The very tal on Asher's body had beco an anchor, each piece of armor now several tis heavier than its original weight. With each clash, Solvane had subtly increased the burden, waiting like a beast in the dark. The madness in his eye hadn't been wild chaos—it had been calculated fury, building toward this exact mont.
"Die!" the Cyclops bellowed, swinging both cleavers down like divine judgnt.
Before the blades could land, Sirius surged forward, jaws clamping around Asher's torso. With a mighty bound, the wolf yanked him away, just in ti to avoid the strike that tore deep into the earth, splitting the battlefield open with a thunderous shock.
Sirius landed not far away, but the strain was too much.
Even the mighty beast couldn't bear the weight of its master.
With a pained growl, Sirius let Asher slide off. Asher hit the ground hard, gasping. The truth was clear—his armor was no longer protection, it was a prison, and his sword an immovable relic.
Grimacing, he shed the armor. Piece by piece, he let it fall, the sound of tal hitting soil like funeral bells. He released his grip on the Leviathan sword. Useless. Unwieldy. And now, unwelco.
Stripped down and breathless, he climbed atop Sirius once more. The wolf shrank its form for speed, and Asher clutched its fur, pressing low as they charged back into the fray.
Solvane stood like a mountain, cleavers raised. With a smirk, he brought them crashing down once more only for Asher's gravity to act at that mont.
It crashed heavily.
The impact was too strong, the ground beneath him shattered, and the backlash from the collision forced his massive fra forward.
Then, the weight around him shifted.
Gravity itself turned against him.
The air thickened. The soil buckled. Solvane's titanic form collapsed, both knees slamming into the earth with a quake that shook the walls of the battlefield.
Behind him, a figure erged—his steps silent, his presence unmistakable.
Hair white as snow, long and flowing like strands of moonlight, draped behind him as he moved. His longsword glead softly.
Kyros spirit. The very talent in its true form.
At that mont, Asher leapt.
In midair, he summoned ice, shaping it into a javelin of jagged frost in his right hand. With a roar, he hurled it. The spear flew like a cot and punched deep into Solvane's chest, burying itself in.
Before the Cyclops could react, Kyros moved.
With a single, fluid motion, his spirit sliced a clean, slanted cut through the Cyclops's back, the blade moving with such speed and precision that the wound split wide before the giant could even register pain.
The cut severed his spine.
And with it, his will to fight.
The cold that followed was unnatural. Blood ceased to flow, frozen mid-pour, as if the very soul of winter had passed through.
Solvane wavered.
And then, slowly… began to fall.
Asher collapsed, his breath uneven as he stared at the sky. His chest heaved once… twice… until everything went black.
…
A pair of bright golden eyes snapped open.
He was lying on a king-sized bed, the sheets velvet-soft beneath him. The room shimred—walls sculpted in gold, glowing faintly in the dim light. Ornate patterns ran along the ceiling, and the air was thick with incense.
Across from the bed, Nero sat silently against the far wall.
The mont he noticed movent, he sprang to his feet.
"My Lord."
Asher blinked, gathering his bearings. Slowly, he sat up. His gaze wandered toward the window where the night sky stretched, stars embedded in a velvet darkness.
"How long has it been?" he asked, voice husky, low.
"You slept until nightfall, my Lord," Nero replied with crisp clarity. "We have sent word of our victory to the mainland."
Asher exhaled slowly, pain rippling through his body. He groaned as he rose—his muscles heavy, unresponsive. Rest still clung to him like lead.
But he walked.
Step by step, he reached the window and pushed it open.
A sea of firelight lit the world below. Slaves danced, drums beat steadily. Joy crackled in the air like fla across dry parchnt. Hundreds of thousands moved in celebration.
In total, over two million four hundred had been freed from Everard's shackles.
And over a million of the enemy lay dead.
Few had escaped. That much he knew. But he couldn't care less.
Soon, the world would speak of him with fear. The Blood King. The Mad Lord. A tyrant. A mass murderer. But what were they if not reflections of himself? Cloaked in titles and veiled in silk, hiding cruelty behind smiles and silver tongues.
They'd scorn him by day, then buy his Evergreen olive oil by night. Trade silver for his golden sugar. Beg for his prized livestock. Because he held the monopoly. He held the power.
They had killed too—quietly, through assassins, through poisons.
Cowards.
"Did you find the Shadow Order?" Asher's voice broke the silence. He turned his head slightly, just enough for Nero to catch a flash of his golden side-eye—piercing, unreadable.
"We found their hideout," Nero said, his tone subdued. "But all of them were gone."
Asher's eyes narrowed. A subtle chill filled the room. Nero instinctively lowered his head.
"Is that right…"
The silence that followed was loud with tension.
"Send word to my wife," Asher said finally. "Tell her I won't be back for a while."
His gaze turned back to the land, the vast, blood-bought island. It belonged to him now. And with two million four hundred slaves—three tis the number of his citizens on the mainland, his work had only begun.
If sothing urgent occurred, he could send Sirius back. Otherwise, his lord commanders would hold the line.
"Before that…" Asher muttered, "get materials to write a letter."
He would write to Sapphira himself.
The near loss of the twins had shaken her. Since then, her days were filled with dread, obsession, and protection. Half of the Angel force was stationed around her, Mary, and the twins—and for good reason.
It was his fault.
His burden.
A soft sigh escaped him as he looked at the snow falling beyond the balcony.
A single thought passed through his mind, quiet as a whisper in the dark.
When is it going to stop?
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