The Vengeful One stood in the courtyard, the midday sun casting sharp shadows across the packed dirt beneath her boots. Sweat clung to her skin, her breath steady but measured as she shifted her stance. Across from her, Osric stood relaxed, his usual lazy demeanor unshaken, but his sharp, hawk-like eyes remained locked on her.
She had been knocked down more times than she could count.
Thrown, tripped, swept off her feet, slammed into the ground.
But today?
Today was different.
Osric moved first, as he always did—a blur of motion, his footwork deceptively light, his attack precise and practiced.
And for the first time, she didn't just react.
She anticipated.
As his hand lashed forward, she didn't just dodge blindly—she pivoted, stepped inside his reach, and redirected the force.
His own momentum worked against him.
He had to shift, just slightly, to recover.
But she saw it.
The opening.
She struck—not with raw, wild power like before, but with precision. Her palm thrust forward, aiming for his ribs exactly where she knew it would matter.
And then—contact.
It wasn't a full hit, but it connected. A proper strike. One that would have staggered a lesser opponent.
Osric absorbed the blow with a slight grunt, stepping back. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his ribs where her strike had landed.
And then—
He smirked.
Just the barest hint of amusement. Of approval.
She straightened, her breath still even despite the exertion, watching him closely.
Then he spoke.
"Not bad."
Her lips parted slightly. Not a compliment. Not some empty praise.
Just—not bad.
But coming from him, it meant everything.
She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "That almost sounded like respect."
Osric huffed a short laugh, rolling his shoulders. "Don't push your luck, lass."
She grinned.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The Vengeful One lunged, her movements a blur as she closed the distance between herself and Osric. This was it—finally, he had allowed her to spar. No more drills. No more repetition. This was a fight.
But she wasn't naïve enough to think she could win.
Not yet.
Osric sidestepped her strike with effortless grace, his footwork so precise it almost felt unnatural. She barely had time to register before his elbow snapped out, slamming into her side. Pain exploded across her ribs, but she gritted her teeth, twisting with the momentum instead of against it.
Her boot scraped against the dirt as she spun low, her leg sweeping out fast and sharp.
Osric jumped over it without hesitation, his body moving like a shadow—fluid, unreadable, and merciless.
She saw his counterstrike coming. Barely.
His fist shot toward her face, but she ducked, rolling to the side before springing up with a burst of speed, her knuckles lashing out toward his jaw.
A feint.
His head barely moved.
Then—pain.
Her vision blurred as he planted a brutal palm strike against her sternum, air rushing from her lungs as she was sent sprawling backward.
Damn it!
She barely had time to process before he was on her again—no mercy, no wasted movement. He grabbed her wrist before she could recover, twisting it just enough to force her down, his leg hooking behind hers in a way that sent her slamming into the dirt.
Hard.
A sharp cough rattled in her chest as she stared up at the sky, body aching, mind racing.
He was just too fast. Too efficient.
She had improved, yes. She had grasped the techniques. But Osric wasn't just skilled. He was untouchable.
His shadow loomed over her, and she knew what was coming before he even said it.
"That's it."
She forced herself upright, wiping the sweat from her brow, her expression taut.
"That's it?"
Osric crossed his arms. "There's nothing more I can teach you."
She froze.
Her mind reeled, lips parting slightly.
He continued. "You've got the fundamentals. You know how to move, how to read an opponent, how to fight without relying on brute strength."
He tilted his head, studying her. "Now, all you have to do is train. Retain. Make it yours."
The Vengeful One stared at him, frustration twisting inside her.
She had lost. Utterly.
And yet—that was it?
Her fingers twitched.
Osric smirked, as if reading her thoughts. "You wanted me to say you weren't ready, didn't you?"
She gritted her teeth but said nothing.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Sorry, lass. You're ready. Doesn't mean you'll win every fight—but you're ready."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. It wasn't satisfying.
But it was the truth.
She pushed herself to her feet, dusting off her clothes, and met his gaze.
Then, after a long pause—
She smirked.
"Next time, I'll land a real hit."
Osric grinned, his sharp eyes glinting.
"I look forward to it."
The Vengeful One walked the familiar path back to the castle, the dirt road stretching before her, the warm glow of the city lanterns flickering in the approaching twilight. But she barely saw any of it.
Her steps were heavy, her gaze downcast, her mind numb.
Depression wasn't something she had ever really felt before—not in the way mortals did. But if she had to put a name to this dull, empty sensation pressing against her chest, it was discontentment.
Her training was over.
Osric had nothing left to teach her.
That should have felt like an accomplishment, shouldn't it? But instead, all she could think about was the fact that it ended.
She had devoted herself to learning, growing, perfecting. And now, she was back to what?
Conquering? Expanding? Governing?
She already knew how to do those things. There was no challenge in it anymore.
How utterly… dull.
As if sensing her spiraling thoughts, Great Sage chimed in.
"There will be plenty of time to refine your martial prowess, Dark Messiah. But do not forget your end goal."
Her steps slowed slightly, the words echoing in her mind.
Her end goal.
Right.
She wasn't just some warrior.
She wasn't just a student.
She was a ruler. A conqueror. The architect of the new world.
Like a switch flipping, she whipped her head up, the wind catching her hair, making it whirl like a cascade of crimson waves around her.
Her lips curled into a smirk.
She hadn't lost sight of her purpose.
She was here to rule.
And there was still plenty of work to be done.
The Vengeful One stood atop the grand balcony overlooking the assembled forces in the courtyard below, the banners of her Dark Marines billowing proudly in the morning wind. Ebonridge. The final city. The heart of Voltheris. The last piece of her growing empire that she had yet to lay her own eyes upon.
Her crimson gaze swept over her troops, their discipline unwavering, their armor gleaming in the rising sun. Each soldier stood at attention, their expressions filled with pride, loyalty absolute. These were not just warriors—they were her warriors.
She slowly walked along the balcony's edge, her boots clicking against the stone, surveying her chosen force for the journey.
At the front stood Lian, ever steadfast, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade, her eyes sharp and focused.
Beside her, Commander Dain of the 48th Dark Marine Regiment, the senior officer in charge of Ebonridge's occupation force, had returned to escort them back, his scarred features hard-set, his stance rigid with discipline.
At her signal, Great Sage's voice chimed in her mind.
"Troop count confirmed. Three thousand Dark Marines from the 1st and 48th Regiments, two battalions of the 72nd Dark Army Infantry, and a vanguard of elite cavalry. Fleet detachment standing by at Ravenmoore should naval reinforcement be required."
The Vengeful One stopped at the edge of the balcony, staring down at her gathered forces. Then, she raised her voice, projecting it with effortless command.
"Today, we march to Ebonridge—the final city of Voltheris. The last of my holdings that I have yet to see with my own eyes. You all fought, bled, and conquered in my name, and now, we go to witness the fruits of your labor."
A pause.
Her gaze swept across the soldiers.
"The Dark Marines who took Ebonridge have been holding it in my name. Today, we do not march as conquerors. We march as rulers, as their reinforcements, their reassurance. They are our brothers and sisters. We will not fail them."
A roar of agreement erupted from her forces, fists pounding against armored chests, the banners snapping even harder against the wind.
She smirked.
Then, throwing out her right hand, she bellowed the words that ignited them into action.
"FORM UP! WE MOVE AT DAWN!"
The stomping of thousands of boots echoed as they fell into rank, her army standing at the ready.
Ebonridge awaited.
And soon, she would claim it as her own.