Dark Parasyte
Chapter 50: The Raven Claims the Flame

Chapter 50: The Raven Claims the Flame

Cardinal Tyrannus Holric was a man of order, an anchor in the storm, forged in the crucibles of dogma and doctrine, his resolve etched in gold and blood. For decades, he had led the faithful with unwavering zeal, a living testament to the divine order of Holy Verrenate. He had marched beneath sacred standards, cleansed heresies with fire and sword, and stood unflinching where others faltered. But now, that world, the one he knew, the one he trusted was coming apart like brittle scripture under flame.

The distant shimmer caught his eye first. Those faint divine shields, cast far at north, glimmered briefly in the moonlight. Elegant, disciplined, and unmistakable. He had seen this before, cast by war priests to bless and protect. But these were not his. These were not allies.

A cold twist formed in his gut.

In the span of a breath, they lit the darkness like cursed lanterns.

And then, the sky tore open.

Not arrows, nor javelins. No elegance in their arc. The heavens screamed as wave after wave of iron shards, long, jagged, unnaturally precise, cut through the night. They came in a brutal, horizontal line, hurled not by man but by something colder, calculating, and cruel.

The first volley landed with a sound that defied description.

Armor exploded outward like burst fruit. Shields fractured like porcelain. The front lines of his twelve legions collapsed within seconds. Men dropped without cries, decapitated or split clean through. Some convulsed, twitching on the blood slick ground. Others were bisected at the waist, their torsos spilling forward, still gripping their weapons.

"Form up! Shield wall! FORM UP!" Tyrannus roared, his voice a thunderclap in the chaos. His greatsword slammed into the earth, radiating a small pulse of stabilizing magic that fizzled before it could spread.

But order refused to bloom in the garden of death.

The next wave struck harder. Sharper. A helmet spun skyward like a tossed coin, a man’s head still inside. A warhorse screamed, rearing before collapsing, crushing three soldiers under its weight. Another paladin tried to rise, only to be pierced through his chest by a shard that embedded him into the dirt like a grotesque flag.

Tyrannus spun, eyes wild. "Flares! Signal the reserves!"

A war priest obeyed without hesitation. The yellow flare spiraled upward, a beacon of divine rallying.

Then came the answer.

From within the city walls: a flare.

Red.

Then another.

Then five more.

Thirteen more.

Each flare was a cry of help.

Tyrannus’ breath caught. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"Betrayal," he rasped.

From behind, the heart of the city, the backup legions were being overrun.

"NO!" he bellowed, turning just as the ground began to quake under a new rhythm.

East and west. The thunder of hooves. The crash of armor. The shrieks of banners being ripped by wind and magic.

From the east came mounted Purifiers, blades alight with blessings. From the west, fully armed warpriests rode side by side with archers cloaked in holy tabards, silent and pristine, yet bearing no warmth in their eyes.

Then came the magic.

Jagged ice spears tore into the left flank like claws raking through parchment. Lightning fell like divine judgment turned mad, striking indiscriminately, roasting men in place. Fireballs exploded through the rear ranks, igniting banners, tents, and bodies alike. Light javelins, sliced through shield lines like razors of sanctified spite.

The trap had been laid perfectly.

The jaws now closed.

From the north, yet another wave of iron shards came, screaming like banshees through the smoke choked air. Faster, sharper more cruel.

Tyrannus could only watch.

A Purifier Commander raised his blade to rally the men, only for a shard to drive through his ribs and erupt from his spine. His mouth opened, but no sound came. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Another soldier stumbled backward, hands clutching where his face had been. Blood geysered from a ruined neck. A war priest screamed and reached for him, only for a shard to cleave through both of them in a single, wet stroke.

The field had become a tomb.

Fire raged to the west. Ice shattered spines to the east. Lightning danced over broken armors. From the north came death in metal and madness.

And behind, the holy city was dying.

He could hear the bells now. Alarm bells. Prayer bells. Mourning bells.

Tyrannus drew his blade.

"ATTACK!" he roared, the veins on his neck bulging, his eyes rimmed in madness.

Not to win.

But to die standing.

His soldiers heard. And those who could still stand rose, with bloodied shields and broken armor. They marched in rage. The last roar of a godforsaken army.

The night had begun with banners.

It would end with their ashes.

--

The agents of the Silent Aurora had spent half a day combing through whispers, faded intelligence, and secure channels within the Gilded Dominion. Their conclusion was unsettling beyond any written record. Corvin Blackmoor had indeed passed through the region, but like a shadow that tore the light apart, leaving only silence and stories behind.

Every inquiry about him was met with tight lips. Every path he walked seemed smoothed over by fear.

No one wanted to speak his name. Not even under the influence of gold or threats.

No merchant, no guard, no tavern keeper. As if the very syllables were cursed.

But fear? Fear lingered like smoke after fire.

They heard the same patterns repeated in hushed tones: unexplained deaths, black feathers, and an elf with a long shadow.

By nightfall, the trio, Vaethryl, Tharien, and Liraen had followed the trail northward. They moved swiftly, cloaked in nature’s indifference. With the chaos erupting across Holy Verrenate, their passage through Iron March went unnoticed. Soldiers of Iron March were moving north to bolster the border defenses. Refugees from Verrenate, fleeing and desperate, clogged the roads. Every movement they made was swallowed by a kingdom unraveling.

They reached the kingdom devouted to the human gods. What they observed however was strange. Purifiers and clergy of were moving towardst he capital. They were carrying whatever they can and burning whatever they couldn’t. The Trio followed.

Verranus.

Upon entry, the agents sensed it immediately. The air was thick with desperation and fanaticism. The Holy Flame banners that once flew with pride now seemed like veils trying to hide the distress beneath.

There were rumors of rebellion, an idea so absurd it would’ve been laughable if not for the tension humming in the stonework. Holy Verrenate was not a land built for rebellion. It was an iron cage of doctrine, a theocracy so absolute that dissent should have been impossible. And yet, the signs were everywhere: soldiers muttering about ghost towns, clergy avoiding their own sermons, supply carts rerouted without explanation. Doors that closed too quickly. Eyes that lingered too long.

The agents waited. They observed.

And then, just after midnight, everything collapsed.

From their vantage point atop a church’s tower near the northtern wall, they bore silent witness to madness.

Far to the north, they saw the divine shields cast.

At first glance, it appeared to be a squad of priests hunkered behind holy barriers. Standard Verrenate formation. Familiar.

But the enchanted lenses told a different story.

Only one man stood within that shimmering cage. One figure. Large build, silver hair, an Elf. Hands raised, controlling the air around him like a conductor before an orchestra of death.

Metal shards floated in perfect silence around him, slender, sharp iron shards suspended in a delicate dance.

Then came the storm.

The shards launched forward.

The front ranks of the Verrenate legions crumbled in an instant. Flesh ruptured, armor folded, shields exploded. The second wave struck deeper, cutting into men, horses, and commanders alike. The third wave was worse. It seemed angry.

Corvin did not move. He barely breathed. He was death without rage. Execution without emotion.

A golden flare rose from the legions outside the wall a signal for the backup forces within the walls. Red flares erupted from the north sector of the city.

The streets convulsed.

Discipline fractured in a heartbeat. Purifiers turned blades on fellow zealots. Priests incinerated guardsmen with the very light they preached. There were no cries of betrayal, no accusations. Just silent slaughter. Movements too precise. Faces too calm. Like puppets beneath an unseen hand.

The agents didn’t speak. They simply moved.

In the chaos that erupted at the North Gate, they climbed the inner ramparts and breached the outer city wall to gain a clear view of what lay beyond.

What they saw struck each of them in different ways, Vaethryl gritted her teeth, Tharien’s eyes narrowed, and even Liraen whispered a soft curse to the wind.

Thousands were marching towards the North Gate.

From both the eastern and western sides, companies marched in perfect formation. Armor gleaming, flags held high. They wore the colors of Verrenate. Their movements were coordinated, beyond discipline. As if something else pulled their strings.

Tharien muttered, "This isn’t rebellion."

Vaethryl didn’t respond. Her jaw was locked.

Liraen turned to them both. "We report. Now."

They began moving west, slipping into shadows, ignoring the screams behind them.

Their orders were clear: Observe. Evaluate. Do not engage.

What they had seen tonight? It surpassed all expectations.

This was no uprising.

This was a methodical culling.

The Silent Aurora did not panic.

But tonight, for the first time in a decade, they feared.

--

The jaws had closed.

Once stood as the proud shield and sword of the Holy Verrenate, the legions of war priests, purifiesrs, paladins and soldiers, legions of the Sanctified council was now a scattered wreck of bodies, shattered steel, and crimson mud. Craters marred the earth where magic detonations had torn sanctified ground into scorched hell. Smoke clung to the wreckage like a veil of mourning.

Through it strode Corvin.

His soldiers, the Covenant Bound were silent giants of war. Their enhanced forms bore the unmistakable mark of the strain, PHS1.0. Muscles like coiled steel, reflexes beyond mortal comprehension. Every step they took thundered with purpose, every swing of a blade felled another as if the gods themselves had deemed them obsolete.

And they were everywhere.

The last survivors of the Verrenate legions tried to flee. Some fell to their knees in surrender. Others screamed divine prayers into the sky. None were spared. The ight of life danced on their eyes widened with fear one final time before it dulled, at least untill they will be raised again. To serve a higher purpose of course.

Corvin moved with the calm of inevitability. Each step was another heartbeat toward an ending. He spun, parried, and cleaved with a fluidity that mocked mortal skill. Lightning danced between his fingers. Wind surged in to slice clustered soldiers aside. The ground trembled under sudden eruptions of jagged stone, his Earth affinity tearing apart defensive formations. Ice sheared through ranks like glass razors, while Telekinesis sent flailing bodies into walls and blades alike.

Within minutes, the final resistance had broken.

What remained of the Verrenate command was dragged before him. Four men, stripped of dignity, each flanked by two silent Purifiers. Mud and blood stained their robes and armor. One of them, his armor still bearing the gilded sunburst of high command lifted his chin. Even with dried blood caked on his temple, his pride held firm.

Cardinal Tyrannus Holric.

The Cardinal of War.

Corvin stopped before him.

Tyrannus locked eyes with him, jaw clenched, breathing labored.

"A damn elf" he hissed. "Subhuman! Heretic! Infidel! This land, these people will rise again. We are divine flame. You are the rot beneath it." He turned to to Corvin’s soldiers and spat at their feet. "Traitors" He hissed." A purifier backhanded him with enough force to make him lose some teeth. His face bloodied and disfigured, he turned his gaze to Corvin with enough hatred to fuel the flames of hell.

Corvin’s expression barely shifted. "You’re mistaking renewal for betrayal," he replied smoothly. "And I’ve always found terrorists like yourself... flammable."

Tyrannus spat at the ground near Corvin’s feet, refusing to look away.

Corvin gave a faint smile. "Brave. Pointless, but brave."

He stepped forward, raising his hand. Invisible tendrils of psionic energy curled outward like a snake poised to bite. He used mind walk without restrain.

Tyrannus’ eyes dilated. His mental defenses tried to stop the avalanche, it failed miserably. It failed painfully.

Memories unfolded, beneath the screams of agony rising from the depths of his soul memories, information, secrets. All unfolded like a red rose greeting it’s owner.

Lines of command. Secret hallways beneath Verranus. Hidden chambers of the Sanctified Council. Locations of holy relics, weapon caches, escape tunnels, and vaults buried in catacombs known only to the highest echelons.

It took seconds. Corvin blinked and stepped back, releasing the connection.

"Thank you," he said coldly. "You’ve saved me from some minor disturbances."

Tyrannus screamed a prayer.

Corvin raised both hands. "May your gods judge you with fire."

And absorbed him.

The Cardinal’s body convulsed, light erupting from his mouth and eyes. His soul fought against the absorbtion. He wished to die thousands of times instead of being absorbed alive. Every strand of life fought before collapsing agains Corvin’s absorbtion force. Each fight tore through Tyrrannus like a jagged blade. His form broke apart as if unraveled from within. His scream was part fury, part terror, until it faded into dust.

Corvin turned to the remaining three.

"Nothing special," he murmured. With a flick of his wrist, earth tendrils erupted beneath their feet, impaling two instantly. The third tried to speak, his head exploded mid syllable as a charged shard of iron punctured his skull.

He waved his Purifiers forward. "Collect the bodies that are mostly intact. Stack the rest for burning."

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was expectation.

A minute passed.

Then another.

The massive metal gates of Verranus began to grind open. The reinforced doors, a testament to craftsmanship, once thought impenetrable, creaked and split apart under the command of Covenant Bound priests within.

What they revealed was not salvation.

It was judgment.

The city’s entrance plaza, once pristine with alabaster statues of saints and gold laid runes, was soaked in blood. Corpses lined the street gutters. Holy banners had been torn from spires and used to wrap bodies. Flaming braziers now burned corpses for light. War Priests, once symbols of spiritual destruction of heretics, stood blank faced, their eyes locked to their master, their weapons wet with blood of their brethren.

Covenant Bound troops stood in formation, not a hair out of place. They had cleansed Verranus block by block, shrine by shrine.

The entire city had fallen.

Temples were now command posts. Basilicas served as field hospitals for the undead. Cathedrals had been converted into storage for newly acquired bodies, stacked neatly and preserved with magical runes to preserve. The holy choir square had been turned into a training field.

And at the center of it all, rising from the blood slicked stones of the plaza, was a single, fresh banner:

A raven, black on silver spreading its wings above a broken sun.

Corvin stared through the gate.

Verranus was open.

The heart of Holy Verrenate was his to claim.

He stepped forward.

And the Raven entered the nest of saints with silence on his tongue and war in his shadow.