The echo of the verdict still seemed to linger in the dry air, resonating with the dark patterns on the Tower's surface. In the next instant, those patterns surged and churned.
The Grey Cloak Executor's cold observational units instantly registered an abnormal energy spike. Ahead, the Tower's smooth, light-devouring surface rippled violently, like a deep pool struck by a boulder—a huge, distorting wave not of light, but of space itself being forcibly distended.
"HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM—!!!!"
A deep, groaning metal-on-metal shriek emanated from within the Tower, piercing the air.
Then, two indescribable masses forced their way out from the center of the disturbance.
They were colossal hands, a brutal amalgamation of dark metal, matte stone, and crystals flickering with sinister crimson energy. Each finger was thick as an ancient tree trunk, joints showing crude rivets and exposed conduits pulsing with red light. They clawed at the edges of the spatial ripple, heaving outward with raw, demonic force.
The ripple stretched wider, near tearing.
A larger shadow pushed through the widening 'rift' from within the Tower.
A gargantuan, pitch-black golem, its form crude and menacing, assembled from cooled slag and discarded armor plating. Seams glowed with molten crimson light. Thick, arm-sized cables of dark red energy snaked over its torso and limbs like veins, flickering with terrifying power. Its 'face' held only two deep, narrow slits burning with red fire for eyes, above a massive, steaming maw that vented scorching vapor and sparks.
It was only half-emerged when its maw swiveled toward the ant-like Grey Cloak, Executor 74.
"ROOOOOAR—!!!"
Not a sound, but a low-frequency blast of compressed energy and twisted space. The air before its maw shimmered with heat. A thick beam of concentrated, annihilating crimson energy formed, aimed, and fired in one seamless motion. It devoured light, made space scream, and shot straight for the Grey Cloak.
No escape. The beam's speed and width negated all conventional evasion.
Yet, in the split-second before impact, Executor 74 performed a seemingly pointless act—he snapped his head around, his gaze spanning the distance to lock onto his Grey Cloak colleague standing by the scorched earth at the plain's edge.
His voice, via encrypted psionic link or rune, stabbed cold and urgent into the other's mind:
"Remember your station."
The words were a final directive. A reminder.
Simultaneously, the distant Grey Cloak shuddered. A pained, rapid chant rose from his hood. The great book in his hands flipped to a page, blazing with unstable light. He tried to act—too late.
The crimson annihilation beam struck Executor 74 head-on.
KABOOOOOM—!!!!
A cataclysmic detonation. A roiling, dust-choked mushroom cloud of red energy and pulverized earth erupted, hurling superheated debris for hundreds of meters. The blast wave rattled the distant plain.
The golem vented a triumphant, steam-hissing snarl. It gripped the edges of the rift, heaving its bulk further out, metal shrieking against stone.
But before the smoke could clear, as the golem's upper body was halfway through—
FWHOOSH!
A streak of blue light, fast as a reverse meteor, shot from the heart of the dissipating explosion! It left a brief vacuum trail in its wake.
Executor 74.
His upper robes were tattered, revealing a form-fitting undersuit etched with complex runes and a translucent cyan energy barrier clinging to his torso—cracked like spiderwebbed glass, dimmed, but intact. It had held against the beam's core.
His motion showed no lag from the blast. He was precision itself. In a blink, he was upon the golem, at its chest—a trivial spot to the giant, but a nexus of those pulsing energy cables.
No weapon-glow. No incantation.
He simply drew back his fist, still sheathed in fading cyan energy, and threw a straight, textbook-perfect punch.
THOOOOM!!!!!!!!!
A sound like the heart of a giant bell being struck.
The golem's composite armor cratered inward at the point of impact. A web of fractures exploded outward. Several thick crimson cables flared bright and snapped, spewing violent arcs of sparks and wild energy discharge.
The force transmitted through that single point was unthinkable.
The heaving golem jolted to a halt, then was punched backward. Its grip on the rift failed. With a scream of twisting metal and shattering stone, its half-emerged mass toppled back into the Tower's interior.
CRRUUMMMBLE—!!!
The spatial rift on the Tower's surface convulsed violently. The golem's roar echoed, muffled and furious, from within.
Executor 74 flipped backward from the impact, landing lightly farther from the Tower. The cyan barrier around him flickered and died. His rune-suit dimmed. But he stood straight, the cold points of light in his hood fixed on the still-churning, unstable rift.
Dust settled. The plain fell silent.
Only the sounds of enraged metal and humming power echoed from within the Black Tower, and the dark patterns on its surface flowed with new, agitated life, signaling this conflict between 'Divine Retribution' and defiance had merely drawn its first, bloody line. At the plain's edge, the other Grey Cloak stood motionless, his chant stilled, his hood bowed low.
In stark contrast to the roaring energies, shrieking metal, and cold pronouncements outside, this corner within the Black Tower held an eerie, lazy calm.
The air smelled faintly of old paper, rich pipe tobacco, and the steam rising from a cup of tea on a small table beside a deeply-cushioned sofa. Soft light glowed from the walls themselves—a milky, moonstone radiance—and from a large, crystal-clear viewscreen floating in the air before the sofa.
The screen displayed a real-time, bird's-eye view of the plain outside: the streak of cyan, the gigantic golem toppling backward, the Tower's surface rippling, dust pluming… It was stable, clear, complete with multi-angle splits and faint schematic lines tracing energy flows. It looked like a tactical simulation, not a life-and-death battle.
Sprawled in the depths of the sofa was the man who had dragged Erika and Loren from certain death—the one just accused of being a 'Sorcerer' and sentenced to 'Divine Retribution.' He wore cleaner, dark casual clothes now. His hair, though still unruly, was combed, the grime washed from a face that was pale, sharply defined, with shadows of fatigue under keen eyes.
He brought his hands together in a slow, clear clap. The sound was oddly detached, appreciative.
"Decent impact absorption. Energy conduit overload threshold was seven percent above projections. The full-strain reverse kinetics in the leg joints were timely… Valuable combat data." His tone was analytical, that of a researcher reviewing an experiment.
His commentary done, he reached for the white porcelain teacup on the table to his left—filled with dark, amber tea. With his right hand, he picked up a silver spoon, stirred gently—an action of incongruous elegance—and brought the cup to his lips.
"Pah—! Agh! Hot!"
He set the cup down sharply, scowling, sticking his tongue out briefly to cool it. The image of the inscrutable researcher shattered completely. He glared at Loren, who sat primly on a facing armchair, restored to some semblance of his noble bearing.
"Is this how your servants usually serve tea, Young Master Loren de Witt?" he demanded, voice thick with accusation.
Loren flinched, a strained, placating smile instantly plastered on his face. "Ah, Master… you jest… haha… My oversight entirely. Next time, I'll be sure… most sure." He dabbed at non-existent sweat on his brow. "We are… profoundly grateful for your… hospitality. To watch the… proceedings in such comfort."
Erika sat silently in another chair, farther back. He too was clean, in borrowed clothes, his scrapes tended to. He didn't touch the tea. His hands were clasped in his lap, back straight, his eyes locked on the viewscreen. The apocalyptic battle outside, the superhuman speed and force of the Grey Cloak, the golem's terrifying power—all of it was delivered to him with hyper-real clarity. His silence wasn't empty; it was full, straining under the weight of too much to process.
Seeing Loren nervously steer the topic back to the fight, Erika's attention didn't waver from the screen.
The man—the Black Tower's Sorcerer—pushed the offending teacup away and picked up a biscuit from a nearby plate, taking a grumpy bite.
Emboldened by the shift in focus, Loren leaned forward, pointing a tentative finger at the viewscreen, where the massive golem was struggling to right itself within the Tower, sparks still fountaining from its chest. His voice was hushed, anxious.
"Master… that… that construct. It's… still functional? It looks badly damaged. What if… what if it fails? And the one in the robe outside is so… capable. What becomes of us then?"
He voiced their deepest fear. This Tower, this Sorcerer, was their only shield. If it broke…
The Sorcerer chuckled. Not mockingly, nor reassuringly. It was a light, almost mischievous sound, brimming with absolute control. He swallowed his biscuit, brushed crumbs from his fingers, and looked at the screen—at the furious golem regrouping amidst internal wreckage, and at the Grey Cloak, barrier-less but standing firm, gathering himself for another move.
"Fail?" He raised an eyebrow, casual as if discussing the weather. "This is barely a warm-up."
He picked up the tea again, took a cautious, then satisfied sip, and settled deeper into the sofa.
"Don't fret, little lord. A few severed 'veins' won't stop it. As for our 'Divine Retributor' out there…"
He paused, his gaze lingering on the Grey Cloak's cracked rune-armor on the screen. A playful smirk touched his lips.
"…Let him play a little longer."
He set his cup down, interlaced his fingers over his stomach, adopting the posture of a man settling in for a long, entertaining show.
"No need to rush," he added, his voice carrying a bedrock certainty. The world-ending conflict outside was, to him, merely a game for data collection and amusement.
On the screen, new streams of crimson energy were already flowing over the golem's wounded chest. It vented a deeper, more rage-filled roar, its massive form shifting within the Tower as more energy conduits snaked from the inner walls toward it. Outside, Executor 74 seemed to have completed his brief recalibration; a new, finer, more intense energy signature began coalescing around him.
The battle was far from over. And in the heart of the Black Tower, two guests and their inscrutable host watched the storm—the storm they had ignited—with profoundly different hearts.