All of Jacob's thoughts, his anger, his guilt, his grief froze in place the moment he heard that voice and felt that presence, as though his very soul had been pulled loose from his body. What settled over him was not the ordinary fear of battle or of injury, but something heavier, deeper, a primal terror that urged his body to shut down entirely, to give up before the fight had even begun.

He knew, without needing to see or to think further, that this was a rank zero, and not one inclined to let him live. In that instant he understood the truth: he would die here, no matter what he tried, and even if his siblings came, unless Alex himself arrived, there would be no chance of survival, and even then, even for Alex, a half-demon of such strength might still be too much. His death seemed not only possible but certain, immediate.

"What is this, Jacob Skydrid, no words from you?" The voice was rough and grating, not in any way that poisoned his mind or body, but enough that each syllable made Jacob shiver as if his nerves were raw.

"I had been aware," the voice continued, the sound of footsteps echoing as the man approached, "that her strength had been fading little by little, but I never expected you would be the one to end her."

Jacob did not raise his head, but he felt it before he saw it, a hand taking hold of his face, turning him until he faced the man. He caught no clear detail of the warden's features, and yet his body reacted before thought could intervene: his eyes dropped to the ground, his neck bowed, a reflex older than reason.

"Prisca," the warden said, his tone almost conversational, "was my favourite among the women here. A small thing in the greater order of the world, perhaps, but to have her taken from me by a child…" He let the words trail for a moment before patting Jacob's head with slow, deliberate weight. Jacob felt his breath against his cold skin. "It is embarrassing, it is aggravating, and above all it is intolerably irritating. Don't you agree?"

The hand slid from Jacob's hair to his neck, inch by inch, a movement so slow it made each second stretch until it felt like its own eternity. And in that eternity Jacob's mind could form only one thought, repeated endlessly: he would die, here and now, without choice or reprieve.

But then, just as the pressure was about to close, the hand stilled. The warden straightened, his tone shifting as though he had noticed something far beyond the boy before him. "Hmm. That was quicker than I had expected. Their intelligence unit must be performing well."

Jacob did not understand, not at first, until he felt something stir within him, a connection that had been cut was suddenly restored, and with it came a presence he knew more intimately than his own father, one that steadied him even as his body still shook with fear.

He could not speak, could not bring himself to make a sound. Instead he simply allowed his body to sink into the shadows at his feet, retreating wordlessly. His last glimpse before darkness swallowed him was of the prison roof breaking apart, stone and timber collapsing, and above the ruin stood an old man with greying hair, poised in the air, and behind him several black-haired figures waiting in silence.

"Go and release the prisoners, all of you. Leave the warden to me." Lazarus did not turn as he spoke, his gaze fixed firmly on the figure before him.

Few men alive had ever claimed to have truly seen the warden's face, for it was said that one of his abilities compelled any who were below rank zero to avert their eyes, not through fear alone but through something deeper, something that denied them the very possibility of looking upon him.

And for those rare individuals who could meet his gaze without faltering, he wore a mask without end, for he had no single face to call his own. Every prison had a body, and every body had another name, another appearance, and in this place the one he had chosen was Asmodeus, a name that Lazarus remembered well, one borrowed from the old demon lord himself.

A flare of power spread through the air behind him, not lesser than his own but equal in weight, and with a quiet sigh Lazarus turned to face the source. There stood the eldest of the Skydrid siblings, clad in heavy plate that seemed more ceremonial than practical but which bore no scratch nor dent, a longsword at his side and a shield strapped across his back.

His features were stern, the beginnings of a beard shadowing his jaw, his dark hair stirring faintly in the night wind, and his brown eyes burned with the kind of intensity that would have made lesser men falter. This was Alex Skydrid, the only one of his siblings to stand at rank zero.

"This was an attack on my blood," Alex said, his tone steady, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "And so I will take responsibility, and I will kill the warden."

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Lazarus exhaled softly, and though he wanted to say you will fail, he kept the words to himself, for he had known Alex long enough to understand that no reasoning nor warning would dissuade him. The man was unyielding, as stubborn as the steel he bore. So instead Lazarus gave only a small nod. "Then go on, if that is your will."

The warden, who had remained still until now, finally spoke, his tone calm and almost amused. "What became of your great meeting? Or perhaps I should call it what it truly was, a ritual. For what gathering of men drags on for months, unless it is something more than a council?"

At that, Lazarus smiled faintly, though it held no warmth. "Your stunt forced it to an end," he replied, "and worse for you, it has driven Jeremiah into a rage. Even as we stand here, he is cutting his way through your bodies one after the other. You end today, warden."

"Is that so?" the warden said lightly, tilting his head. "Then why did he not come here himself? Do not tell me he is still afraid of this body. Do the scars trouble him even now? So troubled he sends his children instead…"

But before he could finish, a streak of blue light fell from the sky and struck him full on, the force hurling his body backward across the stone.

"That vessel is called Asmodeus, if I recall correctly," Alex said as he drew his sword and unstrapped his shield, his voice carrying without need to shout. He stepped forward, eyes fixed on the enemy. "You dared to take my siblings, and worse, you dared to defile my father's name. For these crimes I will see you ended."

And as if fate itself had chosen to echo his words, Asmodeus suddenly staggered, his body bowing as a harsh cough tore from his chest, blood spilling from his lips before the battle had even begun.

"Damn," he muttered, his voice low and strained, as Alex's blade appeared before his eyes in a blur of steel and light. His hand came up almost instinctively, black aura surging and crawling across his skin until it hardened like metal, and with a clenched fist he caught the edge of the sword.

It should have been a simple defense, an easy matter to parry and force the weapon aside, but he was fighting a Skydrid, and that was never simple. The moment his aura touched the blade he felt it falter, bending away as if cowed, weakening in patches, and to his dismay he realized that fragments of his own aura were slipping from his control entirely, turning against him, clawing at his flesh. The sword never struck him directly, but by the time he released his grip and fell back, his hand was a mangled ruin, bones twisted beneath charred skin.

"Dominance," Asmodeus muttered bitterly, flexing the ruined hand though it hardly obeyed him. "It's really not fair."

And then, without another word, he surged forward once more, his aura exploding around him as his fist met Alex's blade in a storm of sparks and force. The two became little more than a blur, steel and flesh colliding in rapid succession, their movements shaking the prison with each impact.

Alex's shield appeared at intervals, each time to intercept a blow that could have levelled walls, but even with it he was driven back again and again. The battle tore through the building in frantic arcs, and though many had already been evacuated, those too slow to flee were struck down in an instant by the sheer pressure of their clash. Stone crumbled, walls split, and the very structure of the prison groaned beneath the weight of their fight.

At last Alex leapt back, his boots grinding into shattered stone, and he raised his sword high, lowering his aura onto the blade until it covered it like a glistening, oily film that shimmered with deadly weight.

Across from him, Asmodeus cocked his hand back and then released it in a thunderous punch, the force twisting into a spiraling current of aura that drilled into Alex's shield with a sound like grinding stone. The spiral pierced through his aura, carving into the shield itself, its edges splintering under the relentless pressure.

"ROAAAR!" Alex bellowed, his voice tearing through the chaos, and with a surge of strength he twisted his shield aside, deflecting the spiraling force just enough to clear a path. His sword lifted higher, and in that instant his mind emptied, stripped of hesitation, of fear, of calculation, until only a single sentence remained, the one truth that defined his blade.

"Sever the world."

Asmodeus's eyes widened at the words, and with a snarl he poured everything he had into defense. His aura surged outward, dark and heavy, shaping itself into a massive wall of metal-like substance, solidified into an impregnable barrier. Above it shimmered a thin grey sheen, his faith drawn down into tangible form, a divine shield layered upon the earthly one. It was the strongest defense he could muster, a wall of aura and belief meant to withstand even gods.

And then Alex brought his sword down.

No observer could have described the moment with a single phrase, for it was at once beautiful and horrifying, raw and transcendent, a strike that seemed to belong less to men and more to forces older and greater than them. Yet no matter how many words one tried to use, powerful, destructive, magnificent, there was always one that would eclipse the others.

Dominating.

Alex's strike was pure domination made manifest.

The earth split beneath the line of his blade, the atmosphere itself shivering as though it too might tear apart, and every energy in the vicinity, mana, aura, faith alike was pressed down, crushed beneath the weight of his authority. Asmodeus's shield, painstakingly formed of aura and reinforced by faith, crumbled before the strike ever touched it, disintegrated by the sheer force of oppression that bled from the sword.

Desperate, he raised his ruined hand to block, but at that very instant a jolt struck him, another of his bodies destroyed elsewhere, the backlash severing his focus. Blood burst from his mouth in a wet gasp.

"Guagh—!"

And in that opening, Alex's sword descended.

The line of blue light cut cleanly through him, and in the next breath the vessel named Asmodeus was split in two, falling apart under the weight of a strike that allowed no resistance.

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