Out of the ten guards that we first encountered right after leaving the house, nine were already dead.

They weren't "fallen." They weren't "defeated." They were executed so efficiently that death itself filed a formal complaint about job redundancy.

Stronges did it all.

Nine kills. One swing-happy chain. Ghost Rider had competition now.

The tenth guy was alive, but spiritually, bro was already gone.

He didn't even try to beg. He just plopped down on his knees like a man accepting the Wi-Fi is gone forever.

He waited for death.

It didn't come.

He blinked. Looked up at Stronges like, "Yo, you missed one."

And she, being the chaotic queen she is, looked him dead in the eyes and said—

"I will kill you. Just… not right now."

The dude was so confused his brain blue-screened mid-blink.

Before any of us could open our mouths, Stronges explained like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"Go tell everyone—your lord, your guards, your cousins twice removed—that me and my students are retaliating. We're coming for that red mass's murder. Tell them to prepare for their death. Oh, and one more thing…"

She leaned forward until the poor guard could smell divine rage up close.

"Tell your lord that the Hero King has returned."

I swear to every god that has PTSD because of her—the man ran so fast his soul detached mid-sprint.

And I just stood there like, "…Ma'am. Why?"

"Wouldn't it be better," I said, "to just kill them all silently? Now they'll prepare. They'll know we're coming."

Stronges turned her head and hit me with a look so sharp it could cut through common sense.

"They should know what hit them, Racis."

Her tone had that terrifying calm—the kind that says, "I have trauma and a strategy."

"So our goal's not just winning?" I asked.

She nodded once.

"Winning is too small. I want them to know who is winning."

Then she launched into a speech that could make gods take notes.

"They should know the people they enslaved are the ones now attacking. No saviors came. No gods descended. Just the broken and the furious—taking back what's theirs. Yes, we're only a few thousand. We have no army, no kingdom. The people have forgotten their Hero King. But they will remember when the rumor spreads. When hope catches fire again. When freedom stops being a bedtime story and becomes a goddamn war cry."

Even the air clapped for that speech.

"Sure," she continued, "we could sneak into Malthus' castle, stab him in his sleep, be done with it. But I don't want silence. I want regret. I want them to apologize to the corpses they made. Malthus shall die in front of his men, the same way he killed you and the God before your people. Time to return the favor, Racis. Like warriors. Not assassins."

The master said it, and damn if it didn't sound righteous enough to make even my dark soul salute.

Everyone behind me clenched their fists, fire reborn in their eyes.

Me? I didn't chant. I just looked ahead, at that black castle stabbing the horizon like a middle finger made of stone.

"Alright, master," I said. "You're right. So… should I take matters into my own hands or are we following your script?"

"There's no script," she replied. "We march to that castle. We challenge him face to face."

"Cool. Just checking. But what about the guards?" I asked. "If we go forward, they'll hit us from behind. We'll have Malthus in front, his goons at our back. Classic cinematic sandwich."

Stronges smiled—the kind of smile that makes volcanoes blush.

"That's why," she said, "we have… friends."

Then she pulled out a remote.

A remote.

Not a magic artifact.

Not a glowing rune.

A literal TV-remote-looking thing that screamed: "I am about to press the wrong button on purpose."

She pressed it.

The house behind us started making mechanical noises.

Grinding. Clanking. Screeching.

You could practically hear the apocalypse booting up.

The basement door burst open, and out poured the Nano Bites—tiny metallic nightmares that looked like ants built by Satan's tech startup.

They zoomed out, so fast you could barely track them.

A thousand of them.

All assembling in perfect lines in front of Stronges like obedient death toddlers.

Then—click.

She pressed the second button.

The Nano Bites transformed.

Limbs extended. Bodies expanded.

The cute murder-kittens grew into full-grown Terminators with commitment issues.

Their glowing yellow eyes turned red—the universal signal for "shit's about to go down."

They looked less like a deterrent and more like a highly specialized, very metal barbershop quartet of death, patiently waiting for their cue. One of them actually paused its transformation to flick a tiny piece of dirt off its shoulder-cannon. Efficiency mixed with neuroticism. Classic Stronges.

And I…

I just stood there, remembering the time I fought ten of them and survived.

Barely.

Now there were a thousand.

Yeah. I needed therapy.

Stronges raised her hand like a conductor summoning a symphony of doom.

"Kill all the guards of Malthus. The ones who aren't human or alien—wipe them out. None shall be left alive."

The robots nodded, making mechanical sounds that said "Yes, mom."

Then—blink.

They were gone.

The air vibrated with their disappearance. Somewhere out there, guards were about to have the worst 30 seconds of their lives.

Stronges turned to us, eyes burning with the serenity of a saint and the bloodlust of a serial killer with tenure.

"We move for Malthus. He will summon his armies. His castle will call for war. So be it. Are you ready?"

"Yes!" we all shouted.

She smiled—sweet, terrifying, poetic.

"Good. Then let's go. It's time to impregnate that bitch."

And just like that, she started walking—her chain swaying, her aura screaming murder poetry.

We followed behind like devoted cultists of carnage, marching toward the black castle.

And as we did, I realized something chilling:

We weren't going to war.

We were the war.

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