Rewritten: Age of Anarchy

The first scream tore through the festival like a knife. 

One moment, Cliffhaven was alive—lanterns swaying, laughter ringing, the scent of spiced wine and roasted fish thick in the air. The next—chaos. 

A merchant's stall erupted, splinters and shrapnel shredding through the crowd. A child's doll tumbled through the air, its button eyes reflecting the moonlight as it landed in a spreading pool of blood. The music died mid-note. Glasses slipped from numb fingers, shattering on cobblestones now slick with crimson. 

And standing atop the wreckage— 

Falkore the Seventh. 

His grin split his face like a wound, teeth glinting in the firelight. 

"BLOOD'S ON THE MENU TONIGHT, BOYS!" 

Then the slaughter began. 

---

Falkore moved like a storm given flesh. 

His greatsword—a jagged slab of blackened steel—hummed as it carved through the crowd. A fisherman's head spun lazily through the air, mouth still open in song. A noblewoman's torso split at the ribs, her pearl necklace scattering like tears. The air thickened with the iron stench of blood, the wet slap of meat hitting stone. 

A city guard charged, halberd gleaming. Falkore caught the weapon mid-thrust—twisted—and drove it downward through the man's skull. The point burst from his groin in a grotesque fountain of gore. 

"Hah!" Falkore kicked the impaled corpse off his blade. "Who's next?" 

Panic erupted. 

A mother shoved her child into a barrel, whispering "Don't make a sound" before a scything blade took her at the knees. A merchant clutched his chest, collapsing mid-flight, his last sight the trampling boots of his neighbors. 

Then— 

"What a brute." 

Medusa the Eleventh waltzed through the hole Falkore had torn in the city walls, her bare feet leaving bloody prints on the cobblestones. Behind her, Rainbow—her six-eyed Null—lurched forward, its maw unhinging to swallow a fleeing woman whole. The woman's scream cut off with a wet crunch. 

Medusa hummed, her lullaby threading through the screams. 

"Clean kills, Falkore," she chided, watching him pry a nobleman's ribs apart like a child opening a gift. "The Great Lord prefers efficiency over theatrics." 

Falkore licked blood from his blade. "Fuck efficiency." 

"Die!!" 

A guard lunged— 

Falkore backhanded him without looking. The man's skull fractured horizontally, his top half sliding off with a squelch. 

Medusa sighed. "And Code?" 

Falkore jerked his chin toward the cliffs. "Where else?" 

High above, Code the Twelfth stood motionless, his cloak billowing like a funeral shroud. His hands remained tucked in his sleeves. 

Waiting. 

---

Vice Commander Rygar's voice boomed across the square, his violet aura flaring like a dying star. His soldiers froze mid-rout, shame flooding their faces as they saw him—unyielding, his greatsword already drawn. 

"THE MAN IS MINE." 

He leapt, the cobblestones shattering under his boots as he landed before Falkore. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through the square. 

Falkore blinked. 

Then grinned. 

Vice Commander Rygar's veins burned with decades of battle—wars against Null beasts, against Mutant beasts, against rogue Awakened, against the hungry dark beyond the city walls. 

[Reaper Art: Scythe of the Abyss]

A monstrous blade of violet death coalesced, its edge humming with enough power to split a fortress. 

He swung. 

Falkore swatted it aside with his bare hand. 

The shockwave flattened nearby buildings. 

Silence. 

Vice Commander Rygar's breath hitched. 

Falkore tilted his head. "Is that all?" He pulled his greatsword from the ground. "I waited patiently for you to attack... and this is what you give me?" 

He sighed. 

Then— 

"Disappointing." 

His blade fell. 

The world split. 

For a heartbeat, Commander Rygar stood, his eyes wide. Then— 

His body parted down the middle, each half sliding away with a wet thud. 

The square held its breath. 

A Count was by no means weak. A warrior who could level city blocks, A warrior who had face strong leviathans in the Danger Zones. 

Dead in one stroke. 

Medusa giggled, twirling on her toes. "Courtesy demands you pay attention to your killer before dying!" She pouted. "That was rude." 

She snapped her fingers. 

"Rainbow." 

The Null beast lunged, its six eyes blazing. 

The soldiers broke. 

Men who had stood against tidal waves of mutants now ran, their armor clattering like frightened geese. One vomited mid-sprint. Another sobbed, his shield discarded like trash. 

"NO!" 

Commander Nui's voice cracked like a whip. 

The fleeing soldiers stumbled to a halt. 

The old warrior stood unbent, his regal armor scarred from forty years of war. The man who had single-handedly slaughtered a horde of Category-3 Mutant Ostriches. The legend. 

He sneered. "You flee from a simple Null?" His gauntleted fist clenched. "Where is your—" 

Then he felt it. 

A gaze. 

Medusa's gaze. 

Her face—twisted. Her lips—trembling. Her eyes—wide, wet, unblinking. 

"You..." 

Her voice was a child's whimper. 

"You killed Rainbow." 

The soldiers flinched. The Null beast lay motionless, its skull crushed by Nui's last strike. 

Medusa shook. 

"You killed my baby." 

Her fingers curled, her nails drawing blood from her palms. 

"YOU'LL PAY!" 

She moved. 

The shield formation—shattered. 

Men exploded as she passed, their bodies distorting like melted wax. One soldier screamed as his ribs pierced his own lungs. Another choked on his swelling tongue. 

Commander Nui watched, his jaw tight. 

"Cellular manipulation," he muttered. 

His aide stammered, "S-Sire?" 

Nui unclasped his cape, letting it fall to the bloodied stones. 

"She controls flesh." His knuckles cracked. "Time to end this." 

He stepped forward. 

Medusa met him, her face a mask of grief and rage. 

"Give him back," she whispered. 

Then— 

Hell. ---------