The Corpse-Collector was wounded, but a wounded mountain is still a mountain. It dragged its bulk toward the tower doors, the frozen scar on its chest crackling as it tried to heal.

  I leaned against a gargoyle, my chest heaving. 3,726 ml. The dizziness was back. My limbs felt like they were filled with lead shot.

  "Shortstack!" I yelled, waving a hand at the floating Pontifex. "I’m running on fumes! Do you have... supplies?"

  Malachia flickered over to me, hovering upside down. She dug into the sash of her dress which seemed to operate on impossible geometry and pulled out a bag of Rock-Candy Crystals. They glowed with pure, refined mana.

  "You look like a raisin," she observed, tossing me the bag. "Eat up, Shiny Pants. Don't die before the boss drops the loot."

  I tore the bag open with my teeth and poured the crystals straight into my mouth.

  Crunch.

  It tasted like blue raspberries and lightning.

  My eyes snapped open. The grey edges of my vision vanished. My heart hammered a steady, powerful rhythm.

  "Oh, that’s the stuff," I breathed, electricity arcing off my fingertips. "I feel... vibrate-y."

  I looked at the retreating monster. It was trying to smash the tower doors open to escape.

  "Round Two," I grinned.

  I tapped the [Spider Web] icon.

  "Thwip."

  The line caught the top of the tower archway. I yanked.

  I didn't just swing; I launched.

  "YEE-HAW!"

  I flew over the heads of the Gale-Force scouts, soaring high above the courtyard. I reached the apex of the swing, hanging directly above the monster’s back.

  "Physics check!" I shouted.

  I fired two more webs. Thwip-Thwip.

  I stuck one line to the monster’s left wrist-cluster. I stuck the other to the heavy iron portcullis of the gate.

  I landed on the monster's back, sliding on the slime.

  "PULL!" I screamed.

  I used my own body as the tension point, holding the webs taut.

  The monster roared and tried to swipe at Malachia, but its arm was yanked back by the web. It stumbled.

  "Legs!" I yelled to the team below. "Take out the legs!"

  Freyda charged. She didn't use a sword. She used her shoulder. THOOM. She slammed into the monster’s right flank, shattering a knee-joint made of bone and stone.

  Brandan was there a second later.

  "Hammer time!" the King roared.

  He swung. CRACK. The left knee exploded.

  The Corpse-Collector collapsed. It fell forward, its chin hitting the mud.

  "Now!" I shouted, firing another web at the ground and pulling myself down with accelerated velocity. "Finish it!"

  Malachia was floating above the monster’s head. She raised her scepter.

  "Game Over!" she shrieked.

  She slammed the scepter into the creature's skull.

  I landed next to the exposed Core in its chest the one I had frozen earlier. I drew the Marrow-Cleaver. It was heavy, clumsy, but gravity was on my side.

  "Thermal Shock!" I yelled, channeling the magic through the blade.

  The blade glowed red hot, then flashed freezing blue. I drove it into the monster's heart.

  SHINK.

  The Core shattered.

  The monster went rigid. A groan, low and terrible, vibrated through the ground. Then, the black blood stopped flowing. The red lights in its eyes faded.

  It collapsed into a heap of inert flesh.

  I sat on the dead monster, panting. "We did it. We actually killed the meat mountain."

  I opened my System Interface. The list of zeros mocked me.

  I looked at the Marrow-Cleaver in my hand. It was a good weapon, but it was just a hunk of metal. And with my [Strength 11], it was still too heavy to wield gracefully. I needed an edge. I needed magic.

  "Runic Magic," I whispered. "Enchanting. Crafting. Power."

  I dumped the Skill Point.

  Ability: Can inscribe basic elemental runes onto physical objects.

  Requirement: Monster Blood + User Blood.

  I grinned. I looked at the black sludge oozing from the Corpse-Collector. High-grade monster blood.

  "Time for an upgrade," I muttered.

  I dipped my finger into the black blood. I began to draw on the flat steel of the Marrow-Cleaver.

  I drew the rune for FIRE. It was jagged, angry.

  Then I drew the rune for WEIGHTLESSNESS (a basic wind rune).

  "System," I commanded. "Fuse."

  The blade hissed. Smoke curled up. The steel turned dark, almost black, and the runes I drew began to glow with a permanent, smoldering orange light.

  The weapon trembled... and then changed.

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  I stood up. I gripped the handle.

  It felt... light. The magic hummed in my palm.

  I swung it. Whoosh.

  It moved fast.

  "Stats," I ordered.

  "Sixteen Strength," I breathed. I felt powerful. I felt like I could punch a hole in a wall.

  I looked at the tower door. It was locked. Reinforced iron.

  "Knock knock," I said, hefting my burning cleaver.

  I walked up to the door. Brandan and Freyda stepped back.

  I swung.

  CLANG-BOOM.

  The impact was massive. Sparks flew. The lock shattered, melted by the fire and crushed by the force.

  The doors groaned open.

  Inside, the tower was dark. Quiet. Waiting.

  "Alexander!" I roared, my voice confident for the first time in my life. "The Bastard is here! And I brought my own key!"

  I stepped into the shadows, the Cinder-Cleaver lighting the way with its hellish glow.

  "Let's go get the rat," I told the pack. "And let's make him pay."

  We breached the inner sanctum.

  It wasn't a room; it was a shrine to narcissism. The walls were lined with mirrors, the floor was polished obsidian, and the air smelled of expensive apples and ozone.

  Sitting on a high-backed chair, looking bored out of his mind, was Ser Alexander Shadowgrove.

  He wasn't wearing a helmet. His golden hair was perfect. He was peeling an apple with a knife that probably cost more than the entire Angelic Manse.

  "You're loud," Alexander said without looking up. He sliced a piece of apple. "The door was unlocked. You didn't have to melt it. That was mahogany."

  "Stand up!" Brandan roared, leveling his hammer. The King looked massive, a wall of fury and beard. "You are under arrest, Shadowgrove! By order of the Crown! Your men attacked House Falken! You will answer for it!"

  "Will I?" Alexander chewed slowly. "I don't think I will."

  Pontifex Malachia floated forward. She was vibrating with divine energy.

  "I leveled up, Snake!" she shrieked. "I ate the ghosts! I have the power of the Gods and the Arcane on my side!"

  She flared her aura.

  It was impressive. It was terrifying. A quarter of a million.

  "I can delete you!" she threatened, raising her scepter.

  Alexander stopped chewing. He looked at her. He smiled. It was the smile of a man watching a toddler try to lift a boulder.

  "Two hundred thousand," Alexander mused. " Cute. You’ve been grinding in the Crypts? Low-level mobs. Skeletons. Rats."

  He stood up. He tossed the apple core away.

  "I grind in the Abyss, child. I hunt Demons. I hunt things that eat gods for breakfast."

  He flared his aura.

  The room shook. The mirrors cracked. The air became heavy, crushing, impossible to breathe.

  We all took a step back. Even Brandan. The gap wasn't a gap; it was a canyon.

  "You think you can judge me?" Alexander whispered, walking down the steps. "I am the Sword of the Morning. I am the Apex. You are insects buzzing in my ear."

  He drew his sword. The Dawn-Breaker. It glowed with a light that hurt my eyes.

  "Come then," he beckoned. "All of you. I'll clear the room in thirty seconds."

  Brandan growled, ready to charge. Gutrum raised his axe.

  "Wait," I said.

  My voice was quiet, but it cut through the tension. I stepped forward, leaning on my Cinder-Cleaver.

  "Before we die," I said, "I have a question."

  Alexander looked at me. "Make it quick, Bastard. I have a dinner reservation."

  "Is this your legacy, Alex?" I asked, gesturing to the door. "Is this the great Shadowgrove way? Beating up little girls?"

  Alexander paused. His brow furrowed. "What are you babbling about?"

  "Your Purifiers," I said. "Your elite religious nutjobs. They cornered Astrid Falken in the hallway. A one-armed girl. They held her down. And they broke her other arm."

  I looked him in the eye.

  "Twenty men. Against a cripple. Is that... heroic? Is that the Apex Predator at work?"

  Alexander went still.

  He didn't look angry. He looked... confused. Then, a slow, cold realization dawned on his face.

  "They... broke her arm?" Alexander asked. His voice was dangerously soft.

  "Snapped it," I confirmed. "Like a twig. While she begged."

  "Liar," Alexander hissed. "My men are warriors. They fight monsters."

  "Ask them," I pointed to the side door, where the squad of Purifiers had just entered, drawn by the noise. They stood there, armored in white and purple, looking proud.

  Alexander turned. He looked at the Purifier Captain.

  "You," Alexander said. "Step forward."

  The Captain marched forward. He saluted. "My Lord! We heard the intruders! We are ready to purge "

  "Did you break the Falken girl?" Alexander interrupted.

  The Captain puffed out his chest. He smiled behind his visor.

  "We did, My Lord! She was unclean! A cripple! An affront to the perfection of the body! We purified her! It was a virtue! We showed her the pain of "

  "Stop."

  Alexander held up a hand.

  The silence that followed was heavy. Heavier than the fighting.

  Alexander looked at the Captain. He looked at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated revulsion. It was the look a man gives to dog shit on his boot.

  "A virtue?" Alexander whispered.

  He walked up to the Captain. He towered over him.

  "You took twenty men," Alexander said, "to fight a one-armed child?"

  "She... she was disrespectful!" the Captain stammered, sensing the mood shift. "She is weak! The weak must be crushed!"

  "I crush the weak," Alexander snarled. "But I do it because they stand in my way. I do it because they hold swords."

  He leaned in, his face twisting into a mask of beautiful, terrifying rage.

  "I am Alexander Shadowgrove. I am the greatest swordsman who ever lived. My legend is written in the blood of dragons and kings."

  He pointed at the Captain’s chest.

  "And you... you act like a schoolyard bully? You make me look... petty?"

  "My Lord, it was for the faith "

  "IT WAS TACKY!" Alexander roared.

  The sound shattered the remaining mirrors.

  "It was beneath me!" Alexander screamed, his vanity exploding. "Do you think I want to be known as the 'Child-Beater'? Do you think I want bards singing songs about how Shadowgrove needs twenty knights to defeat a cripple?"

  He paced back and forth, running a hand through his perfect hair.

  "You ruined the aesthetic! You ruined the narrative! I am a God of War, not a thug who shakes down orphans for lunch money!"

  He turned back to the Purifiers.

  "You embarrass me," Alexander said. His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I do not tolerate embarrassment."

  "My Lord?" the Captain asked, trembling. "We did it for the Faith..."

  Alexander didn't answer. He didn't draw his sword. He just... sighed. A long, weary exhalation that sounded like the wind moving through a graveyard.

  He raised two fingers.

  The air in the room stopped moving. The mirrors stopped reflecting. The sound of the world died.

  "Domain Expansion," Alexander whispered.

  The walls of the tower dissolved. The ceiling vanished. We weren't in a room anymore. We were standing in a field.

  But it wasn't grass. It was gold. Endless, shimmering fields of golden wheat under a twilight sky. And sticking out of the ground, like tombstones, were swords.

  Thousands of them. Rapiers, claymores, katanas, executioner blades. Every weapon ever forged, glowing with a perfect, lethal light.

  "You ruined my Image," Alexander said to the twenty Purifiers. "You made me look like a thug. And in my world... vulgarity is a capital crime."

  He snapped his fingers.

  Snap.

  The ground erupted.

  A thousand swords shot up from the golden earth. They didn't fly randomly. They moved like a swarm of angry hornets. They wove through the air, trailing golden light.

  The Purifiers didn't even have time to scream.

  Shhhk-Shhhk-Shhhk-Shhhk.

  It was a blender made of holy light. The armor the heavy, blessed steel was sliced apart like wet paper. In less than a second, the twenty elite knights were gone. Not dead bodies. Gone. Reduced to a fine red mist that watered the golden wheat.

  The swords returned to the earth, stabbing back into the ground in perfect rows.

  The Domain dissolved.

  We were back in the tower room. The only evidence that twenty men had stood there was the smell of copper and a faint red stain on the polished floor.

  Alexander sat back down on his throne. He picked up his apple. He took a bite.

  Crunch.

  "There," Alexander mumbled, chewing. "Balance restored. My image is clean. I am not a child-beater. I am simply... a gardener who prunes the weeds."

  The silence was deafening. Brandan lowered his hammer, his face pale. Gutrum looked like he wanted to vomit.

  I just stared. 1.6 Million Spirit Power. He hadn't even stood up.

  "YOU!"

  A shriek cut through the silence.

  Pontifex Malachia.

  She wasn't scared. She was furious. She flickered forward, her body tearing through reality, skipping frames.

  "MURDERER!" she screamed.

  She materialized right in front of Alexander. She didn't use magic. She pulled a jagged, glowing dagger from her sash the Shard of St. Agnes.

  She lunged.

  "Die! Die! Die!"

  She stabbed him.

  Right in the chest. Through the white tunic. Deep into the muscle.

  I gasped. "Malachia, no!"

  She pushed the blade in. Blood bright red, human blood blossomed on Alexander’s shirt.

  He didn't flinch. He didn't attack her. He didn't summon his swords.

  He just looked down at the twelve-year-old girl trying to disembowel him.

  He took another bite of his apple.

  "You're shaking," Alexander observed calmly.

  Malachia sobbed, pushing the dagger harder. "Why won't you die? Why won't you just die!"

  "Because you missed the heart, Little Pope," Alexander said softly.

  He reached out.

  He didn't strike her. He wrapped his large hand over her small, trembling hand the one holding the knife buried in his chest.

  "Here," he whispered. "Let me show you."

  He guided her hand. He shifted the angle of the blade inside his own body.

  "Up," Alexander instructed, wincing slightly but keeping his voice steady. "And to the left. Below the rib. If you want a critical hit, you have to bypass the bone."

  He forced her to twist the knife.

  Fresh blood poured out, staining his golden belt.

  Malachia froze. She stared at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. She wasn't killing a monster. She was being tutored by one.

  "You..." she whimpered. "You killed my father. Admit it! You used the Purple Mist! I saw you!"

  Alexander looked at her. His eyes were violet, endless, and terribly sad. But also... arrogant.

  He pulled the knife out of his own chest. He dropped it on the floor. Clatter.

  He placed a hand on Malachia’s head. He didn't mess up her hair. He just rested it there, heavy and warm.

  "Child," Alexander said. "Look at me."

  She looked.

  "I am Alexander Shadowgrove," he stated. "I am the Apex. When I kill a man... I sign my work."

  He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that chilled the room.

  "I don't use poison. I don't use 'accidents'. I don't hide in the mist. If I had killed your father, Malachia... I would have done it in the throne room, at high noon, and I would have looked him in the eye while the light went out."

  He wiped a tear from her cheek with a bloody thumb.

  "I didn't kill him. Someone else did. Someone who is afraid of being seen."

  Malachia stared at him. Her whole world her revenge, her hate was cracking. Because he was telling the truth. Or he believed he was. And a man with 1.6 Million Spirit Power doesn't need to lie to children.

  "Liar," she whispered weakly. But there was no heat in it.

  Alexander sat back. His wound was already closing, steam rising from the cut as his immense vitality knit the flesh together.

  He waved a hand at us. At Brandan. At Gutrum. At me.

  "Leave," Alexander said. He sounded tired. "The show is over. The Purifiers are dead. Your 'justice' is served."

  He picked up his apple again.

  "Go home, little badgers. Train harder. Level up. Because right now?"

  He looked at Malachia, who was sobbing silently on the floor.

  "You're boring me."

  I grabbed Malachia. I pulled her back. She didn't fight me. She was broken, confused.

  "We're going," I said, my voice shaking. "We're going."

  We backed out of the room.

  The last thing I saw before the doors closed was Alexander Shadowgrove, sitting alone in his tower, bleeding onto his white clothes, eating fruit in a room that smelled of death.

  He wasn't a villain. He wasn't a hero.

  He was a natural disaster with a code of honor.

  And I had absolutely no idea how we were ever going to beat him.