CHAPTER 32: THE FIRST DISASTER (2)

The crest was there, planted in the blackened mud. A piece of banner, charred at the edges, but still legible: the emblem of the royal family, rendered for one of its scions. A reminder that this carnage was not merely a demon’s madness, but the domain of a powerful noble, a nephew of the king himself.

Reinardht crouched, his gloved fingers brushing the soiled cloth. His steel eyes lifted to me, cold, heavy.

His voice rang like a verdict.

— "That’s the local lord’s crest... the king’s nephew. Do you understand what that implies?"

He straightened, immense, his cape still flapping in the wind. His tone grew harder:

— "Do you know what you’re about to undertake... just for the lives of a few villagers?"

His just hit me like a slap. The word exploded in my skull. My guts clenched, my breath shortened, and the rage rose, black, brutal. I felt my aura vibrate around me, a suffocating heat, ready to burn me as much as those around me.

— "JUST?!" My voice burst out, hoarse, broken by fury. "WHO ARE YOU TO JUDGE THE VALUE OF A HUMAN LIFE?!"

I stepped forward. The stones cracked beneath my boot. My remaining eye flared with an icy glow, and I pointed my spear at the ground, as if preparing to judge the world itself.

— "WHO IS HE, THAT FUCKING NEPHEW, TO TAKE INNOCENT LIVES LIKE THAT, WHENEVER HE FEELS LIKE IT?!" My ragged breath vibrated in my throat. "IS THIS YOUR JUSTICE? FAVORING THE ELITE, TURNING A BLIND EYE TO THEIR CRUELTY?!"

I trembled. Not from fear. From pure anger. And I stared at him — Reinardht, who had carried humanity on his shoulders for so long, Rank S, the living symbol of everything I was not.

— "You, of all men... you should understand!" My voice cracked, almost pleading under the rage. "Unless you’re rotten, too, down to the marrow!"

Silence fell. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Miyu, fists clenched, panted behind me; Reina, icy, fixed her gaze on the scene, her lips trembling with a tension she barely hid; Hikari had raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes glistening with tears; Ayame remained upright, but I saw the tightness in her jaw.

I raised my weapon, but it wasn’t a threat to Reinardht: it was a sentence for the whole world.

— "So here it is, Reinardht. From now on, you have two choices." I clenched my teeth, every word torn like a wound. "Either you let me pass..." My eye hardened, my voice sharpened into a blade. "Or I kill you."

A silence of lead. His two soldiers shifted a millimeter, ready to react, but Reinardht raised a dry hand that froze them. His face remained stone for a second, then... a smile split his lips. A wide, fierce smile.

— "That’s what a hero should do!"

His laughter erupted. Brutal, frank, deep. It rolled against the crumbling walls, vibrated in my chest like thunder. Not a mocking laugh, but the laugh of a warrior finally recognizing a flame worthy of him.

Then, with a sweeping gesture, he stepped aside.

— "Go. Show me how far your rage can take you."

I didn’t answer. I tightened my grip on my spear, my throat burning. Behind me, the girls sprang forward, and we started running. The ground sped beneath our feet as if it were giving way. Reinardht followed. His laughter still echoed in my ears, heavy, grave, as if he had just approved my madness.

We ran for hours, dust clinging to our throats, legs on fire, hearts pounding as if they wanted to burst.

The city finally rose before us: immense ramparts, less finely guarded than Duskfall but suffocating in their breadth, a labyrinth of rooftops and towers that promised anonymity and cruelty. At the sight of Reinardht, the guards barely lifted their visors; his name opened doors. They let us pass as one clears the way for inevitable wrath.

Inside, the city was eerily empty. The streets seemed to hold their breath. I felt a chill — not because it was colder, but because the absence of life here had a smell, the calm before the tear.

My footsteps rang out, quick, mechanical. The words of a little girl — no, a child who had become hope — struck me like a slap: "I’ll become a hero like you." Her smile, her outstretched bowl, those eyes that believed in me. That was why I had learned to bleed. For those smiles. For those mouths that had never had the luxury of silence.

The central square emerged, vast and bare.

The crowd didn’t cry out; it pressed together, compact and mute, as if silence had been locked away. An open space in the middle — a grotesque platform, a pillar. And there, nailed like a marker of shame: her. The girl, thin, twisted on her column; her clothes torn, her arms bound; skin marked, blood dried in dirty streaks. They had tortured her in front of everyone. They had exposed her so the town would understand who ruled.

Next to her, on a small balcony, stood a man draped in a cape too rich for the scene below. His face was tense like a plate of silver; his words fell one by one, polished, sharp, like lead poured into a cup.

— "This woman — what am I saying, this impious creature — dared to conspire against the sacred order. She called strangers, ’saviors’... she defiled the blood of the gods by worshiping foreign heroes on our land and wielding their sorceries."

He spoke slowly, each syllable carefully chosen. His voice rolled over the crowd, heads bowed like cattle. "For this, her fault demands atonement. For an example. For the faith."

The more he spoke, the more something cracked in me. He spoke as if faith and order were the same as contempt and the hoarding of land. As if God had handed him a family trophy to brandish between two blades of iron. He spoke of "pure blood," of "royal heritage," of the elite’s duty to "purify." He wrapped religion around his cruelty like one ties a shawl to hide a weapon.

Those words broke me. Was this why we had been called? To serve a nobility that sold lives for privilege? Had we been summoned to slaughter innocents, then applaud the seizure of their land? My throat tightened so much I thought I’d choke on my own anger.

He raised his hand, solemn, and added, like a satisfied oracle:

— "God whispered in my ear: this impious one deserves death. Execute her."

The crowd, bound by fear and faith, recoiled in a murmur. The executioner stepped forward, a hulking man with a hard face, blade raised. The silence thickened, heavy, as if the city itself held its breath.

I didn’t think. The thought formed, simple, sharp, and exploded from within: "Genèse."

Then, as if a massive spear had been drawn from the belly of the world, a black shaft surged upward, driven by an invisible force. It shot out with a harsh crack, bursting from the damp earth, gleaming with the luster of dirty steel. The tip lashed the air, then struck — not from above, but from below, and the sight stole my breath: the spear rose, a line of pure pain, and pierced the man beneath, ripping through his coat, his heart, his belly, in a single vertical thrust.

The square swallowed the sound. Then chaos: screams, bodies shoving, some prostrating as if an angel of vengeance had appeared. But above all, there was fear: the ego of a power that felt its mask slip.

The noble paled. His voice tried to rally, louder, but the crack showed.

— "Calm yourselves! These are demons — demons seeking to kill those God has chosen. Have faith! This is proof we fight for righteousness!"

The phrase tasted like a lie. It soothed no one. It snapped like a filthy banner. His call to fanaticism sounded like the last nail in the city’s coffin.

Around the noble, twenty soldiers lined up; others surged from the alleys, as if the city itself rose to protect its sin.

I heard nothing but the blood pounding in my head. The slogans, the orders, all shrank as I advanced. My vision narrowed on her — the girl. She looked more dead than alive; her gaze searched for something pain had already erased.

The noble screamed from the platform, his figure all silk and condescension: "You! Don’t let him do it — kill him!" A soldier detached himself and lunged at me like a worm toward the light. His swagger, his predatory gesture enraged me more than the blade he swung.

Before he reached striking distance, a streak of fire cut the air — Miyu. Her katana, ringed in primordial flame, drew a flawless arc: the blade struck, cleaving him clean. The man was felled in a spray of blood and scorched flesh; his head thudded to the ground, the smell of charred leather rising. No one screamed. The soldiers froze, seized by a stupor of hatred and fear.

I rushed to the girl. Her lips moved, trying words her broken jaw couldn’t form. Hikari knelt beside me; her trembling hands pressed healing palms, and the soft warmth of her chant slid over the wound like a promise. The girl slackened, her eyes closed a moment, her breathing steadied. She looked at me — a vague gaze, as if trust slowly reclaimed her from horror.

Rage bit me harder. I turned — and the noble, that slick smile, stared at me as if at an insect writhing. One thought blazed in my skull: kill him. Kill him, again and again. Everything I’d seen, everything I’d bled for, led to one conclusion. The world that allowed this had to pay.

Ayame mounted the platform. Her voice rang out, clear, unshaken but full of fire:

— "People! Soldiers! We are the summoned heroes. God — or what you call providence — chose us to defend the innocent. We fought the Demon King’s lieutenants, we forced Sarhael to retreat. We did not come to revel in violence: we came to protect."

Her words dropped a simple question over the square: who stood for the living, and who for domination?

Two guards lunged at me. One froze, the other ignited. Miyu and Reina did not hesitate; flame, frost, and both fell — one to smoke, the other to ice. They crumpled, powerless. I advanced, my anger colder, sharper than ever.

"Genèse." The word was a blade. The ground obeyed. Eighteen spears burst from the belly of the square, thrusting up like spikes born of the earth. They rose, mechanical and merciless, impaling the soldiers who formed a cage around the noble. The bodies hoisted high, hung on metal like grotesque trophies; some moaned, others went silent in a heavy hush.

The noble changed. The mask fell, replaced by rotting panic. Already he searched for a pretext, a prayer to offer, a voice to shake. His words, once arrogant and lofty, collapsed into stammering.

— "N... no! Calm yourselves! They are demons, traitors sent to... assassinate us! Have faith, my people — proof that we are under attack!"

His voice bought nothing now. It cracked, rasped by fear. He pounded the balustrade, calling to his paralyzed men. The impaled amplified the terror; blood streamed in rivulets, blackening the stones. The crowd wavered between indoctrinated faith and a swelling hatred, visible as a bruise.

His words dissolved, then madness seized him: raving, screaming, begging the sky that his titles protect him. "I am tied to the court! I am the king’s nephew! You don’t understand what you’re doing!" His outbursts became the soundtrack of a man watching his world unravel.

Ayame raised her hand, her voice cutting sharp, undeniable:

— "Look at this: Reinardht Von Skulion stands with us. We fought the darkness. This village did nothing; we helped it survive. To punish these people for seeking heroes’ help — is that justice? Do you want your sons and daughters displayed for daring to hope to live? No. We will not tolerate corruption, whether human or demonic."

I advanced through the forest of impaled corpses, each step shaving down my fury. The noble before me lost all dignity. His once-proud eyes were empty holes.

— "You know who I am..." he stammered, weak.

I didn’t let him finish.

My arm traced a movement I’d only ever performed once before in training.

Crimson Spear Art, First Movement: Dawn’s Bleeding.

My spear, small and sharp, became the extension of my arm. The blade pierced where arrogance clings: at the base of his throat, then, like implacable logic, split his body. He literally came apart; his torso opened, entrails spilled, blood gushed in a hot geyser. His eyes remained open, frozen in the astonishment of one who had never imagined the truth before him. The sound was a dry, inhuman crack, and the body fell in two heaps, the city hearing the freedom of its fall.

The square froze. Some screamed; others collapsed lifeless on the stones. Heads bowed, shame and fear mingling like hot mud.

Ayame rested her hand on her weapon’s hilt and spoke, calm, implacable:

— "We are the swords of justice. We will not tolerate corruption, whether human or demonic."

Her words fell like a sentence. Behind her, Reinardht stood massive and immovable, but his gaze gave me a silent accord — no needless spectacle: protection was needed. Sharp. Clean. Efficient.

I crossed, impaled corpses marking each step, until I reached the line. Hikari held the girl, fingers pressing, voice gentle. She opened her eyes, sought my face; there was recognition, a wound easing. Her look, weak but real, gave me something like peace inside.

My rage was not extinguished; it was redirected. We had struck a symbol, and the political battle ahead would be long and filthy. But for now, there was less shame in the air: the small flame of this village had not been consumed without reprisal. My hands still shook, stained with blood and earth, and I understood that every decision from now on would carry consequences none of us could escape.

I lowered my spear. The square reeked of victory and death. The world had just learned we were not trophies to display. We were the pain unleashed when justice no longer exists — and we were ready to pay the price.