Warlord asked me to follow him.
Again!
As if the first time hadn't already shaved ten years off my life expectancy and whatever was left of my sense of peace.
Now here I was, stretched out on a hill that smelled like dry grass and bad decisions, belly pressed to the dirt.
Sound-Death snug against my shoulder, scope trained on the royal palace doors of some unfortunate kingdom I wasn't
emotionally invested in.
Maze's kingdom. I think.
Was it Maze? Mael? Mace?
Didn't matter. Dead kings all sounded the same.
I exhaled slowly, adjusted my aim, and muttered, "So. Let's recap. I'm lying on a hill.
On another continent. Watching Oma who now called himself Warlord, traumatize a royal family. Funny thing is, I still don't know why I'm here."
Who needs planning, when Warlord inspires mental spirals?
Warlord didn't need me. That was the problem. If he needed artillery, overwatch, or support—actually, no, never support. Why get an army when you command a sea of darkness?
With all this logic, I could only ask the terrifying question:
Why me?
I squinted through the scope. The palace doors were tall, ornate and expensive.
"Did they really tax peasants for this?".
Somewhere inside, Warlord was probably explaining to a grieving son and a room full of nobles why tyrants ended up as furniture.
Educational outreach, but make it violent.
"I will kill all tyrants," he'd said. Casual. Like grocery shopping.
And he personally asked me to come along.
Me.
The guy whose greatest contribution right now was lying very still and not hyperventilating.
My mind, naturally, chose that moment to descend into chaos.
Because of course it did.
I remembered the conversation with Zefar before we left Babel.
I had asked him—very calmly, I might add, considering the circumstances—if he knew why Warlord personally requested my presence.
Zefar had laughed.
Not chuckled. Not smiled.
Laughed.
"Oh, Hunter," he'd said, like he was talking to a nervous child. "Are you scared of him?"
Was I scared of Warlord?
Absolutely.
Unequivocally.
Without shame.
On the day I escorted Ruse and Naya to their mother's grave—Ave's birthday, of all days—Warlord returned to Babel and defeated all nine thousand Summoned.
Alone.
No speeches. No buildup. No dramatic music.
Just… gone.
Drowned.
In his Ocean of Night.
The Summoned who survived—because of course they survived, they always did—came back quiet.
Too quiet. Pale. Shaking. Some of them couldn't even look at shadows for weeks.
They described it as suffocation without air. Darkness without light.
Silence so complete it pressed against your thoughts until you couldn't tell where you ended and fear began.
And Warlord only left them there for five minutes.
Five.
For beings who died and came back like it was an occupational hazard, that experience was worse than death.
So yes. I walked on eggshells around him.
Explosive, nightmare-fueled eggshells.
And then there was the other thing.
The thing I didn't joke about.
The thing I didn't say out loud.
The thing that lived in the back of my skull was like a loaded gun pointed inward.
I killed his father.
Ten years ago.
Apex.
Bee stings. Allergy. Panic. One pull of Sound-Death's trigger before my brain caught up.
Accident.
Still murder.
Still dead.
Still Apex's killer.
I swallowed, adjusting my grip on the rifle.
"If he brought me all this way just to kill me," I muttered, "this is a very elaborate way to say you're mad."
The palace doors opened.
I stiffened.
Warlord stepped out.
Unharmed.
Of course he was.
No blood. No limp. No visible wound. Not even a dramatic tear in his clothes. He looked like a man who had simply finished a conversation and decided to go for a walk.
I snorted softly. "I would've bet money you'd at least get a scar. Guess I lost that one."
He descended the steps, alone, and began walking through the streets.
Through the crowd.
Through guards, citizens, nobles, relatives—people who outnumbered him at least ten to one.
No one touched him.
No one even tried.
I tracked him through my scope, finger resting near the trigger.
His only order echoed in my head.
"Shoot whoever dares to come near me."
Simple. Elegant. Terrifying.
And I was still the only one with a gun in our generation. One sound of thunder. One body hitting stone. That was all it took. Humans were wonderfully consistent that way.
When you hear thunder followed by death once, you don't act funny.
Warlord passed through the streets like a myth made flesh.
If he could drown nine thousand Summoned, this kingdom of barely five thousand people wasn't even a warm-up.
One-man army didn't quite cover it.
He reached the gates.
I followed him through the scope.
Then—
Nothing.
He vanished.
I blinked. Adjusted. Swore.
"What—"
A presence moved behind me.
I didn't turn.
Didn't need to.
Shadow teleportation. Another trick I hated. Another reason my lifespan was probably a statistical anomaly.
"Okay," I said aloud, exhausted. "I'm done with suspense. Truly. It's been fun. Great walk. Beautiful continent. Very murder-y."
I rolled onto my back, staring at the sky.
"I killed your dad," I said. "There. Out in the open. Ten years ago. Worst mistake of my life."
Silence.
"If you dragged me all the way to your continent to kill me," I went on, voice dry, "then for the sake of our once lovely mentor-mentee relationship, I'd really appreciate it if you made it quick."
Still nothing.
Then Warlord spoke, calm as ever.
"I know."
I froze.
He continued, indifferent. "I found out nine years ago. On our first hunting trip."
My throat went dry.
"The wounds on the animals you killed with Sound-Death," he said. "They matched my father's."
Of course they did.
Of course, he noticed.
I laughed once. Sharp. Humorless. "Right. Of course you did. Why wouldn't you?"
I sat up slowly, finally turning to face him.
"So," I asked, "are you going to kill me?"
He looked at me like I'd asked something mildly boring.
"I don't need to," he said. "You been having sleepless night because of me. That's enough.
For now."
That hit harder than a hammer.
He stepped past me, already turning away.
"And I have never hidden my intention to kill Zefar," he added calmly. "That makes all his Summoned—including you—dead men walking."
I lay back down, staring at the sky, heart pounding.
"…Cool," I muttered. "So I'm not dead."
Pause.
"Would this technically make me a zombie?"
Interesting.
Very interesting.