Beastforged Bond

B4 Chapter 14

The Strikers moved through the Forbidden Zone with fast, silent strides. Their faces were stoic, determination etched on their features as they fused with nature, becoming one with their surroundings. They caught up to their targets, their blades absorbing the ambient shadows.One Striker skulked through the shadows and emerged inside the Tarthon camp. He appeared inside a tent, a faint smile playing on his lips as the unmoving shapes of several sleeping Tarthons entered his view. Wasting no time, he shot forward, Silent Steps and Blade of Silence triggered. The traits drained his ether reserves quickly, but their effect remained as strong as ever.

The Striker burst into action, his blades arcing through the air in utter silence. He slashed a Tarthon’s neck with ease and moved to the next sleeping target, ramming the thin blade made from a Terror Wolf’s claw deep into yet another soul.

He couldn’t care less about the Tarthon or the Fija. The Fithar Alliance ought to collapse. Every one of them was aggressive and deserved nothing more than to drown in their own blood. The Striker had to suppress a growl, his Soulkin’s wild instincts threatening to overwhelm him once more. Instead of letting his emotions out, he channeled them into his blade and twisted it in the Tarthon’s chest.

A sound caught his attention, and he spun around to the remaining Tarthons as they woke up. Not because of him, but because the other Strikers were not as silent as he was. They were good, but not nearly as efficient as he was. Then there was their leader. The powerhouse that led the Hellhounds.

Why again was he assigned to our group? he wondered, trying to figure out why a Ruler was added to the Hellhounds… or why the Hellhounds had so many silent fighters when their leader was a Ruler who was good at everything except being silent.

An explosion ruptured through the camp. Pained screams and angry shouts in a language the Striker couldn’t understand followed, but he was too focused on the enemies before him. A heatwave struck next. The tent fluttered as searing hot ether swept past, setting it on fire.

As more and more shadows faded, the Striker was forced to move faster. He triggered Shadow Cell and Darkness Confinement; his pupils shifted as he entered a Soulfusion with his Nightshadow Panther Soulkin.

The shadows that survived the fire surged toward the waking Tarthons, restraining them momentarily. Long enough for him to reach them, his blades dancing in the flames that burned greedily through the tent. The Tarthons were not weak. Some of them were very powerful. But that did not mean they had what it took to defeat humanity.

No matter how strong they thought themselves to be, humanity was stronger. They would prevail and emerge stronger than ever once that hell of a war came to an end.

More explosions echoed in his ears, followed by more heatwaves, one hotter than the other.

, he grumbled inwardly as his blades disappeared into the undersides of the Tarthons’ skulls.

The Ruler of Fire had gone crazy. After losing his arm, he was no longer the same Ruler everyone looked up to. Raffael Torch was still strong. If anything, he was stronger than he used to be. An epitome of strength. A man who commanded respect. He did deserve the respect…or had.

Times had changed. Raffael Torch was still powerful and deserved the respect of many, yet all those who spent more time with him thought differently. The more time the Strikers of the Hellhound unit spent with him, the more they learned to fear him. His unpredictability and temperament more than his power. Although it was his overwhelming power that turned his temperament into something truly dangerous.

The Striker wondered if others thought like him. He was sure they did. Some he talked to on the last missions; others ignored him. It was of little importance, but he understood the Council. After all Raffael Torch did, nearly burning a Bastion to ashes because he had a little conflict with its Ruler, sending him as far as possible was the only thing they could do. Other than eliminating him, which was a problem in and of itself.

Raffael Torch could not be killed. Not with so many Outsiders lusting for humanity’s fall. Not without losing many powerful Blessed.

The Striker wondered, but shook his head.

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The Tarthons might not have the greatest drive for survival; however, he highly doubted that someone like Raffael Torch lacked a sixth sense that would warn him of impending danger. Even if he didn’t, assassinating him wouldn’t help anyone. Not yet, at least.

“I want to live,” he mused to himself, stepping out of the burning tent into a camp that was nothing like it had been moments ago.

A dozen Hellhound Strikers burst silently across the battlefield, their blades thirsting for blood. They were in for the kill, just like he was, but the Striker was distracted. His eyes shifted to the monstrosity that had emerged in the middle of the camp, spewing deadly flames, coating the campsite in a field of death and magma.

The Magma Dragon. A Monarch.

The only pureblood dragon a Blessed had ever managed to subdue. It was as proud as it was terrifying.

Nobody truly knew how the Ruler of Fire had subdued the Magma Dragon. Many theories had circulated over the centuries, yet Raffael Torch never confirmed or denied any of them. All the public knew was that the Magma Dragon was Raffael’s only Soulkin. Or perhaps it wasn’t–but the Magma Dragon was the only Soulkin the Ruler of Fire ever summoned, and even that was rare.

There had been no more than a dozen reported instances since the Striker was born.

A mystery. That was what the Ruler of Fire was. Some said his World was one of pure fire; others claimed it was highly restricted, meant to strengthen the few– one(?) –Soulkins he possessed. Either way, he was terrifying, and he did not even try to be otherwise.

The Striker looked up to see several figures levitating high above the camp. A fiery breath shrouded them in flames, and all but one writhed in agony. Bellowing laughter resounded, sending chills down the Striker’s spine.

The Ruler of Fire was there, and he seemed to be enjoying himself far too much.

He shuddered and disappeared into the shadows, pursuing the fleeing Tarthon away from Raffael Torch. The farther, the better. He didn’t want to end up as a heap of ash like the Tarthons in the camp, after all.

***

Raffael was angry. Ever since he had failed to subdue the Elemental Phoenix, life had seemed to spiral downward.

Nothing worked out as intended. He had lost his arm, and that stupid bitch Sera couldn’t even fix him. She was the Ruler of Life and couldn’t regrow a lost arm. What a loser. A failure. She deserved to die, something she nearly did after he was done with her.

Maybe he should have killed her. That would have made many things easier. Unfortunately, they needed the Rulers. Killing Sera would have harmed them more than it would have helped him. Or so his father claimed. Raffael did not agree, but his opinion was of little importance to that old man these days.

All his father cared about was the war: eradicating the Fithar Alliance and earning the favor of all the parties bound by the Pact. But the man was delusional. They could not defeat the Fithar Alliance without an Emperor.

Raffael looked down at the camp in boredom. He couldn’t understand why his father and the other idiots on the Council had assigned him to the Hellhounds. It made no sense. Neither did the unit’s name, when all its members were assassins. Hellhounds were anything but silent. They were just like him–thirsting for blood, eager to burn their enemies to cinders. To burn down the world itself, if that was what it took. For power.

The anger that had faded over the weeks returned slowly. After his little “exchange” with Ruler Iosoph, they had been separated. Iosoph was deployed to the frontlines, where the real fun awaited him, one of his whores left behind in the Bastion to govern it, while Raffael was forced to join idiotic assassination units tasked with eliminating isolated camps. Surely, a Ruler with more suitable powers than his existed for such work.

He was no fan of silent combat. Raffael loved the smell of burned flesh, the crackling of fierce flames as they tore through all that dared to oppose him, and the screams of his enemies.

“Do I really have to stay silent? Father and those old bastards know me well enough to–” A predatory smile bloomed on his lips.

The Council did not want him to be a silent spectator. They wanted him to plow through their enemies. To make an example. To show mankind’s foes what awaited them if they continued to resist.

Raffael did not hesitate. He took a deep breath and let his buddy loose.

A mighty roar reverberated through his entire being as a massive creature of legend emerged from the World of Fire. Explosions erupted all around the Magma Dragon the moment he manifested, and he did not make the Tarthons wait.

A flood of heat rippled outward with a single flap of the Magma Dragon’s wings. Then came the meteorites–small showers of molten magma descending from the sky. At last, fire poured down, coating the camp in hues of orange and red.

Screams tore through the flames, the pain within as blissful as ever. Shouts followed shortly after, and so did desperate attacks, but the Magma Dragon cared little for them. He thrashed about, his tail sweeping across the ground, killing Tarthons by the dozens. Then came the second wave of searing heat. And the third.

It prickled lightly against Raffael’s skin, all while reducing those beneath him to ash.

At last, the strongest defenders of the camp rose to meet him in the sky. Their fury brought a bright smile to his lips. He flashed them a toothy grin and engulfed them in dragon fire a moment later, their screams even more blissful than those of their subordinates.