The world did not go red. It went silent.
The roar of the crowd, the frantic shouts of my allies, the arrogant sneer on Sir Gareth's face—all of it dissolved into a distant, irrelevant hum. The complex tapestry of sensory input that defined my existence was stripped away, leaving only a single, burning, absolute imperative: destroy.
The creature wearing my face smiled, a wide, feral grin that was not my own. It was a rictus of pure, joyous malice. The hand that had just caught Gareth's blade, the hand now bleeding freely from the sharpened steel, squeezed.
CRUNCH.
The sound of high-quality, enchanted steel groaning, bending, and finally snapping was a sharp, discordant note in the sudden silence of my mind. Sir Gareth stared at the broken hilt in his hand, then at the jagged shard of his sword that I now held, his System-enhanced confidence shattering along with his weapon.
This was the power of the Dark System. It was not the elegant, reality-bending logic of my own glitch. It was not the cold, precise fury of Elizabeth's ice. It was not the joyous, honorable strength of Lyra's battle-rage. It was a filthy, brutal, and intoxicating strength, a power that came from a place of pure, nihilistic hatred. It was the ghost of Marcus von Adler, screaming in my soul.
"What... what are you?" Gareth stammered, taking a stumbling step backward. The fear was a rich, delicious scent in the air.
The creature that was me did not answer with words. It answered with a roar, a sound torn from the depths of a primal, forgotten hell, a sound of pure, animalistic fury that echoed the ghost of my fallen friend. And then it charged.
My movements were no longer my own. Gone was the clumsy footwork Elizabeth had tried so hard to correct. Gone was the efficient, DEX-based evasion I had relied upon. This was a new form of motion. A terrifying, unstoppable locomotion fueled by pure rage. I did not dodge. I did not parry. I simply moved forward, a juggernaut of flesh and fury.
Valerius the Younger, Gareth's battlemage partner, finally broke from his stunned paralysis. "By the gods, hold him!" he shrieked, slamming the butt of his staff onto the cobblestones of the simulated street. "COMMAND: EARTHEN GRASP!"
The ground around me erupted. Thick, stone tendrils, empowered by Gareth's buffing system, shot up, wrapping around my legs, my arms, my torso, seeking to imprison me in a cage of rock. In my normal state, it would have been a difficult trap to escape.
The Berserker laughed.
With a single, flex of my muscles, the stone cage shattered. My STR and CON, now boosted by a terrifying 100%, were beyond the parameters of such a low-level spell. I broke through the Earthen Grasp as if it were made of dry twigs, the shards of rock exploding outwards.
I did not slow down. I was on Gareth in an instant. He raised his arms in a desperate, futile attempt to block me. I slammed into him, not with a weapon, but with my body. The impact was like a battering ram hitting a wooden door. He flew backward, his plate armor groaning in protest, and crashed into the wall of a simulated building, the fake masonry crumbling around him.
He slumped to the ground, dazed, his breath driven from his lungs.
The victory was there. The match was won. He was defeated.
But the rage was not sated. The Dark System did not care about victory. It cared only about destruction.
I stalked toward him, my borrowed sword shard held like a crude dagger, the red light in my eyes burning with a terrible, hungry fire. I was going to kill him. I was going to tear him apart.
"Kazuki, stop!" Elizabeth's voice was a distant, frantic cry from the stands. "The duel is over! You've won!"
Her words were meaningless static. The part of me that was still me, the small, terrified programmer trapped in the passenger seat of this runaway train, screamed at my body to stop. But I had no control. The Berserker was at the wheel.
It was then that Valerius, showing a surprising amount of courage for a foppish coward, intervened again. He stood between me and the fallen Gareth, his staff held before him like a shield.
"He has yielded!" Valerius cried, his voice trembling. "The rules of the tournament..."
The Berserker snarled and swatted him aside with a backhand blow. Valerius flew through the air and crashed into a pile of rubble, unconscious.
The path to Gareth was clear again. I raised the shard of his own broken sword, ready to deliver the final, brutal blow.
And in that moment, as I looked down at the terrified face of the man who had been my enemy, I saw not Gareth. I saw Marcus. I saw the ghost of my friend, his face twisted in a mask of rage and pain, consumed by a power he could not control.
And then, a new sensation cut through the red haze. It was not a sound. It was not a thought. It was a feeling. A wave of pure, unadulterated, and desperate love and fear, pouring into my mind through the 'Shared Senses' link. It was Luna.
She wasn't sending words. She was sending her heart.
I felt her terror for me, for the monster I had become. I felt her unwavering faith, her belief in the kind, gentle lord who had called her his friend. And I felt her memory, a single, perfect image she projected into my soul with all her might: the image of her kneeling in the dungeon, her hand over her heart, swearing her life to me. A memory of a promise. A promise to protect.
The image was a bucket of ice water thrown onto the raging furnace of my soul.
The red haze in my vision flickered. The all-consuming rage faltered for a fraction of a second, a single moment of clarity in the storm.
Luna...
My own will, my own consciousness, seized the opportunity. I fought back. I pushed against the tide of hatred with every ounce of my being. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. It was a battle fought not with magic or steel, but with the very essence of my identity.
The Berserker roared in frustration, fighting to maintain control. My arm, holding the sword shard high, trembled violently, caught between the command to kill and the will to stop.
No... more... killing... I thought, the words a desperate prayer.
With a final, agonized scream that was half me and half the monster, I twisted my arm at the last second. The shard of steel did not plunge into Gareth's throat. It slammed into the cobblestones an inch from his head, shattering into a thousand pieces.
The rage, denied its final, bloody release, imploded. The crimson aura around my body vanished. The red light in my eyes faded, leaving behind a deep, aching cold. The immense, borrowed strength drained away, leaving me weak, trembling, and utterly, terrifyingly empty.
I collapsed to my knees beside the unconscious form of Sir Gareth, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The silence returned to my mind. But this time, it was a welcome, blessed relief.
I had won. I had regained control.
The arena was silent. The crowd was not cheering. They were staring in absolute, horrified silence. They had not seen a heroic victory. They had seen a monster barely restrained, a rabid dog pulled back from the brink of a kill at the very last second.
Arbiter Grimgar Stonehand walked slowly onto the field, his face grim, his eyes filled with a new, deep-seated fear. He looked at the unconscious forms of Gareth and Valerius, then at me, the trembling, blood-soaked boy kneeling in the center of the destruction.
"The... the skirmish is won," he declared, his voice a hollow, uncertain thing. "Victory... to the Glitch Raiders."
The words were meaningless. There was no triumph in them.
Glitch Raiders: 4 - Iron Gryphons: 1
The Guild War was officially over. We had won.
But as Elizabeth and Lyra rushed onto the field, their faces a mixture of relief and profound apprehension, and helped me to my feet, I knew the truth. We had won the battle, but we had just lost the war.
The walk from the arena was a walk of shame. The Royal Guards who escorted us did not look at us with awe anymore. They looked at us with fear, their hands tight on their weapons. The common folk did not cheer. They shrank back, pulling their children close, their faces pale. They were not looking at their hero. They were looking at a monster.
Back in the West Wing, the victory celebration was a somber, funereal affair. Our recruits were silent, their earlier joy replaced by a nervous, fearful respect. They avoided my gaze.
We gathered in the study, the four of us. The silence was a heavy, suffocating blanket.
"You lost control," Elizabeth said finally, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was not an accusation. It was a statement of fact.
"I know," I whispered, my head in my hands.
"That was not the strength of a warrior," Lyra said, her voice a low, troubled growl. She had seen countless battles, but what she had seen in me had shaken her. "That was the strength of a plague. A hateful, empty thing."
"I felt it, my lord," Luna's thought was a soft, trembling touch. "I felt the rage. It was... it was like Marcus. But stronger. Colder."
"It was the Duke's gift," I said, my voice hollow. "The Dark System he gave to Marcus. I absorbed its ghost. And it's a part of me now."
The implications of that statement settled over them. The weapon I had used to win was a poison, a taint on my very soul.
"Can you control it?" Elizabeth asked, her strategic mind already moving to the core of the problem.
"I don't know," I admitted honestly. "I was able to pull back, this time. Because of Luna. But it was... hard. It felt like drowning. And a part of it... a dark, ugly part of me... didn't want to stop."
The confession hung in the air, a terrible, ugly truth.
It was in that moment of grim introspection that the palace attendant arrived, his face even paler than usual. He carried a formal, sealed scroll. But this was not a royal decree. It bore the crest of the Guild Council—a balanced scale held by a gryphon's claw.
"An emergency summons, my lord," the attendant stammered, not quite meeting my eyes. "For you and your council. The Guild Masters are convening. Immediately."
We knew what this meant.
We walked back into the grand hall of the Guild Council. This time, there were no whispers, no curious looks. There was only a cold, hostile silence. Every guild leader, from Hemlock to the stern dwarves to the arrogant knights, was there. And they were all staring at us.
Sir Gareth was there, his arm in a sling, his face a mask of pale, grim satisfaction. He had lost the duel, but he had won the war of perception.
Arbiter Grimgar Stonehand stood before the council table. "Kazuki Silverstein," he began, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. "You and your guild have been found victorious in the Guild War against the Iron Gryphons. By law, the territory of the Whispering Caves is now yours."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over us. "However. The manner of your victory has been... noted. The council has reviewed the events of the final skirmish. We have seen the display of a dark, uncontrollable, and deeply dangerous power. A power that has no place within the honorable traditions of our alliance."
He unrolled a new scroll. "By a unanimous vote of the Guild Council," he declared, his voice a final judgment, "the Glitch Raiders are hereby censured. While your charter will be recognized, you are placed on indefinite probation. You will be barred from accepting any joint-guild contracts. You will not be permitted to expand your territory. And you will be subject to periodic inspections by a council-appointed adjudicator to ensure that your... 'unconventional' methods do not pose a threat to the stability of this kingdom."
He had not just stripped us of the fruits of our victory. He had put a leash on us. We were a recognized guild, yes, but we were pariahs. Outcasts. A quarantined threat.
The Duke had won. He had failed to destroy us, but he had successfully isolated us. He had turned the entire adventuring community, a potential source of powerful allies, against us.
We stood there, alone, in a hall filled with our new enemies.
It was then that Guild Master Hemlock, who had been silent throughout the proceedings, finally spoke. He stood up, his old eyes twinkling with a strange, unreadable light.
"This council is too hasty," he said, his voice a calm, reasonable rumble that nonetheless commanded the attention of the entire room. "You have seen a new power, and you have reacted with fear. It is an understandable, if foolish, response."
He looked directly at me. "The boy is not a monster. He is a key. A key to a door we have all been too blind to see. A war is coming, my friends. A war far greater than our petty squabbles over territory and honor. A war against the very System that governs our world. And in that war, we will not need more honorable knights who follow the old rules. We will need glitches. We will need monsters."
He turned back to the council. "The Silver Gryphons do not support this censure," he declared, his voice ringing with authority. "We recognize the Glitch Raiders as a legitimate guild and a valuable, if unpredictable, future ally. We will not treat them as outcasts. We will treat them as partners."
He had just thrown us a lifeline. A single, powerful voice of support in a sea of hostility.
A furious argument erupted in the hall. The guilds were now divided. Hemlock's faction against the more conservative, fearful guilds swayed by the Duke's propaganda.
We were no longer just outcasts. We were the flashpoint. The catalyst for a civil war within the Guild Alliance itself.
As we walked out of the hall, the arguments still raging behind us, Elizabeth leaned in close. "Hemlock just saved us from complete isolation," she whispered. "But he also just painted an even bigger target on our backs. We are now at the center of a political firestorm."
I looked at the faces of my pack. At Elizabeth's grim determination. At Lyra's defiant fury. At Luna's quiet, unwavering loyalty.
We had won. We had lost. We were heroes. We were monsters. We were more powerful, and more alone, than ever before.
And as I clutched the tainted, sleeping power of the Berserker in my soul, I knew that the battles to come would not just be fought in arenas or throne rooms.
The greatest war would be the one fought within myself.