My friends erupted in protest as I moved toward the exit.

"You can't seriously be going alone," Annes blocked my path, arms crossed. Her face had that stubborn set I'd come to recognize during our training sessions.

Genta appeared at her side. "We're coming with you. We've fought together in the Hellzone. We killed a Void Stalker together!"

That was different, I transmitted, carefully stepping around them. I appreciate your concern, but this isn't your battle.

"Like hell it isn't," Loland growled. "Gutter House sticks together."

Copelan adjusted his stance, his scholarly demeanor replaced with uncharacteristic determination. "I've analyzed the situation. House Dragon students average level 15 to 25, but Lyman wouldn't rely solely on them. He's likely hired mercenaries. Professionals within the city are at the level 35 to 45 range."

Precisely my point, I replied. I'm now level 54 after absorbing Kaldos's power. These mercenaries might challenge you, but they're nothing I can't handle.

"You just killed a god," Sven whispered, his voice tinged with awe. "But that doesn't mean you're invincible."

I paused, placing my metal hand on his shoulder. If it were just Lyman and his Academy cronies, I'd welcome your help. But professional killers play by different rules. They won't hesitate to use you against me.

Yulios stepped forward. "But—"

No, I cut him off firmly. I need you here, monitoring the Academy. If Headmaster Reins or any of the other instructors start mobilizing, I need to know immediately. The last thing we need is faculty interference while I'm extracting Harke.

Their reluctance was palpable, but logic gradually won out. One by one, they nodded their acceptance.

"At least take some equipment," Eyarna insisted, rushing to a nearby shelf where she kept her enchanted items.

I won't go in blind, I assured them.

I reached into the shadows of the workshop, whistling a short sequence of notes. Six scout spiders emerged from various hiding places, their articulated legs moving with precision as they gathered around me.

"Your children," Copelan murmured, watching the mechanical creatures respond to my commands.

My eyes and ears, I confirmed. They'll scout ahead, providing surveillance of the entire arena before I enter.

I knelt, issuing silent commands to each spider. They twitched in acknowledgment, their crystal sensors glowing faintly in the dim light.

Three, Chonsey, Thirteen; take the high routes. Five, Seven, Nine; ground level approaches. Map all entrances and exits. Identify hostiles. Locate Harke.

The spiders scattered, disappearing into the shadows with eerie efficiency.

"Promise you'll run if things go wrong," Annes said, her voice thick with emotion.

I nodded. I will. But they won't.

As I reached the doorway, I turned back one final time. These humans and monsters had become more than allies and friends; they were my family. Something stirred within me, a feeling I couldn't quite name.

"Be careful," Genta called after me. "Remember what Vardin said about your vulnerable points."

I remember everything now, I replied, touching the red scarred flesh at my eyes under the porcelain mask. And that's why Lyman Redflight will regret ever hearing the name Widow.

I slipped into the corridor, my mechanical hand resting on Kolin's sword, heading toward the old arena where Harke waited, and where Lyman would learn what it meant to challenge a Primordial.

Stealth wasn't my natural state. Assembly and construction, yes; subterfuge, less so. Yet as I navigated the warren of narrow side streets between the Academy and the city's eastern district, I found myself moving with surprising quietness. My mechanical body, built for precision, adapted well to the demands of secrecy.

I pressed against weathered stone walls whenever patrol guards passed, my porcelain hand tucked beneath my Academy-issued cloak. The uniform made me conspicuous, the crimson and black standing out against the city's gray backdrop. But changing clothes would waste precious minutes. Minutes Harke didn't have.

They're hurting him because of me, I thought. The memory of the severed tongue in that package sent rage coursing through my mechanical frame. Whatever was left of that beast Machalaziel within me stirred at the thought of retribution.

Scout Spider Nine scuttled ahead, its crystalline sensors gleaming briefly before it disappeared down a drain pipe. Through our connection, I monitored its progress, confirming no one followed in my wake. Three more spiders had already reached the destination, transmitting images directly to my consciousness.

The amphitheater rose before me, a crumbling monument to forgotten entertainments. Wooden boards sealed most entrances, weathered placards warning of structural instability. The once-grand facade now peeled and cracked, nature slowly reclaiming what humans had abandoned. It was perfect for an ambush: isolated, multiple entry points, and plenty of hiding places.

Show me everything, I commanded my children.

The images flooded my mind: six armed figures at the entrance, rough-looking mercenaries with swords and crossbows at the ready. In the central arena, Lyman Redflight paced nervously, flanked by five more men whose bearing marked them as professionals. Below, in what once served as dressing rooms for performers, two guards stood watch over a slumped figure bound to a chair.

I focused my attention there, enhancing the image. The prisoner's head hung forward, blood-matted brown hair obscuring his face. A simple mustache, now caked with dried blood. Healer's robes, torn and filthy.

Harke.

I channeled Analyze through Scout Spider Thirteen, assessing each threat methodically.

Barros Thorn, Level 47, Duelist

Lyman Redflight, Level 24, Swordsman

Merrina of Dane, Level 32, Archer

The list continued, each name and level appearing in my vision. Thirty-two hostiles in total, most clustering between levels 28 and 35. Competent fighters, certainly, against normal opponents.

They had no idea what was coming.

The highest threat, Barros Thorn, stood beside Lyman in the arena's center, gesturing as he deployed his men. His weathered face bore the scars of countless battles, his enchanted armor speaking to significant wealth. Under different circumstances, I might have respected his professionalism.

Now, he was simply an obstacle.

I retreated behind a collapsed wall, assembling my strategy. The scout spiders had mapped every entrance, exit, and structural weakness. I noted the positions of all thirty-two mercenaries, their patrol patterns, their weapons.

They prepared for Widow, I realized, the mechanical student who killed Professor Shawe.

They hadn't prepared for a being who had just absorbed the power of Kaldos, God of War.

I drew Kolin's sword, its enchanted blade humming with recognition. I felt the dormant power within me now, the sleeping godseed pulsing with each step I took toward the amphitheater.

I'm coming, Harke, I thought, as I moved toward the eastern entrance where only two guards stood watch.

Through Mind Sight, I observed the guards. One was leaning against a crumbling column, the other idly picking at his nails with a dagger. Neither looked particularly alert. Scout Spider Three confirmed no other mercenaries patrolled nearby.

Perfect.

I moved with calculated precision, each step measured to avoid disturbing loose stones. The guards remained oblivious to my presence, even as I closed within striking distance. I readied Kolin's estoc, the sharp tip aimed towards my prey.

Then I struck.

One fluid motion. Two precise thrusts. The enchanted blade pierced the first guard's skull before he registered my presence, then whipped sideways to claim the second. They collapsed in unison, neither having time to cry out. I caught their bodies before they hit the ground, lowering them silently onto the weathered stone.

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Twenty-nine left.

I slipped inside the amphitheater, my movements guided by the mental map my children had constructed. The building's layout unfolded in my mind, each corridor, stairwell, and hiding place illuminated through our shared consciousness.

Three mercenaries stationed along the western corridor. Two patrolling the upper galleries. Four guarding the northern entrance.

One by one, I hunted them down.

A swift strike from behind claimed the lone sentry in the ticket booth. Two quick thrusts dispatched the pair conversing by the refreshment counter. Each kill was clinical and precise, the estoc finding vulnerable points with unerring accuracy.

I moved like a ghost through the abandoned structure, leaving only cooling bodies in my wake. Some died never knowing I was there; others had just enough time to widen their eyes in recognition before darkness claimed them.

Fifteen left. Then ten. Then six in the arena, plus the two guarding Harke.

I needed to secure my friend first. If Lyman sensed the operation falling apart, he might order Harke's immediate execution. I couldn't risk a frontal assault through the arena.

Find me another way, I commanded my children.

The scout spiders dispersed, scuttling through cracks and crawlspaces, mapping alternate routes. Minutes passed as I waited in the shadows, counting the seconds of Harke's continued captivity.

Finally, Chonsey, Scout Spider Eight, transmitted images of a blocked doorway leading to a side hall. The passage appeared to bypass the arena entirely, descending directly to the holding area below.

I approached the doorway, examining the rotted boards and rusted locks sealing it shut. With Assembly, I manipulated the ancient mechanisms, coaxing them apart piece by piece. The boards parted silently, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward.

As I descended, voices drifted up from below. Two young men were arguing in hushed tones.

"This is suicide," one whispered frantically. "It killed a fucking dragon. Then Shawe. And Lyman thinks we can handle it?"

"Shut up," the second voice hissed. "Barros Thorn is level forty-seven. He's got this."

"You weren't there when it fought Barkatus. Or when it executed Shawe with those... those things coming out from its skirt!"

"Look, Lyman's a heavy-hitter in House Dragon. We help him now, his good word gets us in. So just keep your mouth shut and watch the prisoner."

I reached the bottom of the stairs, peering around the corner. Two young men in black and red uniforms stood before a heavy door, their backs partially turned to me. Academy students, not professional mercenaries. Lyman must be truly desperate.

I didn't hesitate. I made no noise as I lunged forward. The estoc pierced the first student's heart from behind, then slashed across the second's throat before he could cry out. They collapsed in tangled heaps, their argument permanently settled.

I moved toward Harke with mechanical efficiency belied by the emotions churning within me. He slumped forward in the chair, barely recognizable beneath the constellation of bruises that transformed his face into a grotesque mask. One eye had swollen completely shut, a purple-black crescent moon against his ashen skin. The other eye remained closed.

My flesh hand trembled slightly as I pressed two fingers against his neck, searching for a pulse. There! It was faint but steady. Relief cascaded through my mind, momentarily overwhelming my anger.

I'm here now, I told him, though he probably couldn't hear me.

The ropes binding his wrists had cut deep furrows into his skin, the flesh raw and weeping. His left hand bore the worst damage, with the middle finger twisted at an unnatural angle; it was clearly broken during interrogation. I used Assembly to undo his bonds quickly, as I did not wish to further injure his abraded skin.

As the last rope fell away, Harke's good eye fluttered open, unfocused at first, then gradually finding me. Recognition dawned slowly across his battered features. His lips, split and caked with dried blood, curved into a painful approximation of a smile.

"No Eyes... that you?" he attempted to say, though the words emerged as garbled, wet sounds. Where his tongue had been, only a raw, bloody cavity remained.

My Language Comprehension ability, which had always been at rank S, decoded his mangled speech effortlessly, translating intention rather than sound.

Yes, it's me, I confirmed. I'm getting you out of here.

Harke attempted a chuckle that transformed into a wet cough, fresh blood speckling his lips. "Knew... you'd come," he slurred, his one good eye shining with absolute certainty. "Always... knew."

I'm so sorry, I said, my mechanical hand hovering uselessly above his injuries. This is my fault. They hurt you because of me.

He shook his head with surprising vehemence, wincing at the movement. "Not... your fault," he managed, the words barely audible even to my enhanced hearing.

His eye rolled back suddenly, his body going slack. Panic surged through me until I confirmed he still breathed; he had simply lost consciousness again, his battered body demanding respite.

I lifted him with infinite care, one arm supporting his shoulders, the other beneath his knees. His body felt frighteningly light, as though his captors had stolen more than just his tongue. I carried him to a narrow cot against the far wall, lowering him onto the thin mattress with a gentleness I hadn't known my mechanical form could achieve.

Rest now, I mentally told him, though he couldn't hear me. You're safe.

I arranged his limbs in what I hoped was a comfortable position, then tore a relatively clean strip from the bottom of my cloak to wipe the blood from his face. His breathing had steadied somewhat, each inhale slightly stronger than the last.

I stood, turning toward the staircase that led up to the arena. Through my connection with the scout spiders, I could sense Lyman's nervous pacing, the mercenaries' growing unease as their comrades failed to report in.

My auric steel fingers closed around the hilt of Kolin's sword, the blade humming in anticipation.

It was time to finish this. Time to make Lyman Redflight pay for every drop of Harke's blood, every moment of his suffering.

Time to ensure no one would ever again be hurt for the crime of knowing me.

I ascended the stairs with measured steps, my mechanical joints working in perfect harmony. The estoc hummed in my hand, still slick with the blood of fallen mercenaries. Behind me, Harke slept, his battered body finally finding refuge in unconsciousness. Ahead, Lyman Redflight awaited his reckoning.

The arena opened before me, a half-circle of crumbling stone bleachers embracing a sand-covered floor. Evening light filtered through broken columns, casting long shadows across weathered flagstones. Lyman stood at the center, flanked by Barros Thorn and four remaining mercenaries. Their faces registered shock as I emerged from the prisoner's stairwell rather than the main entrance they'd been watching.

"You're late," Lyman sneered, his hand resting on his sword hilt. His Academy uniform looked pristine against the mercenaries' weathered leather and mail.

I tilted my head, porcelain mask catching the dying sunlight. My apologies. I was busy killing a god.

Nervous laughter rippled through the mercenaries. Lyman's mouth twisted into a contemptuous smile.

"Still hiding behind lies and that ridiculous mask," he spat. "It's time you paid for what you did to my brother."

I stepped forward, sand crunching beneath my feet. No, Lyman. I've spared you twice now. The estoc glinted as I raised it. I won't be doing that again. You will pay for hurting my friend.

"Payback?" Lyman's face contorted, his composure fracturing. "What I did was nothing compared to what you did to Kolin! You tortured him, tore him apart while he still lived!"

His words echoed through the empty arena. The mercenaries shifted uncomfortably, sensing they'd stepped into something more personal than a simple contract killing.

You're right, I acknowledged, the admission hanging in the still air. What I did to your brother was far worse. That doesn't change what happens next, though.

Barros Thorn stepped forward, a tall man with a face carved by years of violence. His saber whispered from its scabbard as he assumed a perfect Court Style stance: balanced, poised, deadly.

"I can't allow that," he said, voice calm and professional. "Nothing personal, you understand. This is just business."

I turned my mask toward him. Were you the one who tortured my friend?

He nodded once, crisp and unapologetic. "Oh yes. I cut out the stutterer's tongue myself. He took it rather poorly." A thin smile crossed his weathered face. "My client here was rather adamant that we send you a message. One that you would never forget.

"Like I said, it was nothing personal."

One moment I stood ten paces away. The next, my estoc had buried itself to the hilt in Barros Thorn's abdomen.

His eyes widened, mouth opening in shock as he looked down at the blade that had somehow materialized inside him. When he raised his gaze to my mask, confusion replaced confidence. Blood bubbled between his lips as he tried to form words.

You're right, I told him, leaning in close to his face. Nothing personal.

My mechanical foot connected with his chest, driving him backward off my blade with such force that his body crashed through the first row of stone seating. Fragments of ancient masonry exploded outward as he tumbled through the debris, leaving a smear of crimson across the weathered stone.

Silence descended on the arena. The remaining mercenaries stared at their fallen leader, then at me, their expressions shifting from confidence to something approaching terror.

Lyman's sword trembled in his hand as I turned my attention back to him.

The four mercenaries exchanged glances, a wordless conversation passing between them before they moved as one. The archer, a lean woman with close-cropped hair, retreated to the arena's edge while nocking an arrow. The other three spread out, circling me with weapons raised.

I remained motionless, calculating trajectories, assessing threats. The whispering sound of an arrow cutting air reached my ears a fraction of a second before the projectile itself. I tilted my head, the arrow passing close enough that I felt its fletching brush my porcelain mask.

"Spread out!" shouted a mercenary with twin shortswords. "Don't let it-"

I moved.

The first man never completed his downward strike. My estoc slid between his ribs with mathematical precision, piercing his heart before he registered my approach. As his body began to fall, I was already disengaging, spinning toward the second attacker.

His axe whistled through empty air where I'd stood moments before. Confusion flashed across his face, followed by shock as my blade entered beneath his chin and emerged through the crown of his skull. The third mercenary, a woman with a barbed spear, managed a single thrust before I severed her weapon with a horizontal slash and opened her throat with the backswing.

Three bodies collapsed to the sand within the span of four heartbeats.

The whisper of footsteps behind me betrayed Lyman's attempt at a cowardly strike to my back. I pivoted, driving my elbow into his sternum before he could bring his sword to bear. As he stumbled backward, I followed, the estoc entering his abdomen with surgical precision.

Lyman gasped, his weapon clattering to the ground as his hands clutched instinctively at the blade. Blood welled between his fingers, staining his Academy uniform crimson.

Another arrow flew past, close enough that I felt its enchanted heat against my face. The archer was backing toward the exit, loosing arrows with impressive speed if not accuracy. I calculated the distance (thirty-seven paces) and the most efficient route to close it.

I covered the ground in a blur, weaving between her increasingly desperate shots. Her final arrow would have struck true had I not twisted at the last moment, feeling it graze my shoulder. Then I was upon her, slicing her ornate bow in half with a single stroke. Her eyes widened in terror as my blade continued its arc, opening her throat in a spray of crimson.

She collapsed, hands clutching futilely at her ruined neck.

Silence descended once more, broken only by Lyman's labored breathing. I turned to find him on his knees, one hand pressed against his wound, the other supporting his weight against the sand. Blood pooled beneath him, darkening the arena floor.

"Do it then," he rasped, glaring up at me with hatred burning in his eyes. "Torture me like you did my brother. Tear me to pieces, you filthy animal."

I approached slowly, the estoc's tip leaving a thin line in the sand behind me.

No, Lyman. I've already wasted enough time on your family.

His eyes widened as I raised the blade.

I'm simply returning your brother's sword.

The estoc slid between his ribs with perfect precision, piercing his heart. His body jerked once, then went still, his eyes fixed on nothing. I released the hilt, leaving Kolin's blade embedded within his older brother's chest. A fitting end to both.

I descended the stairs quickly, gathering Harke's unconscious form in my arms. His breathing remained shallow but steady. The stump where his tongue had been was crudely cauterized, but infection would set in without proper treatment.

I carried him from the crumbling arena, moving swiftly through gathering shadows toward the Academy. There, healers could tend his wounds, and I could prepare for what would surely come next.

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