Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Kaedan rose from his knees, spitting out thick, salty blood. A constant ringing filled his ears, and each breath reminded him that his Vessel was working at its limit. He looked at the Orc and felt not just fear, but a deep, paralyzing helplessness.
"Six months of training... thousands of hours forcing my essence to densify until my bones began to crack," Kaedan clenched his fists, feeling his stone vambraces respond with a weak, fading vibration. "I thought I had become a Pillar in everything but name. I thought I had caught up to Iskon and was ready to face any storm. But this Orc... he hasn't even broken a sweat. His blows aren't just force; they are the very weight of the world crashing down on me. I built a wall, but he is an element that cares nothing for any wall."
The gap between Warrior and Herald now felt like a bottomless abyss. Kaedan saw that Mirza didn't even consider them worthy opponents—merely interesting specimens on whom to test the sharpness of his cleaver.
Mirza slowly exhaled, and at this sound, the flame of the fire in the center of the hall pressed against the ground. The ritual scars on his broad chest and powerful arms suddenly began to pulse with a dull, ochre light.
"You have earned the right to see what is usually hidden from the likes of you," the Orc's voice deepened, within it sounded hundreds of other voices merging into a single primal hum. "My Spirit is not mine alone. It is the memory of my people. The Spirit of Ancestors."
The space around the Herald flickered for a moment. Behind him, for a fraction of a second, the ghostly silhouette of an ancient warrior, whose movements were devoid of weight, materialized.
"Blessing of the First Runner," Mirza uttered.
In that same second, the Orc vanished. Iskon, whose reaction was always his main asset, didn't even have time to raise his shield. Mirza appeared directly before him, moving with a speed that defied the laws of inertia. A short palm strike to the chest—and Iskon, smashing through one of the Atlantean statues with his body, disappeared into a cloud of obsidian dust.
Kaedan roared, pouring all the remnants of his will into a devastating lunge. His Armor momentarily blazed with a blinding grey light, becoming a monolith. But Mirza had already changed the rhythm of his power.
The light of the scars on his body shifted from ochre to a deep, bloody red. The ghostly silhouette behind him became more massive, taking on the outlines of a warrior in heavy armor.
"Blessing of the Mountain Guardian," Mirza boomed.
His cleaver descended upon Kaedan. This time, it was not merely a physical blow. Along with the steel, the power of an ancient master who had once been able to stop avalanches crashed down upon the young man.
Kaedan crossed his vambraces, trying to hold this onslaught, but the Herald's density was overwhelming. An ear-splitting crack sounded. Kaedan's left basalt vambrace, his pride and main defense, shattered into thousands of fragments. A deep crack ran across the Order's steel cuirass, and Kaedan felt his own energy within his channels destabilize, causing unbearable pain.
The shockwave slammed him into the floor, crushing his armor and breaking bones. Kaedan lay in a crater, unable even to cry out. His Unbreakable Armor had almost completely disappeared, leaving only pathetic remnants of greaves.
Iskon, staggering, emerged from under the statue debris. His left arm hung lifelessly, his face a bloody mask. He tried to summon his Scaling Spirit for one last, desperate strike, but Mirza simply looked at him. That gaze, saturated with the will of a Herald, was enough to make the young man collapse to his knees again.
"Enough," Mirza lowered his cleaver, and the glow of his scars slowly faded. The ghostly shadows of his ancestors dissolved into the hall's twilight. "You are broken. Your journey here is over."
The Orc looked at the broken bodies of the young knights. There was no hatred in his gaze—only a grim recognition of fact. He saw that their Vessels were empty, and their regeneration was barely managing to keep them alive.
"You fought worthily for your rank," Mirza turned to his mercenaries, who were beginning to slowly rise from the floor. "But the world is not only about courage. It is about the weight you can bear. And today, your weight proved too light."
Kaedan watched as the Orc walked deeper into the hall, his huge figure slowly dissolving into the shadows. The young man tried to clench the fingers of his right hand but felt only emptiness. Six months of toil, thousands of training sessions—all erased in a few minutes of battle with a true master.
Darkness began to cloud Kaedan's vision. The last thing he heard was Iskon's hoarse whisper: "We... will... return."
The battle in the Hall of Atlanteans ended in a complete rout for the Order of Order. The Herald Mirza had shown them the edge of that power they had sought, and that edge proved as sharp as his cleaver.