Of the remaining traitors, one stood out.
Dren — the tactician. The mind behind the betrayal.
It wasn't his blade that struck Kael, but his plan.
He'd always spoken softly, calculated every move. Even betrayal.
Kael had arrived at the outskirts of Velmire, a fortified city where Dren now worked as a royal strategist — adviser to nobles, master of defenses.
"Skill: Urban Mapping. Passive."
"Skill: Guard Path Prediction."
"Skill: Authority Masking."
He moved through the city unseen, bypassing every layer of surveillance like air slipping through cracks.
Dren resided in a spiraling glass tower at the city's heart. Guards surrounded it. Magical wards flickered. Inside, books stacked like walls.
Kael stood at the base.
No fear. No hesitation.
"Skill: Anti-Magic Field."
The wards fizzled out. Alarm runes shattered into silence.
Kael walked the stairs. Dren was already waiting in his study — calm, seated, sipping from a silver cup.
"So," Dren murmured, "you really didn't die."
Kael said nothing.
Dren smiled bitterly. "You were always dangerous. But now? You're… broken."
He set the cup down.
"I had to betray you. You would've changed everything. You were never meant to win."
Kael's eyes gleamed — not with rage, but resolve.
"Skill: Thought Extraction."
Dren clutched his skull. Screamed. Every calculation, every false justification — ripped from his mind.
"Skill: Guilt Amplifier."
"Skill: Death Mirror."
Dren saw himself — in Kael's body, dying over and over in his own trap.
He begged. He screamed.
Kael simply walked past him.
"Skill: Fade."
Dren's body turned to mist. Erased. Unrecoverable.
Kael stood at the tower's edge, looking down at the city below.
"Three down. Four remain."