Chapter 59: The Commander’s Cold Choice

Chapter 59: The Commander’s Cold Choice My name is Isabelle Vhagar. I watch as Reina and Fenris tear the power station door from its hinges, the shriek of metal a triumphant cry in the dark. I feel a cold, professional calm settle over me. There is no thrill of victory, no pride in the chaos. There is only the plan. There is only the mission. This is my new life. In my old life, a battle was a storm of fear and adrenaline. I fought alongside heroes who were driven by greed or blinded by cowardice. I had to worry about their morale, their mistakes, their inevitable betrayal. It was exhausting. Now, I fight with monsters. Fenris, my loyal Werewolf, is a perfect predator, his every move an expression of lethal instinct. Reina, the Dhampir, is a controlled explosion of power, her quiet stoicism hiding a terrifying destructive force. Lillith is a weapon of the mind, her charms and illusions more deadly than any blade. They are more reliable than any hero I have ever known. They do not run. They do not betray. They do not question my commands. It is a strange and brutal kind of peace. We move into the power station. The hypnotized Orcs don’t even register our presence. They are still cooing at the humming transformer like it’s a newborn puppy. My target is the main generator, a massive turbine at the center of the room. One clean, powerful strike is all it will take to plunge three sectors of this mall into darkness. "Wait," Lillith suddenly whispers, her playful demeanor gone, replaced by a sharp alertness. "Something is wrong. The air... it smells of self-righteousness and cheap steel. It smells like heroes." Before I can process her warning, the illusion on the Orcs shatters. They roar, their eyes clearing, and raise their crude iron axes. At the exact same moment, the service door on the far side of the station bursts open with a splintering crash. From it emerge five humans clad in the unmistakable armor of the Hero Guild. They look young, terrified, and full of a misplaced sense of duty. "Look! It’s them! The monsters from the news!" their leader, a boy with a shiny sword and a very stupid, determined look on his face, shouts. "We have to stop them! For justice! And for Aethelburg!" The Orcs charge us from one side, the heroes from the other. We are trapped in a pincer, a classic and deadly tactical blunder. For a fleeting second, the ghost of my old self feels a pang of pity for the humans. They are just like I was. Lost children playing a deadly game they do not understand, sent here by commanders who see them as nothing more than expendable pawns. Then I look at my team. At Fenris, who has moved to stand in front of me, his body a shield of black fur and snarling muscle. At Reina, whose fists are already glowing with a crimson, destructive energy. They are ready to die for me. They are ready to die for our Lord. The choice is not a choice at all. It is an inevitability. "Wrecking Crew," I command, my voice as cold and hard as the steel of my blade. "Eliminate them. All of them." BOOM! I move first. The heroes, with their unpredictable tactics and potential for magic, are the greater threat. The boy with the sword, their leader, roars and charges me. His form is terrible. All wild, angry swings and no thought for defense. He is a child throwing a tantrum with a deadly weapon. The wind shrieks as I close the distance between us. I don’t bother to block his clumsy downward slash. I move around it, a fluid motion that feels as natural as breathing. CRACK! The pommel of my sword, Dáinsleif, connects with the back of his helmeted head. The impact is a sharp, final sound, like a branch snapping. A small, contained shockwave ripples from the blow, and the boy’s eyes roll back in his head. He collapses to the concrete floor like a puppet with its strings cut. One down. The rest of the fight is a one-sided slaughter. It is the brutal math of professionals versus amateurs. BOOM! CRACK! BOOM! A constant, deafening storm of sonic booms and shockwaves fills the power station as Fenris and Reina tear into the Orcs. The Orcs are strong, but my Bloodkin are a different class of predator. It is a whirlwind of claws, fists, and shattered bone. Lillith, meanwhile, winks at the heroes’ healer, a young woman in white robes who is frantically trying to chant a spell. The healer stops mid-word, a dazed look on her face. She then turns and begins casting a powerful healing spell on a nearby wall, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. I face the last two conscious heroes, a spearman and an archer. They are back-to-back, their weapons trembling in their hands. They are paralyzed by terror. "Please," the spearman stammers, his face slick with sweat. "We... we surrender." I stop, my dark sword humming softly in my hand. The Isabelle Thorne who led the Liberators would have taken them prisoner. She would have shown mercy. But she is dead. I have a new life now. And Lord Ragnar’s orders were absolute: the team’s survival comes first. Prisoners are a logistical problem. Witnesses are a future threat. "No," I say, and my sword moves, a silent, dark blur in the dim light. When it is over, the room is quiet, save for the hum of the generator and the sound of my team’s breathing. The floor is littered with bodies, both monster and human. My Wrecking Crew is untouched. I look down at the dead humans, at their young, terrified faces, and I feel... nothing. No sadness. No guilt. No regret. There is only a cold, clean satisfaction. The mission is proceeding. The threat has been neutralized. I am Isabelle Vhagar. I am Lord Ragnar’s sword. And I am very, very good at my job.