Shadows and Silver

The world tilted downwards, a slope of churned mud and slick, dew-drenched grass that became a precipice in the mind. Below, the ruin yawned. Balisarda Sumernor’s castle wasn’t a fortress; it was a broken jawbone of blackened stone, teeth shattered where the gatehouse should have been. Beyond the gaping maw, shadows pooled in the courtyard—thick and restless. Figures moved there, a low tide of dirt-brown and rust-red against the rubble, their stillness radiating a cold, patient menace. Above them, lining the jagged remnants of the wall, more shadows coalesced—archers in brown leather and rusted mail, silent as carrion birds on a branch, the faintest glint betraying nocked arrows.

Sunrise painted the charging mass in cruel, beautiful light. It caught the dark blue wool of the military uniforms, transforming the sea of men into a flowing, disciplined glacier. The fabric, pristine despite the march, seemed to reject the chaos—an unyielding testament to order. Sunbeams fractured on helmet rims strapped securely to backs, a thousand tiny, blinding stars. The air filled with a low, complex susurration: the rhythmic, earth-shaking thunder of countless boots pounding the turf, punctuated by the brittle, metallic whisper of scabbards brushing against armoured greaves—a sound like dry bones rattling in a steady wind.

Breath tore ragged in throats already raw. The descent wasn’t a run; it was a controlled, jarring fall forward. Muscles screamed in thighs and calves, fighting gravity’s greedy pull. Lungs burned, the air suddenly thin and hot despite the morning chill. The wind, funnelled by the slope, rushed past ears—a hollow roar that drowned individual thought, carrying only the collective gasp and grunt of the charge. The scent of damp earth, crushed grass, and the sharp tang of sweat mingled with the distant, unsettling odour wafting from the ruin—dust, old smoke, and something vaguely organic, like wet stone left too long in shadow.

Every step jolted teeth, sent tremors up the spine. Eyes flickered downwards—not in fear, but in primal necessity—scanning the treacherous footing: loose stones, hidden rabbit holes, the slick, dark patches where dew hadn’t burned off. The world narrowed to the patch of ground immediately ahead, the relentless press of dark blue uniforms on either side, and the yawning darkness of the gate growing larger, swallowing the horizon. The sheer mass of bodies behind was a pressure against the back, an unstoppable river current carrying them all towards the jagged maw.

Inside the courtyard, the defenders were statues carved from shadow, dirt-brown leather, and rust-red iron. Sunlight barely penetrated the high, broken walls, leaving them in perpetual twilight. Their dented, rust-red armour and brown leather drank the light rather than reflected it. Swordsmen stood rooted before the rubble heaps, knuckles white on leather-wrapped grips, their eyes fixed on the bright blue tide flooding down towards them. The silence from their ranks was absolute—profound, a held breath before the plunge. The air here tasted thick with dust and the cold metallic residue of old iron. It smelled of damp mortar, decay, and a sharp, nervous tension that prickled the skin.

On the fractured battlements above, the archers in brown and rust-red shifted minutely. Leather creaked as arms drew back. Wood groaned under subtle strain. The faint scrape of arrow shafts against stone parapets was a sound like rats scurrying in a tomb wall. Their gaze was impersonal, distant, fixed on the approaching blue wave. The wind moaned softly through the arrow slits and broken crenellations, a mournful counterpoint to the rising thunder from the slope.

The distance vanished in heartbeats. The pristine blue wave crashed against the shattered teeth of the gate.

A sound ripped the air—not a single cry, but a vast, guttural expulsion of breath and defiance from thousands of throats. It wasn’t a name, but a raw, animal roar of terror and fury mixed—a thunderclap of human anguish that momentarily drowned the drumming boots and clattering gear. It vibrated in the chest, a physical blow echoing off the broken walls.

From the courtyard shadows, the defenders surged—not as a wave, but as shards of brown and rust-red exploding outward. Swordsmen, their faces contorted masks beneath crude helms, charged into the blinding sunlight, meeting the blue tide headlong at the breach. Their boots churned the mud-choked entryway, their own ragged shouts lost beneath the military’s roar, a silent scream etched on straining faces.

The meeting point erupted.

Steel found steel with a shriek that tore through the roar—a high-pitched, grating violence that set teeth aching and nerves jangling. Sparks, brief and vicious, flared where edges scraped across shields or met in jarring opposition. A defender’s heavy, notched blade of rust-red iron crashed down onto a military shield, the impact reverberating up the defender’s arms, visible in the tremor of his brown-leather clad shoulders, the shockwave travelling through the tightly packed ranks behind the blue soldier. The shield held, but the soldier behind it staggered, his face a rictus of effort and pain.

Death walked the breach.

A military spear, driven with desperate force, punched through boiled brown leather and into a defender’s belly. The man doubled over, his own sword clattering forgotten on the stones, a wet, choked gasp escaping him before he folded, dark blood spreading rapidly across his dirt-brown tunic, soaking into the thirsty ground. A defender, wild-eyed, swung a cleaver-like sword in a brutal arc. It bit deep into the exposed neck joint of a blue-uniformed soldier. A bright arterial spray—shocking crimson against the disciplined blue—fountained out, splattering the faces of men nearby. The soldier dropped, clutching uselessly at the ruin of his throat, a horrible, bubbling silence replacing his dying breath.

The air above sang with death.

From the jagged heights, the archers in brown and rust released. Bowstrings thrummed with a deep, resonant vibration felt in the sternum. Arrows whispered down like malevolent insects, unseen until they struck. A soldier charging through the gate entrance, shield raised high, suddenly jolted backwards. A feathered shaft protruded from his eye socket. He collapsed like a puppet with severed strings, his shield clattering over him. Another man, just clearing the rubble pile in dark blue, took an arrow high in the chest. He stumbled, looked down at the fletching vibrating against his blue wool, confusion warring with agony on his young face, before his legs gave way. A third arrow found a gap between shoulder plates, punching deep. The soldier screamed—a sound lost in the din—as he spun, scrabbling at the shaft before falling beneath the press of feet.

The clash became a grisly press. Bodies locked together in the gate’s throat. The air thickened with the coppery stench of blood, the sour tang of voided bowels, and the choking dust kicked up by thousands of frantic feet. The ground turned treacherous—slick with mud and gore, sucking at boots. The metallic taste of blood filled mouths—from bitten tongues, spattered spray, or the grit kicked up from the blood-soaked earth. Vision narrowed to flashes: a defender’s teeth bared in a silent snarl inches away, spittle flying against dirt-brown leather; the panicked whites of a comrade’s eyes as he was dragged down; the terrible, wet crunch as a war hammer caved in a rust-red helmet; the jarring shock travelling up a soldier’s arm as his sword met bone instead of armour, the vibration numbing his fingers. The constant din was a wall of sound—the scrape and shriek of steel, the wet thuds of impacts, guttural roars, choked screams, and the relentless, heavy breathing of men fighting for their next gasp.

The shattered courtyard became a charnel pit. Bodies piled against broken masonry, slumped in grotesque poses. Blue uniforms stained dark purple, rough-spun brown tunics soaked black with crimson. Faces, moments ago contorted with rage or terror, slackened into the terrible peace of the void. Eyes, wide and staring, reflected the indifferent sky. Blood seeped into the ancient mortar between the stones, pooled in hollows, ran in thin, dark rivulets towards the broken gate, mingling with the mud. The banners—what few remained above the carnage—hung heavy and sodden, their colours muted by the settling dust and the pervasive, cloying reek of death that choked the air. The flood of disciplined blue met the shards of desperate brown and rust-red, and the only victor was the reaper, harvesting his grim crop in the broken maw of the gate, his scythe the clashing steel and whispering arrows.

The wind, born from the valley’s carnage, clawed at the hilltop. It carried the distant, grinding shriek of steel on steel, the muffled, wet impacts that spoke of ruptured flesh, and the low, ceaseless roar of thousands of voices—screams, bellows, the raw sound of men killing and dying. It stung the eyes with grit and the pervasive, metallic reek of blood, a coppery fog that coated the back of the throat and soured the tongue. Below, through the haze of dust and smoke boiling up from the shattered castle gate, the disciplined blue tide churned against desperate earth-toned shadows in a pit of broken stone and churned mud—a living tapestry of violence shrinking under the indifferent sky.

Above it all, past the castle wall, past the broken teeth of the gate where men became meat, stood a figure that dwarfed the hill itself.

Jabari.

The wind tore uselessly at his dark, practical combat gear, tailored for function, not pomp, yet radiating an authority deeper than any gilded plate. It found no purchase on the short-cropped brown hair, salted with grey at the temples, nor the dense, greying beard framing a jaw set like bedrock. He was a monolith, 225 centimeters of unyielding presence, broad shoulders squared against the panorama of slaughter. His stillness was profound, a counterpoint to the frantic chaos below, absorbing the scene with dark eyes that held the cold intensity of volcanic stone. His booted feet, planted wide, seemed rooted to the earth, feeling the faint, sickening tremor of the distant impacts vibrating through the soil.

The rising sun caught the planes of his face, etching lines of hard contemplation, not fear. He saw the tiny figures falling, the dark stains spreading across blue and rough-spun cloth alike, the arrows whispering down from jagged walls to find their marks. He smelled the death carried on the wind – blood, smoke, voided bowels, the sour tang of fear-sweat mingling with dust. He tasted the grit of it on his lips. He felt the pressure of the slaughterhouse air pressing in, the cold weight of command settling on shoulders built to bear it.

Then, his voice. It didn’t shout. It cut through the valley’s cacophony like a cold blade parting smoke, resonant, deep, carrying with unnatural clarity down the slope to the broken gate, though none below could possibly hear. It was the voice of the mountain itself, pronouncing judgment.

“Balisarda Sumernor.”

The name landed heavy, a stone dropped into the churning sea of sound.

“I shall find out why you’re doing this. Your betrayal. Your crimes!!”

The wind snatched the last word, flinging it towards the ruin. Jabari’s dark eyes remained fixed on the heart of the carnage, unblinking. A fraction of the iron composure seemed to fracture, revealing the obsidian edge beneath. His voice lowered, a rumble of memory stirring the charged air around him.

“I still recall the day you came to me, Mephistopheles. Deep in Revgenes. To kill Balisarda Sumernor. Asking for war against him.”

His massive hands, hanging empty at his sides, clenched slowly, knuckles bleaching white against the dark fabric of his trousers. The absence of a weapon on his person seemed suddenly more profound, a deliberate vulnerability radiating its own terrifying power.

“I know you have Bloodshed. A sword that cuts anything” A pause, heavy with implication, tasting the name of the blade like something foul. “but I still wonder. Are you still alive? Fighting everyone inside that castle?”

The question hung, unanswered, a cold stone sinking into the abyss of smoke and screams below. He remained, the stone on the hill, a silent, terrible witness to the flood of blue meeting the shards of shadow, his shadow stretching long and dark towards the broken maw of the gate.

However suddenly Balisarda Sumernor was in the courtyard moving with terrifying grace, towering over the petrified warriors. Rain plastered his long, brushed-back blond hair darkly to his skull, framing a face of cold, aristocratic lines and piercing glacial blue eyes that scanned the scene with detached assessment. Bronze scale armour, ancient and burnished, covered his broad chest and shoulders like a primordial carapace, contrasting starkly with the deep black padding beneath. Over it flowed a long, dark green coat, its thick, rain-darkened fur collar framing his neck. The coat was cinched at his waist by a wide leather belt with an intricate circular buckle. Fitted sleeves ended above dark leather bracers. Dark green leather trousers moulded powerful legs.

His mere presence physically pushed the frozen defenders aside as he advanced, creating a corridor of terrified stillness. Raindrops trembled on his fur collar, slid down the cold bronze scales, and dripped from the hem of his coat – the only movement besides his own relentless, measured progress. Each placement of his boot caused the stone beneath to fracture minutely, dust and tiny chips rising in slow motion before halting. The vibration travelled through the very ground, a silent drumbeat felt in the marrow of those held captive by his power. He surveyed his frozen domain, an unreadable god of war amidst statues carved from terror.

The wind, thick with the slaughterhouse stench of iron, voided bowels, and the coppery tang of fresh blood, clawed uselessly at the hilltop where the two figures stood. Jabari remained the unyielding monolith, his massive frame absorbing the distant tremors of battle vibrating through the earth, his dark eyes fixed on the carnage below with volcanic intensity. Beside him, yet worlds apart, Jolvuthiz inhaled the miasma like rare incense. His vivid amethyst eyes, burning with cold, predatory fire, sliced through the smoke and chaos churning within the castle courtyard – the same courtyard where the disciplined blue tide had crashed against desperate shadows, now a charnel pit slick with gore beneath the shattered remnants of the gatehouse teeth. His gaze locked, not on the melee, but on a single figure emerging near the ruined keep's base: Balisarda Sumernor.

Jolvuthiz felt the power radiating from Balisarda slam into him across the twelve-meter gap – a sudden, crushing pressure against his sternum, a deep, resonant hum vibrating in his very marrow, a scent cutting through the battlefield’s reek like lightning-scorched ozone and freshly pulverized granite. It wasn’t fear that ignited his nerves; it was pure, white-hot exhilaration, a jolt that made the writhing dark energy consuming the right half of his body flare and snap like hungry serpents.

"The legend Balisarda Sumernor.. Coming out this early," Jolvuthiz breathed, the words a low, sibilant hiss that seemed to slither through the charged air, audible even to Jabari's ears beside him. "Hiding behind your broken walls and dying meat-shields? Such cowardice doesn't suit a legend, like you Sumernor." A predatory grin, unnervingly wide, split his angular face, revealing the glint of razor-sharp teeth against his pale skin. The dark energy devouring the sleeve of his black undershirt, disintegrating the right panel of his dark charcoal leather vest to expose roiling shadow across chest and shoulder, tearing open his pants from mid-thigh down, pulsed faster, crackling with silent, malevolent hunger. The air around it tasted sharply metallic, charged like the moment before a thunderclap.

“The stories about you Balisarda Sumernor never lied, your power is so strong” His left hand, encased in matte steel, found the worn leather grip of one sword in the long, angled scabbard at his hip. He drew it with a whisper of oiled leather. The blade emerged as a shard of solidified void, radiating the same chilling, devouring energy that defined him. It felt unnaturally cold in his grip, yet thrummed with latent violence, humming against his palm like a captured storm. Slowly, deliberately, ignoring the titanic presence of Jabari beside him, Jolvuthiz brought the void-forged blade to his lips. “oh yes I can feel it the strength of your power"

"Can you feel it, 'Almighty'?" he taunted, his voice dropping to a venomous purr as his tongue, pale and disturbingly deliberate, traced the impossibly sharp, non-reflective edge. A faint, dark shimmer clung to his skin where it passed. "The hunger? Not just mine... the battlefield craves your blood. It sings for it in every clash of steel, every dying gasp." He savored the chilling promise on the metal, the jolt travelling straight to his core. His amethyst eyes, narrowed to predatory slits, remained fixed on Balisarda below. "Look at them all scurry down there! Flies drawn to a corpse. Your grand design? Reduced to this pathetic, gory spectacle. Ha! Where's the majesty? Where's the true power worthy of a name like yours?"

He lowered the blade slightly, the dark energy along his exposed right arm flaring brighter, casting jagged, fleeting shadows. "Emerging now? When the tide turns against your rabble? How... convenient. Or perhaps," his grin widened impossibly, "you finally sensed something interesting in the wind? Something that made your Thalvaren blood stir? Was it me, Balisarda? Did the scent of a real predator finally lure you out?"

The coiled tension in his lean, powerful frame snapped. Without a run-up, without even a glance at Jabari, Jolvuthiz exploded from the hill’s crest. It wasn't a jump; it was a violent projection, a shadow given terrifying momentum and lethal intent, launching himself directly towards the churning castle courtyard twelve meters below and away.

"Let's find out! HAHA!" His laughter, sharp and edged with battle-frenzy, ripped through the air as he became a streak of pure darkness against the bruised sky. The wind tore viciously at his layered, jet-black hair and tattered vest. The distance vanished beneath him. Below, the cacophony of battle within the courtyard walls seemed to recede, muffled. His universe narrowed to Balisarda Sumernor.

He plummeted. Balisarda looked up, recognition and calculation flashing in his gaze. Jolvuthiz saw it, reveled in it.

"No more shadows, no more lies, no more hiding!" Jolvuthiz cried out as he closed the final meters, twisting mid-air with serpentine grace. His left boot sought air, his corrupted right leg trailing thick tendrils of dark energy. He raised the void-forged sword high above his head with both hands, its power intensifying to a painful pitch, casting jagged, hungry shadows over the carnage below. "No more pawns! No more crumbling castle walls!"

The blade began its devastating downward arc, fueled by gravity, muscle, and devouring darkness.

"You!" His voice was a whip-crack, sharp and taunting. "Strutting amidst this delightful ruin! Letting ants bleed for you! Claiming dominion?" The blade descended faster, the line of void-energy screaming towards Balisarda's crown. "Prove it! Prove you're more than just whispers and dust! Show me the power that killed The ultimate bloodshed user and makes the military below your name like a curse!"

He poured every ounce of his battle-hunger, his cruel delight, his sheer need to clash with this fabled power into his final, bellowed challenge as the strike reached its zenith, inches from impact:

"SHOW ME YOUR BLOOD IS WORTH SPILLING, 'ALMIGHTY'! SHOW ME YOU CAN DANCE! PROVE YOUR THE LEGEND THEY SAY YOU ARE!"

The void-edge, humming with ravenous energy, hurtled towards Balisarda Sumernor's exposed head, a dark comet of violence descending from the hill where Jabari remained, a silent, stony witness to the challenger's cry and the impending collision.

The void-forged blade, a living fracture of space rippling with intertwined purple and black energies, screamed downward with the force of Jolvuthiz’s descent. Every muscle in his lean frame corded with predatory anticipation, his vivid amethyst eyes locked onto the shadowy figure below. The scent of crushed grass and wet earth rose sharply as the blade neared its target, mingling with the ozone-tang of his own dark power. He felt the resistance build in the air around Balisarda Sumernor a thickening pressure, a taste like static on the tongue, milliseconds before impact.

Then, nothing.

No jarring collision. No spray of crimson against the void-edge. No scream ripped from the legendary foe. Balisarda Sumernor ceased to exist between one fraction of a second and the next. Not as smoke dissipating, not as an image shattering, but as a snuffed candle flame – instantaneous and absolute. The crushing pressure, the resonant hum in Jolvuthiz’s marrow, the scent of ozone and granite – all vanished, leaving a sudden, hollow vacuum in the charged courtyard air.

The blade met only resistance-free space where Balisarda had stood. Momentum, unchecked, hurled it onward. Jolvuthiz’s powerful arms, braced for impact, met no counter-force. The void-edge, humming with thwarted hunger, slammed into the churned, blood-soaked grass of the courtyard with devastating force. A deep, muffled thud vibrated through the earth, felt more than heard, as the hungry energy sheared through turf and mud. A gush of dark soil, shredded roots, and crimson-stained water erupted upwards, showering Jolvuthiz’s legs and splattering against the tattered remnants of his vest and exposed, energy-wreathed right side. The ground yielded a deep, ragged furrow, steam rising where the purple-black energy scorched the earth.

Jolvuthiz landed in a controlled crouch beside the smoking scar his blade had carved, the void-sword now buried deep in the muck up to its hilt. He showed no flicker of pain from the jarring impact that would have shattered a lesser warrior's bones. No snarl twisted his unnerving smirk. Only a profound stillness settled over him, his vivid amethyst eyes wide with pure, icy confusion. He stared at the empty space where Balisarda had been, his head tilted slightly, like a predator encountering a puzzle that defied instinct. The battle-hunger, the cruel delight, all extinguished, replaced by a chillingly analytical void. Where? How? The questions hung in the sudden quiet pocket around him, the distant battle sounds momentarily muffled by the shock of absence.

Then, a new sound pierced the bubble of confusion.

Not the clash of steel or the dying screams, but a slow, rhythmic percussion. Measured. Deliberate. The sound of leather palms meeting with mocking precision.

Jolvuthiz’s head lifted, his gaze sharpening from confusion to cold focus as it tracked the source. Through the drifting smoke and haze of battle, a figure emerged, stepping with unnerving nonchalance over a fallen soldier in blue wool. The man’s approach was unhurried, almost leisurely, each step sinking slightly into the gore-slicked grass. He continued the slow, sardonic applause as he walked.

HIS NAME IS: Bismark K▮▮▮▮

HIS Rank IS: Principal Seven

HIS Ability IS: Illusions manipulation

Bismark was clad in sharp, imposing elegance. A dark navy-blue double-breasted coat, meticulously tailored with a high collar, hugged his frame, accented by gleaming brass gold buttons and intricate gold braid tracing the cuffs and seams. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt and dark tie hinted at strict formality. Dark trousers, marked by vivid red stripes down each leg, vanished into polished black leather boots rising just below his knees. Draped over his shoulders, a heavy dark grey overcoat boasted bold, crimson-red lapels that stood stark against the gloom. A cream-colored belt cinched his waist, and pristine white gloves covered his hands. His silver hair was sleek and orderly, framing a face dominated by cool, sly blue eyes that held a glint of profound amusement as they fixed on Jolvuthiz.

"Great job," Bismark called out, his smooth voice cutting through the din of distant battle like a scalpel. He ceased his slow, deliberate applause, letting his white-gloved hands fall to his sides with an air of finality. A subtle, utterly condescending smile played on his lips, not reaching his cool, sly blue eyes. "Truly impressive technique. The sheer commitment to that downward stroke is breathtaking, really." He stopped a precise five paces away, his polished black boots sinking slightly into the gore-slicked grass. His gaze, sharp and dismissive, swept over the deep, steaming furrow Jolvuthiz had carved and the void-sword still buried in the muck. "You cut the ground remarkably. One might even say... religious fervor. Did you pray for a clean cut through the earthworm population as well?"

He tilted his head slightly, the crimson lapels of his dark grey overcoat catching a stray beam of light piercing the smoke. "A masterstroke of agricultural warfare," he continued, his tone dripping with false admiration. "Truly revolutionary. Centuries of swordsmanship, the art of dueling Giants and you, ranked as Master Four in the military, have pioneered the noble art of turf annihilation. The grass here," he gestured lazily with his empty gloved hand towards the ravaged earth, "never stood a chance against such... focused ambition. Tell me, does the soil scream in a satisfying pitch when cleaved by such potent darkness? Or is it merely a muffled thud of disappointment?"

Bismark took another deliberate step closer, the vivid red stripes on his dark trousers stark against the churned mud. His sly blue eyes locked onto Jolvuthiz's amethyst ones, the amusement hardening into something colder, sharper. "It’s almost poetic, really. The fearsome shadow-wielder, the predator drawn to the greatest power in the courtyard... reduced to landscaping." He let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "All that coiled fury. All that deliciously dark energy. Every ounce of your battle-hunger channeled so perfectly. So expertly... into absolutely nothing." His smile widened, becoming predatory. "One wonders what exactly you saw.”

"Did you truly imagine he would want to cross swords with you? That your little performance warranted his personal attention?" Bismark tilted his head, his sleek silver hair catching the chaotic light, his cool blue eyes narrowing with feigned pity. "Oh, shadow-wreathed one. The sheer, delicious arrogance of it. To think a force like Balisarda Sumernor, a power that shapes destinies and shatters empires, would pause in his designs to indulge a nobody with delusions of grandeur." His smile turned venomous. "Did you believe your crackling little shadows and sharp teeth made you worthy? A challenge? You are a gnat buzzing at a hurricane. An amusing distraction, perhaps, but ultimately insectile."

His right hand moved with fluid, unhurried grace to the ornate, polished silver scabbard at his hip. He drew his sword – the blade a long, elegant taper from weathered dark-grey to gleaming silver-grey, the hilt a lavish cage of golden filigree. He held it loosely at his side, the point angled downwards, a mere extension of his mocking presence. "He didn't even bother to dismiss you," Bismark purred, taking another step closer, now well within striking distance of the still-crouched Jolvuthiz. The air crackled not with Jolvuthiz's energy now, but with Bismarck's icy contempt. "He simply ceased to be where you thought he was. Too insignificant to warrant the effort of actually moving. How utterly pathetic."

Bismark sighed, the false regret thick as syrup. He tapped the gleaming tip of his own blade lightly against the rim of the steaming trench Jolvuthiz had created. "All this destructive capability expended on humble dirt and unoffending groundwater. A performance worthy of a grand stage, played out for an audience of corpses and confused survivors." He raised an eyebrow, the picture of aristocratic disdain. "Tell me, does the taste of grave iron on your blade now mingle with the distinctly bitter flavor of profound miscalculation? How does it feel, shadow-dancer, to realize your most powerful strike was aimed at empty air?”

Bismark took one final step, closing the distance to just outside the immediate striking range of Jolvuthiz's crouched form. He raised his sword slightly, not in direct threat, but as a reminder, its polished point now angled subtly towards the furrow and the embedded void-blade. "What you and everyone else saw was nothing more than a false perception," he purred, his sly blue eyes glinting with cold triumph, "Just so you know who killed you, I am Bismark ranked Principal Seven” He tilted his head again, awaiting a reaction, his own blade ready, a picture of controlled, mocking lethality standing over the crouched figure of bewildered power.

A low sound began, bubbling up from Jolvuthiz's crouched form. It started as a choked gurgle, then erupted into full-throated, manic laughter. It wasn't amusement; it was the sound of shattering restraint, a wild, echoing cascade that ripped through the pocket of quiet Bismark had created, clashing violently with the distant din of battle.

"HAHAHAHA! AHAHAHAHAHA!"

Jolvuthiz surged upwards, uncoiling from his crouch with terrifying speed. He stood tall amidst the carnage, boots planted firmly in the blood-slick mud beside the steaming trench his void-blade had carved. His vivid amethyst eyes were wide open, blazing with an intensity that bordered on madness, framed by the writhing, devouring darkness consuming his right side. A huge, predatory grin split his angular face, stretching impossibly wide, revealing the glint of razor-sharp teeth against his pale skin. It was the grin of a creature that had found something infinitely more interesting than confusion.

"You!" Jolvuthiz gasped between peals of laughter, the sound sharp and edged with pure, unadulterated battle-frenzy. He pointed a dark energy-wreathed finger at Bismark, the gesture both accusatory and ecstatic. "So you're one of Balisarda Sumernor's Principals you say!"

The revelation wasn't a setback; it was fuel. The cold analytical void that had replaced his hunger vanished, incinerated by this new, exhilarating prospect. The dark energy along his exposed arm and leg flared violently, snapping and crackling with renewed, ravenous hunger. The air around him hummed and tasted sharply metallic again, charged with his rekindled power.

He took a single, deliberate step forward, his void-sword in his hand but forgotten for the moment. His gaze locked onto Bismark, drinking in the man's impeccable uniform, his poised arrogance, the gleaming threat of his elegant blade. The manic grin widened, radiating pure, terrifying pleasure.

"Well," Jolvuthiz hissed, the laughter subsiding into a low, dangerous purr thick with anticipation, "why don't we have some fucking fun and fight!!!!"