Lainor stepped out of the mirror, leaning on his wooden cane, dragging his dead leg behind him, and cursed Aksha as he stumbled and fell to the ground with the pinkish-white grass. He struggled to his feet with difficulty. Thankfully, there was no pain in his right leg. It was simply dead. Outwardly, it looked fine. Nothing was wrong with it, but whatever Aksha did when she melted it when he was in her daughter's body carried on with him. Even when he had Neserin send him back to his own body, it did not reverse the damage.

His right leg wasn't the only thing that was dead. His left arm was nothing but a piece of meat as well, hanging dead by his side. It swayed while he walked, which gave the impression that it worked, but it was anything remotely close to it. None of the healers back at the Spire could figure out why his arm and leg didn't work. Outwardly, there was nothing wrong with them. They said it was as if Aksha had hacked off pieces of his soul, or maybe the soul transfer hadn't been completed fully before Neserin passed away.

That was the story he had fed the Cult. That Neserin's last act was to send him back to his body as she lay dying from the wounds inflicted by Meera and her pet sorceress. Thankfully, the pup who had run from that fight never returned to the Cult to tell them that Lainor had taken Meera's side in that battle.

Before taking another step, he covered his leg in a layer of ice but still hadn't figured out how to move the ice with his other leg to imitate walking. If he knew this was going to be his fate, he never would've agreed to go in that dead daughter's body. He cursed himself for that every day.

"You're blocking my view," drawled a heavy, almost earth-shaking voice.

"Yes, yes, I'm moving," snapped Lainor at the old man. "It's a little harder for me to move if you haven't noticed."

He moved away from the mirror so he wasn't blocking the Ancient's view, and then paused to take a breath. He was back on Rhione in the clearing with the mirror that had brought Neel and his sister to this world. He had been tasked to report all that had happened on Gethys to Rothedon's son. But he was not supposed to give the entire truth. He was to twist it to make it look like the dragons had failed repeatedly to capture and kill the girl.

So, Lainor began his arduous march to Rothedon's Fist. The Ancient man didn't even bother giving Lainor a second look as he fell nearly a dozen times on the rough terrain. This mission should've been given to a fully abled brother or sister. Any fool with two eyes could see that. But as it turned out, Elder Raeven was entirely blind, even with two fully functioning eyes. Of course, his hands were tied since this order came from His Eminence himself.

If Elrasil wanted this message delivered, he should have risen from his rosy chair and delivered it himself.

Lainor tried to restrain his anger but found it challenging. He still respected the Hierarch, but this was downright humiliating. It wasn't enough to be subjected to such cruel torture at the hands of that sadistic woman, but now he was to be sent to the Cosmarians for their amusement.

He covered his dead arm with ice, moving the ice with his Living Ice skill, and slammed it into a tree in anger. The tree shook, and some monkeys with dark fur chittered as they jumped away from tree to tree.

Like always, he felt no pain on his arm, even if it did get bruised, but bruises hardly mattered anymore. He would've thought that there was some relief after enduring all that pain. He knew he would escape from that hellhole one way or another. It was the only thing that kept him going when Aksha mutilated him day after day. That there would be no way his Cult would abandon him, but they did abandon him, and now he was cast aside. To run humiliating tasks for them when any one of the others could do this easily.

He swallowed his anger and powered on, one grueling step after another. By the time he reached Rothedon's Fist, he was drenched in sweat, and dust and dry leaves marred his clothes from the times he stumbled and fell.

Unlike one horseman, like last time, two waited for him. The one with the staff and the eyeless helm was Rotheson's son, Mirageiros. The other was someone whom he had only read about in books. He had a broad build and was taller than any man Lainor had ever laid eyes on. He wore charred armor like Rothedon's son. His bull-shaped helmet had real bull horns. His eyes glowed yellow, and a light steam came off him.

[Pyroclastic Warlord – Level ????]

Lainor's one foot, which actually worked, didn't move when the red eyes of the Warlord turned to him. It was none other than Warnorinth, Rothedon's younger brother and second-in-command.

What is he doing here?

"You're late once again…cripple," Mirageiros said.

The word struck a nerve with Lainor, and he found his anger rising once again. He took one step after another as if to spite the Cosmarian. He did his best not to gaze at his companion. For whenever his eyes wandered to Warnorinth, his courage waned, and he wanted to run in the other direction.

He wondered if it was a skill or just the man's reputation that made him so fearsome.

Finally, he reached the barrier and stayed more than an arm's length away. Mirageiros stepped up to the barrier.

"So, is she dead?" he asked.

"No." Was all Lainor was planning to say, but when Warnorinth uncrossed his arms, his courage fled. "There were more than a few complications."

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It was impossible to gauge his reaction, as most of his face was covered. He didn't stir for a long while until, finally, Warnorinth grunted.

"Father will not be pleased," Mirageiros finally said.

He slammed his staff into the ground, and a round portal appeared beside him. It was as if he had ripped open a hole in the fabric of reality. Within the portal was only darkness—a mess of dark energy racing away from the opening. The sound of footsteps and armor clinking became louder, signaling that someone was walking out from the other side.

Then, a man in a crowned skull helm and glowing red eyes stepped out.

He wore dark armor with a web of cracks that ran red through it, like a charred, burnt-out, smoldering piece of wood. He was tall, though not as tall as Warnorinth, but still, he dwarfed Lainor.

Both Warnorinth and Mirageiros bowed their heads to this man.

Lainor gasped as it finally struck home who this man was. He stumbled in his haste to step back from the barrier, tripped over his dead leg, and fell flat on his ass. His stick went cluttering away.

Rothedon's red eyes, like a pair of burning coals, held him with such disregard that he was an insect before this man. Surprisingly, Lainor agreed with him. After all, this man had warred against the gods and almost defeated them. He was one of the key people who had brought about the end of a rampaging Aetheron. If some people were to be believed, he almost went toe-to-toe with the great dragon. The gods themselves quaked at his name, so what was Lainor compared to him?

"Get up," Rothedon drawled. His voice echoed in his helm, giving it an otherworldly quality.

Lainor formed an ice cane and got to his feet with difficulty. He bowed at the waist and almost tumbled over because he was trembling so much. Then something became clear why His Eminence had ordered him to bring this message, and he paled.

"Give your report," Rothedon said.

"Y-Yes, Lord," Lainor stammered. "The dragons failed to kill Meera." Rothedon did not stir, and after this, Lainor was supposed to lie. However, he figured his death would swiftly follow a lie, so he told the blatant truth, no matter how bad the Cult looked. Once he was done, no one said anything.

"It's the truth, my Lord," Lainor said. "I wouldn't dare lie to you."

Rothedon grunted lightly. "Is that all?"

"There is a message His Eminence bade me to tell you." Lainor's hand gripped the cane and trembled uncontrollably, causing him to fear he would fall again. So, he dribbled out the words quickly. "H-He asked me to tell you that…that the Cult is breaking all ties with you. That we will not serve your will any longer."

"What did you say?" Mirageiros stepped forward, ready to strike, but his father raised a hand, and he stilled.

"Do you understand the implications of those words?" Rothedon asked.

"Yes, my Lord. T-They mean my death."

Lainor had understood the true reason why he was sent the moment he saw Rothedon. Why was no one else but he sent to deliver this particular message? It was because his arm and leg didn't work properly anymore. They were dead weight, so he was seen as dead weight. Someone to be thrown to the wolves, no matter how faithfully he had served the Cult and His Eminence.

"Yes, they do," Rothedon said. "And yet you came. You must either be strong enough to escape my wrath or foolish enough to think your Hierarch cares about you."

Lainor blinked away the tears and said nothing. Running would be of no use. It wasn't like he could even run anymore.

"But as it so happens, not all the news you have delivered is bad news," Rothedon said. "The death of Veridiana and the destruction of the Sorceresses bring me great joy."

Lainor looked up, frowning a little.

"Yes, and the Champion's sister had a great hand in it. That's good. That's very good."

Even the Cosmarian King's son and brother turned to him, and though it was hard to tell, Lainor was sure they were also frowning.

"I've changed my mind," Rothedon said. "I do not want the girl killed…just yet."

"But Father—" Mirageiros started, but one look from his father, and he quieted.

"I'm going to have her kill the upstart Elrasil," Rothedon said.

Lainor's fear gave way to shock. He swallowed. "But h-how and why?"

"You need not concern yourself with that," Rothedon said, turning from him. "Your life is forfeit. Kill him."

Lainor went cold. He let go of the stick and fell to his knees, but his dead leg didn't bend at the right time, and he fell face-first into the dirt. He didn't care.

"My Lord, please no," Lainor begged. "Please let me live. I'll do anything. Anything you wish."

Rothedon stopped and turned back towards Lainor. "Anything?"

"Y-Yes."

"Will you assist Meera in killing your dear Hierarch?" asked the Cosmarian King.

"Uh, I…" Lainor had no answer for him.

"I wonder what he did to earn such loyalty. He sent you here, knowing what I would do to you. You are lying in the dirt, begging for your life, and yet you are loyal to a man who discarded you the moment you became a cripple." He scoffed. "You were a beast of burden to him, and once you became lame, he tossed you to me to put you out of your misery."

He was right. No matter which way Lainor looked at it. He was right. Tears welled up in his eyes. His Eminence–no, Elrasil did discard me. After all I did for him, he saw me as nothing more than an animal.

Lainor's anger rose, and he dared to meet Rothedon's eyes. "I will do as you ask, Lord, but I want to be whole again. I want my arm and leg back."

"That can be arranged. After all, I cannot have the next Frostcaller Hierarch crawling around on his belly."

Lainor paused. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Rothedon said. "In exchange for your leg, you will assist Meera in killing Elrsail. In exchange for your arm, you will serve my will as the next Hierarch. Finally, in exchange for your life, you will become one of my Charred Riders. To be at my beck and call any time I wish. Do you accept?"

Lainor swallowed. The other choice that he left unsaid was that he would kill him where he lay. He had dedicated his life to the Cult and Elrasil, and his reward had been nothing but treachery and death. Between his death and the death of his betrayer…the choice was easy.

"I accept," Lainor said.

"Then stand." Rothedon looked to his general. "Warnorinth, you have another to join your ranks."

The big Cosmarian stepped forward as Lainor dragged himself off the ground and went to him. He stopped close to the barrier and could feel the heat radiating off his armor. Warnorinth thrust his arm through the barrier and gripped Lainor's limp arm. He didn't feel anything at first, but then he gasped. Heat radiated from his limb, and jagged lightning-like cracks formed on his arm, glowing red-hot.

Lainor screamed as searing hot pain erupted in his arm and leg. He shook all over, trying to escape, but Warnorinth's grip was like iron. He screamed and tried to freeze his arm to calm the burning sensation, but any ice he formed instantly became steam. His arm was charred black, but the glowing red cracks remained.

Warnorinth let him go, and Lainor crashed to the ground. A notification popped up in his vision.

*ding!*

[Congratulations. New Class granted. You have been granted the new Class – Charred Warrior. You are forged in the crucible of fire, embodying resilience and destruction. You can summon a charred, ash-blackened armor that constantly radiates heat. The Charred Warrior is a force of devastation on the battlefield, their every move leaving trails of fire and embers in their wake. Would you like to acquire this class?]

Without a moment's thought, Lainor said, "Yes."

Rothedon gave a wicked grin. "Rise, my Charred Rider."

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