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The last grains of sand in the hourglass gleamed like drops of blood. The priest's voice cracked as he roared:
"Behold the sacred moment! Sons of shadow, bow your heads before Commander Zeldaris, chosen of Lord Zeref!"
The crowd thundered. The square shivered with stomps and howls. Torches flared high, licking black smoke into the volcano's throat.
And then—he appeared.
Zeldaris stepped from the platform's rear like a phantom walking out of the dark. His smile was slow, carved, almost gentle. His long black coat snapped in the volcanic wind, chains rattling at his side. Every movement was smooth, practiced—he didn't command attention, he consumed it.
"Brothers… sisters," he said, voice silk over steel. Even the drunks fell silent. "Tonight, you witness not death, but rebirth. Their screams will be hymns. Their blood, incense. Their broken bodies… an offering to His greatness."
The crowd erupted, chanting his name— Zeldaris! Zeldaris!—like mad worshippers. His hand drifted across the butcher's head, resting there almost tenderly. The butcher shook like a child, tears cutting rivers through soot. Zeldaris whispered to him, but his voice carried eerily clear:
"Do not fear. Few men earn the honor of feeding eternity. You will not be forgotten. Your family's flesh will be savored by gods."
The butcher's wife sobbed into her gag. The girl screamed until her throat cracked. The crowd cheered louder.
Yaman's heart thrashed in his chest. His fingers gripped the detonator crystal. Now or never. Father, forgive me if I die here.
The volcano growled. Sparks sprayed from the craters, a hail of fireflies from hell. The ground rattled beneath boots. Zeldaris raised his arms to the black sky, smiling wider, the hourglass emptying behind him.
"NOW!" Fernando's voice cracked from the slope.
Yaman slammed his thumb down.
The world split apart.
Seven craters ignited in a chain of thunder. White fire tore from the earth. Explosions ripped through the square—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!—each blast louder, hungrier, brighter than the last. Light flared so violently it turned the world to ash-white blindness.
Dark wizards screamed, clutching their eyes as searing brilliance devoured the square. Tables overturned, drinks vaporized, bodies hurled skyward like rag dolls. The sound was deafening—stone cracking, wood splintering, bones snapping.
Yaman leapt from the shadows, legs pumping, body propelled by sheer will. He scrambled up the execution platform as smoke and sparks cloaked him. Guards staggered, clawing at their faces, blinded. A spear lashed out blindly—Yaman ducked, drove his shotgun butt into the guard's throat, and felt the man collapse choking.
The butcher stared at him in shock as Yaman tore the ropes from his wrists. "MOVE!" Yaman bellowed, shoving him toward the edge. He cut the mother free next, then scooped the little girl into his arms as another explosion shook the boards beneath their feet.
The mother gasped, "Who—?"
"No time! RUN!" Yaman shoved them toward the platform's back, where the smoke was thickest.
But then the voice came. Cold. Calm. Untouched.
Zeldaris.
Through the chaos, he stood unflinching, cloak scorched but his smile unbroken. The explosions painted his figure in silhouette, a black god against the inferno. His eyes glowed faint red, burning like embers refusing to die.
He raised a hand, and the crowd—what was left of them—froze. His charisma still held them, even blinded, even bleeding. His voice rolled like velvet thunder:
"So… rats scurry in my house."
The smile widened, cruel and radiant. "Do you think light can banish shadow? Do you think fire can frighten a child of the abyss?"
He stepped forward, boots crunching glass and bone, every inch of him a sermon in wrath. "You dare—" he spat, his tone suddenly sharp, blazing—"to steal my sacrifice?!"
The crowd shrieked his name again, bloodied but fanatical. Zeldaris! Zeldaris!
The butcher's family fled down the smoking ramp, but Yaman lingered a second too long. His legs shook. His shotgun trembled in his grip. Zeldaris' gaze found him through the chaos, pinning him like a spear.
And then Zeldaris laughed. A dark, ringing sound, sharp as broken glass.
"You've earned my notice, boy."
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The butcher's family vanished into the smoke, stumbling down the ruined ramp. Their screams blended with the wailing of the blinded, the roaring of the wounded, the crackle of fire.
But none of it mattered.
Zeldaris' gaze locked onto Yaman, and the square itself seemed to bow to that gaze. The chaos bent around him — flames leaned away, shadows crawled toward him, the crowd stilled like animals before a predator.
He stepped through the storm, one deliberate stride at a time, cloak dragging ash, boots crushing glass and teeth. His smile was a knife across his face.
"So bold," he said, his voice intimate and venomous, as though whispered right into Yaman's ear despite the roar around them. "So foolish. A child with bombs, thinking himself a kingmaker."
Yaman's shotgun trembled in his grip, but he raised it anyway, eyes blazing. His throat was dry, words rasping out like sparks:
"I don't care who you are. You won't touch them. Not while I breathe."
Zeldaris tilted his head, amused, his smile widening to show the faint gleam of teeth. He spread his arms, cloak snapping like wings in the volcanic wind.
"Look at you… standing before me as if you are fire itself." His tone dropped, darker now, reverent and mocking at once. "I will enjoy unmaking you."
The crowd, battered and bleeding, found their voice again, chanting like zealots drunk on agony:
"Zeldaris! Zeldaris! Zeldaris!"
Yaman's heart pounded so hard it was deafening. The smoke, the heat, the broken bodies — everything blurred except for that man, that smile, those eyes.
He thought of the girl in his arms, of the boy shot dead for crying, of the butcher's trembling hands. He thought of Fernando's voice on the slope: I trust you.
And the fear broke.
He leveled the shotgun, finger tight on the trigger. His voice was a growl, feral and young but unyielding:
"Then try me, demon."
Zeldaris laughed — not mocking this time, but delighted, hungry. A laugh that promised nothing but blood.
The square held its breath.
Then the Master moved.
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