General Marcus Valen had fought in thirty-seven campaigns.
He had broken sieges that lasted months.
He had crushed rebellions before they could spread.
He had watched kingdoms burn.
War was never clean.
It was never orderly.
But it was...
Understandable.
Men fought.
Men died.
The stronger commander prevailed.
There was comfort in that certainty.
There was logic.
There was order.
...
This...
Made no sense.
His army no longer resembled an army.
The disciplined ranks that had marched proudly into Crescent Moon Canyon had dissolved into isolated pockets of desperate survivors.
Signal banners were gone.
His battle mages...
Gone.
His supply train burned somewhere beyond the smoke.
Every command he shouted disappeared into the chaos before reaching another officer.
It was as though the canyon itself had turned against him.
No...
Not the canyon.
One man.
He searched the battlefield again.
Jax Darquebane still hadn't moved.
The young man stood atop a rise overlooking the slaughter, black coat swaying gently in the wind as though he were merely observing construction on one of his city projects instead of the destruction of an Imperial Legion.
He wasn't celebrating.
He wasn't smiling.
He was...
Waiting.
Waiting for something.
A cry erupted from the western flank.
Valen turned.
The black-armored knight.
The commander of the shadows.
He had expected a brute.
A monster that relied upon unnatural strength.
Instead...
The knight moved with impossible refinement.
An Imperial swordsman lunged.
The shadow met him with a slight turn of the shield.
Steel scraped harmlessly across polished black metal.
The knight's sword answered with a thrust so precise it slipped beneath the man's raised arm and pierced cleanly through his breastplate.
Before the body struck the ground, the shadow had already pivoted.
Another soldier.
Shield.
Parry.
A short slash across the throat.
Another.
A spear thrust.
The knight caught the shaft beneath his arm, twisted once, and sent its owner stumbling into three advancing Shadow Wolves.
He never wasted movement.
Every strike existed only because it needed to.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
"...Magnificent..."
The word escaped Valen before he realized he'd spoken aloud.
One of his captains stared.
"My General?"
Valen barely heard him.
The shadow commander wasn't fighting.
He was conducting.
His sword merely happened to be the baton.
Wherever he appeared...
The shadows reorganized.
Shield walls shifted.
Beasts changed direction.
Entire engagements transformed in moments.
He wasn't reacting to the battlefield.
He was shaping it.
Then...
The knight simply walked away.
Valen blinked.
The duel...
He abandoned it?
The surviving Imperial champion shouted after him, enraged.
The fool sprinted forward.
Trying to force the fight to continue.
The shadow never acknowledged him.
Instead, he reached another pocket of fighting where dozens of Imperial soldiers threatened to overwhelm a cluster of wolves.
One raised sword.
One silent gesture.
Immediately the surrounding shadows altered formation.
They flowed around him as though they shared one mind.
Within seconds...
The Imperial advance collapsed.
Only then...
Several minutes later...
Did the pursuing knight finally catch him.
By then...
The man could barely lift his shield.
His breathing came in ragged gasps.
Sweat poured beneath his helmet.
The shadow looked exactly as he had before.
Perfect posture.
Perfect balance.
No fatigue.
No hesitation.
Their duel resumed.
It ended three exchanges later.
The Imperial champion fell to one knee.
Then another.
His sword slipped from trembling fingers.
The shadow commander caught it before it struck the ground.
Examined it.
Then quietly drove his own blade through the man's chest.
Valen felt his stomach tighten.
How...
How do you defeat an enemy...
That never tires?
A deafening roar shattered the thought.
Every soldier froze.
The dragon.
It wasn't attacking.
Not yet.
It simply hovered.
Its enormous wings beat slowly above the battlefield.
Ash drifted lazily from its jaws.
That alone was enough.
Entire companies abandoned open ground.
Some fled beneath rocky overhangs.
Others pressed themselves against the canyon walls.
One officer screamed for them to return to formation.
No one listened.
Every eye remained fixed upon the dragon overhead.
Waiting.
Wondering if they would be next.
The beast never descended.
It didn't need to.
Its presence had already accomplished more than another pass of fire ever could.
Fear had become another weapon in Darquebane's arsenal.
"My General!"
Valen turned sharply.
A lieutenant stumbled toward him.
His armor was scratched.
Little more.
"I've found them!" the young officer shouted.
"The serpent! We can—"
He stopped walking.
His sword slipped from numb fingers.
"What..."
His knees buckled.
He reached toward Valen as though asking for help.
"My..."
The word never finished.
His body collapsed face-first into the dirt.
No blood.
No dramatic wound.
Only a shallow scratch across one gauntlet.
Valen stared.
"...Poison..."
He looked across the battlefield.
How many?
How many more had simply...
Stopped?
Then...
Something changed.
The shadows weren't advancing anymore.
Instead...
They were pulling back.
Not retreating.
Making space.
Valen frowned.
Why?
His answer came seconds later.
Jax Darquebane moved.
For the first time since the battle began...
The man stepped forward.
Two pistols appeared in his hands.
Strange weapons.
Black.
Elegant.
Runes shimmered along their length before glowing with brilliant blue light.
"What in the..."
The first report echoed through the canyon.
It wasn't thunder.
Nor was it the crack of a bow.
It sounded...
Like condensed magic tearing the air apart.
An officer beside Valen simply...
Fell.
The side of his helmet vanished.
Before anyone reacted—
Another shot.
Another body.
Then...
Jax moved.
Not charged.
Moved.
One graceful step.
A slow turn.
His coat flared outward as though joining the dance.
Another shot.
Another death.
He spun through a knot of soldiers with impossible elegance, each pivot placing another Imperial directly before one of the glowing pistols.
No wasted motion.
No frantic haste.
Only rhythm.
One shot.
One corpse.
Another step.
Another turn.
Another body.
The battlefield seemed unable to touch him.
Blades swung through empty air where he had stood a heartbeat before.
He flowed between attacks as though hearing music no one else could.
His boots barely disturbed the dust.
The reports of the pistols became the percussion.
His movements...
The melody.
Wherever he danced...
Men died.
Valen had witnessed master duelists.
Master archers.
Master mages.
Nothing resembled this.
It wasn't fighting.
It was...
Performance.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
Terrifying.
Entire platoons rushed him together.
Moments later...
Only Jax remained standing.
Bodies formed circles around him, every fallen soldier struck exactly once.
No second shots.
No hesitation.
Just perfection.
Valen's pulse hammered against his ribs.
Nearly six thousand soldiers...
Gone.
His legion had entered the canyon ten thousand strong.
Now barely four thousand remained.
And the man responsible had only just begun to fight.
Jax finally stopped.
The glowing pistols lowered.
His eyes met Valen's across the battlefield.
Calm.
Almost sympathetic.
His voice carried effortlessly through the canyon.
"When you try to take more than you're capable of..."
"...you owe the difference."
Valen could not answer.
Jax slowly holstered the strange weapons.
"I'm the Debt Collector."
The words hung in the air.
Every surviving soldier heard them.
A heartbeat passed.
Jax took one final step forward.
"And the bill..."
His gaze never left the General.
"...is due."