A figure cut through the sky like a comet, its form a fleeting streak of light against the canvas of twilight. The world below seemed to unfurl like a map in the wind, each patch of land a detail in the sprawling tapestry of journey.
Martin's heart hardened as he veered southward, his thoughts dark and relentless. The chill in the air grew sharper as he flew, but it was nothing compared to the cold resolve settling deep within him. Two hours later, he hovered over the Snowveil region, his eyes narrowing at the sight below.
The camp sprawled across the snow-covered landscape, an army of nearly 60,000 soldiers preparing for war. Tents dotted the ground like a plague, and the sheer scale of the force took Martin's breath away. This wasn't a mere show of power; this was a calculated move, a gathering of strength for the endgame. The Snowveil family had anticipated the coming of Frostfall, and they knew—just as he did—that magic would soon fade from the world.
The realization cut through Martin like a blade. He hadn't been cautious enough; it wasn't him who was being underestimated. No, it was he who had underestimated them. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he considered the implications. This was no ordinary army—they were preparing for the kill, ready to strike when Rotengen was at its weakest. And if they knew about the loss of mana, the attack would be ruthless, overwhelming, and unstoppable.
Martin's breath came in sharp, controlled bursts as he calculated his options. There was only one course of action left to him. But that would require a spell of devastating power—something like that would drain him since mana was already fading.
Without a second thought, Martin began to chant, his voice low and filled with a malice that had been growing within him since the moment he had discovered the truth. Light magic—pure, brilliant, and deadly—swirled around him, gathering strength. But this wasn't just any light magic; this was a spell fueled by life itself. He felt his years slip away, 6 years of his life force poured into the incantation, the vitality draining from his body like sand through an hourglass. His face withered, his youth burned away in an instant, leaving him a man in his early twenties.
Above the camp, the sky began to shimmer, thousands of tiny arrows of light forming in the air, glowing with a cold, unforgiving light. The soldiers below were oblivious, continuing their preparations with grim determination. One soldier, taking a piss behind a tent, noticed the strange lights and looked up "I had too much to drink last night tsk, " squinting in confusion. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.
Others began to notice, their attention drawn to the sky. Whispers spread through the camp, a growing sense of unease rippling through the ranks. But there was no time for them to react, no time for them to flee or fight back.
Martin's eyes blazed with a fierce, almost inhuman intensity as he gave the silent command. Begone.
The arrows of light descended like a storm, their beauty masking the horror they carried. Each one found its mark with unerring precision, piercing through flesh and bone, tearing through armor as if it were paper. The camp erupted in screams, the once-organized ranks thrown into chaos as the soldiers fell one after another. Blood soaked the snow, the ground littered with the dead and dying, their bodies writhing in agony as the light burned them from the inside out.
Martin watched, unmoved, as his enemies were slaughtered. There was no satisfaction in this, no triumph—only a cold, hollow feeling that gnawed at him from within. This was necessary, he told himself, a step that had to be taken to ensure the survival of his kingdom. But even as he repeated those words in his mind, a darker part of him reveled in the destruction he had wrought.
When the last soldier fell, Martin turned away, his eyes empty as he gazed southward to Snwoveil Manor. He had done what was needed, but the cost was high. His body was weaker now, his life shortened by years he could never reclaim. And yet, there was no time for regret, no time to mourn what he had lost.
He took to the sky once more, his heart as cold as the wind that whipped against his face. Martin descended upon Snowveil Manor, his golden hair shimmering like liquid sunlight as he glided through the dusk. The servants below watched in awed silence, their eyes wide as they beheld the figure descending from the heavens. To them, he seemed a celestial being, an angel borne on the wings of twilight.
He landed gracefully, the ground barely registering his presence. Approaching a young servant, he inquired, "Where is your lord?"
With a trembling finger, the servant pointed toward the grand hall.
The manor guards, alerted by the commotion, rushed in to confront the intruder. But with a flick of his wrist, he summoned arcs of deadly energy that surged through the guards, their bodies crumpling to the floor in fiery devastation.
Martin moved with purpose through the manor, the opulence of the hall starkly contrasting his intense focus. Inside, the lords were deep in a heated discussion. Baroness Eveline's eyes widened in disbelief as he strode in. "Who let you in here—"
Her voice faltered as she took in the striking figure before her. "You… You….."
The room fell into stunned silence. Before they could react, Martin's fingers sparked with brilliant light, unleashing a torrent of searing energy. The flash of magic struck swiftly, silencing the lords forever.
Without hesitation, Martin took flight again, his form a streak of divine fury against the night sky. Hours later, he arrived at the capital, Frosthaven. While he was floating in the air he enchanted his voice echoing loudly throughout the city.
"Oh, residents of Frosthaven, I am Martin of Obelia, the last of my name! Hear your pitiful son! This man has killed my father, your king. Is this what our kingdom has become— A lawless backwater country? A laughing stock among nations? Take matters into your own hands!" He continued stirring the people's emotions.
"People of Frosthaven!" his voice resonating with the weight of a thousand grievances. "For too long, you have suffered under a reign that has forgotten its duty to its people. You have been oppressed, silenced, and dehumanized while the corrupt rulers of this kingdom lived in their opulent palaces, detached from your pain."His gaze swept over the crowd, meeting the eyes of those who had gathered, their faces a mixture of hope and desperation.
"These rulers, these tyrants, have betrayed you, turned their backs on the very people they swore to protect. They have lived in luxury while you toiled and bled. They have sown the seeds of suffering and reaped the harvest of your misery."
Martin's voice grew fiercer, his words infused with a burning fervor. "And now, the time has come for justice, for the scales to be balanced. No longer shall you be mere shadows in the eyes of those who deem themselves above you. No longer shall you endure the injustices that have plagued your lives. Today, you take back what was stolen from you—your dignity, your power, and your future!"
The crowd, caught in the fire of Martin's impassioned rhetoric, erupted into cheers and cries of agreement. Their anger, once a simmering undercurrent, now roared with a newfound intensity.
As the people gathered, their fervor grew. Gregory, the king, and his sons emerged from the palace, only to be met with shouts of "Seize the king slayer!!" The crowd surged toward the royal palace, voices swelling with anger.
Even the royal guards were torn. One drew his sword, shouting "King slayer!" The rest, compelled by the mounting rage, followed suit. They seized Gregory and his sons, dragging them to the city square.
Martin landed among the throngs, his presence commanding silence. His eyes locked onto the royal family, their once-proud figures now diminished and vulnerable. He shone like a beacon against the darkening sky, captivating the populace below. "Do with them as you see fit," he declared coldly.
A child, bold in his anger, hurled a stone at Gregory. The act was a spark that ignited the crowd's fury. Stones and debris flew, and soon, the royal family was overwhelmed, their fate sealed by the relentless rage of the people.
Martin watched with a frigid gaze as the once-proud rulers were crushed beneath the weight of countless hands, their heads reduced to a bloody mess. The scene unfolded beneath his impassive gaze, a grim testament to his resolve.