Blessed Visor

David, his gaze flickering across the faces of the adventurers, finally seemed to register the Barrett lying on the ground near his feet. With a slow, almost languid motion that belied his weakened state, he bent down and retrieved it. The heavy weapon clanked against the cobblestones as he straightened, the metallic sound echoing unnervingly in the sudden quiet. He hefted the Barrett, the movement jerky and unpracticed, the weight of the rifle causing his bruised muscles to tremble. He raised the weapon, the long, dark barrel now pointing vaguely in the direction of the group.

Finnian, reacting with lightning speed, darted forward. He moved with the practiced grace of a seasoned rogue, closing the distance in a blur of motion. He was banking on David's injuries slowing him down, hoping to disarm him before he could react. But David, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity, seemed to anticipate the move. He tightened his grip on the Barrett, his finger tightening on the trigger.

The sound that erupted was deafening, a monstrous BOOM that shattered the stillness of the clearing. The air vibrated with the raw power of the discharge. The bullet screamed past Finnian's ear, the near miss so close that he felt the rush of displaced air, the searing heat of the muzzle blast. A high-pitched ringing exploded in his ears, a sound he had never experienced before, so intense it felt like his skull was being split open. He stumbled, his body trembling uncontrollably, his eyes wide with stark terror. A thin line of blood trickled down his cheek, a shallow graze from a tiny fragment of stone or debris kicked up by the force of the shot.

Lyra, her eyes wide with shock, cried out, "It's an illusion! Don't fall for it!" She instinctively tried to weave a quick illusion, a calming image to soothe Finnian's panicked mind, but the raw, visceral reality of the gunshot had shattered the delicate weave of her magic.

Cael, however, remained focused on the smoking barrel of the Barrett. He shook his head slowly, his expression grim. "No," he said, his voice low and grave. "That wasn't an illusion. Something… something came out of that device. Something real. Now I understand… now I know why you're dangerous." He looked at David with a newfound respect, tinged with apprehension.

From behind David, a small voice spoke, clear and surprisingly strong. "It's a gun." It was Anya, who had silently positioned herself behind him, her grey eyes fixed on the strange weapon.

David whirled around, the Barrett swinging towards her. His finger tightened on the trigger, his eyes narrowed with a desperate, almost feral intensity.

Before he could fire, Anya raised her hand, her grey eyes locking onto his. She spoke a single word, a word that resonated with ancient power, a word that seemed to vibrate in the air itself. "Sensei."

The effect was immediate and utterly bizarre. David's expression shifted abruptly from intense focus to utter bewilderment. He blinked, his eyes widening in surprise, a strange, almost vacant look replacing the burning intensity. "Oppai?" he blurted out, the word sounding jarringly out of place in the tense atmosphere.

Anya's face flushed crimson, her youthful features contorting into a mask of pure fury. "How dare you!" she shrieked, her voice echoing through the clearing. Arcane energy crackled around her small hands, coalescing into a shimmering, iridescent sphere. With a swift, precise gesture, she unleashed the spell, the sphere of energy engulfing David in a blinding flash of light. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious, his body limp. He was trapped in an eternal dream, his mind lost in a world of Anya's making.

Cael approached David's unconscious form cautiously, his hand still resting on the hilt of "Sea Serpent." He bent down and carefully took the Barrett from David's limp grip. He examined the weapon, turning it over in his hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. The weight of it was surprising, the craftsmanship unlike anything he had ever seen. He looked back at the unconscious David, then back at the gun. "This…" he muttered to himself, his voice low and thoughtful, "This should probably be classified as a first-level disturbance."

The scene shifted abruptly, cutting away from the unconscious David and the gathered adventurers to a different location entirely. Stark stood in a small, sparsely furnished room, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and dust motes dancing in the single flickering candle's light. A single, iron-bound chest rested against one wall, its lock rusted and broken. Victor stood near a basin of water, crafted from dark obsidian, its surface reflecting the candlelight like a miniature, swirling galaxy. His back was to Stark.

"Why didn't you help him?" Stark's voice was sharp, accusatory, the words edged with a metallic rasp. "I thought he was your… project."

Victor turned slowly, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes, which seemed to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. "We met today," he replied calmly, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the air. "There's nothing… special about him. Though I do intend to pay him a visit… eventually." He waved a hand over the obsidian basin. The water within rippled, the reflected candlelight distorting into swirling patterns. The surface then cleared, becoming a window into another place, displaying a cross-section of the world, focusing on the clearing where David lay unconscious. Stark could see the adventurers gathered around him, Cael examining the Barrett with a look of grim fascination, running a gloved finger along its cold, metallic surface.

"They're heading for Melvinward," Victor murmured, his gaze fixed on the watery reflection. As he turned to leave, his dark cloak swirling around him like a shroud, Stark stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"Aren't you going to retrieve him?" Stark asked, his voice laced with suspicion, his hand tightening on the pommel of his flamberge.

Victor stopped, a subtle smile playing on his lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "No," he said softly, the word hanging in the air like a whispered secret. "I have… other arrangements."

Stark's hand tightened further on the hilt of his greatsword, a massive flamberge with a wavy, flame-like blade that seemed to writhe in the candlelight. The steel gleamed with an oily sheen. "I can tell you're lying," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "You probably lured them in. Set him up as some kind of… sacrifice." He shifted into a combat stance, the flamberge held ready, the tip of the blade tracing a slow, menacing arc in the air.

Victor looked at him, his expression unchanging, his dark eyes fixed on Stark's. "Did you not hear?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, a subtle shift in the air pressure accompanying his words. "The Archdemon has awakened. The very fabric of reality trembles."

Stark's gaze flickered downwards for a fraction of a second, his expression darkening. He knew the implications of that statement. The awakening of the Archdemon was a cataclysmic event, a harbinger of chaos and destruction. But his eyes quickly snapped back to Victor, burning with a cold, unwavering defiance. "I don't give a damn," he snarled, the words laced with a raw, primal anger.

With a slow, deliberate scrape of his heavy boot on the rough wooden floor, Stark began to advance on Victor, the flameberge dragging slightly behind him, its tip carving a shallow groove in the wood. The sound was a low, grating rasp that amplified the tension in the room, like the sound of a predator sharpening its claws.

Victor watched him approach, the subtle smile still playing on his lips. "You know why I wore a mask, Stark?" he asked, his voice almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "When I was a child, I could detect mana through scent. But I had… another, more… refined ability." He paused, taking a deep breath, his chest expanding, the air around him seeming to shimmer and distort.

As he inhaled, the temperature in the room began to rise dramatically, the air becoming thick and suffocating. Stark felt beads of sweat trickling down his face and neck, his skin prickling with heat. The candle flame flickered wildly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Suddenly, the stack of books on the nearby shelf burst into flames, the dry parchment igniting instantly. The wooden table, the chair, the very bed itself began to smolder, then erupt in flames, the room becoming an inferno.

And then Victor exhaled.

The effect was instantaneous and terrifying. The flames died down as if extinguished by a sudden gust of arctic wind, the room plunged into a bone-chilling cold. The air became frigid, so cold that Stark could see his breath puffing out in white clouds. Before Stark could fully react, his legs were encased in thick, rapidly spreading ice, freezing him to the floor, the ice creeping up his legs, biting into his skin with agonizing cold.

Stark, his eyes wide with shock and pain, instinctively squatted, using the momentum to try and break free. With a violent exertion, he shattered the ice, the sharp fragments digging into his legs, drawing blood. He sprang to his feet, roaring in pain and rage, swinging his flamberge in a wide, desperate arc towards where Victor's neck had been.

The sword connected, but instead of the satisfying thud of steel meeting flesh, there was a burst of dark, oily feathers and a high-pitched screech that echoed through the room. Victor's head and body dissolved into thousands of ravens, scattering across the room, their dark wings beating against the now-freezing air, creating a whirlwind of feathers and shadows.

Stark twisted his hips, inhaling deeply, drawing in the remaining heat from the air, focusing his power. Every muscle in his body tightened, his veins bulging on his arms and neck. He unleashed a furious barrage of attacks, whirling his flamberge in a dizzying display of speed and power. The air was filled with the whoosh and crack of the blade as he moved, striking at every raven, every shadow, every corner of the room. He launched around a thousand attacks in a few short seconds, each strike imbued with raw power, leaving trails of fire in the air.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the assault ended. Stark withdrew his flamberge, sheathing it with a decisive click that echoed in the sudden silence. The ravens had vanished, the flames were gone, and the ice had melted, leaving behind only damp patches on the floor and the lingering smell of burnt wood and feathers. The room was now a scene of utter destruction, every object within diced into countless small pieces, dead ravens scattered amongst the debris, their dark feathers coating the floor like a macabre carpet.

Stark scratched his head, a grimace on his face. "This is going to be a tough one," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Then, he heard Victor's voice, a soft whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, a chilling echo in the destroyed room. "We both know he's special, Stark. And we both know we don't truly give a damn about his life. We just want to collect what's owed." The voice seemed to slither around him, a chilling presence in the air.

"You're dead right," Stark replied, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes narrowed, searching for the source of the voice. "But I'd rather kill you and have him all to myself." He began to track the disembodied voice, his senses heightened, trying to pinpoint its source. The voice seemed to move, shifting and echoing through the ruined room, like a phantom whispering in his ear.

Stark followed the shifting whispers to the back door, the ruined door hanging precariously on its hinges. With a sudden burst of force, he kicked the door open, expecting to find Victor waiting on the other side.

Instead, he found himself standing on a cold, windswept mountaintop. The air was thin and biting, the wind howling around him, carrying with it the scent of ice and stone. The ground was covered in jagged rocks and patches of snow, the landscape a desolate expanse of grey and white. Before him stretched a vast, desolate landscape, a seemingly endless vista of jagged peaks and deep valleys shrouded in mist. But the most striking feature was the creatures that littered the mountainside. They were massive, lizard-like beings, each with a grotesquely elongated snout that curved downwards, filled with thousands of needle-sharp teeth that glinted like shards of glass. Multiple eyes, more than twenty, were arranged in a spiraling pattern on their heads, each eye glowing with an eerie green light and looking in a different direction, giving them an unsettling, all-seeing appearance. Their thick hides were covered in bony plates, and their powerful tails lashed back and forth, stirring up small clouds of snow.

Stark turned back to the doorway, expecting to see the ruined room he had just left. But behind him was only empty air, a sheer drop into the abyss. He was standing on the edge of a precipice, the doorway now a gateway to nothingness, a portal to this desolate landscape.

Stark sighed, sheathing his flamberge with a decisive click. He knew what this place was. The Iron Mountains. He decided to walk down the treacherous slope. Multiple of these lizard creatures strategically hid in the shadows of the rocks, all following him with their glowing green eyes, waiting for him to let his guard down. These creatures were the Lizards of the Iron Mountain, known as Gordon, hence the journey down begins