Chapter 20- One man army

Previously~

“You came into my lands,” Henry interrupted, stepping forward. “Burned villages. Tortured innocents. And you think I care about your marble and robes?”

The tension snapped.

With a shout, the templars rushed forward, blades drawn, golden cloaks billowing.

Henry, unarmed, rolled his neck, smirked—

And walked into the storm.

Scene ends.

***********************

Boots thundered on stone as templars charged. Dust rose. Torches flickered.

He didn't dodge the first swing—he caught it. Steel screeched against bone as his bare hand seized the templar’s wrist. Then snapped it sideways with a crunch.

Another templar lunged- shield raised, textbook form. Henry sidestepped, then caught the back of his neck hurling him towards two more.

SWOOSH!

A spear shot towards him. Henry avoided it with a snap of his neck. Then, he gripped the helm of a nearby templar and threw it at the spearman, the helm colliding between his thighs.

“Hah!” Henry smirked.

“Hiyaa!” a templar stabbed with his sword.

Henry sidestepped a lunging templar, grabbed him by the breastplate, and slammed him back-first into a pew. Wood cracked. Another templar leapt over the splinters—Henry kicked the remains of the bench into his shins.

CLANG!

A sword collided with a piece of metal that Henry picked up from a broken pew.

“Aah!” the man shrieked as Henry sank in the metal inside his gut.

Three templars surrounded Henry, circling around him like vultures cornering a prey. What they did not understand was that they were only a group of sardines before a gigantic whale.

The men lunged in unison—one’s axe cleaved through the air in a vicious horizontal arc, the second’s sword slicing down in a deadly vertical strike, while the third aimed the spear at his thigh, its point gleaming in the dim light.

The corners of Henry’s lips curled into a devilish smile,

Within moments- he stepped back, narrowly avoiding the axe’s sweeping arc. Then with the precision of a surgeon holding a scalpel, he pinched the sword’s blade- redirecting both the templar and the sword towards the axe.

“AAH!” the swordsman cried as his partner’s axe slashed the back of his neck, severing flesh in a single, brutal stroke.

Henry, without missing a beat, snapped his hips. His hand caught the spear’s shaft and used its momentum to drive a deep hole in the axe wielder’s chest. As soon as his grip left the spear his left hand clenched the sword falling mid-air, stabbing it in the spearman’s face. The man’s skull exploded with a sickening crunch as blood gushed through the socket of what had been his eye.

Blood exploded like a grotesque fountain, splattering the floor as the white marble turned red.

Henry laughed maniacally, “Yes, give me more! More!”

BOOM!

The chamber echoed with the reverberating thud of the massive church doors closing. A templar drove a thick log into the doorframe, sealing it shut with a bone-jarring crunch that left no room for escape.

Candle light flickered across Henry’s face as his voice exploded with laughter,

“Hahaha… To think the prey would lock itself with the predator.” His hand covered his laughing face.

A templar came forward, his body shivered as words staggered from his mouth.

“Henry Duskrane!... You have nowhere to run to…. Surrender before it’s too late- “

"Nowhere to run, eh?" Henry's voice rang out, his body twitching with excitement. He smirked; the madness clear in his eyes. "Let me tell you something—it's not me trapped in here with you. It's you who are trapped in here with me."

Templars surrounded Henry; their number filled the church. Henry, calm, shivering with excitement picked up a Censer Chain. The golden censer hung in the smoky air, swaying gently from three thin, gilded chains. Faint wisps of incense curled from its perforated lid, the metal warm and soot-stained from years of prayer and fire.

With a smirk, he gave the censer a lazy twirl, the metal orb spun in a tight arc. The chains held firm, clinking softly.

“Good craftmanship,” he muttered, eyeing the templar beside him, “Let’s see if it can make your skulls fragrant.”

“Your arrogance knows no—”
Henry’s boot silenced him with a sickening thud. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Another one opened his mouth- Henry’s boot shut it for him.

“Hmhmhmhm…” Henry hummed, a twisted melody spilling from his lips as he moved.
He leapt from one templar to the next like a madman dancing across stones in a storm-swept lake—boots crunching armour, knees crashing into helmets, heels driving breath from lungs.
Each step was a strike, each landing a blow.
The templars fell beneath him like broken pillars, confusion rippling through their ranks as Henry laughed through the chaos, never breaking rhythm.

At last, Henry’s journey came to an end as he faced his back towards the staircase at the end of the hall.

“Catch me if you can!” He teased.

Henry vaulted onto the railings, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow.
With the ease of an acrobat and the grin of a lunatic, he leapt from one beam to another, zigzagging across floors in a blur of motion.
Below, templars huffed and puffed, armour clanking, boots slipping on worn stone as they scrambled up the winding stairs—always a step too slow, always a floor too late.

At the top floor sat Cardinal Anselm, his back to the door as he glanced at the view from his office window.

WHAM!

The doors shot like a bullet, missing the cardinal by an inch.

Cardinal Anselm stood up; his expression horrified as his hands trembled. He looked up to see a smiling Henry walking towards him, the golden censer twirling like a flail in a mad jester’s grip—its chains rattling, smoke trailing in serpentine coils behind him.

“Who- Who are you? How dare you barge in here!”

Anselm glanced around, fear painting his face as Henry drew closer,

“Guards!” he shrieked, but nothing happened.

Henry stopped before the cardinal, their body separated by a few inches. Henry glanced menacingly down at his bald head.

“Pft… Haha!” Henry laughed clutching his stomach.

Cardinal Anselm looked at the man in disbelief,

‘Who is this crackhead?... wait, crackhead?’

Anselm looked at Henry once more. His eyes bulged, panic crashing into them like a wave.

“Henry Duskrane?” he asked softly.

Henry, still clutching his stomach, wiped a tear from his eye.

“Yes, old man, its Henry Duskrane, himself!”

Anselm stumbled to the floor as his legs gave away. His lips quivered.

“Y-You, why are you here?”

“For you.” Henry winked.

“STOP!” A knight interrupted him, behind him the templars had already gathered, their breathing heavy and dishevelled.

Henry looked at the Templars, then at the cardinal.

“It seems we have to go, cardinal.”

Anselm, not understanding his words opened his mouth in protest.

WHAM!

THUD!

Henry kicked Anselm in the jaw, knocking him out. He grabbed him by the waist and flung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, limbs dangling uselessly.

The golden censer began twirling again, spinning like a carriage wheel loosed from its axle—wild, relentless.

“Time to go!” Henry chirped cheerfully, walking towards the army of templars.

A FEW MOMENTS LATER-

CRASH!

The huge doors of the church broke down as Henry valiantly stepped out, the cardinal slung on his shoulder.

The man in black suit appeared,

“Sir Henry,” he glanced at the inside- men laying on floor knocked out cold, blood flooded the stone. Bodies hung like clothes on the stairs, their faces dripping with blood. “It looks like a butcher’s shop.” The man remarked.

Henry looked behind briefly. Then with a casual wave of his hand, “Aye, at least there are no casualties- not more than five at least.”

A soft snicker escaped him as he extended his hand, revealing a parchment folded with meticulous care, its edges sharp, its purpose unclear.

“Hmm, so Vaelgory…” Henry hummed as he opened the parchment.

“Its Vaelgoryn, the dragon king, SIR.” Vaelgoryn replied.

“Ok Vaelgoryn, is my son really doing this?” he pointed towards the parchment.

“Yes,” Vaelgoryn sighed.

Henry looked up at the sky. ‘Orianne…’

He turned to Vaelgoryn, but the dragon had vanished into thin air.

“Haa…” Henry sighed as he jerked the cardinal on his shoulder.

**********PRESENT**************

“Men and women!” Henry’s hands met in a crisp clap, his voice rising with flair as he addressed the murmuring crowd.

Henry turned slowly, his black cloak dusted with soot and dried blood, and pointed toward the crumpled figure lying at the foot of the dais.

“This man,” he announced, voice echoing through the grand chamber, “entered my county without warrant. No envoy, no writ, no declaration of war.”

The crowd, packed with nobles, officials, and clergy, murmured uneasily.

“He came cloaked in holy garb,” Henry continued, “but brought only fire and steel. He called it purification. I call it murder.”

Cardinal Anselm groaned faintly where he lay, limbs twitching. His ceremonial vestments were torn, his face bruised, one eye swollen shut. Around him, ash and blood marred the pristine floor of the imperial cathedral.

Henry stepped forward, boots thudding with calm menace. “They burned our homes. Executed my townsfolk. Children. Mothers.” His tone turned venomous. “They dared call it divine will.”

A man in the crowd—an older noble in bishop’s blues—rose indignantly. “You speak as though the Church were your enemy, Count Duskrane! But your people practiced forbidden rites—”

Henry rounded on him. “Forbidden by whom? By the same men who rewrite scripture to suit their greed?” He jabbed a finger toward the dais. “How many of you knew? How many of you signed off on the raid?”

A woman shouted from the crowd, “We did not! We were told it was to quell a cult uprising!”

“Lies,” Henry spat. “Lies layered in incense and hymns!”

A Templar captain stepped forward; expression grim. “The Cardinal acted on intelligence sanctioned by the Synod—”

“That 'intelligence' led to a massacre!” Henry roared, pointing back at the prone figure. “You call it righteousness, but what do you tell the girl whose father was crucified for refusing to kneel?”

The crowd was silent.

He turned now to the gathering of common folk seated along the back of the chamber—delegates from the lower houses, merchant lords, minor vassals. Many of them looked shaken, others enraged, and some merely afraid.

One man, a merchant with calloused hands and tears in his eyes, stood. “My nephew is in Duskrane … we haven’t heard from him again.”

A woman in servant’s garb clutched her hands. “My sister was a herbalist. They called her a witch.”

Henry nodded once, somber. “They painted us as heretics so they could cleanse us in fire.”

He turned to the throne, his voice colder now. “But there is one among us whose silence has enabled this madness.”

The hall turned to the emperor.

“I trust the Emperor will allow this trial to proceed,” Henry said, every syllable sharp as glass, “especially since his own sister’s life was threatened by this crusade.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber. All eyes turned to Emperor Thaddeus. The man sat rigid upon his chair, fingers white against the arms of his seat. His crown gleamed—dull, heavy, unsteady. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice soft and cracked:

“…Let it proceed.”

Henry bowed his head slightly—not in gratitude, but acknowledgment. He turned, stalked across the bloodied floor, and seized the Cardinal by the hair. The old man groaned as he was yanked upright, sagging against Henry’s grip.

“You will swear,” Henry growled, “swear on the name of your god that you will speak the truth.”

Cardinal Anselm winced, eyes watering. “You… you have no authority…”

“Swear it!” Henry barked.

The silence was total. Anselm trembled. His lips moved soundlessly. Finally—“I… I swear.”

Then it happened.

The air above shimmered, rippling like heat over desert stone. A beam of gold light burst through the painted dome of the cathedral, not shattering the glass but bending it, parting it like curtains.

From them erupted chains of radiant light, thick as rope, glowing with divine fire.

They struck the Cardinal’s chest, coiling around him, tightening with every panicked breath.

The Cardinal gasped—then froze. His mouth locked open, pupils wide with terror.

A woman whispered in awe, “By the Veil… the Judgment Chains…”

Another man crossed himself and fell to his knees. “The gods themselves bear witness.”

Henry didn’t flinch. He stood before the restrained cardinal, golden censer in his other hand, still twirling lazily like a pendulum of fate.

He raised his voice once more. “No lies. No oaths twisted by doctrine. This man will speak. And all shall listen.”

The trial had begun.

“Hahaha…” Henry’s voice echoed the court, breaking his earlier tone. The crowd eyed him in confusion.

Henry covered his face his smile stretching from ear to ear,

“I am sorry, hehe…. You see, such seriousness is not my style.”

A murmur ran across the crowd.

“You,” he pointed to the merchant, “Good sir, your nephew is alive and well. You will hear from him soon.”

The crowd looked at the merchant, then at Henry.

“My lord, may I ask how you can guarantee this?” a man asked, raising his hand.

“Yes I can, because the situation has been handled,” his gaze drifted to Anselm, “We had no casualties and no damage has been done to the estate.”

The crowd fell into stunned silence for a moment, the weight of Henry’s words hanging in the air like a thick fog. Then, murmurs broke out—hesitant, unsure, questioning.

Henry, reading their confused expressions, spoke again, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd like a blade. “What I mean,” he said slowly, his tone heavy with gravity, “is that Duskrane has dealt with the Church’s attack successfully.”

The crowd sighed with relief. Henry turned on his heel, his steps towards the cardinal.

“Let’s begin the questioning, shall we?” A grin stretched across Henry’s face.