The axe felt wrong in Orion's hands.
Not because of its weight—Kargan's «Iron Skin» had already sunk into his muscles, layering them with borrowed density—but because the weapon remembered. It remembered a grip larger than his. A grip that had once lifted a child into the air and promised lies about coming home.
Orion let the blade drag behind him.
SCRRRK—
Its edge carved a shallow groove through bone dust and shattered armor as he walked.
The battlefield had gone quiet.
The Seraph host had withdrawn, leaving behind only wind, drifting ash, and the slow unmaking of the dead. Nineteen shadows had become three. The other two were already limping toward the resurrection spires on the horizon—eager to forget, eager to be empty again.
Orion stayed.
He knelt beside what remained of Kargan.
The Berserker's helm had split open like an egg. One crimson eye stared upward at the writhing ceiling of clouds, already glazing over. Shadows did not keep corpses long; the Abyss recycled everything.
Orion reached out and closed that eye with two fingers.
"Sorry," he whispered.
An old habit. Useless words.
The Protocol did not punish apologies.
Only disobedience.
A notification flickered at the edge of his vision—small, insistent.
⊳ Unclaimed Loot Detected: Berserker's Greataxe [A-Rank]
⊳ Bind as Primary Weapon? Y / N
Orion selected Yes.
The axe shrank slightly, adjusting to his frame. Runes crawled across the blade like living things, spelling Kargan's true name in a language older than regret itself.
Orion stood.
The resurrection spires loomed far away—black obelisks stabbing into the roiling clouds. Every fallen shadow would wake there within hours, memories wiped clean except for class and rank.
Ready to fight again.
Ready to die again.
Orion had never gone to them willingly.
Because he remembered.
Because he was the only one who did.
He turned and walked in the opposite direction.
Toward the Ashen Legion's forward camp.
Toward whatever waited after the 114th master.
The camp was a wound carved into the world.
Trenches lined with spiked helmets. Cookfires burning violet mana instead of wood. Tattered banners snapping in wind that smelled of sulfur and old blood.
Shadows moved everywhere—mostly Soldier-class. Drones with hollow sockets where eyes should have been. A few Warriors and Mages clustered around supply crates, trading insults and stolen skills.
No one stopped him.
Servants were invisible until they were needed.
Orion passed rows of tethered war-beasts—things with too many teeth and not enough mercy—and reached the assignment tent.
Inside sat a single shadow.
Thin. Hooded. Hunched over a crystal slate.
Administrator-class. Rank B.
The one who handed out masters like broken weapons.
It did not look up.
"Name and class."
"Orion. Servant."
A pause.
The hood tilted slightly.
"You're early. Kargan's dissolution isn't complete."
"He died."
"Obviously."
The figure tapped the slate. Purple text scrolled.
"Unusual. Most Servants crawl to resurrection first. You came straight here."
Orion said nothing.
The hood tilted further, as if trying to peer inside his skull.
"Protocol intact?"
"Yes."
"No recorded violations?"
"None."
Another tap.
"Then you are reassigned. Effective immediately."
A hologram bloomed between them.
A woman clad in fractured silver armor. Wings of blackened feathers folded tightly against her back. Her face hidden behind a cracked saint's mask. Long white hair streaked with ash.
Name: Aria
Class: Fallen Paladin
Rank: S
Legion: Ashen Remnant Division
Temperament: Unknown
The Administrator's voice softened—just barely.
"She requested a Servant specifically. No one knows why. Most assume she wants a disposable scout."
Orion stared at the hologram.
A hairline fracture ran through the left eye of the mask.
Like a tear that had never finished falling.
"She's waiting at the northern watchtower. Go."
Orion bowed—shallow, precise—and left.
The northern watchtower rose like a broken spine from a cliff of obsidian. Wind screamed through its hollow ribs, carrying the smell of lightning and depthless void.
She was already there.
Standing at the edge.
Looking down into the endless drop where violet lightning forked eternally.
She did not turn when Orion approached.
Three steps behind. One step to the left.
He stopped.
Waited.
The silence stretched until it hurt.
Finally, her voice—quiet, almost human.
"You're smaller than the last one."
The last one.
She had owned Servants before.
Orion remained silent.
She turned.
The mask hid everything but her mouth. Pale lips, drained of color.
"What is your name?"
"Orion, Master."
"Don't call me that."
The words struck harder than the Seraph's lance.
Orion blinked.
She stepped closer.
One step.
Two.
Close enough for him to see the fracture in her mask was fresh—still bleeding shadow ichor.
"Call me Aria."
The chains in Orion's soul tightened, screaming warnings.
Always Master.
Always Lord.
Those were old commands.
This was new.
He tested the word.
"Yes… Aria."
It tasted wrong.
Dangerous.
Like freedom he was not allowed to touch.
She studied him for a long moment.
Then reached out and pressed her fingers against the center of his chest—where the spear had torn through him earlier.
Her hand came away black with dried blood.
"You blocked for him."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Even though he treated you like trash."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Because the Protocol demanded it.
Because he had no choice.
Because somewhere around the eighty-seventh master, he had forgotten the difference.
He said none of that.
"It is what Servants do."
She withdrew her hand.
"Not anymore."
The chains in his soul shrieked.
She turned back toward the abyss.
"Tomorrow, the Winged Monarch launches a full assault on the Fracture Line. We are to hold the northern flank."
A pause.
"You will stand beside me. Not behind."
Orion's throat tightened.
"Beside… is not the position of a Servant."
"I know."
She glanced over her shoulder. One corner of her mouth curved—not quite a smile.
"That's why I asked for you."
The wind howled.
Lightning split the false sky.
Orion tightened his grip on Kargan's axe.
One hundred and fourteen masters.
This one already felt different.
He did not know if that was mercy—
—or the beginning of something far worse.