Beneath the looming shadow of the Black Sphere—a perfect, unblinking eye suspended in the heavens like the gods' unspoken curse—the Garden of Ceremony unfolded in exquisite splendor. Sprawled across marble terraces, gilded bridges, and glimmering ponds of still, luminous water, the garden stood apart from Gildhelm Castle as if trying to escape the weight of history pressed into the stone walls behind it. Spiraling trees woven with silver-veined leaves coiled upward toward a sky smeared with bruised violet clouds, as if reflecting the mood of the crown seated on her midnight throne.
Queen Silas, twenty-one and already burdened with the exhaustion of sovereignty, reclined across the throne carved from obsidian and silverthorn bark. Her expression, however, was that of someone enduring the world's most extravagant detention. A bored sigh left her lips like a spoiled wind. She wore a tightly fitted dress of jet-black lace layered over silken ash-gray threads that shimmered faintly in the garden light. Green tattoos coiled from her neck down her shoulders like vines infused with subtle magic, pulsing now and then as if annoyed on her behalf. Her light green eyes, framed by long black lashes, barely followed the chaos before her. Her braided ponytail swung lazily against the throne's backrest as she leaned her head against her hand and muttered, "I swear if one more of them somersaults like it's impressive, I'm gonna start throwing shit."
Before her sprawled the grand tournament ring—a circular stage of translucent crystal floating inches above the grass, glowing faintly with divine containment sigils. Within it, dozens of Hunters were locked in combat, spells snapping, blades clashing, and blood occasionally misting the air in elegant arcs. The Garden of Ceremony, despite its floral name, had become a proving ground.
A thunderous crack echoed through the garden as one of the Hunters—muscular and robed in rust-red leathers—unleashed a technique known as Fractured Wake. A chain of jagged, violet blades erupted from the ground behind him, each humming with a disruptive anti-magic field. His opponent, a pale woman veiled in blue ash, vanished mid-leap using Soul Sliver, leaving only a mirror image behind—one that promptly exploded in a concussive burst of memory smoke, dazing the Hunter long enough for her to reappear behind him, blade to throat.
"Got you."
"Tch. I won't lose in front of the queen!"
"Cute," Silas muttered flatly. "She'll be unconscious in thirty seconds."
"Seventeen seconds, Your Majesty," came the dry voice of Master Vaerlin Othandel, standing precisely three feet to her right, umbrella in hand though there wasn't a drop of rain in sight. His posture was as rigid and refined as the silver inlays that ran down the shaft of his serpent-headed cane. His dull violet eyes watched the battle with mild interest, though now and then they shimmered faintly, betraying something unnatural in his timeless gaze. "She lacks a second feint. Notice the right foot. She always rotates inward before her strikes."
Silas glanced sideways. "Can't we just skip to the part where someone impresses me? I haven't been this bored since forever."
Below them, Adventurers—not part of the combat tournament but no less eager for attention—darted across the marble walkways and treetop railings, showing off speed, agility, and artifact prowess. One wore no shoes and ran entirely on air currents, leaving faint echoes behind with every footstep, while another used a chronolaced rope to rappel upward into invisible dimensions, reappearing seconds later with a fresh rune-scarab dangling from his glove.
Master Vaerlin turned slightly toward the three knight captains gathered behind the Queen's dais. They stood in a semi-circle, equally bored, amused, or simply too proud to show either.
"Captain Voss," the advisor began, "I believe your protégé—the Hunter they call Tanner —is performing with surprising mediocrity today. I counted at least three strikes that could've been fatal, and he missed them all."
Alistair Voss, leaning lazily against a pillar with arms folded and one boot propped up, gave a short bark of laughter. His golden armor—more ceremonial today than functional—gleamed in the shifting garden light. "Ahhhhh, he was horrible at the last Royal Selection. Mediocrity is an improvement, or something like that. I forgot the damn saying."
Thrain Bloodstone grunted beside him. The enormous warrior, tattoos scrawled across his arms like war poetry, crossed arms thicker than most men's torsos. "The boy lacks weight. No ground in his stance. If I blew on him, he'd fold."
"And your last squire punched a training dummy so hard he shattered both wrists like a weirdo," Arinelle Selva quipped from the shadows nearby, barely visible even now despite the daylight. Her black wings shifted slightly, her shoulder-length black hair tied back with a crimson cord. The small red horns atop her head caught the light only faintly as she gave a half-smile. "Not everyone needs to fight like a wall."
"You're just mad you have to wear a dress. Couldn't be me."
"Yes. I'm upset I had to wear a dress," Arinelle muttered under her breath, eyeing her form-fitting black uniform with disdain. "The Queen said it would be 'ceremonially appropriate.' Gross. I'd rather wear some loose shit, not elegant stuff. That's for her."
"You look delightful," Vaerlin interjected, not looking up from his notes. "Like a stormcloud on a sunny day."
Arinelle scowled, but said nothing.
Down in the ring, another duel reached its crescendo. A Hunter clad in obsidian shardmail launched a stream of metallic needles from his gauntlets, which spun mid-air into the shape of a laughing mouth and bit into his opponent's armor. The other Hunter responded with a glyph-circle burst from his boots, launching himself upward while raining molten glass from his fingers—Volcanist's Curses layered with illusion traps.
None of it moved Silas.
Her eyes drooped. Her elbow slid further down the throne's armrest. She tilted her head toward Vaerlin with a deadpan stare.
'So boring…'
"Tell me again why I have to pick a husband from this circus of Hunters and Adventurers?"
"Because refusing would imply diplomatic weakness, and because selecting from among Hunters is a political maneuver that keeps the noble families guessing." Vaerlin replied smoothly. "And need I remind you that the gods are hunting you down for the brown we protect?"
"Yeah yeah, heard it a million times. Scares me every time you mention it."
"Apologies, Queen Silas. I will not bring it back up again unless you want me too."
Meanwhile, several Hunters resting near the east edge of the garden whispered among themselves, glancing toward the throne.
"Can you believe she wants a Hunter as her husband and king?" one murmured, twirling a dagger on his finger. "She won't connect with the other kingdoms for a Royal Selection."
"She doesn't want just a king," another laughed. "She wants a weapon with charm. Someone strong enough to scare nobles, and dumb enough not to ask questions."
"Either way," a third added, "that throne's not gonna sit empty forever. Might as well be one of us."
Then came a shift in the air.
A raucous laugh broke out from within the ring. One of the more boisterous Hunters—broad-shouldered, red-blonde hair, light no eye eyes no shirt, just leather straps and a scarred chest—raised his arms after knocking out a rival with a spiked elbow drop that left the ring floor cracked and fizzing with kinetic discharge. His name was Gunthr, and he knew how to command attention.
He winked up at the Queen.
Loudly, he shouted, "If you're still looking for a husband, your Majesty—I promise I'm housebroken!"
Silas blinked slowly. Her face twisted into a theatrical grimace of revulsion, lips pursed, one brow raised.
"Gross." She turned toward Vaerlin. "Is death by embarrassment a valid abdication clause?"
Vaerlin smiled faintly. "Only if you write it in your will, my Queen."
Silas groaned. "I swear… If someone doesn't do something insanely cool.."
The Black Sphere above gave no answer. But the garden was far from done. And neither was the world watching.
Gunthr stood in the center of the combat ring like a conquering titan, bare-chested and sweat-glossed, his grin feral and drenched in pride. The spiked leather harness across his torso served more to accentuate his brawn than offer protection. Blood trickled down one side of his jaw, but he licked it off with a flourish, eyes never leaving the obsidian throne.
"Queen Silas," he bellowed, voice rough as cracked mountain stone, "let me offer you poetry worthy of royalty!"
Before anyone could groan, three Hunters leapt into the ring. They were swift, agile—one wielded whip-like chains that shimmered with anti-magic glyphs, another dual-wielded wind-forged glaives, and the third cracked his knuckles as his arms swelled into molten granite, pulsing with geo-surge magic. The crowd gasped, murmurs and wagers erupting like wildfire.
Gunthr didn't even blink.
He spun as they charged, beginning his self-authored poem mid-spin, a jagged smirk curling across his face.
"For you, my Queen, I cleave through bone and breath,
And trample fear with every step of death—"
The chain-wielder lashed toward him. Gunthr stepped forward, caught the chain mid-air, yanked with absurd strength, and launched the Hunter through one of the ring's spectral walls, shattering a section into prismatic sparks. He didn't pause.
"Your eyes, like moss upon spring's kiss,
Beckon this Hunter toward eternal—"
The glaive-wielder came in at his flank. Gunthr dropped low, swept the man's legs with a shoulder-roll and, in one fluid movement, lifted him by the ankle and slammed him spine-first into the crystal ring. The crowd oohed.
"—uh… bliss… yeah, bliss!"
The granite-armed Hunter roared and charged, throwing a punch that cratered the ring in a miniature explosion. Gunthr took it to the shoulder deliberately, sliding back an inch, then grunted and headbutted the man so hard his geo-magic arm cracked into chunks of stone. The Hunter stumbled, dazed, and Gunthr twirled, back-kicked him through a hedge of flowering vines, still grinning.
Then, with theatrical flair, Gunthr turned to the throne again and resumed his poem, slightly out of breath.
"For you, my Queen, I'd slay the moon,
And kiss the night with… wait—no. Slay the night with—damn it—"
He spun toward the last Hunter still conscious and pointed dramatically.
"You made me forget my line, you fucker!"
The defeated Hunter blinked, confused, then fell over unconscious.
Queen Silas, still draped across her throne, blinked in slow horror. Her mouth slightly parted, one brow arched in such spectacular disbelief it could have counted as divine offense.
'Is this creep actually serenading me like a drunken bard at a piss-soaked tavern?' Her inner voice slanted, dry as sunburnt parchment. 'I mean, slay the moon? Really? That was the bar you set for yourself? You're flirting with a sovereign queen using lyrics from a shitty back-alley lute goblin.'
Her eyes narrowed as Gunthr blew a kiss mid-combat and winked again.
"Oh, good, the wink's back. Does he have a quota? Does he get extra coin every time he weaponizes his face?" She straightened a little, folding her arms. "Please. Please let someone stronger than him step into that ring. Anyone. A misplaced god. A grumpy housecat."
'Maybe I'm getting too picky right now. The gods are hunting me, they wanna kill me for the crown…a crown which is rumored to be a piece of an unknown deity. That my parents burdened me with before they left me by myself. I should lighten up, right? I'm not getting attached to any of these burly Hunters, it's just they're my only options right now. Doing royal selections with other kingdoms means trouble, most kings and queens are vessels of the divine gods which are hunting me…fuck all of this.'
Behind her, the knight captains watched with various shades of irritation, amusement, and psychic pain.
Captain Alistair Voss, striking in his gilded plate and red-lined cloak, his dark orange eyes, tousled his blond undercut hair like a cat considering murder. His broad shoulders gleamed, and his crimson sigil-blade Dawnrend shimmered faintly across his back.
"He fights like a drunk god trapped in a lumberjack," he muttered. "Effective, yes. Dignified? Absolutely not."
Arinelle Selva leaned against a carved pillar, her short black coat flared out like wings with her actual small black wings twitching in irritation. Her small red horns glinted faintly as she watched the spectacle.
"If he quotes another line of that poem, I will personally shiv him through the sternum," she said flatly.
"Your Majesty might like that," Thrain Bloodstone rumbled. He stood with arms folded like a siege engine, his heavy stone-patterned armor etched with glowing battle tattoos. His bald head reflected the garden light, his face a mountain's worth of judgment, his eyes pure white, devoid of pupils.
"He is strong," Thrain added. "And loud."
"Loudness is not a virtue," Arinelle hissed. "Only I can be loud as hell and it'll still be elegant and whatnot."
"No," Vaerlin Othandel said calmly, adjusting one of his white gloves. "But strength is. And spectacle makes memory. Hunters forgettable do not protect thrones."
Around them, the other royal knights—guardians clad in matching steel-grey armor and long blue sashes embroidered with Thalairian script—stood in formation. Some exchanged glances, others whispered behind their helms.
"He's cocky," one muttered.
"Cocky works, if you win," replied another.
"Still—he kissed the air. Toward her."
"Think she liked it?"
They gazed over at Queen Silas, and they saw her fidgeting and twitching in disgust.
The knight looked at one another, "Guess not."
A heavy silence fell as Gunthr approached the throne. Still bleeding, still grinning, he dropped to one knee before Queen Silas, the garden's energies coalescing in a respectful hush. The other Hunters and Adventurers stood watching—some scoffing, others green with jealousy.
"Queen Silas," Gunthr declared, planting one bruised fist over his chest. "I offer myself to you. My strength. My stupid poetry. My life."
Silas slowly turned to her advisor.
Vaerlin, eyes still faintly gleaming, inclined his head. "He may be arrogant. But arrogance can be sculpted. Strength like that is harder to find, especially one who'd cleave the world to protect you and the divine Crown. And… since you lack magic of your own—"
She spun toward him sharply.
"Vaerlin."
"Yes?"
"You're not supposed to say that part out loud."
"My mistake," he said with perfect calm. "But it remains true."
Silas looked away, jaw tightening just slightly. The truth stung more than the insult.
Still, she rose with practiced grace, descending the stairs of the throne. Every eye followed her steps. She stopped before Gunthr, eyes half-lidded in something between reluctant amusement and political surrender.
"I accept you," she said simply.
The garden exploded. Shouts. Gasps. Cries of rage. Crushed egos. Adventurers and Hunters groaned and argued, some protesting loudly, others throwing down gauntlets in despair.
"Him?!"
"He's a brute! He can't run a kingdom with the queen!"
"And Adventurer would've been better off!"
"Tch. Adventurers are for the weak. Adventurers only accept contracts from kingdoms that involve exploring or gathering stuff. They shy away from the real fights. Hunters take on kill contracts, against people or mythic beasts."
Gunthr, unfazed, grabbed Silas' hand—and kissed it deeply.
Silas froze. Stone cold.
Her pupils contracted as if a cockroach had crawled across her palm. She slowly turned to look at her hand. Her entire soul left her body for one second. Then she ripped her hand away with visible disgust.
Arinelle silently appeared at her side, daintily dabbing the royal hand with a silken napkin.
"It's okay," she whispered. "We'll get you a new one."
"H-His lips touched me..get me a new hand this instant.."
Arinelle patted Silas on the head, chuckling, "Haha! Calm down, your highness. We're supposed to be elegant and badass right?"
"There was blood on his lips, Arinelle. Is this the end? Is it over for me?"
Arinelle, Thrain, and Alistair laughed at her.
As the chaos of reactions continued to swell throughout the garden, the knight captains gathered behind the throne again, joined now by Master Vaerlin.
Alistair chuckled darkly. "So that's the future consort of Thalairis. I hope he learns how to bow without shouting poems. Super corny."
"He'll need more than manners," Thrain said solemnly, glancing at the throne. "The sacred crown must be protected. And she carries it alone."
"She shouldn't have to," Arinelle said. Her voice, for once, lost its edge. "Not forever."
They all turned their gaze upward.
Above them, the Black Sphere loomed in eerie stillness. An impossible presence. Watching. Waiting.
"Today," Vaerlin said, adjusting his collar, "we were lucky."
And the sky said nothing at all.
…
The crowd in the Garden of Ceremony hadn't yet recovered from the chaos of Queen Silas choosing her new companion. Gunthr stood proudly at the foot of the throne, chest heaving, a bloody grin still split across his face like a man who'd already declared victory in life, love, and poetry.
And then—
"So!" he announced with all the volume of a war horn. "My Queen, tell me this—what is your favorite flower?"
Silas blinked. "What—?"
"For the courting," he said matter-of-factly. "It's proper. Romance requires symbolism."
She squinted, uncertain whether he was serious or just brain-damaged from his own headbutt earlier. "You're not actually—okay, uh…" She exhaled sharply, then raised her chin, one hand on her hip. "Fine. If you must know, I like the Moonlit Effigy rose."
The garden went eerily quiet.
Several Hunters stopped mid-conversation. A bard gasped. A small squirrel fell off a branch. Somewhere, a butterfly went extinct.
Gunthr's eyes widened. "THE Moonlit Effigy rose?! The ghost one? The one that glows under starlight and feeds on cursed soil?"
Silas shrugged with mock innocence. "Mhm. What? You scared of it? Thought you were a Hunter—."
Gunthr spun dramatically toward the palace gates. "Then I shall bring it to you, my Queen!"
Silas's hand shot out. "Wait, wait, no! That flower grows in Bleinhed Woods! That place is cursed by the Red Rot! It's suicidal—"
"Pfft," Gunthr waved her off, already halfway down the stairs. "I'm a Hunter! I breathe in cursed rot for breakfast and wrestle mythic beasts for fun! Ask anyone."
Silas took a step forward. "It's not a training ground, fool."
Gunthr turned mid-sprint with a flourish, still running backwards. "And yet, you like a flower from there! That says everything I need to know about your taste. Dangerous. Mysterious. Gorgeous." He winked.
"Umm," Silas muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
'Why am I so worried? I'm not worried about him, I think. Maybe because he might die, and I need a husband and someone who will be king with me. Is it because I've had so many royal selections that ended with me not choosing an heir. And now that I've finally chosen one…shit. He's a Hunter, that idiot deals with this all the time. The flower, a flower I don't even allow my closet captains or servants to go get, because of how dangerous it is. I never wanted to risk them going, no matter how strong they were. But it's damn near impossible to convince a Hunter to not take a Hunt. I won't stop him. Why? I don't have the energy anymore, even though I'm a 21 year old queen, trying to protect a divine crown that I know nothing about. And that flower..I always thought it was beautiful, the same forest it's in I never uprooted it because mother would let me. But it keeps me reminded of her, I always wanted to see it again so I feel a little bit more hope in my life. Do I want that bloodthirsty Hunter to come back with it? Am I sending him to his death? And THEN THERE'S A RANDOM GIANT BLACK SPHERE in the sky watching me weirdly…why didn't my parents leave me with any notes?'
Master Vaerlin adjusted his gloves with a slow sigh, watching Gunthr's departure. "Fool," he muttered with the calm weight of judgment reserved for monarchs and executioners. "A passionate one."
Behind him, the knight captains stood near a garden pillar, exchanging knowing glances—and then, as always, gambling.
Alistair Voss pulled out a pouch of gold coins. "Five says he gets devoured by the first corrupted squirrel."
Arinelle raised a hand lazily. "Ten on him tripping over his own sword before he even reaches the woods."
"I'll take that bet," Thrain rumbled, arms folded, watching Gunthr's vanishing figure. "He's reckless. But he's a Hunter. That kind of madness keeps them alive."
"I'll wager he finds it," said one of the royal guards nearby, almost hopeful.
"And returns without limbs," muttered another.
"He might pull it off. He's used to this."
…
Gunthr burst from the palace gates like a meteor with legs. The walls of the Citadel, capital of Thalairis, rose behind him—gleaming ivory towers wrapped in arcane ivy, banners of deep blue and gold fluttering from every terrace. The cobbled streets bustled with merchants, alchemists, beast handlers, and scholars. Every district was stitched together by bridges that shimmered faintly with divine enchantment, and in the distance, the divine cathedral loomed with stained glass depictions of god-kings and fallen angels.
But it was the Black Sphere that still dominated the sky, enormous and oppressive—hovering with impossible stillness over the heart of the world, casting long shadows that twisted unnaturally across the cobblestone.
Gunthr barely noticed. He stood at the edge of the garden stairs, grinning stupidly, fists on hips like a hero from a fairy tale long banned for being too unhinged.
People stared. Market-goers, beggars, blacksmiths, noble children peeking from carriages.
"That's him," someone whispered.
"The Queen's choice."
"The loud one?"
"The one who kissed her hand with blood still on his lips."
Gunthr struck a pose, flexing slightly. "Don't worry, citizens! I'll be back with the Moonlit Effigy rose! And possibly a few beast fangs for necklaces! Of course I must satisfy her majesty with romance gestures and gifts! That's how I was raised…"
A child pointed. "Mister, your eyebrow is still bleeding."
"Oi. Shut it brat. I know. Keeping the blood on me aka me look more like a warrior."
And then, without another word, he sprinted off—toward the outer gates, toward the haunted woods, toward whatever doom or glory lay in the shadows of Bleinhed.
Gunthr barreled through the cobbled arteries of the Citadel, boots clapping against enchanted stone as his grin stretched wide enough to break kingdoms. He waved at stunned onlookers like a parade float of hubris, shouting declarations to the heavens and anyone who dared to meet his eye.
"No other Hunter compares!" he roared, throwing both arms to the sky. "None! They crawl through dirt and blood while I waltz toward destiny! I kicked their ass!"
A baker carrying trays of glazed firefruit tarts yelped as Gunthr narrowly avoided crashing into him, twisting mid-run with the reflexes of a feral beast.
"Out of the way!" Gunthr yelled to him.
"Hey watch where your going!"
The Citadel swelled around him—an urban jewel chiseled from divine ambition. Towering spires laced with vine-runes reached toward the heavens, glass bridges arched over courtyards lit by hovering orbs of lanternfire, and enormous murals of the gods—each at war, in love, or both—were etched into every facade. Markets were alive with multi-tiered stalls, selling everything from voidglass charms to bottled lightning. Children played with enchanted marionettes that mimicked great beasts of legend, while dusk rocs circled the skies above with their crescent-feathered wings casting long, slow shadows.
At the Plaza of Whispers, a place where sound carried from any corner to the heart of the square, poets stood on levitating stones, reciting songs with voices amplified by runesong while aristocrats debated statecraft beside elemental chess tables that moved of their own accord. Gunthr passed by a tall iron tree with golden leaves known to cry at midnight. One of its branches swayed as he passed—as if annoyed.
"You'll be singing about me next!" he declared, pointing at a bard mid-verse. "Make it rhyme better than the last guy!"
The bard looked both confused and deeply offended.
Finally, beyond the glass-braided walls of the capital, Gunthr sprinted across the silver-paved highroad, the Black Sphere looming behind him like a wounded god's forgotten eye—unmoving, immense, casting bruised light across the land. His stride never broke. Not once. Not until the ironblossom fences and cathedral peaks were specks in the horizon behind him.
'This is what I've dreamed for, always. I became a Hunter recently when I heard the Queen was having a Royal Selection amongst Hunters, which has never been done before. Don't know why she doesn't choose heirs from other kingdoms like how it's usually done, but it doesn't matter. I was chosen. I gained a small reputation for being a Hunter, I was strong and I still am. I wanted a better life, things weren't going well. I was amongst the ones who were forgotten by the rich and royal, the nobles living it up in their palaces. But here I am. It's only right for me to look down on those who I used to be. It shows how far I've came!'
And before him…loomed Bleinhed Woods.
A place whispered in terrified awe.
He slowed to a walk.
The canopy was unnaturally tall, the trees stretched like spindled fingers clawing at the sky. Their bark was not brown, but a soft black shot through with veins of pulsing red light—like dried blood refusing to die. Hanging vines drooped like silk nooses, swaying gently even when no wind stirred. The air shimmered faintly, not with heat, but with something else—rot, perhaps, but not decay. A rebirth of wrongness.
The leaves whispered in hushed tongues. Sometimes they echoed back thoughts he hadn't spoken.
Gunthr inhaled. Deeply. "Sweet hellfire…" he muttered. "That's exactly how they said it'd smell. Like cold cinnamon. And iron. And moonlight left in a bottle too long."
The infamous scent of the Moonlit Effigy rose.
He pressed forward.
Creatures stirred around him—none he'd ever seen, not even in the Black Ledger's most insane contracts. A serpent-like beast slithered along a branch overhead with feathers instead of scales and eyes on the insides of its mouth. Moths the size of plates drifted through the shadows, their wings shimmering with iridescent glyphs that disappeared when you stared too long. A limbless deer with a hollow neck and no face bounded silently between roots that moved slightly each time you looked away.
Gunthr passed them all.
Then he heard it.
Hop.
He paused. Looked down.
A tiny white bunny sat a few feet behind him. It had two little red horns curling backward over its ears, and deep, intelligent eyes that blinked up at him like it was judging his every life choice. Its fur shimmered like porcelain under shadowed light. It tilted its head.
"Oh for fu—get lost," Gunthr growled.
The bunny blinked again.
Hop.
Gunthr walked faster.
Hop. Hop.
He turned. "Shoo."
The bunny licked its paw.
He kept walking.
So did the bunny.
The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, pressing against his shoulders like wet velvet. He passed a tree that seemed to whisper "stop" over and over again in the voice of someone he once knew. But he didn't. He followed the scent. That strange aroma. He could smell it again—faint, yes, but real. The Moonlit Effigy. It was here.
Close.
And just as he stepped over a twisted root, about to crest a moss-covered ridge—
Tug.
He looked down.
The bunny had latched its tiny horned head around his leg.
Gunthr scowled. "Seriously?"
It tugged again. Harder.
He sighed in disbelief. "You want a flower too or something? You think I'm just handing out cursed bouquets today?! Scram or get crushed."
The bunny stared up at him. Eyes glossy. Still. Almost too still.
He reached down, muttering, "Fine, come here you annoying little—"
Gunthr's fingers curled around the fluffy white menace's tiny horned head. A scoff left his cracked lips, his arm twitching back with intent.
"I warned you.."
But before the swing came, before the forest could even inhale, a sudden shriek of ripping sinew echoed out—and the bunny's abdomen split open in a burst of sickly red mist. From its gut, a barbed thorn of rotted crimson bramble shot forward with bone-splintering speed. It pierced through Gunthr's lower jaw and tore through the back of his skull, exiting with a gory spray of teeth, bone, and gray-red viscera.
CRACK. SPLURT. SNAP.
Gunthr's body jolted violently. His feet left the earth. His twitching arms dropped to his sides as his head lolled unnaturally, half his face gone, his remaining eye bulging in confused shock.
Then the bunny screamed—a noise not meant for the realm of men. A blend of infant wailing, beast-roar, and bubbling rot. Its flesh twisted, bulging and warping as bones grew like branches, legs cracking and contorting. Its body inflated grotesquely, skin splitting open in sections to allow bramble-thorns and raw red growths of rotting muscle to sprawl outward.
Within seconds, it had become a four-armed humanoid abomination—a towering tangle of horned sinew and red bark-veined flesh, still wearing the distorted rabbit's skull as a partial helm. Its face was a split-open maw of vertical teeth and dribbling crimson ichor.
Then it bashed Gunthr into the ground.
WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.
Gunthr's corpse cratered the forest floor, bones snapping audibly with each impact. Blood pooled fast, mixing with dirt and rot.
WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. WHAM.
The monster didn't stop. It smashed him into gory pulp, claws ripping into the ruined mass. A bramble-tongue lashed out and coiled around Gunthr's crushed torso, squeezing until his ribcage popped like a melon. Rotten red vines sprouted from the corpse as if feeding on it. The air thickened with the scent of death-sugar and iron. The abomination wailed again, a sick, joyous ululation.
It raised all four arms to finish the work—
CRASH!!!
A blinding beam of white and gold shot through the forest like a comet, crashing into the beast's torso with divine force. Wind and starfire exploded, tearing through corrupted bark, launching the creature across the forest. It smashed through trees—one, two, six—before skidding across the ground, tumbling through roots and stone, before righting itself. One of its four arms hung by a tendon. Then dropped. Gone.
The abomination's head snapped toward the source. Its teeth gnashed. It growled like something ancient and furious.
A man stood among the shattered trees.
Master Vaerlin.
A tall, silver-haired silhouette in flowing starlit robes, his posture utterly calm. He glanced down at what remained of Gunthr.
"A hot-headed fool," he said softly. "Bravery without wisdom is suicide wrapped in a pretty cloak."
He reached over his shoulder and drew Rainblade.
It was not a sword. It was an umbrella, thin and black, lined with glinting filaments like constellations. When opened, it shimmered like glass blades fanned in a circle.
Vaerlin spoke with the poise of a scholar and the cadence of a god.
"This is no mere accessory. Rainblade was forged from the rib of a forgotten god—the one who once ruled over stillness and shadow. When drawn, it mimics the fall of rain. Gentle. Relentless. Beautiful. And always fatal."
The rotting rabbit abomination screamed and charged.
Vaerlin walked forward.
"The Black Sphere poisons more than land and mind," he murmured. "It twists beasts into mythic horrors. Their blood becomes Riven Ichor—a soul-corrupting fluid. Upon death, their souls do not fade, they rot. They become Kyr'haem, sentient vines of crimson decay that spread… until they form Wells of Undoing. Nightmares. Real ones."
From the earth, dozens of red bramble-thorns shot toward him—spiked, fast, and screaming.
Vaerlin didn't even draw Rainblade yet.
He stepped sideways—a blur of poise, one palm lashing out with gentle slaps. Each thorn he touched withered into ash mid-air.
Then he moved.
Rainblade flicked open.
A cyclone of blades and wind and starlight spun around him, deflecting dozens more bramble strikes. He darted forward, flipping the umbrella closed and striking it forward like a rapier, stabbing into a vine-node that ruptured with a screech. He twirled the umbrella again, slicing a bramble in half with its sharpened ribs.
The abomination leapt—an impossible, sky-tearing leap.
It fell toward Vaerlin like a meteor of claws and rot.
He looked up calmly.
"Fascinating," he said. "Let's dance."