In the dim, sprawling confines of Arthur’s hidden basement, torches lined the walls, flickering weakly against cold, damp stone, casting long, twisted shadows across the huddled crowd.

  The air was thick with the scent of sweat and metal, mingling with the musty odor of earth and decay. Rough walls surrounded them, chipped and scarred from years of careless blade sharpening and covert training.

  The low, claustrophobic ceiling had bony roots protruding from it, as if the very earth above was reaching down to encroach upon their secret gathering. It was a stark reminder of how far underground they hid, concealed from the curious eyes above.

  Around the room, strange, unsettling patterns were painted and drawn on the walls in dark, crude lines. The symbols looked like something between maps and sigils, their jagged forms suggesting strategies, routes, or perhaps even rituals known only to Arthur. Some designs bore a striking resemblance to twisted runes, shapes that seemed to writhe under the dim torchlight.

  Maps were pinned to every available surface, some frayed at the edges, others marked with stained ink lines tracing out potential points of invasion, supply routes, and weak spots in the city's walls. Arrows and circles in various colors overlapped and crisscrossed in a complex web, revealing the meticulous planning that had gone into this operation. The largest map, pinned to a wooden board at the far end, was studded with pins and marked with aggressive red slashes indicating the paths his men would take tonight.

  Arthur raised his hand, calling for silence, and a hush fell over the room. The murmurs and shifting ceased, replaced by a tense, charged stillness. His men’s eyes were fixed on him, every face reflecting a different shade of anticipation or bloodlust. The dim torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, flickering against the steel of their weapons, their armor. A few of them clenched their fists, others smirked with cruel delight, but all of them waited for his words.

  His voice cut through the stale air, firm and dark, every syllable laced with venom.

  "Look around you."

  A pause. Silence, save for the faint crackle of fire.

  "This city above us... it’s nothing more than a nest of complacent sheep. Weak. Comfortable. Lazy." His lip curled, his eyes narrowing as if he could already see their helpless faces. "They’ve grown fat behind their walls, expecting someone else to guard them. Expecting safety to be a birthright, instead of something earned. But tonight—" his voice sharpened like a blade, slicing through the heavy air, "—tonight, we’re going to remind them what it means to live in fear."

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, low and feverish, as if the thought alone excited them. Arthur’s eyes glinted as he continued, his voice louder now, ringing with cruel conviction.

  "By sunrise, they will know the name Arthur Irotes. The man who shattered their peace, burned their comforts to the ground, and left them with nothing." His smirk widened, his fingers curling into a fist. "Their gates will crumble, their people will kneel, and their wealth—everything—will belong to us. The Age of Irotes begins tonight."

  The room rumbled with approving shouts and cheers, some banging their weapons against the floor or tables. The sound of steel against stone echoed like a war drum.

  Then, from the back, a hesitant voice cut through the clamor.

  "But… isn’t the guild aware of our raids?"

  Arthur's brow twitched slightly, his sharp gaze snapping toward the voice. The speaker was a wiry man with nervous eyes, shifting uncomfortably under the sudden attention.

  "I—I heard rumors," the man continued, swallowing hard. "There’s… apparently a traitor among us, and—"

  Before he could finish, Arthur was on his move.

  The air itself seemed to tense as he strode toward the man, each step slow, deliberate, the sound of his boots against stone echoing through the silent room. The man stiffened, his breath hitching as Arthur stopped in front of him.

  "Say that again."

  His voice was quieter now, almost a whisper—but dangerous. The man’s face paled as Arthur leaned in, his cold, piercing gaze locking onto him.

  "You remember why you’re here, don’t you?" Arthur’s tone was soft, but his words dripped with something sharp, something deadly.

  The man’s throat bobbed as he struggled to respond, but his tongue felt heavy. He couldn’t answer.

  Arthur exhaled. Then, without warning—he punched him.

  A sickening crack followed as the man stumbled back, collapsing to his knees. His breath came out in ragged gasps, pain flashing across his face. Before he could recover, two others rushed forward, grabbing him by his arms, holding him up before Arthur. The rest of the room watched, tense and unmoving.

  Arthur ran a hand through his hair, exhaling as if speaking to children.

  "If you’re afraid of rumors, then what does that say about you?" His voice was sharp, but now laced with something mocking. "Compared to the life you had before—rotting like pigs, starving, beaten down by nobles, soldiers, authorities—is this not better?"

  Some of the men clenched their fists at his words, their expressions darkening as memories of their past surfaced.

  "Since you joined me, we’ve freed village after village. Burned the chains of tyranny. Crushed those who stood in our way. And now"—Arthur’s voice grew stronger, filled with that fire—"we are at the cusp of something greater. Are you telling me you would rather crawl back to your old lives?"

  Arthur let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle over the room like a storm cloud. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, he continued.

  "And if any of you are still worried—" His gaze swept over the crowd, daring anyone to speak. "—then remember this."

  His voice dropped, cold and laced with satisfaction.

  "We're not just walking into Sarahart blind. Our preparations are already in place."

  Murmurs rippled through the room, and Arthur chuckled darkly.

  "While they’ve been sleeping soundly in their beds, thinking their walls would keep them safe, we’ve woven our strings through the very veins of this city." His eyes glinted. "The hidden weapons—planted, ready to strike at the perfect moment."

  A pause. The room stilled.

  Then, another voice—this time more cautious, but not confrontational.

  "Arthur… what do we do about the Queen of Degaritas?"

  A weighted pause.

  Arthur turned, his golden eyes gleaming like a predator’s. The man who spoke quickly bowed his head. "I meant no offense," he said hastily.

  Arthur sighed, shaking his head. Then, with an almost amused expression, he reached out—grabbing the man’s long brown hair and yanking his head up.

  "Tell me," Arthur said, leaning in close, his voice almost silky. "Are you doubting me?"

  The man’s breathing turned uneven, his body stiff.

  "Of course not," he rasped. "The glorious Arthur Irotes—our one and only leader—"

  Before he could finish—Arthur slammed his fist into his stomach.

  The man choked, doubling over, his body wracked with pain. Arthur let go of his hair, exhaling as he straightened.

  "Don’t waste my time with your cheap lies," he muttered, shaking out his fist. The others parted as he strode back toward the center of the room, his presence like a storm rolling through.

  He paused—then smirked.

  "I’ve already gathered the information I need," he said smoothly. "All the strong adventurers have left for a dungeon raid. They won’t be returning for days."

  A slow grin spread across his lips.

  "That means Sarahart City is ours. And soon after? The oasis settlements. The Krainmer Fortress." His voice grew hungrier, sharper. "Even the Sunfire Pyramid. Every piece of this rotting desert continent will be under my rule."

  His eyes gleamed darkly as he added, "And speaking of the Queen…"

  His men leaned in, waiting.

  Arthur chuckled, low and mocking.

  "I heard she just turned twenty." He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "A young, charming woman… quite suitable for a conqueror like myself, don’t you think?"

  Some of his men laughed darkly.

  Arthur exhaled, stretching his arms as if already claiming his prize.

  "I'm sure she'll put up a good fight. And an even better performance—" His smirk turned vicious. "—in my bed."

  Laughter rumbled through the room, cruel and eager.

  Arthur turned, facing his men once more, raising a hand.

  Arthur stood tall at the center of the room, his presence commanding, his golden eyes burning with ambition. His voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the air.

  "All our lives, we've been treated as lesser. Beaten down, discarded, left to rot while the so-called nobles and warriors feast in their gilded halls. They call us criminals, monsters, but what are they?" He scoffed. "Parasites, feeding off the weak, hiding behind their titles and walls, never lifting a finger to earn what they have."

  He let the words settle, his men hanging onto every syllable, their hatred stirring.

  "But we?" Arthur's smirk widened. "We take what we want. We survive because we fight, because we refuse to kneel." He extended his arms. "And now, the time has come to do more than just survive." His voice darkened. "Tonight, we remind them why they should fear the ones they cast aside."

  The room rumbled with anticipation.

  "Sarahart will fall, and its riches will be ours. But why stop there?" His tone grew sharp, filled with hunger. "The **oasis settlements, the Krainmer Fortress, even the Sunfire Pyramid—**all of it will be mine."

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  He chuckled, low and mocking. "And their queen? A young, beautiful ruler with no one left to protect her." His eyes gleamed dangerously. "A perfect trophy for a conqueror."

  Arthur turned to his men, raising a hand.

  "Tonight, we carve our names into history. Tonight, the world begins to bow. Bow before ARTHUR IROTES!"

  A roar erupted from the crowd, fists clanging against armor and boots stamping against the stone floor in a ferocious display of approval. The sound reverberated off the walls, a savage, warlike echo that made the ground tremble. Arthur’s smile grew, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

  With a swift nod, he motioned to his lieutenants, who began to file the men up the narrow, worn staircase that led to the surface. The heavy thud of boots filled the room as they streamed out, emerging into the crisp night air above.

  Outside, Arthur took a deep breath, gazing around the outskirts where the rest of his force awaited him, clustered on the moonlit plains just beyond the city’s protective walls. The moon hung full and bright in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the land, illuminating a sea of armored figures stretching out like a shadowed army. His lieutenants had positioned groups along the dirt path, clustered and ready, gripping swords, axes, and staffs in eager anticipation. The mages stood further back, their faces half-hidden by hoods, palms brimming with spells itching to be cast.

  Arthur surveyed them with cold satisfaction, savoring the stillness before the storm. The city’s walls loomed dark and silent in the distance, the very symbol of complacency he despised. His men’s faces were turned toward him, awaiting the signal.

  With a raised fist, Arthur broke the silence. “Tonight, we take what’s ours. Let them remember us as shadows in the night, and let fear take root in their hearts!”

  A bloodthirsty cheer erupted, and without another word, Arthur turned, leading his dark army toward the sleeping city.

  “Citizens of this miserable city,” he bellowed, his voice carrying through the quiet night, “I am Arthur Irotes, and your days of false peace are over. Prepare to be conquered!”

  At his signal, his men surged forward, swordsmen smashing down doors, their heavy boots crashing into homes as they stormed through entryways. Further back, mages chanted, weaving fire magic into blazing arcs that flared into the air, illuminating the cobblestone streets with an ominous orange glow. The fire crackled as it danced across the cityscape, filling the night with the pungent scent of smoke and ash.

  As Arthur and his men pushed further into the city, an odd stillness settled over the streets. No guards, no panicked citizens, not even the usual nighttime murmurs of life. Only silence.

  Arthur didn’t stop, but his pace slowed just enough for a flicker of thought to cross his mind.

  No resistance. No immediate chaos.

  “Where’s the welcome party?” he mused, his voice carrying a lazy amusement. His men, fanning out behind him, exchanged glances, waiting for the usual clash of steel and the desperate cries of their victims. None came.

  Arthur scoffed, rolling his shoulders. “Did they run?” He turned his gaze toward the buildings lining the empty street. “No, that wouldn’t explain the silence. Something’s off.”

  Then, a voice rang out from above.

  “Arthur!”

  It was clear. Commanding. A challenge.

  Arthur barely flinched, his golden eyes snapping upward. A lone figure stood on a rooftop, barely visible against the night, yet carrying himself with unmistakable defiance. The figure got two blades strapped to his side, with a hood over his head making Arthur unable to recognize the person.

  The figure took a step forward, eyes narrowing slightly as he got a better look. Young. Too young to be leading a defense against Arthur. But there was something about him—the way he stood, the way his voice held weight. Arthur had encountered many would-be heroes before, but this one... this one was different.

  The voice spoke again, steady and resolute. “I don’t know how many cities you’ve torn apart, but that ends here. Tonight, this will be your graveyard.”

  Arthur’s lips curled into a slow smirk. His men stiffened, hands drifting toward their weapons, but he lifted a hand, stopping them. “Graveyard, huh?” He chuckled, tilting his head. “Bold words for someone can’t even show their faces.”

  The boy didn’t answer immediately, but Arthur noticed the grip on his swords tighten just slightly.

  Arthur’s smirk widened. “What’s wrong? Realizing you’ve made a mistake?”

  The boy finally spoke, his voice controlled but edged with something sharp. “The only mistake is yours, Arthur. Walking in here thinking this city was yours for the taking.”

  Arthur’s scowl twisted into a sneer. “Oh? And who are you to make such claims?” he taunted, crossing his arms as he looked up at the figure. His men chuckled, some pointing and jeering. “You think one rooftop warrior will stop us? What’s your name, hero?”

  The figure’s voice was cool, calm, and unbothered. “They call me the name Blades Keeper”

  ‘Blades Keeper’ is an alias Duke used at the port before getting on the boat going to Degaritas. When arrived, they decided to not use it anymore after realizing calling each others by those names is way more difficult than they thought it would be.

  The sneers broke into outright laughter, the sound echoing down the streets. “Blades Keeper, is it?” Arthur mocked, shaking his head with a grin. “What are you, some lone mercenary with a flair for theatrics?”

  But as their laughter rolled through the air, the temperature suddenly dropped. An unnatural chill swept across the street, a biting wind that carried a thin layer of frost creeping over the cobblestones beneath their feet. The men stumbled, eyes widening as they watched the frost curl around their boots, locking them in place.

  “What—!” Arthur jerked his foot back, the frost clinging like icy fingers. He scanned the street, his eyes darting as more figures emerged from the alleys, carrying everything from swords and axes to farming tools and heavy blacksmith’s hammers.

  From the corners of the city, villagers and adventurers alike emerged—men and women in sturdy, working clothes, their faces set with determination. Farmers held hoes like spears; blacksmiths hefted heavy hammers over their shoulders; shopkeepers gripped wooden planks and iron rods they’d scrounged from their shops. They were no soldiers, but the raw defiance in their eyes told Arthur that they’d fight like one if it came to it.

  Alongside them, the city’s remaining guards gathered, their leather armor worn and patched, their spears and shields battered but ready. Adventurers who’d stayed behind took up defensive positions, their stances practiced, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight. They were a haphazard group—a mixture of hardened fighters, common laborers, and those who’d never held a weapon in their lives—but together, they formed a wall of defiance.

  A few days ago at the hustle and bustle adventurers guild.

  The guild was packed with adventurers, the scent of alcohol and sweat thick in the air. Duke sat at a table with Sylas, Kael, Kaldor, Mira and several other adventurers they had grown to trust. Maps, reports, and scribbled battle plans covered the wooden surface.

  “We could attack his bunker first,” one adventurer suggested, tapping the map. “Cut off his supply lines.”

  “But we don’t have enough people to hold it,” another countered.

  “What about assassinating Arthur before he reaches the city?” someone else proposed.

  Kael shook his head. “We wouldn’t get close enough. His men aren’t amateurs.”

  Frustration simmered in the room. Every plan had a flaw. They lacked manpower, and time was running out.

  Then, the guild doors swung open.

  A man stepped in, his polished suit completely out of place in the rugged establishment. His short blonde hair was neatly combed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room with quiet authority.

  The room fell silent as he strode forward, stopping at their table.

  “I hear you’re looking for a way to defend this city.”

  Duke studied him. He wasn’t an adventurer, that much was clear. But he carried himself with confidence, like a man used to giving orders.

  The man gave a small nod. “I am Lord Cedric of Sarahart. I recently received intelligence about an incoming raid.” His gaze swept across the group. “So I came in person to discuss how to stop it.”

  At the moment, Arthur’s sneer faltered for a split second, a shadow of disbelief passing across his face. It was clear he hadn’t expected the people of this city to resist with such force or unity. Yet here they were, all of them—guards, farmers, blacksmiths, and adventurers—standing shoulder to shoulder, a line of defense against his ruthless advance.

  For a moment, Arthur’s sneer flickered. “So, they want to fight,” he spat, his gaze hardening. “Fine! Mages, burn through that ice. And the rest of you—cut them down!

  "More fools for the slaughter," Arthur mocke, his voice dripping with disdain. "Very well. Let’s see how long you can hold out.””

  The mages, momentarily shocked, quickly recovered, raising their hands as searing fire erupted from their palms, melting the frost into puddles beneath their feet. The villagers lunged forward, their makeshift weapons raised, and the clash began.

  The battle was brutal, chaotic. Arthur’s soldiers, seasoned and ruthless, tore through the untrained villagers, slashing and cutting with merciless efficiency. Screams and shouts filled the air as the defenders struggled to hold their ground. Farmers fell, their pitchforks splintering against the steel of swords; blacksmiths swung their hammers, managing to fend off some of the attackers but losing ground with each blow. Despite their spirit, it was clear the defenders were outmatched, pushed back slowly by the disciplined ferocity of Arthur’s men.

  Amid the chaos, I crouched atop the roof, watching the scene unfold with a tight jaw. Fires crackled in the distance, casting flickering shadows over the desperate fight below. Some medium-ranking adventurers were scattered among the villagers, trying to reassemble them into some kind of defense, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not unless they committed fully to the fight.

  I gripped my two swords, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily on my shoulders. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and burning wood, a suffocating mixture that only heightened the urgency hammering in my chest.

  “Now,” I whispered, glancing to my left and right. Kaldor and Kael crouched beside me, their expressions mirroring my own—grim, focused, ready.

  I met their gazes and nodded. “Night Hunts, Shade Walker. The villagers need support. Get down there, keep them standing. If they fall apart now, this fight’s over.” I paused, eyes flicking toward the man orchestrating the assault from the battlefield’s center. “I’ll handle Arthur.”

  To be honest, I still don’t like the idea of calling each other with those aliases but there aren’t any better choices to not letting Arthur knew our identities.

  Kaldor and Kael exchanged a glance, but there was no hesitation, only quiet understanding. “Be careful,” Kaldor murmured, gripping my shoulder briefly before he and Kael dropped soundlessly into the fray below.

  That left me alone with my target.

  Arthur stood amid the battlefield, his presence as commanding as ever. He barked orders with sharp efficiency, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. But there was something different—something unsettling.

  His armor was new. No longer the battle-worn set from the Redmount attack, but a heavier, more imposing ensemble of black and silver plating. The intricate etchings on its surface looked almost ceremonial, their jagged edges catching the dim light like fangs. And then there was his arm—a long, cruel scar ran down his right forearm, a brutal reminder of past battles. My father had given him that wound.

  My grip tightened on my blades. So, Arthur’s changed.

  As I stepped forward, catching the moonlight, Arthur’s gaze swept toward me. At first, there was nothing—no recognition, no alarm. Just the cold calculation of a predator sizing up its next opponent. Then, slowly, his lips twisted into a mocking smirk.

  Arthur’s laughter cut through the battlefield like a blade. It wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from amusement—it was condescending, dripping with the arrogance of a man who thought himself untouchable.

  “Really?” he mused, shaking his head. “Is this what it’s come to? The so-called ‘blade keeper’—a boy—hiding behind a couple of pets?” His golden eyes flicked toward my side. “The black-haired one with the dagger, and that bear or whatever it is… You let them fight for you, and now you finally crawl out?”

  I exhaled slowly, ignoring the sharp instinct to react. He was talking about Kael and Kaldor. The fact that he took notice of them meant he was paying attention—but if he thought his words would shake me, he was mistaken.

  I tilted my head slightly, letting a smirk tug at the corner of my lips. “And yet, here you are, Arthur, surrounded by an entire squad of men, yet still taking the time to talk to me. Almost makes me feel special.” I gestured vaguely at the battlefield. “You sure you’ve got time for this? You seem busy terrorizing civilians.”

  Arthur’s grin didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened. “Oh, I’ve got all the time in the world.” He spread his arms mockingly. “It’s not every day a cocky little brat throws himself into my path, practically begging to be stepped on.”

  I kept my stance relaxed, watching him carefully. “That’s funny. From where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.” I let my tone turn just slightly amused. “What’s wrong? You need a moment to figure out if I’m worth your time?”

  Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “You talk big for someone who still reeks of inexperience. Tell me, kid—do you even understand what kind of man you’re playing with?”

  I met his gaze evenly. “A man clinging to past victories, hoping his reputation will do the work for him?”

  The amusement in his eyes flickered, replaced by something colder. But he covered it quickly with another smirk. “Ah. You’re one of those.” He exhaled through his nose. “Idealistic. Mouthy. Thinking you can stall me with words.”

  My smirk widened slightly. “Is it working?”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed, but his smirk remained. “Not as much as you think.”

  His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, and in one smooth motion, he drew it. The steel gleamed under the moonlight, its jagged edge worn from countless battles. “Talking won’t save you, boy. But I’ll admit, you’ve amused me.” He pointed the blade at me lazily. “So let’s see how long that sharp tongue of yours lasts once I cut you down.”

  I rolled my shoulders, raising my weapons into position. “You’re welcome to try.”

  Arthur grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Without another word, I leapt from the rooftop, my blades flashing as I landed before him. The battlefield around us faded from my focus. There was only Arthur now. The weight of everything—my friends, the villagers, the city itself—pressed upon me.

  Arthur raised his sword, tilting his head slightly, as if already convinced of his victory. “Your move, kid.”

  I exhaled, eyes locking onto the jagged scar running down his right forearm. Then, without hesitation, I surged forward, my blades crossing as I aimed my first strike directly at his weakness.