Chapter 82 82: the loyal apprentice

------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- The event took place between chapters 79 and 81. Third-person POV ------------------------------- The bells of the tower rang violently, announcing danger. In Reinsfeld, still young as an Imperial city, the guards patrolled the streets shouting orders, while the city militia began to mobilize. Alarmed news arrived from the roads: a force of almost three thousand men was advancing toward the city without stopping, ignoring the outposts, marching with firm steps and banners deployed. They carried the colors of a House with which the von Reinsfelds had shared a blood conflict for five generations. The captains gathered all those who could wield a weapon. Levies were improvised in the squares, spears, pikes, some crossbows were distributed, and all the muskets from the armorers were handed out. The blacksmiths left their workshops with hammers in hand, the butchers with long knives, and even some apprentices took their place in the line. The doors of the temples remained open, and the priests of Sigmar gave blessings as fast as they could while the smoke from the forges stained the sky. Amidst that chaotic mobilization, no one paid attention to a figure cloaked in rags descending from the castle in a transport cart. It moved slowly down the cobbled street, heading toward the eastern exit of the city. ome saw it pass, but none stopped to ask. Between preparations for battle and the urgency of defending the city, an elderly, hunched figure was not cause for alarm. The enemy column continued its march along the main road. They didn't stop to loot nor diverted their march toward the watchposts. They followed a single direction, neither quickening nor slowing their pace, with the ranks ordered and weapons slung over their shoulders. They seemed ready to take the city without a word, confident that nothing in their path would stop them. It was near noon when one of their detachments found the old man. The cart was partially blocking the road, and the old man stood next to the mule, watching silently. A rider moved forward arrogantly, raising his sword. "These roads belong to my father, the legitimate Baron of Reinsfeld, Theodor von Kesselheim. I'd recommend you start paying tribute, merchant, before we take back what belongs to us," said the young man, pointing at the man wrapped in rags with the tip of his blade. The old man looked at him steadily. His eyes reflected the light like beaten gold. "Oh, of course... actually, I was just about to do that. My master sends his regards," he replied with a raspy voice. With a slow gesture, he removed the tarp from the cart. Underneath were mounds of blue pigment. Reikland blue. The color that adorned banners and shields in the city. The color that reminded everyone who ruled now. The old man stripped off his rags. Under them, he wore a tunic of burnished gold, adorned with metallic filaments that pulsed with energy. A golden mask covered his face, and in his hand appeared a lead staff reinforced with gold and a blue gem. The air around him began to vibrate, as if the world itself was preparing to break. "Doomus Ardentus," he whispered. The winds of Chamon responded instantly. A storm of silver shards descended upon the riders as if the very skies had cracked. The thin, shining stakes pierced flesh, broke ribs, tore arms, and pierced armor as if it were wet paper. Some bodies were thrown to the ground by the violence of the impact, while others remained impaled on their mounts, still alive, screaming in spasms as blood poured in torrents onto the cobbled road. While the survivors tried to understand what had happened, still trembling from the initial impact, the old man raised his staff again. His voice, deep and serene, rose above the echoes of screams: "Sagittae Argenteae Arhae." Hundreds of silver arrows began to materialize behind his back, spinning in shining spirals before launching like a killing cloud at the soldiers trying to regroup. Each projectile found a mark. Dozens fell instantly, pierced in the chest, throat, or face. The men screamed, tried to run, but the projectiles kept falling in unstoppable waves. The winds of Chamon swirled powerfully around the old man, as if the world itself had chosen to channel its fury through him. The armor of the dead began to react to one of his spells. It deformed, wrinkled, melted, until all — breastplates, shields, swords, and helms — were drawn toward a single point by an invisible force. A growing sphere of molten steel levitated in the air, formed from every metal fragment gathered from the battlefield. It glowed with a white, blinding light from the accumulated heat. Then it exploded. The explosion bathed everything still alive within a wide radius in molten steel. The soldiers screamed without a voice, covered in bubbling metal that devoured their flesh, melting muscles, tearing skin, and drilling into bones. Some fell to their knees before collapsing, while others simply disintegrated in convulsions. The stench of burned flesh filled the air, thicker than the dust. While the bodies burned and silver fragments kept falling without pause, another barrage of conjured arrows pierced those trying to flee. The old man then raised a golden whistle he had conjured. He blew it once. From the shadows of the path emerged the Gehenna's Golden Hounds. Creatures of living metal, with bodies of burnished gold and eyes like burning coals, descended upon the remnants of the detachment. Each bite tore off limbs. Each stride left a trail of heat upon the earth. The few who were still moving were devoured in screams that didn't seem human. The noble's son, paralyzed since the first spell, was covered by a solid layer of gold. His face still carried an expression of horror. Around him, his men lay in pieces, either scorched or impaled. The mage raised his staff once more, and all the molten steel he had spread across the field rose again. The heat was so intense that the earth began to crack beneath his feet. The spell ended. The gold covering the young man dissolved slowly, leaving his body naked and trembling. Then the molten steel sphere fell over him. The mass covered him entirely, silencing his scream instantly, enveloping him in a burning prison that hardened upon contact with the winds of Chamon. After a few seconds, where once there had been a noble, there was now only a polished black sculpture, capturing the moment when he tried to plead for his life. The field fell silent. Only the crackling of cooling metal broke the calm. The old man breathed heavily. Sweat ran down his forehead, and his hands trembled, though not from fear. "Never... had I felt so much concentrated power..." he murmured before covering his face once again with the rags. Without saying a word, he climbed into the cart, took the reins, and made his way into the nearest forest. He knew he could not stay. There were too many eyes in the Empire. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------