The sun hadn't fully risen when Konli's complaint cut through the pre-dawn darkness.

  "Urgh, did we really need to ride throughout the night? I can barely keep my eyes open."

  His partner Cato turned to face him, hands steady on the reins despite the exhaustion weighing on him. "We're already late. We'll be lucky if we even get a booth for ourselves. There's no way we could have waited for sunrise."

  "But now I'm so sleepy! How am I supposed to function all day?"

  "I expect you to handle it like we always do!"

  The carriage wheels churned through dirt as they argued. Ahead, beyond the gray veil of early morning, their destination waited—a village preparing for Semlong, where the market would already be filling with merchants claiming the best spots.

  Konli opened his mouth for another protest, but the words died. His face went pale.

  "Hey, what's that face for? It won't be that bad—" Cato turned forward and stopped breathing.

  Bodies.

  Dozens of them scattered across the road, limbs twisted at wrong angles. Blood had dried into the dirt in dark patches. The corpses stretched to the village gates—people who'd run for safety and failed.

  Above it all, crows wheeled and dove, their caws breaking the morning silence. A black festival of their own, beaks tearing at flesh.

  Then the smell—copper and rot and something sweet beneath. The reins slipped from Cato's fingers. He doubled over the side of the carriage and retched into the dirt.

  Konli's hand shot out, fingers digging into Cato's shoulder with bruising force. "You can throw up all you want later. Let's get out of here—we don't know if whoever did this is still around."

  Cato wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, bile burning his throat, and fumbled for the reins. "You're right. Let's get the fuck out of here."

  He wrenched the carriage around, wheels skidding in dirt still damp with blood. The horses needed no urging—they'd smelled death too. Hooves pounded the road as the merchants fled westward, racing the rising sun, chased by the harsh cries of feasting crows.

  By the time the familiar gates of Claydle Town appeared on the horizon, the afternoon sun had climbed high enough to paint shadows short and hard. Konli and Cato rode in with wild eyes and dirt-streaked faces.

  Two guards stood at their post, postures lazy with boredom. The taller one—Uil—looked up from the conversation he'd been half-listening to.

  "Back already?" Uil approached their carriage. "What happened? I thought you said you'd get better sales there."

  The stocky one, Uil's best friend, snorted. "Yeah, something about them appreciating your niche tastes."

  "I bet they sent you guys back." Uil grinned. "I mean, who wants to buy flower arrows?" He raised both hands and swooped them through the air, voice pitched high. "Oh, they fly through the sky like Astralyn, the ever-soaring flower of arcanum." He scoffed. "What scammers."

  "Shut up!"

  The words exploded from Konli's mouth with such force that both guards jerked back. "They're all dead, you hear me! All of them! Every single person in that village is dead!"

  Shock rippled across the guards' faces, freezing them mid-breath. Then came rage.

  "Kid, do you know what you're saying?!" The stocky guard stepped forward. "Cato, control your boy before I smack him!"

  "It's true." Cato's voice came out hollow, scraped raw. "Bodies upon bodies." His eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. The stocky guard caught him before he hit the ground, the older man's weight pulling them both off balance.

  "Hey, someone call the boss!" Uil's grin had vanished, replaced by something harder. He looked at Konli—really looked at him now—and saw the truth written in every line of the boy's face. "They might actually not be joking."

  The guard post smelled of old leather and weapon oil. Cato lay on a bench nearby, still pale, his breathing shallow. Konli sat across from Ruth, the head guard, watching skepticism settle over her features.

  "This is the kid who was talking about the dead people?" Ruth asked, not looking at Konli directly.

  "Yes, Boss."

  "Tell me exactly what you saw this morning."

  Konli told her. Every detail—the bodies, the blood, the crows, the way the corpses had been facing the gates as if sanctuary had been just one more step away. He watched Ruth’s expression harden with each word.

  She scoffed and pushed back from her desk. "And you expect me to believe this? Someone get this boy out of here. I'm done listening to this nonsense." Her words came faster now. "I know the Astral Guard's presence in these parts is scarce, but a whole village doesn't just get slaughtered overnight."

  "But Boss—" Uil stepped forward, hands raised. "What if they are telling the truth? Let me take some of the boys to check, just in case. That way, even if there's nothing, you can tell the mayor you looked into it."

  Ruth's fingers drummed against the desk—tap tap tap. "Whatever. You can go." She pointed at Konli. "But that boy still needs to get out. The old man too. And no one tells the mayor about this until you get back. I won't have him worried for nothing."

  Uil guided them out, he and Konli supporting Cato's semi-conscious weight between them. The older man's eyes were half-open now, his feet attempting weak steps. Konli turned to meet Uil's eyes.

  "When you get there, you'll see what we saw. You'll know we aren't lying."

  Uil's expression held none of its earlier mockery. "Sure, kid. But I must say, everything in me wishes you're a lying fool."

  He walked away to gather his men. Within minutes, a small group of mounted guards rode out toward the eastern road, their horses' hooves striking cobblestones in rhythm—clop-clop—carrying them toward confirmation or relief.

  That same night, after the sun had surrendered to darkness, Cato and Konli sat in their shared room at the town inn. Lamplight threw long shadows against the walls.

  "I'm telling you, kid, I'm quitting this merchant business!" Cato’s voice cracked. His hands still trembled—though he tried to hide it from Konli.

  “Yes, let’s go be farmers!” Konli said. The idea didn’t sound as crazy as it should have.

  "Yes, that's it! We can go farm far away from here—even in the barren lands of the Klyn Province!" Cato's voice rose. "At least they see no war! I'm sure the lot of them have never even seen a dead body before!"

  Konli was quiet for a moment. He lay flat on the bed, the mattress dipping under him. “Do you think it was the Ignarians that did it?”

  “Of course. Who else would be as cruel as that to Astralyans!"

  Outside their window, beyond the town’s walls, shadows moved in the darkness.

  Brute stopped dead before the town gates, his massive frame somehow making no sound despite his size. He drew a deep breath, chest expanding, and exhaled with explosive force.

  "Vengeance!"

  His hands came together above his head, gathering power.

  "Sanctuary."

  He brought them down. The gates exploded inward, wood and iron screaming as they were torn from their moorings. The guards behind them never had time to scream—debris crushed them instantly beneath tons of splintered oak and twisted metal.

  Brute walked through the destruction, his habitual bounce making his shoulders rise and fall with each step. Behind him, operatives poured through the breach like flood water.

  All wore pristine white uniforms, and even in the chaos and darkness, the golden crest of the Protectorate gleamed on their chests—unmistakable, official, damning.

  "Operation Eon, day two. Commence. Remember—we seek ones to be branded."

  Sudion wasted no time, teeth already working at his sword’s vertebrae, disconnecting them. The blade separated into blade-sections joined by flexible steel cord—a weapon that could slash or whip or strangle depending on its master’s whim. He drew from his core, feeling the familiar ting as his energy raced through his body and into the blade. The steel drank it in greedily, each vertebra singing with strength.

  "Spinal Sword."

  He swung the segmented blade upward, letting it rise like a living thing. The blade links arced through the air, catching lamplight.

  "Convex."

  The whip cracked in a convex arc, its cutting edge tearing through the guard post's wooden structure. Walls split. Beams cracked. The building came apart in shreds and splinters.

  Ruth dove through a window as her command post disintegrated, two other guards—Mark and Row—tumbling out beside her. She landed hard, rolled, came up with her sword already drawn.

  Then she saw them clearly in the lamplight from the surrounding buildings. The golden crests shining on their uniforms.

  Her sword arm went numb.

  The Protectorate? Her mind scrambled. What is this nonsense?

  "What is the meaning of this? The Protectorate dares to attack the sovereign lands of Astralyn? Which one of you is in charge?!"

  Her shout was only met with killing intent that suffocated all present. It pressed against her chest like a physical weight, making each breath a conscious effort.

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  She felt the core energy radiating from them. These were professionals. The energy from Sudion and Brute alone told her everything she needed to know about how this would end.

  Damn it. What is going on? Nothing is making sense. Are they really intent on attacking our town? If we don’t stop these men, everyone under my charge will die.

  “Mark, go inform the Mayor about the attack! Get him out of here—the House Head must not die. Row, you’re with me. I don’t care who they are, we must stop these men here, even if it’s the last thing we do.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She swallowed. "And someone ring the damn bells! We are under attack!"

  Mark ran. Behind him, alarm bells began their frantic clamoring—clang-clang-clang—splitting the night.

  Ruth's mind raced. This attack is no coincidence. She gritted her teeth, watching operatives spread through her town like a plague. The kid was telling the truth. And if we're not careful, we'll end up just like that village.

  "Three Level 1s in one backwater town. Not bad," Brute said. "Sudion, catch the one that ran off. I'll handle these two personally."

  Before Ruth could react, Sudion was already on Mark’s heels.

  “Spinal Sword!”

  The shout rang out behind Mark as he ran. He distributed as much energy as he could into his legs—faster, have to move faster—but there was only so fast a level 1 eterna with his core capacity could move, and Sudion’s segmented blade whipped overhead in a vicious arc.

  “Concave.”

  The tip pierced into Mark’s face in an explosion of blood and shattered bone. The blade-links behind it curved over the crown of his skull, wrapping around his head like a steel serpent, crushing and carving as they constricted.

  "Who dares turn their back to Sudion? Hehe. Sudion will only gift you with death."

  He turned back toward Brute, Mark's corpse still dangling from his blade. "Done, boss. Am I free now?"

  Ruth and Row stood frozen, watching Mark's blood pool on cobblestones that had been walked by children just hours before.

  "Yes. And don't worry about the branded—just have your fun."

  Sudion kissed his blood-soaked sword, tongue dragging across steel. He moaned softly. "This is why I prefer missions with you over the commander, boss. You just get me."

  He rushed ahead, blade already swinging at every living thing in his path. Screams erupted. Then cut off. Then erupted again, further into the town.

  "Now, now, don't be distracted by his antics." Brute's attention fixed on Ruth and Row like a craftsman selecting tools. "You want to save your precious town, right? So come at me with everything you've got. Maybe I'll even spare one of you and save you for branding."

  "Branding? What is the Protectorate up to? Why are you doing this?!" Ruth charged, sword raised.

  The blade came down without hesitation — she poured a vast sum of her energy into the strike, drawing it with great urgency from her eterna core.

  Brute's hand came up. Casually.

  Slap.

  The impact jolted shockwaves up her arms. It wasn't just strength—his core energy, the purity of it dwarfing hers. Her wrists screamed. The sword nearly flew from her grip.

  Row moved behind Brute, thrusting for the spine. The Protectorate pendant at his throat swayed as he moved. “I looked up to the Protectorate as a child—if my father had allowed it, I would have been a protector! And this is what you do? Attack innocent people! So much for your bullshit neutrality!”

  Brute's hand shot out, fingers closing around Row's throat with crushing force. He lifted the smaller man off the ground one-handed, Row's feet kicking uselessly at air.

  "Shut up. What pitiful core energy. You call yourself a Level 1? You are little above a human."

  His right fist drew back. Row saw it coming, tried to bring his sword up—

  The fist slammed into his skull. Knuckles broke through bone with a wet crunch that echoed off nearby buildings. Row's eyes went blank. His limbs went slack. Blood and brain matter leaked between Brute's fingers.

  Brute opened his hand. Row's corpse hit the ground like a sack of meat.

  A scream tore from Ruth's throat, raw and inarticulate. She charged again, sword held in both hands, drawing on her reserves with each strike, pouring energy into her arms, her legs, her blade.

  Without moving his feet, Brute dodged. Head swaying, torso twisting, hips turning just enough—each of Ruth's attacks missed by fractions of inches.

  Her arms grew heavy, each swing demanding more effort than the last as her core struggled to keep pace.

  "What exactly is your plan?" Brute asked. "To kill me with a blind flurry of attacks?"

  Ruth’s vision blurred. Tears, sweat, blood—she couldn’t tell what anymore. Her arms burned. Her lungs screamed. But she couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

  "Have I ever been so insulted?”

  "Vengeance."

  His fists came down to his waist. Fingers drawing in. Power surged, dense and absolute.

  "Heartless."

  Both fists slammed into Ruth's chest. The impact ruptured her heart, the organ bursting like an overripe fruit. Her spine and ribs exploded out through her back in fragments of bone and viscera.

  She was dead before her body hit the ground.

  Inside the inn, Konli sat up in bed at the sound of bells. Beside him, Cato was already moving toward the door.

  The door exploded inward. Splinters rained across the room. An operative filled the doorway, dark figure with blade drawn.

  "Run, boy!" Cato shoved Konli toward the window. "Get out of here!"

  "What do you mean? What about you—"

  "I said run!" Cato's hands seized Konli's shoulders, lifting and throwing in one motion. "Go be a farmer in Klyn!"

  Konli crashed through the window, glass shredding his clothes and skin. He fell two stories, hit the ground wrong, felt his right arm snap. "Argh!" The scream tore from him before he could stop it.

  Something landed beside his face. He turned his head—

  Cato's severed head stared back at him, eyes already glazing, mouth still open in his final shout.

  Konli scrambled to his feet, broken arm dangling useless. Bodies everywhere — like what he’d seen in the pre-dawn darkness, only this time freshly painted. What is this? They've really come here too? No. No no, I hate you Ignaria! He shook his head violently. His eyes caught Cato’s head again—then the only thought that mattered took hold: run.

  And he tried to. Come on, move! MOVE! His legs wouldn't cooperate, balance shot, world tilting sideways. Around him, Claydle Town had become an abattoir. His fellow townfolk—neighbors he'd known his entire life—fled screaming down streets that ran red. Operatives pursued them methodically, each strike clean, each kill quick.

  A family burst from between the buildings behind him—mother with infant cradled against her chest, father carrying their older daughter, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. Terror twisted their faces.

  The father's shoulder slammed into Konli's chest. "Get out of the way!" He shoved hard, sending Konli sprawling. "Monsters! They are monsters!"

  Konli hit the cobblestones hard. His skull cracked against stone—white flash, then darkness swallowing everything.

  Footsteps. Close. Deliberate.

  Through the haze, Konli heard a blade whisper from its sheath. Then the operative's voice, cold and flat: "That wasn't very nice of you."

  Four wet sounds in quick succession.

  Bodies hitting the ground.

  Silence.

  Cole’s hands gripped Konli’s collar, dragging him across rough stone. His voice drifted down: “This one will be branded.”

  The darkness took him completely.

  When consciousness returned, stars filled the sky overhead. His skull throbbed with each heartbeat, blood matted in his hair. He raised a hand to the wound, brought fingers back sticky and dark.

  Whispers surrounded him. He turned his head—slowly, fighting nausea—and saw nine others gathered nearby. All of them bore injuries. All of them stared at the same thing.

  Figures in blood-splattered white stood around them in a loose circle, their uniforms so drenched in gore that whatever insignia they bore was completely obscured. Beyond that circle, bodies carpeted the ground. The stench clung to his throat, sharp and filthy, rot rising beneath it.

  Konli jerked backward, knocking into someone. Turned to apologize—

  "I'm sorry—"

  He couldn’t finish. Goodman Greenhorn stood behind him. The mayor of Claydle Town. The ‘most powerful’ man in their settlement.

  Konli went still. "Even you?"

  Footsteps approached, each impact making the ground shudder. Brute's bounce had retained all its rhythm, his movements still casual despite the massacre he'd orchestrated.

  "Shall we get started? We're already behind. We need to catch up with the others."

  "I want to do it!" Sudion stepped forward, eager as a child on festival day. "Why can't I do it?"

  Brute removed his coat slowly, folding it despite the blood spatters. "Because this part is not supposed to be fun. It's not meant to be a game."

  He walked to Konli, his shadow swallowing the boy whole. Two operatives grabbed Konli's arms, hauling him upright. He thrashed weakly, exhausted and hampered by his broken arm.

  "Let go of me! Why must you do this!"

  "Look at this place!" Goodman Greenhorn's voice cracked. "And you want to do more?! You Ignarians—why is your hatred always so ugly!"

  Brute ignored them. Nodded to his operatives.

  They ripped off Konli's shirt. The night air hit his chest, raising goosebumps.

  Brute raised two fingers. "This is the goal, Sudion." He buried them in Konli's chest.

  The scream that tore from Konli’s throat was animal, inhuman. His body tried to arch away but the operatives held him fast. Brute's fingers dragged through flesh, ripping muscle apart, scoring bone. Blood ran hot down Konli's stomach and legs.

  "This is work. Intentionality. It must be done so even with a healer's help, the scar remains."

  "Astralyn will never let this rest!" Greenhorn's words came ragged. "We will destroy you bastards once and for all!"

  Brute continued undeterred. His fingers carved letters into Konli's torso, starting at the shoulder and dragging diagonally down to the waist. Then back up from waist to opposite shoulder, crossing the first line to form an X.

  PRO AETERNUM, SINE FAVOR.

  Across his body.

  Konli dropped to the cobblestones, consciousness finally deserting him. His mind fled, retreating from pain too immense to endure.

  Brute stepped back, examining his work. "And so we have a Branded."

  The looks on the remaining townfolk changed—confusion giving way to greater horror as understanding dawned.

  Several fainted.

  "You... you're not Ignaria?" Goodman Greenhorn's voice came out strangled. "The Protectorate?!" He dug his hands into his head, fingers clawing at his own scalp. "Argh!!! No way! Impossible! The Protectorate would never!"

  "The Goodman next."

  The operatives grabbed Greenhorn. He didn't struggle. His hands fell limp, his eyes empty—a man trying to reconcile the impossible reality that the world’s sacred protectors had done this.

  One by one, the remaining survivors were branded. Each received the same treatment—fingers carving flesh, blood running in rivers, screams cutting the night. The Protectorate's motto was carved on every body, written on every wall, every surface the operatives could reach.

  By the time they finished, all ten survivors lay unconscious in a pile, their bodies marked permanently with the Protectorate's motto.

  The operatives departed as silently as they'd arrived, vanishing into the night. Behind them, Claydle Town lay silent except for the buzzing of flies already beginning their work.

  That night, Raido’s forces visited two towns and five villages, the casualties far exceeding those of the night before.