"I'm coming to collect the bill."
General Culkin heard the words as clearly as if the man stood beside him.
The battlefield around him roared with chaos, yet the voice cut through everything.
Calm.
Cold.
Certain.
Culkin had seen battle before.
He had crushed uprisings.
Burned villages.
Enslaved entire tribes that dared resist Imperial rule.
For decades he had served both the Empire and the Slave Guild with ruthless efficiency. Wealth had followed. Power had followed.
He was one of the Empire's ten Generals.
A man who sat on councils, signed policies, and decided the fate of entire regions.
And yet—
This day was not going as planned.
The town was supposed to surrender.
That was the entire point.
Crescent City would kneel.
They would claim its resources, enslave its people, and burn the city as a warning to the rest of the frontier.
Culkin would keep whatever treasures he personally seized.
It had been a simple operation.
An overwhelming show of force.
Ten thousand soldiers marching against a single city.
Instead—
He looked around and saw only ruin.
Behind him, thousands burned in dragon fire.
Entire companies reduced to charred shapes on the canyon floor.
Ahead of him, hundreds more lay torn apart by monstrous shadow beasts.
In the middle ranks, soldiers trapped beneath collapsed stone screamed while arrows rained down relentlessly from the canyon rim.
Men died every second.
And now—
That man.
Red armor.
Black trench coat snapping in the wind.
Standing above them with a massive double-bladed sword pointed directly at him.
This was not supposed to happen.
Not to him.
Culkin looked again toward the outcrop where the man had stood.
The stone was empty.
He was gone.
A sudden chill ran through the General's body.
Panic crept into his chest.
His eyes scanned the battlefield frantically.
Where was he?
Where—
"WE CAN COME TO AN AGREEMENT!"
The words tore from Culkin's throat before he could stop them.
Something moved.
A blur crossed his vision.
Then bodies fell.
Dozens of his soldiers collapsed in pieces around him, sliced apart so quickly that several remained standing for a moment before their bodies separated and dropped to the ground.
The screams began seconds later.
Another blur streaked across the battlefield to his right.
More men fell.
Limbs.
Armor.
Weapons.
All scattered across the stone.
Culkin heard the voice again.
"I'm afraid negotiations have come to an end."
Fear flooded through him.
Real fear.
He forced himself to think.
Ten thousand soldiers had entered this canyon.
Now?
Less than two thousand remained standing.
And even those were being slaughtered.
Yet they had only managed to destroy a few hundred of the shadow beasts.
More than six hundred still remained.
"THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING YOU WANT!" Culkin shouted desperately.
"I CAN OFFER YOU POWER! MONEY! SLAVES! NAME YOUR PRICE!"
Another flash of motion.
Twenty more soldiers surrounding him—officers, lieutenants, commanders—collapsed into pieces.
"I offered you peace," the voice replied.
"You offered enslavement."
Wind tore through the battlefield again.
More bodies fell.
Culkin turned in circles, realizing something horrifying.
He was alone.
No shield wall.
No command guard.
No protection.
Just him.
"PLEASE!" he screamed.
"WE CAN STILL MAKE AN AGREEMENT! TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT!"
And then—
The man appeared.
Two feet away.
So suddenly Culkin almost stumbled backward.
They stood nearly eye to eye.
The blade in the man's hands gleamed.
Strangely clean.
No blood.
The weapon must have carried some enchantment that rejected the stain of battle.
The man's build was powerful but controlled.
A seasoned warrior.
His face calm.
His expression focused.
And his eyes—
Blue.
Cold as winter.
They stared directly into Culkin's soul.
"I want your head delivered to the Empire," the man said quietly.
"As a message."
Culkin's breathing shook.
"The United Kingdoms are not to be trifled with. We do not seek war."
The blade shifted slightly.
"But we are prepared for it."
Culkin forced himself to move slowly.
Carefully.
He stepped forward and extended his hand.
"I can deliver that message," he said, voice trembling.
"To the Queen herself. She listens to me."
For a moment the man simply watched him.
Then he smirked.
"Oh," he said softly.
"She'll get the message."
The sword moved.
So fast Culkin barely saw it.
Suddenly his legs were gone.
The world tilted as his body collapsed.
For a strange moment he felt only the wind rushing past his torso.
Then pain arrived.
A tidal wave of agony.
Before he could scream, the blade moved again.
His arms separated.
Then his torso.
The cuts were impossibly clean.
His broken body landed upright against the canyon floor.
The shock began to claim his mind.
But before darkness took him—
He saw the sword rising once more.
And he heard the final words.
"Debt collected."
The blade fell.
Darkness swallowed him.
Jax caught the severed head before it hit the ground.
He stored the remains in a dimensional bag.
The message would be delivered.
He turned toward the battlefield.
His shadow army still held the remaining Imperial soldiers pinned in place.
Jax stepped forward and activated his voice amplification.
His words echoed through the canyon.
Clear.
Controlled.
Absolute.
"Your General is dead."
The fighting stopped.
Every surviving soldier heard him.
"Your war on this nation is over."
Shadow beasts froze where they stood.
Dante circled above like a living storm cloud.
"You may continue this fight and die."
"Or surrender your weapons and live."
Jax's voice remained calm.
But the threat behind it was unmistakable.
"We do not wish for more bloodshed."
A pause.
"But we are more than willing to deliver it."
The canyon fell silent.
"What is your choice?"
For several seconds, no one moved.
The Imperial army had no commanders left.
No leadership.
Only fear.
Then a sword clattered against the ground.
One soldier dropped his weapon.
Another followed.
Then another.
Hands slowly raised into the air.
Within moments, surrender spread through the ranks like wildfire.
Survival instinct overruled loyalty.
When the dust settled—
Fewer than eight hundred soldiers remained uninjured.
Hundreds more were buried beneath rubble.
Hundreds more lay dying across the canyon floor.
Ten thousand soldiers had marched into Crescent Moon Canyon.
And a single man had broken them.
Ten thousand against one.
And the one had won.