THE STONE FIST BREACHES HEAVEN

The wind knifed across the hilltop, sharp enough to sting Jabari’s eyes and bite through the stiff collar of his tailored uniform as he stood silhouetted against the bruised dawn, the distant screams of dying men a dull roar beneath the cacophony in his mind. “I am the Commander of 60,000 men in this war,” the thought clawed its way to the surface, each word a stone dropped into the chasm of his conscience, “they view me as the leader of the military, I hate that they do.” Dew, cold as regret, slid down his forhead, tracing the grey streaks in his beard. Below, the disciplined blue lines churned against Balisarda’s desperate shadows, pawns moving to a script only he and the dead knew. “I only hold the rank of Master 1, nothing more. I never wanted war. Those six did.”

The memory of their chamber windowless, air thick with incense and implicit threat flashed behind his volcanic stare. “Why me? I have never once led any army into war, I only fought in wars.” The starch of his collar chafed his neck, a physical echo of the hierarchy’s chokehold. “But so many people don’t understand how the military really works, how deep the hierarchy runs. At the bottom, there’s the common soldier. Above them stand the Ten Defenders. Then come the Ten Masters, which includes me. Beyond us are the Seven Legends. Higher still, the Four Warriors. And even above them, the Two Sun Gods. Then there are the Twenty-Six Generals. But above all that” Each tier rose like a scaffold in his mind, cold and unyielding.

“There’s a group of six. I don’t know their titles or names. Just that they are six people who sit at the top of everything, ruling the entire military from the shadows. Untouchable. Unquestionable.” Their faceless authority pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than the hill beneath his boots. “Those six people hand-picked me and gave me the order to wage this fucking war against Balisarda Sumernor two years ago. I wasn’t allowed to refuse” the phantom taste of bile, sharp and metallic, flooded his mouth. “Who knew what they would have done to me?” The unspoken possibilities hung in the frigid air: disgrace, disappearance, a blade in the dark.

“So four days later is when I met Mephistopheles who helped with the planning of this war.” He saw the younger man’s fierce eyes blazing with purpose, felt the grip of his handshake solid, trusting. “But I never told him that I was already ordered to wage war on Balisarda Sumernor.” The lie festered, a cold stone lodged beside his heart, as the first true rays of dawn ignited the brass buttons on his coat into accusing points of light.

The weight of command pressed through Jabari's polished boots into the hill’s bedrock. Dew glinted like frosen tears in his cropped hair as the screams below, distant, rhythmic, metallic, rising like a hymn to gods he’d abandoned. The coppery stench of sacrifice thickened in the dawn air. His volcanic gaze fixed on the castle’s highest spire, a black thorn stabbing the bruised sky where Balisarda Sumernor waited.

“But it’s enough standing around,” the thought ignited in his chest, molten and final. “It is time to repay everyone my debt for creating the perfect opportunity for Balisarda Sumernor to murder The Ultimate Bloodshed User.”

The names echoed in the silence behind his eyes:

The 60,000 trusting his orders.

Mephistopheles, believing the lie.

The Ultimate Bloodshed User, betrayed in the shadow by Balisarda Sumernor.

Their blood was the currency. His fist would be the collector.

Then, without a sound, without a breath, he moved. His legs coiled, beneath the tailored wool trousers bunching like steel cables. The hilltop turf exploded beneath his boots, clods of earth and shattered stone erupting skyward as he launched himself not just forward, but upward, a human projectile defying the earth’s greedy pull.

The world became a roaring blur. Wind, thick with the distant slaughterhouse reek, tore viciously at his high collar, whipped the short-cropped brown hair back from his granite face, and screamed past his ears with the force of a hurricane. The ground plummeted away, the churned mud of the courtyard shrinking to a brown-and-crimson patchwork, the struggling figures becoming insignificant ants. He arced through the frigid air, the bruised sky vast around him, the silence at the apex profound and chilling, tasting thin and sharp as broken glass. Below and ahead, Balisarda Sumernor’s castle, a broken jawbone of blackened stone, grew from a distant silhouette into an oppressive monolith. Its highest tower, a spear of shadow against the dawn, rushed towards him.

He saw the specific section of a wall, weathered stone blocks fitted with grim precision, that shielded Balisarda’s sanctum. It filled his vision, the mortar lines sharp, the scent of cold, damp granite and ancient dust suddenly overwhelming as he closed the final distance. No hesitation. No war cry. Only a focused, terrible intent.

His right arm drew back, the crisp sleeve of his tailored jacket straining over the immense power coiling in shoulder and bicep. The polished brass buttons gleamed coldly. His fist, knuckles like river-smoothed stones, clenched with enough force to blanch the skin white beneath the pressure. Every ounce of his being, every burden of command, every silent scream of the sacrificed thousands, focused into that single, forward-driving motion.

The punch landed.

Not with a crack, but with a deep, concussive thud that vibrated through the entire tower structure, felt more than heard. It was the sound of a mountain striking another mountain. The stone didn't just shatter; it disintegrated. Blocks the size of oxen dissolved into a cloud of pulverized grit and dagger-like shrapnel that exploded inwards. Dust, thick and choking, billowed out in a grey-white plume, carrying the acrid taste of shattered rock and centuries-old mortar. Jagged cracks spiderwebbed violently across the adjacent walls, groaning under sudden, catastrophic stress. Where moments before stood an impenetrable barrier, there was now a gaping, ragged maw, revealing the shadowed interior of the highest room, dust motes dancing in the sudden shafts of dawn light stabbing through the devastation. Jabari landed amidst the settling debris on the newly created precipice, boots crunching on fractured stone, the sleeves of his immaculate jacket now powdered grey, his volcanic gaze fixed on the darkness within. The wind, howling through the new wound in the castle’s crown, carried away the echo of destruction.

TWO YEARS AGO | MILITARY HEADQUARTERS, OFFICE CORRIDOR

Harsh fluorescent light bleached the color from the windowless corridor, casting long, distorted shadows under filing cabinets and across faces. The air hung thick and still, saturated with the acrid bite of burnt coffee grounds and the cloying sweetness of cheap toner. Beneath it lingered the sour tang of dried sweat trapped in starched collars. Blandus sagged against a dented grey filing cabinet, the charcoal wool of his suit jacket wrinkled across slumped shoulders. His tie, a slash of faded maroon, hung loose like a frayed noose. Dark smudges, the color of old bruises, cupped his bloodshot eyes as fingers pressed hard against his temple.

Opposite him, Deorwine mirrored the exhaustion. His spine curved against the scuffed linoleum wall, the once-pristine cream silk of his shirt marred by a spreading brown coffee stain he absently rubbed at. His voice emerged, a dry whisper frayed at the edges: “Have you heard the news, Blandus?”

Blandus kept his gaze fixed on the chipped green plastic of an "URGENT" stamp lying on the cabinet. His thumb traced its jagged edge. “Are you seriously asking me that? There has been so much news recently, especially since what occurred fifteen years ago. It’s been so hard to keep up.” He finally lifted his head, the fluorescent tubes etching deep grooves beside his mouth, his skin pale and waxy. “I think I deserve a vacation.”

Deorwine’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile that never reached his dull eyes. He scraped a hand over the rough stubble darkening his jawline. “Yeah, you’re not wrong. We’ve been working as slaves ever since Balisarda Sumernor killed the Ultimate Bloodshed User. There’s been tons of reports since then.” A vague wave of his hand gestured towards leaning towers of cardboard file boxes, their corners splitting, spilling paper like entrails.

Blandus exhaled, a long, slow release of breath lost in the distant, rhythmic clatter of typewriters from unseen offices. “So Deorwine, what was the news you were asking me if I heard?”

Deorwine blinked slowly, his focus drifting for a moment before snapping back. “Oh. Yeah. My bad. I almost forgot to tell you about it.”

Blandus raised one eyebrow, a sharp arch of skepticism cutting through the fatigue on his face. “Well, come on, spit it out, Deorwine.”

Deorwine pushed himself slightly straighter, the stiff collar of his shirt biting into the flushed skin of his neck. “Well, Blandus, the news is: Since Balisarda Sumernor murdered The Ultimate Bloodshed User fifteen years ago, the unification of peace for every race created by him is broken now.”

Blandus’s expression didn’t change. He picked intently at a loose thread unraveling from his shirt cuff. “Yeah, I know about that, Deorwine. Everyone here working their ass off for the past fifteen years knows that as well.”

“Blandus, just wait a second. I was not done speaking yet.” Deorwine’s voice dropped, becoming hushed, carrying a weight that thickened the already stifling air. “There’s more. Now, due to it being broken there have been rumors. Solid ones. That a war is about to break out between two races which will be led by their king.”

Blandus closed his eyes. The relentless typewriter clatter in the distance seemed to gain a sharper, more percussive edge. “Well, hopefully they’re just rumors. Because that’s just going to add more to my plate now.”

Silence stretched, filled only by the building's low electrical hum and the rustle of unseen papers. Deorwine traced a deep crack in the yellowing linoleum floor with the scuffed toe of his black Oxford shoe. “Hey, Blandus? I’ve been wondering about something for a while now.”

Blandus opened his eyes, the fluorescent light reflecting flatly in their dull surface. “Oh? What is it, Deorwine?”

Deorwine leaned closer, his breath warm and stale in the small space between them, his voice barely a murmur: “Even though The Ultimate Bloodshed User has been dead for fifteen years now. None of the kings of any of the races have broken the Peace Treaty they all signed Sixteen years ago. The only strange thing is the vampire king Dracula’s death, happening five months laters after The Ultimate Bloodshed User was killed and the fact that the vampire hasn't been able to find his body.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “So why hasn’t Balisarda Sumernor broken the rules of the Peace Treaty for humans?”

Blandus’s mouth opened slightly, a flicker of unease tightening the skin around his eyes.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps.

They echoed down the corridor’s length, sharp impacts against the linoleum that vibrated through the soles of their shoes. Blandus and Deorwine jerked apart as if scalded. Blandus snatched up a thick manila folder, clutching it like a shield, his knuckles bone-white against the tan cardboard. Deorwine fumbled a cheap ballpoint pen from his pocket, jabbing it at a blank notepad, his shoulders rigid with false concentration. The air crackled with the sudden, frantic pantomime of urgent work.

Jabari turned the corner. His charcoal suit, impeccably tailored, seemed to absorb the sickly light, making him a darker shape against the institutional grey. His face was impassive stone, eyes scanning the corridor with the cold, assessing the sweep of a raptor. Blandus and Deorwine kept their heads bowed low, the frantic rustling of papers unnaturally loud in the tense stillness. Jabari passed them without a glance, a wave of dense authority preceding him like a pressure change.

He reached his office door, frosted glass etched with stark black lettering: JABARI. Inside, his utilitarian metal desk stood unnaturally neat. In the precise center of its scarred green surface, stark against the worn vinyl desk pad, lay a single envelope. Heavy, ivory parchment. Sealed with a disc of midnight-blue wax impressed with an intricate emblem: a coiling serpent devouring its own tail, wrapped around a vertical blade.

Jabari halted. A faint scent, beeswax undercut by something cold and metallic, like old blood or wet iron, drifted from the parchment. His gaze, volcanic stone, fixed on it.

“Huh.” The single syllable landed with the weight of a falling anvil in the silent room.

“What is a letter doing on my desk?”

His hand reached out. Fingertips brushed the unnaturally smooth, cool surface of the paper. The wax seal felt brittle, its edges sharp enough to prick skin. A cold sensation, distinct from the office’s stale chill, traced a slow path down his spine. Jabari’s calloused fingers brushed the envelope’s parchment, cool and heavy as a tomb slab. The metallic scent, iron and wet stone, coiled thicker in the stale office air. Ignoring the primal warning tightening his spine, he slid a thumb under the serpent seal.

Crack.

Brittle wax fractured like ancient bone. Inside, dense ivory paper held sharp, angular script that seemed to etch itself into the fibers:

Master 1 Jabari,

Your involvement in the military is well respected.

The structure of peace currently decays.

Balisarda Sumernor’s betrayal of the Ultimate Bloodshed User was but the first crack.

There are many more cracks that shall soon appear.

Your position is clear and promotion is in discussion.

We are to talk in person.

Once you have finished reading this letter.

Refusal does not matter as you will become unconscious.

— The Legacy

As his eyes scraped over the final words, the fluorescent lights above stretched. Their harsh white glow bled into liquid trails across his vision. The angular script swam, serpentine glyphs twisting in his periphery.

A wave of warmth flooded his neck and face, thick as summer humidity, while icy needles pricked his scalp. The drone of office machinery warped into a deep, resonant hum vibrating in his jawbone. The scent of beeswax curdled into cloying sweetness—rotting lilies dipped in copper.

He gripped the desk’s edge. Solid steel felt like wet sand shifting under his whitened knuckles. The floor tilted a ship lurching in a storm. Weightlessness surged through his skull, a giddy, terrifying buoyancy. His stomach clenched.

Refusal does not matter….

The words echoed, not in his mind, but in the marrow of his bones. A cold void opened beneath his thoughts. Shadows thickened at the edges of his sight, swallowing the grey walls. His knees trembled. The air turned viscous, each breath a labor against crushing pressure.

...you will become unconscious.

A final, dizzying lurch. The letter slipped from numb fingers, fluttering like a dying moth toward the floor. Jabari swayed, vision tunneling to a pinprick of light. The Legacy’s command wasn’t a threat, it was gravity. And he was falling.

THREE HOURS LATERS

Jabari’s eyes snapped open. Cold stone pressed against his cheek, the grit sharp against his skin. Darkness pressed in not total, but fractured: one side of the room drowned in pitch blackness, the other steeped in a murky, grey twilight that revealed nothing but damp stone walls. Behind him, a heavy impact reverberated through the floor, a door slamming shut with finality. The sound wasn’t loud; it was a deep, physical vibration that traveled up his spine like a jolt of electricity, leaving a trail of icy dread in its wake. He pushed himself up, every muscle protesting, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, ozone, and something ancient like dust from a long-sealed tomb.

He took a step forward into the twilight section, boots scuffing on rough-hewn stone. Then, a voice cut through the oppressive silence. It didn’t come from ahead or beside, but from above, echoing as if spoken from a great height within the cavernous dark side of the room, resonant and devoid of any identifiable source.

“Welcome, Jabari.”

The words hung, cold and heavy. Before Jabari could react, the voice continued, smooth and commanding: “Now that you’re awake, we commence. Everyone” A pause, thick with implicit power. “It's time to tell Jabari what our orders are for him.”

From the absolute blackness of the dark side, a shape coalesced. Not a figure stepping forward, but a presence manifesting a humongous silhouette of pure, devouring shadow, lacking edges or features, yet radiating an aura of such crushing, annihilating force that the air itself seemed to thicken and curdle around it. Jabari’s breath seized. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. It wasn't fear of injury; it was the visceral, soul-deep certainty of standing before an entity for whom his existence was less than dust. He felt hollow, insignificant, already erased.

The colossal man shifted minutely within the darkness. A low, rumbling vibration, felt more in the bones than heard, formed words: “Speechless?”

Jabari’s throat tightened, parched. The pressure radiating from the shadow squeezed his lungs. He managed to force words out, his voice a strained whisper scraped raw by terror:

“What… What is your command for me, sir?”

“You’re going to wage a war.” The declaration came from the first shadow, its voice a landslide of gravel and midnight.

Before the words fully settled, a second presence bloomed from the abyss beside the first. Equally vast, equally formless, but radiating a different terror, a sharper, more immediate sense of dissolution, as if the atoms of his being were being pulled apart. Jabari stumbled back a step, cold sweat beading instantly on his forehead and trickling down his temples. His knees trembled.

The second shadow spoke, its tone colder, flatter: “In particular, on Balisarda Sumernor. For killing the Ultimate Bloodshed User.”

Then, a third presence erupted from the darkness. This one radiated not cold dread, but an overwhelming, suffocating heat. The air in the twilight section grew instantly stifling, thick as molten tar. Jabari gasped, sweat soaking through his shirt in seconds. It felt like standing at the core of a star, a pressure that threatened to crush his bones and boil his blood. His vision swam. He could barely draw breath; each inhalation was a desperate gulp of scorching air.

The third shadow’s voice hissed like steam escaping a fissure: “We shall give you a certain amount of soldiers to form an army to fight Balisarda Sumernor.”

The conflicting sensations, the soul-crushing dread, the dissolving terror, the incinerating heat, coupled with the impossible reality of the command, shattered Jabari’s composure. The careful facade of the military Master dissolved. He staggered, clutching his head.

“This can’t be real!” His voice ripped through the thick air, raw with frustration and burgeoning panic. “You’re all just a myth! A legend! Nothing more! Aren’t you all JUST A FOLKTALE FROM A STORY!!!”

Silence. Heavy. Absolute.

Then, laughter began. Not from the three visible shadows, but seemingly from the darkness itself—from the spaces where the other, unseen members of The Legacy resided. It was a sound devoid of humor: deep, rumbling vibrations that shook the stone floor beneath Jabari’s feet, layered with higher, chilling harmonics that scraped against his nerves. The air thickened further, vibrating with the discordant chorus, amplifying the heat, the dread, the dissolving pressure until Jabari felt physically buffeted, his very sanity fraying at the edges.

The laughter subsided as abruptly as it began. The first shadow’s presence reasserted itself, its rumbling voice cutting through the residual echoes: “You could say we are Legend. But that is a pointless discussion now.”

The weight of its focus settled back onto Jabari, heavier than before. “Let us get back to business.”

The oppressive heat, the crushing dread, the dissolving fear, they didn't vanish. They remained, a tangible cage woven from shadow and command, holding Jabari captive in the half-light, awaiting the details of his damnation. The folktale had teeth, and they were sunk deep into his fate.

Time lost meaning in the shadowed chamber. Seconds bled into minutes, minutes stretched into hours measured only by the slow, labored rhythm of Jabari’s own heartbeat thudding against his ribs. The crushing pressure of the Legacy’s presence – the soul-deep dread, the dissolving terror, the incinerating heat – formed a viscous soup of time. Details of the "conversation" blurred; commands became impressions etched in ice and fire upon his mind: War. Sumernor. Sixty Thousand. Instruments of vengeance.

Then, without ceremony, the oppressive weight simply… lifted.

The three colossal shadows dissolved back into the consuming darkness as seamlessly as they had emerged. The residual heat vanished, leaving a sudden, chilling void. The crushing dread receded, replaced by a hollow numbness. The chamber’s half-light felt emptier, colder, the scent of ozone and tomb-dust fading. Jabari stood alone in the twilight section, trembling slightly, the echo of their final, rumbling command – "Prepare" – vibrating in his marrow. The audience was over.

The oppressive weight of the six men's presence lingered like thick smoke in Jabari’s lungs even as the heavy stone door behind him groaned inward on unseen hinges. Daylight, sharp and startling after the chamber’s claustrophobic twilight, flooded the threshold. Silhouetted against the brilliance stood General Jokumeadow.

He didn’t merely enter; he occupied the doorway. The high, gold-trimmed collar of his immaculate black jacket framed a narrow face dominated by pale pink eyes that held an unnerving, assessing gleam. A cascade of fine purple strands escaped the intricate crown braid, catching the light as he tilted his head. His posture was a study in flamboyant precision, angular hips thrust slightly forward, long legs planted wide, short arms resting with affected nonchalance at his sides, black-gloved fingers flexing minutely.

“Master Jabari,” Jokumeadow’s voice was a smooth, high tenor that seemed to curl around the words like scented smoke. “Your audience has concluded. Accompany me.”

It wasn’t a request. The pale pink eyes held Jabari’s volcanic gaze, offering no quarter. Jabari, the crushing command of The Legacy still vibrating in his bones, felt the stone floor tilt slightly under his boots as he stepped forward, propelled by the General’s expectant presence. Jokumeadow pivoted on a heel, the movement fluid and almost dancer-like, his gold-piped trousers and tall boots a stark contrast to the rough-hewn passage. He led without looking back, radiating absolute certainty that Jabari would follow.

They emerged into cool, damp air. The scent hit Jabari first, loam, pine resin, and the distant tang of jet fuel, replacing the tomb-dust and ozone of the chamber. Towering, ancient trees formed a dense canopy overhead, their leaves filtering the sunlight into shifting patterns of gold and green. A single, perfectly straight path of crushed white gravel cut through the vibrant undergrowth ahead.

Jokumeadow set a brisk pace, his stride eating up the path with surprising speed for his stature. The gravel crunched rhythmically under their boots, a sharp, clean sound against the forest’s quiet hum of insects and distant birdsong. Jabari matched his stride, the tailored wool of his own uniform suddenly feeling restrictive, starched collar chafing against the sweat cooling on his neck.

“A necessary burden, wouldn’t you agree?” Jokumeadow began, his voice cutting through the natural sounds without effort. He gestured vaguely with one black-gloved hand, the gold trim on his sleeve flashing. “The theatrics within? Mere punctuation. The sentence, Master Jabari, is yours to write.”

Jabari’s jaw tightened. The giddy terror induced by The Legacy was hardening into a cold knot of resentment in his gut. “Sentences written under duress rarely tell noble tales, General,” he replied, his voice low, the gravel crunching louder beneath his deliberate step.

Jokumeadow’s laugh was a light, airy sound that didn’t touch his pale eyes. “Duress? Perspective, dear Jabari! We offer structure. Purpose. Balisarda’s chaos demands an equal, opposing force. Consider yourself… the counterweight.” He adjusted his crimson sash with a flick of gloved fingers. “Sixty thousand counterweights, to be precise. Quite the instrument.”

“Instruments break,” Jabari countered, watching the path ahead where the trees began to thin, revealing a glimpse of open sky. The distant drone of an aircraft engine grew steadily louder. “Especially when wielded without care for their forging.”

“Ah, but the finest instruments,” Jokumeadow countered smoothly, his pace never faltering, “are tempered by necessity. Fire and pressure. The Legacy provides the fire. Balisarda provides the pressure. You, Master Jabari, are the steel.” He glanced sideways, the pale pink eyes glinting. “Try not to buckle before the symphony begins.”

The path ended abruptly at a cleared area. Ahead, sleek and predatory on a private tarmac, sat a jet, its engines whining with restrained power. A set of steps was already lowered. Jokumeadow stopped, turning fully to face Jabari. He offered a small, perfectly executed bow, more a tilt of the head and shoulders, the purple strands of his hair swaying.

“Your chariot awaits, Commander,” he purred, the flamboyant gesture at odds with the iron command in his eyes. “The stage is set. The players gather. Try not to keep Death waiting too long. He hates an empty dance floor.”

The General’s smile was thin, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth as he gestured towards the waiting plane. The forest path, the shadowed chamber, the crushing weight of The Legacy, they all lay behind Jabari now. Ahead lay only war, orchestrated by unseen hands, and paid for in lives he hadn't chosen to spend. The gravel beneath his boots felt like the edge of an abyss.

The plane’s cabin hummed, a pressurized cocoon of leather the color of old blood and polished ebony. Engine vibration thrummed through the frame, a constant physical presence felt in the jawbone, replacing forest dampness with sterile, chilled air and the faint, cloying scent of lemon oil. Outside the thick window, clouds streamed past like ragged smoke. Jabari sat rigid, his gaze fixed not on the view, but on the untouched water beading condensation in his tumbler. The Legacy’s command was a leaden weight in his chest, heavier at this remove.

Jokumeadow lounged opposite, His pale pink eyes caught the cabin light like chips of frozen rose quartz. “Comfortable, Commander? Altitude offers perspective… before the inevitable descent into messy reality.” A black-gloved hand gestured vaguely towards the window where land looked like a child’s discarded puzzle.

Jabari didn’t turn. His voice was low, gravel grinding against bedrock tension. “I will not sacrifice anyone, General. Tempered steel, you called them. How many shards will be left when the tempering is done?”

Jokumeadow’s thin lips curved, a smile as cold as the cabin air. He took a slow sip of amber liquid from the crystal. “A commander’s burden, Jabari. Seeing the whole board, not just the pawns. Each ‘shard,’” he swirled the liquid, watching light fracture in it, “buys time. Creates vital distraction. Draws the eye… particularly the covetous gaze of ten Principals and one paranoid king.” He set the glass down with a sharp, definitive click. “Think of it as… sacrificial geometry. Necessary angles carved from absence.”

“Absence carved from living men,” Jabari countered, his fist clenching slowly on the cool leather armrest. “What I hear is corruption and pettiness.”

A flicker of something sharper, less theatrical, passed through Jokumeadow’s pale eyes. He leaned forward slightly, the movement deliberate, the crimson sash a stark wound against the dark wool. “Jabari,” he began, his voice dropping its purr, gaining a brittle, cutting edge, “I hadn’t wished to revisit this particular ledger… but your newfound scruples force my hand.”

The air in the cabin seemed to thicken, tasting suddenly metallic. Jabari’s posture, already rigid, became statue-still.

“Recall the Factions,” Jokumeadow continued, his gaze locked onto Jabari’s, unblinking. “Recall their leader tearing through our bases, aiming to scour the military from the earth. Recall… his emergence.” He paused, letting the memory hang – the chaos, the fear. “Recall where you were, Master Jabari. Not on the front lines. Not marshaling defenses.”

Jabari’s knuckles were bone-white on the armrest. A cold sweat pricked his brow beneath his short-cropped hair.

“You ran.” The word was a scalpel. “You sought sanctuary… with him. The Ultimate Bloodshed User and his comrades. And what did you offer them, Jabari, in your desperation? Not your sword. Not your courage. You offered… a location.” Jokumeadow’s voice was icy, precise. “The location of the Faction Leader. You handed them the target. You sent them into the furnace you fled.”

Jabari’s breath hitched, a near-silent rasp. The thrumming engines felt deafening.

“And they prevailed,” Jokumeadow stated flatly. “They broke him. Delivered him broken to us. And what did the military do with this gift borne of your flight and their blood? We staged a spectacle. A public execution.” He leaned closer, the scent of his expensive cologne clashing with the sterile air. “An invitation the remaining Faction Leaders couldn’t refuse. They brought their armies, Jabari. To that execution ground. We placed our forces there too. Every soldier, every asset… except the Six. We stood on the precipice. A single spark would have ignited a war consuming the world in fire and ash.”

The image burned in Jabari’s mind: the teetering brink, the gathered fury.

“And who stepped into that chasm?” Jokumeadow’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “He did. The Ultimate Bloodshed User. He intervened. He demanded peace. He stood between the armies… the perfect, exposed fulcrum.” Jokumeadow paused, letting the terrible implication sink in, the cabin’s chill deepening. “Creating the perfect opportunity for Balisarda Sumernor’s blade to find his heart. In front of everyone. Because of the chaos you set in motion. Because of the target you provided. Because of the spectacle we staged with your delivered prize.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating, broken only by the plane’s relentless drone. The condensation on Jabari’s tumbler traced a slow path down the glass. The grief Jokumeadow had spoken of moments before wasn't a weapon yet; it was a yawning chasm opening beneath Jabari’s feet, filled with the ashes of unintended consequences and the chilling realization that his own past actions, born of fear, had paved the path to the Ultimate Bloodshed User’s murder. His defiance crumbled, replaced by the icy grip of complicity. The General watched, pale eyes unreadable, the architect of this devastating reminder seated comfortably amidst the leather and polished wood.

FOUR DAYS LATERS

FOUR DAYS LATER | MILITARY HEADQUARTERS, ARCHIVE VAULT

Deep beneath the military headquarters, the Archive Vault swallowed sound and light. Cold, static air hung thick with the scent of dust, aged parchment, and a metallic tang of neglected steel shelves. Flickering luminescent strips cast long, trembling shadows across towering aisles crammed with scrolls, paper, and records bound in cracked leather. Jabari stood hunched over a wide stone table, maps and troop manifests spread like a surgeon’s grim work. The weight of sixty thousand lives pressed down on his shoulders, etched in the tight lines around his volcanic eyes and the grim set of his jaw. Sweat beaded at his temples despite the vault’s chill, his fingers leaving damp smudges on a casualty projection report.

Silence. Then, a disturbance.

Not footsteps, at first. A subtle shift in the air pressure, a deepening of the shadows near the vault’s monolithic entrance. A presence announced itself not by sound, but by the absence of it a pocket of absolute stillness moving through the gloom. Then came the sound: the measured, resonant impact of armored boots on the stone floor, echoing with chilling finality in the tomblike quiet. Slow. Deliberate.

Jabari’s head snapped up. His hand instinctively closed over a brass paperweight shaped like an anchor. Across the cavernous vault, a figure resolved from the darkness. Clad head-to-toe in armor of pure, light-devouring obsidian, it seemed less worn and more grown onto the man beneath. It absorbed the weak vault light, leaving only sharp, unnatural angles and a sense of contained violence. At his waist hung a sword, its sheath as black as the armor, its outline unmistakably that of a Joyeuse, broad, straight, and radiating latent menace. The air around him tasted suddenly colder, sharper, like oxygen before lightning strikes.

Jabari turned fully, his own imposing frame squaring against the approaching shadow. He didn’t need to see the face hidden beneath the seamless obsidian helm. He felt it, a seething, volcanic rage banked deep within the armored form, a contained fury vibrating through the stone floor and prickling the hairs on Jabari’s neck. It wasn’t directed at him, not yet. It was the man’s atmosphere, his essence: wrath forged into flesh and encased in darkness.

The obsidian knight stopped an arm’s length away. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension. The cold emanating from the armor seeped through Jabari’s uniform jacket.

A voice emerged from within the helm. It was low, graveled, stripped of inflection yet vibrating with the intensity of a tightly coiled spring “I have a request for you. Are you willing to listen?”

Jabari’s shock was momentary, masked by a commander’s ingrained control. His volcanic gaze remained fixed on the featureless visor. He weighed the suffocating silence, the palpable fury, the sheer impossibility of this figure finding him here.

“Depends on what your request is,” he replied, his voice steady but roughened by days of stress and stale air. “However, I want to know your name before anything.”

A pause. Then, a subtle shift in the obsidian helm, the barest tilt suggesting a gaze locked onto Jabari’s. Though the face remained hidden, an unnerving sense of a smile emanated from within the darkness, a chilling amusement that tightened the already frigid air.

“My name,” the voice resonated, the name dropping like a stone into the silence, “is Mephistopheles.”

Jabari absorbed the name. It landed with the weight of prophecy, of whispered warnings in old reports, of the Legacy’s cold command. The pieces shifted in his mind.

“So,” Jabari said, his own voice lowering, matching the gravity of the vault and the figure before him. “What is your request, Mephistopheles?”

The cold, silent air of the Archive Vault pressed in, thick with dust and the weight of impending war. Mephistopheles stood before Jabari, a statue of obsidian armor radiating cold fury. Beneath the seamless helm, his voice emerged a strained, graveled thing fighting against a tide of grief and rage that vibrated through the stone floor and chilled Jabari’s skin.

“I want you to wage war on Balisarda Sumernor for me,” Mephistopheles stated, each word clipped, forced through clenched teeth behind the dark visor. A faint tremor ran through his armored gauntlets. “He killed my father. Also…” The pause was heavy, filled with the effort to control raw emotion. “…are you indeed the highest rank of the ten masters, right?”

Jabari met the unseen gaze behind the obsidian helm, his volcanic eyes reflecting genuine sympathy. The raw pain in Mephistopheles’s voice resonated with the guilt already coiled in his own gut. “I am indeed the highest rank of the ten masters,” he confirmed, his tone low and steady, belying the turmoil beneath. “However, Mephistopheles to wage a war on a man like Balisarda Sumernor is no easy task.”

He stepped closer, the scent of old parchment and cold stone sharpening. “He is immensely powerful. An undisputed, undefeated Thalvaren Gladiator before he walked away at seventeen. The right hand of The Ultimate Bloodshed User for twenty-two years.” Jabari’s gaze intensified, the gravity of the threat palpable in the vault’s stillness. “Now he rules a kingdom defended by one hundred thousand soldiers and ten Principals whose powers and secrets remain shadows. For me to even consider your request I need a compelling reason. A path through the impossible.”

Mephistopheles didn’t flinch. The obsidian helm tilted slightly, the contained fury within seeming to focus into a laser point aimed at Jabari. “I understand his threat. I feel the weight of his power like stone on my chest,” the armored figure rasped, the cold radiating from him intensifying, making Jabari’s breath mist faintly. “But none of that changes this: I will kill that bastard.”

Jabari leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. The leather of his uniform creaked softly in the silence. “Entertain me, then. How? How does one slay a demigod?”

A low hum, felt more in the bones than heard, emanated from the sword at Mephistopheles’s waist. The air around the Joyeuse-shaped blade shimmered faintly, distorting the weak vault light. “I am the current Bloodshed,” Mephistopheles declared, his voice gaining a sliver of dark, resonant power. He rested a gauntleted hand on the hilt. “This sword cuts anything. His defenses. His flesh. The very essence of his attacks. Nothing stands before its edge.”

Jabari’s eyes widened minutely, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. The surprise cut through his commander’s reserve. “Shit. You’re the current Bloodshed User.” He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair, the dust gritty under his fingers. “That changes the geometry. Significantly. But it doesn’t make you invincible.” A shadow passed over Jabari’s face, the memory raw. “I thought the last Bloodshed User was. Balisarda Sumernor showed me the brutal reality.”

“I know I’m not invincible,” Mephistopheles countered immediately, the raw grief resurfacing, thickening his voice. He took a half-step forward, the obsidian plates whispering against each other. “That’s why I came to you. As the son of The Ultimate Bloodshed User”

The words struck Jabari like a physical blow. Son. The air vanished from the vault. The meticulously organized maps on the stone table blurred. The cold guilt Jokumeadow had poured into him on the plane, the knowledge that his own past actions helped create the moment for Balisarda’s strike, surged like icy floodwater, freezing his spine, tightening his throat. He saw it again: the Ultimate Bloodshed User falling, betrayed, because of the chaos he had set in motion. And now, the son stood before him, armored in grief and vengeance, seeking his help. It wasn't just strategy; it was penance. A debt etched in blood.

Jabari’s hand, resting on the stone table, clenched into a fist, knuckles stark white. He forced himself to meet the impenetrable darkness of Mephistopheles’s visor, the weight of legacy and guilt crushing his shoulders. His voice, when it came, was rough, stripped bare, carrying the absolute weight of a vow.

“Mephistopheles, I agree. We will wage war on Balisarda Sumernor.” He pushed himself upright, the decision settling like cold iron in his soul. “But slaughtering his army won’t get you close enough to use that blade. We need more than soldiers. We need a plan that is so innately genius, that it can trick a man who fooled everyone in the military, I have some ideas but I will need your help, this is a long overdue reckoning.”

The obsidian armor remained motionless, but the cold fury radiating from Mephistopheles shifted, tempered by a flicker of grim, determined focus. The vault, witness to secrets and strategies for centuries, held its breath as the Commander and the Heir faced the impossible task ahead. The path to vengeance began not with a roar, but with the chilling silence of shared purpose forged in guilt and inherited rage.

PRESENT TIME IN BALISARDA SUMERNOR’S THRONE ROOM

The final echoes of the chant "Uukhai!" bled into the incense-heavy silence. Pale light streamed through the colossal window behind the snarling-wolf throne, gilding the emerald-and-sapphire veins in the beaten-gold walls. Soldiers and servants stood motionless along the crimson carpet, their collective breath held thick in the air tasting of smoldering cedar and cold marble. Balisarda Sumernor lounged on the throne, sunlight catching the bronze scales on his chest and the glacial blue of his eyes. His dark green coat pooled around him, fur collar framing his impassive face.

"Now, Gwen," his voice cut the stillness, smooth as honed steel, "what Principal shall you pick?"

Gwen stood rigid before the dais, a stark silhouette in her high-collared black Victorian maid’s dress, the white apron blindingly bright. Her fingers twisted in the coarse fabric of her skirt. The scent of her fear-sweat salt and lavender soapmingled with the incense. Her gaze darted across the jeweled walls, avoiding Balisarda’s piercing stare.

As Gwen’s lips parted, "Ah... um..." Balisarda’s right arm extended forward, languid and precise, palm upturned. From its center, darkness coalesced not liquid, but solidifying shadow. Jagged stone erupted, forming a cruel blade the color of storm clouds, humming with a subsonic vibration that prickled the skin.

"...well... I pick Principal Nine," Gwen whispered, her voice fraying.

Balisarda winked.

The stone sword projected from his palm. No arc, no spin, a straight-line eruption of force. It crossed the space between palm and face faster than a gasp. The impact was annihilation. Gwen’s head ceased to exist between one heartbeat and the next. Bone, flesh, and dark hair vaporized in a crimson-grey mist. Her body swayed, a headless effigy in black linen, then collapsed onto the white marble. Blood spread darkly across stone, its coppery tang flooding the air, mingling with stone dust and burnt cedar. The sword embedded itself in the far wall with a muffled thump, dripping.

Simultaneously, the colossal window eastern to Balisarda throne imploded.

Not shattered, but unmade. Pulverized stone and fractured marble erupted inward. Jabari surged through the maelstrom of debris, a missile in tailored military wool, propelled solely by the force of his punch. Dust haloed his form; epaulettes gleamed dully. He hung suspended mid-air within the throne room’s vaulted space, volcanic eyes locked on the throne, roar shaking the gilded walls

"BALISARDA SUMERNOR! COME AND FIGHT ME FOR THE CRIMES YOU HAVE DONE!!!!!"

Balisarda didn’t shift. His gaze slid from Gwen’s crumpled form to the hovering intruder. A flicker of annoyance tightened his jaw. His reply was glacial, absolute "No."

He snapped his fingers, a dry, skeletal sound.

The stone sword wrenched itself from the wall. Blood-slick and trailing gore, it reversed course. Not flying, but lancing through the air with predatory intent. It angled sharply, ignoring physics, and struck Jabari’s stomach like a blacksmith’s hammer meeting iron.

The impact was a visceral crunch of displaced air and compressed fabric. Jabari’s roar died mid-breath. The force didn’t drop him; it launched him. Feet lifted from empty space as the sword became a piston. It drove him backward, a puppet yanked by an invisible string, clearing the jagged hole he’d torn in the wall. Sunlight swallowed him as momentum carried him away from the throne room, not down toward the courtyard carnage, but outward and upward, into the vast sky. The stone blade remained buried in his gut, a grotesque anchor. Wind ripped at his uniform as the castle shrunk below. A final, raw cry tore from him, echoing across clouds and battlefield, thick with agony and a name “CHRIS!!!!”