Smoke lingered in the cold air like the last breath of a dying god. The outer region of the Ignar Empire stood silent, the stillness too perfect. Too wrong.
And through that silence walked a storm made flesh.
Klaus Aetherion.
His steps were slow, deliberate, the weight of his killing intent distorting the wind around him. Aura swirled like coiled serpents—whispering, hissing, tasting the fear ahead. Leaves shriveled. The birds fled. Even the insects fell quiet.
Ahead stood the Ignar estate—dark towers twisted into the sky like spears aiming to impale heaven itself. Soldiers patrolled the grounds, unaware that doom walked among them. But the animals knew. The world knew.
And now, the Empire would know too.
Two guards stood before the gate.
"This is a restricted facility. State your business."
Klaus did not slow.
"I said—"
"Sofie," he said, his voice as cold as grave dirt. "She's in there."
"You're not authorized—"
"I wasn't asking."
The wind howled. Not natural wind. This one carried voices. Screams. And death.
Then he shouted her name—
"SOFIE!"
The word cracked through the air like thunder.
The ground itself seemed to recoil.
A unit of black-armored Archeons emerged from the courtyard, their visors reflecting crimson. They were elite—enhanced, transcended warriors. Each bore the Imperial seal. And none knew fear.
Until now.
The lead Archeon stepped forward. "You will be silenced."
Then came the first strike—fast, precise, brutal. A gauntlet the size of a boulder slammed into Klaus's jaw.
But Klaus didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Blood trickled from his mouth.
"Was that it?" he asked quietly.
Then everything broke.
The wind erupted in a cyclone of violence. Steel twisted. Bones snapped. Screams were snuffed out like candles. Klaus moved like death incarnate, his aura a storm of invisible blades.
One Archeon reached for his sword. Klaus caught the arm, twisted—snap—and rammed his fist into the man's visor, folding the skull like parchment.
Another slashed at him. Klaus ducked, then crushed his throat in a wind-laced strike that imploded his lungs from within.
Two came from behind. Klaus spun—his foot dragging a gust that lifted them into the air.
They died before hitting the ground, torn apart midair by slicing gales.
A third impaled Klaus through the ribs—but Klaus grabbed the blade, stopped it cold with bare hands, and with a snarl, shattered the weapon into molten fragments. He slammed his forehead into the attacker's skull. Bone cracked. Eyes rolled back.
One Archeon turned to flee.
Klaus blinked.
A gust of wind sliced clean through the man at the waist.
The courtyard was a massacre. Blood soaked the marble. Pieces of armor and limbs lay scattered like offerings to a war god.
And Klaus?
He stood in the center—drenched in gore, ribs torn, breathing hard.
But his eyes… his eyes were still cold. Still calm. As if none of this mattered.
As if they were already dead the moment he arrived.
---
Then the air changed.
Heavy.
A pressure fell like a hammer.
A figure descended from the upper balcony, fire rippling around his form.
Varion Ignar.
Monarch of House Ignar.
And beside him—
Commander Roane, the Blood Fang of Ignar, wrapped in a black flame cloak, his crimson spear hissing with hunger.
Their combined presence made the stone beneath them groan. Several guards dropped to their knees, blood dripping from their noses as their bodies buckled under the weight of sheer dominance.
Only Klaus remained standing.
Bloodied.
Burning.
Unbowed.
Varion's eyes widened as they scanned the slaughtered elite. "TwentyArcheons… in seconds. Roane… do you see this?"
Roane's usual smug expression faded. His voice was low, sharp. "I do."
He looked at Klaus.
"What are you?"
Klaus wiped blood from his chin and rasped, "I came for Sofie."
Roane barked a laugh—thin, nervous. "She belongs to the Empire now."
Klaus's eyes flashed. "Then the Empire will learn how it feels to be broken."
Roane snarled, drawing his spear. "You dare—"
But he flinched. Not from Klaus's words… but from the aura that surged.
A pressure so cold, so ancient, it didn't belong in this world. Not human. Not alien.
Something older.
The wind erupted outward, distorting light itself. Runes on the estate walls cracked. Sigils meant to repel gods began to bleed.
Varion's smile faltered.
"That aura… it's not of this realm."
Roane took a step back, involuntarily.
"His presence," he whispered, "it's like... death. Not dying. Death. As a will."
The Monarch stepped forward. "Enough. I'll end this myself."
Crimson fire ignited from Varion's palms. It wasn't ordinary flame—it consumed energy, melted mana, scorched soul.
"YOU WILL KNEEL BEFORE YOUR BETTERS!" Varion roared.
He hurled the inferno like a divine judgment.
Klaus didn't move. Couldn't.
He dropped to one knee. Blood spilled from his mouth. His body trembled, cracking, failing.
But his aura refused.
It surged up—feral, alien, unnatural.
The flames crashed into the unseen barrier—and stopped.
The entire courtyard trembled. The fire twisted, screamed, and died.
Wind—silent, invisible—broke apart reality for an instant. The sky dimmed. The earth cried.
And through it, Klaus remained, barely conscious.
But the aura...
It lashed out like a beast unchained, full of rage. Of loss. Of vengeance.
Everyone felt it.
Not power. Not presence. A prophecy.
Roane dropped to one knee, sweat pouring down his face. "This can't be. He's not awakened. He's... something older. Something forgotten."
Varion's voice cracked. "No. Not forgotten. Buried."
A silence followed, thicker than fear.
Until Klaus raised his head slightly, blood running down his chin.
"You want me to kneel?" he whispered.
The wind shrieked.
"Then make me."
To be continued...