CH2-EP3:

Nightfall crept in, and the chirping of crickets echoed softly around the old house.
But something felt off.
Johan and Lucio, both noticed it — Ella hadn’t returned yet.

“Does she usually take this long to grab supplies?” Lucio asked, brows furrowed.

Johan didn’t answer immediately. A shadow flickered across his expression.
“No… she doesn’t.”

A strange rustling echoed from outside — the shuffle of leaves, the scrape of footsteps against gravel.

Johan’s posture shifted. His eyes narrowed.
“They’ve found us.”

“Take cover—”
Before he could finish, a violent crash tore through the house.

Glass exploded inward from the kitchen window, shards flying like shrapnel across the wooden floor.
Lucio and Johan leapt to their feet, hearts pounding as the sound echoed like a war drum through the house.

On the floor, amidst the broken glass, a stone lay still — wrapped in a torn piece of paper.

Lucio bent down, unwrapping the note with tense hands. The words were scrawled in jagged ink; a strand of golden-blonde hair tucked beside it:

"Bring us what we seek. No delays.
Tonight. Cemetery."

A chill ran through his spine.

For a moment, silence. Then, a violent crack.

Johan’s fist drove straight into the wall beside him, sending plaster and wood splinters flying. His shoulders heaved, eyes burning with fury. It was the first time Lucio saw the calm, chuckling elder unravel. No longer a harmless old man — there was raw, terrifying power beneath that weathered frame.

“They just made the worst mistake of their lives!”

Lucio took a step back. His heart pounded.

This wasn’t just about relics or sunglasses anymore.

This was war.

And the pieces were now in motion.

The arrival at the cemetery.

The wind blew with a mournful whistle, rustling the brittle leaves that scattered across the overgrown cemetery path. Tree branches creaked above like old bones, and the cold air carried faint, unsettling laughter — distant, distorted, inhuman.

Lucio stepped lightly, senses on edge. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long, every gravestone felt like it watched him pass.

Johan came to a sudden stop.

He muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Lucio. “It couldn’t possibly be…”

But Lucio had already sensed it — the silence was too deliberate, the air too still. This wasn’t a meeting.

It was a trap.

From the shadows between the graves, figures began to appear one by one — laughing, snarling, stepping forward with deliberate menace. Their movements were animalistic, twitchy. On their forearms, a shared mark: a blackened tattoo shaped like a snarling hound.

Lucio glanced sideways.

“They got the jump on us,” he murmured.

Johan didn’t look surprised. “So, they did.”

He stepped forward calmly, folding his arms as he raised his voice. “Crimson Hounds. I had my suspicions.” His tone sharpened, just enough to cut the air. “What business do your kind have with my granddaughter?”

From the darkness beyond the circle of men, a voice responded — smooth, laced with arrogance and glee.

“Oh, you know exactly what we want,” the figure giggled. “And this time… we came prepared. The shadows whisper of a relic… one hidden… one protected.”

The words slithered through the cold air.

Then — without warning — the figure leapt from the gravestones above, descending with the force of a falling boulder. The ground cracked beneath his boots as he landed, a shockwave of dust and leaves bursting outward in all directions.

Lucio instinctively stepped back, shielding his face from the flying debris.

Before them stood a towering figure — broad shoulders, thick limbs, a mane of dark beard, and eyes that glinted with violence barely restrained. Scars mapped his arms like twisted stories, and his tattoo on his forearm looked freshly inked, as if fed by blood.

Johan didn’t move or flinch.

The bearded brute stared him down, muscles tensed — but found no opening. Nothing to exploit. His instincts screamed at him — carelessness here would lead to his demise.

This was no ordinary elder.

He shifted his gaze to Lucio. Young. Inexperienced. But something about the way he stood… the faint glow of resolve in his eyes… it made even the brute hesitate.

Two unknowns.

The Crimson Hounds hadn’t expected that.

More figures began to circle from behind the gravestones — half a dozen men, maybe more, slowly tightening the ring. The laughter returned, more guttural this time. Predatory.

Johan’s voice broke the tension — calm, low, unshaken.

“Touch her, and I will bury every last one of you in this cursed soil!”

The wind blew harder.

And the graveyard held its breath.

The men leapt in like a pack of hungry wolfs, eyes wild, fangs bared, ready to devour their prey.

Johan didn’t hesitate. No panic. Just a calm breath.
“Leave this to me, kid,” he said.

In a blink, instinct kicked in — decades of buried muscle memory surged to the surface. His movements were sharp, calculated… beautiful in their brutality.

Fists of fury, honed by war and loss, met untrained chaos.
Fast. Unpredictable. Fluid.

The Crimson Hounds regretted their charge. One by one, Johan sent them to the cold dirt — winded, broken, silent. Not a bead of sweat marked his brow.

Then he paused, eyes glinting with playful mockery.
“Come now, big guy… surely you’re not just going to stand and watch?”

Mocked, the towering brute stepped forward, muscles tight with anticipation. The ground itself seemed to react to his steps.
With no hesitation, he charged, and the two collided — fists met flesh in a storm of violence.

A blur of motion, a dance of death. Lucio watched, stunned — both by the old man’s finesse, and the sheer weight behind the giants’ punches.

“You’re not half bad, old man,” the brute grinned between blows. “Name’s Bran. And you?”

“Well, thank you. You can call me Johan.”

Bran froze for just a second — that name.
It clawed at something deep in his memory.
“You couldn’t possibly be the war–”

He never finished. A fist, like thunder, struck him square in the gut — so hard it knocked the wind clean from his lungs and sent him collapsing to his knees.

“You youngsters talk too much these days — always distracted by nonsense,” Johan muttered, brushing the dust from his sleeves.

But as he took a step forward — pain. A sharp, pulsing surge deep in his body.

“Not now… dammit,” he hissed, staggering, knees buckling beneath him.

The Crimson Hounds didn’t hesitate. Smelling blood, they howled and lunged in.

Lucio stepped in.
No time to think.
He dropped the first, then the second — wild fists meeting grizzled rage.

Lucio stood over Johan, guarding him. His heart pounded, eyes flickering toward the sunglasses.
He wasn’t ready… but he might not have a choice