The Multiverse Hunter

"Our people will always be loyal to our house. Even if you kill every last one of us…" Lady Nolan's voice trembled only at the edges as she spoke— but the iron was still there. Beneath the heavy oak table, hidden from view, her right hand clutched the thin, gleaming hairpin she'd slipped from her sleeve. Its polished tip quivered just slightly in her grip as she held it ready.

Her words cut at the still air like a dull dagger forced through flesh.

"The Viscount returns next week. He will see your lord for what he is— a threat. A savage who butchered the loyal, the honourable Knight House. You are clever enough to know there is no future for you here… You do not belong here. Go back to whatever gutter you crawled from— before it's too late."

Her eyes burned as she said it, hatred and something more brittle— the fragile glimmer of a matriarch who could feel her life's work slipping through her fingers, crumbling into ash before her eyes. She spoke as though her voice could hold her walls up a moment longer. But her hand shook under the table— the silver hairpin wavered with the tremor of her breath.

Fiona watched her in silence. The golden flicker in her calm eyes made her look almost gentle— but beneath that softness was a blade of her own. She could see it in Lady Nolan's clenched jaw, the way her shoulders stiffened as if the words alone could hold back what was coming. 'She's seeing it… she's finally seeing it,' Fiona thought quietly. 'She's tasting the loss she spent her whole life dreading.'

And then—

WOOOOOSH

The glass panes of the grand windows slammed wide open all at once as a powerful wind crashed into the hall. The curtains snapped like torn sails and the wind caught Fiona's brown hair, whipping it back to reveal streaks of hidden gold that shone like a crown in the last bleeding rays of sundown. It turned her into something more than mortal— a vision of stolen nobility draped in a dead girl's dress.

"He's here," Fiona murmured aloud, her eyes already on the sky outside. She didn't need to see him to know— only one force could break through the calm with that kind of effortless power.

Lady Nolan didn't move, didn't speak— her grip on the hairpin loosened just slightly. She could do nothing but watch Fiona reach delicately into her sleeve and pull free a scrap of soft cloth— white linen, creased gently from days kept folded close. The older woman's breath caught when she recognised it.

"Lady Nolan… thank you for the handkerchief." Fiona's voice was almost warm, almost grateful. She laid the cloth on the table like an old friend returned home— the smallest token that felt like a farewell and a warning in one.

"I hope the one I gave you was a worthy substitute…"

She dipped her head— a queen's bow in a stranger's home— then turned and stepped from the hall, her plain white hem brushing the polished marble as she passed the frozen lady of the house who stared through her, gaze drifting to the window instead, to the courtyard beyond.

As the doors swung shut behind her, Thomas's wife nearly collided with Fiona in the threshold. She squeezed aside, wide-eyed, and darted into the room where Lady Nolan sat unmoving, still staring at the window's jagged edges where the wind had torn through.

"Mother— what happened?" the girl asked, breathless, voice thin with fear as she stood before the woman who had always been her stone wall. But Lady Nolan did not answer— not yet. Instead, with hands that trembled more than she would ever admit, she reached slowly into the fold of her dress.

She drew out a handkerchief— the one Fiona had slipped into her hands at Fort Stork. She hadn't unfolded it once since that day— part loyalty, part superstition, part hope that if she never looked, it would never matter. But now she did.

The delicate linen unfurled in her hands— and the black ink was dry but sharp as if written only yesterday:

"If you wish to keep your Bloodline alive…"

She read the words in her mind, eyes drifting down to the single, larger word written boldly beneath it.

"KNEEL."

The hairpin clattered from her numb fingers onto the floor.

Thomas's wife followed her mother-in-law's vacant stare out the window, drawn by the sudden shouts from the courtyard below. The training squires and household servants were no longer clustered in whispering knots— instead they were all pouring out past the gates, heads tilted skyward.

Above the castle, the sky split with the deep emerald wings of a dragon dancing in the last shards of sunset. Eldora soared in smooth, graceful loops through the open clouds— no threat in her beauty, only the cold wonder that pressed silence into every trembling human throat below.

But beyond the castle walls, in the village, a different shadow moved. A road that had been empty moments ago was now lined with bodies— not dead but living, every single villager on their knees as one. Young, old, broken, healthy— all bowed beneath a quiet, unseen weight that pushed them to the ground as surely as gravity itself.

At the centre of that road, he walked alone— a man in black, his body like a statue chiselled by the gods themselves, moving at an unhurried pace that made every heartbeat thunder louder. Ali's steps were slow and silent, but the ground felt them. Wherever his boots touched stone and dirt, men fell lower to their knees— the air thickened, the weight in their chests grew unbearable.

And far above him, Eldora spun once more through the painted dusk— a crown of emerald scale above the head of the man the villagers could not help but kneel to.

Not because he asked for it.

But because every soul there felt in their bones that the age they had known was over— and the age of this Lord had just begun.

But what truly shattered whatever courage lingered in those trembling hearts was not just the towering dragon or the man's unyielding stride— it was the grotesque trophy he dragged behind him.

Trailing through the dirt and scattered petals of the main road was a severed head— Kale Nolan's head— bound in place by a gleaming silver chain that clinked like a death knell each time Ali's boots struck the earth. Every step dragged the once-proud lord's lifeless face through the mud, erasing every ounce of dignity he'd once commanded.

"That's… T-T-That's Lord Nolan—"

One of the older men in the front choked out the words, voice cracking under the weight of the truth. His knees gave out and smashed into the stone so hard that blood seeped through his trousers, but he didn't feel it—he only felt the agony in his chest as his forehead struck the ground again and again in grief and rage.

Their lord— the pillar of their protection, their honour— now reduced to a mutilated trophy dragged like a dog's chew toy. And the monster who did it didn't even spare them a second glance.

Ali's boots crushed any illusions they clung to. His eyes, dark and calm, swept over the mass of villagers kneeling in lines like livestock ready for branding. 'I don't care what these worms think. Their loyalty is dust to me,' Ali thought coldly as he stepped through their pain.

He could feel the heat of their grief, the salt of tears dropping onto the soil— yet none of it reached him. They are beneath mercy. In a distant corner of his mind, he even weighed the practicality of handing these trembling bodies over to Seraphina. A human farm.

If they could hear what flickered through his mind, every last head would drop even lower, praying to any god that death would come quick.

At the gates of the keep, the last flicker of resistance stood like paper soldiers in a storm. The guards at the portcullis clutched their spears in stiff hands, tips trained on Ali's advancing figure— yet the spear shafts rattled uncontrollably against the stone walls, betraying the hands that held them. Their teeth clenched so tight blood dripped at their gums. But not one of them could will their feet to close the gap. Not one dared to take the single step that would mean certain death. And Ali— Ali didn't even bother to use his Force. They crumbled on instinct alone.

At the same time, the courtyard air cracked with another presence— elegant but otherworldly. Eldora, the emerald leviathan, swept in like a rolling thundercloud. Her wings carved the wind to ribbons as she descended in a slow spiral, air currents swirling around her with a roar that drowned out even the trainees' fearful chatter. The guards on the high walls pulled back bowstrings by reflex— but none loosed an arrow. The emerald plates on Eldora's flanks might as well have been plates of living myth. No steel would pierce them today.

And at the heart of that maelstrom— a vision that seemed like a dream spun from another world— was Fiona, her delicate laughter swept by the warm currents the dragon's wings kicked up. Her hair, now a waterfall of gold unveiled, lifted around her face like a halo. She leaned against Eldora's massive snout, stroking the scales with such gentle familiarity that it looked more like a dance than a bond of master and beast.

'This is why…' Lady Nolan's cracked mind echoed the same bitter thought as she stumbled from the hall. She saw Fiona's soft smile, the way she fit so naturally at the centre of this nightmare— an angel robed in silk among dragons and death.

CREAK—

All heads turned as the giant gates of the castle slowly opened with a moaning groan that felt like the last whimper of a dying beast. The two gatekeepers moved like corpses dragged by chains— eyes glued to the stones beneath their feet, their shame so thick they dared not lift their heads to meet the eyes of their lady standing behind them.

And through that yawning threshold came the source of every horror written on the faces watching him— Ali, boots tapping lightly, the chain scraping and singing behind him. The severed head of Kale Nolan bounced off the stones...

ROOOOOOAAAAR—

Eldora lifted her head high and let loose a thunderous roar that rattled loose tiles from the courtyard roofs. It was not a threat— it was an announcement. Their master had arrived. And beside her snout, Fiona's smile only grew sweeter, her eyes soft as rose petals yet sharp as glass— unmoved by the ruin trailing behind the man she served.

But not everyone bowed. Not yet.

Lady Nolan collapsed as her knees failed her— the gasp caught in her throat as her eyes fixed on the bloodless, vacant face of the man she had built her life beside. Her son's wife caught her elbow, but her grip was hollow, her face as pale as the marble steps beneath her.

Before them all, the last knight of House Nolan stood tall— the last flicker of dying flame. His sword shimmered brighter now, his aura pulsing with raw hatred so deep it rattled his teeth. He drew in a breath thick with smoke and grief, then spat it out as a promise. Behind him, every squire who could muster a flicker of aura did so— trembling blades, small sparks of light in the growing dark.

Ali's boot struck the stone path with quiet finality as he dragged the length of gleaming chain closer to his side— the iron links clinking like a death knell through the courtyard's graveyard silence. Then, with all the ceremony of discarding rotten meat, he swung the chain and tossed Kale Nolan's severed head forward.

It rolled— once, twice— smearing mud and old blood across the courtyard stones before it came to a slow stop at the feet of the broken family that remained. Lady Nolan let out a choked sob as she dropped her trembling hands to the dirt and dragged herself forward on her knees, heedless of the sharp stones cutting into her skin. She gathered the head into her arms like it was the last piece of her life that hadn't yet been stripped away, clutching it to her chest as if warmth could return to its hollow eyes.

Ali didn't spare her even a flicker of pity. He snapped his fingers— one sharp crack echoing off the courtyard walls like a guillotine's drop— and the nightmare behind him unfurled itself. Shadow, the thing that should never have existed, slithered forth like a wound torn open in reality. His massive draconic head emerged, but its shape and aura were far from the regal presence of Eldora. Where Eldora was power refined into beauty, Shadow was raw horror, a monstrous silhouette of jagged teeth and abyssal hunger. Even Fiona, poised and untouchable beside Eldora, stepped back from its suffocating presence.

'How?' she thought, her gold eyes flicking to Ali's expressionless face. 'How can a man control this abomination?'

The monster's breath made the trainees flinch where they stood rooted— and then Shadow's maw widened wider than any beast's jaw should. Rows of unnatural fangs parted to reveal its offering— the upper half of Thomas Nolan's corpse, the missing lower half a testament to Shadow's insatiable appetite. Flesh torn, ribs exposed— the remnants of the young heir lay limply on Shadow's slick tongue, a grotesque prize spat at their feet.

"NOOOOO!"

A single scream tore through the courtyard as Thomas's wife lunged forward, skirts dragging through bloodied mud as she threw herself across her husband's remains. Her cries echoed through the walls like broken glass. A widow in moments— a mother without a father for her unborn child.

Behind her, Shadow's monstrous maw hung open, steam and drool dripping as its restless hunger flickered from one trembling human to the next.

Ali drew in a slow breath. He opened his mouth to speak—

"My nam—"

But his words were cut off by a ragged, feral roar.

"AAAAAAAH!"

The old knight, their last steel in flesh, threw himself forward with a snarl, sword drawn back beside him in a hopeless arc. His aura flickered bright and desperate, a candle fighting a hurricane. The trainees behind him wanted to move— to follow— but their legs betrayed them. They stood frozen, weapons shaking in their grips as they watched their master sprint alone at the nightmare waiting in human skin.

Ali didn't even blink.

The knight stopped mid-stride, boots scraping the stone as he lurched— then froze completely, limbs dangling like a puppet cut from its strings. He rose slowly into the air, spinning weightless above the ground while the courtyard fell silent except for the rattling of the old man's sword. Ali didn't lift a finger— only his will held the knight aloft.

He raised his right hand— palm open— then, under the stunned eyes of every trembling soul in that courtyard, he closed it into a tight fist.

BANG.

The sound wasn't of metal on metal— but of flesh rupturing like a wine skin stomped under a boot. Blood splashed across the courtyard tiles in a crimson mist as what was left of the knight's body rained down in lumps of crushed bone and viscera. His shattered breastplate clanged on the stones, rolling to a stop at the feet of the kneeling trainees.

PLACK… PLACK… CLICK… THUD…

One by one, the young men dropped their swords. Steel hit stone, echoing like funeral bells in the hush that followed the slaughter. Arms fell limp at their sides. Their eyes no longer looked at Ali— they looked through him, past him— anywhere but into those black voids that had just turned a living man into paste with a thought.

Ali stepped forward, blood spattering his boots as Shadow's growl rumbled low behind him, Eldora's wings folded in regal silence at his back. He raised his head and spoke— his voice carrying through the stunned courtyard, smooth and deep and final.

"My name is Ali," he began, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. "I am now the lord of this land. House Nolan is finished. House Cinder is ashes. These southern lands belong to me. You—" he pointed, sweeping his hand over the rows of trainees, the trembling maids, the stiff guards— "are my subjects now. All of you."

ROOOAAAAARRR!

Eldora raised her emerald head and unleashed a roar that trembled glass in its panes— a clarion call of dominion. But it was Shadow's guttural, monstrous snarl that truly broke whatever resistance remained. His growl was hunger made sound— a promise that death was not the worst fate they could know.

"KNEEL."

Ali's voice struck them like a hammer. It was not a request— it was an immutable command.

One by one, the trainees sank to their knees, blades abandoned at their sides. The maids dropped their aprons and lifted their skirts from the dirt, lowering themselves in wordless surrender. The guards on the wall— who had aimed their bows but never dared fire— fell to their knees where they stood, heads bent so low they could taste the dust.

Lady Nolan— broken, clutching her dead husband's head— wept silently beside Thomas's corpse while her daughter-in-law clung to the ruin that was once her hope for a future.

'Pathetic,' he thought coldly, his expression a mask of perfect indifference as his dragons loomed behind him. 'They bend so easily when death stands before them. Fiona and Miles spoke of loyalty— bravery— but this? This is just fear in uniform. Real courage is a man staring death in the face— welcoming it with a smile when it comes.'

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