Chapter 656: How cool, fun
Strax walked slowly through the ruined city, his hands in his pockets, his golden gaze taking in every detail amidst the ashes and shadows. The wind carried the smell of smoke and burnt iron, mixed with the sweet odor of death that still permeated the streets.
His footsteps were quiet, but each one resonated as if it weighed more than the ground itself.
“Hm…” he murmured to himself, lifting his chin slightly. “It was good I waited.”
His thoughts flitted between recent images. The old blacksmith Kaelen, his gray eyes filled with sin and penance. The wild mother with the axe, dragging bears as if they were slaughtered rabbits. Both strong, brutish, shaped by suffering in different ways.
Strax smirked.
“Two humans… and yet, interesting.” His eyes gleamed in the darkness of the street. “If I can sharpen these two like blades… maybe even this dead place will breathe again.”
He walked on, his black hair with its reddish tips swaying in the wind. The burned-out houses watched him silently, like skulls of wood and stone. Behind them, echoes of ancient screams seemed to still vibrate.
But then, something changed.
The air, previously heavy and still, shivered. Not like wind—but like a whisper piercing the skin. The ground beneath his feet vibrated for a moment, so subtle that any normal human wouldn’t have noticed. But Strax felt it.
He stopped in the middle of the street.
His golden eyes narrowed, intent.
“…Interesting,” he murmured.
The broken streets still echoed with the eerie silence when that deep sound spread again. At first, it was just a low rumble, like distant thunder. But soon it began to grow, to gain substance, to become a steady rumble.
Strax stopped in the middle of the street, the wind blowing ash into his face. He lifted his head and smiled slightly, his golden eyes sparkling.
“Hm…” he murmured, almost amused. “It seems the night still holds surprises.”
The sound became noise. The noise became a tremor.
The ground shook beneath their feet, vibrating like a war drum. Rhythmic rumbles approached, each louder than the last, as if something immense were racing toward the ruined city.
Then they appeared.
From the surrounding hills, silhouettes leaped, swift as lightning, heavy as rocks. Huge tigers, with striped fur and long fangs, advanced in formation, each carrying an armed warrior on its back. The beasts’ roars mingled with the clang of spears, swords, and chains.
Strax raised an eyebrow in surprise, but didn’t flinch.
“Tigers…” he commented, almost laughing. “Humans riding tigers… What a curious sight.”
They surged through the streets of the burning city like a tidal wave. The ruined houses shuddered under the weight of their feline paws, and their roars echoed like thunder among the rubble.
Strax, instead of fleeing or hiding, simply walked. Slowly, calmly, as if he were taking a stroll. The tigers’ vibrations didn’t shake his steps.
He headed back to the city center, where the bar where he had saved the little girl had once stood, not far from Kaelen’s forge. The sound of destruction behind him didn’t urge him—on the contrary, it only made his smile widen.
When he arrived, he found the scene.
In the middle of the destroyed square, the woman from before—the girl’s mother—stood. Her daughter clung to her waist, her eyes wide with fear. Beside her, Kaelen had emerged from the forge, hammer still in hand, his gray eyes narrowed, surveying the chaos.
And then the leader arrived.
A tiger larger than the others, with muscles like tree trunks and fangs that gleamed like ivory blades. Atop it, a muscular man, his bare torso covered in tribal tattoos, descended slowly. His presence imposed an immediate silence; even the tigers stopped roaring.
He walked toward the woman with heavy steps, his bone armor creaking. And then, unexpectedly, he knelt before her.
He lowered his head, his spear resting on the ground, and spoke in a clear, firm voice, like an oath:
“Your Majesty.” His voice rumbled like thunder itself. “The Monarch wishes you to return to the throne.”
The silence fell like a blade.
Strax blinked once, his smile widening. His golden eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Your Majesty…?” he repeated in a whisper, almost to himself. The low chuckle that escaped his throat sounded more like a suppressed roar. “Hahaha… A rare jewel!”
The woman, however, didn’t smile. Her eyes burned with ancient hatred, and her voice came out like steel breaking bones:
“Kill yourself.”
The kneeling man looked up in surprise.
She stepped forward, bringing the axe to her hands. The weight of the iron rang like thunder as she brought it down. Her eyes were ablaze as she stared at the messenger.
“I’m not going back to that worm. Not even if Hell freezes over and the Heavens burn.”
A murmur ran through the mounted warriors. The tigers growled low, impatiently.
The muscular man stood. His shadow fell over the woman and her daughter. The respect in his posture was gone; in its place, only hardness and coldness remained.
He raised his spear and pointed the tip at her neck. His voice was now as sharp as ice.
“Then you will be treated as a traitor.”
His shout echoed, causing the tigers to roar in unison.
“Kill them all!”
And chaos erupted.
The mounted warriors advanced like a living wave. Blades raised, spears ready, tigers leaping, claws gleaming in the flamelight. The square became an instant battlefield.
The woman pushed her daughter back, roaring like a beast:
“Stay behind me!”
The leader’s scream faded into the air as if someone had pressed a button—and then, at the same instant his orders spread, the entire square exploded in silent horror.
First, a warrior fell as if pulled by invisible strings; there was no dramatic fall, just a silence cut by a sharp crack. Another recoiled, as if burned from within, and nearly fainted. Then another, and another—human chains of bodies that simply fell, without a scream, without a fight. Some fell apart so quickly that the tigers’ fur didn’t even fly; others collapsed as if the life had been sucked from them. The scene made the tigers retreat, their roars turning into howls of confusion and fear.
No one knew what was happening. The mounted men stopped, lost; their spears trembled in their hands; eyes—human and bestial—widened, fixed on nothingness and then turned, terrified, to the source of that power.
In the center of the chaos, behind the warrior who had bowed—the messenger, the tattooed man who had engineered the attack—Strax appeared. He didn’t come running, he didn’t burst into fury; he appeared with the calm of someone entering a room they’ve already chosen. He stood behind him, his smile widening in the predatory way that made any marauder’s guts quiver.
The head Strax held hung limply between his fingers, the man’s eyes staring blankly. The gesture was simple: Strax took the head, raised it to the height of his opponent’s chest, and smiled, as if enjoying a reading. Blood didn’t flow in rivers; this wasn’t a spectacle gratuit. It was surgical intimidation.
“Hello.” Strax’s voice was low, the final syllable drawn out as if savoring consonants. “Tell me more about… this Monarch.”
The square froze. Even the tigers stopped their howling.
The leader, who only a moment before had been imposing orders and certainty, now took a step back, his spear trembling in his hands. His warriors glanced at each other, searching for a line of command that had vanished with the golden man’s presence.
Strax jerked his head, pointing at the enormous tiger that still trembled on its front paws like a fallen giant. “Or I’ll shove your head up that guy’s ass.” He jerked his chin at the tiger, and the image was as absurd as it was cruel; the whispered laugh that escaped him reverberated like a threat. “Your choice: I speak with class, or I’m rude.”