The Dark Crusader Recruits wore blackened quilted gambesons, thick with padding and reinforced at the seams by rows of small, dark rivets. The stitching formed a diamond pattern across the chest and arms, creating a subtle texture that catches faint light like scales. High collars protect their necks, and the front is secured by iron toggles and tightly knotted cords, practical and efficient—no frills, no shine.
The gambeson was tailored close to the body to allow ease of movement while offering solid protection beneath heavier armor or on its own.
Their black trousers were tucked neatly into knee-high leather boots, worn but polished. A fine steel sword hung at each recruit's left hip, its grip wrapped in pitch-dark leather, while a long dagger was strapped across their backs—angled for a swift, reverse draw. Every piece they wear serves purpose. Function. Silence. Death.
These are not men of fanfare—they are the blade in the dark, recruits forged for war and obedience.
Not the crusaders that spoke of hope but the dark ones that carried the air of death.
"I feel like I've trained for weeks with the sword," murmured the younger of the two men, flexing his fingers as he stared at the honeyed layers of grime and callus forming over his once smooth hands.
"Good," Sett replied without looking back. "It'll come in handy where we're about to go."
He stepped out of the barracks into the chilly afternoon air. The light wind tugged at his hair as he moved toward the front of the lord's residence. There, his dragons roamed, their scales gleaming beneath the overcast sky—restless, wild, and majestic.
Then, without warning, a low rumble split the silence.
To his right, the space between two cracked obsidian monoliths shimmered with energy. They had emerged from the earth like the horns of a buried demon, and now, the very space between them trembled—fracturing like a mirror splintering from the inside.
The [Timespace] portal was awakening.
Sett paused, boots crunching against the soft soil, as he turned toward his dragons. His mind brushed against theirs with an ease born of familiarity.
'Time to see your profiles.'
Name: [Aion]
Title: [...]
Order: [Latent | Level 1 (10/50)]
Innate Aspect: [Inferno Dust (+)]
Aspect Description: [This aspect grants the ability to breathe ash—like volcanic soot, only far hotter. It chokes, blinds, burns.]
Potential: [Hexalord]
Loyalty: [100]
_
Name: [Keraunos]
Title: [...]
Order: [Latent | Level 1 (10/50)]
Innate Aspect: [Dragonfire (+)]
Aspect Description: [A common aspect every dragon is born with. Able to breathe powerful flames that grow hotter with age.]
Potential: [Hexalord]
Loyalty: [100]
_
Name: [Auge]
Title: [...]
Order: [Latent | Level 1 (10/50)]
Innate Aspect: [Dragonfire (+)]
Aspect Description: [A common aspect every dragon is born with. Able to breathe powerful flames that grow hotter with age.]
Potential: [Hexalord]
Loyalty: [100]
_
Sett's breath caught.
Three Hexalords…
Even a Monogifted dragon—armed with nothing but its base fire—was a siege engine in flesh, a living catastrophe. At their prime, such creatures could level cities, reduce castles to rubble, and annihilate battalions. These three weren't just that. They had potential far beyond.
If word got out…
If anyone knew…
The kingdoms would descend like vultures. There would be no middle ground. Either they'd be stolen, or slain outright. And so would he.
But these dragons weren't just weapons. They were his companions.
His children.
He'd raised them in these few hours while he journeyed to the Gray basin. He watched their scales glisten in the sun, felt their tiny claws dig into his arms, and heard their curious trills. That bond ran deeper than mere ownership.
"Come. Let's go hunting," Sett said at last, his voice softened by warmth. The grim shadow of Durnshade receded behind his smile, momentarily pushed aside by the comfort of companionship.
Aion and Keraunos flapped up and perched upon his shoulders, their talons careful not to pierce through his gambeson.
He cradled Auge in his arms, whose molten-red eyes blinked with quiet affection. Sett turned toward the portal, steps calm, unfaltering.
Behind him, Swain stood beside the two recruits, all three armed and watching. Sett glanced back.
"Prepare yourselves," he said, voice laced with gravity. "We're about to step into a world where time flows differently—where the sun may rise and fall thrice while only a day passes here."
He turned to Nirelle, her brown hair dancing in the wind.
"Be careful. Bolt yourselves inside the lord's residence until we return only If there's trouble."
Nirelle bowed deeply, hand over heart. "We shall await your bountiful return, my Lord."
Sett raised an eyebrow at the word, but let it pass.
Bountiful, huh? Perhaps she meant victory. Or perhaps more spoils like the rabbit.
Golden light surged from the cracked space, bathing the group in ethereal brilliance.
Shua!
The world warped.
When it settled, they stood upon snow-blanketed earth, the crunch of frost beneath their boots echoing like whispers in a church of silence. The forest before them loomed vast, ancient, and cold, its boughs bending low with icy weight.
The air was razor-sharp.
Breath misted white.
The [Timespace] was silent now—but they all knew it pulsed with danger beyond sight.
"It's the same," Sett murmured, gazing at the treeline. "Same as before."
Swain said nothing. His eyes were already scanning the treetops. Every snapped twig, every rustle of wind might be something else.
"Let's proceed."
Shing!
Swain and the recruits drew their blades in one fluid motion. Steel caught the fading light as they stepped forward, the quiet crunch of boots and the distant caw of crows the only herald of their entry into the unknown.
Not too deep into the woods—and there it was.
From beyond a frost-dusted wall of shrubs stepped a creature that looked like it had no business in a place this cold. A golden-brown rooster, easily a meter tall, its plumes glossy like polished bronze, strutted into view.
Sunlight bounced off its feathers in dazzling flecks, giving it an almost regal shimmer. Its bright red crest curved like a battle standard, bold and vibrant against the pale winter world.
Its beady eyes—sharp, calculating—widened at the sight of them. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, it flared its wings in aggression. Each flap sent puffs of snow scattering into the air, as if warning them to back away.
But Swain was already moving.
He burst forward like a panther loosed from a cage, his footwork a quiet dance across the snow. Each step precise. Balanced. Deadly. And then, with a motion that was both beautiful and brutal, his sword cut the air.
Shhkt!
The rooster's head soared from its body, trailing blood like a red ribbon before it hit the ground with a dull thud.
But Swain remained where he stood.
Sett's eyes narrowed. His gut twisted.
"Back off—!"
Sett's warning tore through the cold air, but he was too late. His voice was swallowed by what came next.
The rooster's body didn't fall. It came alive.
Headless, but furious.
Its massive wings flared again, more violently this time, and in a blur of motion it lunged forward. The steel-hard claws—thick and razor-edged—descended in a deadly arc.
Clang!
Swain raised his blade just in time, the impact sending shockwaves through his arms. But his footing was off—his stance too still from earlier—and the strike knocked him clean onto his back. He landed hard, his breath leaving him in a short grunt as he hit the snow.
"Auge! Ignis!"
Sett's voice thundered, and the red dragon snapped to action.
Auge let out a snarl, the heat within her awakening. Her jaws parted, and a torrent of searing flame burst forth—not the mystical blue fire of legend, but the raw, wild heat of his base nature. The air rippled from the intensity as the fire engulfed the twitching body.
Feathers sizzled.
Snow hissed and melted in wide, blackened craters.
The rooster's corpse finally collapsed, smoldering, a plume of smoke curling upward in its wake. The severed head had roasted mid-air and now lay beside its body, barely recognizable.
Sett's eyes didn't rest.
His instincts screamed.
The leaves rustled again, just behind the same shrub wall.
He turned his head—and froze.
A second rooster stepped forth.
This one wasn't golden.
It was black—its feathers glistening like oil beneath the filtered light. Each step it took was deliberate, weighty, like it didn't need to rush to kill. Its eyes gleamed a wicked, piercing red, like coals left too long in a fire.
A jagged scar slashed diagonally down its golden beak—ugly and proud. A mark of survival. A sign of violence it had not only endured but conquered.
This one was no level one beast.
This was a veteran.
A killer.