard screamed as he charged. Without looking, Hohenheim flicked his fingers—the floor answered. A stone column burst forward, slamming into the man's face with devastating force. A geyser of blood erupted as shattered teeth exploded through the air. The body flipped backwards and struck the stone floor with a crunch.
Hohenheim lowered his hand. "A teacher's duty, Lucian, is to protect his students—always."
He looked back at the prefect with a rare softness.
"You've a life to live. One of meaning. Purpose. Don't waste it. Trust me, from one who's lived longer than he ever expected... that's a rare gift."
Lucian met Hohenheim's gaze, torn between duty and fear, but gave a firm nod.
Then he turned. "Prefects, on me!" he shouted, already sprinting down the corridor.
The others followed without hesitation. Some broke from their duels mid-strike, others delivered finishing blows. An elbow to the jaw, a hex to the chest, sending Norsefire guards crashing to the stone before falling in line behind him. Their boots pounded against the floor, the din of battle receding behind them, replaced by the steady, terrible quiet where Hohenheim stood alone.
The old professor rolled his shoulders, adjusting his stance, his amber eyes hardening as the remaining guards turned to face him.
"I might've offered mercy," he said, almost regretful. "Perhaps given you a chance to surrender. But in all my years, I've yet to meet a zealot with the good sense to know when they've lost. You lot gave up reason the moment you sold your souls to that mewling tyrant you call a savior. Always the same look in your eyes—like you think something divine will keep you safe."
The air grew heavy. A pulse of crimson lightning cracked the silence, swirling around him like coiled serpents. Wind rushed through the corridor, lifting dust and debris in a spiral about his frame.
"As a courtesy," Hohenheim said coldly, raising both hands, "I'll make this quick."
With a sudden clap, the air snapped.
The stones beneath the guards' feet groaned—then shifted.
A chorus of red bolts surged out from Hohenheim's outstretched palms. The floor exploded upward in jagged columns, impaling the first wave. Screams echoed, then were silenced in thunderous bursts of rock and blood. And still, Hohenheim stood unmoving, lightning humming at his fingertips.
Ready for the next.
****
Lamar stormed up the stairwell, robes flaring at his heels, wand flicking in vicious arcs. Bursts of emerald light streaked through the air. Each one finding its mark. With every flash, a body hit the ground.
They rushed him with blades drawn. Spells fired from trembling hands. He summoned a shield in an instant, a glowing barrier crashing through them as he surged forward. A blast to the chest sent two sprawling into the walls, cracking stone and shattering shelves. Incoming spells lashed at him from both flanks, but with a twist of his wrist and a flick of his wand, they fizzled harmlessly. Dispelled, dismantled, countered with precision.
The students, Prefects, some of them—crumpled under the onslaught.
Lamar stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, sweat trailing down his brow. He cursed under his breath, breathless between clenched teeth. His joints ached. His limbs protested. He was old, and woefully out of practice.
Once, Excalibur might have fallen to him alone.
There had been a time when he stood unchallenged at the pinnacle of the Tower. He and Winston. two of the greatest Aurors of their generation. Mission after mission, the impossible made mundane. Alongside Wilhelm, they were the iron bulwarks of an era when peace teetered on the edge of a knife.
But that man, that legend—had been dulled by years behind the Director's desk. The sharpness of youth replaced with paperwork, strategy, endless diplomacy.
Even so, what remained was more than enough to tear through children playing at war.
Lamar scoffed as another would-be duelist charged him. He didn't even glance. Just flicked his wand and sent the boy hurtling into the stone wall, where he collapsed in a heap.
Surveying the carnage, Lamar reached into his coat, fingers curling around a smooth orb. He clicked it. A green screen blinked to life, casting a sickly glow over the bodies strewn around him.
"Anyone still breathing, sound off," he said sharply. "Have you secured the dormitories? What's the status on the professors?"
****
Lamar's voice crackled through the comm like distorted static, muffled by the bloodied robes of a fallen Norsefire guard. The corpse lay crumpled in the shattered remains of the castle orangery, surrounded by the bodies of his platoon. Dzens of them strewn like broken dolls across the blood-slick stone.
Shattered pots lay in pieces, soil thick with crimson and streaked with rotting manure. Blood smeared the shattered glass panes, painting grotesque trails along the walls and pathways. Splinters of wood and shards of clay crunched underfoot in the still silence that followed the slaughter.
Professor Lagduf leaned back against his overturned desk, a ragged towel pressed to his bleeding forehead. Blood trickled from a gash on his cheek, soaking into the coarse towel. His chest rose and fell in slow, heavy breaths, his eyes narrowing toward the faint sound of Lamar's voice still hissing from the dead man's comm.
But he didn't answer. Not yet.
His gaze swept the destruction.
He'd felled them all. Alone.
The haft of his war hammer stood propped beside him, its steel head caked in blood, shards of bone wedged between the ridges, the dark stains of brains and flesh clinging to its grooves. A garden once meant to nurture was now a graveyard—a reckoning rendered in iron and rage.
Lagduf rolled his neck with a grunt, muscles stiff, joints aching. He hadn't moved like this in years—not since the days of mercenary contracts and blood-soaked coin. He'd traded steel for soil, swords for shovels, the battlefield for botany. But even after all these years, the instinct hadn't dulled.
And as he glanced at the gore-soaked carnage around him, the corners of his cracked lips curled into a grim smile. His tusks gleamed in the broken sunlight filtering through the fractured glass.
They'd come expecting a feeble gardener.
What they found instead… was the Butcher of Grok Vale.
He'd promised them a reckoning.
And now, he was making good on it.
****
In the Transfiguration classroom, the air hung thick with blood and silence. Professor Agatha Duchannes sat atop her desk, one leg crossed neatly over the other, as if the room weren't a slaughterhouse. She calmly pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her lavender eyes scanning the ruin around her with detached scrutiny.
Norsefire corpses littered the room. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, torsos carved open like butchered meat. Blood ran freely down the tiered wooden steps, dripping from desks and pooling in dark puddles that reflected the flicker of torchlight. Several bodies hung suspended from the rafters like grotesque ornaments, strung up in transfigured tendrils of sinew and bone. Their expressions were frozen mid-scream, wide-eyed and mouth agape, like puppets whose strings had just been cut.
Lamar's voice crackled through a bloodied comm on the belt of one of the fallen: "Anyone there? Answer me!"
Duchannes didn't flinch. Her fingers coiled tighter around the handle of her whip—a long, obsidian-black length of leather and steel, its braided edge studded with curved blades that glinted like claws, slick with blood.
For centuries, Agatha Duchannes had been the quiet cornerstone of Excalibur. An elf of the old bloodlines, she had devoted her long life to the refinement of Transfiguration—not simply as a discipline, but as an art. Offered the seat of Headmaster more times than she could recall, she had declined each time. Her place, she insisted, was in the classroom. Shaping minds. Sharpening wit. Teaching the impossible.
But behind her calm manner and scholarly robes was a past etched in blood and battle—one long buried, spoken of only in whispers by those old enough to remember. She had fought in wars before Burgess had even drawn breath. And like every professor within these walls, she had taken an oath.
This castle was her home.
And she would defend it to the last.
Agatha stood slowly, the whip uncoiling in her hand with a hiss of metal against wood. The classroom was still. The blood kept dripping. And somewhere, just beyond these walls, more were coming.
Good. Let them come.
****
"Anyone?" Lamar's voice crackled through the enchanted comms left on the corpse-littered stairwell. "Answer me this instant!"
Professor Eridan Cavendish exhaled sharply. His once-pristine robes, silk and gold-threaded, were now soaked and stained a deep, arterial red. The dwarven Charms master's beard clung to his jaw in damp tufts, blood dripping from the end like melted wax from a taper.
He cast his gaze down the landing.
A single Norsefire guard remained. A boy, really—barely out of school age. He stood alone among the ruin, clutching his wand in both hands as though it might anchor him. His breath came in ragged pants. All around him: the bodies of his comrades, scattered like discarded dolls. Some lay burned beyond recognition, others split open, entrails steaming in the cold corridor. Blood poured through the slats of the bannisters, dripping like rain to the levels below.
They had come in confident. Armed, armored, disciplined. But they hadn't expected him.
Dwarves, after all, weren't supposed to be spellcasters. They were smiths. Miners. Brutes with axes and thick skulls. To them, Eridan Cavendish had been a joke. An embarrassment to his clan, a failure in his father's eyes, no matter how many accolades he'd earned. But here at Excalibur, among those who saw him for what he truly was. A master of the arcane arts and he had found his purpose. His home.
And this home, he would defend with blood.
The guard let out a cry and raised his wand but Eridan was faster. A flash of green cut through the air. The young man crumpled where he stood, his body thudding wetly to the stone. His wand skittered away, bouncing once before clattering to a stop. The silence that followed was almost reverent.
Eridan sighed, almost regretful. "A shame."
A voice spoke behind him, dry and clipped. "I see you've finished your lot."
Eridan turned. Professor Lotho was picking his way delicately down the hall, dressed immaculately in a blood-spattered three-piece suit, a thick tome tucked beneath one arm and a short, glowing elven blade in the other. He grimaced as he peeled his foot off the floor with a squelch.
"Regretfully so," Eridan replied. "And you?"
"Not a single one left breathing," Lotho muttered, lifting his boot to inspect it. "By the Old Gods, this won't wash out. These were imported from Iskandar…"
Eridan let out a low chuckle. "I'm sure Professor Rasputin could brew something strong enough."
Lotho's nose wrinkled. "Speaking of Rasputin, I'd suggest steering clear of the lower dungeons. I passed them on the way up. He's released something down there. Smells like a troll's arse and hisses like a basilisk."
"Bodies everywhere. Skin blistered and bubbling, blood seeping from every orifice. Their faces frozen in terror, as if they'd looked straight into the eyes of fear itself." He teeth clenched as he flinched. "Vile. Absolutely vile."
"As expected of our beloved Potions master," Eridan murmured. "Still—" his eyes flicked to Lotho's spotless vest, "—you look remarkably untouched for someone who just reduced an entire platoon to mulch."
Lotho flashed a grin as he sheathed his blade with a practiced flourish. "I've spent decades navigating battlefield politics and bloodshed. Key is knowing where to stand and who to let die first. Besides—"
Just as he began brushing dust from his sleeves, his expression froze. His eyes widened in horror.
"Ah, my cufflinks!" he cried. "The diamond-studded ones! They're gone! Quick, help me find them!"
Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and bolted back the way he came, muttering curses under his breath.
Eridan watched him go, then sighed and trudged after him, blood dripping from his boots.
"Halflings…"
****
Outside the castle grounds, the air in the forest clearing reeked of iron and ozone, sharp and heavy, tangled with the warmth of the early summer breeze whispering through the trees. Blood clung thick to the soil, turning earth and grass to pulp, streaking over shattered stone and coarse sand. The clearing was littered with bodies—slumped, twisted, strewn in grotesque angles. Eyes locked open in terror. Uniforms soaked crimson. Necks torn wide, flesh flayed as if by beasts. And truthfully, that wasn't far from the mark.
In the middle of the massacre stood Professor Kyar.
The tall tiger therian loomed over the carnage, her striped face slick with blood. She ran her tongue slowly over her claws, tasting the warmth of it, smirking as her sharp fangs glinted. Her robes were soaked, clinging to her form, the front dyed red from throat to hem. Behind her, a low growl rumbled.
Perched atop a corpse sat Commodus, the monstrous kneazle, his fur matted and bristling. He crouched like a sentinel, crunching lazily on a severed hand still wrapped in a black leather glove.
Kyar cocked her head, one hand resting on her hip, her tiger tail flicking lazily. Her sapphire eyes scanned the bodies, dozens of them. Some eviscerated, some little more than shredded cloth and meat. It didn't faze her. Therians were born into blood. Fighting wasn't a skill they learned. It was instinct.
And Kyar was no mere academic.
As an expert in magical beasts, she had stalked every lawless corner of Avalon and beyond—where claws spoke louder than words and survival meant ripping your enemy's throat out before they got to yours.
Her ears twitched. More boots. More fools.
She turned her head slowly toward the path as another unit of Norsefire emerged from the brush, weapons drawn, their hesitation visible even at a distance.
Kyar cracked her neck. Her fingers flexed. Obsidian claws gleamed in the sunlight.
She gave a soft whistle.
Commodus dropped the hand with a thud and padded to her side, his growls low and guttural.
She smirked again, blood dripping from her chin.
"Let's make it messy."
Then they charged.
****
The hallway roared with the crack of gunfire.
Each blast from Ryan's shotgun tore through the corridor with thunderous fury, muzzle flashes igniting the gloom. He aimed low. First the leg, then the gut, then the skull. Screams erupted, only to be cut short as slugs punched through bone and brain. One by one, the guards dropped. Some cried. Some begged. Some tried to run. None got far. The floor ran slick with blood. Bone and flesh painted the walls.
He paused, flipping the shotgun in his grip. Shells clicked into place one by one as he reloaded with practiced ease. His hand dropped to the pistol on his hip. It snapped up, two guards crumpling before they could shout. One took a round to the chest. The other—clean through the head. Blood sprayed. Ryan holstered the sidearm, spun on his heel, and blew a rushing guard's head clean off.
He kept moving.
Two more came at him. His shotgun barked twice, ripping chunks from their torsos, leaving them twitching on the floor. Another lunged from behind a cabinet, grabbing the barrel. Ryan grunted, slammed back into the wall, teeth grit. He drove his knee into the man's gut, cracking ribs. The guard choked. Ryan smashed the weapon's frame into his mouth, breaking teeth and splitting his lip. The man staggered. The butt of the shotgun dropped him.
Another guard rounded the corner, wand raised. Ryan shot him through the throat. A second followed—shot to the heart. He turned back to the man on the ground, pulled the trigger. Click. Empty.
The guard raised his wand, but Ryan kicked it from his hand, rammed the barrel into the man's throat, pinning him down. He slid in a shell, cocked the weapon, and fired. Blood splattered the wall as the man went still.
Then came the return fire.
Wandflashes zipped through the air, pelting the walls as Ryan dove behind a cabinet.
"Flashbang," he muttered.
A screen flickered open beside him, humming. A grenade dropped into his palm. He yanked the pin, let the spoon flick free, then hurled it toward the cluster of guards. He shut his eyes.
Light and sound ripped through the corridor. Coughing. Screams. Footsteps in chaos.
Ryan opened his eyes, exhaled, and stepped into the smoke. Shotgun raised. Slugs tore through the fog, shredding bodies, collapsing lungs, blasting open chests. He pushed forward, boots slapping blood-slick stone, until he hit the next landing. The shotgun clicked empty.
He tossed it into one of his suspended screens. It vanished with a pulse of light.
The pistol came back out. Two shots. Two more down. He dropped the magazine, slammed in a fresh one, and racked the slide with a snap.
A guard raised his wand, the tip glowing green. But before the spell was cast, a different green light struck first.
The man dropped—lifeless.
Ryan turned.
Serfence stood at the base of the stairs, wand raised. He'd just slid into the hallway, cloak fluttering behind him, spells flying from his wand like thunderbolts. Guards dropped like flies.
"Took you long enough," Ryan called with a smirk.
"I might say the same," Serfence snapped. Then, a sharp, "Move."
Ryan ducked just in time. Serfence's wand flicked. The guard behind Ryan was flung into the wall with a sickening crack.
More boots thundered from the stairwell.
Ryan's eyes dropped to the staff in Serfence's grip. He smirked and gave a sharp whistle. "Hey, fancy-pants!"
Serfence glanced over. Ryan grinned, reaching into a screen. A round grenade dropped into his hand. He popped the pin, the spoon sailing free.
"Batter up!"
He lobbed it.
Serfence's eyes locked onto the incoming grenade. Without hesitation, he raised his staff and swung.
The grenade sailed down the stairs like a fireball. Then came the explosion. The stairwell shook. Smoke and rubble burst out in every direction. Limbs. Screams. Shattered stone.
Silence followed.
Ryan stepped up beside Serfence, smirking as he peered down the stairs. He raised a hand. "That was a hell of a swing. C'mon—put 'er there."
Serfence stared blankly at the outstretched hand, brow arching.
Ryan gave it a shake anyway. "Don't leave me hangin'."
The man sighed, turned on his heel, and walked off without a word.
Ryan shrugged, shoulders bobbing. "We'll work on that."
A sudden scream echoed from above. Both men snapped toward the stairwell just as a body tumbled down—thudding step by step, trailing blood like a smear of paint. It came to a stop at their feet, unmoving.
Then came footsteps. Workner descended with quiet gravity, his weapon clenched in hand, its edge still wet. His glasses caught the crystal light, glinting.
"Serfence. Ryan," he said with a weary nod. Then, with a glance at the body, "By Gil-Galad... is there no end to them?"
"Tell me about it," Serfence muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They're like bloody cockroaches. For every one you kill, ten crawl out of the walls."
"Yeah," Ryan said. "Seriously, where the hell does Burgess find this many idiots? It's not like—"
A voice cut through the silence.
"Where is everybody?"
It came from the corpse at their feet. Crackling, distorted, familiar. Ryan crouched, rifling through the body's cloak. His hand found a communicator orb.
"This is Burgess!" the voice snapped again. "Come in. Are the dormitories secure? Are the professors dead? Is it done? Answer me, damn you!"
Ryan shot a glance to Serfence, then Workner. He then activated the orb. It floated upward, glowing emerald. A projection flickered to life. Burgess' face snarling in frustration.
"Finally! One of you blasted morons—"
He froze mid-rant. The color drained from his face. Staring back at him were three very much alive men. Bloodied, bruised, and anything but defeated.
Ryan's grin vanished. His eyes turned to steel.
"This isn't done until you're dead, old man."
He raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger.
The orb shattered, the screen evaporating into nothing but sparks and silence.
****
Burgess felt the blood drain from his face. The screen dissolved into static, then vanished, leaving only the echo of Ryan's final words. For all his bluster, all his promises of swift conquest and inevitable triumph, the truth now stared him down with chilling clarity—he may have miscalculated. Gravely.
He had thrown the full weight of his armada against Caerleon. Marched in with overwhelming numbers. Superior firepower. A force designed to crush resistance with sheer scale. And yet—silence. No reports. No affirmations of progress. Only bodies, broken comms, and confirmation that his men were either dead... or worse.
It didn't make sense. The math refused to balance. By every rule of war, the defenders should have buckled hours ago. Professors, students, Visionaries—how could so few hold the line against so many? How could Windsor's crumbling institution be mounting such ferocious resistance?
Burgess clenched his jaw, his face twisting with rage. No. This wasn't defeat. Not yet. He would not lose. Attrition was on his side. Every building that fell, every street secured, brought his forces closer to breaching the heart of the school. He didn't need swift victory—he needed pressure. Constant, unrelenting pressure.
Let them cling to hope. Let them fight with everything they had. He would grind them down, one by one. Even Serfence the Black would fall eventually. Even the mighty Visionaries would break.
He seized the orb, stuffing it into his coat, and turned toward the staircase.
He would have Excalibur.
He would have the city.
And when it was done—he would have his reckoning.