Sir Leger's hand shot to his saber, the blade rasping free with a sharp metallic hiss. Its polished edge caught the flickering light of burning debris, reflecting a distorted image of the chaos behind him. His stance shifted seamlessly, feet planted with the precision of a seasoned warrior, saber angled just so—ready to parry, to strike, to kill if needed. His eyes, cold and unwavering, fixed on the figure before him.
The figure gripped their pistol and knife with white-knuckled intensity, the edges of both weapons slick with blood—some dried, some fresh. Their breathing was ragged, each inhale like dragging shards of glass into ruined lungs. But in their eyes, there was no fear. Only a burning, unquenchable rage. The pistol wasn't just a tool—it was a judge's gavel. The knife, not just steel—but the executioner's blade.
They didn't hesitate.
The gun roared, deafening in the enclosed space. Muzzle flashes lit up the room like brief bursts of lightning, the sharp tang of gunpowder burning the air. Sir Leger didn't flinch. With a swift motion, he carved through the space before him, wind magic rippling outward in response to the saber's arc. A swirling gust surged from the blade, catching the bullets mid-flight. The projectiles veered off course, some slamming into walls, others embedded in shattered furniture, harmless.
The figure didn't falter. They moved like a shadow given form, crossing the distance with terrifying speed, closing the gap between shots. The pistol clattered to the floor, discarded without a second thought, replaced instantly by the gleam of cold steel as the knife slashed out—a blur aimed for Sir Leger's throat.
Steel met steel.
The saber parried the blow with a sharp clang, the force reverberating up both their arms. Sir Leger's counterattack was swift—a step to the side, blade slicing in a clean arc toward the figure's ribs. But the figure twisted, the movement fueled by desperation more than technique, narrowly evading the cut. Their knife darted out again, quick jabs seeking any exposed weakness.
Sir Leger deflected each strike with clinical precision, his saber a wall of whirling steel, guided not just by skill but the subtle push and pull of wind magic. His wind-enhanced reflexes made every parry fluid, effortless. But the figure fought with the savage tenacity of someone who had nothing left to lose, their attacks wild but viciously persistent, the knife flashing like a serpent's fang.
A sudden shift—Sir Leger spun, sweeping his saber low. Wind gathered with the motion, a sharp gust aimed at the figure's legs. The force struck true, catching them mid-step, unbalancing them just enough. They stumbled—a single misstep in an otherwise relentless advance. Sir Leger seized the moment. His saber lashed out in a blur, slicing across the figure's forearm.
Blood sprayed in a thin arc, splattering the floor in dark streaks.
The figure hissed but didn't cry out. Pain was irrelevant.
They retaliated instantly, ignoring the gash, knife slashing in a savage arc toward Sir Leger's face. He ducked, the blade cutting through empty air where his head had been moments before. With a burst of wind-assisted speed, he darted backward, creating space. His saber flicked out again—this time not to wound, but to kill.
But the figure was faster than rage had any right to be.
They lunged, closing the gap with reckless abandon, knife thrusting straight for Sir Leger's heart. He pivoted, sidestepping the deadly strike, but the figure's momentum shifted with them. Their elbow shot out, slamming into his ribs with brutal force. The breath rushed from Sir Leger's lungs, and in that split second of distraction, the figure struck.
A handful of coarse powder exploded in Sir Leger's face.
Blinding pain—white-hot and immediate. His vision blurred, tears welling up against the sharp grit scraping at his eyes. Instinct screamed, but it was too late. The knife found its mark.
Steel sank deep into his side, punching through layers of flesh and muscle with sickening ease. Sir Leger gasped, the sound ragged, raw. The saber slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor, its gleam dimmed by the spreading pool of blood beneath him.
The figure didn't stop.
They drove Sir Leger backward with a savage kick, sending him sprawling. He hit the ground hard, a strangled groan escaping his lips. His hands scrambled to stem the bleeding, pressing against the wound, but the warmth of his own blood was already soaking through his fingers.
The figure descended on him like a shadow made flesh.
The knife rose and fell, each strike fueled by a hatred that burned hotter than any pain. The blade punched through cloth, muscle, bone—again and again. Blood sprayed with every thrust, splattering across the floor, the walls, the figure's own face.
Sir Leger's breaths grew shorter, weaker, his body jerking with each stab until even that stopped.
Gasping, trembling, his voice a faint whisper, he managed, "Why…?"
The figure froze for a heartbeat, knife hovering mid-air, breath ragged. Then they leaned in close, their face inches from his, eyes burning with something far darker than rage.
"Why?" Their voice was a rasp, broken by exhaustion and grief. "After the atrocities committed by all of you, how dare you still ask why?"
Sir Leger's fading eyes were clouded with confusion, pain, disbelief. "I… don't… know… what you're talking about…"
The figure's face twisted, a grotesque snarl of fury and despair. "Of course you don't. Of course none of you understand. You turned a blind eye while my family was slaughtered—while the Lorenz mercenary company bled them dry!" Their words hit like gunshots, sharp and bitter. "And you—you did nothing."
Sir Leger's mouth worked, but no words came, only a faint wheeze.
The figure leaned closer, voice trembling. "It wasn't just them. It was all of you. Tolk let them exist. You watched, you knew, and you let them live."
Sir Leger's eyes dimmed, his breath slowing.
The figure's knife rose one final time.
"This is justice."
The blade plunged deep, piercing his heart with a sickening crunch. Sir Leger's body went still.
Silence followed. Only the sound of the figure's ragged breathing filled the room.
Blood soaked the floor, pooling beneath Sir Leger's corpse, mingling with the dust and debris.
The figure stood slowly, swaying slightly, their chest rising and falling with shuddering breaths. Their blood-slicked knife hung limp at their side. They didn't look back at the man they'd killed. There was no need.
There was still work to do.
They moved through the building like death itself, cutting down anyone in their path. Pleas for mercy went unanswered, screams drowned beneath the relentless, rhythmic sound of blade meeting flesh. No hesitation. No remorse.
By the time they stepped outside, the once-vibrant town of Tolk was a graveyard. Blood stained the streets. The fires burned unchecked, casting long shadows over the bodies littering the ground.
The figure paused, standing amid the ruins, their cloak soaked in blood—some of it their own, most of it not.
They stared out at the devastation, their voice low, trembling, yet filled with chilling certainty.
"In this world, I have nothing but enemies."
Their gaze swept over the town one last time.
"And enemies shall fall, one by one, until the weight of their sins is finally paid in full."