CH2-EP4:

A loud thundering clap severs the tension in the air. The wounded grunts scramble to their knees, trembling in fear — not from pain, but from what’s coming.

Then… silence.

SNAP!

One of them jerks violently as his neck is broken — clean, effortless. His body is hurled across the clearing, landing at Lucio’s feet with a lifeless thud.

A deep, gravelled voice cuts through the stillness like a blade:

“Failure… will not be tolerated.”

Panic grips the remaining men as they break into eerie howls, heads raised to the moon — welcoming their leader, their Chief.

Molgrim.

Bran drags himself up, bows his head in shame.

“We underestimated the enemy, Chief Molgrim... we have soiled the name of the Crimson Hounds.”

But Molgrim barely spares him a glance. His cold, predator-like eyes scan Johan and Lucio — as if deciding whether they’re worth killing.

Johan turns his head slightly toward Lucio, a silent message forming — run. But before he can speak it, Molgrim lunges — like a wild beast uncaged, a blur of fury.

A brutal kick slams into Johan, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing back. He gasps for air, downed for the first time in the fight.

Behind Molgrim, bound and bruised, Ella let out a scream — her voice slicing through the night like a dagger to the chest.

“G-Grandpa?!”

Molgrim flinched at the noise, his irritation plain. With mocking laughter, he grabbed Ella by the ropes and hurled her roughly aside like she weighed nothing.

And somewhere deep within Lucio — something cracks.

A buried memory claws its way to the surface… a voice, once faint, now clear as daylight:
“Don’t be afraid, Lucio… Strength isn’t just for yourself. It’s for the ones who can’t fight back” Victor.

Lucio’s eyes widen. Pain wells behind them — not from fear, but from something older. Deeper.

He looked to Ella — frightened, trembling — then back to Johan, bloodied and struggling to rise.

His purpose sharpened.

He clenches his fists.

Then, with quiet resolve, Lucio walks forward. No hesitation. No trembling. He stops just inches from Molgrim, staring him dead in the eyes.

His voice calm, but seething.

“You crossed the line... now it’s my turn.”

The Crimson Hounds look on, stunned. Murmurs ripple. Has the boy lost his mind?

Leaves dance violently in the cutting wind. The cemetery stills.

Then — impact.

Lucio’s fist, slams into Molgrim’s jaw with earth-shaking force. He stumbles back several feet, his boots dragging across the stone. He catches himself, spitting blood — more surprised than hurt.

A dark smirk curls on his lips.

“Very interesting…” he growls, cracking his neck.
“I guess I can spare a few minutes... playing with you.”

Just then, Bran stumbles forward in desperation, eyes wide with concern.

“C-Chief Molgrim, please… allow me to—”

He doesn’t finish.

A suffocating pressure wraps around his throat like a noose of pure malice. He drops to his knees, gasping.

“Silence.”
Molgrim’s voice is colder than death.
“This one has some fight in him… No matter. Retrieve the relic — when I’m done.”

Bran bows his head, defeated, trembling not just from pain — but from knowing what happens when Molgrim stops playing.

In a flash, Molgrim vanishes from sight — then reappears behind Lucio, seizing him by the head and slamming his face into a tree with bone-rattling force. Before Lucio can react, he’s yanked up by the collar, fists and knees raining down in a brutal, merciless assault. Blow after blow crashes into his ribs and gut, each one stealing more breath, more strength.

Battered and broken, Lucio drops to his knees, spitting blood, trembling as he slumps against the tree’s rough bark.

Molgrim looms above him, smirk widening with every second. There’s pleasure in his violence —something sadistic that darkens his already ominous aura.

That’s when Lucio notices it.

A ring on Molgrim’s finger — forged from twisted, dark metal, shaped like a three-headed hound. It pulsed faintly, alive with power… but not just power. Something foul. Malicious. It reeked of ancient hunger — like it wasn’t made to be worn, but to bind.

Lucio couldn’t explain it. But the ring stirred a memory — something about Johan’s tone earlier, the weight behind his words. It was more than a warning. It was a foreshadowing.

“So… you sense it too,” Molgrim snarls, eyes narrowing. “My ring. My curse.”

His voice breaks with a guttural growl, as if something inside him is clawing to break free.

“It’s almost feeding time…” he hisses, licking his lips, eyes burning with predatory delight. “And you… you’ll make a delightful meal.”

Molgrim unleashes a dreadful howl — a sound not meant for human ears. It echoes through the graveyard, sending fear rippling through the earth itself. Even the wind seems to retreat. The surviving Hounds tremble, some collapsing to their knees.

Like a beast unchained, Molgrim tears at his own flesh, clawing and growling, eyes locked on Lucio with feral hunger.

Lucio glances toward the fallen Johan… then toward Ella.

“I’m sorry, old man… I have to.”

He reaches into his coat.

No second-guessing.

No fear.

Just purpose.

He slips on the sunglasses.