Marcus Thorne's charge tore across the courtyard like a landslide breaking free of the mountain. The slabs beneath his boots cracked and splintered, stone dust spraying with each pounding step. His hulking frame was a blur of muscle and fury, the scar across his face twisting grotesquely as his features contorted into savage triumph. Every heartbeat seemed to echo with his approach—thunder rolling closer, death in motion.
The mountain wind howled through the keep's walls, mingling with the guttural roar bursting from Marcus's chest. He looked less like a man and more like a beast unchained, a bull gone mad, eyes burning with primal cruelty.
"Protect the young lord!"
Halvar Bearhand's shout rang out, raw and desperate. His ribs were still broken, his breath ragged from the earlier clash, but loyalty burned brighter than pain. He forced his battered frame forward, planting himself squarely before Finn. The great axe in his grip shook, slick with blood from his torn palms. With a grunt, he braced it across his chest, as if that single weapon could stave off the avalanche bearing down on them.
Marcus sneered. The disdain in his eyes was almost casual, a predator mocking a doomed prey's resistance. He didn't even slacken his pace. His fist—broad as a hammer, skin hardened with scars and calluses—drove forward, wrapped in the whistle of rending air.
CLANG!
The impact rang out, not like steel, but like a church bell hammered at midnight. Halvar's body lurched. The axe that had accompanied him through a hundred battles screamed under the pressure, its steel head warping, the edge dented inward like softened tin. The reverberation ran up his arms with brutal force. Blood sprayed from his lips as his legs buckled.
Then he flew—slammed against the courtyard wall with the force of a collapsing tree, stone cracking where his body struck. He slid down in a heap, his great frame suddenly small, shoulders heaving as blood poured from his mouth. His fingers still clutched the ruined axe, but his strength was spent.
One punch.
That was all it had taken.
The watching brigands gasped, a murmur of awe rising in their throats. Some gave muffled cheers, others clenched their weapons tighter, their faces alight with a savage, fearful reverence. To them, Marcus wasn't merely a deputy lord. He was Marcus the Iron Fist, the strongest man of Blackwind Keep, the beast who could crush stone with his bare hands.
Marcus flexed his knuckles, rolling his shoulders as if he had merely swatted a fly. His joints cracked like splitting branches. He didn't spare Halvar another glance. His eyes locked on Finn, cold and pitiless, lips curving into a smile that promised slaughter.
"Your turn, whelp."
The morning light glanced off his scarred face, making him look more demon than man.
Finn's gaze held no tremor. He did not glance at Halvar. He did not falter or retreat. Instead, he stepped forward. One measured stride into Marcus's shadow, as though baring his throat to the blade.
The silence that fell was heavier than stone.
Even Marcus blinked, his grin faltering at the sheer audacity. Then he barked a laugh, cruel and scornful. "So eager to die?"
His Aura flared, dull ochre light spilling across his arm like molten clay. The earth itself seemed to resonate with the power coursing through his veins. He clenched his fist, the air vibrating with its density. One blow from that, and a boulder the size of a man would shatter to rubble.
But Finn raised his own fist to meet it.
It looked almost frail in comparison—pale skin stretched over slender bones, a fist untested by years of brawls. Next to Marcus's scarred hammer, it looked like a child's defiance.
The brigands stared, half in anticipation, half in disbelief. Halvar, through his haze of pain, forced his eyes open, despair already darkening his heart.
And then the fists collided.
Not with the booming crash everyone expected.
But with a brittle, crystalline crack.
CRACK.
So small. So sharp. Like glass snapping. Yet the sound hit every soul present like a war drum.
Marcus's grin froze. His brow furrowed. He looked down.
His fist—his pride, his legend—was twisted at an unnatural angle. Jagged splinters of bone speared through torn flesh, white shards gleaming in the morning sun. A beat of silence, and then the pain arrived. It screamed through his nerves, a tidal wave of agony that stole his breath.
The courtyard echoed with his howl. "AAAHHHH!"
The brigands flinched. The men who had once worshipped the Iron Fist staggered back as the man they feared collapsed inward.
Finn's fist lowered slowly. His skin bore not even a bruise. The Paladin's Might surged through him, layered upon the perfected Iron Skin Discipline and the Adamant Skull Art. His body had become a fortress in flesh. Marcus's famed strength had broken like a child's toy against it.
Minds shattered with that sight. Awe turned to dread. The brigands no longer saw a pale youth—they saw a monster cloaked in calm.
Marcus stumbled back, clutching his mangled hand, eyes wild. "No… impossible… You—you're a Mortal warrior too!"
He staggered, spittle and blood flying as he shrieked at his men. "Kill him! Kill him now! Tear him apart!"
But no one moved.
Not one dared step forward. Their breaths caught, weapons trembling in white-knuckled grips. If Marcus the Iron Fist had been broken in one blow, what chance did they have? To charge was not bravery. It was suicide.
Finn did not give Marcus the mercy of time. He stepped in, his stance rooted by the Stone Root Stance, each stride like the weight of mountains. The Hundred-Forged Blade slid from its scabbard in a hiss, its edge gleaming with a promise of blood.
The Crimson Reaver Style unleashed.
Scarlet arcs tore through the air, savage and unrelenting. The blade's song was merciless, each stroke a predator's strike. Marcus, crippled and one-handed, flailed to defend, but it was like holding back a storm with bare fingers.
Slash!Slash!
Blood burst with every cut. Finn's precision was cruel. Each stroke avoided the heart, the throat—he wanted Marcus to feel every shred of flesh torn from his body. His arms, his thighs, his chest—ribbons of red peeled away until his strength bled into the dirt.
Marcus's roar broke into a whimper. His legs buckled. The giant who had once towered over the keep fell to his knees, weapon clattering from his grasp.
"Young lord… no! Lord Adler!" His voice was broken, desperate. "Spare me—I was wrong—I'll serve—I'll—"
Finn's eyes were ice. His words fell like a judgment. "You should have thought of that sooner."
The blade whispered once more.
Marcus's throat opened in a clean line, blood spraying like a fountain across the stone. His body swayed, then collapsed in a lifeless heap, the scarred grin frozen forever.
Finn shook the blood from his blade, droplets spattering on the cracked stones like red blossoms. His gaze was already elsewhere.
Across the yard, Silas Crowe had lost his smirk. Cassian Vex's swordplay was a phantom dance—each step a shadow, each strike a ghost's whisper. Silas reeled, cuts striping his body, his twin blades no longer sure, his breath ragged.
Then he saw Marcus fall. Terror hollowed his eyes. He feinted once, then spun to flee.
"Run?" Cassian's voice was cold mockery.
A flash of silver streaked through the air.
The blade pierced Silas's back, sliding clean through his chest. He froze, staring down at the steel tip jutting from his sternum, blood dripping in steady beats. His eyes brimmed with disbelief, with bitterness, with regret. Then he fell, dust rising around him.
The courtyard drowned in silence.
Only the moan of the wind over the keep's walls, only the hiss of blood dripping into dirt.
The brigands shifted, their faces pale, their bodies trembling.
Finn's gaze swept across them, cutting sharper than his blade. His voice was soft, but it carried like iron.
"Every last man who followed Marcus Thorne in treachery—leave none alive."
Cassian's response was steady. "Yes, master."
The long sword sang from its sheath, and death followed. Screams rose, sharp and short, then dwindled into silence. The courtyard smelled of blood and fear.
Finn turned at last, walking to the collapsed form of Halvar Bearhand. The man still coughed blood, but his eyes burned with stubborn light. Finn knelt and pressed a Healing Pill into his mouth. The medicine's warmth spread instantly, stemming the worst of his injuries.
Then Finn's gaze slid to Faelan the Waverer, who had hidden in the rear the entire time. The man's face was chalk-white, sweat slicking his brow, his legs quivering so violently he could barely stand.
That single glance from Finn rooted him in terror. His spirit quaked, his knees nearly buckled.
Above them, the gray dawn broke fully over Blackwind Keep. But to every man who survived that day, it was not the sun that rose.
It was a new lord.
The sky over Blackwind Keep had changed.