The streets of Markand blurred past as Martin Kaiser sprinted through the storm-lit city, long black coat flaring behind him like a war banner.
Behind him thundered death.
"STOP RUNNING, YOU RAT!!" Belisarius roared, his voice crashing like a cathedral bell.
Each of his armored steps shattered flagstones. With every swing of his massive blade, arcs of compressed mana detonated into the earth—discs of raw force that exploded against buildings, wagons, even streetlights. The attacks weren't meant to kill Martin. No, this was something worse.
This was a public statement.
And judging by the way entire street corners were now open-air skylights, the message was coming through loud and clear.
"WHERE DID ALL THAT CONFIDENCE GO?!" the Warden bellowed again.
Martin dove behind a fruit cart just in time for a blazing arc of mana to shear the entire block's corner off. Stone, brick, and enchanted glass twisted into the sky like divine shrapnel. The merchant cart exploded into mango-scented flames.
"Shut up, you geezer!" Martin shouted, vaulting over a crumbled noble statue. "You're cutting buildings in half! You trying to fight me or redraw the city map?!"
Belisarius didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He simply dropped from a nearby rooftop like a meteor, sword-first, landing in the city square with such force that the cobblestones liquified. The resulting shockwave launched Martin through a storefront, shattering its windows in a hurricane of colored glass.
Martin tumbled over a counter, crashed into a display rack, and landed flat on his back, groaning. Bits of enchanted porcelain and alchemical perfumes rained down on him.
He groaned louder. "Damn it… this was my favorite suit."
The door exploded off its hinges, and Belisarius stormed in like a steel god.
"You will need a new head when I'm finished with you," he growled.
"Wow. Is that how you greet all your students, Warden?" Martin grinned as he rolled upright, brushing dust off his jacket. "Or am I just special?"
The gauntlets of Compliance crackled on Belisarius's forearms. They pulsed with a halo of magical resonance, scanning for lies, half-truths, and manipulated intent.
The Warden's sword trembled with killing will.
"I told you before," Belisarius said, voice low, "you've gathered enough divine-mimic resonance to blow that entire mountain fortress off the map. Do you understand that?"
Martin blinked. "...So you're saying I overdid it?"
"You engineered an imitation ascension ritual, hijacked the surrounding divine ley, and shattered the artifact's stabilization sequence. That fortress was grounded in a fragile synthesis of faith and mana—and now it's unraveling."
Belisarius's armor sparked with wrath. "Your lattice is drinking divine radiation like a starving god-larva on stimulant fumes."
Martin winced. "To be fair, I only needed part of it to keep the bait alive. Didn't expect the resonance to balloon like that. Poor calibration, maybe…"
"You think this is a joke?"
Martin wiped blood from his mouth, but his eyes gleamed. "No. I think this is an experiment."
"You absolute menace."
"You should see me on weekends," Martin quipped.
But the Warden wasn't laughing. He took a step forward, sword raised.
Martin's smile flickered. "You want to know how I even knew how to pull that off, don't you?"
Belisarius hesitated.
"Only inner-circle cultists or fossil mages know divine modulation theory. That's not street magic," the Warden said. "That's heretical calculus. Forgotten schools. Forbidden spirals. Knowledge that shouldn't be in your hands."
Martin's grin sharpened. "And that, dear Warden, is for me to know—"
He snapped his fingers.
"—and you to walk into."
The floor beneath Belisarius glowed crimson.
Four concentric glyphs ignited, etched with silver blood-ink and stabilized with alchemical anchors hidden in the shattered walls. The runes pulsed once—then snapped inward like chains of light, binding the Warden mid-step.
"A trap?" Belisarius snarled. "You think this will hold me?"
Martin shrugged. "Long enough."
With a roar, Belisarius's aura exploded outward. The glyphs strained, cracked, and detonated in a sonic pulse.
The Warden moved.
His sword sliced Martin in half from shoulder to hip.
There was no scream. Just a ripple.
Instead of blood, there was mist.
The body flickered, twisted—and dispersed into smoke.
Belisarius skidded back. "Illusion."
He spun, sword ready—but the room was empty.
Across the city, perched high atop a tower near the outer wall, the real Martin crouched beneath a protective veil, chuckling as he watched the Warden rage below.
"Still got it."
The spirit orb hovered beside him, flickering in approval.
"Phase one is complete," Martin whispered. "Storm's Creed has stalled, Solholme is in disarray, and our favorite Warden is frothing."
He paused, tilting his head as thunder rolled above.
"Now we wait for the right moment to steal the artifact."
He pulled out a glowing coin—the Ruincoin marker from the earlier broker deal.
With a twist, the scroll embedded in it unfurled, revealing the schematic for Storm's Creed's ritual altar.
"Let's see if we can kill a god before it's born."
As lightning split the sky and the battle for Markand crept toward its final act, Martin smiled to himself.
Not because he had the upper hand.
But because he'd already set the board.
And all that remained... was for the pieces to fall.