In the quiet of his quarters, Kalem sat cross-legged on the stone floor, absentmindedly passing time. One moment his hands were empty, the next a sword appeared—sleek, curved, gleaming—then vanished as swiftly as it came. Another took its place: heavier, double-edged, spined along the back. That one disappeared too. The next was a straightblade of polished obsidian, its edge shimmering with faint runes.
Garrick entered just in time to see a wicked-looking falchion flicker out of sight. He stopped mid-step.
"You know spatial magic now?" he asked, brow raised.
"No," Kalem replied without looking up. "I built something similar. It's a bound space tied to my mana field. Holds only weapons. I got tired of dragging a crate."
Garrick leaned against the doorframe. "Do you have enough weapons?"
"'Enough' isn't the right word." Kalem finally looked up. "Overkill. That's more accurate."
Garrick chuckled, though uneasily. "You made a sword in the academy that could cleave through mythril and dragonbone as though it were rotted wood. You called that a 'normal prototype.' So tell me—what does overkill mean to you? Grand Treasures?"
Kalem's expression didn't change. "Not by comparison. My best stock? Most hover around a quarter of that class. But I've forged one—just one—that matches it."
Garrick stood up straighter, his humor gone. "Kalem… Grand Treasures are not weapons you compare things to. They're legends. They take generations to build. Whole kingdoms pour their breath, blood, and bones into one."
"I know."
"Some of them are walking fortresses, others are storms bound into crystal. They're not carried—they carry. And you say you made one alone?"
"I didn't say that. I said I have one. I didn't say I made it alone."
"You have one?"
Kalem gave a slight shrug. "We'll only know if it compares when we see a real Grand Treasure in action."
Before Garrick could protest further, the doors burst open and Elric stormed in, breathless, pale with sweat.
"Lord Kalem, please help us!"
Kalem blinked slowly. "I didn't know I was a lord."
"You might as well be!" Elric gasped. "A war-cult—no banners, no known allegiance—they've encircled the southern gate. They're demanding you, or they'll raze the outer district."
Garrick's eyes narrowed. "How do we know you're not using this to gain Kalem's favor?"
Elric threw up his hands in desperation. "Do you think I want to be associated with him? It's nothing but sleepless nights and ruined courtyards! I'm only asking because I don't have the forces to fight this kind of enemy!"
Kalem stood, calm and steady. "What kind of enemy?"
"They called themselves the Red Oath," Elric said. "A war-cult. Blood rituals. Fire worship. Their leader asked for you by name."
Southern Wall, Arsenic City's Edge
The southern gate stood still under the midmorning light, its old stone warmed by sun but shadowed by dread. Beyond the wall, a semi-circle of warriors waited—hundreds strong, their armor a patchwork of bone, metal, and dyed hides, arranged in brutal precision.
They did not speak. They did not chant. They simply stood, still as statues, their weapons gleaming dully in the wind.
At the front was a figure of dread—towering, thick-limbed, clad in rust-red scale. His helm was shaped like a wolf's skull, jaw agape. Heat shimmered faintly around him, as if the air itself recoiled from his presence.
He raised a hand as Kalem stepped out beyond the gate.
"You are the one they call Kalem," the man spoke, voice like stone grinding on stone.
Kalem said nothing.
"I am Vraj, Hound of the Red Oath. When you ended the Abyss, you starved us of our glory. You robbed us of the flame of death. For this, you shall burn."
Kalem tilted his head. "Did I?"
Vraj drew his halberd—longer than a man, etched with glyphs that pulsed like ember veins. "Kneel," he said, "or your soul shall be offered to the Great Maw."
Kalem exhaled, slow and even. "Theatrics were never my strength."
Mana surged around him—not as a blaze, but a pressure, like a tide rolling in. The ground trembled. Stones cracked beneath his feet.
"I am Kalem," he said, voice calm. "Lord of Armaments. Slayer of the Abyss. All who come to challenge me shall drown in their own blood."
Vraj grinned beneath his helm. "Attack!"
Kalem reached out calmly.
"Warhawk."
From the rippling air, a weapon materialized in his hand—a massive, single-edged blade with a wide, curved body and an axe-like edge near the hilt. The handle was long, wrapped in black leather, its guard like outstretched wings of iron.
Then Kalem moved.
The first clash was not heard—it was felt. Bones rattled in chests. Blood sprayed in an arc as Kalem's first stroke tore through three warriors in a single blow.
He accelerated—each step faster, each swing harder. He moved like a beast unchained, methodical yet relentless. Warhawk screamed through the air, cleaving shields, splitting armor, rending limbs.
Warcries turned into wails.
The Red Oath charged. Kalem answered them with steel.
They fell like wheat before a harvester. Some tried to flee; they were cut down. Some tried to encircle him; he leapt, twisted mid-air, and turned his blade into a guillotine.
By the time Garrick and Elric arrived at the walltop, breath stolen by the thunder of death, the battlefield had changed.
Kalem was nowhere to be seen.
Only red remained. Red on the grass, red on the stone, red in the air.
He had become invisible—not in magic, but in massacre. Shrouded by carnage, he stood hidden in plain sight beneath the curtain of flesh and ruin he'd made.
Garrick swallowed hard. "By the old gods…"
Elric said nothing. He had gone pale, trembling.
At last, from the center of the crimson field, Kalem stepped forward. Warhawk dripped thick red. His eyes held no fury, no wrath. Only stillness.
"It's done."
He passed them without another word.