"Bang… bang…"
Heavy footsteps echoed through the night, reverberating with ominous intent. Slowly, a massive figure emerged from the darkness, looming tall and formidable.
It was a hulking humanoid, larger even than a troll. His entire form was composed of coarse, living stone, clad in battered metal armor, and wielding an immense sledgehammer that cracked the ground beneath his stride.
"Cronan," someone muttered, recognizing the stony behemoth.
"How are the Kronans here?" another asked in disbelief.
Wayne raised his hand to point, and as eyes followed his gesture, more figures came into view behind the Cronan. Dozens of beings marched in, humanoid in shape but wildly diverse in appearance—skins of every color, grotesque forms, and cruel eyes. They were clearly not of one race.
"It's a looter band," Wayne said grimly.
"Marauders?" someone echoed.
Wayne nodded. "A group of desolate raiders, roaming the edges of the galaxy for nearly two hundred years now. They thrive on destruction—burning, killing, pillaging, scavenging every scrap of value they can find."
He frowned, eyes narrowing. "They're an unorganized, chaotic collective. Their numbers include all sorts—Cronans, Scrins, Horned Demons, Warners… you name it. If it's a species known for violence or desperation, it might be among them."
After a moment, he added, "Looks like the Scrins managed to call in some reinforcements."
Rowe stepped closer. "Wayne, have you ever fought a Cronan? How strong are they?"
The Cronans had appeared a few times before in various encounters—Thor had once befriended a loquacious stone-man in Sakaar, and earlier, he had defeated a Cronan warrior with ease in Thor: The Dark World. But Rowe knew better than to judge an entire race by a single encounter.
"No, I haven't," Wayne replied. "But my father did. He told me that most Cronans are physically inferior to the Asgardian Protoss, but there are outliers—some Cronans are monstrously strong. You can usually judge their strength by their size. And the one in front of us? That's one of the big ones."
"Bring it on, rockhead!" a loud, taunting voice rang out.
Everyone turned toward the sound to see a warrior clad in heavy armor leap from the encampment, his own massive hammer raised high.
"Gauce," Wayne said, recognizing the figure.
It was Gusi, one of the camp's frontline captains. In sheer raw power and battlefield ferocity, Gusi was unmatched among the warriors here.
"BOOM!"
The clash of two hammers—one from the Cronan, one from Gusi—sent a thunderous shockwave through the area. The ground quaked from the force of their collision.
Nearby Scrins who had begun creeping forward were blown back by the force of the impact, some screaming in terror and retreating. A few even fainted outright.
After the impact, both combatants staggered back a few steps. It was an even match—for now.
"Protoss…" the Cronan warrior growled, the sound like granite grinding against granite, filled with primal hatred.
Gusi sneered, hammer spinning. "Feel the wrath of Gusi!"
They charged at each other again. Hammers clashed in a storm of sound, the impact shaking the battlefield. Around them, a perimeter naturally formed—none dared intervene in their titanic duel.
Elsewhere, the battle broke out in full. The warriors of Asgard clashed with the marauders and Scrins. Steel rang, weapons flashed, and death shrieked in every direction.
Rowe tightened his grip on Verigan's Fist, slamming it against the earth.
Judgment!
A blaze of holy light surged from the hammer, mingled with searing flame. The radiant blast ripped through several Scrin warriors, illuminating the battlefield like a miniature sun.
As he fought, Rowe's eyes scanned the battlefield. His attention was drawn to the looters Wayne had described—vile beings who lived for nothing but destruction. They weren't just common raiders; they were criminals, murderers, and worse.
Rowe's chest tightened. He had been stuck in limbo for over a year, unable to fulfill the requirements for ten executions of justice. Two more to go, but nothing had satisfied the criteria.
But now—these marauders, all intelligent beings with malicious intent—there was hope.
Yet the looters proved elusive. They were crafty, staying back, letting cannon-fodder Scrins engage the Protoss warriors while they struck from the shadows. They were like Lord Scrins himself—cowards hiding behind weaker pawns.
Rowe's eyes sharpened as he searched for an ideal target. Soon, he spotted one.
A red-skinned humanoid with horns protruding from his brow—a devilish figure, armed with a wicked-looking bow. He lurked behind a wall of Scrins, loosing arrows at unsuspecting Protoss with cold efficiency.
He was isolated, with no support but expendable Scrins. And he was within reach.
Rowe charged forward, clearing a path through the cannon fodder with calculated sweeps of his warhammer. With each step, he closed the distance.
When he was within several meters, the golden glint of holy light erupted from his belt. The Pointer of the Holy Light appeared, spinning before locking into place—pointing directly at the horned marauder.
A smirk tugged at Rowe's lips.
Justice had found its next recipient.
But the looter saw him coming.
Eyes wide, the marauder backpedaled. He nocked and loosed three arrows in rapid succession.
Rowe ducked and twisted, barely avoiding the first volley.
But the second came just as quickly.
One arrow struck his chest—fortunately, his inner armor held. No damage.
The marauder turned, preparing to flee into the night, firing wildly as he retreated.
Rowe roared, slamming his warhammer to the ground and hurling three consecutive Hammers of Judgment.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM!
Explosions of light and force tore through the battlefield. A clear path emerged.
Rowe surged forward, boots thundering as he pursued.
The looter's panic deepened. He let loose another volley—seven, maybe eight arrows in a blur of movement.
Holy Protection!
Rowe invoked his divine shield. Golden light enveloped him, and the arrows struck harmlessly against the barrier. Even those that met bare flesh couldn't penetrate the combined strength of Protoss vitality and divine magic.
The shield would hold for five seconds—more than enough time.
The distance vanished. Rowe lunged forward with explosive force.
Holy Light Strike!
His warhammer surged with brilliance as he brought it down in a golden arc.
The marauder tried to dodge, but the hammer's edge clipped his arm.
BOOM!
The sin within him triggered a violent reaction. Light and flame burst outward, engulfing the horned looter. The explosion tore away half his body.
Sin ends.
Rowe landed softly, smoke rising from his hammer.
But the Pointer of Holy Light remained active.
Its glow had not faded—it now pointed past him, deeper into the shadows.
Something darker waited ahead.