Rise of The Abandoned Husband

Tension crackled through the air as Ms. Hayward stepped forward, her face a mask of determination despite the purple bruises forming on her throat. The alliance between us felt fragile, tenuous—like a thread ready to snap at any moment.

"I have something that will stop them," she declared, her voice raspy from Vernon's assault. From her robes, she produced a gleaming object—a small, ornate dagger that pulsed with blinding white energy.

"A Martial Saint Weapon," I breathed, recognizing the unmistakable aura of power.

The Man with the Mustache grabbed my arm. "Liam, we need to retreat. Even a Martial Saint Weapon might not be enough against them."

I shook my head. "We can't. Isabelle is in danger. And they're heading straight for her."

Ms. Hayward didn't wait for our debate to conclude. She lunged toward Vernon, the Martial Saint Weapon leaving a trail of white light as she moved with incredible speed.

"For the glory of the Guild!" she shouted.

Her attack was perfect—centuries of martial training condensed into a single, devastating strike aimed at Vernon's heart. The blade connected with a blinding flash.

Then silence.

When the light faded, my blood ran cold. Vernon stood unmoved, the Martial Saint Weapon caught between his fingers like a toy. With a casual twist of his wrist, he shattered the legendary blade.

"Impossible," Ms. Hayward whispered, backing away. "That weapon was forged by—"

Vernon's eyes flashed. He didn't touch her. He simply looked at her.

The effect was instantaneous and horrifying. Ms. Hayward's body convulsed violently. Blood erupted from her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth as she collapsed to her knees, her proud frame suddenly frail and broken.

"Guild Master!" several disciples screamed, rushing toward her fallen form.

"The arrogance of youth," Vernon's voice reverberated like thunder. "Your weapons are trinkets to us. Your power, a whisper against a hurricane."

Broderick stepped forward, his massive frame trembling with rage. "You'll pay for that!" he roared, his body erupting with power as he unleashed his full Martial Saint aura.

The air distorted around him as he charged, each step cracking the earth beneath his feet. His fist, wrapped in a swirling vortex of energy, crashed toward Hadwin's chest with enough force to level a mountain.

Hadwin didn't dodge. Instead, he raised a single hand and caught Broderick's fist.

"Is that all?" Hadwin asked calmly.

Before Broderick could respond, Hadwin flicked his wrist. The simple gesture sent Broderick hurtling through three buildings before he crashed into the ground, creating a crater fifty feet wide. He didn't get up.

"This is insane," the Man with the Mustache whispered beside me. "Even Martial Saints are like children to them."

Panic spread through the crowd. People began running in all directions, screaming for help, begging for mercy.

Vernon raised his hand, and the very fabric of space seemed to warp. An invisible barrier formed around the area, trapping everyone inside.

"None shall leave," he announced. "All shall witness."

I grabbed Clara and pulled her behind me protectively. "I need to try something," I told the Man with the Mustache. "Get ready to run with Clara if it doesn't work."

"What are you planning?" he asked nervously.

I didn't answer. Instead, I approached the Guardians slowly, holding up the painting the Masked Woman had given me.

"You serve the Masked One, right?" I called out, keeping my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at my insides. "This belongs to her. She gave it to me."

Both Guardians turned to face me, their ancient eyes studying the painting with unnerving intensity.

"The Weeping Canvas," Vernon observed. "A tool of containment."

"Yes," I replied, encouraged. "She entrusted it to me. That means she doesn't want you to harm us."

Hadwin tilted his head. "You misunderstand your role, vessel-keeper. The canvas was meant to protect you until our awakening. That purpose is fulfilled."

My heart sank. "Then what is your purpose now?"

"Cleansing," they answered in unison.

As they spoke, their auras intensified. The air grew heavy, making it difficult to breathe. Several people at the edges of the crowd suddenly collapsed, their bodies withering as though aged decades in seconds.

"Stop!" I shouted, desperately channeling energy into the painting. Nothing happened. Unlike before, when it had absorbed Broderick's attack, the canvas remained inert in my hands.

The Man with the Mustache appeared at my side. "Try the clothes," he whispered urgently. "The Masked Woman's garments—they might respond to the Guardians."

I quickly reached into my pack and withdrew the black robes I'd taken from the Chamber of Masks. The fabric seemed to shimmer in the presence of the Guardians, but when I held it up, they merely glanced at it dismissively.

"Her vestments without her presence are meaningless," Vernon stated. "You cannot command us with empty symbols."

More people fell to their knees as the Guardians' killing aura expanded. Their bodies contorted in agony before collapsing, lifeless husks left in their wake.

"They're killing everyone!" Clara cried, her small hands clutching my arm.

Guilt crashed over me in waves. I had brought these monsters here. I had stored them away like trophies, not understanding what they truly were. Now innocent people were dying because of my ignorance.

"What do we do?" the Man with the Mustache asked, his usual bravado replaced by genuine terror.

I had no answer. The Crimson Fist technique had affected Vernon earlier, but just barely. And using it had drained me significantly. Against their full power, it would be like throwing a pebble at a mountain.

"We need to evacuate as many people as possible," I decided, looking around frantically. "If we can't stop them, we need to save who we can."

But even as I spoke, I knew it was hopeless. The spatial barrier had sealed all exits. We were trapped with two ancient killing machines, and I had no idea how to stop them.

Hadwin stepped forward, each movement causing ripples in the air around him. "Your struggle is meaningless. Your existence, temporary. The cycle returns to its beginning."

"What cycle?" I demanded, desperate to buy time, to find any weakness I could exploit. "Why are you doing this?"

"The awakening requires sacrifice," Vernon explained, as if speaking to a child. "The Masked One rises through blood. It has always been so."

Horror dawned on me. "You're killing people to power some kind of ritual?"

"Not a ritual," Hadwin corrected. "A homecoming."

Vernon raised both hands, and the killing aura intensified tenfold. People began dropping like flies, their life force visibly draining into swirling tendrils of energy that flowed toward the Guardians.

"I can't let you do this!" I charged forward, summoning every ounce of strength I had left. The crimson mark on my palm blazed as I prepared to unleash the Crimson Fist once more.

Vernon's eyes flashed with mild interest. "Your dedication is noted, vessel-keeper. But futile."

Before I could reach him, an invisible force slammed into me, sending me flying backward. I crashed into a wall, pain exploding through my body. The impact left me dazed, struggling to breathe.

"Liam!" Clara rushed to my side, her face pale with fear.

The Man with the Mustache helped me to my feet. "We can't fight them directly," he hissed. "It's suicide!"

He was right. Every attempt to oppose them had failed miserably. Even Martial Saints had fallen like insects before their power.

I watched in helpless horror as Vernon and Hadwin began systematically executing everyone around them. Some tried to fight back—guild members, warriors, even ordinary citizens with makeshift weapons. All fell before the Guardians' overwhelming might.

"There must be something," I muttered, wracking my brain for any solution. "Something we're missing."

The Man with the Mustache's eyes suddenly widened. "The scroll! Maybe there's something in the ancient text we overlooked!"

I quickly retrieved the scroll, unrolling it with trembling hands. The crimson characters seemed to shimmer more intensely than before, responding to the Guardians' presence.

"I can't make sense of all of it," I admitted, squinting at the complex symbols. "But this section here mentions 'the anchors of awakening'—could that be referring to the Guardians?"

"Let me see," the Man with the Mustache leaned closer, his expertise in ancient languages suddenly invaluable. "It says the anchors can only be broken by... by the 'gaze of the mistress herself.'"

"The Masked Woman?" I asked, hope flickering faintly.

He nodded slowly. "But she's not here. Unless..."

His eyes drifted to Clara, who was huddled against my side, her small form trembling with fear.

"No," I said firmly, understanding his implication. "We are not sacrificing Clara on some cryptic hint from an ancient scroll."

"I wasn't suggesting that," he protested. "But the scroll mentions a connection between the Masked One and a 'vessel of pure darkness.' Clara has a pure dark energy body, remember?"

Before I could respond, Vernon's voice boomed across the courtyard.

"Enough delay. The cleansing concludes."

He raised his hand toward the remaining survivors, who huddled together in terror. The air around his palm began to distort, reality itself seeming to tear at the seams.

This was it. Whatever attack he was preparing would kill everyone instantly. We had failed.

I pulled Clara closer, shielding her with my body. "I'm sorry," I whispered, genuine remorse flooding through me. "I should have been stronger."

The Man with the Mustache closed his eyes, accepting his fate with surprising dignity.

Vernon's attack began to manifest—a sphere of pure void that would erase everything it touched from existence. The very air screamed as it was torn apart.

And then, something extraordinary happened.

Vernon's gaze, sweeping across his intended victims, fell upon Clara. The ancient Guardian froze, the destructive sphere wavering in his palm.

"Impossible," he whispered, his voice suddenly stripped of its overwhelming confidence.

Hadwin turned to see what had given his companion pause. When his eyes found Clara, he physically recoiled, taking several steps backward.

"Brother," he said to Vernon, real fear evident in his voice, "it cannot be."

The sphere of destruction dissipated as Vernon's concentration shattered. His eyes—those same eyes that had casually extinguished dozens of lives moments ago—now contained something I never expected to see.

Terror. Absolute, unmistakable terror.

"What is happening?" the Man with the Mustache whispered, as confused as I was.

Clara stepped forward from behind me, her small face set in determination despite her fear.

"They're afraid," she said softly, her voice carrying in the sudden silence. "They're afraid of me."

Vernon and Hadwin, the unstoppable Guardians who had swatted away Martial Saints like flies, were backing away from a small girl with trembling steps.

"The Mistress's eyes," Vernon murmured, his voice shaking. "She looks through you."

Clara took another step forward, seemingly emboldened by their reaction. "Who am I?" she demanded, her childish voice somehow carrying immense weight in that moment.

The Guardians exchanged glances, ancient knowledge passing between them. Then Hadwin spoke, his voice barely above a whisper:

"You are her shadow. Her reflection. The vessel that will bring her fully into this world." He dropped to one knee, Vernon following suit immediately. "Forgive us, Young Mistress. We did not recognize you in this form."

The survivors watched in stunned silence as the invincible monsters who had been slaughtering them moments ago now knelt before a small girl.

I stepped up beside Clara, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. "What does this mean?" I asked the Guardians. "What is Clara to the Masked Woman?"

Vernon raised his head slightly, his eyes never meeting Clara's directly, as if afraid to look upon her face. "She is not merely connected to the Mistress. She is becoming the Mistress."

A chill ran down my spine as I remembered Clara's words from days ago: "I dreamed I was wearing a mask, and everyone was afraid of me."

Not a dream. A premonition.

Clara's small hand found mine, squeezing it for reassurance. When she looked up at me, I saw confusion and fear in her eyes—but also something else. Something ancient and knowing that had no place in a child's gaze.

"Liam," she whispered, "I'm scared. What's happening to me?"

Before I could answer, Vernon spoke again, his voice regaining some of its former power.

"The awakening proceeds as foretold. The vessel recognizes her purpose." He rose to his feet, towering over us once more. "We shall prepare the way, Young Mistress. The Chamber awaits your return."

With those cryptic words, both Guardians bowed deeply, then vanished in a blur of movement too fast for the eye to follow, leaving behind a courtyard filled with the dead, the dying, and the profoundly shaken survivors.

In the sudden silence, Clara's small voice seemed to echo with terrible significance:

"Liam, their eyes... When they looked at me, I remembered something." She trembled against me. "I remembered wearing the mask. And it felt... it felt right."