By The Blood

The white sun was rising from the east, but the heat of the Dominion was already oppressive. Partially due to the golden trees, the continent experienced an unusual level of heat. So much so that nearly every form of plant and animal life here had evolved to endure the scorching conditions in one way or another.

Dunn’s red shard armor was blistering hot like he had stepped into a fiery cauldron. He glanced at his palm, opening it to summon a ball of fire that ignited in his hand. He bounced it between his fingers before casually tossing it over the cliff.

Boom!

The flames struck a boulder below, shattering it into pieces. A shrill sound echoed from the rubble as similar boulders twitched, revealing stick-like legs and heads—carapace Bugs skittered in swarms, some retreating into the waning forest.

Still, not enough, Dunn sighed, struggling to keep his pride away from his heart.

"You know we lack flame drowners," a voice said behind him. He recognized that voice. Dunn cast a side glance at the towering figure beside him—a man with simple black hair and a greenish hue to his skin. A Hornbreed, yes, but an educated one. This one spoke with intelligence, unlike the normal ones who resembled the brutish orc-like beings from ancient texts.

Ren, the man beside him, stood nearly the height of two men. He had taken that size after reaching Desolation—well not truly. But why would anyone choose to be that big? Dunn pondered, though he realized much of Ren’s bulk came from his Knight Plate—a stronger version of shard-armor, crafted by the Knight Cities during the Annihilation War. I suppose when you're forced onto the frontlines, you naturally come up with better equipment than those sitting comfortably behind. He missed the frontlines. Honor was found there, even though he had mourned his archon, who charged to the bitter end with him. The man was gone now... I wonder when my time will come, Dunn thought, his heart tightening.

"Do you think standing in silence before me is a wise choice?" Ren asked, his broad, silver-lined, reddish armor gleaming as he tilted his head. "I am the new Archon, you know?"

That I do. I watched the last one die. Dunn’s gaze drifted, blurring Ren out as he focused instead on the red dust gently settling on his armor. I hope pride doesn’t enter him, he thought, though he knew better than to voice it now.

Ren was more than just a replacement; he had been trained as a Vice Archon, an Archon Adept under his father’s command. Normally, no one could take the title of Archon without the Legion-Master’s command, but this case was different. Ren was the previous Archon’s son.

War didn’t always follow protocol. The Legion-Master had the final word, but Ren had inherited his father’s mantle.

Dunn snapped out of his thoughts as he noticed a frown forming on Ren’s face. I’m still not used to respecting him. But he deserves it—or at least, his title does. I can’t bring myself to care that much. If anything, I hate that I didn’t die today… alongside the others.

He shook his head. "Sorry, Archon." He stood, the clanging of his armor echoing like clashing metal. "I’m still a bit dazed from the battle."

"You mean from our loss!" Ren snapped.

Still grieving his father’s death, Dunn thought. He shared the grief but couldn’t fully connect to it. Every time he survived a battle, he felt disconnected from reality. The Warrior guide me.

Ren clenched his fists so tightly that his armor creaked under the strain. Even if it breaks, he can will it to repair itself. That was one of the advantages of Knight Plate over shard-armor: with mana and willpower from the bonded user, it could be repaired instantly. Shard-armor, on the other hand, required specific parts or special metals that had to be reforged by Artisans.

"The crusade has just begun. We still have a chance to win—to take the Waning Forest," Dunn said, attempting to offer advice to the newly promoted Archon.

Ren stopped, his gaze hardening. A scoff escaped his lips. "Win? Didn’t you see what we were up against? That was a hazard-class giant—big as a mountain. And if they have one of those, how many more do you think they have?"

He has a point, Dunn mused. The Archon is dead, and Ren only reached Desolation because of his father’s armor. But even with that, none of us can stop a hazard-class creature. He sighed. A saint, if it were the Ministry. We’ve already taken heavy losses. I don’t think we can survive without reinforcements—or at least a powerful enough being to balance the scales. He briefly recalled playing chess, a human game.

"Perhaps reinforcements from the brother regiments could help?" Dunn suggested. The Red Warlock regiments, along with others from the Legion, had joined the crusade. Unfortunately, only one Archon had been tasked with leading it. Perhaps it’s because the Tau are stirring again, he speculated.

Ren shot him an annoyed glare. "Reinforcements? So what? So the other Archons can laugh at me?" He exhaled, calming himself with a breath learned from the Swordsmen Tower’s breathing techniques. "I can’t do that."

So the prideful son still exerts some influence, Dunn thought with a sigh.

Just then, a figure approached. A guardsman, pale-faced and visibly shaken, clutched a spear tightly. Many of the ordinary soldiers—those who hadn’t evolved—were likely dealing with the psychological fallout from the battle. That thing had just been too big.

"Good morning, Archon," the guardsman said, his voice trembling slightly.

Hardly called morning unless I hear the morning sunbird, Dunn thought absentmindedly, wondering if there were sunbirds in the Western Dominion. They’re always seen flying west. Maybe this is where they end up. It was just a guess. He wasn’t certain—after all, he wasn’t a scribe or one who studied such things.

"What?" Ren said softly, his tone shifting quickly from annoyance to calm. Maybe not pride, Dunn mused.

"The Chaplain requests your presence," the guardsman said.

Ren remained silent for a moment, glancing at Dunn. "Will you accompany me?"

What does the Chaplain want? Dunn wondered, his gaze drifting to the red dust falling softly around him. He wasn’t going to say no. Even though he technically couldn’t refuse an order from his Archon, he wasn’t doing it for that reason. This was the Chaplain—their priest and connection to the Warrior God. No way in the shattered heavens would he decline.

He nodded to Ren.

They left the cliff, following rough, tent-lined paths and passing large golden trees. Before long, they reached their destination.

The Chaplain was found in the war camp’s temple, which had started as a simple hill but had been hollowed out through constant explosions and heat-forced carving. Now, it was a suitable place to house the teachings of the Warrior God. Murals of Great Warriors, Archons, and lucky guardsmen lined the inside walls. Glass-encased lamps, placed where the walls met the floor, provided light. Ornate chandeliers, ablaze with eternal flames, hung from the high ceiling, supported by stone pillars carved with intricate designs.

I don’t think this place would crumble even without the pillars, Dunn thought.

Entering the main chamber, they saw pews arranged on either side of the room. A grand chandelier lit the area, casting light on a towering statue of a man, carved from stone and dressed in glorious armor. The Warrior God! Dunn resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air.

The statue loomed over everything, reaching the high ceiling as if the god himself were watching over them—as he should, but without any arrogance.

Many people were already seated on the pews, while others moved about, conversing with the Chaplain’s adepts—young priests in training. A man suddenly approached them.

He had long golden hair and wore golden shard-armor, with a white hooded robe partially covering his face. He was about the same height as Dunn, though Ren, clad in his Knight Plate, stood a bit taller.

Dunn bowed deeply. How could he not, when standing before the Messenger of God? This was the kind of person Dunn wouldn’t mind being killed by—though that would mean dying without honor.

The Chaplain simply nodded, seeming to be in a hurry.

"A Golden Knight will be joining us," the Chaplain announced.

Dunn froze.

The morning after taking control of the hotel, Karl made sure to rise early. He threw off the blanket he’d unknowingly clutched during the night and sat up. His gaze drifted toward the open windows. The white sun was slowly emerging from the horizon, gradually illuminating the red sky, which swirled with dark clouds. Red dust had already begun to fall—slowly for now, but it would intensify as the day wore on.

The clicking calls of the morning sunbirds filled the air. Karl caught sight of one—a white bird with a long tail—flitting across the sky. Sunbirds always traveled in groups, a small fact Karl had picked up. Turning away from the window, he stood up and walked toward the door. He needed to make his presence known quickly to establish his standing in this place. His hand was on the door handle when something in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

The green wall rippled, and suddenly, a small black beak phased through. Startled, Karl stiffened. Another mysterious faction member? His frown deepened as a bird—black as a raven—emerged from the wall, circling the ceiling with soft caws. Its eyes glowed like red jewels.

Karl recalled one of the perks of reaching Desolation class: the ability to summon black messenger birds. Was this one of those? Perhaps sent by the Mysteries school? The bird circled the room for a few moments, seemingly surveying the area, before descending to perch on the wooden desk.

It opened its beak, and an illusory, layered voice echoed through the room: "You are to aid Louis in hunting the man known as Shaman Olmer. This task will commence tomorrow night. Prepare yourself." The bird’s beak snapped shut, and with a flap of its wings, it took to the air, circled the room once more, and flew straight into the wall, vanishing from sight.

Karl stared at the wall for a long moment, unperturbed. He had expected something like this. It meant there was no need to investigate; if the task was scheduled for tomorrow, the man’s whereabouts were already known. All they needed was extra muscle.

Cold-eyed, Karl sighed. So, Shaman Olmer is the one who’s going to die tomorrow for my survival, he thought, reaching for the door. The fact that Louis had been assigned to him didn’t sit well. That person rattled him more than most.

Stepping into the hallway, Karl was met with white walls dirtied by smudges of dust and grime. He walked down a curved staircase, reminiscent of those found in abandoned cathedrals. Upon reaching the ground floor, he entered a larger counter room. Stone statues lined one side of the building, while the floor was already covered in footprints tracking red dust. Outside, the red dust continued to fall, accompanied by the loud voices of haggling and shouting from the streets beyond.

Round tables in the parlor were occupied by rough-looking thugs. Their white shirts were stained red with dust, some wearing glasses, others with simple caps or white cloth wrapped around their heads. As Karl descended the stairs, their eyes immediately locked onto him, watching, prying, and scrutinizing—searching for any sign of weakness.

Karl ignored their stares and sat on a three-legged stool. His eyes shifted to the bloated woman behind the counter, her expression hesitant and unsure. Likely still shaken from whatever Frederick had done to her. In a cold, flat voice, Karl said, "Something to drink."

The woman remained silent, her eyes darting nervously around the room. Is she trying to signal someone from this crowd? A small seed of concern grew in Karl’s mind. What if everyone here was a thug, gathered to kill him? Could he fight them all? Or would he need to? I doubt I could kill everyone here, he thought, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try if they attack. If things get out of control, I can always run. Anette made that clear.

Karl calmed his thoughts and fixed his gaze on the woman.