Everything was quiet. Even those people still attempting to make noise by slapping their arm rests and silently demanding Hastur return their voice froze. There were four hundred seats present in the forum, and near half of the occupants were now standing. Spread throughout the crowd in the same way Hastur had done, men in well fashioned cloaks that covered them from head to toe. Low hoods. All black.

And Lernin hadn't even seen them, but he knew their stripe. The blackguard, named appropriately from their attire and behavior both, shrouded through some unknown means and outside of his perception. In response to this command, he was released, rising as well to thrust his hands forward and weigh all of his internal mana against the apparent aura Tyr was summoning.

Just enough, it seemed, an archmage was still an archmage. They were intelligent, clever, born to solve problems and overcome obstacles, he didn't need break the barrier – just work his way around it.

A bright lance of verdant flames acting as a pseudo 'arrow' on the string of the etheric bow framing it burst into being in his hands.

“Reticle Lance!” A blunt and crude tool of destruction, nothing more complicated than that was like to work here, and he knew that it'd blow Tyr away and all of the men behind him lest they ward themselves appropriately. But that didn't matter. The two monsters in his sights had taken everything from him, and he wanted to make someone hurt as much as he did in that moment.

He released the mana forged string, a sound like a water drop falling onto a still pond, sending a ray of emerald conflagration racing through the air toward the podium. Mages and priests alike dived to the side to find what cover they could. It would not save them once the ray struck, but just them – everything froze again. It was so bright that his eyes took a moment to adjust, gawping at the scene of Tyr holding the ray and smiling sadly at the headmaster.

“So gifted.” Tyr mused sagely, unraveling the spell and sucking the mana into his mouth with a shudder of pleasure. Something Lernin had never thought possible, but proof of all his theories relevant to spira and relative strength independent of mana. “But fire, Headmaster... Fire is my domain, and you should've known that. It was an odd choice of magic to use, a man like you should be more creative. Level five though, that's something else. Would've killed everyone in here I think. In any case, I appreciate the meal.”

Lernin felt his knees grow weak, mouthing 'demon' though no word left his lips. To go from the standard of an intermediate mage to effortless catching an archmage level spell...? One of the black cloaked figures split his line of sight to Tyr, dragging his limp body off. All throughout the chamber, others were doing the same with specific people. Picking them out from the crowd and taking them outside.

Silent and somber under the feat of strength so recently displayed, not many resisted. Those who tried were beaten into submission and dragged off all the same, a lesson for all others who thought they might try their luck.

“Now.” Tyr clapped, staring at the dead eyed 'Hastur'. He was gone, leaving a barren husk, but the man could still see. Tyr was glad for that, he hoped the bastard enjoyed the show. “Let the games begin, or something appropriately dramatic.”

With that, he snapped his figures, and it did indeed begin – as anyone would've expected it to given Tyr's already staggering body count.

The problem with mages was that, though they were so obviously gifted, they relied far too much on their magic. Especially the goods ones, they were all so weak otherwise. Primus', or any number of magical beasts and awakened creatures, were built differently. A mage, you say? As vulnerable to a blade in the neck as any child, they had all the active but none of the passive.

Frankly, he didn't need the blackguard for this, but it was good experience for them. He could do them in himself, and of course the hulking form of Okami bursting into his full size and tearing that Leritas in half was satisfying. Watching as the man had tried to turn in slow motion, exaggeratedly – like something out of a drama.

Oh no, a monster!

The screaming, help me, help me – and the crunch that ends it all.

Tyr remained still and contemplative as the priests he'd picked out were butchered mercilessly. Aurelius tried to fight, blown back by one of the cloaked figured and thrown through a wall. He was a coward, as most men were when presented with someone objectively stronger than them. They liked to fight people they had a chance of beating, but that figure in the cloak was beyond him, and so he'd flee.

Some hero he turned out to be, leaving the others to their fate even as they begged for mercy. Throughout it all, Raddick, Marric, and the others who had been left to their own devices merely observed. The grand priestess of Freyja retreated, stony faced, a powerful mage in her own right – but not at all interested in inviting a potential calamity on her faith.

This was a man coming for the servants of the gods, and though he'd shown due respect to those he found 'worthy' of such, she sincerely doubted he'd simply let them attack. If Lernin Casterling himself was so outmatched, surely they had little chance.

Tyr very obviously had no fear in him whatsoever of retribution, to be ordering the execution of several high ranking officials in the papacy. It was heresy, but when presented with the choice of pointing that out or simply leaving... Pretty obvious, that, join the bloodbath or don't – Tyr really didn't care.

And not one of them saw the trick in it all. The fact that he wasn't doing any of this, sans his 'spellbreaking' of Lernin's magic. The 'aura' they felt didn't even belong to Tyr at all. He'd gone far, burning rapidly through the wick of energy provided by Jurak, but they were caught in nothing more than smoke and mirrors. They'd fancied him some living god at this moment, and he felt that too. A shame that it couldn't last forever, but it all served a purpose. Bringing him higher, further than ever before, faith from fear.

Living and unliving alike. A perfect one hundred in the courtyard and many more beyond that began painting streets and walls with blood. Doing as they were made to to. The hunt and kill. People ran, and the blackguard kicked through their doors and ended their lines right then and there. They could no longer disobey him, though Tyr was pleased that he'd never had to consider the idea of forcing them to do anything. Samson in particular was fearsome in his recrimination of the 'northern' churches, not bothering with weapons and doing so with his bare hands.

They were far too gone for mercy, and they'd find none among the blackguard. They shared in Tyr's senses now, to a certain extent, they could smell the impurity of man and hated it thrice as much as he did.

No losses, the blood was so potent an elixir that even Farron was more than a match for the paladins of Indura, abandoned by Vanator's chosen and left to fend for themselves. Cowardice abounded, decades of drilling in some of these men and they'd fallen apart as soon as the unliving began removing their helmets. Orlando and the others marching silently on to chase men and women into corners. Checking off boxes on a list, as if it were just business.

Indiscriminate, efficient, justice.

Position, titles, bloodlines, nothing mattered beyond sniffing out the impure.

Tyr stared down at the torn corpses of the mage council, all stacked up just in view of the enchanted podium he'd left untarnished, broadcasting the events of the trial to the wider world. He spoke loud and clear to all who listened, thousands of relays throughout inns and alehouses of all kinds, noble households and most assuredly his father's study.

“The kings are dead.” Tyr concluded with as patrician a face as he could muster, part of him resisting the wild urge to laugh aloud. To have found his true purpose brought him transcendent joy, and he wasn't nearly done yet. Behind him stood Fennic and Mikhail, both resplendent in their meticulously forged black armor. Neither commented on the barbarity of what he'd done, but they'd been chosen because both were the type to support this kind of vigilantism with no question. “Long live the king, King Tyr of Amistad. And though you'll seek to come for me, understand you'll find nothing but death. Even so, I hope you will. Muster your armies, clad your soft piglet southerners in fine steel, feed and nourish them, for my wolves are hungry.”

As if to accentuate the point, they howled. Long and loud, a choir of voice given weight by the throaty howls of Okami, the true 'white wolf'. Hundreds of men letting loose all their triumph at having unseated so many components of the true evil festering at the root of this world.

One of many cullings to come, Tyr would not stop.

After that came the silence, those movers and shakers yet living needed tended to, some four hundred of them in the vicinity huddled together like livestock. It was appropriate, the pigs that they were, even those Tyr had no particular qualm with deserved far worse already.

Shaking, not doing much in the way of moving just now. With Martin in particular lost for words at the grand scale of the events unfolding before him. Singlehandedly engineering a plot to butcher the entire ruling council of a nation and taking control of it for himself. A coup that many would be supportive of, the archmages did not often make for good allies, the hermits that they were. It wasn't the power, it was the foresight of an unrivaled intellectual demon, someone he'd thought incapable of such subversive behavior once upon a time, again revealing just how sharp 'he' really was.

'I have arrived' – written on a page for the whole world to see. Tyr pulled a dagger from his belt and buried it into his left eye, letting it rest fel in the socket. 'Long live the king.' The one eyed king. The wolf and his pack let loose on the unsuspecting to wreak their vengeance, setting into motion one of the greatest massacres ever recorded in the modern era.

One that they'd come to call the Day of Nails. That's what Tyr had hung them with, after all, from any surface the bodies would fit on.

–

Gagged and bound, Lernin, Martin, and many others were dragged to the wide open courtyard before the Krieg and made to kneel. What a twist of fate that was. To be forced to watch that kind of purge, only to be killed shortly thereafter. Tyr only possessed some five hundred troops, but controlling a huddled mass of thousands was a simple thing to men like that. If men they were at all.

Men of inhuman strength and durability, some revelation of a healing potion that could return their limbs to them when they'd lost them in combat. Undead amongst them and not one of the wards against those sorts of creatures seemed to be working. Unliving, then, even fouler magic that involved a true binding of a soul into a form after death – anathema to any priest of Thanatos.

What a twist of fate to see the Krieg council themselves standing over them equitably at Tyr's side and whispering into the ears of the cold eyed prince. One by one, they were taken away, around a corner, and the blackguard would return – but not the individual chosen. Dripping axes and steely glances were all that ever returned.

A mass execution, with the military leadership given reign to decide who lived and who died.

And Tyr, naturally... There were few better executioners in the world than that, filling the space with screams and howls and forcing all those of noble title to listen. Even the 'innocent', a lesson of the true reward waiting for them after a life of profligate decadence.

“Tiberius Scarr.” Lernin spoke where the others refused to. Even through the mask, he recognized the bearing of the man if not the sword at his hip. That sword was famous now, and the raven carved on both hilt and scabbard spoke volumes. Long beaked and fell, with the white wolf engraved opposite upon blade and scabbard to contrast the black of it's feathers. “You serve a beast, a monster. That is not the boy you swore your oath to, and you've no idea what calamity will befall you should you kill me.”

“Hmm.” Tiber removed his mask and turned, he looked so young now. Late twenties, early thirties at most, again regaining a shred of his youth. He should've been what...? In his fifties? Even older than that? “Abaddon, yes. I have heard, and he knows. Says the true ruler of Amistad won't care much. In any case, it does not matter. I love him, and his actions could never change that, but the tune you sing will change when you see.”

“Know what?” Lernin himself was curious about this plan of Tyr's, what he could possibly be doing other than delaying the eventual day of reckoning. Making it worse, even, “Abaddon will destroy you all if you harm me, and I will have my vengeance.”

“Your son is alive, headmaster.” Tiber's voice remained respectful, and his words were enough to silence Lernin's snarling through the gag. Martin sat next to him in a wider group of easily recognized figures, important people of the state and many from beyond. “Tyr is leveraging justice on these people based on deed. Anyone who has raped, harmed children, or traded in flesh is to be punished. Slavers have their hands taken, as per his oath to a brother. Rapers are killed and pedophiles are given the deuritium kiss after a long... Talk, he does those himself. I hear it's quite agonizing, the worst way to go for your sort. Do you have anything you'd wish to confess, merchant prince?” His words weren't for Lernin, but for Martin who visibly paled – no more of that silver tongued bravado left in him.

“He knows I h-haven't!” Martin stammered, vomiting shortly thereafter onto the flagstones of the central square inside the citadel walls. He'd always fancied himself a brave man, but he'd never been put in front of the executioner's axe before. The black stone of the Krieg looming over them as if in judgment of all deeds large and small. Not to mention the potentiality of the 'deuritium kiss', a death that took hours and was widely considered the most vile way to kill a man. “The council knows I haven't!”

“It doesn't matter what they say.” Tiber stated calmly. “He knows, and only acts on people like you if the benefits outweigh to inverse. Though he seems to be interested in giving them some face, making trades as befits his oaths. Hence Samson, who walks with him. This group is to be forgiven of all crimes, perceived or real, regardless of their determination, no strings or conditions attached. Such has been decided.”

“However.” Tiber continued. “You are to watch, to know that your flawed regimes are over, no amount of coin will sway our hands should you forget this lesson.”

Color returned to Martin's face, and the relieved sighs of the others in the large group of nobles were choked, but very audible. It was a simple said of rules, slavery was to be abolished in all kingdoms – Tyr had sent missives and indicated an eventual declaration of war should they refuse. Including Varia, something that would surely incense Octavian.

“My son is alive?” Lernin asked. “How is that possible? I saw his body!”

“Magic is a curious thing.” Tiber shrugged. “Even those who think they understand it most certainly do not, and could never. Man knows, that's all there is to say. It was Iscari who put that clown Aurelius through the wall and many more than that. Remain silent, or I will strike you, and I do not wish to do so. My blood is up from the reaping and I am in the mood to see it done and over with. He has given us all transcendent gifts, perhaps if you play along you'll find yourself of our number one day.”

“What do you mean, gifts?”

“You could never understand, but as an acquaintance of ours I am sure that you will be given the choice. Remain on the path of good. To kill the unrighteous is lawful, there will be no courts, only the hand that takes as my former faith decreed. Tyr Faeron is your law now. The weak and degenerate will be culled, now shut your mouth before I sew it, orders or not I'm sure that nephew of mine will grant me some artistic license. I will not repeat myself.”