Chapter 50

  In the next moment, several things happened at once — as if the world had exploded into motion. I drove my sword with full force into the side of a Silverthorn warrior, whose shaggy fur cloak barely protected him. A sickening crunch rang out as several ribs shattered under the pressure. He gasped, coughed blood, and collapsed, his axe clattering beside him.

  At the same time, Vin’s vines lashed through the air like living whips — thorned, glowing green tendrils of mana that tossed four warriors around like toy figurines. Two slammed brutally onto the cobblestones, a third crashed into a market stall that crumpled under his weight, and the fourth was hurled straight into a stone pillar, collapsing unconscious.

  Maira — quiet as death itself — stood still and simply raised one hand. Dark green spores trickled from her fingertips onto the fallen. At first, they looked harmless. But then it came — the hissing, the seething. Skin tightened, tore open, pus oozed, blood bubbled. The men writhed, screamed, until the screams fell silent — first into choking gasps, then into stillness. The diseases worked fast. Cruel. Unstoppable.

  And the leader? He had just growled in anger, taken a few steps toward Reyn — when Reyn spoke a single word. One single word.

  “You.”

  It wasn’t a roar, not a battle cry — just a tired, almost annoyed word that sounded like a sentence. But its effect was devastating. The brute flew. Not like a man — like a weight yanked by an invisible fist. He was hurled backward through the air, at least seven meters, before slamming into the pavement. The impact cracked bone — loud, painful, final. He didn’t move again.

  I ducked instinctively as another warrior came at me with an axe. The swing was wild, clumsy, and I took the chance. I turned, moving in a controlled half-circle, and my sword sliced cleanly through his helmet — and the skull beneath it. He twitched once, then collapsed like an empty sack. Blood splattered across my cheek. I breathed steadily. I wasn’t even winded.

  These so-called warriors? Pathetic. Loud, brutal, but without discipline, without technique. They lived on intimidation, not skill. The people of Thulegard could have driven them out — with enough rage, enough resolve. But instead, they had turned to Reyn.

  And… I could understand that.

  Because his presence wasn’t just impressive. It was otherworldly. Almost divine. And yet — I had felt divine auras before. In visions. Holy champions. Celestial beings. They were all… bright, pure, except for Erebos. But Reyn’s energy was different. Dark, controlled, still like the eye of a storm. Not evil — but veiled. And that made it all the more dangerous. What was this guy?

  Then I felt him behind me. No sound. No shadow. Nothing. Just… suddenly there.

  I spun around, my sword already halfway into a strike — but stopped in a split second. His dark eyes met mine, his arm calmly extended. The dagger in his hand was buried deep in a warrior’s throat, whose gaze had already gone lifeless before he even knew what killed him. Blood ran down Reyn’s hand, dripping slowly to the ground. Then he yanked the blade back with a quick motion, let the body fall. No words. No gesture. No triumph.

  I looked around.

  Eight bodies lay scattered across the square. Crushed, pierced, burned, infected. The three remaining barbarians fled — panicked, cursing, throwing away their weapons as if trying to shed their guilt. They vanished into an alley without looking back.

  All that remained of their leader was a broken body and a legacy of shame.

  The people of Thulegard stepped forward. Hesitantly at first. Then they knelt. One by one. Old men, young women, even children. They bowed their heads, placed hands on their chests or stretched them toward the sky — a silent act of reverence. Not out of fear. But out of deep, honest belief. To them, Reyn was not just a protector. He was a bearer of hope. A savior. Perhaps even… a god.

  I, on the other hand, still stood with my sword raised, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from my sleeve to the ground. And in the midst of all the chaos, the stench of death, blood, and scorched flesh — I heard a voice beside me.

  Calm. Almost amused. Reyn turned to me, casually wiped the blood from his dagger with a gold-embroidered cloth, and said:

  “Fancy a drink, paladin?”

  I blinked. Was he serious right now?

  From his smile alone, I knew immediately—yes, he was serious. That crooked, self-satisfied grin only someone could pull off when they knew exactly how ridiculous their words were and still meant them completely. And somehow… I couldn’t resist.

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  I wiped some blood from my face with the back of my hand, feeling how it had already dried, and replied curtly, “Sure. But I’d like my friends to come along.” I nodded toward the marketplace, where Maira and Vin were crouched near the barbarian corpses along with a few curious townsfolk. Maira, her gloves glistening with dirt and blood, was pulling a distinctively shaped amulet from one of the dead men’s necks. Meanwhile, Vin was rummaging through belts and satchels in search of potions or rare herbs, her vines already gathering the fallen weapons like hungry snakes.

  The locals looked uneasy at first—then began stepping closer. Looting didn’t seem to be a disgrace here. Just common sense.

  Reyn followed my gaze and gave a slight smirk, as if something about it amused him. Then he leaned a bit closer and whispered in a playful, conspiratorial tone I’d sooner expect from Rurik: “I could also get you other women, if you’d like.” I turned to him instantly, brow furrowed. “Not interested,” I said—sharper than I meant to. Too sharp. I bit my tongue. Damn. That was stupid.

  Reyn might be the most laid-back guy I’d ever met—but I wasn’t na?ve enough to think he wasn’t dangerous. That he didn’t understand power. Or how to wield it.

  I was already drawing breath to apologize, but before I could say a word, Reyn raised a hand casually. “No worries,” he said, like I’d just told him I didn’t want sugar in my tea. “I just throw things out there. If you ever say yes, I’ll know where we stand.” He grinned again—not provocatively, but almost like an older brother who knew he’d just teased you a little.

  “Let’s head to the Ice Mountain. Good place. Strong beer. And—more importantly—no one there recognizes me… at least not if I make sure of it.”

  He stepped to the side and pulled up the black hood of his cloak, embroidered with silver patterns. Instantly, the look of the white priest took over again.

  The light caught just briefly on the rune-like symbols tattooed around his collar—ancient, lost characters I wasn’t even sure belonged to any realm I knew. Then he looked around. The street where screams, battle, and death had just reigned now lay quiet. The sun—real sun now—had slipped behind the clouds, as if it wanted to grant the dead a final shred of dignity.

  The people of Thulegard still knelt—at least half of them. Frozen. Heads bowed, lips moving in silence. Prayers? Thanks? I couldn’t tell.

  Reyn stretched out a hand, as casually as a king approaching his horse, and waved gently into the crowd. “All good, folks. The great Reyn has brought peace.” His voice carried lightly across the square, that tone between arrogance and charm unmistakably his. The cheer that followed was deafening. People clapped. Others shouted his name. A child threw him a flower garland, which he caught—then let drop without looking back. Then he gave a bow, part sincere, part exaggerated. The kind of bow where you couldn’t tell if he was mocking everyone—or genuinely paying respect. Maybe both.

  Maira and Vin joined us at that moment. Maira held the amulet in her hand, her expression skeptical but calm. Her eyes flicked to Reyn, studying him like some exotic fungus she wanted to analyze. Vin shot me a quick, almost questioning glance while brushing some dirt from her coat with the other hand. “Done,” she said simply. Reyn looked them over, his gaze drifting briefly over their loot—then shrugged, as if deeming them worthy to walk in his shadow. “Alright then,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  -

  Reyn, the master of shadow and storm—that’s what the people of Thulegard called him. He liked the title. Not because he particularly cared what people thought of him, but… well, if they were going to give him a name, it might as well be something dramatic. Dramatic, dark, reverent—just like the story he had woven around himself.

  He strolled through the still-steaming streets alongside this strange trio: a taciturn paladin, a sharp-minded elf, a cleric with a venomous gaze and tainted blood. The ground was still wet from battle, and the air hung heavy with the smell of iron and burned fat. Yet Reyn walked as if on a leisurely promenade—relaxed, almost casual, his hands clasped behind his back, his cloak swaying with every step.

  The cleric was the first who had caught his eye. Not because of her clothes—they were plain enough—but because of her eyes. There was something in them. Something that hissed and whispered. Not a demon, not a simple curse. No.

  Something deeper.

  Reyn had seen many who fancied themselves followers of dark powers. Who traded their souls for a quick spell and thought themselves enlightened because they could suddenly command crows or spread disease. But Maira… she wore her corruption like a crown. Her aura wasn’t one she had begged for—it was one that had chosen her.

  And the rings on her fingers? Ancient symbols. Erebos.

  Reyn’s lips twitched slightly. The god of plagues was active again. And had reached out for a new pawn.

  He could smell divine presence the way others smelled sulfur or blood. And yes—gods. A word that never sat quite right with him.

  Sure, Erebos was powerful. As was Maelis, the Lightborn, whose voice could pacify entire worlds. Or Myrana, whose water-curse had swallowed coastlines. And yet—they were not gods. They were powerful beings.

  Beings of light. Ancient magical spirits. Perhaps even half-truths, given flesh.

  But none of them had seen what Reyn had seen. None had approached the edge of reality. None had looked beyond the veil.

  True gods… true gods didn’t call themselves gods. True gods didn’t need worship. They were. Inevitable. Absolute. Indefinable.

  Like the moment between two thoughts. Like the beat of a heart just before it stops. Like his master.

  His gaze shifted to the paladin. Luken, as he’d learned about ten seconds ago. Not much time. But enough for Reyn to get a feeling. And the feeling was disturbingly good. There was something in this man. Something not just inside him, but running through him. A presence scratching at his mind like an overly curious beast. Corrupted, yes—but not like Maira. Different.

  Older? Maybe. But not alone.

  This thing hadn’t simply taken Luken. It had chosen him. Just like Reyn had been chosen.

  He could almost hear it—the whispering of ancient voices, the pull of meaning that was beginning to stretch between them. Two chosen ones on the same path. Perhaps not a coincidence. Perhaps just another damned game played by those above or below. But if that were the case, if his master willed it, then Reyn would play. With a smile.

  Reyn grinned. A quiet, hungry, almost wistful grin that flickered across his face for just a moment.

  Alright then, he thought.

  If we’re both chosen… then let’s write a legend. No one ever will forget.