ButcherPete
patreon
Chapter 57: Young Master Damien
🕑 Added 2025-06-05 00:50:11 +0000 UTCWhite fire licked the stone beneath Damien's boots, but Arden didn’t flinch.
The boy’s awakening was premature, wild, and dangerous. And yet, all Arden felt was a distant pang of disappointment.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just the measured chill of expectation unmet. It was hard to be patient with such rashness in front of him.
The flame wasn’t just holy; it was pure. It hummed with a resonance Arden hadn’t felt in decades, a flame that imposed order on the world around it.
Pure Order Law.
A law that converts and breaks down ‘all to order’. A terrifying power, if wielded by one without balance.
Damien lunged, sword glowing with righteous fire, eyes burning with fury. His technique was raw, aggressive, and heavy-handed.
“You don’t get it!” Damien snarled, his voice distorted by the crackle of flame. “You think I’m just some child chasing your shadow!?”
Arden met his blade with ease, steel glancing off steel. “No,” he replied calmly. “I think you’re a child chasing shadows of your own making.”
Damien’s swings came faster, powerful arcs infused with magic that tore grooves in the ground.
Arden’s sword moved in contrast. Minimal, surgical. He dodged with a pivot. Parried without flourish. Repositioned like water running downhill.
To Damien, it felt like fighting a wall of ice, an iceberg uncaring of the powerful strikes sailing his way. No matter how fierce his flame roared, Arden didn’t burn. He endured. His blade sliding past with no effect.
“Why won’t you fight me seriously!?” Damien shouted, hurling another flame-enhanced slash.
“Because you haven’t earned it.” His eyes turning increasingly colder at the display. This was not the attitude of a hero.
Arden’s tone soon shifted.
He was done humoring the boy. Even as humble as he was, his patience was limited.
Arden stepped in, boots shattering scorched stone. His sword moved in a flurry, first to disarm, then to dismantle.
He struck Damien’s hand, sending his sword flying. A swift kick to the stomach folded the boy. A shoulder check sent him skidding across the ground.
Damien roared and rolled back to his feet, fire gathering around him in an unnatural ring. The air bent from heat, but the power felt… disobedient, like it did not agree with its wielder. But the wielder forced its compliance.
“I will prove myself here!” Damien shouted.
Arden’s gaze narrowed. “That’s not what this is really about, is it?”
He didn’t say it aloud, but the picture was forming.
The words Damien had used. The looks. The desperation. The flares of emotion. The need to be seen. Arden’s respect? Doubtful.
‘You’re not trying to defeat me, surpass me.’ Arden thought. You’re trying to surpass something else.
Someone else. His mind shifted to the wizard the boy was glancing at over and over on the way here.
‘Her, most likely.’ Arden concluded.
Damien came at him again, one last all-or-nothing charge.
Arden responded with silence. And resolve.
He moved like the hand of judgment.
He closed the distance in a blink. Damien swung. Arden ducked, struck his ribs, twisted behind him, and elbowed his back. Damien coughed blood. Still, he turned, burning, glowing, spitting fire.
Arden grabbed his face and slammed him into the ground.
“That’s enough,” he said with a chilly tone.
But Damien wouldn't stop. Righteous flame exploded around them, trying to cleanse Arden from existence. The floor warped. The arena walls cracked. Spectral lines of sigils, laws made manifest, carved themselves all around them.
Arden winced. Not from pain. From recognition.
This wasn’t just an awakening. This was a collapse. The laws were consuming him.
Had he been a higher being, his law field would have crushed him already. Burning him to ash.
“You’re losing control,” Arden said, voice now completely frozen over. “And you don’t even realize it.”
He struck again, this time with half his full force.
Not to kill.
But to end it.
His sword became a blur. A dozen strikes landed in seconds, the flat of his blade hitting knees, ribs, shoulders, arms. Not bone-breaking, but nerve-deadening. Damien’s body began to give out, despite the fire screaming for more.
The boy stumbled.
Then Arden hit him in the chest with the hilt.
Hard.
Damien flew back into the arena wall. The flame around him guttered and died, retreating into his blood. His breathing was ragged. His eyes wide. Confused.
Even with his transformation, his evolution. He was not enough? He was nothing?
His consciousness began fading.
He was done.
Arden stood in the silence, exhaling slowly. No words now. No lecture. Just quiet disappointment and a shadow of pity.
High above, unseen, a pair of sharp eyes watched with growing interest.
Lord Victor Sunblade tapped his gloved finger against the balcony rail. The arena below had gone quiet. Ash and heat still lingered in the air, stirred by the death throes of that strange white fire.
"Fascinating," he murmured.
Beside him, the priest, an older man in white robes with eyes that didn’t blink enough, staring behind gold glasses, remained silent. Observing.
Victor allowed himself the rare indulgence of a small smile.
He'd come expecting a child’s tantrum. A young fool with just enough talent to scrape at the outer rim of nobility. Instead, he’d seen a bloodline awaken.
‘My bloodline.’
Damien didn’t know it. Likely, not even the woman raising him did. But the moment that flame ignited, righteous fire, the divine blaze of order law, Victor had known.
It was unmistakable. The gift of their line. Watered down, maybe, but pure enough to stir reality.
Enough to matter at least.
“That flame,” Victor said, his voice silky with unspoken power. “It cleansed the stones mid-battle. Purified the air around it. There’s judgment in it.”
The priest nodded once. “Pure Order. Untamed, but legitimate. It is as the scriptures predicted. The blood of the Sunblade line stirs again.”
Victor looked down at Damien’s slumped body. A mess of bruises, cracked ribs, twitching fingers.
Pathetic. But valuable.
He remembered seeing that same fire in his father’s eyes, long ago. Before the beastkin wars in the southern continent. Before House Sunblade fell into decline and petty politics.
‘This boy could restore that fire.’
A prospect more valuable than a dozen minor nobles.
“Should I retrieve him now, my lord?” the priest asked.
Victor shook his head.
“No. Let the teacher see to him. Let her weep. Let her realize she’s lost him. Then we descend.”
He pulled a silver ring from his pocket and examined the crest, a blazing white sun bisected by a sword.
“We’ll claim him once the fire dies down.” The nobleman grinned.
He turned to leave, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow spilled across the stone below.
Down below.
Abigail burst into the arena moments after the last strike, her boots skidding across the cracked tiles as she reached Damien’s side. The air still sizzled with residual magic. Her heart pounded, not from the heat, but the weight of what she’d just witnessed.
She knelt beside her student, pressing glowing hands against his battered chest. Light blue light radiated from her palms, knitting together bone and tissue, slowing the bleeding.
“Damien,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “What were you thinking?”
She could hardly look Arden in the eye. He stood off to the side, face impassive, arms crossed, his weapon already sheathed. No words of apology. No concern. Just cold efficiency.
Yet, she knew him.
Knew him enough to know.
That silence was louder than shouting.
She turned back to Damien. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you stop?”
Damien groaned beneath her hands, eyes fluttering, barely open. “I had to… show him.”
“Show him what?”
He didn’t answer.
Abigail's hands faltered. The burn marks across his arms were seared in patterns, holy runes laced with the ancient laws of order. It wasn’t just divine power. It was judgment made flame.
Righteous Fire. She’d only read of it in dusty, banned tomes.
And now… now it had manifested in him.
Inside the capital, no less.
“This power…” she whispered.
“Was never meant to be his.”
The new voice froze her blood.
She looked up, her healing spell fading as two figures emerged from the shadows of the archway above the arena.
Lord Victor Sunblade descended like a hawk surveying its prey. Regal. Icy. Dangerous.
Behind him, the pale-eyed priest watched everything with calculating stillness.
“What do you mean?” Abigail demanded, standing up to shield Damien.
Victor stepped onto the scorched stone, gaze lingering on the damage, then on the boy.
“You've done well enough, instructor,” he said smoothly. “But this boy’s future is no longer yours to guide.”
Abigail's eyes widened, then narrowed. “You can’t just take him.”
“I’m not taking him.” Victor smiled thinly. “I’m reclaiming him.”
Arden’s gaze shifted from the bruised and exhausted Damien to the imposing figure of Lord Victor Sunblade, who now stood near the edge of the arena.
His cloak billowed faintly in the evening breeze, and his eyes gleamed with a predatory sharpness.
Abigail instinctively stepped forward, placing herself between the noble and her student. “You have no right,” she said firmly, her voice trembling but resolute.
Victor's smile widened, a cold glint in his eyes. “And yet, by law of the capital city, Damien Sunblade belongs to House Sunblade. By birthright, he is mine to claim.”
Abigail's heart clenched. “But he’s my student! He’s not a prize to be bartered!”
The priest behind Victor nodded slowly, his pale eyes almost gleaming with quiet approval. He practically ignored Abigail's protest.
“The boy’s potential is vast. His bloodline power must be cultivated...” He glanced at the wizard, a hint of disdain flashing past his eyes. “Properly. You’ve done your part, Wizard. Now it is time for him to be shaped by those who understand the true weight of his heritage.”
Arden’s voice cut through the tense air, low and icy. “You’ll take him by force?”
Hearing this, Victor laughed softly, a sound devoid of humor or mirth. “Bold words for an angel without his ‘wings’.”
Arden stiffened but did not reply.
The noble’s sneer deepened. “You’d do well to stay out of this, Hero Arden. This is not your fight.”
Before Arden could answer, a chilling voice descended from the sky, clear and cold as winter air.
“Arden, stand down. This matter is beyond your jurisdiction.”
All eyes turned upward. High above the arena, seated casually upon what looked to be a cloud drifting lazily in the twilight sky, was an angel.
Unlike Arden, this one had the majestic white halo of celestial beings, gleaming faintly in the dying light. 3 rings rotated within one another. His long, light green hair showed prominently by the simple white toga he wore.
The angel’s smile was cruel and serene as his pale green eyes stared down at Arden. “You should know better than to interfere, half-breed.”
Arden clenched his fists. His voice was steady but firm. “Speak your purpose.”
The angel’s gaze narrowed, shadows flickering behind his radiant countenance. “Your mother’s village lies exposed, Arden. I could lay waste to it with a whisper.”
Arden’s jaw tightened, a cold fury simmering beneath his calm exterior.
“Stay out of this fight, or watch your past burn.”
The angel laughed softly, a sound that echoed like distant thunder.
Abigail's eyes widened with alarm, but before she could speak, the angel addressed her directly.
“Cursed mortal, understand this: Damien Sunblade is no ordinary child. By the laws of the capital city, he is the property of House Sunblade. Your efforts to claim him are futile.”
The noble’s smile widened. “Let that sink in. Your pupil’s fate was sealed before he took his first breath.”
Abigail looked from the angel in the sky to Victor and the priest below. A bitter chill crept over her heart. These were not people she could handle with mere spells.
Arden stepped forward, voice quiet but deadly serious. “If you threaten those around him, you will make an enemy of me.”
The angel’s laughter echoed again. “Hahaha! And enemies are so... inconvenient.”
With a final disdainful glance, the angel vanished into the darkening sky.
Victor’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “You see, Arden? There are forces at play far greater than your concerns. I advise caution.”
Abigail swallowed hard, her mind racing. Damien’s fate was no longer hers to assist. The laws, the power, the politics, they all conspired to steal the boy away.
And all it took was a simple spar to decide on moving. No. They were in wait; they had already known, already planned.
An inevitable encounter.
She knelt again by Damien’s side, gently brushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair from his brow.
“Hold on, Damien,” she whispered fiercely. “I will find a way.”
Arden sheathed his sword and gave Abigail a curt nod. “I will watch him. But know this, I do not trust these nobles or their house’s angels. They deal in shadows and threats.”
Victor chuckled softly as he turned away, disappearing into the night with the priest close behind. He didn’t need to explain further, nor did he need to get the boy himself.
They didn’t dare run, and fetching a person was the job of a servant.
And finding a way? Nonsense.
The arena lay in ruin, the smell of scorched stone and magic lingering like a ghost.
Abigail looked up once more to the heavens, eyes burning with a mixture of fear and defiance.
The game had changed. And the true battle was only beginning.
The night had swallowed the arena in cold silence.
Arden stood at its edge, watching the shadows stretch long across the cracked stones, while Abigail knelt beside the still form of Damien, whose ragged breathing finally began to steady under her healing touch.
But the cold weight of inevitability pressed heavily on all their shoulders.
The nobles and their angels held dominion now, wielding laws and threats with no equalizer.
Damien’s fate was no longer a matter of personal bonds or earnest instruction. It was politics and power.
Arden’s gaze drifted upward, the dark sky a void where the cruel angel had vanished. His thoughts churned in grim calculation.
The village. My mother’s home. Threatened.
That warning had been no empty bluff.
The half-angel clenched his fists. There was a price to pay for crossing the Celestial Wings of the capital.
He found it almost funny. How quickly they showed up here, yet staggeringly late during the devil summoning.
Abigail's voice broke his reverie.
“We can’t let them win,” she said softly, eyes meeting his. “I will find a way to bring Damien back. To protect him.”
Arden nodded once, cold and certain.
“I will not allow House Sunblade to claim him without a fight.”
A sudden chill came with the wind, carrying with it the distant toll of bells from the capital city. Somewhere far away, a transfer was underway.
In the pure white halls of the Temple of Aife, the Goddess of Fate and Retribution, soft light flickered from countless candles lining the high ceilings. The air was thick with the scent of incense and ancient stone.
A priest, robed in white and gold, knelt before the altar, his voice steady as he spoke into the silence.
“My Lady Aife,” he said, “the transfer of Damien Sunblade to the capital was successful. He is now in the hands of House Sunblade, under the watch of Lord Victor and his priest.”
A marble figure stirred in the shadows beyond the altar. Slowly, the goddess Aife stepped into the soft candlelight, her eyes gleaming like molten silver.
“And the warlock of House Baphomet?” She asked, voice low and sharp.
The priest hesitated briefly. “The assassination attempt failed. We have had no word from our agents or the warlock since the attack.”
Aife’s expression darkened instantly. The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across her flawless features, twisting her serene visage into one of furious wrath.
“Failure,” she spat. “Unacceptable.”
Without hesitation, she raised a hand. Lightning crackled in the silence, bright and sudden.
The priest’s eyes widened in terror, but he could not escape as the divine energy struck him down, his body collapsing lifelessly to the temple floor.
Aife’s voice echoed through the chamber, cold and merciless.
“Let it be known failure will not be tolerated; justice should be absolute. The scales of fate must be in our favor, and those who falter will be cast aside.”
She turned her gaze toward the towering stained glass window, where the sun blazed frozen in colored glass.
“Damien Sunblade,” she whispered, “you are a key piece in the game now. We will watch. And when the time comes... all debts will be paid by your destiny-molding hands.”
A flash of a greedy devil’s profile flashed in her mind. A wretched beast sitting among the circle of the righteous.
An affront to all she stood for.
She clenched her teeth in disgust.
The temple fell silent once more as the goddess vanished into shadow, leaving only flickering candlelight and a sense of impending doom.
