Vescrutia: Legacy

--Three Days Later--

The wind carried the scent of roses—faint, almost mocking in its delicacy—as it danced across the open plains beyond the Vaeroth Swamps. Shabuto stood atop a sunbaked ridge, his silhouette stark against the golden horizon. Three days since the battle. Three days since fire and shadow had torn through the mire, since he’d first felt Red awaken fully within him, since he’d forged Imperious, those twin nunchaku of blackened mist and crackling lightning that now hung at his hips like silent judges.

The swamp had clung to him, humid and suffocating, but this—this was liberation. Wide skies, clean air, the earth stretching endlessly beneath a vault of blue. Yet peace was a stranger to him now. Every breath tasted of resolve, of vengeance deferred.

Kawaki

The word had become a mantra. With each whisper, the memory replayed: the searing impact of steel on demistral, the surge of stolen life flooding through him like molten wine. He’d learned that day what Red truly hungered for—not just blood, but essence. The vitality of those he struck drained into his weapon, into him, amplifying strength, reflexes, mending wounds before they could fester. And then came the fire rune, En, igniting the stolen lifeforce into a new kind of flame. Not just heat. Not just destruction. Demonic combustion.

"Could... my other runes be used?" he murmured, fingers brushing the cold chain of Imperious. En for flame. Ur for lightning. Zeth for binding. Orion for silence. What would happen if he channeled Meyra through siphoned life? A frost that froze souls? A silence so deep it stopped hearts?

He dismissed the thought—too dangerous to experiment blindly. But the potential hummed in his veins, a promise whispered by Red itself.

"Mara… I’m coming."

Her name etched a wound deeper than any blade. Ghena—her kingdom, her home—now a prison beneath the iron heel of this "Order of Naveah". Hunters clad in gilded faith hunted Fae like vermin, twisting sacred rites into tools of torment. And Ophelle… the monster of a woman—her whip, Epine, alive with a voice not its own—had confirmed his fears.

There was a connection. Between Fae and Demon. Between Red and whatever demon had empowered her blade. There was a commonality of sorts between Fae and the Demons. It could also shed light on Red itself, a Desire on the level of Sophia's own demon.

And the one he used to be in servitude, Grixas, leader of the Nightmare Wolves.

"Sophia...Grixas."

Her name tasted not of metal, but of smoldering coal; the fury it sent through him was one he could barely contain. Had he not been so selfish and paid just an ounce of attention more to the sorcereess phony facade. He and Haylin might have been able to stop Sophia and her damn ritual. Grixas, his former lord and master, titles he would never allow another to force onto him ever again. He knew the depth of the powers he was up against, and though he was growing in strentgh ti was still far, far from enough to deal with either of them, let alone them both.

Rage boiled in his gut, a volcano on the verge of eruption.

Then—snap.

A deer, startled by his stillness. Shabuto’s breath hitched. His reflection shimmered in a rain-puddled hollow nearby—eyes ablaze with crimson-tinged fury, veins pulsing with Red’s influence.

“Children of wind barely remember their left from their right. Surely incapable of eyes that glare with such hatred.”

Ophelle’s taunt returned, uninvited. Mocking. Prophetic.

His jaw clenched. The anger wasn’t just his. It was Red’s. The Desire fed on wrath, on violence, on the endless cycle of taking and consuming. And Shabuto was beginning to fear he wasn’t controlling it—he was negotiating with it.

But vengeance was a long road. And he wouldn’t reach the end of it as a monster.

No. He would become something greater.

Drink.
Grow.
Become.

The primal chant of Red. To regain its lost power, to grow stronger, it had to face horrors. Devour their essence. Ascend.

And Mara—his partner, his last tether to the man he once was—was trapped in the heart of one such horror.

Ahead, the land dipped into a valley, and there it stood: The Gates of Haven.

A colossus of risen stone, twenty feet high, stretching across the pass like the jawbone of a giant. Carved with runes of banishment and warding sigils pulsing faintly blue, it sealed off Gehena from the outer realms. Guard posts lined the ramparts, archers on patrol, their armor emblazoned with the sigil of Naveah—a golden flame over a shattered horn.

A caravan approached—the clopping of hooves, the creak of wooden wheels. Four figures: traders, by their garb. The lead man handed a document to the gate warden. After brief scrutiny, the massive doors groaned open.

Shabuto had no pass. No claim. No right.

But he had other ways.

His gaze lifted to the top of the gate, where a murder of crows perched like omens. Dire Crows—no, not the same. These were smaller, native to the mainland. But the principles of Druidic communion were universal. Intent. Spirit. Bond.

He knelt, scooped a handful of soil, and murmured an incantation in the old tongue. The dirt shimmered, laced with spirit dust. With a breath, he sent it spiraling upward like smoke.

The crows scattered—except one. It inhaled the dust, paused, then cocked its head.

"Easy, bud… just need your eyes. I’ll be out of your way soon, promise."

Through the crow’s senses, the world sharpened. He saw double—the ridge beneath his feet, and the stone parapet above. Two guards. Distracted. Laughing. One is picking at his armor, the other scanning the horizon.

Too few. Overconfident.

Perfect.

He released the bird. It flapped away, joining its kin.

"Alright... let's do this."

Shabuto closed his eyes. Raised his hands.

And called the sky.

The wind answered first—a slow, gathering sigh. Then pressure built in the atmosphere, subtle shifts in the air's charge. He wove strands of moisture, summoned ions from the earth, and pulled cloud from vapor. Not a storm. Not yet. Just a shadow.

Above the Gates of Haven, the sun dimmed.

One moment, brilliance. The next dusk.

"By the Flame, what in the hells?!" a guard shouted.

The caravan halted. Townsfolk in the distant market plaza gasped, shielding their eyes. The guards at the gate stumbled back, hands on swords, scanning the sky in panic. The sudden eclipse defied nature—no moon in sight, no storm front. Just darkness, thick and unnatural, swallowing a quarter-mile of sky.

Chaos. Confusion. And in that chaos—opportunity.

Shabuto moved.

Na-ten. The air coiled beneath his feet. He sprinted forward, limbs light as wind, and ran up the sheer face of the outer wall, each step buoyed by gusts of his making. Not magic. Not flight. Harmony with the wind.

He crested the top in seconds.

Below, in the courtyard, a hay wagon sat loaded—abandoned, just within the gate.

No time to hesitate.

He leapt.

The darkness above began to fray—sunlight piercing through as the clouds dissipated. The guards cursed, bewildered.

"Where did it go?!"

"Did you see something?!"

But it was too late.

Shabuto hit the hay, burying deep, heart pounding like a war drum. Above, the sky cleared, as if the shadow had never been.

Silence.

Then—normalcy. The guards muttered about omens. The caravan rolled forward. Life in Haven resumed.

But within the kingdom, buried in straw and secrets, Shabuto smiled.

He was inside the wall, but not yet in the city.

The hay was dry, scratching at his neck and smelling faintly of sun-baked earth and what he prayed wasn't shit. Shabuto remained perfectly still beneath the mound, his breathing shallow, his ears straining against the sudden cacophony of shouts and confusion echoing from the gate’s ramparts.

He had moved with the speed of a striking serpent, but the spectacle he had left in his wake was far less subtle.

“By the Twin Moons, where did it come from?” a guard’s voice boomed, laced with panic. “One moment the sky was clear, the next… pitch black!”

“It’s gone now,” another guard called out, his voice trembling slightly. “Just… vanished. Like it was never there.”

Shabuto allowed himself a small, grim smile from his hiding place. The Black Smog, he thought, naming the technique. It was a crude application of his weather manipulation, a sudden, localized blotting out of the sun by coercing moisture and wind to clot rapidly. It wasn’t a permanent storm, nor was it particularly lethal, but it was an effective curtain of confusion. The citizens of Gehena, likely accustomed to the predictable rhythms of Solara’s bloom, had no frame of reference for such a sudden atmospheric shift.

“I saw something,” a new voice cut in, likely a civilian or a merchant from the caravan Shabuto had watched earlier. “A shape. Moving along the wall while the darkness held.”

“Nonsense,” the first guard barked, though his voice lacked conviction. “The wall is sheer. No man climbs that without a rope, and we saw no rope. It was a trick of the light. A cloud playing games with the sun.”

“Check the hay stacks below!” the second guard ordered. “Search every inch! If someone breached the gates, they couldn’t have gone far.”

Shabuto’s eyes narrowed. He had chosen the hay pile precisely because it was adjacent to the outer wall, directly beneath the ledge he had dropped from. It was the most obvious place to hide, which paradoxically made it the first place they would look. But he wasn't planning on staying.

He felt the vibration of boots hitting the wooden planks of the ramparts above him. They were moving quickly, spreading out. The distraction had bought him only seconds.

Closing his eyes, Shabuto reached out with his senses, not with sight, but with the flow of energy around him. He could feel the static charge in the air, the lingering humidity from his cloud creation, and the frantic, spiked auras of the guards—a mix of fear and adrenaline. He needed to move before the net tightened.

With a fluid motion, he pushed upward, letting the hay cascade away from him as he rose. He didn't wait to see if he had been spotted. He darted toward the narrow alleyway between the hay depot and the outer barracks, his feet silent against the packed dirt.

“Hey! There!” a shout rang out from the rampart above.

Shabuto didn't look back. He channelled a thin thread of Naten—his internal energy—into his legs, enhancing his speed. He blurred past the corner of the building just as a crossbow bolt thudded into the wood where his cloaked head had been a fraction of a second before.

He pressed his back against the cool stone of the barracks wall, listening to the commotion growing louder. The kingdom’s guards were mobilizing. The infiltration was no longer silent; it was a chase.

“Seal the inner gate!” the captain’s voice thundered. “No one enters or leaves the lower district until we find him!”

Shabuto exhaled slowly, steadying his heart rate. The outer gate was behind him, and the inner gate—the true entrance to the city proper—was still open, though rapidly closing. He could hear the heavy grinding of gears and the shouts of the gatekeepers.

He couldn’t fight them all. Not here. Not yet. He needed the shadows of the city, not the exposure of the gates.

Peering around the edge of the barracks, he saw the inner portcullis descending. It was heavy iron, moving sluggishly. Above it, guards were leaning over, scanning the courtyard with crossbows at the ready. They expected him to make a break for the opening.

Shabuto looked upward. The sky was clear again, the artificial darkness he had summoned having dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. But the height of the inner gate’s archway offered a different kind of cover.

He reached into his coat, his fingers brushing against the cold, serrated metal of Imperious. The nunchaku hummed with a faint, hungry vibration, sensing his intent. Not yet, he told the artifact silently. We don’t feed today.

Instead, he focused on the air pressure. He compressed the atmosphere beneath his feet, creating a dense, invisible cushion. It was a technique inspired by his Saltre, Dance Of Gales.

The portcullis was three-quarters down. The gap was shrinking—ten feet, then eight.

Shabuto burst from cover.

He didn’t run across the open courtyard. He launched himself upward.

A collective gasp went through the guards as they saw him. He wasn’t climbing; he was ascending on nothing but air, his boots finding purchase on invisible steps of compressed wind. He rose in a sharp, spiraling arc, bypassing the descending iron spikes entirely.

“Shoot him!” the captain screamed.

Crossbows thrummed, but Shabuto was already twisting in mid-air. He deflected a bolt with a sweep of Imperious, the impact sending a jarring shock up his arm. He landed silently on the stone balcony of the inner gate’s control tower, crouching low like a gargoyle.

Two guards stood there, frozen in shock, their weapons hanging loosely in their hands. They hadn’t expected an assault from above.

Shabuto didn’t hesitate. He swept his leg out, a controlled gust of wind knocking the wind out of the first guard and sending him sprawling. The second guard raised his sword, but Shabuto was faster. He stepped in, disarming him with a fluid twist of his wrist, the man’s sword clattering to the stone floor.

“Bye bye now,” Shabuto murmured, tapping the man’s temple with two fingers infused with a mild electrical charge. The guard’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed. A non-lethal take-down. He wasn't here to slaughter innocent guards. He only had a taste for the blood of the profane.

The captain and the remaining guards were still below, shouting orders, but the inner gate was now sealed. Shabuto was on the right side of it—inside the city walls.

He looked out over the kingdom of Gehena. From his vantage point, the city sprawled out in orderly rows of stone and thatch. It looked peaceful, prosperous even. But Shabuto knew better. He could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that had nothing to do with his magic. It was the feeling of a society holding its breath, terrified of the shadows that hunted within its walls.

“Shit, that was close,” he whispered, the guard had proven to be sharper than he anticipated. He supposed Mara bragging on the dignity of her realm was not to be underestimated twice.

He scanned the rooftops, plotting his route. He needed to disappear into the labyrinth of the city, find a quiet place to rest, and plan his next move. The guards were in disarray below, confused by the man who moved like the wind and struck like a storm.

Shabuto turned his back on the gate, his silhouette blending into the shadows of the tower. He moved with a predator’s grace, slipping into a crowd of citizens. Though the guard would be on high alert, he was out of the hot seat at least for now.