Leonard stalked through the inner fortress’ corridors with a singular purpose: to burn away the taint of the Void. Every time he encountered a group of corrupted men, he showed his mercy by eradicating them from existence. When that whispering darkness melded with the environment, he didn’t hesitate to remove the offending infrastructure.

  Behind him, his elite warriors followed in disciplined silence, their reverence for him growing with every victory. The tug on his soul—the weight of prayers—pressed against his mind, each whispered supplication adding to the mantle they expected him to bear.

  He ignored it. His attention was concentrated on something else.

  The Void had left its mark deeply here. He could sense it pulsing beneath the stones, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Yet, no Breach had opened. He would have known right away if one had. That left only one other possibility—something had been used within these walls to intentionally spread the corruption. The question was, what? And how deeply had it infiltrated Hassel’s foundations?

  I would hate to eradicate the entire city, but I will do it if it comes to it.

  His gaze shifted to the bodies strewn across the halls. Loyalist soldiers, corrupted beyond redemption, lay in smoldering heaps where his men had felled them. Black veins, now inert, marred their faces. Yet the nobles—those cowards hiding behind their ranks—had largely remained unscathed. Pollus had wielded the Void not as the indiscriminate primordial force it was, but as a precise instrument. That distinction did not absolve him of his crimes, but it meant the source of this corruption was still hidden.

  I need to know how this happened and how to stop it from ever happening again.

  A distant explosion rumbled through the fortress, shaking the stone beneath his feet. The battle still raged beyond these halls, but Leonard sensed the tide turning in his favor. As he moved deeper, he felt more soldiers channel their faith into him—not just a passive belief but an active force, as if offering their very souls. He could have pushed it away, severed the tether before it changed them all—but doing so now would cost lives. They were drawing power from him, and the battle demanded that power. He gritted his teeth, vowing to deal with the consequences later.

  He turned a corner, and there, emerging from a separate corridor, was Gareth.

  Behind him, his squad of elite soldiers trailed closely, each surprisingly unharmed, just like his own men. More than anything, that reassured him that he was making the right choice. Yes, he would have to contend with Light-drunk soldiers once this was over, but that was preferable to letting their souls be consumed by the insatiable maw of the Void, from which he wouldn’t be able to retrieve them.

  That was a mistake he’d made for the last time with Belinda.

  However, what struck Leonard the most was their reaction to his presence. Their postures straightened, and their gazes lowered slightly—not out of fear, but in reverence. Some whispered prayers under their breath, and a faint glimmer of golden energy flickered in their eyes. Gareth was no different; his soul burned with fervor as he met Leonard’s gaze, as if he were seeing something greater than just a man before him.

  Leonard didn’t address it despite the grimace that wanted to twist his lips. Now was not the time.

  Instead, he turned toward the great Cold Iron doors that loomed ahead, the final barrier between them and the main hall where Pollus awaited. Cold Iron was the only substance that completely resisted magic—a defense that had been the choice of the richest nobles for centuries, capable of warding off both the arcane and the divine. It now served as the last wall separating him from the end of this war.

  Gareth strode up beside him. “He must be waiting for us.”

  Leonard nodded. “Then we won’t keep him.”

  The soldiers behind them tensed. The air was thick with anticipation. This was the final battle, the culmination of an incredible campaign. Although the war was not over, and even if Treon was likely under siege at that very moment, victory here would signal the completion of their conquest of Hetnia. This was something that no one present but Leonard had thought possible during Alpar’s rebellion.

  And yet, here they were.

  The cold iron gates blocking the entrance to the main hall loomed before him, towering slabs of metal so dense they could resist everything from arcane spells to holy might. They had been constructed to withstand sieges, with the walls on either side reinforced by protective runes that had stood the test of time, designed to keep even the most powerful enemies at bay.

  But nothing forged by men could stop Leonard now. Though he knew the Cold Iron was technically capable of withstanding his own power, there was a conceptual weight to everything he did that it couldn’t interface with.

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  His soldiers stood behind him in tense silence, holding their breath as they waited to see what he would do this time. They had witnessed him perform feats beyond mortal comprehension, and despite the legendary resilience of Cold Iron known to them, they fully expected him to overcome it.

  More than anything Leonard could do at that moment, this was what would enable him to break it. Actions taken by divinities—no matter how rarely they manifested in the material world—created ripples and changed reality. Leonard might not be a god, but he was the closest thing to it that a human could be. His men believed in him so strongly that it never crossed their minds that he could fail here. He just needed to leverage that belief.

  Leonard lifted Dyeus, the holy blade humming with contained fury, and invoked the Light with a voice that shook the very air.

  “By the will of the heavens, by the wrath of the righteous—BE GONE!”

  He swung.

  Dyeus erupted with a golden arc of sheer annihilation, striking the gates with such force that the world turned white for an instant. A sound like a thunderclap split the air, followed by a deep, groaning wail as the very foundations of the citadel trembled. The runes carved next to the iron flared desperately, trying to resist, but they shattered like glass beneath the weight of his might.

  The Cold Iron crumpled like paper, exploding inward in a storm of molten debris and pulverized stone. Dust and smoke billowed outward, the shockwave blasting back against the revolutionaries as the very walls of the corridor cracked. Gareth and the others instinctively raised their arms to shield their faces, but Leonard merely strode forward, unbothered, parting the dust with his golden aura.

  As the haze cleared, the sight that greeted them was…unexpected.

  The vast expanse of the main hall loomed before them, eerily silent. This grand chamber, which should have been filled with noble officers, panicked retainers, and remnants of the old regime, now stood nearly empty. The banners of the Kingdom of Haylich still hung above, untouched by the battle raging outside. The long banquet tables, typically used for strategy meetings and war councils, lay abandoned. Only the faint flickering of torchlight illuminated the shadows clinging to the pillars and vaulted ceilings.

  And at the center of it all, only three figures remained.

  The first, as expected, was Count Pollus.

  The old general stood tall, clad in armor of gleaming black steel etched with silver inlays. The enchantments woven into the plates hummed with power, crackling faintly at the edges, responding to the magic density in the air. His weathered face, lined with age and experience, remained as unreadable as ever, yet his stance conveyed a sense of resolve. He held no illusions of victory—only that this final stand would be one worthy of history.

  The second figure was a rat-faced man, unfamiliar to Leonard, but the moment he laid eyes on him, his senses recoiled.

  The man’s very soul was tainted.

  Leonard had encountered enough creatures of darkness to recognize one when he saw it. This was no simple noble or warlock dabbling in forbidden arts—this man stank of the Void’s corruption. His yellowed eyes gleamed with an unsettling, knowing amusement, and the way he stood—relaxed, hands folded as if he were merely observing—sent a flicker of disgust through Leonard’s core.

  He did not doubt he could kill him, but the Void’s servants had an annoying habit of not caring about death. To them, it simply meant joining the infinite hunger. It was what they sought, whether they were conscious of it or not.

  And then there was the last figure.

  Slumped unconscious on the floor, wrists bound in silver shackles that gleamed faintly with runic suppression magic, was Jeremiah D’Ansan, Pollus’ adjutant.

  Leonard’s eyes narrowed.

  Jeremiah was breathing, his chest rising and falling steadily, but there was something off about the scene. Why was he here, restrained like a prisoner? He had been Pollus’ right hand, overseeing the citadel's internal security, yet now he lay discarded at the feet of the rat-faced man like an offering.

  Pollus exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Well,” he said at last, voice carrying across the silent hall. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

  Leonard took another step forward, Gareth and the others fanning out behind him, weapons at the ready.

  “You knew this would be the outcome,” Leonard said. His voice was not cruel, not mocking—simply stating a fact.

  Pollus let out a brief, humorless chuckle. “Of course I did.” His gaze darted to the shattered entrance. “And I see you haven’t lost your flair for the dramatic.” He didn’t appear surprised that the mighty Cold Iron had failed, which more than anything told Leonard to be cautious. Either Pollus had given up, which seemed unlikely, or he believed he possessed something capable of killing someone who could do that to a legendary material.

  Leonard tilted his head. “I find that overwhelming force saves time.”

  Pollus’ lips quirked slightly, as if he could almost respect the sentiment. But whatever amusement he held vanished as his gaze hardened.

  “The blood wards were supposed to buy us enough time for reinforcements,” he admitted. “I had my doubts they would hold, but I never expected you to tear through them so quickly.” His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “You never wavered, not once. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

  Leonard remained impassive. “Surrender.”

  Pollus snorted. “You already know the answer to that.”

  “Then why drag this out?”

  Pollus’ expression shifted, just slightly. “Because I am not the only piece in play.”

  Leonard’s gaze flicked to the rat-faced man, who had yet to say a word.

  The man grinned. It was a thin, oily smile that never quite reached his eyes. “So this is the great Hero of the Light,” he murmured. His voice was smooth, almost pleasant, but it had an underlying wrongness, like silk wrapped around broken glass.

  Leonard frowned. “And you are?”

  The man chuckled, running a finger along the edge of Jeremiah’s restraints. “A humble servant of greater designs.”

  Leonard’s grip on Dyeus tightened. “Voidspawn?”

  The rat-faced man’s grin widened. “Oh, no, no, my dear champion. I am something far worse.”

  Pollus turned slightly, glancing at the man. “Enough talk.” His tone was sharp and commanding. “If you’re going to do it, then do it.”

  Leonard tensed. Do what?

  A sudden pulse of foul energy erupted from the rat-faced man, and before anyone could react, Jeremiah’s body convulsed violently on the ground. The restraints holding him shattered like brittle glass as arcs of unnatural energy crawled over his skin. A tattoo on his inner wrist lit up with dark light, exploding in ink lines that filled his whole body until nothing of his natural skin was visible.

  Then, his eyes snapped open—and they burned with something inhuman.

  Leonard hardly had time to identify the familiar, outrageously abhorrent presence before the room erupted into chaos.