Godric's crimson gaze swept over the remaining Midnighters, dissecting them with a cold, predatory calculation. They were all boys, all fifth-years like Cardin, but the confidence they had flaunted moments ago was gone, replaced by the creeping tendrils of fear. He could see it in the way their fingers twitched, the way their breath hitched, the way their bodies tensed but hesitated to move.
The two on the right clutched their wands tightly. Sweat glistened on their brows, trailing down the sides of their faces in beads, betraying the panic that gnawed at their nerves. The other two, positioned to the left, wielded weapons—one gripping a curved saber, the other brandishing twin daggers. Their boots dug into the sand, their muscles coiling with tension, poised for movement yet paralyzed by uncertainty. They hadn't even seen him enter the arena.
Godric had slipped in like a shadow born from the abyss, his presence unnoticed until the moment Cardin crumpled to the ground. They had been too caught up in their victory, their arrogance blinding them to the storm that had been creeping upon them. And now, it was too late. The air in the arena was rumbunctious with a cacophony of whoops, hollers, cheers and cries of the audience. The boys stood frozen, their eyes locked onto him, waiting—hoping—someone else would make the first move.
A groan broke the tension as Cardin began to rise. He staggered to his feet, spitting blood onto the sand, his fingers tightening around the handle of his mace. He lifted a trembling hand to his face, gripping his jaw with a sharp intake of breath before wrenching it back into place with a sickening crack. Pain flickered across his features, but it was drowned beneath the fury darkening his violet eyes.
Then, the bell rang again.
Before the sound had even finished reverberating through the arena, Godric struck. Without so much as a glance, he swung his sword backward in a vicious arc. The dull, enchanted blade struck Cardin across the face with bone-crushing force, a sickening crunch splitting the air as his nose shattered. A crimson spray burst forth, painting the sand beneath him as his head snapped back. He didn't even have time to cry out before his body collapsed once more, hitting the ground like a felled tree.
The moment his leader fell, the Midnighters broke free from their paralysis. The two armed with blades lunged forward, their weapons gleaming under the arena lights, while the spellcasters lifted their wands, neon streaks of magic cutting through the air in a chaotic blaze.
The two armed Midnighters sprang into motion, weaving through the sand in a crisscrossing blur, forcing Godric to track them both at once. The boy wielding the curved saber lunged, his blade slicing through the air in a precise, deadly arc, while the one with daggers leapt high, twisting midair to bring his leg down in a brutal axe kick meant to stagger him.
Godric moved like water, fluid and untouchable. He pivoted, letting the saber's edge whisper past his ribs as he raised his own blade to intercept the daggers. Sparks erupted as steel kissed steel, their weapons screeching against each other in rapid succession. He twisted his wrist, knocking the attacker's blade aside before ducking under another wild slash from the swordsman. Their strikes came fast, but his counters came faster.
Godric was relentless. His sword lashed out like a serpent, hammering into the boy with the saber—his ribs, his shoulder, the side of his skull. Each impact was brutal, every strike enough to send shockwaves through bone, and had it not been for the enchantment dulling his blade, the wounds would have been fatal. The spellcasters flung magic at him from behind, streaks of neon light flashing toward him, but Godric twisted his body, deflecting the bolts with the flat of his blade.
A flash of movement in the corner of his eye—the boy with the saber reeling back, gathering momentum for another strike. Godric didn't give him the chance. He dipped low, his sword slicing clean through the air, the blade connecting with the boy's leg. A wet crack rang out as his femur shattered.
The boy shrieked, crumpling to the sand, but Godric was already moving. The dagger-wielding Midnighter lunged again, his blades flashing, aiming for Godric's throat. Godric met him head-on.
He twisted, catching one of the daggers with the edge of his sword, knocking it clean from the boy's grip. Before the second blade could find its mark, he drove his knee hard into the boy's gut, knocking the wind from his lungs in a choked gasp. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent the second dagger spinning through the air, disarming him completely. The boy staggered back, disoriented, his arms instinctively rising in defense.
Godric didn't slow. His sword became a storm, slashing across his opponent's side, crushing ribs beneath the force of the blow. He struck again—once, twice, a flurry of brutal hits raining down on his arms, his legs, his chest. The boy's knees buckled, but before he could collapse, Godric seized him by the shirt, yanking him close. With a savage growl, he slammed his forehead into the boy's mouth.
The unmistakable crunch of teeth breaking filled the air, blood spurting as the Midnighter's body went limp. Godric let him go, watching impassively as he crumpled to his knees, barely conscious. Then, with one final swing of his sword, he struck him across the face, snapping his cheekbone and jaw in a sickening crunch. The boy slumped forward, out cold.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye—he turned just as the wounded swordsman stumbled forward, his saber still clutched in his shaking hands. Godric met him without hesitation. His sword lashed out, striking the boy across the skull once. Twice. A third time, the impact sending blood splattering across the sand, his fractured skull caving under the force. The boy's body wavered, his knees buckling, his light fading.
Godric spun his sword in his grip, the silver glinting under the arena lights before he brought it down across the side of the boy's neck. His body seized for only a second before slumping to the ground, unconscious. Godric turned, his breath slow and steady, his crimson eyes locking onto the last two standing Midnighters—the spellcasters. His grip on his sword tightened. The hunt wasn't over yet.
****
Helena's hands shot up to her mouth, her breath hitching as a horrified gasp caught in her throat. Her brown eyes, usually sharp and observant, now widened in shock, reflecting the brutality unfolding before her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, the crowd around her nothing more than a distant murmur against the relentless thudding of her own heartbeat.
Beside her, Salazar stood rooted to the spot, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his posture betrayed the unease gripping him. His emerald gaze was locked onto the bloodstained figure in the arena—onto Godric. Or rather, what was left of him. This wasn't the boy he had called brother, the friend he had fought beside, argued with, and trusted. This was someone else entirely.
"By the stars..." Helena's voice was barely above a whisper, but the sheer horror made it cut through the din of the stunned audience.
Salazar exhaled sharply, his lips parting slightly as if to respond, but no words came. What could he say? The carnage before him spoke for itself. The sheer savagery with which Godric had dismantled the two boys wasn't just merciless—it was personal. There had been no room for restraint, no hesitation, no honor.
"I've… I've never seen Godric so vicious." The words finally left Salazar, as if speaking them aloud made them even more real.
His fingers curled over the banister, gripping the wood until his knuckles turned white. This was wrong. This was not the Godric Gryffindor he knew.
****
The two wielding wands hesitated, their grips faltering as they watched their comrades crumble one by one. Their eyes darted between each other, searching for some unspoken signal, a desperate reassurance that they still had a chance. But Godric saw it for what it was—fear. Not the kind that quickened the pulse before battle, but the kind that stole the air from their lungs and turned their limbs to lead. The realization had settled deep in their bones. This was not a duel, not a mere challenge in the arena. This was a reckoning.
They cast their spells, their wands flashing in tandem, streaks of electric blue and violent red illuminating the air between them. Godric did not flinch. He twisted his blade in his grip and cut through the oncoming magic, dispersing it with calculated swings, the residual energy crackling like dying embers as it scattered uselessly against the sand. His feet moved with precision, carrying him through the barrage like a specter weaving between the strands of fate itself.
He closed the distance in an instant.
The first caster barely had time to react before Godric's sword crashed into his forearm, a dull thud resonating through his bones as the limb gave out. The boy let out a strangled cry, his wand slipping from his fingers, but Godric did not stop. The edge of his blade found his ribs next, fracturing them with the force of a hammer.
He crumpled forward, gasping for breath, only for Godric to seize him by the collar and drive his knee into his stomach. The breath was stolen from him in a single, agonizing instant, and his body convulsed as he crumpled onto the ground, unconscious.
The last one stood frozen, his wand trembling at his side. His mouth opened as if to speak, perhaps to beg, to reason, to call for help that would never come. Godric did not give him the chance.
He surged forward, swinging his sword with terrifying speed, striking the boy's arm before he could lift his wand. The impact sent it flying from his grasp, clattering somewhere into the sand. Godric followed through with another strike, slamming the pommel of his sword into the side of his head. The boy staggered, his vision swimming, his footing slipping beneath him.
Godric stepped in, twisted, and brought his blade down with controlled brutality—first to the ribs, then to the thigh, then to the side of his face. The boy collapsed onto his knees, barely conscious, his breath ragged and uneven. For a moment, Godric simply stood over him, his presence looming. Then, with no hesitation, he brought his blade down once more, striking the boy across the temple, sending him sprawling across the sand, unmoving.
Silence.
The arena, once alive with deafening cheers, had grown eerily still. The spectating crowd, once reveling in the spectacle, now watched in stunned disbelief, the realization of what they had just witnessed sinking in. Even the most seasoned of fighters within The Congregation, those who had seen brutality before, had to suppress the chill that ran down their spines.
Godric's breath came in slow, steady draws, his chest rising and falling with controlled intensity. His crimson gaze swept over the silent crowd. Blood dripped from the dulled edge of his sword, spattering against the sand as he took a step forward, his boots crushing the remnants of the broken men beneath him.
Then, he threw his arms wide, his voice rising. "Are you not entertained?"
The question rang through the air, echoing off the wooden beams and stone walls of The Congregation, reverberating in the hushed silence that followed.
"Are you not entertained?" He turned slowly, letting his gaze burn into them, one by one, challenging them, daring them to answer.
"Is this not why you're here?" he demanded. "Blood in the sand? Bodies broken and battered? The screams of the fallen, the cries of the defeated? Tell me, is this not what you came to see?"
He took another step, the crowd shrinking away, their excitement now replaced with an unease that settled deep in their bones. The thrill of battle had soured, the rush of adrenaline curdling into something else entirely.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He gestured to the unconscious bodies strewn across the arena floor, his blade still dripping with their blood. "This is the sport you so crave. And yet, now that you have it, now that I have given you exactly what you sought, you sit there in silence?"
He scoffed, his lips twisting into something that barely resembled a grin. "Where's my cheer? Where's my praise? Where's my name shouted to the rafters in celebration?"
"You cheered for them, didn't you?" His words were slow, deliberate, laced with scorn. "For these sick, degenerate scum who forced themselves upon a slave girl. Who tore her innocence away and then beat her bloody." His teeth clenched, his grip tightening on the hilt.
"Was it only entertaining when it was their victory? When they were the ones dealing the pain?" His gaze burning with something dark and unrelenting. "Or is it different when the monster is on the other side?"
He shook his head. "But it doesn't matter, does it? No one would speak out against it. No one dares to see the wrong in their actions. Because they're just slaves, aren't they? That's what you tell yourselves. That's what you whisper behind closed doors, what you laugh about over drinks and dice."
He exhaled sharply. His fury barely leashed. "And tomorrow? It'll be forgotten. Just another day at Excalibur Academy."
Then, slowly, deliberately, Godric turned. His chest rose and fell in steady, measured breaths, his uniform flecked with blood, his boots grinding against the sand. His gaze shifted to the one who remained, the one who had started it all.
Cardin Winchester.
The boy had not moved from where he had fallen, sprawled in the dirt, his face twisted in a grotesque mix of disbelief and terror. His hands trembled at his sides, his fingers twitching toward his weapon, his breath ragged and uneven. Then, as if realizing he was still being watched, still being judged, he forced himself upright. His steps were shaky, unsteady, his balance weak. With a groan of pain, he reached up, gripping his own shattered nose, and with a sickening crunch, snapped it back into place.
Blood poured from his nostrils, spilling over his lips and down his chin. He spit crimson into the sand, his violet eyes burning with anger, but beneath it—buried just deep enough to be mistaken for something else—was fear.
"This is The Congregation, Cardin." Godric took a step toward him, then another, his sword dragging lightly against the sand, the metal whispering as it moved. "I learned something in my duel with Volg—there are rules, and there are consequences."
His crimson gaze burned like embers in the dim light. "Consequences you've escaped for years. Consequences that should have been waiting for you if not for that worthless, twisted sack of flesh named Peter Creedy."
Cardin shifted, his fingers curling around the hilt of his mace, his breath uneven, his nostrils flaring with each staggered inhale.
"The Slavery Laws won't hold you accountable," Godric continued. "The Congregation won't hold you accountable. And under Creedy's watch, the Academy's rules would have bent over backward to protect you. You and every wretched bastard who's ever laid a hand on a slave."
He paused just a step away, his shadow stretching long beneath the crystal lights' glow. Cardin swallowed hard.
"You've done this before, haven't you?" Godric tilted his head slightly, his gaze razor-sharp. "How else would you be so brazen about it? How else would you know exactly how much you can take before someone stops you?"
His voice dropped lower. "Raine told me everything. She told me about the older students. The ones who stalk the corridors at night. The ones who take what they want and leave behind nothing but bruises and silence. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if you had done the same to her back when."
Cardin flinched.
Godric smirked—slow, humorless. He lifted his sword, the blade catching the dim light as he leveled it at the boy. His grip was firm. Steady. Unwavering.
"Rules. And consequences," he repeated. "Shana wasn't your first, but I swear to you—she will be your last." He leaned in slightly, his crimson eyes boring into Cardin's own.
"And now that we're here…" He let the words hang, savoring the moment, watching the flicker of panic rise in Cardin's face. Then, his lips curled into a cold, mirthless smile.
"Who's going to protect you from me?"
****
"What the hell is going on, Salazar?" Helena's tone was hushed, urgent, as though afraid to speak the words too loudly. "Why does he look like that? What is he doing?"
Beside her, Salazar exhaled sharply, his gaze fixed on his friend with a mixture of unease and something almost like recognition. His fingers tapped against the railing as he muttered, "Damocles…"
Helena's head snapped toward him. "What?" Her brow furrowed. "As in the legendary general? That Damocles? What does that have to do with—"
"Not the one from history," Salazar cut in. His emerald eyes met hers, something cold and knowing within them. "The other Damocles—the so-called spirit of vengeance. Professor Lotho mentioned it in History of Magic. The cursed revenant of war, brought back to right the wrongs of betrayal. The avenger who never rests."
He gestured toward the arena, where Godric stood with his blade lowered, his breath slow, measured, predatory. "Look at him, Helena. He's taken on that persona."
Helena felt a chill creep down her spine as her stomach twisted in dread. "By the stars…" Her words wavered. "Godric has lost his damn mind." She turned to Salazar, urgency replacing her shock. "We have to stop him before he does something he can't take back."
Salazar's eyes flicked back to Cardin Winchester, the last of the Midnighters left standing, swaying unsteadily on his feet, his expression frozen in terror. "On one hand," Salazar mused, "I may agree with you."
Helena exhaled in relief—until he spoke again. "On the other, the sheer temptation of watching Cardin and his pathetic little band of thugs finally get exactly what they deserve is absolutely overpowering my judgment."
"What? Are you even hearing yourself?" Helena recoiled, eyes widening. "This isn't a duel anymore, Salazar. This isn't some sparring match. This is a massacre!"
Salazar's lips curled slightly, though his expression held no amusement. "A long time coming." His arms folded over his chest, though there was no ease in his stance. "This isn't just about winning. This isn't about a simple fight in The Congregation. This is about sending a message."
He turned to her, his usual arrogance stripped away, leaving only grim understanding. "And take a good look at him, Helena." His tone dropped lower. "Do you honestly think he's in a state of mind to be reasoned with?"
Helena wanted to argue. Wanted to push back. But her mouth opened, and no words came.
Salazar sighed, rubbing his temple before looking back toward the arena, watching as Godric took another slow step toward Cardin. "That being said," he muttered, and for the first time, there was no amusement, no calculation—just a raw, quiet grief, "it rattles me to see him like this."
"His sword was always wielded for justice. For honor." His hands clenched. "Now, he wields it for anger. For vengeance." He exhaled heavily. "And I don't know if he'll ever put it down."
****
Cardin spat a thick glob of blood onto the sand, his breath ragged, his body trembling. Shattered fragments of his teeth glistened crimson where they landed, a grim testament to the force of Godric's strike. But even as pain wracked his body, even as his vision swam from the beating he had endured, his grip around the hilt of his mace only tightened. His violet eyes, bloodshot and burning with fury, glared up at the boy standing before him.
"You've just made a terrible mistake, Gryffindor," he growled. He bared his broken teeth in a twisted smirk, blood smeared across his lips. "You think you've won just because you took out my team?" His breath hitched, but his arrogance did not falter. "You have no idea what you've just unleashed. I'm going to—"
"Do what?" Godric cut in, his own smirk sharp, almost mocking. "Kill me? Beat me into the dirt? Hurt the ones I love?" He tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes narrowing. "I've heard it all before, Cardin. And believe me, Volg flapped his gums a hell of a lot harder than he swung his wand."
He gestured casually to the broken bodies littering the sand, the unconscious, bloodied remains of the Midnighters. "And let me tell you something," he continued. "The Calishans gave me and my friends a harder fight than your lot ever did. And I didn't even have to use Vis Vitalis."
Godric's gaze flicked down to the curved saber that had been knocked loose in the fight, lying discarded in the dust. With a sharp kick, he sent it flipping up into the air, snatching it smoothly with his free hand. The twin blades spun effortlessly between his fingers, a deadly dance of steel and certainty.
"Now, remind me again—" The corner of his mouth twitched. "What was that you said about them being small-time?" His words dripped with amusement, but his gaze burned with something far colder.
He shifted his stance, the weight of both blades balanced as though they had been made for him. "Because from where I'm standing," he said, "I'm genuinely surprised you and your pathetic lackeys even made it this far."
Cardin's expression contorted into a mask of pure fury, his face twisted with rage as he let out a guttural roar and lunged forward, swinging his mace with all the force he could muster. Godric held his ground, meeting each brutal strike with the ringing clash of steel. Sparks burst into the air as metal struck metal, the sound of their weapons colliding reverberating through the arena, each blow sending shockwaves through the sand beneath their feet.
Godric moved with an almost unnatural fluidity, his blades spinning in his grip, parrying every swing with effortless precision. He weaved through Cardin's attacks, ducking and sidestepping, his movements smooth and calculated. It was as if he wasn't just fighting—he was toying with him. A predator circling its prey.
Cardin's swings grew wilder, his frustration mounting as every attack was turned aside, his blows glancing off the defensive wall of Godric's swords. Then, in a sudden flash of steel, Godric struck—his twin blades carving through the air, biting deep into Cardin's arms. The boy cried out, staggering back, pain searing through his limbs. But he grit his teeth, rage overriding reason, and with a desperate yell, he swung his mace high overhead, intent on crushing Godric where he stood.
Godric anticipated it in an instant. He lowered himself, twisting into a lunge as one of his blades slashed across Cardin's stomach. The impact forced the larger boy to double over with a wheezing gasp. Seizing his moment, Godric moved to strike again, but Cardin, in a last-ditch effort, used his sheer brute strength to force their weapons into a lock, his mace hooking against both of Godric's swords.
With a vicious twist, Cardin wrenched his weapon away, prying Godric's blades from his grasp along with his mace and sending them clattering across the sand.
Godric's crimson eyes widened, but before he could react, Cardin's fist came crashing into his face.
A sickening crack echoed through the arena as Godric's head snapped back, his body stumbling with the force of the hit. He exhaled sharply, feeling the warmth of blood trickling from his nose. He raised a hand, brushing his fingers against the crimson stain. Then, slowly, he looked back up.
And smirked.
"I don't need my mace to take you down, Gryffindor!" Cardin snarled. He raised his fists, shifting into a stance. "Let's finish this like men!"
Godric rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers before clenching them into fists. His grin widened, crimson eyes flashing with something dark and electric.
"Funny," he said. "You're going to have to hit me like one first."
Cardin lunged first, his fists swinging in a relentless storm of violence, each strike fueled by desperation and rage. But Godric was faster. He ducked, weaved, his movements fluid, each dodge a razor-thin escape from the fists aiming to break him. The air cracked with the impact of their blows, fists meeting flesh with sickening force, knuckles slamming against jaw, ribs, and gut. Blood sprayed, dripping from split lips and bruising skin, but neither yielded.
Cardin came in hard, throwing his full weight behind his next swing, but Godric met him head-on. He surged forward, driving his elbow into Cardin's jaw with bone-rattling force. The older boy reeled, his balance breaking just long enough for Godric to seize his jacket, yanking him in close before slamming his knee straight into his chest. The wind left Cardin in a sharp, choking gasp, his body folding from the blow. Before he could recover, Godric's fist drove into his cheek, sending him stumbling backward, blood trailing from his mouth.
"Growing up in the moors, you learn a thing or two!" Godric shouted, his breaths coming sharp and heated. "When your uncle is Captain of the Guard and you're chummy with the prettiest girl in town, boys start thinking they can take a shot at you. So you learn fast. You learn how to take a hit. And more importantly…" He flexed his fingers into a tight fist. "You learn how to throw one."
With a sharp pivot, Godric swung a brutal haymaker, his knuckles crashing against Cardin's face with a satisfying crunch. The boy's head snapped to the side, spit and blood flying from his mouth.
Cardin roared in frustration and pain, his muscles coiling as he latched onto Godric's arm and, in a powerful surge, flipped him over his shoulder. Godric hit the sand with a heavy thud, the impact forcing the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, Cardin was on top of him, fists raining down like hammer strikes. Each hit was a shock of pain—his ribs, his arms, his stomach—Godric barely managed to shield himself, each blow driving him deeper into the sand.
His body screamed, but his mind remained razor-sharp.
With a feral snarl, Godric's hands shot up, seizing Cardin's jacket and pulling him down, closing the distance in a flash. And then, like an animal, he sank his teeth into the boy's ear.
Cardin's scream tore through the arena, raw and high-pitched, his body convulsing as Godric bit down harder. Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic, before he finally ripped his head back, tearing off the earlobe in a gruesome spray of red.
Cardin scrambled away, shrieking in agony as he clutched the torn mess where his ear once was. His eyes, wide with horror, locked onto Godric, who calmly got to his feet and spat the shredded flesh onto the ground. The look he gave Cardin was nothing short of deadly.
"You like hitting defenseless girls, Winchester?" Godric's stepped forward. "You like holding them down? Making them cry? Watching them beg while you and your filthy friends take what you want?" He cracked his knuckles, his crimson gaze burning.
"Does it make you feel like a man?" His lip curled into a snarl, a predator closing in on its prey. "Well, I hope you got your fill, Cardin. Because you're my bitch now."
Cardin's breaths came in ragged gasps, each one laced with fury and desperation. His muscles tensed as he took a staggering step forward, his right fist curling into a trembling, bloodied mass. With a guttural roar, he threw a punch, the force of it carrying every ounce of hatred and humiliation he could muster.
Godric didn't flinch. He merely lifted his elbow, letting the blow collide against the hardened bone. The sickening snap of Cardin's wrist echoed through the silent arena, drowned out only by his own agonized scream. His face twisted in sheer agony, his body recoiling as he clutched his shattered wrist, but still, he wasn't finished.
"You mother fu—" With his remaining good hand, Cardin seized the front of Godric's uniform in a desperate bid to regain control.
With sheer brute force, he hauled Godric forward and slammed him back-first into the arena wall. Stone cracked behind him, dust spilling into the air from the impact. Cardin drew back, his arm raising to deliver another elbow to his ribs, but the strike was weak, pitiful—drained of any real strength.
Godric's hand shot up like a viper, slamming into Cardin's throat with a force that made him choke on his own breath. Cardin's eyes bulged as he sputtered, his body convulsing, but Godric was far from finished. His grip slid downward, fingers curling around Cardin's mangled hand. And then, with slow, measured precision, he took hold of two of his fingers and wrenched them apart.
The sound was wet, grotesque, a tearing of sinew and muscle as Cardin's palm split down the middle. His scream tore through the arena like the wail of a dying animal, his entire body writhing as he crumpled onto his knees, clutching the ruined remains of his hand.
Godric kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back before he rolled onto his stomach, his sobs raw, pathetic, broken.
The crowd remained frozen in collective shock.
Godric stepped forward, his boots sinking into the sand as he knelt behind the fallen boy. His fingers snaked around Cardin's arm, curling it back at an unnatural angle. Then, with a sharp pull, he snapped the elbow joint in two, the audible pop and subsequent crunch of bone twisting violently out of place sending a wave of nausea through the spectators. Cardin's scream was deafening, his entire body seizing in pain before he collapsed, a trembling, whimpering heap.
Godric flipped Cardin onto his back with a brutal yank, the motion swift and effortless, as if the boy weighed nothing at all. Before Cardin could even react, Godric was on him, straddling his chest, pinning him down like a predator over its prey. His fingers twisted into the fabric of Cardin's tunic, pulling him up slightly—just enough to ensure that every strike landed with full force.
His first punch shattered whatever remained of Cardin's composure, the sickening crunch of bone giving way beneath his knuckles barely audible over the roar of blood in Godric's ears. Another strike followed. Then another. Then another.
Flesh split beneath his fists, cartilage snapped, skin bruised and swelled in rapid succession. Blood splattered across the sand, painting it in thick crimson streaks. It coated Godric's hands, warm and sticky, dripping from his fingers as he drew back for another blow.
He barely recognized the choked sounds coming from beneath him—gurgled breaths, feeble attempts at words, the wet sputter of blood bubbling between what was left of Cardin's teeth.
"S-stop… I… I… Y-yie—"
The words barely made it out, trembled past swollen lips, but Godric wasn't listening. He didn't care.
"Yield?" Godric hissed through clenched teeth. "Did you yield when she told you to? No. Not yet. I'm not done."
Unceremoniously, Godric got up and grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him across the sand, leaving behind a smear of blood where his body had once laid. He stopped near Cardin's fallen mace, dropping him like a discarded rag doll before reaching down and seizing the weapon.
Looming over him, he flipped Cardin onto his stomach and crouched down behind the barely conscious boy. With the same cold efficiency, he forced the hilt of the mace between Cardin's teeth, pushing until the remains of his shattered teeth sank into the wood, his mouth forced open in a grotesque, gaping display.
Cardin's muffled cries of agony filled the suffocating silence.
Godric then got up, his expression eerily calm. "This is for Shana."
And then, with no hesitation, he raised his boot and brought it down on the back of Cardin's skull.
The sound was horrifying. A thick, wet crunch as bone gave way beneath the force. The sickening snap of his jaw shattering under the pressure. His body convulsed once—twitched—and then stilled. A pool of crimson spread beneath his face, darkening the sand beneath him.
The crowd stood in stunned silence.
Someone retched, the sound of vomit splattering against the wooden floor, breaking the unnatural stillness. Others averted their gaze, hands covering their mouths, eyes wide with disbelief. Even the most hardened of fighters, those who had come to The Congregation seeking brutality and carnage, looked uneasy.
Godric straightened as he turned his head, crimson eyes cutting through the silence as he gazed over his shoulder at the stunned audience. His chest heaved, his breaths staggered and raw, each one drawn through clenched teeth as he stood amidst the wreckage of his own making.
Blood, sand, and sweat clung to his skin, his uniform stained with the evidence of what had transpired. He gaze then swept over the fallen, cold, unyielding, devoid of remorse. Slowly, he lifted his head once again, his voice carrying across the stunned silence of the arena, a promise carved in stone.
"Let this be my vow," he declared, his words low but seething with an intensity that sent a shiver through those who listened. "The slaves of Excalibur—every last one of them—are under my protection."
He gestured to the broken bodies littering the sand, a silent testament to his words. "And anyone… anyone who so much as thinks of laying a hand on them, who so much as looks at them the wrong way…"
His eyes darkened as he reached down, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. With slow, deliberate movement, he lifted the blade, the silver steel gleaming as sand cascaded down its edge, glimmering under the arena lights.
"…will answer to my blade."
He turned, gaze sweeping over the spectators, burning into them, searing his words into their minds. "Cardin Winchester and the Midnighters…" he exhaled sharply, his grip on the weapon tightening. "They are only the beginning."
Then, in one swift motion, he raised his bloodied fist high, his voice splitting through the air with the force of a battle cry.
"Hear me!" His words struck like a war drum, reverberating through the arena. "I. Am. Godric. Gryffindor!" His spit flew as he roared, unrelenting. "I. Am. VENGEANCE!" He brandished his blade, the glint of metal cutting through the torchlight like lightning before he leveled it at the stunned onlookers.
His gaze burned, unwavering, merciless.
"And you—are next!"
For a moment, silence.
Then the crowd erupted.
The roar of The Congregation shook the very foundation of the arena, a chorus of frenzied cheers and thunderous applause, voices overlapping in an uncontrollable cacophony. Godric's name surged through the stands, screamed, chanted, worshipped. The ground trembled beneath the weight of their fervor, the walls seeming to shake with the force of their celebration.
Medical staff raced into the arena, some hesitant, some pale-faced as they hurried to tend to the bodies strewn across the sand. One knelt beside Cardin, fingers pressing against his throat. A nod to his companion confirmed it—he was still breathing. Barely.
Godric, unconcerned, twirled his blade in his hand before sliding it back into his scabbard. Without another word, he turned, walking away, his steps steady, unhurried, as though none of it had ever mattered.
"And the victor!" the announcer bellowed over the roaring masses. "The Lion of Ignis—Godric Gryffindor!"
****
Helena could only stand frozen, her breath caught in her throat, unable to look away from the devastation left in Godric's wake. Her hand clamped over her mouth as a wave of nausea twisted in her stomach, her entire body rigid with the weight of what she had just witnessed. Around her, the crowd roared their approval in fevered hysteria, the very walls of The Congregation trembling beneath the force of their cheers. The sickening, unrelenting praise only made her stomach churn harder.
She tore her gaze away from the battered bodies littering the sand, searching the faces of her fellow Overseers. Every one of them wore the same grim expression, a mixture of revulsion and reluctant acceptance. They had seen the same horrors, felt the same sickness coil in their guts, but the laws of The Congregation bound them. The rules were clear—Godric had broken none of them.
And yet…
Helena's eyes flicked toward the rest of The Congregation's audience, studying their reactions. Some had twisted, malicious grins, their amusement curling into something sinister, as if they had just been issued a challenge they were eager to meet. Others sat rigid, their expressions thunderous, seething with silent fury, as if Godric had trampled on their honor, stripped them of their right to prey on those too weak to fight back. A quiet promise lingered in their scowls, one that assured retaliation, as if warning him that this was not the end, but only the beginning.
Then, there were those whose expressions bore something else entirely—something darker. Údar and Cú stood stone-faced, the usual bloodthirsty excitement absent in their eyes, instead replaced with something Helena could not quite name. And there, high above the arena, Genji sat with his fingers interlaced before his mouth, his gaze unreadable, but his posture rigid with unease.
A monster had just been born before their eyes.
"Well, I don't know about you," Salazar's suddenly cut through the noise, his tone light, almost too casual. "But I have a pretty good feeling that there are going to be a few more new rules added to the book for arena fights after this." He chuckled, though the sound lacked his usual smooth confidence, instead laced with something tense, something unsettled.
Helena snapped her gaze to him, her eyes flaring with uncontained fury. "I'm so glad you find the whole thing so damned amusing, Salazar," she bit out. "Godric nearly murdered five boys in cold blood, and all you can do is laugh?"
Salazar's smirk faltered just slightly, his arms still crossed over his chest, but the usual ease in his stance gone. His emerald gaze flicked toward the blood-streaked sand, then back up to Godric as the boy walked toward the exit, his presence as ominous as the storm he had left behind.
"I'm not laughing, Helena," Salazar muttered, the humor drained from it entirely. "Not really."
Helena exhaled sharply, shaking her head, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady the storm inside her. "That wasn't a boy in the arena. That wasn't the Godric we knew." Her expression was tight, laced with something that felt dangerously close to grief. "That was a beast let loose from its cage. The Godric we know—he would never have done this."
Salazar remained silent for a long moment, his emerald gaze tracing the blood-streaked sand below. When he finally spoke, the words carrying a truth too bitter to ignore. "There are hearts that never truly mend once they are broken." His arms tightened around himself, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeves.
"Or if they do mend, they heal in a crooked, lopsided way—patched together like shattered glass by a careless craftsman. That's what we saw today." His eyes darkened. "That wasn't honor. That wasn't courage. That wasn't chivalry. That was pain. That was rage. That was hate."
His jaw clenched. "Godric didn't want justice. He wanted vengeance. He wanted retribution. He wanted to hurt someone the way he had been hurt. The world took the one thing he treasured more than life itself, and since he cannot draw his sword against the world, he gives it a face." His gaze flickered toward Cardin's limp, broken form. "Today, it was him. Tomorrow, it might be someone else."
"A feeling I know too well." Salazar took a deep, slow breath, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "And after today…" His gaze turned toward the faces in the crowd. "I don't think he'll have a shortage of enemies." He scoffed bitterly. "He just effectively declared war on The Congregation."
Helena's expression darkened as she followed his gaze. "I doubt Godric even realizes it, but he's just invoked Ius Praesidium."
Salazar turned to her sharply, his brows furrowing.
"The Right of Protection," she explained. "By the Old Laws, by the Old Ways, he's made his vow. The slaves of Excalibur are under his protection now." She bit her lip, her eyes scanning the various clans watching from the sidelines. "And there are plenty who won't take kindly to that."
Salazar's lips curled slightly, though it wasn't a smirk, wasn't amusement. It was something colder, something heavier. "A wise man once said—building a new world means tearing the old one down."
Helena turned to him. Her expression unreadable. "And you? What will you do?"
"Even if Godric does become a monster," Salazar said, "I'll be the devil at his side, every step of the way."