Chapter Twenty
The townsfolk were beginning to stir. The blue light in their eyes had faded, replaced by the groggy confusion of people waking up from a nightmare.
Siurad stepped over a puddle of red slush that used to be the gauntlets amalgamation.
"We need to leave," Siurad stated, kicking a piece of the Orc’s armor aside. "I am not ready to explain why the blacksmith is currently a jigsaw puzzle."
"Agreed," Yona nodded, patting her pockets. They clinked heavily. "You sure did a number on those folks. On the bright side, the world is our oyster, Shepherd. We can head north to Silverspire. Large city. Plenty of fences to hawk these goods."
"Anywhere that gets us away from the questions," Siurad grunted. He looked at the gauntlet, which lay inert on the ground. "And what about this? Can you eat it, Obi? Or is it too spicy?"
'...USELESS,' Obi pulsed, the voice echoing like grinding stones in Siurad's mind. '...IT IS NOT OF THE VOID. IT IS A CHAOTIC FILTH IT CANNOT BE CONSUMED.'
"So that means no?" Siurad sighed, rubbing his temples. "You know, for an all-powerful god, you’re a little too cryptic. Just spell it out like I’m five."
.'...THEN I SHALL USE SMALL WORDS FOR A SMALL MIND.'
"Oooooh," Yona cackled, clutching her stomach. "Burn! The jewelry got jokes!"
"Let's just go," Siurad grumbled. “I have to stop teaching you slang.”
They made it to the edge of the market square when the air pressure suddenly spiked.
VWUM.
A massive pillar of holy light slammed into the cobblestones fifty feet in front of them. As the light faded, a figure stood in the crater. He was a mountain of a man clad in pristine, white-enameled plate armor, bearing a tower shield emblazoned with a silver eagle.
"Move no further," the man commanded, brandishing a long, slender lance. His face was obscured by a winged golden helm.
"For fuck's sake," Siurad groaned, his shoulders slumping. "Can we just go one day without a boss fight?"
"I am Knight Rio of the White Spire," the figure boomed. "Explain this slaughter."
"You got it all wrong, holy man," Yona said, putting on her best innocent face. "We’re heroes. We saved them."
She stepped forward, spreading her arms in a gesture of goodwill.
RIIIP.
The cheap burlap sack tied to her belt, stuffed to capacity with loot, tore open. A cascade of stolen goods clattered onto the silent street. A gold chalice rolled out and hit the knight's boot with a hollow ring.
Rio looked at the loot.
He looked at Yona.
He looked at the blood-soaked Siurad.
He lowered his lance into a combat stance.
From the darkness behind the Knight, the heavy, rhythmic thud of approaching iron boots echoed.
"Reinforcements," Yona hissed, her hand dropping to her daggers. "We have to clear him quickly, Big Guy. If his squad gets here, we're pinned."
Siurad sighed. He didn't want to kill a knight who was just doing his job. But bouncer logic was clear: If the guy at the door won't let you leave, you move him.
'...REMOVE THE OBSTACLE,' Obi commanded coldly.
Yona moved first. She launched herself forward like a cannonball, her daggers igniting with Hellfire.
Rio didn't flinch. He planted his feet and slammed his shield into the ground.
"Divine Shroud!"
The shield erupted with blinding holy light. It was a perfect counter. Yona cursed, realizing a head-on assault was suicide, and skidded to a halt to avoid impaling herself blindly on his lance.
But the light cast a shadow. And where there is shadow, there is Siurad.
Reinvigorated by the consumption of the mask, Siurad stepped.
The world inverted. POP.
He reappeared directly inside Rio’s guard, bypassing the shield entirely. Rio turned his head, surprised, just in time to see a massive, black-armored fist occupying his entire field of vision.
"Parry this," Siurad growled.
He clotheslined the knight with the force of a hydraulic press.
CRACK.
The impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a church bell. Rio’s helmet was dented inward, and the massive knight was lifted off his feet, spinning in the air before crashing face-first into the dirt.
Siurad stood over him, shaking his hand out.
"Knights," Siurad scoffed. "High defense, zero situational awareness."
Siurad turned to leave, but the window for escape had already closed. The reinforcements had arrived, a phalanx of nineteen knights, paladins, and clerics marching in lockstep toward the town.
The unit split with practiced efficiency. A support squad peeled off, rushing to triage the wounded townsfolk, while the larger, heavily armed group encircled Siurad and Yona.
Rio scrambled shakily to his feet as a smaller man stepped out from the formation. He was an anomaly among the armored soldiers; he wore simple leather trousers and a crisp white shirt tucked beneath a jacket of heavy indigo canvas. The crest of the Whitespire was emblazoned boldly across his back. It was a massive eagle swooping down near a large spire.
He regarded Yona and Siurad with a sneer of absolute superiority.
“All we want is to leave,” Yona said, her voice tight. “Your man wouldn't allow it. We stopped the slaughter here.”
The man raised a hand, silencing her. “I am Guil, High Knight of the Whitespire. We will determine what happened here. Until then, you remain where you are.”
Yona projected her thought to Obi. Let Siurad know they are probably going to try to search us and take our loot.
'...THE FOX SENSES GREED; THEY SEEK TO PLUNDER WHAT IS YOURS.'
Siurad glanced at Yona, a subtle nod confirming the message.
“Look,” Siurad rumbled, stepping forward. “If it’s all the same to you, we’ll be on our way. We don't want trouble.”
“Are you daft? Or just hard of hearing?” Guil’s expression curdled into disgust. “You will wait there until our investigation concludes. If…and I mean if…you are found innocent of wrongdoing, you will be free to go.”
Siurad knew the type.
He had seen men like this a thousand times before: born into wealth, drunk on a thimble of power, and desperate to brandish it against anyone who wouldn’t fight back.
He sized Guil up.
Siurad had almost a foot of height on the High Knight and outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. Back home, that math would have ended the conversation before it started.
But this wasn’t home.
In this world full of magic, arrogance probably came with backing.
Guil noticed the calculation in Siurad’s eyes and mistook it for hesitation. He smirked and closed the distance, stepping brazenly into Siurad’s personal space.
He didn’t flinch at the giant’s size. Instead, he reached out and tapped one finger against Siurad’s newly acquired black chest plate.
A faint spark of golden light flared at his fingertip.
“You don’t dictate terms to the Spire, mercenary,” Guil said softly, his voice dripping with aristocratic venom. “You sit, you heel, and you pray I don’t decide you’re a heretic before the paperwork is even filed.”
Siurad looked down at the finger resting against his armor.
Back home, there was a universal rule at the club.
Patrons could yell. They could curse. They could threaten. But the exact second a patron put hands on you, the social contract was void.
Combine that with the fact that Siurad had just spent the last few days fighting Grief-Mares, executing bandits, the road wardens, the flock, and wrestling a multi-bodied flesh-golem, and his patience wasn’t just thin.
It was gone.
Obi tasted his rising anger. The crack in the ring was a hairline thing, but it was enough. Obi's presence seeped, threading into the spaces between Siurad's own thoughts, warming the anger that was already there until Siurad couldn't have said where his temper ended, and the Void's began. He only knew the finger on his chest had become the only thing in the world.
'...SHOW HIM THE WEIGHT OF THE VOID HEIR.'
A cold darkness began to swell in Siurad’s chest.
“You know what?" Siurad said quietly. "Fuck it."
Siurad didn't think; he just moved.
Guil’s smile widened. He stepped in to meet the charge.
Guil stopped abruptly, a blinding golden light enveloping his gloves. He dipped low, lunging upward to catch Siurad with a rising uppercut. Siurad saw it coming and didn't respect it.
He reached out one-handed, almost bored, going to palm the little man's skull and hold him out at the end of one long arm, let the runt flail at empty air like a kid swinging at his big brother, until he wore himself out.
But Siurad was too slow.
The fist connected with the sound of a cracking whip. The blow caught Siurad flush on the chin, rattling his skull and lifting him off his feet.
Before Siurad even crashed to the earth, Yona was already calculating an intercept vector.
'...DO NOT INTERVENE.' Obi commanded.
Siurad landed hard, twisting violently to disperse the momentum. The pain was blinding, unlike anything he had felt in this world. He rolled to his side, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the cratered soil.
Guil was on him instantly, moving like a streak of light. A heavy boot slammed dead center into Siurad’s ribs. Air vacated his lungs with a wet wheeze as the impact rocketed him backward.
Siurad tumbled, hands digging into the dirt, and sprang to his feet. Guil was already there, fist cocked for the finisher.
POP.
The air collapsed as Siurad Void stepped.
In a microsecond, he materialized beside Guil. Siurad threw a punch with every ounce of frustration he possessed. It connected with a meaty thud, folding Guil in half and launching him backward.
Siurad Void Stepped again, appearing directly above the reeling knight.
He grabbed the smaller man by the waist, spun in the air, and drove him downward. They slammed into the earth, Siurad power-bombing the High Knight with enough force to liquefy stone. The ground exploded, creating a crater six feet deep.
Rage, hot and blinding, flared from within. Siurad called to the void, and it answered; shadows appeared around Siurad’s arm, solidifying into a massive, jagged spike.
“Siurad, enough!” Yona screamed as the other members of the Whitespire converged.
It was too late. He was too far gone. All he saw was red. All he wanted was blood.
The spike rocketed from his palm.
“STOP! IN THE NAME OF THE SPIRE!”
A skinny figure burst from the tree line, sprinting toward the carnage with a gait that was more desperate scramble than heroic charge. He wasn't a warrior. He was a boy, baby-faced, with a mop of honey-blonde hair and simple white-and-gold robes that were currently splashed with mud.
He threw himself between the High Knight and Siurad, raising a simple staff like it was a legendary weapon. His hands were trembling violently.
“Divine Ward!”
A sphere of translucent, holy light snapped into existence around him, expanding just in time to catch the impact.
The spike collided with the barrier. The resulting shockwave blew them apart; cracking the very air, sending Siurad skidding back and knocking the smaller man off his feet.
Dust swirled. Silence fell over the cratered field.
The skinny man scrambled back up, using his staff to steady his shaking legs. He looked terrified, pale as a sheet, but he didn't back down. He pointed a trembling finger at the High Knight.
“Shame on you!” Alexander shouted, his voice cracking but carrying a surprising, lecturesque authority. “Shame on you, Guil! Is this the righteousness of the Spire? To brawl in the dirt like a common thug while the wounded cry for help?”
Guil blinked, the golden light on his fists fading as he recognized the robes. “Alexander.”
“I am!” Alexander stepped forward, placing himself boldly in front of Siurad, acting as a human shield for the monster. “I have spoken to the townsfolk. I have tended their wounds. These two stopped the slaughter while you were marching in formation! They are innocent!”
He took a deep, shaky breath, adjusting his glasses, which had gone askew.
“Stand down, High Knight. Or by the grace of the Saints, I will write such a report to the Bishop that you will be scrubbing latrines until the next Age!”
Guil’s face went through a complex series of contortions, shock, indignation, and finally, a sour, curdled resignation. The golden light around his fists flickered and died.
He straightened up, brushing dust from his canvas jacket, trying to regain some semblance of cool superiority.
“The Journeyman,” Guil sneered, though he took a subtle half-step back. “I should have known. Who else would throw themselves in front of a beast but the Spire’s bleeding heart?”
He gestured vaguely at the crater Siurad had created. “Look at this mess, Alexander. You call this innocence?”
“Because you kicked him while he was down!” Alexander shot back, his voice rising an octave. He was still shaking, clutching his staff so hard his knuckles were white. “I saw it! That is not the conduct of a High Knight! That is... that is bullying!”
He adjusted his glasses, which were slipping down his sweat-slicked nose.
“I am filing a formal grievance, Guil. A Rite of Inquiry. Leave these people be. I will conduct the interview myself.”
Guil stared at the skinny healer. He looked at the nineteen other knights behind him, who were watching the exchange with awkward silence. Then he looked at Siurad, who was still wreathed in black smoke, a living nightmare waiting for an excuse to snap.
“Fine,” Guil spat. He turned his back on them. “If the saint wants to play in the mud with the pigs, be my guest. But don’t come crying to me when he bites your hand off.”
He signaled to his troop. “We’re done here. Secure the perimeter. Let the boy play hero.”
The knights fanned out, moving away from the crater with disciplined precision, giving Siurad a very wide berth. Guil shot one last, venomous look at Yona before disappearing into the crowd of soldiers.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Alexander slumped. The authority of the Spire evaporated, leaving just a terrified kid in muddy robes. He let out a long, wheezing breath and nearly collapsed, using his staff to stay upright.
“Oh gods,” he squeaked. “I thought he was going to punch me. Did you see his gloves? They were glowing. Why were they glowing?”
He turned, his eyes wide and frantic, to check on Siurad.
“You...” He swallowed hard. “You aren’t going to kill me, are you?”
Siurad hadn’t moved. The black spikes of shadow hadn’t receded. The Void was still rolling off him in waves of cold, pressurized rage. He was staring at the retreating back of the High Knight, his pupils tainted violet into abyssal pools.
‘...THE FLAW WALKS AWAY UNCORRECTED.’ Obi’s voice ground against Siurad’s skull like tectonic plates shifting. ‘...THE WEAK ONE REMAINS.’
The urge to step across the distance and finish the job was a physical ache in Siurad’s muscles.
“Siurad,” Yona’s voice cut through the static. She stepped between him and the terrified boy, her hands raised slightly. “Easy. The skinny one helped us.”
Siurad blinked, the haze slowly receding. He looked down.
The boy was trembling. He looked like a strong breeze would knock him over. He was covered in mud, his glasses were crooked, and he smelled like fear and cheap incense.
“Who are you?” Siurad rasped, his voice sounding like gravel in a blender. He spat a glob of blood onto the grass.
“A-Alexander,” the boy stammered, straightening his robes with shaking hands. “Journeyman of the White Spire. I... I spoke to the villagers. They told me you saved them from the bandits.”
Alexander took a hesitant step forward, eyeing the black smoke still curling off Siurad’s shoulders.
“I couldn’t let Guil execute you without a trial. It’s against the Codex. Title 4, Section B.” He said it like he was quoting holy scripture that physically protected him from harm.
Yona raised an eyebrow. She looked at Siurad.
“Title 4, Section B,” she repeated, deadpan. “Well, thank the gods for bureaucracy.”
The adrenaline dump hit Siurad all at once. The shadows dissolved into mist. His knees buckled as the pain rushed in to fill the void. His ribs screamed where Guil had kicked him, and his jaw felt unhinged. He swayed, his vision graying at the edges.
“You’re hurt,” Alexander said. The fear in his eyes was replaced instantly by a fussing, almost motherly concern. He rushed forward, forgetting that Siurad was a terrifying giant.
“Don’t touch me,” Siurad grunted, trying to step back, but he stumbled.
“Hold still! You’re bleeding internally,” Alexander scolded, his hands glowing with a soft, warm white light. “I saw that kick. It probably cracked three ribs and bruised your lung. If I don't set it now, you'll be breathing blood in an hour.”
Before Siurad could protest, Alexander placed his hands on the giant’s chest.
The sensation was jarring. It wasn't cold like the Void. It was burning hot, an invasive warmth that knit bone back together with aggressive speed. Siurad hissed through his teeth, his muscles locking up.
“What is... that?” Siurad groaned.
“I am healing you,” Alexander muttered, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Now stop moving, you’re making it harder.”
Yona watched the scene with a calculated look. She saw the White Spire crest on Alexander's robes. She saw the power he wielded. It was not combat or even magical, but political power. Guil had backed down.
She walked over, picking up a gold button that had flown off Guil’s jacket during the fight. She tossed it in the air and caught it.
“You got a lot of nerve for a guy who shakes like a leaf, Alexander,” Yona said, a smirk playing on her lips. “Standing up to a High Knight for two strangers? That's either brave or stupid.”
“It was necessary,” Alexander said, pulling his hands back. He wiped sweat from his forehead, looking exhausted. “The Spire stands for order. Guil was... disorderly.”
He looked up at Siurad, his eyes lingering on the strange, dark ring on Siurad’s finger. He shivered, sensing something wrong with it, but politely decided not to ask.
“There,” Alexander said, stepping back. “Your ribs are set. But you should rest. No more fighting today.”
Siurad straightened up, testing his chest. The sharp stab of pain was gone, replaced by a dull ache. He looked at the skinny boy differently now.
‘...THE HEALER IS USEFUL.’ Obi observed, the voice echoing in the back of Siurad's mind. ‘...KEEP HIM.’
“Thanks,” Siurad grunted. It was awkward. He wasn't used to thanking people in this world.
“Just... try not to provoke Guil again,” Alexander said, adjusting his glasses nervously. “He’s vindictive. And I can’t cast Divine Ward twice in one day. I’ll pass out.”
“Noted,” Siurad said.
Yona stepped up beside Siurad, her eyes locked on Alexander.
“So, Journeyman,” she said, her tone shifting to business. “Since you’re the one asking questions now... does this 'investigation' of yours come with a reward? Because we did just save this town.”
Alexander blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift to commerce. He patted his robes, looking distressed.
“Reward? I... well, the Spire doesn't exactly carry coin for freelance heroics. I can write a letter of commendation? It could help with travel visas...”
Yona sighed, rolling her eyes theatrically. “Paperwork. Of course. Why did I expect gold?”
She walked over to where the twisted, blue-veined Gauntlet lay on the cobblestones. It was inert now, looking more like a piece of abstract art made of dried jerky and sapphire than a weapon of mass destruction.
She nudged it with her boot.
“Tell you what, Alex,” she said. “We’ll waive the fee. Consider this a donation to the cause.”
She bent down, wrapped the Gauntlet in a piece of torn banner from a nearby stall to avoid touching it directly, and held it out to him.
“The Whitespire safeguards dangerous things, right? Keeps the world safe from the spooky stuff?” Yona smiled, a sharp, fox-like expression. “This is the anchor that was controlling the flesh-construct. It’s nasty, it’s old, and it reeks of dark magic. If we keep it, we’ll just end up selling it to a fence who’ll probably accidentally blow up a city. If you take it, it goes into a vault.”
Alexander stared at the bundle. His professional curiosity overrode his fear. He reached out with trembling hands and took the artifact.
“This is... this is…,” he muttered, peering at the blue veins. “The complexity is staggering. Yes. You’re right. This cannot fall into the general market. The Spire must contain it.”
He looked up at Yona, gratitude warring with confusion behind his glasses. “You’re just... giving this to me? This is worth a fortune on the black market.”
“We’re not black market dealers,” Yona lied smoothly. “We’re just concerned citizens.”
Siurad snorted but covered it with a cough when Yona shot him a glare.
“Besides,” Yona continued, stepping closer to the Journeyman, invading his personal space just enough to make him nervous. “I think you’re going to need a peace offering when you get back to headquarters. Guil isn't going to be happy that you embarrassed him in front of his squad.”
Alexander flinched, but then he straightened his spine, a flash of aristocratic pride cutting through his anxiety.
“He can be as unhappy as he likes,” Alexander said, clutching the gauntlet. “But he can’t touch my rank. I am the youngest Journeyman in a century. My grandfather is the High Bishop. If Guil tried to demote me, he’d be scrubbing latrines in the Northern Waste before the ink was dry.”
Yona paused, re-evaluating. Right. The Prodigy.
“Okay, so you’re untouchable on paper,” Yona conceded, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But we’re not in the capital, are we? We’re out here in the mud. You're not even in Doria. Far away across country lines….”
She gestured to the crater Siurad had made.
“Guil is vindictive. He can’t fire you, sure. But accidents happen in the field, don't they? Maybe he assigns you to the front line of a ambush. Maybe he forgets to send backup when you’re pinned down. Or maybe a stray arrow just finds its way to the Spire’s Bleeding Heart.”
Alexander went pale. The confidence about his grandfather vanished.
“He... he wouldn't dare. That’s against the Codex.”
“Alexander, he just tried to murder my friend because his ego was bruised,” Yona pointed out. “Do you really think a piece of paper stops a guy like that? You made him look weak. If you go back to that camp, you’re just a target.”
Alexander hugged his staff, looking miserable. “So what do I do? I can’t desert. Even I can’t survive the scandal of desertion.”
“Don't desert,” Yona said. “Recruit.”
She spread her hands. “You’re an investigator now, right? You’re conducting a Rite of Inquiry on us. Well, inquiries take time. They require close observation. Constant surveillance.”
She poked him in the chest.
“Come with us.”
Alexander choked on his own spit. “What? Leave with you? You’re... chaotic! He nearly nuked the town square! You look like a bandit!”
“I look like a survivor,” Yona corrected. “And he looks like a weapon that needs a safety switch. Look, we have muscle.” She pointed at Siurad. “I have... skills.” She pointed at herself. “But we don't have a doctor. And we definitely don't have a moral compass.”
Siurad watched the pitch, impressed. She was good.
‘...THE BOY IS NECESSARY.’ Obi’s voice whispered, vibrating in Siurad’s teeth. ‘...THE VESSEL REQUIRES MAINTENANCE.’
Siurad stepped forward. The movement made Alexander jump, but Siurad held up a hand.
“She’s right,” Siurad rumbled. The dark timbre of his voice had softened, but it still carried the weight of the Void. “I’m... new to this power. I don't always control it well. You saw that. You stopped me from killing that guy.”
Siurad looked Alexander in the eye.
“If I lose it again, who’s going to stop me? Yona can’t cast Divine Ward. She’d just stab me, and that would be annoying for everyone.”
Alexander looked between the terrifying giant and the rogue. He looked at the gauntlet in his hands as the evidence of the horrors they faced.
“You’re saying...” Alexander adjusted his glasses, thinking fast. “You’re saying that if I accompany you, I am technically fulfilling my duty by containing a potential threat? i.e., you?”
“Exactly,” Yona grinned. “You’re our parole officer. You keep the big guy from breaking the world, and in exchange, we keep you from having a tragic accident on Guil’s watch. Plus, you get to study more artifacts like that one.”
Alexander bit his lip. He looked back at the regiment of knights in the distance. He knew Guil. He knew Yona was right. His grandfather’s influence could protect his career, but it couldn't stop a knife in the dark.
He looked at Siurad. The man was a walking catastrophe, but he had stopped when asked. He had thanked him.
“I...” Alexander took a deep breath. “I would need to file a Field Assignment Request. Standard deviation for pursuit of high-priority targets.”
“Sure,” Yona waved a hand dismissively. “File whatever you want. Just pack your bags.”
Alexander straightened his spine. A flicker of resolve appeared behind the fear.
“Very well. Under Title 9, Section C: 'Emergency Conscription of Assets for the Greater Good.' I will... accompany you.”
He pointed a shaking finger at Yona.
“But I am in charge of ethical oversight! No killing civilians. No stealing from the poor. And absolutely no Necromancy.”
Yona slung an arm around his shoulder, steering him away from the incoming knights.
“Wouldn't dream of it, boss. Now, let’s get out of here.”