"So," Kalem asked calmly, wiping a smear of blood from his glove, "how was it?"
Elric didn't answer.
He stood stiff as a statue, face pale and lips parted slightly. Not a word escaped him—just the haunted stare of a man who had seen something that shattered his idea of reality.
Kalem raised an eyebrow. "What happened to him?"
"He watched a single man do the work of an army," Garrick replied, arms folded. "He's in shock. The man likely thought your reputation was half-exaggerated. Now he's realizing it was an understatement."
Kalem sighed. "I kept the damage contained. Didn't even touch the outer wall."
Garrick smirked grimly. "Yes, you only butchered a war-cult down to its bones and painted the plains red with their innards."
There was a pause before Garrick continued more solemnly, "That wasn't just slaughter, Kalem. That was warfare. You've just shown the world you possess the qualifications of a Lord of War. One or two more feats like this, and your name will be etched among them officially."
Kalem narrowed his eyes. "I sensed watchers."
"How many?"
"Twenty," Kalem said. "Scattered along the treeline, rooftops, ridges. Some cloaked in illusion, some using magical familiars. All gone before the end."
"Spies," Garrick muttered. "Scouts from interested powers. It begins."
Beyond Arsenic:
The observers fled, each making their way back across lands and waters, to castles, caverns, academies, and towers. And as they returned, ripples began to spread—each ripple distorting the quiet surface of the world's delicate balance.
In the heart of the Silvermarch Dominion, the royal court gathered around the famed Golden Table, a circle of polished amberwood embedded with ancient runes that shimmered when power shifted in the world.
A cloaked emissary knelt before Queen Seleria, whose silver eyes burned brighter than her circlet.
"He killed over two hundred trained zealots in less than four minutes," the scout whispered. "The one called Kalem."
"And he lived?" Seleria asked coldly.
The scout nodded.
She rose. "Send word to the Circle of Swords. Tell them the Sleeping Flame has opened his eyes."
Far beneath the volcanic valleys of Vroth-Dur, the Black Bell Conclave—a coven of death-mages and soul-binders—received their own report. A malformed bird of bone and ash delivered the message, unraveling into letters midair.
The Archbindress hissed as she read the parchment.
"The Lord of Armaments…" she said softly. "The one who silenced the Abyss now walks beneath the sun. Vraj of the Red Oath is dust, and his cult shattered."
One of her apprentices licked his lips. "Shall we curse him?"
"Curse him?" the Archbindress cackled. "No. We watch. We learn. We wait for when his iron hand tires."
A warband thundered across the wide steppe, led by a woman in storm-blue armor, her braid woven with silver beads. Her scouts returned, faces solemn.
She read their words, then clenched her jaw.
"So," she muttered, "a man who forges swords with enough strength to rival a Grand Treasure has shown his teeth."
"Shall we challenge him, Chieftain?"
The chieftain grinned. "Not yet. But tell the smiths to prepare the Spirit-Forged. If this Lord of Armaments marches east, I want him tested on steel born of storms."
Within a shadowed garden lit by green lanterns, a gathering of masked figures sat in silence. Their leader, known only as Mistress Yun, held a thin scroll between her fingers.
"The Armament Lord has claimed his first battlefield," she whispered. "Effortless. Elegant in brutality."
A younger operative shifted. "He could be useful, mistress."
"Or he could be dangerous. Men like him either build kingdoms… or burn them down."
She folded the scroll. "Send an emissary. Offer an audience, not an alliance. We shall see if the Abyss-killer still possesses mercy."
In a frozen keep carved into the side of a mountain, the Pale Tribunal read the news in silence. No fire burned in their hall. Only cold and judgment.
The elder among them, known as White Judge, set the missive down with a sigh.
"So it begins."
"Should we bring him into the fold?" asked the Iron Warden.
"No," said the White Judge. "We watch from afar. If he seeks order, he will come. If he sows chaos, we will come to him."
Elsewhere, the people began to speak. Minstrels changed verses. Merchants whispered new names. Thieves began to cross roads more carefully.
The Abyss Slayer.
The Black Armored One.
The Lord of Armaments.
Children began reenacting sword strokes with wooden sticks. Smiths dared dream of sending samples to him. Nobles argued in private—whether to court him, fear him, or kill him.
Back in Arsenic – Garrison Keep
"I wonder where they went," Kalem said quietly.
Garrick looked out the narrow window toward the southern horizon. "They went to talk. And now, the world listens."
Kalem looked over at Elric, who still sat wordlessly in the corner, sipping tea as though it were the only thing holding his spirit together.
"Do you think I overdid it?" Kalem asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lip.
Garrick gave him a side glance. "You painted a field with enough blood to write an epic. But no, I'd say you did exactly what they deserved."
"Then let them come," Kalem muttered. "Let them watch. Let them test."
"Careful," Garrick said, folding his arms. "You may just get what you wish for."
Kalem leaned back, eyes closing briefly. "I'm counting on it."