Waves mingled with ice crashing against the desolate shore, and red blood trickled from the corpses beneath Hecarim's butcher's knife. The mortals to be slaughtered are retreating in terror towards the coast. The black rain soaked them, and the storm clouds churned under the mourning of the heart of the island. He heard them shouting something to each other, what seemed to be some kind of tactical code language he didn't understand, but the meaning was obvious; They thought they had hope of making it back to the ship alive. Indeed, they know some tactics. Their movements are uniform, and their shields are interlocking. But they were mortals after all, and their fear of the smell of flesh made Hecarim drench.

He circled around them, treading on the shattered wreckage, the shadows of the white sand obscuring his tracks. His iron hooves trampled on the black rocks, bursting with sparks and reverberating with thunderous sounds, each of which ate away at their courage. He watched the group of mortals through the cracks in his helmet's visor, their poor souls glittering through their flesh. The soul's dislike for him is as strong as his desire for the soul.

"No one survives," he said.

His voice was muffled in his helmet, like the deathbed wail of a hanged man. The sound creeped them out, like a blunt knife scraping their nerves. He drank their fears and smiled as a man dropped his shield and ran desperately to the boat by the sea.

With a loud roar, he leapt out of the overgrown ruins, lowering the barbed halberd in his hand slightly, feeling the ancient and familiar charge. A memory flashed through its mind, and he led a silver cavalry regiment to the top of the line. The memories faded, and the man had reached the dark shallow shore of the broken waves, looking back.

"Please! No! He shouted.

Hecarim's blow was like a thunderbolt, slashing him directly from his collarbone to his lower abdomen. The black blade of his halberd pulsated in the blood. This mortal fragile soul wants to fly to freedom, and the black mist of hunger will not spare any soul. Hecarim watched as his soul was twisted and blackened, a dark reflection of what he had been like in life.

Hecarim draws power from the island's magic, blood-stained beaches stir, and a group of dark knights in shining armor float from the water. The ancient armor of their entire bodies shone with a strange cold light, and the black swords in their hands shone with the edge of a shadow. Hecarim felt that he should know these cavalrymen. They had been his subordinates and still obeyed him, but he had no memory of them. He turned back to the mortals on the beach. He burst out of the black mist, allowing these mortals to see his true identity clearly for the first time, and reveled in their fear.

His burly body is a terrifying fusion of man and horse, an invulnerable monster of invulnerable iron armor. The black plate armor on his body had some words engraved on it, but he could only vaguely remember the exact meaning. Behind the visor, there is a raging spiritual fire, and the soul in it has long been cold and dead, and at the same time vicious and vivid.

Forked lightning tore through the sky, and Hekarim raised his front hooves and stood high. He lowered his blood-stained halberd slightly, leading the knights behind him to charge, large chunks of blood-soaked sand and bone splinters in his back. The mortals raised their shields in exclamation, but the charge of the ghost knights was unstoppable. Hecarim rode first and rushed in front of the head, slashing left and right with his halberd, killing people with every blow. The Ghost Knights trampled everything in front of them, slaughtering with roaring iron hooves and rampage. Mortals were strewn with flesh and blood, broken bones and tendons, and souls drifted out of their broken bodies, immediately imprisoned in an immortal state by the cruel magic of the Ruined King.

The souls of the dead surround Hekarim because he gave them death. Hecarim, on the other hand, was immersed in the ecstasy of the battle. He ignored the howling spirits around him. He has no interest in enslaving them. This trivial cruelty is left to the Warden of the Soul Lock.

All Hekarim cared about was killing.

The Iron Sword Lady stood in the embers of her home, all the people and things she cared about were gone, and her heart was filled with endless sorrow...... And hatred. Hatred was the only thing she could do to live now.

Her eyes reappeared in front of her face, the smile on his face as he gave orders. He was supposed to be everyone's protector, but he broke his oath. Her family was not the only victim of the traitor.

She wanted to hunt him down so badly. Her only wish was to plunge her iron sword deep into his chest, watching his eyes fade into the darken...... But she knew she would never be able to get close to him. He was surrounded by people who protected him day and night, and she was the only one who fought alone. She would never have been able to get past his human wall and get close to him. Such a death is pointless.

She took a breath of cold air and realized that she was about to embark on the road of no return.

A crude doll made of sticks and balls of thread lies on a dresser that has been burned by fire. The doll was wrapped in a rag that had been torn from the traitor's cloak. She had to pry her deceased husband's fingers open to pull out the rag. There was also a hammer and three rusty nails on the dresser.

She picked up the items and walked to the door. The door panel was gone, and had been smashed to pieces at the time of the attack. Outside the door frame, the hazy moonlight reflected a mess of scorched earth.

The Iron Sword Lady reached out and pressed the doll against the top beam of the door frame.

"Hear my prayers, Nemesis." She whispered, her trembling voice unable to hide the anger in her heart. "On the other side of the curtain of life and death, please listen to my grievances. Appear, I pray thee, to administer justice. ”

She took the hammer and the first nail.

"Call the traitor's name," she said, and then spoke his name out loud. At the same time, insert the tip of the first nail into the puppet's chest. She struck it with a hammer, and the nail was deeply inserted into the beam, nailing the doll firmly to the door frame.

The Iron Sword Lady shuddered. A chill ran through the room. Maybe it's just her hallucination?

"Two traitors," she said the traitor's name a second time, nailing the second nail next to the first.

Her gaze shifted downward, and she suddenly shook in surprise. A dark figure stood in the moonlight, about a hundred meters away. The figure remained motionless. The Iron Sword Lady's breathing became rapid, and she turned her attention back to the unfinished ritual.

"Three calls for the name of a traitor," she said again the name of the man who had murdered her husband's child, driving the last nail into it.

A vengeful spirit from the ancient appeared in front of her, taking up all the space in the doorway, and the Iron Sword Lady staggered back, gasping for breath involuntarily.

The otherworldly spirit was clad in ancient armor, her translucent skin glowing like a dark glow. The black mist around her undulated and fluttered like a light veil of life.

With the screech of scraping metal, the ghost pulled forward the spear that protruded from the center of her breastplate—the ancient murder weapon that killed her.

She threw her spear in front of the Iron Sword Lady. They didn't say a word; Silence is better than sound at the moment. The Iron Sword Lady knew what kind of invitation lay before her—revenge—and she knew what it would take: her soul.

The ghost stared at her, her face blank and her eyes burning with unyielding cold rage, as she watched as the Iron Sword Lady picked up the traitor's weapon.

"I vow to dedicate myself to revenge," said the Iron Sword Lady in a trembling voice. She turned the tip of her spear to her heart. "I pledge to give my blood and my soul."

She paused. If her husband had a spirit in heaven, he would have begged her not to set foot on this path. He would beg her not to suffer the curse of her soul because of their death. In this moment, doubt and hesitation tormented her. And the ghost was still watching.

The Iron Sword Lady's eyes were slightly closed, and she thought of her dead husband lying on the ground, with countless sword wounds and axe marks on his body. She thought of her children again, all lying flat on the ground, and then her heart became a hard rock, and her hands clenched the spear tightly.

"Please help me," she pleaded, now with her mind set up. "Help me kill him."

She thrust her spear into her chest, pushing it deepest.

The Iron Sword Lady fell to her knees, her eyes wide. She tried to speak, but all that came out of her mouth was blood.

The ghostly figure watched her die, still expressionless.

As she drained the last drop of blood from her body, the remnant of the Iron Sword Lady crawled to her feet. She looked in amazement at her ethereal hands, then at her dead body and the blood on the ground. The remnant's expression became serious, and a spirit iron sword appeared in her hand.

An ethereal flap appeared, emitting a faint glow that connected the newborn remnant soul with the vengeful soul that had been summoned. Through the bond between them, the Iron Sword Lady saw a different vengeful spirit, and she seemed to see the noble warrior who had once been, tall and proud. Confident but not conceited, a natural leader, born soldier. Such a commander is the Iron Sword Lady who is willing to fight bloodily for him.

Under the wrath of the ghost, the Iron Sword Lady also felt her empathy—they all suffered the same pain of betrayal.

"Your enmity is our enmity," said Callista, the spear of vengeance. Her voice was grim. "We will become one and embark on a path of revenge together."

The Iron Sword Lady nodded.

Then, the spirit of vengeance and the remnants of the Iron Sword Lady walked into the darkness and disappeared without a trace.