Deacon tightened the knot of the bandana across his forehead before letting out an exhale as his expression hardened.
"Alright…" he muttered to himself as his eyes traced over the massive hexagonal magic circle that stood before him.
He crossed the threshold of the outermost ring and entered the center of the massive formation — the pseudo-heart of the magic circle web stretching beneath half the kingdom.
"No more putting this off."
Kneeling in the exact center of the massive circle, where all six channels converged, Deacon raised his hands perpendicular to the ground and drew in a slow breath as he focused on the mana within him. His mana surged in answer immediately as it began to visibly thread from the end of his elbows, through his forearm, and into the tips of his fingers.
The air in the chamber thickened and became heavy with pressure as Deacon was condensing almost all of the mana within his body to form and hold shape in his palms.
It responded instantly, coiling up through his arms like living current.
"Sixty percent's a pass on any exam…" he muttered, eyes narrowing as he centered his breathing. "…so that's good enough for me."
He clenched his jaw as the small magic circle, the center focus of the massive magic circle, beneath his palms began to vibrate as more and more mana condensed itself into his hands.
Just as 10% of his mana remained within his body, isolated from the condensed buildup of mana in both of his hands, Deacon slammed both hands down into the center of the magic circle.
Flame Mine!
A deafening boom cracked through the cellar as the enchanted script within the smallest hexagonal circle flared to life, molten-red light surging through the carved lines. Like a dying man given water, the glow spread outward from where his hands met the floor, snaking through each layer of the array before splitting into six channels that burned their way down into the tunnels that were connected to the sewers beneath Dawn's Breath.
Within seconds, the cellar became a blazing forge, causing the air within it to warp and twist from the heat and pressure.
"Alright," Deacon hissed through his teeth as he carefully backed away from the center of the glowing magic circle. One hand slipped into his Spatial Sling Bag, pulled out a Mana Crystal, and crushed it in his fist.
The shards flared bright, and the sickly bruised blue of his hands and forearms, which were hidden beneath his gloves and bracers, began to return to their normal healthy color as a result of his mana reserves refilling.
And that's my cue to leave, Deacon thought with a nervous grimace.
Not wasting any of the time he had left, he bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time as the deep hum of magic behind him began to climb higher and shine brighter with each passing moment as the release timer he'd etched into the magic circle's core grew shorter.
Reaching the ground floor of the watchtower after having climbed up the cellar and the prison, Deacon practically teleported in front of the spiral staircase in its center and quickly scaled it. Climbing floor after floor in record speed, Deacon didn't waste a second to look at the blood-drained corpse of the soldier, nor did he stop to open the wooden trapdoor blocking his exit at the top of the tower; instead, he slammed his shoulder through it and burst into the open air.
Barely acknowledging the splinters pricking against his face, Deacon vaulted the nearest balustrade and kicked off it, landing hard on the slanted rooftop of the closest building. A few shingles cracked and slid loose, clattering into the street below – but he didn't stop to care as he had no time to waste.
"I've got five minutes," he growled to himself, breaking into a run. "Five fucking minutes to get to that giant, fuck-all clock tower that's ten kilometers away from me."
His boots thundered across the roof tiles as he vaulted the narrow gap to the next building. The wind howled past his ears, carrying the scent of piss, shit, vomit, and incense – smells that he'd unfortunately begun to get used to as he traversed the rooftops of Dawn Breath's Lower Bailey.
Every leap sent him through sagging market canopies, over crumbling parapets, and between the many strung-up laundry lines filled with wet clothes that whipped across his path.
Sliding down a slanted roof, Deacon kicked off its edge a second before he would've plummeted into the street below and landed onto the next rooftop that had a fifteen-meter gap between it and the one he slid down.
As he landed, eyeing the rush of soldiers on top of the Inner Walls as the night shift guards swapped with the day shift ones, he reminded himself that he not only had to cover ten kilometers in under five minutes, but also climb at least half the clock tower if he wanted to be clear of what was about to happen.
And what was about to happen… was three and a half days in the making.
In the three and a half days he'd spent in Dawn's Breath, Deacon had crawled through nearly every stretch of its sewers — at least, the parts not sealed behind holy-infused metal. He knew the tunnels so well by now that he could've walked them blindfolded and still reached either end of the city without getting lost.
He'd memorized every major artery, every intersection, every collapsed passage, secret tunnels that opened when pushing in a slightly off colored brick. And throughout his exploration of the sewers, every hundred meters, without fail, he'd cast Flame Mine onto a wall and prime it before reaching the end of a path and linking them together.
Three days of careful, relentless work, and the last of his Ritual Chalk… was all for this moment.
Each mine had been linked to the primary one etched within the cellar of Watch Tower 5, which was linked through hundreds of meters of enchanted script written in Ritual Chalk. The chalk itself was part of the box of Ritual Chalk that remained from when the Ravenlight Party performed their Lesser Heart-Flame Rituals.
Deacon vaulted a narrow alley, boots skimming the edge of a hanging clothesline, and hit the next rooftop running – not giving a glance to the chaos beginning to stir within the kingdom.
The soldiers who'd been patrolling the walls moments ago were looking around, shouting down at the courtyards, confused by the low rumble spreading beneath their boots.
Deacon didn't stop.
As he reached the edge of a lofty parapet and launched himself across a twelve-meter gap that was between him and the clock tower, he caught a metal drainpipe that ran up the side of the massive, white, and golden-yellow brick clock tower, one of the two towering structures that dominated Dawn's Breath's skyline.
Grunting, Deacon hauled himself up the horizontal drainpipe and steadied his footing before reaching for one of the small balconies that stuck out from the side of the clock tower. From there, after a brief moment of respite, he dug his fingers into the mortar between bricks and began to swiftly climb up the side of the clock tower.
"One more minute left," he muttered through clenched teeth as he pulled himself up higher. He grabbed onto the middle of a balustrade and pulled himself onto yet another balcony.
Below, he could hear the shouts of a couple of confused guards pointing up at him, though he could barely understand what they were shouting as their words were deafened in the growing hum that vibrated through the air.
He kept climbing – until everything exploded.
A crimson bloom swallowed the skyline where Watch Tower 5 stood, roaring upward in a column of crimson-red flame streaked into the bright blue sky. The blast reached a kilometer high, bathing the entire Lower Bailey in red light moments before its shockwave struck everything within a five-kilometer radius.
The shockwave from the eruption of Watch Tower 5 slammed into Deacon's back, nearly tearing him from the wall. Gritting his teeth, Deacon managed to press himself flat against the side of the tower as chunks of stone and debris pelted his back and hands.
Not longer than a few seconds did the rumbling of the ground remerge – this time reaching across the entirety of the last human bastion.
And for a brief period, if someone high above the ground looked at the streets of Dawn's Breath, they could see a faint red outline of the sewer system spanning the entire kingdom that was glowing brighter and brighter with every passing millisecond.
Like a chain reaction of the main Flame Mine activating, the entire sewer network came alive as every single Flame Mine Deacon had placed erupted.
All across Dawn's Breath, in both the Lower and Upper Bailieys, manhole covers shot into the air as jets of flame erupted from within them, showering everything and everyone around them in searing fire.
"Holy… shit," Deacon breathed, voice barely cutting through the ringing in his ears as he clung to the side of the clock tower. Heat rolled up from the burning kingdom in waves, searing his skin even from this height. "Holy shit fuck."
He watched as the explosions tore through both the Lower and Upper Baileys, homes collapsing inward as tunnels beneath them turned to molten rock and people either fell or burnt to death, and churches that were bathed in gold and were the size of entire blocks were now in ruins.
Dawn's Breath, the last holy bastion of humanity on the continent, was burning.
Crrk!
Snapping his gaze skyward, Deacon saw that the once-blinding golden barrier of the Holy Dome shimmered violently as cracks of light spiderwebbed across its surface like shattered glass.
Boom!
An enormous, blazing chunk of rock, sent flying from the siege engines of the Undead Kingdom on the far side of the Outer Wall, punched through the now weakened Outer Wall and streaked through the gap it created with a blazing trail behind, before slamming into the Lower Bailey.
And its collision was nothing short of cataclysmic as its shockwave spread outward, knocking over buildings and launching chunks of debris high through the smoke-filled air.
Deacon barely managed to hold on as the shockwave from the blazing chunk of rock hit the tower.
Bjorn pushed open the door to the cabin and stepped inside, uncaring that his armor was still wet and streaked with grime and blood. Stepping over the small, welcoming mat given to him by his previous disciple, Bjorn dropped his gauntlets onto the table beside the front door with a dull clank and reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on his kitchen table and the glass cup atop a white, blue, and red-flagged coaster.
***
Bjorn poured himself a drink, the liquid sloshing against the side of the glass as an orb of ice formed within the glass. Staring at the bourbon in his glass, his jaw visibly clenched as he recalled what had occurred days prior when he met back up with his godson, Deacon.
Pulling himself out of his thoughts, he lifted the glass to his lips, knocked back the drink, and poured another. After pouring in the new shot of bourbon, he let the amber swirl in the glass as rain began pattering against the wooden roof above his head – dragging up a memory he'd long since attempted to put to rest.
He saw it clear as the day it happened — an eight-year-old Deacon standing in the rain, staring up at him with eyes so hollow they didn't look human. Eyes that swallowed everything, like a pair of black holes that didn't reflect a thing.
Before he could think, Bjorn had moved, dropping to his knees right there in the mud and pulling the boy into his arms, rain soaking through the clothes he wore at the time.
Bjorn shut his eyes at the memory, his grip tightening around the glass until the faint crack traveled across the glass.
He could still hear the choked sobs that escaped Deacon and feel the trembling of Deacon's body, how he clung onto him as if he'd let go of him; he would disappear.
It was all because, the day before he'd last seen him, he'd chosen to play with Hilede and Floki behind his father's back instead of practicing his swordsmanship.
Bjorn exhaled through his nose, rough and tired, and poured another drink as he pulled himself from the suffocating memory.
"Serpent of the End, wreath the Jötunung with your scales. Shield him from the blades and spells that come his way."
He downed the drink in one go, the glass clinking softly against the table as he set it down.
"He's only got an old bear left watching his back," Bjorn murmured, half to himself. "And that old bear's not what he used to be."