Kaelen’s fury manifested as a scorching tremor that vibrated through the very air. His fists, sheathed in a crackling aura of crimson, pulsed with raw, untamed power. He was a D-rank Shard-Reaver, his strength a brutal testament to the desolate lands. This power surpassed the fleeting prowess of his fallen lieutenants.
But Vorlag stood within the Marches.
Here, amid the endless, glittering expanse of jagged stone, Vorlag was absolute. The land was an extension of his will, a canvas of gleaming death.
A sudden, whispered command from Vorlag’s mind. From every direction, walls of obsidian shrieked skyward, crystalline ramparts shimmering with razor edges. Kaelen roared, his crimson fists blurring as they met the burgeoning barriers. With deafening cracks, the obsidian shattered, each impact sending tremors through the ground.
Vorlag retaliated, a silent storm. From the fractured earth, torrents of obsidian shards erupted, spiraling like deadly hail. This was the same technique that had decimated Kaelen’s subordinates.
Kaelen, anticipating, swatted them aside. His gauntleted forearms shimmered, deflecting the lethal hail with practiced ease. He had observed Vorlag’s chilling precision, seen his warriors crumble.
Having neutralized the initial barrage, Kaelen moved. He surged forward, closing the distance between them with brutal speed. A massive, crimson-sheathed fist swung, aimed at Vorlag’s chest.
A ripple ran through the ground. Vorlag, without a sound, simply ceased to be there. The spot where he stood collapsed inward, a sudden, silent maw of shifting obsidian. It swallowed him whole.
Kaelen froze, bewildered by the abrupt disappearance. The jagged earth shifted and groaned under his feet, a silent accusation.
From directly beneath him, a dozen obsidian spikes speared upward, puncturing the ground where he stood. Kaelen staggered, his aura flaring as he minimized the impact, his D-rank resilience a shield. He hunched, teeth bared, absorbing the indiscriminate upward assault. Yet, he knew this was a losing battle; continued blows from the living land would grind him into dust without a chance to retaliate.
A guttural roar ripped from Kaelen’s throat. “You cannot hide from me, creature!”
He slammed a fist into the obsidian floor. A crimson shockwave, Kaelen’s unique skill, ‘Shatterfall,’ erupted, ripping through the earth. The very ground convulsed, flipping vast sections of obsidian skyward.
The collapsing maw where Vorlag hid could not escape the destructive force. Vorlag’s crystalline form shuddered. A jolt of pain lanced through his core, his mental connection to the Marches momentarily fractured. Dark ichor, sluggish and thick, welled at the edges of a hairline crack forming on his cheek, a tremor running through his usually stoic frame.
Kaelen, seeing his enemy falter, seized the moment. He leaped into the churning pit, his eyes alight with murderous intent. “It ends, Monarch!”
He unleashed another concentrated ‘Shatterfall,’ targeting the disoriented Vorlag. A direct hit, at this range, would surely shatter Vorlag’s crystalline heart.
Just as the force slammed home, the raw, churning obsidian around them surged. A silent, grinding wave of razor-sharp fragments poured into the pit, engulfing both Kaelen and Vorlag. The sheer, immense pressure of the surging earth cancelled Kaelen’s attack.
Kaelen, abruptly buried alive beneath countless tons of grinding rock, quickly regained his senses. He flexed, his aura pushing against the crushing weight. He searched for Vorlag’s presence, but felt nothing. No flicker of power, no resonance with the Marches. It was as if Vorlag had simply dissolved.
Kaelen trembled, straining to rise. A burst of crimson aura, a localized ‘Shatterfall,’ detonated from his position, blowing aside the immense obsidian mound pressing down on him. He emerged, wary, his gaze sweeping the pit, expecting Vorlag to have escaped.
Then, a searing, agonizing pain tore through his lower body.
With disbelief, Kaelen looked down. A dozen wicked obsidian spears, honed to needle points, had erupted from the ground beneath him. They pierced his lower abdomen, his legs, pinning him like an insect. He had anticipated attacks from above, neglected any preparation for an assault while submerged, assumed Vorlag had fled.
A silent figure rose from the very floor of the pit. Vorlag, his crystalline body now faintly glowing with renewed, cold power, ascended from the jagged ground. He had not fled. He had sunk deeper, becoming one with the inert stone, masking his presence entirely.
Kaelen spat dark blood, staring at Vorlag, his eyes wide with a horrific realization. He truly hadn’t expected such absolute deception, such perfect communion with the earth itself.
“You… you are truly the Obsidian Monarch,” Kaelen rasped, his voice thick with dying surprise. “A madman to possess such a deceitful power. Argh!” He gurgled, blood frothing from his lips.
Vorlag asserted dominance. The obsidian spears, still impaling Kaelen, began to twist and grind, then retracted, collapsing back into mere grains of sand-like obsidian dust.
With the unyielding support gone, Kaelen crumpled, a lifeless heap of ruined flesh and fragmented aura, never to move again.
---
A breath, ragged and drawn, escaped Vorlag. His form wavered, a slight tremor passing through his crystalline frame. He sank onto a jagged outcropping, his unique power momentarily depleted, the connection to the Marches tenuous.
But the fight was not done.
From the swirling dust of the pit, the remaining Shard-Reavers, a dozen desperate figures, surged. Their crude blades and sharpened tools, glinting with hungry malice, were aimed at the weakened Monarch.
Vorlag, caught unawares, looked up just as their weapons began to fall. There was no time to react, no power to summon. A chilling emptiness settled within him. He contemplated the inevitability of this moment.
Then, a flash of ancient steel. A formidable force, not of obsidian, but of honed metal and raw strength, swept over Vorlag’s head.
The attacking Shard-Reavers staggered, their momentum broken, their bodies flung aside by an invisible, crushing impact. A spray of their blood, hot and metallic, splattered across Vorlag’s crystalline skin.
He grimaced, the dark ichor on his cheek pulsing in discomfort.
A gruff voice, laden with an edge of disappointment, reached his ears. “You let your guard down, Vorlag. There are always more teeth in the pack.”
Vorlag bowed his head, a gesture of silent acknowledgement. He had no words, even if Kael were to curse his very existence.
“Still a pup, aren’t you? You have a long way to walk, Monarch!”
Kael’s words, though harsh, resonated with a brutal truth.
---
Kael stood, the colossal blade, ‘Ironfang,’ clutched in his weathered hands. Its ancient steel, shimmering with a faint, ruddy glow, hummed with contained power. He moved with swift, economical grace, cleaving through the remaining Shard-Reavers. With each swing, a gust of crimson wind, sharp as a blade, tore through the raiders, felling them swiftly. Kael’s prowess in wielding Ironfang, even at such a distance, was terrifying.
Yet, it was not Kael’s fearsome display that held Valerius, their elder companion, in thrall. His gaze was fixed on Vorlag.
“By the Maker’s Will! An Awakened who commands the very obsidian?” Valerius breathed, his voice a hushed gasp. In his many cycles traversing the Sundered Lands, he had encountered countless Awakened. But a master of obsidian, a true Monarch of the Marches? It was beyond comprehension.
Valerius glanced at Kael. The warrior still wore an expression of grim dissatisfaction. Kael was displeased, not with Vorlag’s victory, but with the moment of weakness, the near-fatal lapse in judgment.
*He truly is accompanied by that monster, then,* Valerius thought, a faint flicker of understanding in his ancient eyes. It began to make sense why Kael, a warrior of renown, traveled with the enigmatic Vorlag. In a world reshaped by the Sundering, a master of the very stone was undoubtedly a force beyond reckoning. Vorlag’s abilities, while not yet fully mature, held limitless potential.
Having dealt with the last of the Shard-Reavers, Vorlag walked unsteadily towards their mobile shelter, the ‘Aegis Crawler.’ His crystalline face, usually impassive, showed signs of profound exhaustion. For this one skirmish, Vorlag had given everything. Imagination, power, every tremor of physical resilience had been squeezed from his core. Battling the primal beasts of the Marches was a struggle, but battling men, creatures of cunning and malice, was an altogether harsher ordeal.
Exhaling a silent, weary sigh, Vorlag ascended the ramp into the Aegis Crawler. Valerius and Lyra, their youngest companion, greeted him. Kael was nowhere to be seen.
“He retreated inside,” Lyra explained, her voice soft, her eyes conveying concern. “He said his sight was about to rot watching you.”
Valerius chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “His standards remain impossibly high. But you fought well, Vorlag. Very well indeed.”
Lyra approached, her hand hovering near Vorlag’s shoulder, a gesture of unspoken comfort. “You’ve worked hard. Come, rest. I will guide you to your quarters.”
Vorlag followed Lyra without hesitation. She led him to a small, spartan room, its walls fashioned from smooth, polished obsidian.
“Rest here. I will bring you a simple restorative.” Lyra left Vorlag alone and stepped out.
Vorlag sat on a bed crafted from seamlessly joined obsidian slabs, staring at his hands. His crystalline digits, usually still as carved stone, now vibrated with a faint, internal tremor.
Today, he had ended numerous lives. Though they were Shard-Reavers, they were sentient beings, not so different from himself. The act of extinguishing such lives, systematically and deliberately, caused a significant tremor in his quiescent core. He had killed before, in chaotic struggles for survival. But this felt different. This was a calculated decimation, resulting in countless deaths orchestrated by his silent will. The weight of it, though unfamiliar, was immense.
*Still, this must be overcome,* Vorlag thought, his internal voice a deep, resonant rumble. He steadied the trembling of his inner being. He could not afford the luxury of prolonged self-reproach. In this brutal world, one had to shed such burdens to endure. Though momentarily shaken, Vorlag had understood the harsh tenets of survival for a long, long time.
His crystalline hands, mirroring his inner resolve, rapidly calmed. Now, he had a moment to reflect on the recent, brutal encounter.
---
Valerius entered the room where Kael rested, a chamber no less austere than Vorlag’s, without knocking.
Kael sat, the magnificent Ironfang resting across his knees. He stared fixedly at the ancient blade.
“Ironfang has changed,” Valerius observed, his gaze tracing the faint crimson shimmer along the blade’s edge.
“I infused it with the core of a Prime Shard-Beast,” Kael responded, his voice gruff, devoid of pride.
“You granted Ironfang a primal fury attribute? That is quite the dangerous experiment, Kael.”
“For a hundred cycles, I have never forgotten my purpose, not for a single turn of the Marches.” Kael’s eyes, ancient and weary, held a distant, burning intensity.
Valerius let out a long, sighing breath. “A hundred cycles is more than enough time to forget everything.” A deep shadow darkened his face. He had buried the memories of that cataclysmic day, the Great Sundering, dismissing it as an unavoidable event, a catastrophe far beyond the capacity of mortals to halt. Instead, he had focused solely on the survival and whispered prosperity of their scattered remnants.
Even while living only for his companions, Valerius knew Kael lived for a singular, relentless purpose. Such unwavering dedication was not common. Among all the souls Valerius had encountered, Kael was the only one. That was why he seemed both a fool and a figure of profound admiration.
“In its current state, using Ironfang might strain its integrity. I will have Lyra stabilize it, with her delicate touch.”
The core of a Prime Shard-Beast contained tremendous, raw, destructive power, a living forge of crystallizing energy. Absorbing such immense force had pushed Ironfang’s ancient steel to its limits. Without stabilization, its strength would diminish, perhaps even shatter.
Kael handed Ironfang to Valerius. The moment he received it, Valerius staggered; the blade’s weight, now infused with the beast’s core, felt enormous, almost crushing.
This sword bore the weight of Kael’s entire existence. The man who had walked for a hundred cycles with this blade, pursuing one and only one relentless goal.