The sun loomed overhead like an indifferent god, casting its golden judgment upon a city drenched in vice and vanity. Kael stood at the outskirts, cloaked in the remnants of the battle-splattered veil from his last crusade. His figure was calm, yet his eyes bore a storm.
The city before him, once a thriving metropolis, had rotted into a playground for the strong—a place where power meant ownership over others. Kael could already sense it: the fear in the air, the silent cries buried beneath the façade of prosperity.
His new divine mandate echoed in his mind like a solemn verdict:
"Go forth, Chosen. Strip the mask from this place of lies. Judge those who have grown fat off the misery of the meek. Let the worthy be tested—and let the wicked fall."
Kael stepped through the city gates unnoticed. The Ghost Veil blurred him from perception, letting him witness the true nature of the place firsthand.
Children worked in the streets, their hands bruised and knees bleeding. Wealthy brutes rode atop armored beasts—modified chimeras bred for intimidation—while dragging chained workers behind them like trophies. A group of giggling teenagers kicked an old man to death in a market square as the guards looked on, entertained.
Kael's fists clenched. Monsters, not just the beasts, but these humans.
He followed whispers, trails of cruelty. His presence became a silent wind, slipping through alleyways and over rooftops. Soon, he discovered the city's ruling structure.
A ring of warlords—each with their own district—ran the city like a tournament of terror. They ruled not through governance, but through bloodshed. The weak were subjects, the strong were gods. It mirrored the very labs he had destroyed, and that alone made his jaw tighten.
A scream pierced the air—a woman's. Kael's head snapped toward it.
He appeared on a balcony above a fighting pit, where two ragged prisoners were forced to battle. The woman who screamed had been shoved into the ring alongside her brother. Spectators placed bets while they wept.
Enough.
Kael leapt, landing in the pit with a shockwave. Silence fell. Dust swirled.
The guards reached for their weapons.
One swing. A blur of movement.
Five heads fell before the crowd realized what had happened.
"Who dares interrupt the Blood Circle?!" bellowed a noble-like thug from above.
Kael looked up, blood on his cheek. "Your executioner."
He pointed a single finger. The man exploded mid-sentence—his chest imploding like a crushed can.
Panic erupted.
Kael looked to the prisoners. "Go. You're free."
The woman, stunned, only managed to nod before dragging her brother away.
Kael rose above the pit, standing on air as if defying gravity. His eyes scanned the panicking elite.
"Let it be known," Kael said, voice echoing through the entire city thanks to his Ghost Veil's manipulation, "the age of cruelty is over. The Divine has sent me to bring balance. You are not kings. You are sinners."
The citizens, both tormentors and tormented, looked up in shock as Kael's presence seemed to grow with every word.
"You who profit from pain will be weighed. And I—am the blade of justice."
The crowd fled. Whispers spread like wildfire:
"The Red Reaper is here."
"It's him—the one from the outer zones!"
"We're doomed!"
Kael stood atop the city walls by sunset, gazing at the skyline.
He wouldn't purge the city in a day. He would carve his way through the warlords, one by one.
Their sins would be judged. Their screams would be silenced.
This was no longer a mission.
It was a reckoning.
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