Silas's demeaning laughter crackled, filling every corner of the cave hall.
"Orphan."
The sentence bounced off the limestone walls, striking the eardrums. The sound of dripping water from the stalactites seemingly stopped.
Luka stood petrified. His jaw muscles hardened. His molars ground roughly. His left shoulder, recently reattached by force, throbbed in pain. Heat crawled, tearing the nerves. He ignored the agony. His black eye swept the surroundings.
The blue light from the phosphor moss illuminated this massive room. At the end of the tunnel, two curved daggers pressed against a woman's neck.
Rhea.
The maid stood flanked by two assassins. The cold metal tips touched the pale skin of her neck. Yet her posture was straight and perpendicular. Her gray wool dress was folded neatly. No wounds. No blood. Her face was flat. Her gray eyes stared straight toward the throne, refusing to bow to the knife threat. She survived.
Luka swallowed copper-scented saliva. A fraction of the weight on his chest lifted.
His focus returned forward.
The throne of piled rusted weapons. Silas sat cross-legged. The syndicate leader's gaunt body radiated cold air. His arms elongated defective mimicking the shape of crow limbs. His black nails kept tapping the metal backrest.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A constant focus-breaking rhythm.
"You infiltrate my nest." Silas tilted his pale head. "Kill my guard dogs. And you stand there, trembling, expecting treatment fit for a king?"
Luka did not answer. His left hand lowered. His fingers relaxed the muscles, preparing to snatch the nearest weapon.
"We come not to beg."
Rhea's voice cut the cave's echo. Calm. Cold. Cleaving the suffocating air. The two assassins beside her pressed their daggers deeper, producing a thin red line on the maid's neck. Rhea did not blink.
Silas turned his head. Staring at the woman.
"Prince Luka offers a high bid," Rhea continued. Her voice set to a constant frequency. "Cooperation. The Hollow Syndicate will no longer need to hide inside this wet mountain like rats. You will become Shadow Knights. The official shadow forces of the Eisenhart Kingdom."
The room fell silent. The assassins hiding behind stalagmites held their breaths. Official titles. Pardon for sins. That was a ticket out of poverty and Oesteria's cold.
Silas stopped his finger tapping.
The defective man looked down. His shoulders trembled.
Then, laughter broke.
Loud. Hoarse. The sound of blunt metal scraped by force against stone. Silas looked up. His mouth opened wide displaying rows of filthy teeth.
"Shadow Knights?" Silas repeated the word with a tone of disgust. "The official forces of the Eisenhart Kingdom?"
The syndicate leader stood. His lanky body dominated the throne. His long arm limbs swung at his sides.
"Let me tell you a secret, Maid." Silas pointed straight at Luka. "The Eisenhart Kingdom is dead. Rotted from the inside long before Ulric took over."
"The grand King Reinhardt?" Silas spat onto the floor. "He was a weak coward. He let this continent starve while he drank wine on a marble chair. When Ulric came bringing the executioner's sword, know what your king did? He knelt. He cried begging for mercy."
A rusted nail hammered into Luka's skull.
Father.
The memory exploded. The shadow of the gold crown falling rolling. Blood puddles soaking the palace floor. The severed neck. The flashes shattered the remaining patience in his head.
"Reinhardt was a failed product." Silas's voice grew louder. "And this?" Silas stared at Luka. "A boy with a stitched head? He is no throne heir. He is a walking carcass."
The throb on Luka's temples tensed. Memory fragments of blood and marble floors struck the base of his brain.
"Ulric pays me with a castle and warm border territories," Silas continued slow, staring at Luka as if staring at a pile of meat. "I only need to send him your stitched head."
To Luka's right, an assassin dropped his guard for a moment.
Luka moved. Pure muscle explosion. His left hand shot out, snatching the iron sword from the man's sheath, then slamming its hilt into the assassin's jaw until the jaw shifted broken.
"My Lord, don't!" Rhea screamed from the end of the room. The maid discarded her calm. She tried thrashing forward.
Crash.
A giant figure stepped out from the darkness. Vance. The man with the shark jaw gripped Rhea's shoulder. His massive hand pressed the maid against the limestone wall. Pinning her firm. Three rows of serrated teeth grinned staring at prey.
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Luka ignored the scream.
His boots kicked the floor. Mossy water splashed. He shot forward, piercing the massive hall straight toward the throne. The snatched sword in his left hand pulled back. The dull iron hissed, cutting through the air. Hot steam spewed from his mouth.
"Die," Luka growled. The voice of a feral beast.
Silas did not shift. The man merely stood before the throne, staring at Luka's arrival with a flat face.
Luka jumped, utilizing the first stone step below the throne and swinging his sword horizontally, aiming for the syndicate leader's pale neck.
A massive shadow charged from the side.
A giant body cut the trajectory, crashing into the empty space between Luka and Silas.
Crack.
The sound of a breaking neck bone echoed sickeningly.
Luka stood petrified for a moment.
Brog.
The corpse he had just left in the tunnel. The stocky man stood back up. His broken neck hung bent, twisted in the wrong direction. Yet, thick red veins crawled beneath his skin. Abnormal regeneration. Pulling his spine by force. Reattaching it with a loud cracking sound.
Soul Energy refused the pawn's death.
Brog stared at Luka. His eyes whited out lacking pupils. His right hand mutated into a giant bone axe raised high.
The bone blade swung down.
Clang!
Iron met bone. A hard impact deafened the ears. Sparks ignited bright amidst the blue phosphor light. Brutal vibrations crawled ruining the nerves of Luka's left hand.
His attack halted dead.
Luka ground his teeth. Numbness ruined his left wrist. The snatched sword trembled hard.
"You cannot kill me twice, Rat." Brog's voice slit, mixed with thick blood pooling in his throat.
The stocky man pressed his bone axe forward. Pushing Luka. The giant body's weight far exceeded the remaining strength of Luka's left arm.
Luka slipped. His boots lost traction on the mossy stone. He pushed backward, falling rolling onto the hall floor.
Brog granted no pause. The man stepped heavy. The floor vibrated. The bone axe in his right hand raised perpendicular again pointing at the stalactite ceiling. Preparing to cleave Luka's body in two.
"My right hand..." Luka muttered.
His gut twisted responding to the mortal threat. Lacking knightly mercy, only survival instinct demanding blood. He could not win with just one exhausted left hand.
Luka lay on the filthy water puddle. He stared at the bone axe sliding down.
His right hand wrapped in gauze moved.
The scaled red muscles beneath the cloth throbbed wildly. Heat flared, and the white gauze surrounding his arm burned to ash in seconds, scattering as black dust.
His monster form was exposed. A thick red arm, covered in rough scales resembling cracked asphalt. Its muscles coiled tightly, storing the explosive power from the Amalgam's heart he had digested.
Brog's bone axe struck Luka's chest.
Luka raised his right arm horizontally, parrying the lethal attack with a bare hand.
CRACK!
Not the sound of cut flesh. Not the sound of crushed human bone.
It was the sound of Brog's bone axe striking a steel pillar. The giant axe's destructive force stopped totally right upon Luka's mutated wrist. The reddish scales were not scratched a fraction. Impact resistant. Absorbing the entire kinetic energy without letting a single millimeter of the bone blade pierce the skin.
Brog's whitened eyes stared in horror.
The assassin's blunt brain failed to process reality. His flagship weapon from Soul Energy manifestation halted by a bare hand.
Luka's teeth ground. The scent of blood stung his nose.
Luka's right hand twisted. His thick scaled fingers gripped the bone axe blade. Locking Brog's weapon.
"Defective prince?" Luka repeated Brog's insult. His voice extremely low. Humming from his chest cavity.
He crushed the bone axe blade.
The giant bone in Brog's hand began to crack. The calcium tissues screamed enduring the crushing pressure of Luka's mutated hand.
Luka yanked the axe hard downward.
Brog lost balance. His massive body pulled falling forward. The stocky man's face slid striking Luka's left knee bent fast welcoming him.
Crash.
Brog's nose shattered. Cartilage caved into the skull. Blood spurted dirtying Luka's knee.
Luka kicked Brog's chest. Pushing the giant body launching backward. The grip on the bone axe unreleased. The opposing pull triggered fatal damage.
Brog's right arm tore from the shoulder base.
Fresh blood exploded. Soaking the phosphor air. The severed arm mutated into an axe now rested entirely in Luka's hand.
Brog fell kneeling. The stocky man stared at his empty right shoulder. A piercing roar of agony ruined the eardrums.
Luka stood up. His breaths hunted. His bare right arm billowed hot steam smelling of rust. He discarded Brog's severed arm into the water puddle. His right hand now shifted gripping the snatched iron sword. Cold metal met hot scales.
He stepped forward. Devoid of elegant techniques. Only one swing full of wrath.
The iron sword cleaved Brog's neck. Severed total. The stocky head rolled striking the leg of Silas's throne. The headless corpse collapsed, spilling blood all over the floor.
The massive hall froze silent.
The assassins held their breaths. They witnessed their comrade's death. Raw brutality. That scaled red arm proved the status of the apex predator in this room.
Silas stared at Brog's corpse. His black nails stopped tapping the metal backrest.
Luka looked up. His eyes locked onto Silas. The blood-smeared sword tip pointed straight toward the syndicate leader.
"Step down from that chair." Luka spat. Filthy blood fell to the stone. "Or I will chop your legs."
Silas fell silent. His pale eyes sharpened.
The defective man stood straight. His long arm limbs pulled forward. His long leather cloak swept aside.
Extremely dense Soul Energy exploded from Silas's body. Pressing the air in the entire room. The cave walls vibrated. The sound of giant flapping wings echoed ruining hearing, though no bird was there. The stench of carcass invaded the smell.
"Wild dogs like you." Silas drew a longsword from behind his coat. Pitch-black metal. "Need to be taught the proper way to die."
Silas bent his crow legs. Jumping from the throne. Shooting straight toward Luka.
The battle for the shadow throne began.