A sickly green haze leaked from the ghoulish man. He scuttled forward with a slight limp. The skin on his body sagged loose with a pallid composition, the surface wrought with bulbous lumps and pus-filled cavities. His hair was fiendishly long and it draped down his back all the way to the ground. With each heaving step that he took, the black heap was hauled forward like a parasitic mass.

Wherever Blighted Artist went, pestilence followed.

The miasma encroached upon Isarelle. Plants decorating the roads of the Black Shoal for the Aurous Festival instantly withered upon contact with the silent mist. Small creatures in the vicinity immediately fell without resistance. When the miasma seized the residents of the Black Shoal, they convulsed and bled as the haze choked life out of their vessels.

Blighted Artist clenched onto the Azurite fragment in his hands. The stone's soothing aura embraced his weary body with a heavenly pleasure. He had been deprived of his Gift for decades. This was like a reunion with a lifelong lover.

The middle-aged man no longer remembered his own name—only his moniker, granted to him by the kingdom who betrayed his unwavering loyalty. His mind had been shattered by years of solitary confinement and torture designed to break his will. It worked. Over the years, Blighted Artist had lost his sense of self. Memories that gave him his identity had been grinded away into fine dust. Faces that he ought to have remembered turned into faint, blurry blobs.

What he did managed to hold onto, however, was this burning sense of betray. The injustice inflicted upon him. He recalled the circumstances that led him to become a broken soul with vivid clarity. Before his confinement, Blighted Artist was an Exalted who served the royal army of Ardair. Realizing his talents, he was sent to the Saar to participate in its conquest.

The atrocities that he committed under the banner of Ardair would lay the foundation for the Gharian's annexation.

His Gift made him a terror on the battlefield. The indiscriminate nature of his pestilence offered little room for defense. Death was the only constant. Soon, his mere presence was enough to destroy the morale of the Gharian resistance.

The army called him a hero. A man who could turn the tides of a battle just with his arrival.

After the conquest of the Saar, Blighted Artist expected to return to the kingdom as a hero. His Gift had brought the Gharians to their knees. His efforts significantly reduced the casualties that Ardair would have faced through conventional warfare. His Gift saved lives.

Instead, what awaited him was a life sentence.

"Under the Ardairan Code of Laws, the Exalted known as Blighted Artist is guilty of crimes against humanity!"

The royal family's declaration shook him to his soul. He didn't understand. What crimes did he commit? All he did was follow orders. He did exactly what was asked of him. Nothing more, nothing less. He did not gloat before his enemies. He did not relish in their suffering. He was not excessive in his actions nor did he ever act on his own behalf.

So then why?

"It's because they're scared. Your Gift is too powerful. Your presence alone could bring this kingdom to its knees. If one day your loyalty wavers or your ambition grows, then there's little that could stop you."

His associate, Deathstrider, spelled it out for him. The two of them had received the same sentence for their actions in the war for the Saar. Realizing that he had been used and discarded, Blighted Artist finally lashed out against his masters. But by then, it was already too late. His Azurite accessory had been removed. Archanum was flush in his veins. He was no stronger than an Ordinary and he was chained within the cold floors of Thanatos.

Even as his sanity degraded, Blighted Artist never forgot his bitterness.

Now with his newfound freedom, the former hero of Ardair stomped ahead, propelled only by his desire for vengeance.

***

Deathstrider was a hollow soul. Years of confinement in Thanatos had destroyed his mind. He knew nothing of the bitterness, vengeance, and grief against the kingdom that betrayed him for diligently following orders. Now he was simply an empty vessel, driven solely by instincts and the instructions engraved into his body.

Those same instincts compelled him to follow Blighted Artist, his partner during the Gharian war. Deathstrider's Exalted constitution gave him the tolerance to exist in Blighted Artist's pestilence. Their Gifts were also highly compatible. From the corpses created by Blighted Artist's rampage, Deathstrider repurposed to raise an undead army of his own. Their horrific combination wrecked havoc upon the militaristic tribes of the Saar. Facing pestilence was one thing, but seeing their dead allies reanimated as their enemies was often too much for their foes to bear.

Like clockwork, Deathstrider accompanied his former companion as they tore through Isarelle.

Just like in the past, Blighted Artist's pestilence brought death while Deathstrider's touch enslaved.

Bit by bit, his undead army grew alongside the rats of Vigil.

Wretched screams fell on deaf ears, snuffed out by the pervasive miasma. Pleads to the Goddess were silenced and rendered into eternal servitude instead. Deathstrider had no mind, but his body shuddered with delight at the authority raging through his veins. Azurite dangled from his neck. Mana filled his vessel. For the first time in ages, he felt whole again.

More.

He needed more.

Anything to get rid of the gnawing discomfort that dwelled in his guts.

Forever.

Blighted Artist suddenly stopped.

Deathstrider paused a step behind him.

A gentle light inundated the space before them. A brilliant aura. It had a touch of something otherworldly, a sensation that veered on the divine. Deathstrider felt an instinctual repulsion towards the soothing aura. He could feel Blighted Artist's discomfort. His companion's pestilence seemed to shrink under the light's irradiance.

A soldier cladded in argent armor stood at the center of the lights. They must have been its source. A sword draped loosely in their hands. A pair of angelic wings sprouted from their back.

An obstacle.

An enemy.

Deathstrider let out a mad screech. His undead army surged forward like a black tide.

***

The ferric tang tingled his nostrils. The aroma was light and pleasant, filled with the spry vitality characteristic of a young woman.

Flesh Devourer licked his lips in anticipation.

The sight of the corpse in front of him was tantalizing. The young lady had been freshly killed. They smelled like they were the epitome of health. No ailments. No disease. There was nothing rotten about the warm blood pulsating out of her wounds. Satisfied with his selection, he helped himself to a huge bite. The first taste of a meal was always the most delectable. The flesh, unmarred by air and pollutants, would be sweet and savory.

He nearly groaned at the explosion of flavors in his mouth. The taste was even more heavenly than he remembered. Deprivation was truly the essence of the enjoyment. Unable to resist his urges, he gouged himself without restraint.

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When he was no longer consumed by his frenzy, the young lady was no more. Flesh Devourer let out a satisfied sigh as he wiped his mouth clean of blood and entrails. Vitality surged through his body. Life force swelled in his veins. His mind grew clear and his heart pounded with energy. For the first time in years, he felt alive.

"I couldn't have picked a better first meal," he muttered in a low drawl.

Young ladies had always been one of his favorite delicacies. Not that he was some sort of deranged psycho with a perverse fixation, mind you—Flesh Devourer had always considered himself an equal opportunistic feeder of all people of all ages and genders. There was no need to discriminate. Each person had their own unique taste. There was something to enjoy about everyone.

He sucked his fingers clean of the bloody residuals. His stomach felt full, but his desire to feed was insatiable. More. He wanted more. Years of being confined in Thanatos had robbed him of his delicacies, and he was eager to make up for lost time. With Isarelle in chaos, there was nothing that could stop him from indulging himself.

Flesh Devourer's Gift granted him a unique constitution. By feeding on other humans, he was able to absorb their vitality as his own. As he moved onto his next prey, his body was already changing. Muscles bulged from his haggard frame marred by Thanatos's confinement. His hollowed cheeks became full. Color returned to his skin. His back straightened and his limbs pulsated with growth. With just two more meals, he would be in peak condition again.

And then I'll take my revenge.

He recalled his downfall with bitter clarity. Flesh Devourer was the son of a former countryside noble. There was nothing notable about his family in the grand scheme of Ardair's tumultuous political landscape. But that was fine. He liked that. He had the status and wealth of the nobility, and yet he was detached from the annoying and asinine political battles. Without any eyes on his family, he was free to do as he pleased.

And so, he fed.

At first, he limited himself to bandits. His Gift had been an accidental discovery when he had been captured by marauders on the outskirts of his territory. Before he could be brought back to their camp for ransom, a landslide had struck the crew that held him captive. Left stranded and wounded, Flesh Devourer fed on the corpse of his captors out of desperation. That had been the trigger of his Awakening.

With the powers of an Exalted, he became a vigilante of sorts. Using his Gift, he kept his territory free of criminals while satiating his hunger. As he grew more powerful, however, his hunts became more ambitious. His morals loosened. His targets expanded beyond bandits and marauders. Petty criminals also entered his feeding range. No matter how asinine the crime, as long as it violated one of the Ardairan Code of Laws, he pounced.

Everything was all fine and dainty until he made one fatal mistake.

A group of Lionhearts just happened to be passing by the edges of his territory when he was caught in the middle of a feast. Flesh Devourer had been careless—normally, he would have taken better care to hide himself during his feeding frenzies. But all of his successes had gotten to his head.

He had fought valiantly, even managing to take the lives of several Lionhearts before eventually succumbing to his wounds. When he woke up, he found himself on the frigid floors of Thanatos with his Gift revoked and his connection to mana polluted by Archanum.

"Never again," he vowed as he trampled through the ruins of the Black Shoal in search of prey.

The fragments of Thanatos had ravaged the district, turning it from a crowded residential area to a graveyard. He could feed on the innumerable dead buried beneath the rubble, but where was the fun in that? The feast would be stale. He wanted a fresh meal. He finally had his freedom—this day ought to be celebrated.

He finally caught his targets by the edge of a medical site. The smell of blood was heavy in the air. He naturally found himself drawn when he saw a group of civilians hurriedly hauling the injured onto makeshift medical beds. The ones in charge seemed to be a middle-aged couple. They were giving orders while carrying supplies—the words "Seibert Merchant Company" engraved on the back of their clothes.

The name itched at his subconscious. It felt familiar, but Flesh Devourer quickly shrugged it off. It couldn't have been more important than his feast.

Having made up his mind, he crept towards the couple. Overpowering them was trivial given his Exalted nature, but he didn't want to cause a scene. Ideally, he would strike when they were separated and then enjoy himself without being disturbed.

"Halt!"

The commanding voice caused him to freeze. Flesh Devourer turned, staring down the tip of a spear. A stern-looking man glared at him. Flesh Devourer extended his senses in search of mana. Nope, he's Ordinary. There was no hint of Azurite in the vicinity. No Exalted amongst the group.

"State your name and purpose!"

My name?

The question gave him pause. Was it again? He scoured his mind for answers, but he was surprised to find it empty. Ever since his imprisonment, he had always been referred to by his moniker. And even before then, the people of his territory called him "young master" or "young lord" rather by his actual name.

"Speak!"

Spittle rained down on his face. Flesh Devourer winced briefly. Thanks to the man's shouting, the entirety of the medical site was now aware of his presence. His plan to feed in secrecy had been thwarted. Feeling distraught, he let out a dispirited sigh.

"If you're not going to speak, then—"

Squelch!

Blood sprayed into the air. He breathed in, soaking in the rich aroma. The man threatening him suddenly had a head missing. His decapacitated body collapsed to the ground with a solid thud. Flesh Devourer licked his fingers, savoring the taste.

"Hmmm, saltier than the last one. Not bad," he evaluated as he strutted towards his original targets. The Seibert couple cowered at his approach. The man had a spear in hand while the woman was desperately directing the civilians to run.

"Oh, how admirable. Even when facing down a terrible monster like me, you still have the courage to resist," he drawled, "I wonder, just where does this audacity come from?"

"W-What do you want?" the man stammered, visibly trembling. Flesh Devourer smiled. Despite his fear, the Seibert man was still trying to buy time by making him talk. Fascinated, he obliged.

"They call me Flesh Devourer. And true to my name, I'm looking for a delectable meal. It's been quite some time since I've been able to feast, you know?" Flesh Devourer pointed his lanky finger at the Seibert couple. "And I believe I've found two delicacies right here."

***

Spirit Alchemist sprinted through the wreckage of the Black Shoal without rest. The rats commanded by Vigil's Gharian led the way. The presence of the monstrous rodents was enough to scare most people away. Isarelle had been desecrated. Vigil's assault left the city in ruins. Spirit Alchemist hadn't seen a level of destruction since the war for the Saar.

How ironic that a Gharian is now leading me to my freedom.

Like Blighted Artist and Deathstrider, Spirit Alchemist was another Exalted who had fought for Ardair during the conquest of the Saar. Unlike those two, he hadn't been immediately sentenced to life imprisonment upon war's conclusion. His journey to Thanatos took a more roundabout path. After the Saar was officially absorbed into the kingdom, the royal family found itself in a strange position. Although it had expanded the kingdom's borders and population, there was suddenly an empty swat of land that required governance.

The new province of Gharia was vast. Alone, it accounted for a third of Ardair's territories. Keen to maintain the status quo and not to dilute its power, the royal family raised House Ulster into the status of a duke and granted them governance of Gharia, using merit and exceptional achievement as their excuse. The head of the Ulster family and his wife, Troya, were both Exalted who had also distinguished themselves during the war. Spirit Alchemist was their associate.

However, the royal family was not entirely benevolent. Concerned with the sudden power and authority now in House Ulster's hands, they demanded that the family relinquish control over some of their skilled Exalted. It was a move designed to cripple their growth before the family could become a faction that could rival the royal family's influence.

Spirit Alchemist was caught in the crossfire of this political move. He was given an offer to serve the royal family. He declined on a whim, thinking that there would be better opportunities amongst the other noble houses given his achievements during the Gharian war. That was a mistake. Back then, he was naïve and didn't consider the implication of his move. To decline the royal family was to deny their authority. To deny their authority was tantamount to treason. And that was enough to land him into the hellish cells of Thanatos.

The royal family will pay!

Mana flared from the Azurite accessory on his wrist, reacting to the vengeful emotions surging inside of his chest. He clenched his jaws as he seared every wrong and indignity that he suffered during his imprisonment into his mind. He helped the kingdom expand by dirtying his hands. He was supposed to be rewarded for his actions. Instead, he was treated like a pariah and an enemy of the state. The royal family stifled his growth and robbed years of his youth away; he would pay them back tenfold.

First, I need to get out of Isarelle.

Vigil's historic assault had crippled the city, but Spirit Alchemist wasn't convinced that their escape would be smooth. He wasn't naïve anymore. Thanatos was a symbol of the royal family's authority as much as it was a prison for powerful Exalted. The crown and the Lionhearts would not take this affront without counterattacking. The city might be underdefended for now, but who knows how long this lull would last?

And so, he made it his number one priority to follow the rats to escape into the Canticle. Several other inmates of Thanatos joined him as they rushed through the Black Shoal. Mana inundated his limbs, granting him a temporary boost to his physique. The years he spent inside the cell had caused his muscles to atrophy. His frame had thinned and his lungs burned at the strenuous activity. If not for his Exalted constitution, he might have already collapsed.

In the midst of his exhaustion, he caught a surge of mana from the distance.

Spirit Alchemist screeched to a halt right as a bombardment of stone salvos rained down from the air. The inmates in front of him weren't so lucky. The missiles tore through their bodies, ripping off chunks of flesh and bone like the maws of a gluttonous beast.

"Stand down."

Bloodlust dripped from the command. Murderous energy drenched the air. Spirit Alchemist felt his arms tremble from the suffocating pressure. The order came from a masked man standing at the end of the road. Cladded in black, the only other remarkable feature that he could see was the figure's piercing blue eyes.

Shit.

Spirit Alchemist glanced down at the inmates in front of him. None of them were recognizable anymore, having been mercilessly rendered into a pile of gore.

Stones levitated from the wreckage of the Black Shoal as the masked man prepared his next attack. Spirit Alchemist steeled his nerves. Besides him, there was only one other inmate who survived the ambush. With a heavy sigh, he readied his Gift.

Just my damn luck.

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