Cassian scanned the village—now crawling with cultists, their banners draped over the once-familiar rooftops. What had been farmland and quiet cottages had turned into the base of operations for the Karmen Earldom campaign. Smoke rose from dozens of cookfires, and the stench of sweat, blood, and scorched meat lingered in the air.

He estimated nearly ten thousand people here, though "people" was generous. A loose-lipped soldier he’d plied with cheap booze the night before had all but confirmed the number, chattering endlessly about the glory of the cult. From him, Cassian pieced together the rough picture of the group’s inner structure.

It started with the Hallow Fangs —men and women warped by twisted rituals. Some had survived botched experiments, their bodies bent at odd angles or their skin mottled with dark veins. Others had been "enhanced" through blood rites. Stronger than the average man, they gained even more strength from cannibalism, wearing bone charms and gnawed fingers as trophies.

Above them were the Ashbound Disciples —better-fed, better-trained versions of the Fangs. Their mutations were less grotesque, their power more refined. They carried themselves like predators who had clawed their way out of the muck.

Then came the Crimson Hands , the cult’s main fighting force. They were Circle Warriors, usually between the First and Third Circle, and wore red-stitched gloves or painted hands across their armor. These were the men Cassian had to blend in with—fighters bound together more by blood and rule than by loyalty.

But the mages... the mages stood apart. Even the weakest spellcaster outranked most warriors. The Abyssal Hands , they were called, their robes marked with black spirals. Once a mage advanced to Aetherion , they were absorbed into the Crimson Hands as battle-casters. Those who proved themselves further became Shadow Templars —the very kind Cassian had once seen serving Analisa, a woman who herself held the rank of Cardinal

.

The cult had nearly a hundred Cardinals spread across their domains. Three times that number of Shadow Templars, some even strong enough to be mid- to high-rank Circle Warriors. Above them, whispered in fear, were the High Harbingers —ten names shrouded in secrecy. Cassian knew only one: the Artistic Butcher, infamous for sculpting corpses into "masterpieces."

And above them all, the Archons of Silas . Supposedly immortal, dwelling in the ancient temple of the dark god. Their legend alone was enough to keep half the cult in line.

Cassian’s mouth tightened. The sheer power this cult had gathered was staggering. Ten figures with the strength of Archmages, each possessing an Arcane Realm of their own. Few nations could boast that kind of high-end might.

Yet, for all their numbers, the cult still wasn’t enough to topple the Andharta Kingdom , let alone the continent’s other powers. Cassian knew at least three people in Magisteria City alone who could match a High Harbinger. As for Cardinal-level strength? Katherine, Aurilia, Commander Sher, Sergeant Hally—he could name them without even thinking. And that was only scratching the surface.

So what were these cultists betting on? Their Archons? Some hidden weapon? Cassian didn’t know. Didn’t need to know. He wasn’t here to solve their plans. He was here to survive and gather every scrap of intelligence he could before slipping away.

For now, he was a low-ranking soldier, taking whatever grunt job they gave him.

The farmland that had once fed this village now sprawled with tents and training yards. Cassian drifted toward the larger camp, careful to keep his steps measured. The air here was thick with mana—he could feel the subtle vibrations in his skin, like the atmosphere before a lightning storm. Warriors sharpened blades, wrestled in the dirt, or sparred in open rings. Most were First to Third Circle fighters, their energy flaring with every movement.

What puzzled him was the absence of stronger ones. He sensed no Fourth Circle warriors at all. The mages, yes—there were a few whose aura matched that level—but among the warriors, it was as if someone had cut off the top of the ladder.

He slipped into the crowd gathering around a makeshift arena: just a patch of beaten earth surrounded by shouting men. In the ring, two First Circle warriors clashed with short swords, their abilities leaning toward speed. Bursts of movement blurred their bodies, but their swings were clumsy and their footwork full of holes. Cassian watched once, twice, and already knew how he would dismantle either one of them with his Gale Whisper Sword Style —domain or no domain.

Leaning against a massive axe sunk into the dirt stood a young man about Cassian’s age. Scarred arms, wolfish eyes, and a single black circle stitched onto his shoulder marked him as another First Circle warrior.

Cassian approached casually, tilting his head. "Hi there?"

The man flicked him a glance, uninterested, eyes fixed on the fight. "Yeah? You new?"

"Just joined," Cassian said with an easy shrug. He extended a hand. "Name’s Cassian. Nice to meet you."

The man blinked at the gesture, then clasped it firmly. "Luke. Hah, not often someone introduces themselves like that around here. Most just grunt or glare."

Cassian chuckled lightly. "Guess I’m an odd one, then. Still trying to figure out how things work."

Luke’s mouth curled into a grin. "Well, welcome to the cult. How are you finding it so far?"

Cassian gave a half-truth, letting his voice carry a note of curiosity. "Different than I’d heard. Honestly... more civilized than I expected."

Luke laughed, leaning against his axe again. "Civilized, yeah. Because of the rules. Strict prohibition against killing or harming fellow cultists. Unless you’re a mage or high rank, of course. Step too far and the Inquisitors will gut you." He smirked. "But once you’re Crimson Hands or Shadow Templar? Rules don’t stick the same."

Cassian raised a brow, filing that away. "So... no killing, no torture, nothing like that?"

Luke’s grin sharpened. "You sound eager."

Cassian let his shoulders slump, sighing with a faint smirk. "Not eager, exactly. But it was kind of why I joined."

Luke’s eyes glittered. "Then you’re in the right place. You can’t kill your own, but you can torture them if you make them your slave. As for outsiders? Do whatever you damn well please."

As he spoke, his domain slipped free—sharp and acrid, like smoke from burning poison. Cassian’s nose stung, his throat tightened. Luke caught himself and reeled it back with a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Gets away from me sometimes."

Cassian met his gaze, then let his own domain flare. Red light bled into the air, heavy and oppressive. Killing intent wrapped around Luke like a noose. His grin faltered, a shiver crawling down his spine.

"Of course I get it," Cassian said, his tone steady, calm. "Now... tell me how to make one of them my slave."

Luke’s grin returned, wider than before, teeth flashing like a predator’s.

"Now you’re speaking my language."