King Judgement

The silence in the public square of Zion was a blasphemy, an unnatural vacuum where a holy symphony had just been playing. Where moments before there had been the sound of ten thousand voices raised in righteous, triumphant psalms, there was now only the low, mournful moan of the cold mountain wind and the soft, unconscious groans of the faithful who littered the pristine white marble like fallen autumn leaves. Ren stood in the center of the crater he had created, his Second Form armor drinking the pale morning light, a figure of absolute, unapologetic darkness in the desecrated heart of a holy city. His very presence was a sin made manifest.

On the execution platform, General Gideon struggled to his feet, his great, armored body a testament to an iron will that refused to be broken by a mere psychic assault. His face was pale, a sheen of cold sweat on his brow, but his one good eye burned with a furious, righteous fire. He was a legend, the shield of Zion, a warrior who had never known a single strategic defeat in a lifetime of service. He had just witnessed the impossible: his city’s divine protection shattered, his people struck down without a single blow. His world had been turned upside down, his faith shaken to its very foundations. And in the face of that terror, all that was left was a warrior's rage. He drew his greatsword, a massive blade of polished steel that was almost as famous as he was. It hummed to life, its surface glowing with a golden, holy light, a physical manifestation of his unwavering, defiant faith. The handful of elite Seraphim Guard who had remained standing, their minds reeling but their duty absolute, staggered into formation around him, a broken but unyielding wall of white and gold.

“Abomination!” Gideon roared, his powerful voice cutting through the unnatural quiet, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. “You have defiled this sacred place with your profane presence! You have trespassed upon the throne of The Most High! You will not take one more step!”

Ren slowly raised his helmeted head. His gaze, burning with the cold, empty light of the Void, looked past the furious General, past the trembling honor guard, past the terrified, cowering Pontiff, and locked directly onto Akari. She was still on her knees on the platform, her hands bound, watching him with wide, terrified, hopeful eyes. She was the only thing in this entire, broken city that was real. His objective.

He raised a single, armored hand, the gesture slow and deliberate, pointing at Akari, a king passing a final, absolute sentence. His voice, amplified by the Void into a cold, terrifying whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once, delivered his judgment. "There is but one punishment for those who take what's mine: death."

“For Zion!” Gideon bellowed, taking the blasphemous declaration as a call to battle, the only response a true believer could give. He led the charge, a lion of a man, a legend in motion, his greatsword held high. He was followed by his honor guard, their own holy blades blazing as they leaped from the platform and rushed across the marble to meet the lone, silent king.

The fight was a blur of holy light and absolute shadow, a clash of two opposing, fundamental concepts. Gideon was a master of his craft, his blade a torrent of golden, destructive energy, each swing a perfect, practiced arc carrying the full weight of his unwavering, fanatical faith. His Seraphim Guard were the finest warriors in the land, their movements a synchronized, deadly dance of death, their blades weaving a complex, inescapable net of holy fire. They were hopelessly, pathetically outmatched.

Ren did not meet them with brute force. He was an elemental force, a god of despair given form. He moved with an unnatural, fluid grace that seemed to bend the laws of physics. A Seraphim’s sword, aimed at the vulnerable joint in his neck, was parried not by his arm, but by a thick, writhing tendril of hardened shadow that erupted from the ground with the speed of a striking snake, shattering the holy blade into a thousand glittering shards. He did not dodge another’s spear thrust; the space where he was simply ceased to be for a fraction of a second, causing the spear to pass through what looked like a heat haze of empty air. He raised a hand, and the shadows of the fallen, unconscious civilians on the ground rose up, no longer passive absences of light, but grasping, spectral hands that seized the ankles of their former protectors, pulling them down with an unholy strength. He was not just a warrior; he was a living wound in reality, and they were trying to strike a nightmare with swords of steel.

He systematically, ruthlessly, and coldly dismantled them. He moved through their perfect formation like a phantom, shattering their holy blades with contemptuous ease, cracking their blessed, divinely forged armor with blows that seemed to come from nowhere, and tossing their broken bodies aside like discarded dolls. All without taking a single, hurried step from the center of his crater. He was not fighting them; he was clearing them away.

From the execution platform, Akari watched the terrifying, one-sided battle, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting, impossible emotions. That was Ren. Her Ren. The quiet, gentle boy who was afraid of crowds was now a force of nature, a god of death, and he was doing it all for her. The sight of his absolute, untouchable power was terrifying, a monstrous transformation that she struggled to comprehend. Yet, a fierce, possessive, and almost shameful pride bloomed in her chest. He was a monster, yes. But he was her monster. But not everyone was mesmerized by the terrible, beautiful fight.

Pontiff Malachi, who had been cowering behind the executioner's block, a pathetic, trembling figure, saw his world ending. The barrier was shattered. The army of the Damned was storming the slopes of his holy mountain. The Demon King himself was in their square, effortlessly defeating their greatest, most legendary champion. His faith, his power, his entire world—it had all proven to be a fragile, beautiful lie. And in the rubble of his shattered faith, all that was left was a craven, desperate, and animalistic need to survive.

He looked at the raging battle. He looked at the entranced, forgotten Akari. And he saw his shield. His leverage. His escape. With the desperate, surprising speed of a striking serpent, Malachi scrambled across the platform and grabbed Akari from behind, his thin, bony arm wrapping around her neck in a chokehold. He pressed the edge of a small, wickedly sharp silver dagger, a ceremonial tool he carried for blessings, against the soft skin of her throat.

“You are my shield, Devil’s Bride,” he hissed in her ear, his melodic voice now a high, wheezing thing, trembling with a mixture of abject terror and low cunning. “Your king will not dare strike me if you are in my arms. You are my passage out of this hell you have brought upon us.” He began to drag her backward, away from the battle, her bound hands unable to break his desperate, iron grip. He pulled her toward the towering, golden doors of the High Temple that overlooked the square, his ancient, silver eyes wild with the hope of a secret escape route he knew lay within its sacred halls. Akari stumbled, her eyes wide with a new, more immediate, and far more pathetic horror. She had been freed from one captor only to be instantly taken by another.

The battle in the square ended as quickly and as decisively as it began. Ren caught Gideon’s final, desperate, two-handed descending strike in his bare, gauntleted hand. The holy light of the blade sizzled and screamed against his Void-forged armor, but it did not break his skin. With a quiet, almost casual, and utterly contemptuous twist of his wrist, Ren shattered the ancient, holy blade into a dozen useless pieces. He then backhanded the General across the face, the force of the blow sending the mighty, legendary warrior flying across the square, where he crashed into the base of a marble pillar with a sickening crunch and did not move.

The last of the Seraphim Guard lay broken or unconscious at his feet. Ren stood alone, victorious, in a circle of his own making. He turned his helmeted gaze to the platform, to Akari.

She was gone.

His head snapped around, his senses scanning the square with a frantic, cold precision. He saw them. The last flicker of Malachi’s white robe, and a flash of Akari’s unbound brown hair, disappearing through the great, golden doors of the High Temple.

A rage far colder and more profound than the one that had shaken the Vale of Gehenna settled over him. He had torn down the walls of heaven itself to reach her, only to have her snatched away by a terrified, pathetic old man. He had defeated their greatest warrior, only to be thwarted by their most cowardly priest. He ignored the defeated, groaning form of Gideon. He ignored the wounded guards who were beginning to stir. His gaze, now two points of absolute, annihilating cold, locked on the golden doors of the High Temple. 

His objective had moved.