The Multiverse Hunter

"Fire Serpent!" Edwin roared, his voice hoarse but fierce as Thomas's sword ripped clean through his side, cutting deep into flesh and tearing muscle from bone. Yet Edwin's right arm stretched forward defiantly, fingers spread wide as a swirling crimson magic circle spun into existence around his wrist. A thin, flickering serpent of flames burst forth—alive with heat and hate—its fiery scales shimmering like molten glass as it slithered through the air.

UGH

The serpent struck Thomas across the face, searing flesh and scorching through the left side of his vision in an instant. The smell of burning skin filled the air as Thomas's left eye went blind, but the pain only stoked the storm inside him. He didn't flinch. He didn't hesitate. With a thunderous roar of hate and agony, Thomas slammed his left fist forward like a hammer.

CRACK

The punch smashed into Edwin's face, snapping his head back as his feet left the charred ground. Edwin's body flew across the battlefield, crashing down in a heap as blood poured from the gaping wound in his gut, mixing with the scorched mud beneath him.

Gasping, Edwin staggered back onto his feet. His shoulders trembled. His sword rattled in his exhausted grip. His mana reserves were bone dry—spent and gone—and all that clung to him now was the ragged shell of his aura. Even so, he refused to kneel. He planted his feet. His sunken eyes glowed with a feverish light as he lifted his sword beside his battered head, the tip aimed straight at Thomas.

'I'd rather die than watch her smile at you…' Edwin thought as a final flicker of defiance sparked inside him.

"EDWIN!" Thomas roared as he thundered forward, aura burning wild around him like molten iron, his sword poised to sever the last tie to this nightmare.

"THOMASSSSS!" Edwin's throat strained with the shout, voice raw with desperation as he lunged to meet him halfway. His boots tore trenches in the scorched soil.

CLASH

They crashed together like titans, the clash of metal and flesh ringing through the empty, burning field. When the dust settled, they stood chest to chest—so close they could feel each other's breath—locked in that final moment.

Blood dripped in heavy droplets from Edwin's lips, trailing down his chin. Thomas's sword was buried deep inside Edwin's gut, the steel still quivering from the force of the blow. Edwin's own sword lay forgotten in the dirt, his fingers twitching uselessly in the air.

"Where is she? Where is my wife?" Thomas growled, his one good eye a hurricane of rage and dread. The question was a blade of its own—sharp, merciless, hungry for truth.

Edwin's eyes, glassy and red-veined, flickered with a dim, broken light. A thin line of blood crept from the corner of his eye as he let out a half-choked laugh, his teeth stained crimson. "You were always… the dumber one…" he rasped, his words dripping venom and despair.

With a sudden violent motion, Edwin pushed himself off the blade, wrenching it from his belly. Blood sprayed out in a gruesome arc, splattering Thomas's armour as Edwin stumbled backward. Thomas's eye followed him, burning with confusion and hate.

"We were played, you fool…" Edwin sneered through split lips, his voice now a ragged whisper as his knees buckled. He toppled backward into the blood-soaked grass, staring skyward at the merciless sun that burned above the battlefield that had devoured his dreams.

'If only… if only I could see her smile… just once more…' The thought flickered in Edwin's mind—then the world went black. His pupils went dull. His chest fell silent. And the once-proud heir of House Cinder died where he lay—alone, staring at a sky that didn't care.

Thomas's breath thundered in his ears. The weight of his sword was gone. His mind barely registered the lifeless body before him when—

"Finally."

A voice, deep and calm, drifted from behind him like cold iron against the back of his neck. Thomas's entire body stiffened as he turned, dread crawling up his spine like spiders made of ice.

Only now did he truly see the battlefield. Where once two proud houses clashed in steel and blood, now there was nothing but scorched ruin—melted swords buried in ash, charred earth still glowing with dying embers. His knights—his brothers—gone. Not even bodies remained. Only gore and twisted metal.

Then Thomas's eyes fell on the one who stood in the centre of it all. A man in black, calm and unbothered, sat atop the unconscious bulk of the Cinder Knight Captain as if the giant was just another stone throne.

Behind him, monstrous shadows loomed—red scales shimmering like coals to the right, emerald scales coiled to the left, and rising from the darkness behind him, a massive black dragon head appeared, fanged jaws still chewing. A limp corpse dangled from those teeth—armour Thomas knew by heart.

'That's… that's father's armour…' The thought turned his blood to ice.

His gaze fell lower, trembling, until it locked onto the ground at the man's feet. There, lying in ash, was his father's severed head—eyes glassy, lips parted in an echo of a final command that would never be spoken again.

"Father…" Thomas's voice cracked as he stumbled forward like a broken marionette. He didn't care that the man with the dragons was watching him like a hawk. He didn't care that the ash clouds burned his lungs. All he saw was the father who had raised him, trained him, loved him—and now lay dead and cold.

Halfway there, his body gave out. The forceful fourth level breakthrough had pushed his body to its edge; the brutal duel with Edwin had bled him dry. He collapsed onto his knees, gasping, trembling, powerless.

Ali watched him with black eyes, colder than any blade. Without a word, he snapped his fingers. A small black device appeared in his hand—innocuous, almost pathetic in its size. He pressed a button on top with an indifferent flick of his finger, then tossed it at Thomas's knees like throwing scraps to a dog.

The tiny speaker hissed, then crackled to life.

"Edwin, no! EDWIN, LET ME GO! THOMAS! THOMAS—!"

His wife's voice—raw, terrified, echoing over and over, drilling into his skull like nails. It repeated again and again, each time stripping a piece of him away, leaving only the raw, bleeding truth in its wake.

"You… you did all of this… You're the devil—no, you're worse— you're a wretched DEMON! YOU WILL DIE FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! YOU CAN'T GET AWAY WITH THIS! YOU CAN'T— YOU CAN'T GET AWAY WITH THIS!" Thomas's voice cracked into a scream, spit flying from his lips, rage and despair colliding in his throat until he choked on both.

His one good eye bulged with veins, locked onto Ali—this unmovable shadow standing calmly amid the carnage and flame.

Ali's eyes didn't flicker. His black stare held Thomas's fury with the indifference of stone weathering a storm. He watched the broken boy scream and writhe with all the dignity of a dying animal and felt nothing—only the distant echo of memory where pity might once have lived.

"I have done worse things to better men than you," Ali said, voice as calm as falling snow, tone sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. "Many times." His eyes narrowed by a hair. "At least die knowing your wife and child will not be harmed."

He lifted a single finger, casual as a lord brushing aside dust. A slow, dismissive flick forward.

Shadow's massive head loomed behind Ali like a black mountain moving under the sun. The enormous snout cracked open, rows of monstrous jagged teeth splitting apart to reveal the abyss beyond—thick strands of black drool hung like chains from the roof of Shadow's mouth. Thomas's heart plummeted into that pit before the teeth even closed.

The last thing Thomas saw was not Ali's face, nor the sun overhead—but the pitch dark between those jaws.

CRUNCH

Shadow's low, rumbling growl rolled over the scorched earth, swallowing the last echo of Thomas Nolan's defiance forever.

Ali turned his head slightly toward his red dragon, no expression shifting across his cold features. "You can go now."

Abeloth's wings flared wide. With a single monumental beat, the ancient dragon rose through the blackened sky—his massive form vanishing into the haze, heading for the horizon where Obidos waited.

Ali's eyes drifted upward at the low hum of blades cutting air as a large black drone decloaked itself—. Dozens of smaller drones flickered to life around it, blinking into sight as if they'd been part of the sky all along.

Ali's eyes reflected the whirring machines overhead. "I leave the rest to you," he said. Then he stood, stepping off the unconscious knight captain's massive chest. With a single fluid motion, he vaulted onto Eldora's broad emerald neck. The dragon lowered her massive head, wings spread wide, welcoming him like a throne carved from ancient storms.

Shadow's massive, black-fanged maw slipped back into the soil, his coiling body melting into Ali's own shadow as if it had never been separate.

Half an hour earlier — Nolan Castle

Far from the battlefield's fire and blood, Lady Nolan stood motionless in the courtyard of her family's keep. The sun washed over her bowed head and clasped hands. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Beneath her calm exterior, the air around her seemed to hum with a brittle tension—a final fragile shield against the storm she could feel coming.

A cluster of young knight trainees stood at a distance, half-hidden behind stone pillars and archways. Their eyes stayed fixed on her pale hands, on the flickering shadows of her folded fingers. Even the castle's youngest maids, paused in their chores to watch—none of them dared interrupt the First Lady's sacred moment. They all prayed with her in their own silent, hidden ways. For her. For their House. For their fathers and brothers fighting at that very hour.

"My lady," a gentle voice whispered. The First Lady did not open her eyes. Her whisper continued under her breath—"Oh heavenly fire, watch over my son, watch over my husband. Bless your humble servant with your mercy…"

The voice trembled. It belonged to her personal maid—a girl who'd been by her side since before Thomas could walk. The girl stepped closer, her eyes darting to the older knight standing guard behind Lady Nolan—a scarred man clad in battered plate and the deep calm of a veteran. He did not shift, though his knuckles whitened on his sword hilt.

"My lady…" the maid tried again, more urgent now.

Lady Nolan's lashes fluttered open, the prayer falling silent on her lips as she lifted her eyes. "Speak," she said, her voice soft but iron.

"There is a carriage waiting outside the gates," the maid murmured. "It is the advisor of Baron Ali—of the southern border."

At that name, the fragile shield around Lady Nolan's heart cracked. Her breath caught—just for an instant. Her mind spun. Ali. The Dragon Rider. The serpent in the shadows.

"Why is she here?" Lady Nolan whispered to herself, but the maid, as always, answered anyway.

"She says… she says you invited her, my lady."

The First Lady's breath caught again—this time it turned sharp, slicing through the confusion. A lie. Or a warning. Or both. Her eyes flicked to the old knight. His jaw tensed, but he did not speak.

She looked back at the maid, her voice like a blade sheathed in silk. "Tell the guards… open the gates."

The maid bowed low, hiding the fear on her young face as she hurried off. Lady Nolan pressed her hands together once more—this time not in prayer, but to steady the tremor that threatened to betray her mask of poise.

The old gates of House Nolan groaned open on rusted hinges that had never sounded so final. Through the yawning mouth rolled a simple wooden carriage drawn by two sturdy brown horses. The driver atop the bench was no knight or court groom, but an old villager in plain work clothes—one of those Ali had rescued and fed. One of the grateful, now turned servant.

The carriage rolled to a stop on the courtyard's frost-tipped stones. Lady Nolan stood still as marble, the older knight behind her, his aura humming just beneath his skin—a second level aura knight and teacher of House Nolan's squires, the last sword standing to protect the castle.

Everyone watched with bated breath as the simple wooden carriage door creaked open on its old hinges— and out stepped Fiona.

She wore a pale white dress, the fabric simple yet perfectly cut, falling around her like water with a faint flower motif embroidered on the back. A humble garment by noble standards— yet on her it looked like something regal, the delicate folds outlining her graceful form, accentuating her slender shoulders, the soft curves of her waist, the smooth line of her neck.

This dress hadn't come from a city tailor or some grand House's treasury— it was a gift. A piece of mourning and gratitude from the village chief Ali had rescued along with the other villagers. It had belonged to the chief's own late daughter— and he insisted Fiona accept the gift for the kindness she showed them so far with helping recover from the attack.

The courtyard fell into a hush so deep it might have been sacred. Every knight trainee, every young squire, every household servant— their tension bled away the instant they saw her. Anger, suspicion, fear— all dulled into wide-eyed awe.

None of them had ever seen a woman like her in flesh and blood: the way the sunlight touched her brown hair, drawing out those hidden streaks of gold like fire under silk. The way her golden eyes, so vivid under her soft lashes, seemed to catch the very light of the courtyard and hold it captive. The soft smile on her lips did not promise warmth— it simply commanded gentleness from those around her.

Behind her, the second figure emerged in a rush— a shape they knew well. Thomas's wife stumbled out of the carriage, her belly obvious under her cloak, her eyes wet, the sound of her ragged breathing cutting through the hush like a blade.

The castle's heart skipped a beat. A collective gasp trembled the air.

"How? You—" Lady Nolan managed, the word slipping from her lips half-formed as her daughter-in-law bolted across the short distance— all the silence shattering under the sound of a single word:

"Mother—!"

The young woman threw her arms around Lady Nolan's rigid form, burying her tear-soaked face into the older woman's shoulder. Lady Nolan's arms, slow at first, clutched her back with iron resolve. She closed her eyes, hiding the flood of relief and dread all at once— this was her son's bride, the future of House Nolan, pressed against her chest as the only warmth left in this cold courtyard.

Behind them, the older knight— the second-level aura veteran who had stayed behind— stepped forward, his hand clamped tight around the hilt at his hip. Fury twisted his scarred face.

"You—" he growled, every muscle in his neck coiling as he glared at Fiona like she were poison given human skin.

Fiona met his stare— and simply looked. Just a slight tilt of her chin, that faint polite smile unchanged— but her eyes said it all. A gaze like cut glass, polished by the weight of a world the old knight could never dream of touching. A quiet, subtle reminder that there were people born to stand above men like him— and she was one of them.

The knight froze. His boots scraped to a stop mid-stride. Beneath the calm of her posture, something vast and cold pressed down on him. He lowered his hand from his hilt without even thinking— suddenly conscious of how unworthy it looked, this country iron against a presence like hers.

Fiona turned her attention back to Lady Nolan as if the interruption never happened. "Can we talk inside?" she asked, her voice as light and warm as spring water— as if she hadn't just stepped out of a carriage beside the wife they'd thought lost forever.

But Thomas's wife clutched at Lady Nolan's arm, voice trembling through broken sobs that made the watching servants' spines shiver: "They're behind it all… they're behind it all…" Her words fell into the courtyard like cold rain.

Lady Nolan looked from the girl in her arms to Fiona— her gaze wide, questions screaming behind her eyes that her mouth refused to give voice to. She turned sharply to her maid, voice steady only by force of will:

"Prepare tea for our guest," she said, each word cutting against her tongue like broken glass.

Fiona gave the older lady a small, courteous nod— and turned her head just slightly, the sun catching the edge of her golden irises as if they were polished coins. Without a single word more, she stepped past them— and House Nolan's last defence opened around her like a dying flower, swallowing her up with silent dread.

Minutes later, the heavy doors of House Nolan's grand guest hall closed with a soft thud behind them. It was a room of old polished wood, marble floors and massive windows that drank in the slow bleed of afternoon light. Heavy drapes hung unmoving against the glass— the only movement inside was the faint swirl of steam from two untouched cups of tea.

Lady Nolan sat perfectly upright in her tall-backed chair. One hand rested around the delicate porcelain, though she hadn't lifted it once. Across from her, Fiona sat serene— posture straight, gloved hands resting lightly on the edge of the polished table, her eyes turned not to her host but to the wide window to her right.

Outside, the young squires whispered in anxious knots. The carriage waited at the far end of the courtyard— the village driver pale and stiff under the weight of so many suspicious eyes.

Inside, silence reigned like a tyrant. Fiona's smile hadn't slipped once. She spoke first, the warm curl of her voice brushing the edge of mockery as gently as rose petals brushing a blade.

"I see your knights are away at war. Did I perhaps come at an inconvenient time?" She tilted her head slightly, as if innocently curious— though both women knew the venom coiled just beneath that gentle tone. "I thought the war was in week's time."

Lady Nolan set her cup down with a soft click— too soft for the tremor she felt in her bones. Her lips pressed thin. She didn't bother hiding her contempt. "Why? You said you wouldn't enter the war. Does your word hold no honour at all?"

Fiona's smile deepened by a fraction— the sort of smile that made men dream and women sharpen knives. She met Lady Nolan's glare with eyes that glowed gold even in the muted light.

"Being an advisor means I hold no power, Lady Nolan." Her tone was feather-soft, each word drifting through the thick air like silk, mocking its own innocence. "I simply relay the will of the man I serve. When you asked— that was his stance. But after that…" She lifted her gloved hand, brushing a phantom speck of dust from her teacup rim. "Well, what can I say? He changed his mind."

Under the table, Lady Nolan's nails dug so hard into her palm she nearly broke skin. Her eyes flicked to the window, half-praying for a miracle— for Kale to stride through the gate, sword in hand, backlit by victory's roar— anything but this.

But reality offered only the echo of wind through the courtyard, and the quiet hum of her own heartbeat pounding treason against her ribs.

Fiona did not sip her tea— she didn't need to. She simply sat there, gold eyes distant, head turned slightly to the sun that now dipped low over House Nolan's walls. It caught the edges of her hair, the delicate folds of her borrowed dress— turned her into something half statue, half angel.

Beneath all that calm, Fiona's thoughts drifted far beyond this old castle and its broken matron.

Fiona was by nature soft hearted, she always had great sympathy and a caring heart for commoners helping out and opening charities for them when she was younger, she use to get reprimanded on a daily basis for not acting as her place in society demanded but she didn't care, after-all her one true love was a commoner and she picked him over any royal suitor that came asking for her hand.

'George… I miss you more each day. Every night alone aches worse than the last. If I did not have our child to hold, I think I would fall apart. My love… where are you?' The warmth of the sun against her cheek felt like his hand— and for the smallest moment, Fiona's smile trembled at the corner.

But her eyes stayed bright, her posture perfect. Because Fiona— Baron Ali's perfect mask— would never let the world see the ache in her heart. Not here, where kingdoms would rise and burn before this sun set again.

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