The silence that loomed over the headquarters was as terrifying as the screams of death that would follow.
Heavy breaths pierced through the stone ceiling of the "Black Moon" base. At the southern entrance stood the usual guards: four warriors heavily armed, their eyes scanning the branching rooms, and their bodies sculpted by a thousand battles.
But they didn't notice the wind.
The wind that came suddenly, with no prelude, not even a whisper. It carried the scent of burning iron and embodied savagery. Then... the first one fell.
"What?!" the second shouted, but the sword that sliced his jaw from the side didn't wait for an answer.
Irkalos had entered.
His bare eyes, glowing with a red gleam like cracks in hell itself, fixed on the third. He wasn't as massive as the others, but his face carried a trace of pride a mocking smile erased before it had the chance to grow, for his body had already been cleaved in half before he could comprehend who his enemy was.
