I stepped through the rift in space, feeling reality fold and twist around me before depositing me onto solid ground. The familiar sensation of packed earth beneath my feet replaced the obsidian floors of my temple. Cool air blew against my skin, a sharp contrast to the sulfurous heat that perpetually shrouded the Central Hellzone.

The woods of my youth stretched out before me, ancient oaks and maples creating a verdant canopy that filtered afternoon sunlight into dappled patterns across the forest floor. Birdsong replaced the distant rumble of volcanic activity, while the scent of pine needles and rich loam overwhelmed memories of ash and brimstone. This place remained unchanged, untouched by the chaos that had consumed so much of my existence.

These were the woods outside Weath, where I had spent countless hours with Mallie during those precious months before everything went wrong. I could almost see her small form darting between the trees, gap-toothed grin lighting up her freckled face as she nocked arrow after arrow to her bowstring. Her enthusiasm had been infectious, her natural talent undeniable. We had practiced here until her aim became true enough to split her own arrows, until she felt she was finally good enough to enter the War Academy.

The memory struck like a physical blow, sending waves of grief through my mechanical frame. Mallie's bright green eyes, forever frozen in death. Her voice, silenced by Themas's cruel magic. The weight of her loss pressed against my chest, a pain that transcended flesh and bone.

But grief transformed quickly into something harder, more focused. Duke Barson Redflight remained alive while my young friend lay buried beneath Weath's cemetery soil. The man who had orchestrated the attack that claimed her life continued his petty tyrannies from the comfort of Further Vale, protected by wealth and noble privilege.

Ever since Kolin Redflight had arrived in Weath to steal Mallie's invitation, his family had proven themselves thorns embedded deep in my existence. First the spoiled third son, leading his father's men in an assault that murdered innocents. Then Duke Barson himself, threatening the village and arresting Mayor Antos for harboring me. Finally Lyman, pursuing his vendetta at the War Academy with single-minded determination.

Each transgression had carved deeper wounds, each offense demanded retribution. Now I possessed the power to deliver it. The Mantle of Armament pulsed within me, eager for violence, thirsting for the opportunity to demonstrate its capabilities upon deserving targets.

But first, I needed to see Weath. Nearly two years had passed since my departure, two years during which anything could have happened to the people I considered family. Mayor Antos might be dead. The village could lie in ruins. I had to know they remained safe before turning my attention to more permanent solutions.

With a thought, my nine dragon-headed tendrils coiled inwards, disappearing beneath the flowing fabric of my robes. The dark silk concealed their serpentine forms, allowing only the hem to betray hints of unusual movement. I pulled my hood forward, shadowing the thorny crown mask that had become part of my face. The twin weapon hilts protruding from my back sank into my body, absorbed by the Arsenal ability until only their grips remained visible through the rich material of my cloak.

My reflection in a nearby stream showed something almost human. The immense height remained impossible to disguise (I stood nearly eight feet tall now that my tendrils were contained) but casual observers might mistake me for an unusually large traveler. The deception would hold long enough for me to reach familiar faces, to reveal myself on my own terms rather than terrifying those I sought to protect.

The road to Weath stretched ahead, its packed earth worn smooth by countless merchant caravans and adventuring parties. In the distance, smoke rose from cooking fires and forge chimneys, proof that life continued in the small village where my strange journey had truly begun.

I started walking, each step carrying me closer to answers, closer to the reckoning that had been too long delayed.

The familiar dirt path of Weath's main street felt comfortable under my tendrils as I entered the village proper. Conversations died mid-sentence. Merchant haggling ceased. Even the whispered chatter of the old gossips fell silent as every pair of eyes turned toward me.

The rich midnight silk of my traveling robes caught the afternoon light, their quality immediately marking me as someone of importance. Gold thread embroidered along the hems glinted with each step, while the fabric itself seemed to drink in shadow and sunlight equally. Such finery had never walked these humble streets before, not in a village where the finest clothing was Mayor Antos's ceremonial doublet.

My height drew the most attention. Where once I had stood only slightly above average among my peers, I now towered over the tallest villager by at least two feet. Children craned their necks to glimpse my face beneath the hood, their mouths hanging open in wonder and fear. Their parents pulled them closer, uncertain whether this imposing stranger represented opportunity or threat.

"Look at the size of him," someone whispered.

"Never seen cloth that fine in person," another voice added.

"Where d'you think he's from? The capital?"

I passed the Goodmak general store, its weathered sign creaking in the gentle breeze. Through the windows I glimpsed familiar shelves lined with farming tools and preserved goods, though everything seemed smaller than I remembered. The building itself looked freshly painted, its timber walls bearing none of the scorch marks I had feared to find.

The local pub sat at the village's heart, its outdoor seating area occupied by the usual collection of retired farmers. These men had claimed those same wooden chairs every afternoon for decades, their conversations a reliable mix of weather predictions, crop concerns, and complaints about younger generations. Gray beards wagged as they gestured emphatically, their voices carrying across the square with practiced authority.

I approached their circle deliberately, each step measured and calm despite the growing crowd that followed at a respectful distance. The old men fell silent as my shadow fell across their table, their weathered faces tilting up to study this unexpected interruption to their routine.

One face stood out among the group: Garrett, whose mill had ground grain for three generations of Weath families. I remembered him offering the Qordos refugees bread during those hungry early days, when we had first gotten to Weath.

Hello, Garrett, I said, my mental voice richer now but still carrying familiar inflections. Is Old Willem around?

Garrett's eyes widened, his pipe nearly slipping from suddenly slack fingers. Recognition dawned slowly, disbelief warring with memory across his lined features.

"No Eyes?" he breathed. "Is that really you?"

I nodded, pulling my lips into the shy smile they all remembered.

The transformation was immediate. Suspicious glances became delighted grins. Garrett slapped his knee and let out a bark of laughter that set the others chuckling.

"Well I'll be damned! Look at you!" Old Helton reached over to clap me on the arm, then stopped short when his hand encountered the solid form beneath my robes. "Holy gods! What have they been feeding you at that Academy? You scared the absolute hell out of us, looking like some foreign prince!"

"Did you graduate?" asked Garrett, genuine pride warming his voice. "Please tell me you showed those city folk what Weath's capable of."

I nodded again, not trusting myself to explain the complicated truth. These men deserved better than lies, but they also deserved protection from nightmares.

Garrett turned toward the growing crowd of onlookers, his voice carrying the authority of age and respect.

"Stop your gawking and fetch Mayor Willem! No Eyes is back!"

Gasps rippled through the assembled villagers. Some shook their heads in disbelief, unable to reconcile the towering figure before them with the half mechanical monster who had left them two years ago.

I reached up and pulled back my hood, letting the afternoon sunlight catch the black cascade of my hair. The gesture revealed features they recognized despite my ascension: the same angular cheekbones, the same determined jaw, though now framed by the dark mask that had become part of my face.

"It is No Eyes!"

"No Eyes! You're back!"

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"Praise the gods, you're safe!"

The shouts of joy filled the square as recognition spread like wildfire through the crowd.

The crowd around me swirled with familiar faces, each one triggering memories I had treasured during lonely nights at the Academy. Names and expressions I had not witnessed in almost two years emerged from the gathering, their owners rushing forward with warmth that made my chest tighten with emotion.

"No Eyes! You came back!"

Little Derek pushed through the forest of adult legs, his sister Pippa close behind. Both children had grown significantly during my absence. Derek's voice cracked occasionally, betraying his approach toward adolescence, while Pippa had lost the round cheeks of early childhood. Her bright eyes sparkled with the same mischievous intelligence I remembered.

"You promised you'd come home," Pippa declared, pointing an accusatory finger at me. "And you did!"

I always keep my promises, I replied, crouching down to their level despite the way my tendrils protested at the awkward position.

Derek reached out tentatively to touch my sleeve, his fingers tracing the expensive fabric with wonder.

"Are you rich now?" he asked with the blunt curiosity of youth.

Before I could answer, a familiar voice called my name from across the square. Emma Goodmak pushed through the crowd, her graying hair escaping its practical bun as she hurried toward me. The lines around her eyes had deepened, but her smile remained as genuine as ever.

"Look at you," she breathed, reaching up to clasp my shoulders. "In such good health, and so distinguished!"

Emma pulled me into an embrace that smelled of flour and herb gardens, her arms barely reaching around my broadened frame. The gesture transported me back to those first uncertain days in Weath, when this woman's daughter had become one of my first friends in the village.

A weathered hand clapped against my arm, and I turned to find Joss grinning up at me. The stable master's grip remained firm.

"Welcome back," he said, his voice rough with genuine pleasure. "Good to see you made something of yourself."

How is Bella? I asked, remembering his beloved mare who had carried our wagon to Cobb Town when I had fled the village so many months ago.

Joss's grin widened.

"Still the finest horse in three villages, though she's got a few gray hairs around her muzzle now. Much like her owner."

The crowd parted as Clarik approached, his familiar bulk now dwarfed by my enhanced stature. The blacksmith had to crane his neck to meet my eyes, but his expression radiated nothing but joy. Soot still clung to his leather apron, and the scent of hot metal followed him like a personal cloud.

"Look at you," he marveled, shaking his head in amazement. "When you left, I wondered if we'd ever see you again. Now here you stand, looking like you could wrestle dragons."

It's all thanks to the people who supported me, I replied, meaning every word. Without Weath's faith, I would never have survived.

Clarik's eyes misted slightly before he pulled me into a fierce embrace. His arms barely reached halfway around my torso, but the gesture carried the weight of friendship and shared memories. I returned the hug carefully, mindful of my enhanced strength.

"You always were too humble for your own good," he murmured against my chest.

A commotion at the crowd's edge announced the arrival of Old Willem- Mayor Willem now, I corrected myself. The elderly man pushed through the gathered villagers with surprising determination, the cane in his grip tapping against the dirt as people stepped aside to let him pass.

"Move aside, you gawkers," he called out, though his tone carried more amusement than irritation. "Give our friend some breathing room."

Willem stopped before me and tilted his head back, studying my transformed appearance with calculating eyes. Age may have bent his shoulders and silvered what remained of his hair, but his gaze remained sharp as ever. This was the same hardy old man who had accompanied me through the Lodrik Hellzone as we escaped Qordos.

"Well," he said finally, a laugh escaping his throat. "Haven't you grown into something impressive."

The mayor raised his voice to address the gathering crowd.

"Alright, you lot! I'll be holding a private meeting with our returned hero to catch 'em up on local events. The rest of you need to start preparations for a proper celebration tonight."

Several voices rose in protest, demanding to hear my stories immediately.

"Stop your blathering," Willem commanded with the authority of decades in leadership. "This one's homecoming deserves a feast, and the whole town is invited. Now scatter and make it happen!"

The announcement triggered enthusiastic cheers. Emma immediately took charge, her organizational skills honed by years of managing the general store. She began distributing tasks with military precision, pointing at various villagers and rattling off lists of responsibilities.

"Marcus, you handle the beer. Lily, we'll need enough bread for two hundred. Janet, gather the musicians..."

I watched the familiar chaos unfold around me, my heart swelling with affection for these people who had claimed me as family. Despite everything I had become, despite the divine power now flowing through my veins, Weath still felt like home.

Willem gestured toward the town hall with his cane.

"Come along, then. We have much to discuss before the festivities begin."

I followed him through the building's familiar doors, ducking slightly to clear the frame. Inside, Willem settled heavily into his chair beside the main table, his joints creaking audibly as he arranged himself. He indicated the seat across from him with a wave.

I lowered myself carefully, my tendrils curling beneath me to reduce my effective height. The gesture brought me closer to Willem's eye level, though I still towered over the elderly mayor.

Willem's expression grew serious as he leaned forward on his elbows.

"First things first. Antos was arrested when the Duke's men came investigating young Kolin's death."

I nodded, remembering what Harke had told me in his letter. What happened to him?

"The officials didn't want to return empty-handed to their lord. They needed someone to blame for the whole mess, so they took our mayor as a scapegoat."

Have you heard any news of him since?

Willem shook his head sadly.

"Nothing. The Duke's men departed with 'im in chains, and we've heard nothing since."

I clenched my fists, grief and rage warring in my chest. Another innocent soul suffering for crimes committed against me and mine. The old pervert who had seen potential in a broken monster and helped nurture it into something greater now languished in some nobleman's dungeon, or worse.

"Life in Weath has been peaceful since then," Willem continued. "They seemed to believe our story about you going berserk and killing both Kolin's forces and the villagers who died in the attack."

And Katherin? I asked, dreading the answer. Mallie's mother… how is she?

Willem's face crumpled, and I knew before he spoke that the news would devastate me.

"She took her own life a few months after you left."

The words hit like physical blows. I gripped the edge of the table, wood groaning under my enhanced strength.

"She'd been declining since losing Moskin and Mallie," Willem said gently. "Both physically and mentally. Toward the end, she would smile and stare at empty air, having conversations with people only she could see. We found 'er one morning in the fields where Mallie used to practice archery."

Where is she buried?

"Next to her husband and daughter, so the family could be together."

I nodded, my throat too tight for words. Another death to lay at Duke Redflight's feet. Another innocent destroyed by noble cruelty and indifference.

The Duke would pay for every tear, every grave, every shattered life his pride had cost.

"So, No Eyes," Willem said. "What happens now?"

Willem's question hung in the air between us, weighty with implications I wasn't sure he could comprehend. The honest answer would terrify him: I planned to travel north to Further Vale, to confront Duke Barson Redflight in his own stronghold and make him pay for every innocent life his family had destroyed. The man who had sent his son to accost Weath, who had ordered the execution of children, who now held Mayor Antos in some dank cell; he would face judgment.

My hands flexed against the wooden table, remembering the satisfying crunch of Kolin's bones beneath my grip. The father would learn the same lesson his son had discovered too late: that actions carried consequences, and some debts could only be paid in blood.

But then laughter drifted through the town hall's windows, mixing with excited shouts and the organized chaos of a community preparing for celebration. Emma's voice carried clearly as she coordinated food preparation, while children's delighted squeals punctuated the general din. These sounds… so warm, so alive, so full of hope; they pulled me back from the dark precipice of my fury.

I looked across the table at Willem, studying the lines that decades of hard life had carved into his weathered face. This man had lived in Weath through famines and floods, bandit raids and noble politics. He had seen me at my most broken and helped me find purpose. He deserved better than to watch me march off to war while the taste of homecoming still lingered sweet on everyone's tongues.

The Duke would face justice, but that reckoning could wait. Tonight belonged to the people who had claimed a broken monster as family.

For now? I replied, allowing genuine warmth to color my mental voice. I think it's time to celebrate my homecoming.

Willem's entire expression brightened, years seeming to fall away from his shoulders as relief replaced the worry that had shadowed his features. He slapped the table with his palm, producing a sharp crack that echoed through the small room.

"Now that's what I wanted to hear!" he declared, pushing himself upright with the assistance of his cane. "These people have been looking forward to this moment since ya left! They deserve to see their hero properly honored."

I rose as well, my enhanced height forcing me to duck slightly beneath the room's low ceiling. The gesture brought back memories of my early days in Weath, when I had struggled to navigate spaces designed for normal-sized humans. Now that awkwardness carried nostalgic charm rather than frustration.

Willem hobbled toward the door, his cane tapping against the wooden planks with a warm rhythm. The sounds of preparation grew louder as we approached the entrance, voices overlapping in the controlled chaos that preceded any major village celebration.

Before he could reach for the handle, I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned back, eyebrows raised in question.

And please, I said, meeting his curious gaze directly. Call me Vardiel.

The mayor's eyes widened slightly, processing this unexpected revelation. Throughout my time in Weath, I had been simply "No Eyes," the broken thing that had come in from the forest, the monster who had somehow become their protector. That name carried weight and meaning, representing transformation and acceptance.

But I was no longer just the remnant of something destroyed. I had grown beyond the boundaries of my origin, claimed power that transcended my humble beginnings. The name Vardiel represented not just who I had become, but who I chose to be.

Willem studied my face for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

"Vardiel it is, then," he said, testing the syllables with careful pronunciation. "Has a proper ring to it."

He grasped the door handle and paused, glancing back with a mischievous gleam in his aged eyes.

"Though I suspect half the village will keep calling you No Eyes out of habit."

I don't mind, I replied honestly. Both names are part of who I am.

Willem chuckled and pushed open the door, releasing a wave of sound and scent that washed over us both. The aroma of roasting meat mingled with fresh bread and ale, while excited conversations created a symphony of anticipation.

"Come on then, Vardiel," Willem said, emphasizing my name with satisfaction. "Let's give these people the celebration they deserve."

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