The Stepstones. Main Island of Cutthroat Isle.
"Form ranks!"
The herald's cry rippled through the air as patrolling squads in the harbor expansion zone snapped into motion. Under Jon's command, the Chainbreakers had undergone a radical transformation; with their newly supplemented arsenal, the archers and spearmen now boasted the equipment and discipline of a professional standing army.
The core of their training revolved around cohesion and the phalanx. Jon had subdivided his forces into specialized units: the pikemen were supported by heavy shield-bearers and short-spear skirmishers; the first-sequence vanguard carried both bows and longswords; and the third-sequence special units gripped short-axes and rapiers, prepared for close-quarters butchery.
As the ruins of the derelict warehouse groaned and shattered, the soldiers reacted with drilled precision. They converged on the plaza, shield-walls locking into place while archers and axe-throwers sought the high ground. Their target was the nightmare that had crawled from the dust: a cephalopod-like horror.
"Hiss—!"
The creature stood nearly three meters tall, its massive tentacles lashing out to snatch heavy masonry and shattered timber from the rubble. It hurled these improvised missiles with terrifying velocity, the stones slamming into the Chainbreakers' shields with the force of trebuchet rounds. The impacts were a deafening cacophony of iron on rock, yet the creature showed no desire to flee. It held its ground, obsessively lashing out at the men closing the net.
"Ready! Loose!"
The herald's flags dropped. A black rain of arrows arched over the plaza, plunging toward the beast. The men, having already witnessed the shadow of dragons and the presence of the direwolf Ghost, were largely immune to the paralyzing terror of the supernatural. To many, the creature was simply a beast to be slain—some veterans even eyed the thick tentacles with a grim appetite, wondering how they would taste over a charcoal fire.
The arrows were sharp, yet they proved useless. As the shafts struck the Devotee, they seemed to hit a wall of soft wool. The creature was coated in a viscous, translucent slime that bled off the arrows' kinetic energy, causing the shafts to slide harmlessly into the mud.
"Switch to fire! This hide is too slick for steel!"
Garo, commanding the center, bellowed the order. He had nearly a hundred men at his back. From the ranks stepped the sling-specialists—recruits from the Summer Isles where iron was scarce and the sling remained king. They utilized a specialized tethered-projectile technique, whirling baseball-sized jars of volatile fish oil over their heads.
Smash. Crack.
Ten jars shattered against the creature's hide in quick succession, drenching the humanoid upper half—a deceptive, beautiful female torso—in amber oil. The monster thrashed, its own flailing limbs shattering the remaining jars and coating its writhing mass in flammable grease. It let out a low gurgle, seemingly bothered by the stench.
Foom—!
The creature was instantly engulfed in a roar of orange flame as fire-arrows found their mark. The Devotee shrieked—a high-pitched, wet sound that echoed across the harbor. It writhed violently, leaving trails of burning oil on the cobblestones, but the flames clung to its slime with supernatural tenacity. Driven by agony and a final, suicidal spite, the burning nightmare charged Garo's phalanx.
"Brace! Spears at the ready!"
The front rank tightened their grip, their knuckles white. Just as the burning mass threatened to breach the line, a sudden, bone-chilling wind swept across the left flank.
Crunch. Shatter.
Gargantuan pillars of ice erupted from the earth like blades from a scabbard. They skewered the flaming monster, hoisting its perforated body into the air. Impaled and suspended, the creature was subjected to the agonizing contradiction of fire and frost.
"Hah... made it... in time."
Kapo, the former pirate captain, leaned heavily against a crate. His face was pale as he tucked his sky-blue grimoire away. Beside him, the young squire Merry watched the book with a flicker of envy, still struggling to comprehend how a man as scarred and brutish as Kapo possessed such a high aptitude for elemental magic.
"Finish it?" Merry asked, watching the impaled creature struggle. "It's still moving."
"Give me... a moment," Kapo wheezed, his head swimming with exhaustion. "You think magic is as easy as breathing?"
"Hiss—!"
Despite its terminal wounds, the Devotee's body began to heave. It swelled rhythmically, as if it were being inflated by a bellows from within.
"Fall back! Clear the zone!" Garo's voice tore through the plaza. His years of survival instinct screamed at him to put distance between his men and the unknown.
Crack. Snap.
As the creature expanded, the ice pillars groaned and splintered under the pressure. Suddenly, a orb of violet-black light manifested in the air beside the monster. Orbiting the sphere was a ring of flickering, runic symbols, spinning like a planetary belt. The runes shattered into the orb, which collapsed inward to form a miniature, twisting vortex.
This was the dark magic: Moonlight.
The gravitational anomaly tore into the Devotee's side, ignoring its magical resistances. When the vortex dissipated, a massive, hollow crater had been carved out of the creature's torso, as if an invisible god had taken a bite out of its flesh.
"Seven Hells..." the soldiers whispered in awe.
"Long live Lord Jon!"
The men turned to see Jon Snow approaching. In his hand, he held a scepter that mirrored the design of Dark Sister, its surface etched with the same rippling Valyrian patterns. At its crown, a blood-red gemstone pulsed within a wing-shaped setting.
"My Lord," Garo stammered, running to his side. "Since when do you carry a staff?"
"This is my blade," Jon replied curtly, his eyes fixed on the target. "Just in a different form."
The Devotee was a ruin, yet it continued to twitch. It collapsed into the dirt, missing vital organs and half its lower mass, its biological functions failing. Jon had never seen such a creature in the original records of the world; he knew only that he had to end it. He raised the scepter-form of Dark Sister, focusing his mana to condense a final strike.
Unlike Kapo, Jon's "Dragon Lord" class allowed for a seamless fusion of martial and magical power. With the weapon acting as a conduit, his consumption was negligible, sparing him the exhaustion that plagued his subordinates.
"Hiss—!"
Sensing the end, the Devotee's body spasmed one last time. Its inflation accelerated, its skin stretching until it was translucent. In a matter of seconds, before Jon could release his spell, the creature's hide reached its breaking point.
Plow—!
The Twisted Devotee exploded in a spray of ichor and shadow.
"What in the name of the Gods is that?"