Chapter 55
Earlier that time, long before Vanthelis and Cronus began their brutal duel in the town square, Ishlar had watched from the shadows as ghouls swarmed through the harbor. Their claws tore through wood and flesh alike, leaving behind blood-slicked cobblestone and guttural screams that rang into the night. His crimson eyes gleamed beneath his hood as he gripped his runeblade.
He didn't hesitate. His boots struck the bloodied ground with purpose. Any pirate still screaming was silenced by frost and steel, his blade cutting through them like paper. He moved toward the far port, where the eerie glow of holy light flickered like a stubborn candle in the dark.
A figure stood there—tall, elegant, adorned in a robe of shimmering gold. He was flanked by two warriors in plain cloaks, yet their bearing spoke of deadly skill.
Ishlar narrowed his eyes.
"What are they doing here... a priest?"
His voice was low, laced with suspicion. But the sight of the man's staff and the holy crest upon his robe left no doubt.
"A priest of the Holy Church..." Ishlar muttered. Frostmourne glowed in his hand. He gave it a slight spin, then pointed the blade toward the priest. "Time to see what this bitches can do against me in this body."
He stepped forward, boots clancking with his metal boots that he is wearing. The priest noticed him and gave a subtle nod to the two cloaked men beside him.
The air changed.
The templars threw off their cloaks. Twin daggers gleamed in their hands—silver-bladed, curved slightly like fangs. They didn't speak. They simply moved.
Fast.
Ishlar barely stepped aside as the first blade zipped past his cheek. He parried the second templar's strike with the flat of his sword, then spun and ducked, using his smaller frame to avoid being boxed in. He grinned.
"So you want to dance."
The templars circled like wolves. One feinted, the other struck low—only to find his dagger caught in the jagged runes of Frostmourne. Ishlar twisted it, sending the templar stumbling. The second came in for a backstab, but Ishlar turned with ghostly speed, slamming the hilt of his sword into his attacker's gut.
He felt their power. These weren't simple guards. They were trained killers—fast, silent, coordinated. But they weren't monsters.
He was.
The first templar recovered, slicing across Ishlar's forearm. Blood sprayed, but the wound froze almost instantly. Ishlar answered with a kick to the chest, sending the man sprawling into crates. He turned to face the second, who managed to nick his shoulder.
Ishlar hissed and retaliated with a wide arc of Frostmourne, the blade shimmering with necrotic power. The templar blocked with crossed daggers, but the force sent him skidding backward. Ice cracked along the ground beneath his feet.
Then the priest raised his staff.
"Blessed Light! Purify the heretic!"
A radiant beam of golden energy shot toward Ishlar. It struck him dead center—and did little more than scorch his cloak. Ishlar turned toward the priest with a tilt of his head.
"That tickled."
The priest gasped. Another chant, this time a burst of sacred fire erupted beneath Ishlar's feet. He walked through it, unimpressed.
"I'm impressed. But you think that kills me?"
The templars, shaken by the ineffectiveness of the priest's spells, doubled down. They charged together this time. One went high, slashing toward his neck. The other ducked low, aiming to hamstring him.
Ishlar jumped, flipping between them mid-air. He twisted as he landed, slashing backward with Frostmourne. The high templar blocked, but his blade shattered under the force. The low one got nicked—just enough for necrotic frost to eat into his thigh.
He screamed.
Ishlar didn't stop. He spun the sword, switching grip, and slammed the flat of the blade against the wounded templar's head. The man went down hard. The other, enraged, tried a desperate flurry—but Ishlar caught both his wrists with unnatural strength.
"You're fast," he said, his voice cold, "but not fast enough."
He brought his forehead crashing into the templar's nose, then drove his knee into the man's gut. As the templar fell, Ishlar reversed his blade and drove it through his back.
The silence after was only broken by the ragged breathing of the last templar, still conscious but groaning.
The priest stepped back, trembling.
"P-please... I-I surrender! I did nothing! I'm just here to buy something!"
Ishlar walked toward him slowly.
"You just let your warriors attacked me and you said that you wanted to buy something?." Ishlar asked in sarcasm, he knows the priest attack him because of his hostility but he still eant to provoke this priest.
"I was just protecting myself! I swear, I didn't want—"
A punch to the gut silenced the priest. He crumpled to his knees. Ishlar tied his hands with a spare chain and slung him over his shoulder.
"You'll explain yourself to my master."
As he turned to return, blood dripping from his coat and Frostmourne humming with latent energy, he felt something.
A tremor.
He looked to the sky above the town square—and saw it. Vanthelis. Cornered. Blood dripping from his side.
And Cronus, grinning like a demon with his axe in hand.
Time snapped back into focus. Ishlar's heart surged.
He ran.
Toward the square. Toward his master. Toward vengeance.
And the priest, bound and slumped over his shoulder, whispered through bloodied lips:
"Necromancer's, undead… all of you…"