The dawn that followed the carnage was strangely quiet. Smoke drifted lazily over the estate, curling around shattered walls and scorched earth. Pools of dark, congealed blood reflected the pale sunlight, broken only by the occasional twitch of a dying soldier.
Rayon, Cairo, and Severin stood at the heart of the battlefield, their silhouettes framed by ruin. They didn't speak. There was no need. Their presence alone told the story: they had won, decisively, without mercy.
The estate's outer walls bore scars deep enough to crack stone foundations, yet the Obsidian Web's forces still held. Soldiers cautiously emerged from behind barricades, wide-eyed and trembling, surveying the devastation. Many had never witnessed power like this before. Some whispered prayers, others vomited, unable to reconcile what they had seen.
Rayon walked among the corpses of the fallen, boots slick with blood. Every step left a dark smear across the battlefield. He bent over the golden-eyed general, staring down at the shattered figure with cold amusement. "So… that's your best," he said quietly. Then, without a shred of hesitation, he turned, moving toward the walls to check the perimeter.
Cairo knelt beside the shadow-cloaked woman's corpse, his blade still in hand. His movements were methodical, precise, even clinical. Limbs were counted, weapons secured, everything cataloged. When he rose, his eyes held no joy—only satisfaction at having executed perfectly.
Severin, meanwhile, walked through the craters and rifts he had created, flexing his fingers as though testing the air. Every scar he left on the earth was a statement, a warning: this estate belonged to them, and any who challenged it would end the same way.
The survivors of the Sanctum were either broken or fled. Their generals annihilated, their strategy undone, they scattered across the misty fields. Whispers of what had transpired would travel far beyond the borders of this battle, leaving a permanent stain on the Sanctum's reputation.
Inside the estate, the atmosphere was tense but electric. Soldiers, once frightened and uncertain, began to understand the depth of the triad's strength. They moved with renewed confidence, reinforcing the barricades, tending to the wounded, and preparing for whatever retaliation might come. This was more than victory—it was a lesson.
And outside the walls, the surrounding lands bore witness. Villages that had once lived in fear of the Obsidian Web now whispered of something else: a power so absolute that it defied comprehension. Merchants avoided the main roads, travelers paused at the sight of the ruined fields, and even the most audacious bounty hunters thought twice before approaching.
Rayon, Cairo, and Severin convened at the center courtyard, silent, surveying the destruction they had wrought. No words were needed. The Obsidian Web had proven its dominance, and the balance of power had shifted irrevocably.
For the first time in years, the estate felt truly theirs. Not because the walls were intact, nor because the soldiers survived—but because three men, perfectly synchronized, had torn through an empire of discipline and left it in pieces.
No celebration came. No speeches. Only the quiet, grim understanding that this victory was both a statement and a warning. Whoever came next would learn the same lesson: fear nothing, bow to no one, and never underestimate the deadliest trio the world had ever seen.
The estate exhaled, blood still warm in the air. And somewhere, in the distance, the wind carried the echo of broken commands and shattered lives—testimony to the battle that would be remembered for decades to come.