"Even the twelve clans have turned their backs on us, don’t you know this, sister? We were considered nothing but rageful mutts, fools with a sword."
He stepped closer, studying Jorghan with the detached interest of a scientist examining a specimen.
"But you, nephew... you’re different. You survived what should have killed you. You’ve grown strong despite being raised among these... primitives."
His gaze shifted to the devastation around them—the wounded elves, the burning crystal formations, and the bodies scattered across the ancient platform.
"Join me, Jorghan. Renounce this foolishness and take your rightful place at my side. Together, we can forge an empire that will last for millennia."
[BLOODBORNE RAGE: 94% ACTIVATION]
[CARNAGE REQUIEM: CRITICAL THRESHOLD REACHED]
[WARNING: BLOODLINE ABILITY ONE IMMINENT]
The red dot in Jorghan’s consciousness had become a supernova of pure fury, and the tattoo on his neck burned like a brand made of liquid starfire.
Jorghan spat, his injuries all healed now, glaring at him, "I will kill you today, Hawkin. I will rip your heart out and send your head to the bloody emperor."
Hawkin laughed, but it wasn’t loud; he put his hands over his head, leaning back, and he sighed heavily.
Hawkin’s expression shifted, becoming almost paternal as he gazed down at the devastation around them.
The silence stretched like a taut bowstring, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crackling of damaged crystal formations.
"But I am not unreasonable," he said finally, his voice carrying across the battlefield with casual authority.
"I’ll give you all a choice. A chance to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."
He gestured broadly at the gathered elves—warriors and civilians alike who had been slowly converging on the main platform as their defensive positions collapsed.
Men, women, and children, all of them towering figures with brown skin marked by the scars and paint of their ancient culture.
"Leave Sigora and the boy with me," Hawkin declared, his tone as conversational as if he were discussing the weather.
"The rest of you can go. Find some other floating rock to call home. Live out your days in exile, but live nonetheless."
The confused elves looked at each other.
Murmurs rippled through the assembled elves—some shocked, some outraged, others calculating. Several of the younger warriors took half-steps forward, hands moving toward weapons, but their elders held them back with warning gestures.
"And if we refuse?" Korreth’s voice boomed across the center, his massive frame still standing protectively near his wounded sons.
Hawkin’s smile was as cold as winter starlight.
"Then I will kill every single one of you. Men, women, children—it makes no difference to me. This is not a simple threat, Korreth. This is a promise backed by the full might of the Holy Empire."
"You’re bluffing," one of the younger warriors shouted. "You wouldn’t dare—"
"Wouldn’t I?"
Par’shan roared as he charged at Hawkin, "You pathetic bastard, you dare give warning!"
Hawkin raised his hand with casual ease, his fingers moving in a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible.
The air around Par’shan suddenly shimmered, and then—
The tempest warrior’s head separated from his shoulders in a spray of crimson. His body stood for a heartbeat, twin axes still clutched in dead hands, before toppling forward like a felled tree. The cut was so clean, so precise, that it had been made without any visible weapon—pure magical force shaped into a blade sharper than steel.
The level of control Hawkin had reached was unimaginable, and it was also the reason for his rapid growth in the empire. He was feared as the swordless knight.
Korreth’s eyes widened in horror and disbelief.
Par’shan had been more than his lieutenant—he had been his oldest friend, a warrior who had stood beside him through decades of conflict.
And now he was gone, killed with less effort than it took to swat a fly.
The message was clear: Hawkin possessed power that transcended anything the elves could hope to match.
"Now then," Hawkin continued, his tone unchanged despite the casual murder he had just committed, "shall we continue this discussion in a civilized manner?"
The elves had all gathered on the main island now, their defensive lines collapsed, their scattered forces converging in desperate confusion. Hundreds of elves stood in stunned silence, their weapons lowered, their children pressed close behind them.
They looked to Korreth for guidance, for orders, for some miracle that would save them from the impossible choice they faced.
But Korreth stood frozen, staring at Par’shan’s corpse, his proud bearing cracked by grief and growing desperation.
Hawkin waited with infinite patience, like a predator allowing its prey to fully comprehend the futility of resistance.
It was then that Meytiri emerged from the crowd.
Korreth’s mate was a striking figure even among her towering people—nine feet of warrior-born grace, her brown skin marked with the ritual scars of a clan mother. She had been organizing the evacuation of the non-combatants when the battle turned, keeping their children and elders safe in the inner sanctums.
Now she stepped forward with the determined stride of a woman who would sacrifice anything to protect her family.
"Korreth," she said, her voice pitched low but carrying clearly in the unnatural silence. "We have to go. Now."
The war chief’s jaw tightened. "I will not flee like a beaten dog."
"Look around you!" Meytiri’s voice cracked with desperate intensity.
She gestured toward their wounded sons, toward the scattered bodies of their fallen warriors, and toward the massive fleet of ships that hung in the sky like mechanical vultures.
"Look at what your pride has already cost us!"