The stillness that followed should have signified victory. One Inquisitor lay dead, his Aetherbrand Essence unraveling into nothingness, his mask shattered beside him. But Zareth knew better than to believe it was over.
He stood amidst the dimly lit ruins, blood still dripping from his blade, his breathing measured but heavy. The remaining four did not retreat. They did not falter. Their unity had been wounded—but not broken.
They adjusted.
Their formation subtly shifted, each taking a step to redistribute their positioning. The gap left by their fallen comrade was filled in seamlessly, without hesitation, without words. Where most warriors would stagger at such a loss, they merely adapted.
It was almost unnerving.
Zareth tightened his grip on his weapon. The link between them was gone—his previous strike had ensured that. And yet, if anything, their precision only increased.
This was not a pack losing its alpha. This was a machine, recalibrating itself to function with one less cog.
Zareth moved first, pushing forward, testing their reaction. His sword whipped out, seeking flesh—but the moment he struck, they countered with inhuman precision.
One stepped in at his blind spot. Another struck at his exposed side. Aetherbrand energy flared as a blade whistled toward his throat.
Damn.
He twisted, narrowly avoiding the fatal cut, but their movements were too clean, too sharp. Even without their tethered connection, they were trained for this.
Designed to win.
A boot struck his ribs—hard. Zareth staggered, barely catching himself before another strike came. He ducked, twisted, but even as he moved, he felt the sting of steel cutting into his shoulder.
He retaliated immediately, shifting his weight and sending a vicious backhanded slash toward his attacker. The Inquisitor barely avoided it, but the air between them crackled with tension.
They were not flustered. They were not reckless.
They were simply efficient.
Zareth exhaled through clenched teeth. He had miscalculated.
Severing their link hadn't been a crippling blow. It had only forced them to fight differently. And in doing so, they had become even more lethal—because now, they relied on something far more dangerous than an artificial bond.
Instinct.
I have to change tactics.
He surged forward again, but this time, he fought differently. Instead of raw aggression, he adjusted to their movements, analyzing their footwork, their angles, the way they subtly shifted to cover for each other.
For every strike he blocked, another came. For every attack he launched, there was a calculated response.
And yet—his mind worked faster. His Tyrant's Aetherbrand flared as he pushed his stolen power deeper, his senses sharpening beyond human limits.
His Wells burned with Aetherbrand Essence.
I see it now.
He didn't need to match them in precision. He just needed to disrupt them—to find the crack in their pattern.
Time stretched in the brutal dance of death. The battle had reached its peak.
Zareth was bleeding. His breath was heavy. But he was still standing.
The Inquisitors, too, had taken their share of wounds. Their movements, while precise, bore the smallest signs of fatigue.
But they were still standing.
Zareth exhaled slowly. His mind sharpened as he made his final decision.
He needed to end this. Now.
Instead of fighting them directly, he shifted his power—no longer focusing on their physical strikes, but their very Essence.
The Aetherbrand that fueled them.
His grip tightened. What I severed before was the link between them. But what if I go deeper?
He focused—not just on them, but on the invisible threads of Aetherbrand Essence that still lingered between them, even without their hive connection.
And then, he did something that even they hadn't accounted for.
He ripped through it.
Aetherbrand Essence shattered around them, unraveling mid-motion. The disruption sent a ripple through their very beings—momentary, but devastating.
For the first time, they moved like individuals.
And that was all he needed.
Zareth launched forward. The first fell swiftly, his throat cut before he could fully process the fracture in his power.
The second tried to react, but his movements were half a second too slow. Zareth drove his blade through his heart.
The last one fought harder than the rest. Desperation turned him feral, his strikes faster, his body moving with pure instinct.
But Zareth had already won.
With a final clash of steel, he drove his sword through the final Inquisitor's chest, twisting it before ripping it free.
Blood splattered across the broken ground.
Silence followed.
Zareth stood among the fallen, his chest rising and falling with exhaustion. The world seemed to still.
And then—a slow clap echoed through the ruins.
Zareth's muscles tensed instantly.
From the darkness, a figure stepped forward, his presence as effortless as it was unnerving.
The Vice Captain.
Unlike the Inquisitors before him, he did not move with rigid precision. He moved with purpose. As if he had already calculated every possible move Zareth could make.
He smiled—though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Impressive." His voice was smooth, almost amused. "I was almost worried. Almost."
Zareth's grip on his sword remained tight. He did not relax. Not for a second.
The Vice Captain tilted his head, observing the corpses at Zareth's feet. "You made it further than I expected."
He did not attack. He did not even look like he intended to.
Instead, he simply continued speaking, his words carrying a weight that was far heavier than any blade.
"Enjoy your next days, Reborn Tyrant." He met Zareth's gaze, and for the first time, Zareth felt something he had not felt in a long time.
A true threat.
"They will be your last."
And then—he was gone.
Not in a flash of power, not in a dramatic burst of speed.
He simply wasn't there anymore.
Zareth remained still for a long moment. His grip on his sword remained unshaken.
But deep inside, he knew.
The real battle had not even begun.