The hinges of the giant door groaned, straining under the pressure before the doors themselves splintered inward. Lacerta stepped through the ruin without an ounce of fear, Spoon following close behind.
What met them was not a cavern, but a cathedral hewn from the earth itself. The ceiling arched into vanishing darkness, hung with chains and crimson glass lanterns. They swung gently, painting the air in blood-colored light that stained the long, red carpet below.
Hundreds of figures knelt in ordered rows, none daring to speak a word—nor did a single one look back toward the intruders.
As if they had been waiting.
Before the massive crowd stood a rectangular stone altar, a figure laid upon it. The victim seemed awake, eyes wide, but was held immobile by the heavy chains pinning them down.
And presiding over it all stood a single man.
He stood well over six feet tall, his broad stature imposing—sculpted like iron that had been brutally smashed and shaped. The sides of his head were shaved, a thick mane of black hair drawn back into a tight, low braid streaked with gray. A scar descended the left side of his face, bisecting his eye. It left his untouched eye a gleaming gold and the other a blind, milky white. Around his neck was an iron cuff—less an ornament than a manacle.
So this.... is Vola Dardain.
The air crackled with it, a pressure more intense than anything he'd faced until now, including Haldran. A pure, undiluted lust for murder, aimed solely at him.
Despite the murderous intent rolling off him, Dardain's eyes were calm as they landed upon the child, his expression not shifting in the slightest.
Dardain: ["You took longer than I expected to show yourself, child."]
That confirmed the obvious, at least.
Lacerta: ["So you knew."]
Dardain smiled, lowering his gaze toward the man on the altar before him.
Dardain: ["Of course. One need only hear the rumors to know what you are. A creature of strength. Like me. I confess, my audience has grown impatient, but I restrained myself... out of professional courtesy."]
Lacerta's eyes flickered in confusion.
Lacerta: ["What?"]
Dardain: ["The man you are searching for. The silver-eyed traitor, of course. It was quite difficult to ignore my urges and not drive my blade through his stomach on the spot. I did it out of respect."]
Lacerta's eyes widened in recognition. If what he was saying was the truth, then that man on the table was the person he'd been tasked to find: Caro Mendin.
Lacerta: ["Respect? Why? If you're looking for reverence in your old age, you'll have to look elsewhere."]
Spoon didn't speak, but Lacerta felt the man's disbelieving stare boring into the back of his skull.
Those words seemed to have some effect on Dardain—his eyes narrowing slightly, the indifferent mask warping into a frown.
Dardain: ["Haaah... children, children. Always so... difficult. This is the difference between those that blindly use their power, and the ones chosen by the world, like myself. Bring the feisty one out, will you?"]
Dardain averted his gaze down toward one of the crowd, who deftly bowed and ran off to the side into another room.
Dardain then brought his gaze back toward the pair, though it was now focused not on Lacerta, but Spoon.
Dardain: ["Though... this is unexpected."]
The assassin's eyes narrowed beneath his mask. Though the pressure emanating from Dardain was a physical weight, Spoon's posture remained unbroken.
Spoon: ["What, me being here? Against you?"]
Dardain chuckled.
Dardain: ["I suppose that would be the case. Though, you've done me a favor by showing up like this..."]
Spoon: ["...A favor?"]
Dardain: ["Because now, I can tear you limb from limb myself. A simple death. I could have granted you anything... power, reverence... but you chose the child over my cause. You chose poorly."]
Spoon: ["Or maybe.... I'm just following after who I really think is the strongest. As you said... weaklings like me should follow the strongest in the room. So, here I am."]
Dardain's smile was his only response. He waited in silence, his gaze drifting as a follower dragged a familiar figure from the shadows.
Glenn. His body was bound in rope, a tapestry of old scars and fresh, weeping bruises.
Lacerta's eyes widened, just a fraction. A foot slid back on the stone floor, his hand drifting to the hilt of his katana. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to spring.
Glenn: ["Tsck... don't you worry about me, kid... this fuckin' shit-face won't do noth—!?"]
Before he could finish, Dardain backhanded him across the face. The blow landed with enough force to break bone, splattering blood onto the ground.
Withdrawing his hand, Dardain gestured toward the iron cuff, half-burnt around his own neck.
Dardain: ["See, child... this is the difference between us and men like him. They can do nothing but tremble in fear, awaiting execution... their oh-so pitiful lives dancing in the palm of my hand. But I—I burned my way out of this very cuff, desperate to survive... to evolve into something greater..."]
Lacerta gritted his teeth, his legs bending as he prepared to lunge.
Lacerta: ["What are you saying...?"]
Glenn raised his head, blood dripping from his chin, and met Lacerta's gaze across the Great Hall. Dardain's pupils shifted, their regular hue bleeding away into an intense crimson, like two swirling orbs of death.
Dardain: ["I'm saying... take it to your grave."]
Glenn: ["Knock 'em dead, kid——"]
Lacerta: ["——!!"]
Lacerta moved—he was already a blur of motion, halfway across the gap that separated them. But he was too late.
Lacerta's enhanced perception could only watch in horrifying slow motion. He saw Dardain's fist connect, a sickening crack echoing in the hall. The defiance in Glenn's eyes vanished, replaced by a vacant stare. He was dead before his body hit the ground.
Dardain exhaled, a sound of pure pleasure. It wasn't just for the kill which he felt such emotion—but for what came next.
The moment Glenn's corpse hit the stone, a black, swirling mist bled from it. An invisible force seized the ether, dragging it into Dardain. His head snapped back with a guttural gasp, his fists clenching tight.
His foot smashed into the ground, the resulting shockwave halting Lacerta's assault. He landed in the walkway between the audience, pupils contracted with an unfamiliar emotion.
Dardain: ["Ahhh.... I, favored... protected... by this world... am the fist of execution for all who are undeserving of it."]
His guide. Yes, that's what he was. His guide.
Glenn was dead.
But this emotion swirling in his gut was illogical. He barely knew the man. They had traveled together, nothing more. He was just a guide.
So what was this fire in his chest?
Anger... that's what it was, an almost uncontrollable rage that threatened to burst from his very being.
Dardain: ["Now, you may kill him... my patient follo—"]
Lacerta had no intention of wasting time on mere underlings. He was here for a new purpose instead: to tear Vola Dardain limb from limb, and he would let nothing stand in his way.
He crossed the distance in a single stride, a blur of motion so imperceptible that the audience didn't even have time to react.
The unwavering edge of his katana, glinting in the torchlight, swept toward Dardain's wide-eyed face. The larger man reacted with a shocked gasp, his hulking frame taking a single, desperate step back to evade the swipe.
Lacerta: ["——"]
But that was only the beginning of an unrelenting assault. The first thrust flowed into a second slash in the same instant, then a third and a fourth, each strike narrowly ducked and evaded by the caught off guard Dardain.
More speed. More power.
This wasn't enough to cut down a monster of this size and strength.
Luckily, he had plenty more to give.
Dardain bent his knees, his massive body retreating like a phantom to the far side of the platform as he reached over his shoulder to retrieve his swo—
Dardain: ["——Tch?!"]
—Only for Lacerta to be on him in a flash yet again, his purple pupils constricted with absolute focus as his blade lanced upward yet again.
The same situation, but not the same outcome. This time, Lacerta was moving faster.
His blade drew a clean, crimson line across Dardain's cheek, but the large man craned his neck sideways just in time to avoid an even deeper wound, and Lacerta finally paused, watching his opponent leap back.
A collective gasp swept through the audience.
But no one was more stunned than Dardain himself. His crimson pupils contracted to pinpricks. He touched the cut, his fingers coming away wet with his own blood.
He was bleeding. Him.
A tremor started in his hand.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
He was the supreme one—he was never meant to be on the defensive, not against a mere child.
His breathing grew sharp, uneven. The ragged sound filled his own ears, infuriating him. Weakness had a sound, and he could hear it leaking from him. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth until his temples throbbed.
Dardain: ["No... this... this is nothing—"]
He muttered the words, half to himself, half to the world that dared witness his humiliation.
Dardain: ["THIS MEANS NOTHING!!!"]
But his hand wouldn't stop shaking.
For a man who preached self-reliance, he now found himself desperately searching the crowd, eyes darting from face to face. He was seeking their awe, as if their belief alone could patch the crack he felt spreading through his chest.
It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic, yet he couldn't stop. He needed them to see him as untouchable, needed their faith to hold him upright. Without it, the air felt heavier, his limbs weaker, the cut on his face deeper.
The blood trickling down his cheek was hot, but the fear crawling up his spine was ice-cold. All his words about perfection, purity, and strength—they were nothing but scaffolding holding up a man terrified of collapse.
And in the tremor of his own hand, he realized something dreadful: he was already collapsing, and there was no one left to catch him.
Not that he would ever admit it.
He straightened his back, forced his trembling hand to his side.
Dardain: ["Do you see? Even the blood of the supreme refuses to fall easily! That—is nothing!"]
His words were defiant, but the subtle crack in his voice betrayed him—a fissure noticed by all, and by Lacerta most of all.