Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The Central Node had become a seething cauldron of steel and fury, but in the very heart of this chaos, a space of dead silence had formed—a zone where two Heralds had crossed their wills. Grak the Axe and Baron Kaelen circled each other, ignoring the cries of the combatants and the mechanical march of Magnus's toys. For masters of this level, the rest of the world ceased to exist; in their perception, only attack vectors and the density of the enemy's Vessel remained.
Grak gripped his axe handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. His inner power, corresponding to the Spirit of the Cleaving Strike, pulsed in the blade, making the air around the weapon tremble with excessive pressure. The Order Commander sought no elegance. Each of his movements was saturated with the harsh logic of the North: take the blow, hold, and cleave the obstacle.
Baron Kaelen, however, was the embodiment of the Rakesh Dynasty's imperial style. His gilded sword moved smoothly, tracing complex geometric patterns in the air. The Spirit of the "Golden Aegis" created a network of shimmering facets around him, reflecting the light of the central crystal. The Baron didn't just stand—he dominated space, his golden-eyed gaze cold and analytical.
"Your fame as the Order's 'wall' is greatly exaggerated, Grak," Kaelen said, his voice clear despite the battle's roar. "You are too predictable. In a world ruled by speed and calculation, you are merely a relic of a bygone era."
The Baron lunged forward, his movement so swift he became a golden flash. Grak barely managed to turn his axe to meet the lunge. A ring sounded, sending cracks across the floor slabs. Kaelen's steel slid along the axe blade, striking sparks, and the tip of the sword left a long bloody streak on Grak's forearm, where his armor was thinnest.
Grak didn't even flinch. Physical pain was a familiar background to him, only stoking the inner fire of his Vessel. He felt his Warrior regeneration instantly begin to pull the edges of the wound together, but now his interest was not in defense.
"I may be a relic," Grak boomed, "but relics often outlive those who try to break them."
The Commander delivered a counter-strike. It was no simple swing—Grak used the technique "Weight of Order." His axe in flight suddenly acquired such density that the space around the blade began to distort, sucking in small obsidian fragments.
Kaelen instantly raised his "Aegis." The golden haze before him compressed into a mirror-like shield. Grak's axe strike crashed down upon it with the force of a collapsing mountain. The sound of the collision was so powerful that nearby Warriors were thrown aside. The Baron grunted, his ankles sinking into the stone floor slabs, and cracks ran across his golden defensive dome.
Kaelen managed to shift aside, avoiding the direct inertia, but Grak's blade still grazed his pauldron. The falcon engraving was crushed, and the Baron's shoulder itself jerked unnaturally—the Order Herald's power had penetrated even his perfect defense, inflicting a deep bruise.
The two masters separated by a few steps, catching their breath. Kaelen adjusted his torn sleeve, and in his gaze, there was no more arrogance—only cold, deadly concentration. He understood he had underestimated the density of the northerner's inner power. Grak stood immovable, his axe humming a low bass, drawing strength from the very structure of the Temple.
"Your Vessel is deeper than I thought," Kaelen admitted, shifting his sword to a two-handed grip. "But let's see if your 'wall' can withstand me cutting at the very foundation of your life."
Above them, the central octahedron pulsed faster, as if reacting to each new wound the Heralds inflicted on each other. The battle between Grak and Kaelen was only entering its most brutal stage. Kaedan and the other knights, fighting the legionaries, only glimpsed this clash of titans, understanding that the outcome of their own battle would depend on which of these two dropped their weapon first.