Alistair’s voice was laced with cold amusement as he took a step forward, the cursed blade in his hand glinting like a smile carved by death. “Alright. I’ve grown tired of your pathetic blubbering.” He smirked, savoring the power he held over Kale. “It’s been fun, but now it’s time to end this. I do have other people to kill, after all.”

  “Use your new form,” a voice whispered in his mind, but Kale didn’t hear it.

  Kale’s heart was slowly beating in his chest. Liliana lay still, her blood still warm on the stone floor, soaking into his hands as he held her. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She was gone. Her face, frozen in shock, eyes wide as if even in her final moment she hadn’t expected this. She had given everything for him. For him.

  Why? The question tore at his insides, carving out pieces of him, leaving hollowness behind. He could barely hear Alistair’s footsteps coming closer. Could barely hear anything through the roaring in his ears. Why do they keep dying for me?

  Kor’vel flashed through his mind. The bladeweavers, his brothers and sisters in arms, had died by his hand. He didn’t know their faces, didn’t know their names, but they were his kin. Then Thalmar had laid down his life without hesitation. Now Liliana.

  His vision blurred. Time felt slow, distant. Her last breath still echoed in his mind, haunting him. He stared at the blood on his hands, as if it had burned into his skin, a permanent stain.

  “You must activate your Ascendant Bladeweaver form now,” the voice in his mind said, this time louder, but once again, Kale did not register the words, lost in his grief.

  Why was it always me? Why do they keep dying for me? Why?!

  The pain was too much. He felt like something inside him was shattering, like the fragile threads of his sanity were being torn apart. He couldn’t stop the tears. They came in violent, ugly waves, blurring his vision further until all he saw was red.

  Why, Liliana? Why you? Why’d it have to be you?!

  Something broke loose. The grief turned into a white-hot scream inside him, one that never escaped his throat but ripped apart everything else. His body began to shake uncontrollably. His blood felt like it was boiling, every muscle in his body seizing up under the overwhelming anguish.

  Red markings on his skin began to glow. Slowly at first, then brighter, searing into his flesh like molten iron. His body convulsed, muscles burning, bones groaning under the strain. It felt as if something deep within him, long buried and chained, was tearing itself free.

  “Activate it. Ascendant Bladeweaver,” the voice urged, weaving itself into the torrent of his anguish.

  It clawed at him, tearing through the fabric of his being, demanding release. The agony was unbearable, yet it wasn’t just pain. It was alive, writhing and roaring, as though a beast had been caged within his soul, and his suffering had finally cracked the bars.

  The glow of the markings pulsed, brighter and brighter, as if it were feeding on his anguish. His scream tore through the air, but beneath it, another sound rumbled, a growl, or perhaps just an echo of his torment. He couldn’t tell where the monster ended and he began.

  “Activate it, or die,” the voice said, harsher now, cutting through the haze like a blade to his core.

  And then, he gave in. Ascendant Bladeweaver.

  Two new arms erupted from his sides, tearing through flesh in a surge of energy so violent it felt as if he were being ripped apart from the inside. His muscles swelled, his frame expanding with unnatural strength. His vision bled red—glowing, searing, consuming.

  Grief twisted into something feral, something monstrous. He didn’t want this power. He didn’t want to survive. He didn’t want to live in a world without Liliana.

  But he would tear Alistair apart. Limb by limb, piece by piece—until there was nothing left of the man who had taken her from him.

  Kale gripped his swords so tight it felt like they would shatter. Alistair’s sneer faltered as Kale rose, his body shaking with rage. “What the hells...?” Alistair muttered, his confidence wavering.

  Kale didn’t hear him.

  He roared, a sound so raw and primal it shattered the air. It was no longer the voice of a man, it was something else, something born of rage and anguish, tearing free from the depths of his soul. Kale wasn’t thinking anymore. There were no words, no reason. Only the singular, unrelenting need to destroy.

  Aeloria’s Promise gleamed in one hand, Mistress of the Enria in the other, while in his newly-formed hands, two blades took shape, cold, and deadly, like extensions of his unrelenting wrath.

  Alistair swung Lifedrinker in a panicked arc, but Kale’s four arms moved in perfect, brutal unison. Steel clashed with steel in a deafening scream, and the cursed blade was ripped from Alistair’s grasp, spinning through the air before crashing to the ground with a hollow clang.

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  Alistair stumbled back, eyes wide with fear. “What the fuck are you?!”

  Kale didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The only sound that escaped his throat was a guttural roar, low and savage, vibrating with the force of his grief and rage. His heart thundered like war drums, his blood boiling in his veins.

  “I’ll rip you apart!” His voice was a snarl, unrecognizable.

  Alistair scrambled, his movements clumsy, desperate. But it was too late. Kale surged forward, a whirlwind of fury, his four blades moving as one. Faster than Alistair could react, the first strike opened his side, blood spraying in a crimson arc. The second slashed across his chest, splitting armor and flesh alike. Alistair screamed, a broken, pitiful sound.

  Another cut, and Alistair’s arm flew from his body, spiraling into the air, blood spraying like a burst dam. He screamed again, but the sound was swallowed by the next strike, which hacked into his ribs, splintering them like brittle wood. The blades moved too fast, relentless, savage, leaving nothing in their wake but a crimson mist. His body jerked violently with each strike, torn apart piece by piece, his mind lagged behind, unable to process the agony unraveling him. His eyes, wide and glassy, were frozen in shock and terror, mouth hanging open.

  Kale was a storm of steel and rage, slicing through Alistair’s legs, severing them from his hips with a spray of bone and gristle. He toppled, or would have, if there had been anything left to fall. But the blades came too fast, faster than gravity could pull him down. His body didn’t collapse, it disintegrated.

  Flesh peeled back, muscles shredded, bones were exposed for a split second before they were smashed into jagged shards. Blood sprayed in every direction, painting the air in a fine red mist that hung in the dim light, thick enough to taste. It reeked of hot iron and copper. Each strike landed with a sickening, visceral thunk, like meat being butchered on a table.

  Alistair’s torso, what little remained of it, spun in place as Kale’s blades kept carving. His skull shattered next, splitting open in a burst of red and grey. For a heartbeat, his teeth hung in the air, torn free from what had once been his jaw, before they, too, disappeared into the whirlwind. His eyes—those mocking, gleaming eyes—burst like overripe fruit, splattering across the stone floor.

  And then there was nothing left. No limbs, no body, no face. Only a cloud of gore where a man had once stood.

  Kale’s four blades—Aeloria’s Promise in one hand, Mistress of the Enria in another, and the two spectral swords—spun to a halt. The red mist that had been Alistair hung in the air for a moment longer, suspended in time, before falling into the crimson pools below, rippling across the blood-soaked stone like raindrops on a still lake.

  Alistair’s scream had never even left his throat. There had been no time.

  Kale stood, chest heaving, the red glow in his eyes still burning as blood dripped from his blades in steady drip, drip, drip. His muscles trembled, not from exhaustion but from the surge of raw, unrelenting power coursing through him. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils. His enemies had mocked him, taunted him, but now they were nothing. Less than nothing.

  The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the slow, rhythmic plip of blood hitting the floor, pooling around Kale’s feet. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body still tense, ready to tear apart anything else that dared stand before him. But there was no one left. Nothing left of Alistair but the crimson stain that had once been a man.

  He blinked, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something—satisfaction? No. Something darker. Something primal. He hadn't just killed Alistair; he had obliterated him, torn him apart like a mad dog. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to drown out the grief burning in his chest.

  Kale stood alone in the sea of blood, the glow in his eyes fading. The ethereal swords flickered and disappeared, and his extra arms withdrew back into his body. His blades hung at his sides, dripping crimson, while his muscles still trembled from the power that had surged through him. But the strength felt hollow. Meaningless.

  Liliana was gone.

  And the world felt colder than ever.

  He turned, slowly, his eyes catching the sight of her head lying on the floor, hair matted with blood. He dropped to his knees beside her, his breath coming in shallow gasps as if the weight of the moment crushed the life out of him. His hands, still slick with the blood of battle, trembled as he reached for her. He pulled her close, cradling her head in his arms, her lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

  A sob tore from his chest, ragged and broken. He clutched her tighter, burying his face in her hair. The scent of her, the warmth that was rapidly fading, it all hit him like a blow to the gut. He couldn’t live without her. He didn’t want to live without her.

  She had become his world in the short months he had known her. When he had been thrust into this nightmare, she had been his guide, his anchor. He could still hear her sarcastic quips, still see the way she’d roll her eyes at him when he said something dumb. He could imagine her grin, that half-smirk she gave when she was about to mock him. But that was all gone now. She was gone. Forever.

  “No,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “No, no, no...”

  The grief was suffocating, an unbearable weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. His tears fell freely now, mixing with the blood that soaked the ground. He pressed his forehead to hers, his whole body trembling with the force of his sobs.

  "Please... please," he begged. "Valtharion... bring her back. I’ll do anything. Just bring her back to me."

  He didn’t know why he was begging. Maybe because he had nothing else. Maybe because he was broken beyond repair. His voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Please… I’ll serve you, give you anything. I can’t live without her. Please… save her.”

  For a moment, there was only silence. The temple, once filled with the sounds of battle, was now eerily still. Kale’s sobs were the only sound left, echoing off the blood-stained stone walls. The corpses of dozens of assassins littered the ground, the stench of death filled the air. The floor was a sea of red, soaked through with blood and gore.

  Then... ripples.

  Small, at first, moving through the blood pooled around Kale and Liliana. He didn’t notice right away, too lost in his grief. But the ripples grew stronger, spreading wider across the temple floor. They pulsed through the blood like waves, unsettling the stillness of the massacre. Corpses bobbed in the pools, shifting as the ripples passed beneath them.

  Kale raised his head, his tears still flowing, his breath hitching. His heart pounded in his chest as the ripples continued, growing more violent.

  And then, from the blood, something began to rise.

  The ground beneath them rippled as a presence rose from the gore. A massive figure, hooded and imposing, took shape from the blood-soaked floor. Its face was shrouded in the shadow of a deep hood, but its form was unmistakable—a towering entity forged entirely of blood.

  Its grotesque hands, unnaturally large, dripped with crimson, the liquid cascading like molten wax. Long, claw-like fingers stretched outward, each tip glistening with the remnants of the slaughter that had soaked this temple red.

  Valtharion.

  The blood god had heard Kale’s desperate pleas.

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