Chapter 24: The Funeral March
The silence that followed the destruction of Kastel-Gora was heavier than the explosion itself. Across the continent, the news didn't spread by messenger; it spread by the smell of the wind—a wind that carried the metallic scent of vaporized iron and the ashen remains of an Empire's pride.
Alexander Milov did not celebrate. He sat on the back of a black warhorse, watching the long line of his army march through the smoking ruins of the pass. They were no longer a ragtag group of rebels; they were a Legion of Ghosts. Their faces were blackened by soot, their eyes hollow, their auras a Uniform, Cold Violet—the color of people who had seen the end of the world and realized they were still standing.
"They fear you now, Alexander," Elena said, riding beside him. She looked at him, and for the first time, there was no affection in her eyes—only a profound, trembling awe. "Not because you killed their soldiers, but because you didn't care about yours. The history books will call this a massacre."
"History is written by the survivors, Elena, and I intend to be the only one holding the pen," Alexander replied. He didn't look at her. His gaze was fixed on the mud-slicked road ahead. "The Empire survived for centuries because it convinced the world that it was a mountain. I simply showed them that even mountains are hollow inside."
[The Toll of Victory]
They passed a medical clearing where the Highland healers were tending to the wounded. Silas was there, his massive torso wrapped in bloody bandages. He had survived the breach, but the "Iron Soul" in his eyes had flickered. He looked at Alexander as he passed.
Alexander pulled his horse to a stop. He looked at Silas's aura—it was Fractured, a bleeding Red and Grey.
"Was the anvil strong enough, Silas?" Alexander asked, his voice devoid of its usual frost, yet still carrying a razor-edge.
"We held, Boss," Silas rasped, coughing up a mouthful of dark blood. "But three thousand men are staying in that mountain. Forever. They died believing you were a god."
Alexander leaned down, his voice a whisper that only Silas could hear. "I am no god, Silas. A god grants mercy. I only grant endings. Tell the men that their names will be carved into the gates of the Capital. Not in stone, but in the memory of every noble who begs for their life."
He didn't wait for a response. He spurred his horse forward. To the army, he was a pillar of strength. To himself, he felt the Black Amulet growing heavier against his chest, its golden glow pulsing in time with the screams he could still hear in his mind.
[The Capital's Response - The Blood Treaty]
In the Iron Spire, the Emperor—a man whose face was hidden behind a mask of liquid gold—stood before a council of trembling ministers. The news of Kastel-Gora had turned the ballroom into a morgue.
"He is coming," the High Minister whispered, his aura a Nauseating, Liquid Yellow. "He has bypassed the Highlands. He has burned Oakhaven. He has leveled the Mountain. Milov isn't fighting a war... he is performing an exorcism."
The Emperor didn't speak. He reached out and touched a crystal sphere on a pedestal. Inside, a drop of Deep, Abyssal Black blood swirled.
"Activate the 'Sanguine Seal'," the Emperor's voice echoed, metallic and ancient. "If the Raven wants a funeral, we shall give him one that covers the entire world. Send the 'Red Scholars'. Tell them to unbind the Forbidden Gates. If we cannot rule this continent, then no one shall."
[The Night Camp]
That night, Alexander sat alone in his tent. He drew his blade—the steel was chipped, stained with the ichor of Ghouls and the blood of men. He didn't clean it. He stared at his reflection in the gore.
"The goal justifies the means," he whispered to the shadows. "But what happens when the 'means' become the only thing left of the man?"
He felt a presence. Not Elena. Not Silas. It was something... older. Through his Aura Vision, he saw a Thin Thread of Pure Gold snaking through the air, leading North, far beyond the Capital.
The Amulet wasn't just a weapon. It was a Key. And the lock was located in the heart of the Emperor's throne room.
Alexander stood up, his aura flaring into a Violent, Radiant Silver-Gold. The pain in his side, the exhaustion in his bones, the guilt in his heart—it all burned away, replaced by a singular, obsessive hunger for the end.
"Let them open their Forbidden Gates," Alexander growled, his voice vibrating with a power that made the tent poles crack. "I have already walked through the gate of death. Everything else is just a curtain waiting to be torn down."