Night had fallen over the northern villages, but darkness felt different now. Not natural, not random. Shadows bent unnaturally, streets twisted into impossible angles, and a faint hum of anticipation lingered in the air. The heroes had not given up—they were desperate, yes, but coordinated like never before. Three weeks of regrouping, training, and strategy had culminated in this moment. They intended to trap me.
I watched from the highest ridge overlooking the central village. Voraciel pulsed against my back, alive, humming faintly in resonance with my intent. Its whisper pressed at my mind: "…finish." Not a command—guidance.
The heroes' plan was audacious. The swordsman advanced first, shield raised, leading a line of disciplined militia. The mage flanked the main road, glowing wards forming choke points that would force me into predictable paths. The archer patrolled rooftops, aiming to predict and intercept any movement I made. Additional village militias were ready to engage simultaneously, forming a net that could crush anyone trapped inside.
I allowed them to move. Observation first. Patience still mattered. But bloodlust simmered now, restrained only by calculation. The pressure was unlike anything I had faced before. It was time.
The first clash erupted in the outskirts of the eastern village. Crimson Tide struck silently, cutting down isolated scouts before alarms could be raised. Raven's Fang coiled through alleys and rooftops, bending terrain and perception, forcing patrols into collisions. Fear spread quietly, subtly, through the defenders, making every step heavier.
The mage fired wards and spells with precision, but the shadows twisted their energy, redirecting attacks into empty streets. The archer's arrows rained from rooftops, but Crimson Tide intercepted some midair while Raven's Fang manipulated the environment to force missteps. Minor errors cascaded, and hesitation multiplied into chaos.
Bloodlust surged, stronger than ever. Voraciel throbbed against my back, alive, guiding, amplifying every thought, every strike. I had restrained power for long enough. It was time to unleash the truth.
I stepped into the open, shadows coiling around my feet like living darkness. Voice calm, deliberate, and sharp:
"Bloodlust—Voraciel: Absolute Eclipse!"
The sword pulsed violently, shadows erupting like waves, consuming every street, alley, and rooftop in their radius. Crimson Tide became sharper, faster, flowing like liquid night. Raven's Fang coiled across the villages, warping perception, amplifying chaos. Crimson Tempest merged with Absolute Eclipse, turning every hesitation into lethal openings.
The heroes reacted with everything they had left. The swordsman lunged, shield braced, striking with desperation. The mage unleashed wards glowing with pure light, trying to cut through shadows. The archer fired arrows faster than ever. But the Absolute Eclipse bent reality itself. Shadows twisted light, redirected attacks, and magnified every misstep.
By midnight, the villages were fully in disarray. The militia had collapsed into confusion, citizens hid in terror, and the heroes were forced into retreat. Even their skill, strategy, and coordination could not overcome this unleashed power.
I moved through the Absolute Eclipse with predatory precision. Voraciel pulsed violently, alive, feeding off the controlled chaos and bloodlust. Each strike, each shadow, each movement resonated through the villages. The predators were now absolute.
As dawn approached, the villages lay in ruin, the heroes scattered and broken, their last coordinated strike annihilated. Smoke curled into the morning sky, shadows stretching unnaturally across streets and rooftops. I sheathed Voraciel, its hum fading slightly but never dying.
The regional conquest was no longer an ambition. It was inevitable. Every village, every town, every misstep now worked in my favor. Absolute Eclipse had shown them the consequences of facing the shadows, and they would remember this day forever.
The world was wide, and I had only just begun.