Despite how dismissive Hirrus had been of the paltry damage the adventurers pushed out on him, his focus on attacking with his axe instead of Arcana meant that the Cosmic Barrette effect hadn’t undone it all. He was still noticeably battered at the end of the fight.

Luckily, he had some time on his still-clawed hands for Phrase of Luminosity to do its work.

Andrew had mentioned that Fidelis awaited atop a big dramatic stairwell, and Hirrus suspected that it would be accessible from this room. With only the one obvious entrance behind him, he believed that the paranoia that had inspired the manor’s secret location and mercenary guards would have caused Fidelis to make it a secret backdoor - something that only the other officers would know.

With all of the officers splattered across the room behind him, Hirrus would have to do this the old-fashioned way.

The search took so long the Merciless form faded. It wasn’t until it was over - and the Inoculation debuff blocked its use for another two hours - that he fully realized how disgusting the smell of death filling the room was. He found himself holding as long as he could between breaths.

How had he reveled in it only moments ago?

As soon as he asked himself that, Hirrus remembered, vividly, his desire to bite down on one of the officers. He couldn’t remember which, but the overwhelming memory of the desire made him clench his teeth.

What was that transformation turning him into?

The Merciless debuff seemed to claim he was supposed to lose control. And the adventurers all seemed concerned that he was lucid while in that form. Would he eventually lose himself to these urges? To become some mindless beast?

Hirrus had no answers. And no way of finding them, save for just waiting and finding out.

He resolved to use the transformation as little as possible, if he could.

It was just a risk he couldn’t take.

The search didn’t take too much longer. Behind the painting of the man in yellow, Hirrus found a vault door. It wasn’t what he wanted. Only three feet in diameter, he couldn’t imagine a proud adventurer - least of all the leader of the guild - suffering the indignity of squeezing through such a small opening. But it was a clue.

Hirrus knocked the other paintings off the wall one by one. Behind most was only a wall, but there was one painting on the back wall, behind the larger chair at the head of the meeting table. It depicted a dark rider descending upon a shimmering white castle, a great spear raised as if to strike the castle walls rather than any specific foe. Without any respect for the regal appearance of the painting, Hirrus swatted the side of it, sending it thumping to the floor.

The wall behind the painting looked the same as the others at first glance, but Hirrus did a double take before turning away. There was a seam there. It was small, barely three inches long, and he nearly missed it.

As he reached out to touch it, a small panel sank into the wall. There was no click of a lock or whirr of a mechanism. Instead, it was a grip. A handle. After a moment’s effort, the section of wall slid to the right, soundlessly opening.

Beyond the hidden door was what he sought. A stairwell. Dimly lit and windowless.

The only way to go was up.

Despite the clandestine nature of the secret passage, it was as opulent as the room he’d just left. The stairs were sleek black stone, with a plush red carpet running down the length of them. For a circular staircase, Hirrus wondered at the expense of creating a curving rug in a single piece long enough to run the entire length of the stairs - nearly the entire height of the building. Since Julissa had been a seamstress, he knew at least a little about the cost and flexibility of cloth. A tunic was different from a rug, but before today, he’d never imagined this type of thing would be possible.

Leave it to adventurers to create a marvel beyond the scope of Hirrus’ imagination from something as simple as a rug on the stair.

At the top of the stairwell was a long dramatic hallway. The red rug continued, running the length of the hall to a door. It wasn’t a match for the wooden double doors at the entrance to the manor and the meeting room, but it was impressive in its own right. This door was made of black stone to match the walls and floors, carved and decorated with a stylized wolf head inlaid with silver metal. Torches in sconces bracketed the door, and the light of the flames danced off the reflective filigree. Pinpoints of reflected light danced over tapestries that lined the walls, each one depicting a group of heroes overcoming monstrous foes.

As Hirrus walked down the hall, he recognized the heroes on each tapestry. A woman in black and purple leather armor. Another in white leather with a dense fur collar. A man with expertly mussed hair in a black and gold doublet. Here was a woman in armor the same gold color as her hair. A man wielding an icy blue greataxe, much the twin to the one Hirrus now carried.

These were the officers of Last of the Strong, painstakingly stitched into tapestries glorifying their triumphs.

It was a display of overdramatic indulgence. Just like an adventurer. How much time, effort, and resources had Fidelis poured into just this secret passage to the panic room that was about to become his tomb? How much more had been wasted on thousands of other little displays of vanity and power just like this one?

He was sure these little things made the members of Last of the Strong feel powerful.

Hirrus wanted nothing more than to destroy them.

The door at the end of the red carpeted hallway wasn’t locked. Hirrus put a boot to it and slammed it open with a snarl. It hit the interior wall with a boom that shook the room beyond.

What Hirrus found there was exactly what he expected. Clive had surprised Hirrus with his sparring room, but Fidelis was not as creative. It was a throne room, plain and simple. There were black stone floors and walls, with four white stone columns. In between two of them was a dais about three feet high, tiers forming steps up to a massive chair of black quartz, run through with bands of white crystal.

Seated on the throne was a man of imperious bearing, who glared down at Hirrus as though seeing a rodent scurrying across the floor. A mixture of shock, disgust, and anger filled his eyes. His posture spoke of an irreverent attitude towards the throne beneath him, leaning to the left with his right leg thrown over the right arm of the chair.

“Fidelis.”

The man on the throne wasn’t shocked to hear his name from Hirrus’ lips. “So you did it,” he said in a tone that bordered on boredom. “I won’t say I didn’t expect it, after you took Orlina, but I had thought between the five of them they could at least leave you bloodied.”

Fidelis had black hair that was perhaps shoulder length, with most of it pulled back in a rough ponytail. A sculpted beard lay beneath cold hazel eyes. He wore armor that could generously be called splint mail, made of padded plates of cloth and leather reinforced by chainmail sheets. It was all shades of ash and charcoal. His armor also included a collar of fur, like Mel’s had, but instead of white, his was a speckled black and gray to match the color of the rest of his armor.

Hirrus stalked forward into the room.

He hadn’t spent any time planning what he would say. No dramatic speech. No prayer to Julissa’s memory. No boasting or blame.

Hirrus had never been one for words when a blade would speak for him.

“It would be a lie,” Fidelis continued, obviously uncomfortable with the silence, “if I told you I had hoped it would come to this. I’ve done a lot and worked very hard to make sure that someone else is getting their hands dirty to keep mine clean. If your revenge is satisfied by doing the impossible, then you can call it a day now knowing that you made me raise my own blade by surviving Orlina’s. And Helen’s. And Mel’s. And whatever Andrew’s Destructo Disc clone is called.” He gestured dismissively. He didn’t move to stand as Hirrus approached. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to stop now that you’ve made an example of everyone else.”

It wasn’t a question. The man knew better.

As such, Hirrus said nothing, though his grip on his axe tightened until his knuckles were white. He continued across the room.

“Fine,” Fidelis snapped impatiently. He moved to stand, grabbing the strap of a scabbard off the back of the black quartz throne. Fidelis looped it over his back, putting the hilt of the longsword within over his right shoulder. “If you want to do it this way, then I guess I’ll show you why I’m the one in charge.”

The man stepped down off his throne, drawing his blade. It was double-edged with a gentle curve, but the tip of it angled up viciously. It had a sharp corner like the chisel tip blade Orlina had wielded, but the other corner was a sharp point about four inches off of the centerline of the sword. It looked almost like a hook. The hilt was a diamond-shaped grommet of thin black metal, and the pommel was a ring that housed a glittering white diamond.

Everything about Fidelis in that moment screamed of showmanship.

Fidelis wasn’t squaring up for a fight.

He was posing. Posturing. As if cutting an imposing figure could somehow wound Hirrus.

It made something dangerous within Hirrus growl. “You think you frighten me?” Hirrus said, breaking his silence at last. He slowly shifted his grip on his axe, letting the head of it dangle down far enough to scrape along the floor, filling the air with the rasping sound of ice against stone. “No, you’re not that stupid. You only wish for your last stand to be worth remembering. But I promise you, no one will. I will have forgotten your name before your corpse is cool. And in a week, the only legacy you’ll ever have is being the murderous fool whose entire empire was brought down by his own pride.”

Hirrus mentally flicked through his Arcana.

Save for his transformation, everything was ready at his fingertips. Once he knew the slightest bit about Fidelis' plan, he could bring to bear exactly the tool to counter it.

“As much as I may believe in justice,” Hirrus continued, stopping now that he was only ten feet shy of Fidelis, “or in vengeance, or even just destruction, I’m not like you.” He cut through the air with his free hand, as if sweeping cobwebs from the air. “I’m under no illusions. This is not my story, but yours. And in this tale, I’m not the manifestation of law, nor am I the vengeful husband. Not even the angel of death. I am your hubris, Fidelis. Your mingled cowardice and cruelty killed Yenon. All I am is the fire that you lit in that town, here to consume you just as it did everything I’ve ever loved.”

Fidelis gave an appreciative nod. “Nice. Very dramatic. Compelling, even. I wish I had been writing it down.” He shrugged, gesturing towards Hirrus with his sword. “Because I’m sure with a week and an editor, I could come up with an appropriate response where I counter with something about the human spirit and the natural inferiority of machines.” He put a free hand to his gut, laughing as if this were some hilarious joke. “I’ll have to do that before I tell the story of this fight. I’m a sucker for Humanity Fuck Yeah content.”

“Your death awaits,” Hirrus said, lifting the icy greataxe to grip it properly in two hands, coiling to lunge. But he stayed himself. Attacking first would only open him to whatever trick the adventurer had waiting. “Boast and brag all you like. It will make your last moments all the more ignoble.”

“My death?” Fidelis laughed, wagging a finger at Hirrus. “I’m sorry, that would indicate that I’ve picked a fight outside of my weight class.”

Fidelis took a step to the right - and at the same time, did not.

A second Fidelis now stood next to the first.

A third Fidelis stepped out to the left, making it a trio.

Both figures took another step to their respective sides, making five.

Another step. Another pair. And another.

“I’m not the dumb fuck picking fights he can’t win,” thirteen voices said in a cacophony of sing-song tone. “That would be you. If you’re so eager to see this end, then let’s go, bitch.”