Halochassis

Risha, encased within the imposing Mastema Halochassis, lunged forward with mechanical precision. The massive shield mounted on her left arm shifted with a metallic clank, its segmented plates unfolding before a gleaming switchblade shot from its center. 

The weapon hummed with an ominous black aura as she drove it straight into Cattleo’s back. The blade pierced through flesh, muscle, and bone with sickening ease before erupting from his chest in a spray of crimson.

”Gah!” Cattleo choked, his body lurching forward as warm blood spilled from his lips and splattered onto the shattered stone beneath him. A searing pain spread through his torso like molten iron being poured into his veins, threatening to overwhelm his senses. Gritting his teeth, he desperately channeled the boundless reservoir of mana flowing through his body toward the wound. 

Brilliant streams of azure light gathered around the injury as he instinctively cast the Forced Regeneration Spell, expecting torn flesh to knit together in an instant. Instead, the mana dispersed into nothingness the moment it touched the blade. The spell simply vanished, leaving only an unbearable burning sensation that intensified with every passing second.

Why is it not working!? Cattleo screamed inwardly, panic clawing at the edges of his composure for the first time in decades.

Mastema’s emotionless mechanical voice echoed from the Halochassis, calm and almost mocking amidst the distant rumble of collapsing buildings. ”This blade is forged with Anti-Magic. Every spell it touches is rendered meaningless. It doesn’t merely block magic—it denies its existence. The harder you struggle to heal yourself, the more the curse embedded within the blade punishes your body.”

Another violent cough wracked Cattleo’s frail frame. Thick, dark blood poured from his mouth, staining the front of his robes as his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He could feel the cold steel lodged deep inside his body, having pierced clean through his left kidney and lung. 

Every breath became a ragged gasp, accompanied by a wet gurgling sound as blood filled his damaged lung. As his trembling fingers brushed against the exposed edge of the weapon, he sensed something even more horrifying than Anti-Magic. A sinister curse slithered through the blade like a living serpent, relentlessly devouring the unnatural vitality that had sustained him for years.

So this... this is what Alexander meant... Cattleo realized, his widening eyes reflecting genuine fear. The Halochassis... they truly were designed to kill us—the Celestial Wardens themselves.

The curse spread rapidly throughout his body. Wrinkles crawled across his once youthful skin like cracks spreading through old porcelain. The firmness of his flesh withered away before his eyes, muscles shrinking beneath paper-thin skin as decades of stolen time violently reclaimed what they were owed. His posture collapsed, his back bending under the crushing weight of his true age. 

Thick strands of hair loosened from his scalp and drifted to the ground, carried away by the cold wind until only sparse patches remained. Within moments, the vigorous man who had appeared no older than his twenties had become nothing more than a gaunt fifty-two-year-old, his skeletal frame trembling beneath robes that now hung loosely from his emaciated body.

”Oh, right,” Mastema said quietly, her tone devoid of sympathy. ”We found your laboratory. We know about the children you abducted... how you butchered them and refined their lives into that grotesque serum you injected into yourself. All those innocent lives sacrificed so you could cling to eternal youth.” She paused for a brief moment before delivering the final blow with chilling disgust. ”What a revolting way to imitate immortality.”

”H-H-How... d-d-dare... y-you...” Cattleo wheezed, every word interrupted by painful spasms and fresh torrents of black blood. 

His shriveled fingers, now frail enough to resemble brittle twigs, wrapped around the embedded blade. He strained with every ounce of strength he had left, veins bulging beneath his wrinkled skin as he desperately tried to pull the cursed weapon free. The effort accomplished nothing. His arms trembled violently before giving out, leaving the blade firmly buried within his body while fresh agony coursed through every nerve.

How... How can this be!? his mind screamed in denial. I’m a Celestial Warden! One of the heroes who saved the world! I fought the Demon King! I protected humanity! What did I ever do to deserve this!?

The question echoed through the silence of his own mind—and for the first time, an answer began to surface.

The faces of terrified children emerged from the darkness behind his eyes, their desperate cries ringing in his ears. Countless victims whose names he had long forgotten stared back at him with hollow expressions. The sterile halls of his hidden laboratory, soaked in blood and lined with cold steel instruments, flashed before him one after another. 

Every experiment, every lie, every life he had stolen in pursuit of immortality resurfaced with ruthless clarity. The memories came faster and faster until they blended into a relentless torrent of guilt, regret, and horror. As the cursed blade continued to drain away the last remnants of his stolen youth, Cattleo stood frozen, forced to confront the mountain of sins he had buried beneath decades of self-justification.

Cattleo was born and raised in a quiet orphanage on the outskirts of Luminous City. The old stone building was always filled with the sounds of children laughing, arguing, and playing together in the courtyard, yet those cheerful voices rarely included him. Shy by nature and burdened with a severe stutter, Cattleo found it almost impossible to speak without stumbling over his own words. 

Every failed attempt to introduce himself or join a conversation was met with awkward silence or childish laughter. Before long, the other children simply stopped inviting him to play. He spent most of his childhood alone, sitting beneath the shade of a large oak tree with a worn-out book in his lap, watching the other orphans from afar while wondering why words came so easily to everyone except him.

Everything changed the day a noble carriage rolled through the orphanage gates. A dignified duchess stepped out, dressed in elegant robes embroidered with silver runes that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun. Unlike the other nobles who occasionally visited to make donations, she looked directly into Cattleo’s eyes instead of overlooking him. 

She introduced herself as a witch and a graduate of Saint Marian Academy before deciding to adopt him. That very evening, Cattleo watched in amazement as she casually lit the fireplace with a flick of her fingers, causing brilliant blue flames to dance through the air without consuming the wood. Books floated onto shelves, broken teacups repaired themselves, and flowers bloomed from empty pots at her command. Every spell she cast filled the room with dazzling lights and swirling currents of mana. To the lonely young boy, it looked nothing short of miraculous. From that moment onward, he dreamed of becoming a mage just like her.

Reality proved far crueler than his dreams.

Every spell required a spoken incantation, and every incantation required clear pronunciation. No matter how many times Cattleo practiced in front of a mirror or whispered the words to himself late into the night, his tongue refused to obey him. His stutter shattered every chant before it could be completed, causing the mana gathering around him to disperse harmlessly into the air. Even after enrolling at Saint Marian Academy, nothing changed. Surrounded by gifted students who effortlessly conjured fireballs and summoned torrents of lightning, Cattleo stood helplessly in the practice grounds, unable to produce even the simplest spark.

To many of his classmates, he became nothing more than a joke.

”Look, it’s the mute mage.”

”They admitted someone who can’t even cast Beginner Magic.”

”He should’ve stayed at the orphanage.”

Mocking laughter echoed across the training fields almost every day. Some students deliberately interrupted his attempts to cast spells, while others mimicked his stutter just to watch him lower his head in humiliation. Every insult cut deeper than the last, yet Cattleo silently endured them all, returning home each evening exhausted not from training, but from trying to hide the pain.

Despite everything, his adoptive mother never gave up on him.

One evening, after another discouraging day at the academy, she found Cattleo sitting alone in the garden with tears quietly rolling down his cheeks. She gently placed a warm hand upon his shoulder before smiling with the same kindness she had shown him since the day they met.

”Spell casting comes from the heart,” she said softly. ”Words are only one way of expressing what’s already inside you.”

Those simple words echoed inside Cattleo’s mind long after the conversation ended.

If spells come from the heart... then why do they have to come from my mouth?

The question refused to leave him.

Driven by that single thought, Cattleo immersed himself in the academy library. Dust-covered tomes towered over him as he searched through every section related to magical theory, silent communication, spiritual resonance, and psychic abilities. Days became weeks, and weeks became months. His fingertips grew stained with old parchment while sleepless nights became routine. Then, hidden among forgotten volumes in a neglected corner of the library, he discovered an ancient manuscript discussing telepathy—the art of transmitting thoughts without uttering a single word.

A possibility sparked within him.

If thoughts could be transmitted without speech... perhaps spells could as well.

Countless failed attempts followed. His nose bled from mental exhaustion, migraines left him bedridden, and professors dismissed his theory as impossible. Yet Cattleo refused to surrender. Eventually, after relentless experimentation, mana finally responded—not to his voice, but to the words echoing inside his own mind.

The spell activated.

A tiny sphere of light floated above his trembling hand.

For the first time in his life, Cattleo had successfully cast magic without speaking.

News of his unprecedented breakthrough spread throughout Saint Marian Academy like wildfire. The once-ridiculed student who couldn’t cast a single spell had become the world’s first wordless spellcaster. Before long, he earned a title that would be remembered across history.

The Silent Warlock.

It wasn’t long before a rising group of heroes known as the Celestial Wardens sought him out. At that time, the legendary party consisted of only three members: Alexander Goldheart, Qinglong Yin, and Lireina Ashford. They arrived at the academy while it was under siege by one of the Demon King’s generals, whose army poured through the surrounding forests like a tide of darkness. The air was thick with smoke, burning timber, and the cries of terrified students as demons swarmed the academy grounds.

Fighting alongside the three heroes, Cattleo unleashed his silent magic upon the battlefield. Without chanting or warning, devastating spells erupted from every direction, catching the demons completely off guard. The invading army was annihilated, and the Demon General ultimately fell beneath the combined might of the future legendary party.

That battle marked the beginning of Cattleo’s greatest chapter.

Alexander Goldheart possessed a charisma unlike anyone Cattleo had ever met. He inspired courage even when surrounded by hopeless odds, leading not through fear but through unwavering conviction. Under Alexander’s leadership, Cattleo found a purpose greater than himself.

Qinglong Yin was loud, stubborn, and constantly eager for battle, but behind his fierce personality was an unshakable sense of loyalty. Whenever enemies targeted Cattleo, Qinglong was always the first to place himself between the warlock and danger, laughing even as he endured wounds that would have crippled lesser warriors.

Lireina Ashford became the emotional pillar of the group. Her incredible marksmanship saved them countless times, but it was her compassion that left the deepest impression on Cattleo. She treated him like family, reminding him to rest, eat, and believe in himself whenever self-doubt resurfaced.

Together, they journeyed across kingdoms, deserts, mountains, and continents, recruiting allies until their party finally numbered seven. Their names became symbols of hope throughout the world, and after countless victories against the Demon King’s forces, the Goddess herself blessed each member with a unique divine gift.

Cattleo received the Autonomous Spell Casting Skill.

With a single thought, magic obeyed him instantly. There was no need for preparation or incantations anymore. His spells became faster than the blink of an eye, transforming him into one of the deadliest mages alive. The blessing came with a drawback, however. His mana reserves emptied at an alarming rate, forcing him to consume mana potions regularly during battle. Fortunately, Lireina had taught him advanced techniques for absorbing natural mana from the environment, allowing him to replenish his strength even in prolonged wars.

But even heroes cannot escape tragedy.

As the Demon King’s influence reached its peak, entire cities vanished beneath endless waves of demons. Villages burned through the night, rivers ran red with blood, and countless innocent lives were erased from history.

Among those victims was the duchess who had rescued Cattleo from the orphanage.

By the time he reached her estate, the once-beautiful manor had become little more than smoldering ruins. The scent of smoke and blood lingered heavily in the air as he searched desperately through the wreckage. He eventually found her lying beneath collapsed stone pillars, mortally wounded. Her breathing was weak, her robes stained crimson, yet she still smiled gently when she saw him.

Cattleo cradled her fragile body in his arms, desperately pouring healing magic into her wounds, but even his greatest spells could not reverse death itself.

With trembling fingers, she reached up and gently touched his cheek.

”You look so innocent, Cattleo,” she whispered, her fading voice barely audible above the crackling flames. ”Never... change.”

Her hand slowly slipped away.

Those final words etched themselves permanently into Cattleo’s heart.

He became obsessed with preserving the youth she had cherished.

At first, his experiments seemed harmless. After every battle, he collected the remains of slain demons, extracting their life essence before mixing it with specially formulated mana potions. Combined with advanced temporal magic, the serum successfully halted his aging. Every passing year left his appearance completely unchanged.

Yet victory over the Demon King brought an unexpected problem.

With the demons exterminated, his supply of life essence disappeared.

Fear began consuming him. Every wrinkle that threatened to appear reminded him of his adoptive mother’s final wish. Unable to accept growing old, his desperation gradually eclipsed his morality.

Eventually, he discovered an appalling truth.

Children blessed with abundant mana and untouched life energy produced a serum far more potent than any demon extract ever could.

That single discovery shattered the last remnants of the hero he once was.

Deep beneath the earth, hidden from the world that still praised him as a savior, Cattleo constructed a secret laboratory. There, innocent children abducted from Saint Marian Academy and the slums of Luminous City became nothing more than living resources. Their screams echoed through cold stone corridors while vats filled with crimson serum prolonged the youth of the man who had once sworn to protect humanity.

The Silent Warlock, together with the other Celestial Wardens, had defeated the Demon King.

But in his desperate pursuit of eternal youth, he had become a monster far more terrifying than any demon he had ever fought.

Maybe he had saved the world. Maybe he had stood alongside the greatest heroes in history and struck down the Demon King himself. Those accomplishments had become the foundation of Cattleo’s entire existence, the shield he constantly hid behind whenever doubt threatened to surface. 

Every sacrifice, every atrocity, every innocent life he had stolen afterward—he had convinced himself they were insignificant compared to the countless lives he had once protected. In his mind, the scales would forever remain tipped in his favor. A hero who had delivered the world from extinction deserved to indulge in whatever sins were necessary to preserve himself. That was the lie he had repeated to himself for decades, until he no longer questioned it.

I don’t deserve this! Cattleo screamed within the confines of his own mind, even as reality relentlessly stripped away every illusion he had built. I’m a hero! I saved everyone! Everything I did... everything I sacrificed... it was all because I earned it!

Yet even as he protested, the faces from his memories refused to disappear. The frightened children locked inside iron cages. The pleading eyes of those who begged for mercy before becoming ingredients for his cursed serum. The blood-soaked laboratory hidden beneath the earth. Their silent accusations drowned out his desperate justifications, each memory stabbing deeper than the Anti-Magic blade lodged through his body.

The battlefield fell eerily quiet.

Only the distant crackling of burning debris and the faint whistle of the wind drifting through the shattered remains of Saint Marian Academy disturbed the silence. Dust floated lazily through the air, illuminated by shafts of fading sunlight piercing the smoke-filled sky. 

Cattleo’s ragged breathing grew weaker with every passing second, accompanied by wet gurgles as blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. His frail hands still clung desperately to Mastema’s blade, but his fingers had grown too weak to loosen it even an inch.

From opposite sides of the ruined battlefield, Samael and Armaros slowly descended from the sky. Their Halochassis hovered silently above the fractured ground, their mechanical wings emitting deep metallic hums as streams of blue exhaust dispersed into the smoke. They landed with synchronized precision, sending small clouds of dust rolling across the cracked earth. Towering over the withered warlock, the three Halochassis formed an inescapable triangle around him.

For the first time since becoming the Silent Warlock...

Cattleo understood there was no escape.

His mana was sealed. His body was failing. His stolen youth had vanished. Surrounded by weapons designed specifically to kill Celestial Wardens, even the greatest mage of the age had nowhere left to run.

Armaros stepped forward, the massive Halochassis casting a long shadow over Cattleo’s kneeling figure. The bandit leader rested the enormous greatsword upon one shoulder before lowering its gleaming edge toward the condemned warlock. His voice remained calm and unwavering, devoid of triumph or hatred. It carried only the solemn weight of a sentence long overdue.

”Cattleo vi Examillenia,” Adzeel declared. ”The Silent Warlock.”

The title that had once inspired admiration across kingdoms now echoed like the reading of an epitaph.

”For your crimes against the innocent... for the kidnapping, torture, and murder of countless children... we, the Iron Bandits, hereby sentence you to death.”

No one spoke afterward.

The wind whispered through the ruined academy grounds, carrying away loose strands of Cattleo’s graying hair. His clouded eyes stared blankly ahead, his lips trembling as though he wished to argue one final time. But no words came. There were no spells left to cast, no allies left to save him, and no excuses capable of outweighing the mountain of corpses he had left behind.

Adzeel/Armaros tightened his grip.

The greatsword flashed.

A single, clean arc sliced through the smoky air, its polished blade reflecting the crimson light of the burning horizon for only an instant before disappearing past Cattleo’s neck.

There was almost no resistance.

His head separated cleanly from his withering body, tumbling silently across the fractured stone before coming to rest in a pool of dark blood. His lifeless eyes remained open, frozen in disbelief, while the frail corpse that had once belonged to one of humanity’s greatest heroes collapsed forward with a dull thud.

The Silent Warlock’s journey ended not as the celebrated savior who defeated the Demon King—

—but as a monster finally brought to justice.