Klaus shook his head with a faint, dismissive motion, adjusting midair as he twisted his body to the left. Now facing the earth below, he plummeted through the sky in perfect silence, like a falling blade.
His eyes widened slightly, the amethyst glow in them deepening to something almost violent—unapologetically hungry. He wasn't angry. He wasn't desperate. He just wanted to kill. Simple as that.
Violence had always suited him. It was clean, efficient. Addictive, even. Once you've tasted the world without rules—without consequences—there's no going back. That's what Faceless had shown him: the terrifying bliss of total autonomy. And here, in this nightmare of a war, where morality had long since evaporated, he felt no reason to pretend otherwise.
He knew he wasn't sane. But who the hell was? He wasn't some fate-kissed hero or divine chosen one. He was Klaus. From the outside, sure—he looked exceptional. And, frankly, he was. But that never made him less dangerous. Only more aware of what he could get away with.
A wicked grin cut across his face as his fingers tightened around Leviathan's hilt. The blade thrummed in his hand, eager, gleaming with deathlight. He gave it a brief, almost fond glance before narrowing his focus.
Calculations lined up in his mind like dominoes.
Mass? Irrelevant.
Weight? Density? Doesn't matter.
Everything falls at the same rate in a vacuum. The trick wasn't in the size—it was in the pressure.
It was almost funny, how the inspiration had come from the Chain Isles—when he'd let himself be crushed just to see what it felt like. The answer had been: informative.
So now, he turned the same force inward. Amplified the gravitational pressure around his own body until the world blurred around him. The effect was disorienting. Time felt sluggish, elongated. His velocity multiplied as though he were being dragged downward by some invisible black hole.
He grimaced against the compression, teeth bared in strain. Seconds passed. Then—release.
The pressure snapped off. Klaus raised Leviathan overhead, letting the blade sing through the air as he descended. Then, with surgical precision, he slashed downward—not at the ground, but at the sky itself.
The sword didn't cut anything physical. Instead, the air split open. Cataclysmic fractures rippled out from the impact point, the very atmosphere breaking under the force of his essence. One of his cores went dark—emptied.
But his control was near-absolute now. The True Name of Control, burned into his soul, made him a master of essence manipulation. The moment he activated Poseidon, it wasn't raw power anymore—it was refined, terrifyingly precise.
From the ground, the soldiers could only look up in helpless disbelief as the sky cracked apart. The shockwaves tore through the air like tidal waves of obliteration. The first rows didn't even have time to scream—flesh liquefied, bone pulverized, and the earth itself buckled under the pressure.
A deafening explosion followed. Smoke coiled into the heavens. Debris rained down like judgment.
And through it all, Klaus landed softly—unbothered, indifferent. Leviathan rested on his shoulder, still humming with residual energy. Space itself seemed to tremble in protest.
The backlash had taken its toll. His right arm hung limp, bones shattered, flesh flayed. But Klaus simply stared at it, expression blank. More curious than concerned.
A flicker of warmth bloomed beside him. Hemera, wreathed in soft flames, appeared and pressed her wing to his wound. His tissue began knitting itself back together, flame licking at exposed bone as regeneration began.
At her side stood Hassan, a silent colossus. His gaze was empty, unreadable, as he surveyed the carnage below.
Klaus glanced at them both. No words. Just a nod.
And then, like clockwork—
Klaus moved to the center.
Hassan veered right.
Hemera, left.
Klaus emptied his thoughts.
Every lingering emotion—hesitation, doubt, empathy—was discarded like trash. What remained was a vacuum of purpose, cold-blooded efficiency surging through him like a system rebooting into its optimal state. No distraction. No noise. Just the raw algorithm of war running in real time.
His father used to preach that the essence of combat was murder. Maybe. Probably. Who cared?
Klaus certainly didn't.
The old man loved to wax poetic about battle, turning bloodshed into philosophy, death into sermons. But Klaus had never been one to follow the dogmas of lesser minds—especially not ones who measured their self-worth in ideology. He wasn't here to honor anyone's ideals. He was here to win. And frankly? He was smarter. And eventually, he'd be stronger too. That was the only doctrine that mattered.
In the end, none of it held any weight. Not the weapons. Not the bloodlines. Not the so-called "essence of combat." Klaus didn't give a damn about any of it.
He wasn't a warrior. He was a sorcerer. A tactician. An adaptive anomaly in a world obsessed with brute force.
And while the rest of them clung to prideful codes and martial creeds, Klaus followed the only law he respected: whatever works.
Power wasn't some sacred flame to be revered or defined—it was a tool, a trick, a glitch to be exploited. If it gave you the upper hand, if it made you the last one standing in a battlefield of corpses, then it was valid. End of discussion.
That's why he couldn't strengthen himself like Sunless or shatter rocks like Effie. His strength was pathetic in comparison. Even his own sister could snap him in half if it came to a bare-handed brawl.
But that was fine.
He didn't need raw strength. He had something better: grotesquely refined essence manipulation.
He generated bursts of kinetic energy to mimic brute power. Reinforced his body on the fly. Tweaked bone density, made his flesh elastic or firm depending on the scenario—half-sorcerer, half-living experiment. With Faceless, he'd become something disturbingly adaptable. A biological sandbox of combat utilities, reshaping himself mid-fight to counter every opponent like some sentient cheat code.
Of course, it took years. Years of obsessive training, nerve-splitting pain, trial and error that would've shattered anyone less stubborn. But hey—hard work pays off.
Suddenly, the night began to burn.
The darkness peeled back as warmth flooded the battlefield. Klaus turned slightly, casting a glance toward the left. Hemera hovered like a miniature sun, radiant and divine. He felt it instantly—his essence surged, physical performance climbing, wounds mending faster.
She wasn't a fighter. She didn't need to be.
As a support unit, Hemera was peerless. Her light wasn't just healing—it was amplifying. Him. Noctis. The entire cohort. Klaus could feel the battlefield tipping in their favor, moment by moment, atom by atom.
And while Hemera was bolstering their side with light, Hassan was doing the opposite—dragging the enemy into a swamp of existential dread with every step.
A grin tugged at Klaus's mouth.
Not a friendly one.
He turned to face the incoming horde, the ruined skyline behind him, blade resting lazily against his shoulder. There was a gleam in his eyes—like a scholar watching a theory unfold under perfect conditions. Or a lunatic about to conduct the world's most violent experiment.
"I am the Smiling Man," he said softly, voice smooth and bone-dry.
His lips curled wider.
"Let's have some fun, shall we?"