Beyond the towering walls of Camelot, nestled amidst rolling fields of gold and sprawling pastures, lay the tranquil farming town of Stornoway. Known far and wide for its bountiful wheat and grain, the landscape stretched endlessly, dotted with towering windmills whose stone-and-wood structures stood sentinel over the vast farmland. Their great sails turned lazily in the steady drift of the wind, a familiar rhythm to the town's people, as constant as the rising sun.
Stornoway itself was modest in size but lively, its cobblestone streets weaving through rows of off-white buildings, their pale bricks stacked snugly together as if standing shoulder to shoulder. The town square, always bustling with chatter and commerce, bore signs of impending change—posters tacked to wooden posts, banners strung between storefronts, all heralding the ongoing discussions within the local council about Stornoway's long-debated elevation to city status. Some welcomed the idea, eager for growth and prosperity; others feared what the title might bring—higher taxes, more oversight, strangers with unfamiliar ways.
Despite its charm and warm hospitality—the very country charm that had made it famous—Stornoway was not without its shadows. Darkness, after all, could fester even in the most picturesque places. Every town had its rules, and every town had those who broke them. Crime was no stranger to these streets, though it moved in whispers and unseen exchanges rather than open violence. And where there were criminals, there were those meant to uphold the law.
AEGIS had established a precinct here, meant to bring order, stability, and the promise of safety to the people of Stornoway. At first, they were protectors, the very embodiment of justice, ensuring that law and peace reigned over the land. But promises could be broken. Authority could be twisted. And what had once been a sanctuary had, over time, become something far worse.
For in Stornoway, the lines between those who upheld the law and those who exploited it had long since blurred.
The stillness of the night was shattered by the roar of flames devouring one of Stornoway's most beloved landmarks—the town bakery. Firelight danced against the streets, casting wild, flickering shadows over the carnage that lay scattered across the ground. Burnt confectionaries littered the street in charred, broken heaps, their once-sweet aromas now replaced by the acrid stench of smoke and ruin. Bags of flour had burst open, spilling white powder over the bloodstained stones, mingling with crushed fruit, shattered furniture, and the remains of what had once been a thriving business.
Amidst the wreckage, an elven woman huddled against the crumbling wall, clutching her two young children to her chest. Their small, tear-streaked faces buried into the folds of her dress, trembling with every muffled sob. But it was the scene at the center of the destruction that drew the eyes of the gathered townsfolk—forced to watch, helpless and horrified.
A plump elven man, the town's beloved baker, François, was held aloft by two guards clad in light armor, his feet barely scraping the ground. Blood dripped from his split lips and broken nose, staining the front of his once-pristine tunic. A third guard, broad-shouldered and grinning, delivered another brutal punch to his gut, forcing a wheezing gasp from François as he doubled over. There were at least a dozen of them, city guards in uniform, watching the violence unfold with smirks of amusement, their eyes gleaming with the sick pleasure of unchecked cruelty.
This was Stornoway's reality.
Captain Hoffman stood among them, an image of effortless control, his posture relaxed as he popped the last bite of shortcake into his mouth, licking the sugar from his fingers. His finely kept mustache twitched as he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a white handkerchief, dabbing at his lips with an air of feigned elegance.
"By the Gods, François, you make the finest cakes in all of Avalon," Hoffman mused, shaking his head with a sigh. "It pains me to see such talent wasted." His sharp blue eyes met François' bloodied glare, and the smug smile that spread across his face was infuriatingly unbothered.
"But I'm a fair man, and I have to be fair to everyone." He tucked the handkerchief away, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the smoke-filled air.
François spat blood onto the ground, his green eyes dark with loathing. "Hoffman, you twisted bastard."
"That's Captain Hoffman to you," the man corrected, his smirk never wavering. "I've been rather generous, you know. I turned a blind eye when you were short on payments. Ignored your little whisper campaign against us, despite how amusingly futile it was."
The pleasantries evaporated as his eyes narrowed. "But you made a mistake, baker. You went too far when you decided to rat me out to the Tower." He tsked, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I truly thought you were smarter than that."
Hoffman's gaze flickered past François to where the elven woman and her children cowered against the scorched wall. His smirk widened. "Especially considering I've always had such a… soft spot for your lovely wife."
"Don't you dare lay a hand on Angelique, you son of a—" François barely got the words out before another fist drove into his gut, cutting off his breath and leaving him sputtering.
Hoffman continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "This is what I don't understand. By now, I thought we had an understanding. We stand above. You scrape by below, grateful for the scraps we allow you to keep."
He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Why do you people insist on fighting that? Hmm?" His hand came to rest lazily on the hilt of his sword. "You all read too many fairy tales. Filling your heads with foolish ideas—ideas that don't belong to you."
"The Clock Tower knows what you've been doing," François spat. "They know about you. About your lackeys. It's only a matter of time before—"
"Before what?" Hoffman leaned in, his expression twisting into mock surprise. "Before they ride in with their gleaming armor and their noble intentions? To sweep away the filth and restore peace to your little town?"
A long pause. Then a slow, dawning smirk. "By the Gods… you actually believe that." He threw his head back and laughed, loud and genuine. The other guards followed suit, their jeers ringing out in the night air.
"Oh, that's so precious," Hoffman wiped a fake tear from his eye. "You really are as simple as they come." His smirk widened. "Tell me, baker… who do you think sent us here in the first place?"
François' eyes widened, his breath catching.
Hoffman chuckled darkly, savoring the moment. "Oh, you really don't understand how things work, do you? The Clock Tower doesn't care about your town. Your crops. Your people. They care about order, and order means control. And we…" He gestured to his men, all standing tall in their armor, hands resting on weapons polished and primed. "We are that control."
His smirk fell into something colder, something merciless. "Now, then. It's been a long night, and I have a busy day ahead, so let's cut to the chase." He clapped his hands together and leaned in. "I'm going to make an example out of you, François. Then, I'm going to take your lovely wife and make her my darling little pet. And your children?" He glanced at the terrified elflings clinging to their mother. "Oh, I'm sure they'll fetch a fair price at the markets."
François thrashed against the guards holding him back, his face twisted in horror. "You wouldn't—"
Hoffman only chuckled, stepping toward Angelique. "Oh, my friend," he murmured as he reached for her, fingers twisting into her hair, yanking her forward as she shrieked. "This is what happens to those who forget their place."
"Momma!" the elven children sobbed, clutching at her skirts.
"Let her go, you bastard!" François struggled, but the guards held him fast. Another stepped forward, drawing his sword, the blade gleaming cruelly in the firelight.
"Hold him still," the guard said, lifting his weapon.
François' breath hitched as the steel rose above him.
Then, in a single instant, a flash of silver.
A blur of motion.
A wet, sickening sound.
Blood sprayed across the cobblestones, splattering across the guards, across François, as the man's sword clattered uselessly to the ground—along with his arms, severed clean at the elbows. The guard barely had time to register what had happened before his head rolled from his neck, his body crumpling lifelessly to the street.
Before anyone could react, the two guards restraining François met the same fate, their heads separated from their bodies in a single, fluid motion. They collapsed in heaps, blood pooling beneath them. Then, as the flames crackled and the air hung heavy with the scent of iron and ash, a figure emerged from the swirling blackened mist.
Cinders clung to his cloak, his long black claymore dripping with fresh blood. He stepped forward, slow, deliberate, each movement measured and controlled. A low, smooth voice cut through the stunned silence.
"My, my," the figure drawled. "I take a simple walk under the moonlight, and what do I find?" His amber gaze hidden within the shadow of his hood swept the gathered guards, his smirk dark and razor-sharp. "A rat infestation."
Hoffman's smirk wavered, the bravado he had built beginning to fracture beneath the weight of the growing tension. His fingers twitched as they hovered over the hilt of his sword, his instincts screaming at him to act first. Yet, despite the sinking dread tightening in his chest, he forced a grin.
"And what do we have here?" His voice, though steady, carried an underlying edge of unease. "Another stranger playing hero. What is it with you types? Do you just crawl out of the woodwork when I least need the headache?"
He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Honestly, it's exhausting. But this time…" He reached swiftly for his wand, gripping it with a deadly certainty. "I'll make sure you don't get back up."
Without hesitation, he pointed directly at the figure, his wand igniting with a brilliant flash of sickly green.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The curse struck its mark with unerring precision, hitting the stranger square in the chest. A flash of green light, a whisper of death, and the body crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
Silence blanketed the street.
Hoffman exhaled a sharp breath before letting out a chuckle, the tension in his shoulders melting away. "Hah! By the Gods, I can't believe that actually worked!" He ran a hand through his hair, laughing in relief. "For a second, I was almost worried there. But, well—good riddance." He dusted off his coat as he turned his attention back to the elven baker, lifting his wand once more.
"Well, François, where were we?" Hoffman sighed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "I suppose I'll have to get my hands dirty after all. Say your goodbyes, because this time—"
A sound cut through the air. A ragged breath.
Hoffman's entire body seized as he turned, his blood running ice-cold.
The figure was rising.
Slowly, methodically, as if completely unfazed by the Killing Curse.
A groan rumbled from deep within his chest as he rolled his shoulders, his fingers flexing. The dim glow of firelight cast eerie shadows over his features as he straightened to his full height, cracking his neck with a sickening pop.
Then, he spoke.
"Still as spineless as ever, Hoffman," the voice came smooth, laced with amusement—but beneath it, there was something else. Something cold. Something hungry. "Always so keen to strike a man when he's least expecting it." The stranger tilted his head. "You haven't changed a damn bit."
Hoffman staggered backward, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His hands trembled as he raised his wand once more. "T-That's impossible! Avada Kedavra!"
The flash of green tore through the air, but this time, the figure simply lifted his blade, slicing through the magic as if it were nothing more than a stray ember in the wind. The deadly curse dissipated into sparks, harmless and meaningless.
The stranger took another step forward.
"You're going to have to try a lot harder than that," he murmured. "And a hell of a lot harder than you did twelve years ago."
Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached up, his fingers curling beneath the fabric of his hood.
He pulled it down, revealing a face that had haunted Hoffman's nightmares for over a decade. His sharp features, those piercing eyes—no longer the familiar black of the boy Hoffman once knew, but something far more terrifying. Something inhuman.
The color drained from the Captain's face. His knees buckled, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the name slipped past his lips in a whisper of sheer horror.
"Asriel…"
"The bloody ghost of Yuletide's past," Asriel murmured.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze flickering over François who had hurried to his family's side. Angelique clutched her children as if her sheer will alone could shield them from the horrors before them. Her wide, terrified eyes locked onto him, searching for something—recognition, perhaps, or salvation.
His lips curled into something cold and humorless. "I see one elven family wasn't enough for you. Tell me, has this become a personality trait of yours? Murdering innocent families? Does it help you sleep at night?"
Hoffman stumbled back a step, his wand shaking in his grip, sweat beading at his temple. His breath came in sharp, disbelieving gasps as he shook his head, muttering under his breath. "No. No, you aren't real. You can't be real!" His voice cracked into something high-pitched, frantic. "You were dead. You were all dead!"
Asriel pulled a slow, pained smile, the expression teetering somewhere between sorrow and seething fury. "That's what they all said." He took a step forward. Then another. "Maurice. Aardman. Jangles. Ali. Tarvin. Ian. Alvin. Hatir. Eskay. Bennett…" He paused, his amber gaze boring into Hoffman's paling face before uttering the final name. "Stevens."
The blood drained from Hoffman's features, leaving him ashen. His lips parted soundlessly, his breathing shallow. He swayed slightly, as though the weight of that single name had knocked the air from his lungs.
"It's you," he whispered. "You've been hunting them down. One by one." Horror dawned in his eyes. "You killed them."
Asriel tilted his head, his smirk widening, sharp as a blade. "Observant." He flicked the tip of his sword, sending a drop of blood arching through the air before it splattered onto the path. "And I'll give you one wild guess why I'm here."
Hoffman didn't wait for an answer.
"Kill him! Kill him now!" he shrieked, spinning to his men.
The moment the words left his mouth, the night erupted into chaos. Three more figures materialized in bursts of blackened smoke and cascading embers, their weapons drawn and ready. A bowstring tensed, an axe gleamed beneath the firelight, a war hammer loomed heavy in the air. Then, the slaughter began.
The first scream was swallowed by the night as a war hammer crushed a man's chest with a sickening crunch, the force sending him sprawling lifelessly across the ground. An axe blade carved through the air, swift and merciless, severing limbs and staining the streets crimson. Arrows found their marks, burying deep into flesh, their victims crumpling before they even had time to scream.
It was over in moments.
The town square was bathed in blood, the bodies of Hoffman's men strewn across the ground, broken, lifeless. Asriel exhaled, rolling his shoulders before turning his attention back to Hoffman, who stood frozen amidst the carnage.
"You see, Hoffman," Asriel murmured, lifting a single finger as if giving a lesson to a slow-witted student. "Oh, I'm sorry—Captain Hoffman." His amber gaze flicked down to the wand still clutched in the man's hand. "I learn from my mistakes. I was alone then. Not so much now."
Hoffman made a choked noise, his wide eyes darting to his fallen men, to the blood pooling at his feet.
Asriel tone dropped to something quiet. Almost intimate. "Do you want to know what it feels like to be hit with a Killing Curse?"
Hoffman swallowed hard, his lips trembling, but no words came.
Asriel leaned in slightly. "First, you freeze. Like ice has flooded your veins. Your heart stops—not instantly, but slow, agonizingly so. A shock runs through you, sparking every nerve, and you remain aware long enough to understand the one simple, horrifying truth."
He tilted his head. "You're dead."
Hoffman's breath hitched.
"And then?" Asriel continued, his gaze dark, merciless. "Then, there's nothing. No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. No paradise. No judgment waiting for you at the gates. You don't move on. You don't exist. You came into this world without meaning, you lived without meaning… and then you die." A slow, cruel smirk tugged at his lips. "Just as meaningless."
Hoffman was trembling now, his entire body shaking like a leaf caught in a tempest.
Asriel twirled his blade, the motion effortless, almost lazy. "But don't worry." He smiled—a twisted, wicked thing. "Your death will be anything but." His gaze burned. "Not to me."
The captain let out a strangled cry, his composure shattering like brittle glass. His wand clattered to the ground, utterly useless now, as sheer terror overtook him. Without a second thought, he turned on his heel and bolted, his boots pounding against the ground in a desperate, frantic sprint.
Asriel exhaled heavily before glancing over at the other three. "Go. Clean out the rest of the rats at the precinct," he ordered calmly, as if he were discussing the weather. "Paint the walls red and leave none breathing."
The three nodded, their weapons still slick with the blood of their latest victims. Without hesitation, they vanished in bursts of blackened smoke and smoldering cinders, leaving behind the metallic scent of death in their wake. Asriel turned his gaze back toward the alley where Hoffman had disappeared, his expression unreadable. He took a single step forward, then hesitated.
"Thank you, stranger."
The words were soft, raw, filled with quiet reverence. Asriel turned his head slightly, his dull amber eyes settling on François and his family. The baker clutched his wife and children tightly, his arms wrapped around them. Angelique's face was streaked with tears, and the children, wide-eyed and silent, stared at him—at the man who had saved them.
Asriel's lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before he spoke. "That's a beautiful family you have there," he murmured. "Take care of them."
Then, in a swirl of dark smoke, he was gone.
François tightened his hold on Angelique and the children, his heart pounding against his ribs. The guards who had terrorized them for so long lay dead around them, their blood staining the streets. The acrid scent of burning wood filled the air as the townsfolk, once frozen in fear, now sprang into action. Buckets of water were passed from hand to hand as they desperately fought to smother the raging fire that consumed the bakery. The nightmare was over.
Or so they hoped.
****
Hoffman tore through the empty streets, his breath ragged, his lungs burning with every desperate gulp of air. His heart pounded violently, the sound echoing in his ears like the drums of war. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, but he didn't dare slow down. He couldn't. He had to run. He had to get away.
His frantic gaze darted between the darkened alleyways and the looming rooftops, every shadow a potential hiding place, every flicker of movement a death knell. He could feel it—the presence that stalked him from the depths of the night, unseen yet inescapable. He swallowed hard, grunting in panic. The wind howled through the streets, carrying with it a whisper, a phantom's breath just at his ear. His eyes flicked upward for just a second—just long enough to miss the swirl of blackened smoke rising at his feet.
And then, it was too late.
Asriel materialized before him, a wraith born of vengeance. Before Hoffman could react, a powerful hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him clean off his feet and slamming him against the cold stone wall. The impact rattled his bones, knocking the wind from his lungs as his boots dangled uselessly above the ground. He clawed at Asriel's grip, wheezing, choking, but the fingers around his throat were unyielding.
"Twelve years…" Asriel seethed. His dull amber eyes burned with the ghosts of the past. "Twelve long years I've waited for this moment. To see you and every last traitorous bastard who turned their backs on us laid to waste at my feet."
A blackened claymore was leveled at his chest, its surface dark as an abyss yet pulsing with veins of molten red, flickering like embers in the night. Power thrummed from the blade, radiating raw, burning wrath. Hoffman shrieked at the sight of it, sheer terror seeping into every fiber of his being.
"I—I didn't know," he rasped, his fingers clawing desperately at Asriel's wrist. "I—I swear, I didn't know! I didn't know any of that was going to happen!"
"And that's supposed to absolve you?" Asriel's expression twisted, his grip tightening. "Absolve you of the pain you caused? The lives you destroyed?" His eyes narrowed, his lips curling in disgust. "You're scum, Hoffman. Always have been. Always will be."
The fingers around Hoffman's throat clenched tighter, cutting off his air completely. His legs flailed, his vision swimming, spots of black and white dancing at the edges of his eyes. He struggled in vain, but Asriel did not waver.
"You've grown fat in the service of your master," Asriel spat, his grip unwavering. "But not for long. Not anymore. Because once I'm done with the lot of you, he's next."
The night shattered with the sharp call of a word.
"Pallas!"
Asriel barely had time to react before the air around him came alive with streaks of glowing light. Almost a dozen arrows whistled through the darkness, their tips shimmering with an ethereal radiance as they struck the ground where he had stood mere moments before. The impact sent crackling energy spiraling through the ground, illuminating the street in ghostly flashes.
Instinct took over. Asriel released his hold on Hoffman who crumpled to the ground and twisted backward, his body moving with unnatural grace as more arrows zipped past him, slicing through the air with deadly precision. He spun his claymore in a wide, controlled arc, cleaving through several of them mid-flight. Their forms splintered and scattered in glowing shards before fading into nothingness.
Then, a sudden, sharp static charge crackled through the night, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.
His instincts screamed at him, and just as he turned, his blade met the incoming strike. A clenched fist, crackling with pure voltaic energy, crashed against the flat of his claymore, the impact sending sparks and jagged tendrils of electricity skittering across the ground. The ground beneath them split from the force, glowing embers burning along the fractured stone.
Asriel shifted his gaze, his amber eyes locking onto the source of the attack—a well-built young man with wild blond hair, swept back, his muscles taut with barely restrained power. The gauntlets on his hands, plated and engraved with intricate runes, pulsed with golden light, arcs of electricity licking at the metal.
Their eyes met in a silent clash of recognition.
Asriel shoved forward, his strength forcing his opponent back as he swung his claymore in a wide, calculated slash. The blond fighter twisted his body, dodging just in time, the tip of the blade missing his throat by the width of a breath. He stepped back into a defensive stance, his gauntlets humming with renewed power, his fists raised, prepared for the next attack.
"Laxus," Asriel greeted.
His eyes flicked to the other figure approaching him with a clear line of sight. A tall man, draped in a sharply tailored navy-blue suit, his long coat billowing slightly in the night breeze. He held a sleek, blackened bow, intricate raven motifs carved along its frame. The string was drawn taut, an arrow of dark energy nocked and aimed directly at Asriel's chest.
"Bran," Asriel acknowledged.
"Asriel."
Both men responded in unison, weighting with something deeper than simple recognition.
A long, heavy silence settled between them, thick with tension, thick with history. The air pulsed with electricity, charged not just by the storm dancing along Laxus' fists, but by the sheer gravity of the moment.
The rhythmic clang of armored boots against cobblestone shattered the tense silence as nearly a dozen guards stormed onto the scene, their weapons drawn and ready. At the forefront of the squad was Frank, his sword gleaming under the dim lantern lights, his gaze sharp and unwavering. The moment Hoffman's frantic eyes landed on him; a pathetic noise of relief tore from his throat.
Like a desperate rat seeking refuge, Hoffman scrambled to his feet, bolting toward Frank, only to cower behind Bran as though the bowman's presence alone could shield him from the executioner's blade.
"Oh, Frank, thank the Gods you're here!" he wailed. "H-He was going to kill me! You have to—"
"I'd shut my gods damned mouth if I were you, Hoffman." Frank didn't even spare him a glance, his steely eyes fixed on Asriel. But his words carried an unmistakable tone of disgust. He turned his attention back to the sniveling captain, his upper lip curling in disdain.
"We know what you've been doing. We know what you almost did. You're lucky if you spend the rest of your miserable life rotting away in Revel's End—without getting the axe." His gaze flicked downward. "And I do mean that literally."
Hoffman let out an involuntary gasp, his trembling hands flying to his neck as if to ensure his head was still attached. The thought alone drained the blood from his face, leaving his pallid skin a ghostly shade of white.
Frank didn't bother entertaining his cowardice further. He straightened his stance and turned to his men. "Seize him."
The command was swift. The moment it left his lips, two guards stepped forward, gripping Hoffman by the arms and forcing them behind his back. The former captain squirmed against their iron-clad grips, his protests spilling out in frantic gasps.
"Wait, wait—no, you can't do this! You have no right! I'm the captain! I outrank you!" he shrieked, thrashing like a trapped animal. "You obey me!"
Frank scoffed. He stepped closer, looming over Hoffman like a judge peering down at a condemned man. "You have the right to remain silent, you sniveling cur." His gaze was venomous, filled with unfiltered contempt. "I strongly suggest you use it."
Hoffman's mouth opened—whether for another desperate plea or an indignant protest, no one would ever know. Because Frank's fist crashed into his gut with a solid, merciless force, knocking the wind clean out of him. The disgraced captain doubled over, gasping, choking, wheezing—before crumpling like a felled carcass into the guards' arms.
Frank turned his gaze back to Asriel. His grip on his sword tightened ever so slightly. This wasn't over.
****
Asriel exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, slicking it back with an air of nonchalance that did little to hide the simmering tension in his stance. His dull amber eyes flicked between the two men before him, taking in their familiar faces with an unreadable expression.
"Well, now—this is a surprise." His words were smooth, edged with something dangerously sharp. "To what do I owe the esteemed company of the Thunder Emperor…" his gaze settled on Laxus before shifting to Bran, "...and the Black Prince of Ventus?"
Then, his eyes drifted to the badge pinned to Bran's navy-blue blazer. The Clock Tower insignia gleamed under the dim streetlights, a mark of allegiance as damning as a brand burned into flesh.
"Ah. Of course." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "You would sell your soul to the Tower. Family legacy and all that."
Bran didn't waver, his grip tightening around his bow as he pulled the string back further, the arrow's tip glowing faintly with swirling sapphire energy. "It's been a long time," he said evenly. "Old friend."
At those words, Asriel's expression twisted, his features contorting with raw fury.
"I'm no friend of yours!" His snarl cut through the air like a whip, his boots grinding into the dirt as he took a step forward. "No dog of the Clock Tower is a friend of mine!"
Laxus flinched slightly, his gauntlet-clad hands crackling with restrained lightning as he stared at Asriel—not in anger, but in something far more tragic.
"When Bran said it was you, I didn't want to believe it." His usual bravado tempered with something mournful. "I couldn't." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "What the hell happened to you?"
A low, humorless chuckle escaped Asriel's lips. "What hasn't?" His arms spread wide in a mockery of invitation. "You know the story, Laxus. We all do. The tragic tale of one Asriel Valerian, the prodigy turned pariah, the would-be hero turned monster."
Then, his gaze snapped back to Bran, his lips curling into a sneer. "And you? Oh, I'm sure you know it better than most. After all, you and your murderous Clock Tower mutts love your bedtime stories, don't you?"
Bran's jaw clenched. "The only murderer here is you, Asriel," he said as the arrow nocked against his bowstring. "All those people you slaughtered—they had families. Loved ones. Wives. Children. And you butchered them like cattle." His green eyes darkened. "They didn't deserve it. Any of it. They were innocent."
"Innocent?" Asriel tilted his head, the motion almost lazy, his smirk widening into something disturbingly amused. "Oh, Bran. The lies we tell ourselves." He let out a mock sigh, his fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his sword. "In fact, I'd argue that lies are the only thing that keep people getting out of bed every morning."
Then, his smirk faltered slightly, his gaze flickering to his sword. A soft trill filled the air—a resonance, faint yet undeniable.
His eyes snapped back to Bran's. "Oh?" He grinned wickedly. "Is that guilt I sense?"
Bran's breath hitched, but he said nothing. Asriel's grin widened.
"You've been a very naughty boy, haven't you?"
Bran swallowed hard, his fingers twitching against his bowstring.
"All that pain… all that sorrow… and it's all your fault." His smirk turned razor-sharp. "Hypocrite."
Then, as if he had lost all interest in their conversation, his gaze slid past Bran—landing on Hoffman, still restrained in the arms of the guards.
"Well, if you don't mind…" Asriel exhaled. "I have some unfinished business to take care of first."
And in a blink—he was gone.
A swirl of black smoke. A flicker of burning embers.
Then—he was in front of Hoffman.
The captain barely had time to scream before Asriel's hand closed around the front of his coat. Another rush of swirling darkness—and both men disappeared.
****
The two reappeared high above the town, suspended in the night sky, the world below them stretching out in a quilt of dimly lit streets and distant fields. The wind howled between them, an eerie lament carrying through the air. Hoffman shrieked, his limbs flailing wildly as he dangled in Asriel's grasp, his weight held effortlessly by the other man's vice-like grip. His fingers clawed desperately at Asriel's wrist, his breath coming in panicked gasps, his face pale with terror.
"No—no, please!" Hoffman wheezed desperately. His eyes darted downward, his pupils shrinking as he took in the impossible height. "You don't have to do this! We can talk! I—I can give you anything you want!"
Asriel merely watched him as his lips curled into a slow, twisted smile. "Well, I suppose this is goodbye." He tilted his head slightly. "Oh, and when you reach the other side… be sure to send the others my regards."
Hoffman's throat convulsed as he struggled to swallow his fear. "O-other side?" he stammered. "B-but you said… you said there's no Hell!"
Asriel paused at that, as if considering the statement, his smirk widening into something more sinister. "Oh, you're not going to Hell." His grip loosened.
Hoffman barely had time to scream before Asriel let go.
The captain plummeted, his agonized shriek trailing through the air, growing fainter and fainter until—
A deafening, bone-shattering impact.
The town square cracked beneath the force of his landing, a grotesque splatter of red painting the streets in a macabre display. Silence gripped the air for a single, stunned moment before the townsfolk erupted into screams, scattering in every direction, horror etched onto their faces. But before the echoes of terror could fully settle, something darker stirred.
From the bloodied remains of what was once Hoffman, an inky blackness began to seep outward, slow and creeping, like spilled tar. The cobblestones groaned under its weight, the unnatural darkness stretching in all directions. Then, without warning, tendrils of barbed wire erupted from the abyss, twisting and coiling like hungry serpents. They latched onto the broken body, dragging it down, wrenching flesh and splintered bone into the void. The sound was grotesque—a sickening, wet pull as the last remnants of Hoffman were devoured by the abyss.
And then, nothing.
Where Hoffman had fallen, only the splattered stain of blood remained, the ground left cracked and bare, as though the man had never existed at all.
****
Asriel reappeared in a swirling wisp of blackened smoke, materializing between Laxus and Bran as he exhaled a long, satisfied breath, stretching his shoulders as though shaking off the remnants of an old ache. "Well, that's over and done with," he said.
"What did you do?" Bran's jaw tightened. "Where's Hoffman?"
Asriel smirked. "Do you really have to ask?"
Laxus, standing to the side, wasn't focused on the captain anymore. His gaze had settled on the blackened sword clutched in Asriel's hand, its darkened steel veined with streaks of ember-like fire that pulsed softly in the night.
His expression darkened with realization. "That's it, isn't it?" he murmured, drawing Asriel's attention. "I wasn't sure at first, but now there's no doubt. That's the Sword of Damocles."
At his words, a heavy silence fell over the guards. Even Frank took an uneasy step back, his grip tightening around his own weapon. Bran's eyes widened, flicking between Asriel and the sword as if trying to deny what he was seeing.
Asriel chuckled, the sound low and dark. "Leave it to you to know your fairy tales by heart," he said with mock admiration. "If only you'd spent as much time in actual books, you might've been a scholar instead of a brute."
Laxus scoffed, smirking despite the tension in the air. "Considering I was the former Ignis Visionary, I'd say I did just fine."
Bran, however, was no longer amused. His mind reeled at the implications; his gaze fixed on the blade as if staring at it long enough would make it disappear. "The Sword of Damocles…" he muttered. "The sword of vengeance." He then turned back to Asriel, rigid with disbelief. "How could you possibly wield its power? After what you did? After everything you've done?"
Asriel's smirk faded slightly, his eyes narrowing. "A man as smart as you should already know the answer to that." He lifted the sword, letting the fire-lined blade glisten in the moonlight.
"This weapon doesn't lend itself to just anyone with a grudge. It doesn't answer to petty vendettas or self-righteous delusions. A man as smart as you should know that if I wield this sword… it means the truth you hold so dear is a lie."
"Bollocks!" Bran snapped, his breath coming faster now.
"And yet, a man as smartas you knows otherwise." Asriel exhaled softly, his gaze never leaving Bran's. "You feel it, don't you? The cracks forming in your perfect little world. The questions you don't want to ask. The doubts gnawing at the back of your mind, unraveling everything you've built your life around."
He leaned in slightly, his eyes piercing. "The Clock Tower lied to you, Bran. They lied to all of us."
"Shut up," Bran growled, his teeth bared. "I don't care what lies you tell. You're a murderer then, just as you are now. You don't get to justify that." He straightened his bow, pulling the string taut. "I'm taking you in, Asriel. Put the sword down and come quietly."
An almost pitying smile curled at the corners of Asriel's lips. "You know, I swore I'd spill the blood of every last one of you Clock Tower bastards," he mused, his grip tightening around the sword's hilt.
"Every. Single. One." His words lowered into something colder. "But you're right about one thing. We were friends once, and for that… just this once, I'll give you the chance to walk away." He leveled his sword at Bran, his expression hard. "Turn around and leave."
Bran's hands trembled against the bowstring, but he didn't lower his weapon. "I'm afraid I can't do that," he said.
Asriel's expression darkened. "Very well then." He turned his gaze to Laxus, who had remained silent, lightning crackling at his fingertips. "What about you?" Asriel asked. "Will you choose to die by his side?"
Laxus slammed his fists together, sparks bursting around his gauntlets as he stepped forward. "Like hell I'd let you walk away."
Asriel shrugged, as if unsurprised. "So be it."
Bran loosed his arrow. Laxus lunged, his fist crackling with electricity. Asriel swung his sword, and in an instant, time seemed to slow as the three of them clashed.