Clive twists on his heel, heart hammering, just in time to see the knight statue fully come alive.
Stone grinds against stone as the statue straightens, joints cracking and shedding dust. Its blank face turns toward him, visor carved smooth and merciless, and the massive stone sword lifts from its resting position.
For a split second, Clive wonders if his revolver is even worth drawing.
Then instinct answers for him.
He yanks the revolver free, brings it up, and fires.
Tang.
The sound is sharp and metallic, far louder than it should be. The bullet smashes into the statue's chest, blasting a chunk of stone free. Fragments scatter across the tiled ground, skittering and bouncing.
Clive squints.
The damage is there—but it's shallow. Cosmetic. The statue barely reacts.
"Damn," he mutters.
The statue completes its turn and swings its sword down in a brutal, vertical arc. The blade whistles through the air, heavy enough to split stone.
Clive dives and rolls, feeling the rush of displaced air above his back as the sword slams into the tiles. Stone explodes upward, shards cutting across his coat. He comes up in a crouch, already aiming.
This time, he lowers the barrel.
He fires at the statue's leg.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
He empties the entire chamber into the same point, each shot blasting deeper into the stone. Cracks race outward from the impact site, spiderwebbing across the statue's lower limb. The sword's weight pulls the statue forward as the leg finally gives way.
With a grinding roar, the statue tips.
It crashes onto its side, the sword slamming uselessly against the ground as its torso twists at an unnatural angle.
Clive exhales sharply.
For a heartbeat, relief floods him.
Then the ground begins to rumble.
A low vibration spreads through the tiles beneath his boots, growing steadily stronger. He looks up, breath catching.
All around him, the statues are moving.
One by one, then in clusters, stone knights turn their heads. Swords lift. Feet grind free from centuries of stillness. The fallen statue behind him struggles, its remaining leg scraping uselessly as it tries to stand.
Clive curses under his breath.
He reaches into his bullet pouch, fingers moving fast, and pulls out six rounds. He snaps them into the revolver with practised efficiency, spins the chamber, and fires again.
This time, he targets another statue's leg.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The statue staggers as the leg shatters, the heavy sword throwing its balance off completely. It crashes down hard, stone cracking loudly as it hits.
Clive doesn't wait.
He reloads again, hands shaking only slightly, and realises how little ammunition he has left. He counts quickly.
Eighteen bullets.
That's it.
He fills the chamber once more and breaks into a run.
The statues give chase.
Heavy footfalls thunder behind him, each step shaking the tiles. As he sprints forward, more statues awaken along the path. Swords lift. Stone bodies pivot and join the pursuit, their numbers growing with every second.
Clive weaves between them, changing direction whenever he spots a statue ahead beginning to move. He darts left, then right, boots skidding on cracked tiles.
Then he stops.
Not because he's trapped.
Because he understands.
A map forms in his mind—not drawn, not visualised, but felt. The layout. The spacing. The way the statues are positioned.
"I'm surrounded," he whispers.
He turns slowly, revolver raised.
Statues are closing in from all sides, their movements synchronised in a way that chills him. There is no escape path. No clear route forward.
So he changes tactics.
Clive raises the gun and aims higher.
He fires at the head of the nearest statue.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The chamber empties.
The statue's head fractures, cracks racing across the carved visor before the entire upper portion collapses inward. The massive body sways, sword dropping from its grip, and then it topples backwards with a thunderous crash.
Before Clive can turn—
Something rises from the destroyed statue.
A wisp of black energy coils upward from the shattered stone, thin and smoky, alive with slow, deliberate motion. It twists once in the air, then shoots toward him.
Clive's eyes widen.
He pivots, firing at another statue even as he tracks the movement in the corner of his vision.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
As the last shot leaves the barrel, the black wisp slams into his chest.
There is no pain.
Instead, the energy sinks into him like warm smoke, spreading through his limbs in an instant. His breath catches—not from injury, but from sensation.
Strength surges.
It's subtle, but unmistakable. His muscles feel denser. His movements are sharper. His heartbeat is steadier.
"What—" he breathes.
The third statue collapses.
Another wisp of black energy spills free, thicker this time, pulsing faintly as it rushes toward him.
Clive doesn't dodge.
He lets it hit him.
The energy pours into his body, layering over the first surge. His grip tightens on the revolver as a quiet hum spreads through his bones. His legs feel lighter. Faster.
He reloads for the last time, snapping the final bullets into the chamber with grim efficiency.
A fourth statue closes in.
Clive raises the revolver and fires.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The statue's head shatters, then its torso, stone breaking apart in heavy chunks as it collapses forward. From within the wreckage, the fourth stream of black energy erupts.
It slams into Clive's body.
The sensation is stronger now.
His muscles tense, then relax, as if settling into a new shape. His breathing steadies completely. Fatigue vanishes. Even the lingering ache from earlier trials fades.
He lowers the revolver.
The chamber clicks empty.
No bullets remain.
Around him, the remaining statues keep moving.
Stone swords rise. Heavy feet advance. The circle tightens.
Clive looks down at the revolver in his hand, then back up at the approaching knights.
With no ammunition left, only one thought remains in his mind.
"How am I supposed to kill the rest of you?"
The statues close in.
And Clive stands his ground.
His gaze drops to the rubble at his feet. Among shattered stone and fallen fragments lies a massive stone sword, torn from the grasp of one of the destroyed knight statues. The blade is chipped and cracked, but intact enough to be used.
He exhales, steps forward, and grips the hilt with both hands.
The weight nearly drags the sword from his grasp.
His arms strain immediately, muscles screaming as the sheer mass of the weapon pulls downward. The sword is not meant for a human hand, let alone one who was a civilian detective only days ago. The tip scrapes against the tiles, sparks jumping as stone grinds on stone.
Clive grits his teeth.
"Fine," he mutters, forcing the blade up inch by inch.
A statue lunges.
He reacts on instinct, swinging the sword in a wide, clumsy arc. The blade crashes into the statue's torso, not cutting, but smashing. The impact sends a shock through his arms, numbing his fingers, yet the statue staggers back, stone cracking across its chest.
Another statue closes in from the side.
Clive pivots awkwardly, barely managing to bring the sword up in time. The enemy's blade glances off his own, the collision rattling his bones. He stumbles back, boots sliding, breath ragged.
This is barely sustainable.
But then he strikes again.
He brings the sword down with all his weight, smashing it into a statue's shoulder. The stone gives way with a thunderous crack, and as the statue collapses, a familiar black wisp rises from its core and surges into Clive's body.
Power floods him.
Not violently—inevitably.
His grip tightens.
The sword feels… lighter.
Not light, but manageable.
He doesn't stop.
Another statue charges. Clive steps into the swing this time, his movements sharper, more decisive. The sword arcs through the air and slams into the statue's neck. Stone fractures. The head tears free and crashes to the ground.
Black energy flows into him again.
His strength climbs.
His breathing steadies.
The sword that once dragged now answers his will.
Clive begins to move through the battlefield.
He dodges under sweeping stone blades, steps inside their reach, and smashes joints, torsos, and heads with brutal efficiency. Each fallen statue feeds him more of that black energy, layering strength upon strength.
The sword becomes easier to control.
Then fluid.
He swings it in clean arcs, using momentum rather than brute force. A statue attacks from behind—he spins, blade flashing, and shatters its knee before finishing it with a downward smash.
Stone dust fills the air.
But the sword does not last.
A heavy collision sends cracks racing along the blade. Another strike, another fracture. When he brings the sword down on a statue's chest, the blade splits apart with a deafening crack, fragments exploding outward.
Clive is left holding a broken hilt.
He doesn't panic.
He ducks as a stone sword whistles over his head, rolls across the tiles, and springs up beside another fallen statue. He wrenches its sword free just as another attack slams down where he stood.
This blade is heavier.
But he is stronger.
He resumes the fight without pause.
Statues fall faster now. His movements blur, faster than human, fueled by accumulating power. He smashes through stone like it's brittle clay, every kill drawing more black energy into his body.
And slowly, something changes.
His vision sharpens—then reddens.
At first, he thinks it's blood or dust, but the crimson tint doesn't fade. His heartbeat deepens, slower and heavier, echoing in his ears like a drum.
Black strands begin to push through his skin.
Hair.
Coarse, dark hair spreads along his arms, across his shoulders, and up his neck. He doesn't notice. He's too focused, too consumed by the rhythm of combat.
Another statue attacks.
He meets it head-on.
The sword shatters mid-swing.
This time, he doesn't reach for another.
He punches.
His fist slams into the statue's chest, and the entire torso caves in, stone collapsing inward as if struck by a siege weapon. The statue disintegrates, black energy erupting violently and pouring into him all at once.
Clive staggers.
His knees buckle.
The world tilts.
His thoughts fragment, slipping through his grasp like sand. The battlefield blurs, sounds stretching and distorting.
His consciousness sinks.
And something else rises.
Where Clive stood, hunched and trembling, a shape expands.
Bones shift.
Muscles surge.
Flesh reshapes.
A massive black wolf stands upright on the shattered tiles, its fur dark as midnight, eyes glowing a deep, feral crimson. Stone swords hang frozen mid-swing around it as the remaining statues hesitate for the first time.
The wolf lifts its head.
It howls.
The sound is not merely loud—it is absolute. A wave of black energy explodes outward from its body, rippling through the hall like a living storm. Statues closest to it are obliterated instantly, reduced to powder and fragments. Others crack, split, and collapse under the pressure.
The battlefield is erased.
Inside the Void Antiquity Store, Bishop Zane's gaze snaps away from the screen showing Marcus battling a doll of comparable strength. His eyes lock onto the screen showing Clive—or rather, what Clive has become.
His breath catches.
"…Disaster Wolf," he whispers.
Slowly, he turns his head toward Kaelan.
"Lord Kaelan," Bishop Zane says, voice strained, "did you know he bears the bloodline of the Lord of Disaster?"
Kaelan watches the screen, the faintest smile touching his lips.
He does not answer.