Chapter Twenty

  The weight of the word sat heavy in Ambrose's mind, its power both exhilarating and dangerous. Words of power were deeply tied to intent and meaning. He couldn't use break to mend or create, no matter his intentions, its definition limited its application. He had pushed that boundary before, using the word to break his enemy's tether to reality, and the strain had nearly killed him.

  That moment replayed in his mind as he assessed his current situation. Fenrir had been different. Targeting something specific about the beast had drained him, but it hadn't been as monumental as severing someone's existence entirely.

  Now, the challenge was much smaller. The svartal handcuffs that bound him were inscribed with intricate runes, and Ambrose knew enough about enchantments to understand that these runes worked in concert. Breaking even one would render the entire mechanism useless.

  Vivienne had once told him that only another word of power could counteract one, and he doubted anyone here possessed such a thing. Breaking the runes should be straightforward and wouldn't strain him like before.

  The real question was timing. If he acted now, it would trigger a fight. He could sense eyes on him from behind the glass, and the officers would storm in the moment they realized he was free. A fight wasn't a concern, he had fought far worse than this, but there were too many unknowns.

  The building might be covered in similar runes, locking down his abilities even if he broke free of the cuffs. Portals were likely out of the question. And while he couldn't access his icon or spirit, he still had his stats, his cloak, and Akaroth.

  What more is there to learn here? Ambrose mused, his gaze flickering toward the glass. The officers here were corrupt, their motivations predictable. He had more important matters to attend to—tracking the Red Hand, rescuing those trafficked souls, and dismantling Vorshawn's operations.

  At some point, information gathering became a waste of time. He had enough. It was time to act.

  He focused on a specific section of the runes on his cuffs, his mind aligning with the meaning of his word. His intent sharpened into a razor's edge, cutting through hesitation.

  "Break."

  The rune shattered with a soft pop, a ripple of mana dissipating harmlessly into the air. Relief flooded him as his abilities began to stir, rushing back into his grasp. He tried forming a portal but found the attempt blocked. His lips pulled into a slight frown.

  Gripping the chain that tethered him to the table, he snapped it with minimal effort. Then, slipping his fingers beneath the cuffs, he wrenched them apart. The broken metal clattered to the ground, and he rolled his neck, loosening the tension in his shoulders.

  The door burst open, two officers rushing in with sleek, rune-etched firearms raised.

  "Get down! On your knees!" one barked, his face contorted with fear and rage. His hand trembled slightly as he aimed his weapon.

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  Ambrose met their demands with silence. As his abilities returned, he activated [Retribution's Gaze], focusing on the officers before him. The skill penetrated their defenses, revealing their histories, their crimes, their souls laid bare.

  What he saw disgusted him. Images flooded his mind: the first officer accepting bribes from the Red Hand, turning a blind eye to their operations; the second helping to cover up evidence of trafficking rings, even partaking in the "merchandise" himself. Their guilt radiated from them like a stench, impossible to miss now that he could see it.

  These weren't officers of the law. They were accomplices to the very evil he sought to destroy.

  Ambrose poured mana into his armor. Hellfire erupted around him, a stygian aura of crackling flames and power. The ground beneath him blackened, the table scorched, smoke curling upward toward the ceiling. The heat was intense enough to warp the metal table, its surface beginning to soften and deform.

  The officers fired, blue energy bolts streaking toward him. His cloak devoured most of the energy, the rest bouncing harmlessly off his armor like a child's slap. The projectiles dissipated into harmless sparks that fizzled out against the floor.

  Summoning Akaroth, he moved. The dragon axe gleamed in his hand, lightning sparking along its edge as he closed the distance with inhuman speed. Unlike before, he didn't strike with the flat of the blade. These men had forfeited mercy through their actions.

  The axe cleaved through the first officer's neck, separating head from body in a single fluid motion. Blood sprayed across the interrogation room wall in an arc of crimson. Before the second officer could even register what had happened, Akaroth had already changed direction, splitting him from collar to hip. The man's scream died in his throat, his body falling apart as he collapsed to the floor.

  Their souls were tainted, hatchling,Akaroth whispered in his mind, the dragon's voice approving. A cleansing was necessary.

  Stepping into the hallway, he noted the sterile, corporate appearance of the station. Carpeted floors, photos lining the walls, normal, mundane, and utterly unsuited to what was about to happen.

  Two more officers stood at the end of the hall. They opened fire as soon as they saw him, bolts of energy lighting up the corridor.

  Akaroth flashed, cutting through the projectiles in a blur of motion. The dragon roared in his mind, exulting in the fight. [Retribution's Gaze] activated again, revealing their crimes—protection rackets, evidence tampering, torture of suspects. In seconds, both officers were dead, their bodies severed cleanly by the axe's edge. Blood pooled beneath them, soaking into the carpet.

  Chaos erupted as more officers scrambled for cover, leveling their weapons at him. Desks became barricades, and skills lit up the air as they hurled everything they had at him. One summoned an oversized sword that looked absurd in the cramped hallway.

  His gaze swept over each of them, [Retribution's Gaze] revealing the depths of their corruption. Not a single innocent among them. This wasn't a police station, it was a den of vipers, all working in service to the Red Hand and other criminal enterprises. The money they took, the people they hurt, the lives they destroyed, all of it flashed before him in a torrent of damning evidence.

  Ambrose moved like lightning, weaving through the chaos. Akaroth sang as it struck, killing with each blow. Heads rolled, limbs separated from bodies, torsos split open. Bolts of fire and energy struck his cloak, dissipating harmlessly into the void-like fabric.

  "Somebody call SpecOps!" a voice shouted, thick with panic.

  Ambrose ignored the fleeing officer, but only temporarily. He focused on the immediate threats, systematically dismantling their resistance. Within moments, the hallway was littered with dead bodies, blood splattered across walls and pooling on the floor. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood, mixed with burnt mana and singed carpet.

  He tracked down the officer who had tried to flee, cornering him in a break room. The man cowered behind a vending machine, his weapon forgotten in his panic.

  "Please," he begged, hands raised. "I have a family."

  [Retribution's Gaze] revealed the truth, this man had helped dispose of the bodies of those who crossed the Red Hand, had taken his cut from the trafficking operations, had beaten confessions out of innocent people to protect the guilty.

  "So did they," Ambrose replied coldly, before Akaroth ended the man's pleas.

  He knelt, searching the downed officers for anything that might disrupt the runes suppressing his abilities.

  It must be tied to their badges or something similar, he thought, noting the uniformity of their equipment. He resolved to study the system later. Such runes would be a powerful asset for Avalon.

  For now, there was no time. He needed to escape, and there were no windows to provide an easy exit. He would have to take his chances fighting his way out.

  Hellfire still curled around him, his cloak rippling with raw power. The stench of brimstone filled the air, mixing with the acrid tang of battle and the coppery scent of spilled blood. Bloody footprints marked his path through the station, a testament to the justice he had delivered.

  Ambrose rose, Akaroth in hand, and prepared to face whatever came next. There would be more corrupt officers, more servants of the Red Hand. He would deal with them all.

  This is just the beginning, hatchling, Akaroth whispered, her bloodlust not yet sated. Virion will learn to fear you as they should.