Shadows and silence fell, the damp stone walls echoing with the slow drip of water and the faint rattle of chains.
But now, the stillness was broken—the air choking with the scent of blood, the tension of violence yet to settle. A lifeless brute lay sprawled on the floor, his massive frame motionless, his eyes dull and unseeing.
Blood pooled beneath him, dark and thick.
Ian stood over the corpse, his breath steady despite the lingering adrenaline. His hands still pulsed with the remnants of the soul he had absorbed, faint tendrils of energy dissipating into the air.
His eyes, alight with something primal, locked onto the two guards frozen in the doorway.
They stared, their faces pale with disbelief.
The brute—the ogre feared even among them—was dead. And his killer?
A mere slave.
"You did this?" one of the guards asked, his voice taut with uncertainty. His hand hovered over his sword's hilt, fingers tense with hesitation.
"Yes," Ian replied, his voice calm but carrying an edge of defiance.
The power coursing through him was raw, still settling, but undeniable. He had expected an immediate attack, but the guards hesitated—uncertain, wary.
The guard glanced between Ian and the corpse, shaking his head in stunned silence before exhaling slowly.
"So," he murmured, tone cautious. "Since you've confessed… do you submit yourself?"
Ian's brow furrowed.
His heart pounded, frustration simmering beneath his skin.
"Huh? What do you mean? Submit? Submit to whom?" His voice rose, his patience snapping. His glare burned into them, his hands clenched into fists. "Quit the bullshit—come over here and die."
The leftmost guard sighed, shaking his head. His hesitation melted into something colder.
"So be it."
He raised a hand, fingers curling as he muttered an incantation—words Ian didn't recognize but understood instinctively.
Magic.
It happened fast.
A fireball erupted from the guard's palm, its heat blistering the air as it hurtled toward Ian. For an instant, he thought he was dead. The flames seared the space between them, closing in—
Then, his body moved.
A twitch.
A shift.
Instinct overrode thought, and he barely dodged, the fireball scorching past his cheek. Heat licked his skin, the air splitting behind him as the spell struck the wall, charring the stone black.
"Am I dead?" Ian asked himself, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.
His breath came fast. He turned, wide-eyed, to the smoking crater where his head had been a second earlier.
"No, I dodged it," he muttered, half in disbelief.
But there was no time to process it.
The second guard was already moving, sword flashing as he lunged. Ian barely registered the gleaming arc of steel before realizing—he wasn't fast enough.
"Shit," he hissed. Desperation surged through him, and instinct took hold.
"Brawler!"
The air around him seemed to darken, shadows coalescing into a solid form as the Voidwalker materialized.
It emerged in an instant, forming between Ian and the blade, catching the strike in its darkened grip. The steel bit into its hand, slicing through the shadowy flesh—but the damage was meaningless.
The Voidwalker's form rippled, the wound knitting itself back together as its grip tightened.
Dread and fear flashed across the guard's face as he stared into the Voidwalker's glowing eyes. "What the… what the hell is this?" he stammered, his voice trembling as he tried to pry his sword free from the shadowy entity's grip.
Then, another fireball erupted.
The spell slammed into the Voidwalker, the shadowy servant burst into a cloud of purple mist, its form disintegrating under the heat of the flames. The guard stumbled back, his sword now free, his face pale with relief.
But the relief was short-lived.
The mist swirled and coalesced once more, the Voidwalker reforming from the darkness, its large, menacing form standing behind Ian like a living shadow. Its glowing eyes locked onto the guards, its presence radiating an oppressive, almost suffocating energy.
The guards tensed. Fear crept into their expressions.
"This bastard…" one whispered, his grip on his sword turning white-knuckled. "He's not a normal slave."
Ian exhaled, steadying himself.
The guards were stronger than he had expected—far more competent. The fireball had nearly ended him. The swordsman had been seconds away from cutting him down. He needed a plan.
Now.
But before he could act, another presence filled the room.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. A figure emerged from the shadows—a man clad in robes, his expression unreadable, his presence suffocating. He took in the scene with calm detachment, his gaze sweeping from the corpse to the guards, and finally to Ian.
"The crowd hungers for blood, yet you all delay to retrieve my fighters." His voice was smooth, controlled—yet carried weight.
"My lord," the guards intoned in unison, lowering their heads.
The robed man stepped forward, slow, deliberate. His eyes lingered on Ian, curiosity flickering behind them.
Then, a small smile.
"Oh," he mused.
Then the air shifted.
From the walls and floor, crimson wires erupted—moving like living things. In an instant, they coiled around Ian and the Voidwalker, tightening with unnatural strength.
Ian's breath hitched. He struggled, but the bindings did not yield. The Voidwalker thrashed beside him, its form flickering—until the wires constricted further, crushing it into darkness.
It burst apart, its existence snuffed out.
Ian's eyes darted to the robed man, whose expression remained eerily calm.
"You're next," the man murmured.
He raised his hand—
"Wait."
A new voice rang out.