Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
While Grak the Axe was grinding Baron Kaelen into the obsidian slabs, a no less strange and terrifying spectacle unfolded on the other flank of the Central Node. Legate Valerius, whose Art of Polarity Shift usually made enemies burst into bloody spray, now looked like a man trying to dispel thick fog with a sword.
Opposite him stood Master Magnus. The old man from the Agrim Family's Inner Circle seemed utterly out of place in this slaughter: his stooped figure and worn clothing contrasted with the Legate's gleaming black armor. But it was Magnus who dictated the terms of this battle.
"You are too tense, boy," Magnus squeaked, casually taking a new figurine from his box. "At your age, you should play more, not fight."
Legate Valerius roared, and the air around him stretched taut like a string. "Art of Rupture: Sphere of Rejection!"
The space around Valerius exploded with an invisible pulse. Everything that possessed inner essence—dust, stone fragments, even breath itself—was to be expelled with crushing force. But Magnus's tin guardsmen, marching around the Legate, only swayed slightly. Being puppets devoid of their own Vessel, they barely reacted to the polarity manipulations.
One of the guardsmen delivered a sharp thrust with its short spear. Valerius managed to dodge, but the steel tip grazed his forearm, leaving a deep, ragged wound. The Legate snarled in pain, and his own Herald power flared with a crimson light.
"Your wooden toys won't save you from death!" Valerius shouted and lunged at the old man, hoping to cleave him in two.
Magnus didn't even flinch. He tossed a small object resembling a mechanical spinning top into the air.
"Spirit of Ancient Toys: Dance of the Steel Top!"
In the air, the top instantly enlarged, transforming into a massive cone bristling with blades, two meters in diameter. The top began to spin so fast its edges became invisible, and the hum it emitted drowned out the cries of the nearby Warriors.
Valerius slammed into this rotating barrier. His sword, saturated with the power of the Polarity Shift, struck a shower of sparks, but Magnus's top didn't just block the blow—it absorbed its inertia. The top's counter-movement was like a battering ram. The Legate was thrown back, a deep dent adorning his cuirass, blood spurting from his nose.
The old man, meanwhile, took out a tiny musical box from his box—even smaller.
"Now you'll like this," Magnus squinted slyly. "March of the Wooden Soldier."
From the shadows behind Valerius, a massive figure in a tall shako materialized. A wooden giant with a huge, steel-toothed jaw emitted a dry click. The soldier didn't fence—it simply lunged forward, trying to clamp its jaws on the enemy's limbs.
Valerius had to give his all just to avoid being crushed. He darted between the spinning top and the clattering jaws of the giant, constantly using flashes of his power to repel the attackers. But Magnus controlled the situation with frightening ease. The old man stood in place, only his fingers making barely perceptible movements, as if pulling invisible strings.
The Legate missed a lunge. A wooden guardsman pierced his cuisse, and Valerius fell to one knee. He was a Herald, his power was grand, but against Magnus's centuries of experience and his "non-living" army, he felt like a helpless student.
"Your Spirit is beautiful, Valerius," Magnus said, not a trace of fatigue in his voice. "But you try to fight the world, while I merely allow the world to play with me."
Valerius raised his head, his face covered in blood, his eyes blazing with fury. He was preparing to use his most destructive technique, ignoring the risk of destroying his own Vessel. But Magnus was already reaching for his next toy, and his piercingly blue eyes glowed with anticipation of a new "game."
In the central part of the hall, the battle continued, but here, in the Agrim and Alvost sector, the old man's advantage was becoming undeniable. Valerius was wounded, his armor in tatters, while Magnus bore not a single fresh scratch.