SSS- Rank Awakening: Soul Devourer

The Gray-Ash Plains were a desolate, windswept wasteland. A scar of a forgotten magical war. The ground was a uniform, depressing grey. A mixture of fine, volcanic ash and pulverized stone. Nothing grew here. Only a few, skeletal, petrified trees. They clawed at a sky of perpetual, overcast gloom. A dead, empty place. The perfect, secret highway for a convoy carrying a world-ending plague.

Asylum, their colossal fortress-golem, moved through this desolate landscape like a silent, walking mountain. Its massive footfalls were muffled by the thick layer of ash. They were a ghost in a graveyard. Their presence a secret kept by the mournful, howling wind.

Their mission was a race against the cold, unforgiving clock. Selene's intelligence was precise. The caravan was moving at a steady pace. It would reach the outskirts of Silverstream by dawn. They had one night. One chance to intercept it. To stop the apocalypse before it could begin.

The plan was a high-risk, high-speed ambush. Asylum could not engage the caravan directly. It was too slow. Too conspicuous. The operation would be carried out by a small, elite, and utterly lethal assault team.

Edward stood on a specially constructed deployment platform. It extended from Asylum's chest. The cold, ash-filled wind whipped at his dark clothes. Beside him stood his chosen warriors. Fenris, her hand on the haft of her massive axe, a low, eager growl rumbling in her chest. Selene and Kira, moving as a single, silent unit of coiled, predatory grace. And a dozen of the finest, fastest, and most bloodthirsty beast-kin hunters. They were his spearhead. His scalpel. His instrument of righteous, bloody intervention.

"Intel is updated," Selene's voice was a crisp, professional hum in his ear. Transmitted through a Syndicate-made communication device. "The caravan is five miles ahead. They have outriders. Pairs of scouts on fast, lean-bodied riding lizards. Sweeping a half-mile perimeter."

"We deal with the outriders first," Edward commanded. His own voice was a low, calm counterpoint to the howling wind. "No alarms. No witnesses. Kira, you're with me. We take the northern flank. Selene, Fenris, you take the south. Silent takedowns only."

They moved. They were phantoms. Detaching themselves from Asylum and melting into the grey, desolate landscape. Edward and Kira moved with a speed that was a blur. Their feet made no sound. They were two predators, a wolf and a leopard, on a moonless hunt.

They found their first pair of outriders. The two Valerius knights were laughing. Sharing a flask. Their vigilance dulled by the sheer, monotonous emptiness. They never saw what hit them.

Kira was a whisper of motion. Her twin daggers flashed once, twice. A silent, deadly ballet. One knight slumped from his saddle. A single, perfectly placed blade in the back of his neck.

Edward was even faster. He moved in the second knight's blind spot. His hand clamped over the man's mouth. His other arm wrapped around his neck. A brutal, efficient chokehold that snapped his neck with a single, sharp twist. Two silent deaths in less than three seconds.

They repeated the process. A deadly, silent reaping. Clearing the caravan's path of its eyes and ears. The main body of the convoy was now blind.

They regrouped on a high, rocky outcrop. It overlooked the caravan's path. Below them, a line of six massive, heavily armored wagons rumbled through the desolation. Fifty elite knights marched alongside them. A moving fortress of black steel and grim, professional purpose.

"The Plague Spores will be in the lead wagon," Selene murmured. Her eyes narrowed. She studied the formation through a pair of high-powered, arcane binoculars. "And your old friend is riding on top of it."

Edward saw him. Chris. He was perched on the driver's seat like a king on a throne. His new, sinister arm-brace was a dark, metallic contrast to the caravan's functional steel.

"The ambush point is half a mile ahead," Edward stated. His voice was a low, cold hum of command. "A narrow canyon. A natural chokepoint. They'll be forced to slow down and tighten their formation. That's where we hit them."

They moved into position. The canyon was a jagged, ugly scar in the landscape. Just wide enough for two wagons to pass. A perfect kill box.

As the caravan rumbled into the canyon, the world exploded.

Edward gave the signal. Selene's hidden operatives triggered a series of powerful, alchemical explosives. The blasts were not designed to be lethal. They were concussive. Disorienting. The walls of the canyon at the front and the rear of the convoy collapsed. A thunderous avalanche of rock and ash. Sealing the caravan in. They were trapped.

And then, The Unchained descended.

From the cliffs above, a dozen beast-kin hunters, with Fenris at their head, leaped down into the trapped convoy. Their savage war cries were a terrifying, primal chorus.

The battle was a chaotic, brutal, and utterly one-sided affair. The Valerius knights were disoriented. Trapped. Ambushed. The Unchained were a force of pure, savage, and righteous fury.

The battle was fought on the narrow, claustrophobic space between the massive wagons. Fenris was a whirlwind of destruction. Her axe a blur as she carved a path through the knights. The other beast-kin fought with a desperate, animalistic ferocity. Their claws and fangs tore through the knights' disciplined shield-wall.

While the main battle raged, a smaller, more focused conflict was taking place. Edward, Selene, and Kira ignored the main melee. Their target was the lead wagon. They moved along the tops of the wagons. A high-speed, deadly game of hopscotch. A fluid, coordinated dance.

Knights on the wagon-tops tried to stop them. They were swatted aside like insects. Kira was a blur of acrobatic kicks and dagger strikes. Selene was a ghost. Her blades found the gaps in their armor with a silent, final precision.

Edward was a storm. He moved with a cold, relentless purpose. His twin blades were a whirlwind of death. His eyes were fixed on his one, true target.

He reached the lead wagon. He saw Chris. His face was a mask of shocked, furious disbelief. His old rival drew a long, elegant sword. Its blade hummed with a dark, chaotic energy that mirrored the brace on his arm.

"Ross!" he shrieked. A high-pitched, hysterical sound. "You! How?! I will kill you! I will tear you apart!"

He lunged. His dark-bladed sword was a blur.

The duel was a brief, brutal, and utterly pathetic affair. Chris, for all his new, dark power, was still just an arrogant boy fueled by hatred. Edward was a king. A veteran of a hundred life-or-death battles. A being who had consumed gods and monsters.

Edward met his lunge. His own twin blades were a calm, precise, and utterly superior defense. He parried Chris's frantic, rage-fueled strikes with an almost bored, contemptuous ease. He was not just fighting him. He was dissecting him. Deconstructing his technique. His timing. His very will to fight.

With a final, dismissive maneuver, he trapped Chris's blade between his own. Twisted. And sent the dark sword flying from his grasp. He followed through with a powerful, open-palm strike to Chris's chest. It sent him crashing back against the heavy, iron-bound door of the wagon's cargo hold.

He had him. Beaten. Disarmed. Helpless.

He stalked forward. His blades were held low. His eyes burned with a cold, final promise.

He reached the door. With a powerful kick, he tore it from its hinges. He stepped into the dark, cavernous interior of the wagon. The place where the Plague Spores were held.

And he found Chris inside. Waiting for him. A wild, maniacal grin on his face. He had been herded. It was another trap.

"Hello, trash," Chris sneered. His voice was a triumphant, insane cackle. He raised his dark, mechanical arm-brace. He slammed a glowing, red rune on its surface. "I knew you'd be too much for these grunts to handle. So, I prepared a special, private arena for us."

A wave of palpable, nullifying energy erupted from his brace. It filled the enclosed space of the wagon. An anti-magic field.

Edward felt his connection to his own power, to the souls he carried, to the system itself, suddenly, violently, severed. All of his skills, his Soul Gaze, his monstrous strength and speed—all of it vanished. As if a switch had been flipped. He was just a man.

"Here," Chris said. His voice was a low, triumphant hiss. He drew a simple, unadorned, and brutally functional steel sword. "In this box, there are no tricks. No forbidden arts. No stolen glory."

He pointed the tip of the simple, steel blade at Edward's heart. His eyes burned with a pure, obsessive, and utterly human hatred.

"Here, we fight as men."