The corridor twisted like a serpent made of stone.
Lucio ran without hesitation, boots pounding against the deadened floor. Nathan blinked in and out beside him, time-warped and urgent, while Kullen kept pace with grim resolve, his blade humming with divine energy.
Ahead, the Smiling Man moved like vapor given thought—half-present, skipping through torchless arches with a rhythm that mocked reason. Every time Nathan hurled a temporal blade, or Lucio fired a shot, the results were the same.
Nothing landed.
Bullets passed through smoke. Time rewound around air. Kullen's light lashed only shadows.
"Why is nothing hitting?!" Lucio barked, voice tight with frustration.
"He's not really here," Nathan said through clenched teeth. "He's leading us—"
A voice echoed through the stone like a chuckle down a crypt.
"Oh, Nathan... Still haven't figured it out?"The Smiling Man's laugh curled like oil on fire. "You wound me. I assure you—I am most definitely the real deal."
He tilted his head mid-sprint, flashing a grin as wide as sin. "Now hurry along, boys! The throne's getting very impatient."
The hallway ended suddenly—spilling into a vast chamber of obsidian and ruin.
Black pillars stabbed the sky. At the center sat a jagged throne of fused bone, its base circled by a fireless brazier that burned shadows instead of flames.
Lucio skidded to a stop, raising his rifle. "Where—"
"Boo."
The Smiling Man whispered behind him—an inch from his ear.
Lucio spun around and fired, but the grin had already moved, slithering away with a blur.
Kullen stepped forward, conjuring a blade of pure judgment and slashing through a veil of darkness—but the blade met only emptiness. The Smiling Man reappeared behind Nathan, poking his shoulder.
"Tag."
Nathan blinked backward instinctively, but even his temporal retreat missed.
The Smiling Man's grin stretched, face cracking slightly at the edges like glass trying to smile. "You came all this way and didn't even bring flowers."
Lucio was done waiting.
He charged forward.
Gun reholstered, he drew the blades strapped to his back—short, curved, serrated—made for speed and pressure.
Their steel hummed as they clashed with the air around the Smiling Man, carving ghost trails in rapid arcs. Lucio wasn't just fighting. He was testing.
And for a moment—just a breath—the Smiling Man seemed surprised.
Not because Lucio could touch him.
But because Lucio wasn't aiming to.
He was herding him.
Nathan surged beside him, snapping his fingers. Time bent sideways, creating flickering afterimages of the Smiling Man—some lunging, some retreating. Kullen mirrored it with divine sigils, lighting up the floor beneath the creature's feet like a chessboard of radiant traps.
The Smiling Man stepped once—twice—
—and vanished.
A beat of silence.
Then the voice again.
"Okay… that was impressive."
He reappeared above them, upside-down and drifting like a leaf caught in an unseen breeze. "But I'm afraid playtime's over."
Before they could react, he dropped.
One foot caught Kullen in the chest, sending him crashing into a column.
Nathan snapped into a reversal—but the moment folded in on itself, his rewind collapsing as if time itself refused to obey.
Lucio lunged, blades gleaming—
But the Smiling Man grinned, and for the first time, his body turned solid.
The blow came fast. Clean.
A clawed hand slammed into Lucio's chest and surged with spectral force.
Lucio's eyes widened.
The world spun.
And darkness swallowed him whole.
Lucio opened his eyes.
No—he existed again.
But the space was wrong.
Everything around him was twisted metal, rusted armor, broken war banners. The ground pulsed like scorched iron. The sky overhead was a dome of smoky glass, and at the center of it all stood a single, massive tree.
Its bark was blackened steel. Its leaves were ash. Its branches looked like hanging blades. And beneath it…
A lion.
Golden-eyed, massive, and scarred.
It looked up.
"You've arrived," said a voice.
Not the lion—but the man beside it. No, within it.
Kieros. In spirit.
His armor cracked and faded with time, his spear now a staff.
"The war god's title passes every three centuries," Kieros said, calm and solemn. "And so it falls to you, boy."
Lucio said nothing. His jaw tightened, breath shallow. He looked down—saw dog tags forming around his neck, etched with names he didn't recognize.
Kieros stepped forward. "Do you know what it means to carry War?"
Lucio didn't answer.
Kieros gave a thin smile. "It means never knowing peace. It means standing atop every battlefield—alone. It means knowing you'll always crave the fight more than the quiet. You'll win. You'll lose. And when you lose yourself, no one will pull you back."
Lucio glanced at the tree again.
The branches shook—rattling with ghostly whispers.
Kieros placed a hand on Lucio's shoulder.
"Survive long enough… and one day you'll stand here, too."
Lucio gasped awake.
Stone beneath him. Dust in the air.
He stood—slowly.
And the dead stood with him.
Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Undead warriors. Spirit knights. Skeletal husks with armor still bearing the scars of wars they'd never finished. They didn't attack.
They saluted.
Nathan stared in disbelief. "Lucio…?"
Kullen's brows drew tight. "Your eyes."
They glowed red.
Lucio didn't speak.
He just looked ahead—straight into the throne room, where the Smiling Man lounged on a high beam like a cat on a perch.
"Well, that went better than expected," the jester said, tapping his chin with one elongated finger. "You're… different. Not like Kieros. I like it."
He dissolved—melting into the floor with one last grin.
And in his place—
Zeraphon emerged.
The God of Death.
Clad in robes of dusk and bone. Eyes hollow but aware.
At his sides stood his spirit generals—each taller than men, cloaked in silence.
And his voice echoed beneath every breath in the room.
"Begin."
Zeraphon stepped forward, towering and composed, shadows coiling at his heels like obedient serpents. His hollow eyes scanned the room with the detachment of a warden evaluating insects. Beside him, three figures emerged from the darkness—his spirit generals.
The First wore rusted silver armor etched with dozens of names—none his own. His body was bloated and stitched together, a patchwork of corpses fused into one being. He dragged a massive scythe with a chipped blade that screeched against the stone. From his throat came a moaning chorus, hundreds of voices bound within him, crying out in unison.Title: The Collector of Silence.
The Second hovered rather than walked, skin pale and translucent like thin parchment stretched over smoke. Her hair floated as if underwater, and in her hand she held a chain of severed halos. She had no mouth—only a cracked symbol on her forehead that pulsed with grey fire. Wherever she drifted, color drained from the world.Title: The Widow of Light.
The Third was clad in ceremonial burial robes torn from dozens of cultures. His limbs were elongated, fingers ending in jagged nails like blackened bone. His eyes glowed with twin red stars, and he whispered forgotten prayers with every breath, each one igniting ghostly sigils that hovered behind him like wings.Title: The Shepherd of Dust.
Kullen's grip tightened on his blade.
Nathan's eyes narrowed as the generals moved forward.
And behind them, rising in rows across the walls, the dead began to march. Undead soldiers. Twisted spirits. Skeletal remains still bearing the armor of kingdoms long fallen—all standing silently behind Lucio, awaiting his command.
Lucio stepped forward, the red glow of his eyes pulsing like a heartbeat. His body no longer belonged fully to him. War itself coiled within him now. But Zeraphon didn't flinch.
Instead, the Death God raised his hand—and beckoned.
The chamber exploded into motion.
Nathan and Kullen surged toward the generals, the clamor of battle erupting in a storm of blades and power. Lucio met Zeraphon's gaze and stepped forward into the firelight, his army at his back.
From the far wall—above the chaos—the Smiling Man watched with glee, hanging upside-down from a crumbling arch.
He whispered only two words, voice gleaming with joy.
"Let's begin."