Morning light bled faintly through the trees, a dull gray that barely warmed the forest floor. Mist curled around the roots like restless spirits. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped cautiously—as if even they feared to break the silence.

Bjorn stirred.

His body ached like he'd been trampled by fate itself. His eyelids fluttered, crusted with dried blood and mud. He was still at the base of that tree—the same cursed tree he'd chosen last night. Its bark now dug coldly into his back.

He didn't open his eyes fully. Not yet.

Voices. Close.

He lay still, listening.

> "Why the hell didn't you finish him off last night?!"

A harsh voice. Guttural. Full of restrained violence.

The Wrath faction leader.

Bjorn could feel the weight in that voice—the kind that didn't make idle threats.

Another voice answered. Calm. Sharper. Less predictable.

Not what Bjorn expected from someone under Wrath's command.

> "Because you're not thinking."

A beat of silence.

> "He survived the Walpurgis. Alone. Did you see the trail of bodies behind him?"

The leader didn't reply immediately.

> "We don't know what that witch will send next. We've got six more days in this hell. Would you really waste a weapon like that just to flex authority?"

The tension in the air thickened. Even the birds had gone quiet again.

Bjorn's fingers twitched slightly in the dirt, but he didn't move.

Not yet.

The "smart one" continued.

> "You want to lead us to victory? Then start treating strength like strength. Not trash."

Footsteps. Closer now.

Bjorn forced his breath to remain shallow, steady.

One wrong twitch and they'd know he was awake.

---

Elsewhere, in the clearing where Pride broke itself...

Kane, former leader of the splintered Pride faction, knelt before Lucien, forehead pressed firmly to the ground. His armor, once polished and proud, was now dented and stained with drying blood. His face was swollen—one eye sealed shut, lips cracked, bruises blooming like ink beneath his skin.

He didn't speak.

Didn't dare.

Lucien stood before him—unmoving, silent. The storm was gone, but its memory lingered in the air between them.

And as Kane remained prostrate, blood dripping from his split knuckles into the dirt, his thoughts drifted—backward.

To last night.

To the slaughter.

---

It had started with a scream.

And then—chaos.

No tactics. No warnings.

Just fists and bodies.

Rain had turned the clearing into a swamp of mud and rage.

Lucien's group surged forward—not like soldiers, but like a pack of wolves.

They didn't fight clean.

They fought to break.

Kane remembered how one of Lucien's men tackled a brawler from his side straight into a tree, slamming his skull repeatedly against the bark until it cracked like wet wood.

Another was pulled into the muck—choked, elbowed, buried beneath swinging fists.

Kane had barely turned to shout an order when Lucien blindsided him—exploding through the crowd with bone-breaking precision. His first strike shattered a rib. The second dislocated Kane's shoulder.

Lucien didn't shout.

He didn't curse.

He just moved—with terrifying calm and efficiency.

He grabbed Kane's arm, snapped it back, and used the momentum to drive him into the mud.

Around them, bodies collided like beasts.

One man lost his teeth to a knee.

Another was thrown headfirst into a puddle—drowned screaming.

Elbows. Claws. Knees. Fury.

It wasn't a battle.

It was a culling.

Kane had tried to rally.

Tried to scream orders—but his voice drowned beneath the downpour and the dying cries of his own men.

Lucien's fighters were leaner. Faster. More precise.

And worse—they didn't stop when someone fell.

They stomped them.

Dragged them back up.

Dropped them again.

No honor. Just wrath sharpened into discipline.

By the time Kane fell for the final time, he couldn't remember how many bones were broken.

Only Lucien's calm expression staring down at him—face soaked in rain, fists clenched.

No words.

Just victory.

---

Now, in the morning silence, Kane remained kneeling.

The war was over.

The battlefield still.

Those who had stood against Lucien had either fled… or joined him.

Lucien stared down at the man who had once called him unworthy.

And finally, without blinking, he spoke.

> "Get up."

---

The trees thinned into a moss-covered clearing, where everything moved slower—like the air itself had grown tired of rushing.

Aira stood at the edge of the Sloth faction's territory, breath unsteady, clothes still damp, legs trembling beneath her. Her feet had carried her here on instinct—on sheer desperation.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

The only sign of life was a boy lying in a hammock strung between two trees, lazily tossing berries into his mouth and missing half the time. He glanced at her, then pointed toward a crooked hut made of vines and wood.

> "You've been summoned."

Her heart jumped.

Summoned?

By the Sloth leader?

She moved hesitantly toward the structure, wiping her palms on her torn tunic. Her mind raced.

Did they know? Did they find out what happened in the woods?

She stepped inside.

The room was dim, hazy with incense smoke.

At the far end, lounging like a jungle god on a throne of woven roots, sat the Sloth leader—a man with heavy-lidded eyes, long black hair draped over his shoulders like a tired curtain, and a voice that always sounded one sigh away from sleep.

But it wasn't just him.

Standing beside him, draped in crimson silks, her presence sharp and serpentine, was the Lust leader.

Aira froze.

The room suddenly felt too small.

The Lust leader turned her head slowly, eyes narrowing as they landed on Aira.

> "So..." she said, voice smooth like poison.

"You're the little rabbit who stabbed one of mine."

Aira's throat dried up. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

> "Do you know what we do to people who touch what's ours?" the Lust leader continued, stepping closer.

The air thickened.

Aira felt her knees tremble, every instinct screaming to run—but her feet remained frozen.

She looked at the Sloth leader, silently begging for help.

He didn't move.

In fact, he slid sideways in his throne, draping one leg lazily over the armrest and popping a fruit into his mouth.

> "Mmm... why all the tension?" he mumbled, eyes half-shut.

"She panicked. The boy was being stupid anyway."

The Lust leader didn't smile.

> "He was my subordinate."

> "Mmm... and now he's a corpse," the Sloth leader muttered through a yawn.

"What do you want, revenge? Discipline? A stern warning? I'm too tired to care."

Aira's eyes flicked between them, unsure what game was being played—or who was winning.

The Lust leader stepped forward again, eyes piercing Aira's soul.

> "Tell me, girl. Why did you stab him?"

The words hung in the air like a noose.

---

Far from the clearing, in a cave that stank of fat and smoke, two more sins conspired.

Tallow candles melted into the dirt, dripping into half-eaten bones and rotting fruit. At the center of it all sat Bran, leader of Gluttony—bare-chested, wide as a boar, stomach spilling over his lap, eyes like two greedy pits. He gnawed on a greasy hunk of meat while three younger subordinates stood behind him, faces flushed from overeating or fear—or both.

A rustle outside.

Footsteps.

Then, from the shadows at the mouth of the cave, stepped Silas, leader of Greed.

Tall, draped in gold-threaded robes despite the filth, Silas carried himself with a calm elegance that felt... calculated. His eyes didn't glow with joy, but with want—the kind that never slept.

He didn't step in fully. He glanced around the cave like it was beneath him, then curled his lip in amusement.

> "Still dining like a king, I see."

Bran laughed, bits of meat falling from his lips.

> "Better than starving like a prince."

Silas stepped forward, footsteps slow and precise. He waved off one of Bran's underlings offering him a seat—choosing instead to lean against the wall, arms folded, eyes razor-sharp.

> "We both know where this is heading."

Bran raised an eyebrow, still chewing.

> "Oh?"

> "The factions are splitting. Wrath's unstable. Pride's fractured. Lust and Sloth are playing house. That leaves us—you and me—with a choice."

Bran licked the grease off his fingers.

> "Go on."

Silas lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial.

> "We align. We keep our resources close, but we act together. Shared intel. Shared spoils. No heroics. Just... control."

A long silence followed, broken only by the pop of fat in the fire.

Bran tilted his head.

> "You want me to fight your battles?"

> "No," Silas replied with a faint smile.

"I want you to eat what I feed you. And when the time comes... we'll both be full."

Bran grunted, tossing the bone aside.

> "Fine. But I don't carry dead weight."

> "And I don't share with beggars," Silas said smoothly.

They clasped hands—not with trust, but with intent.

A handshake drenched in vice.

And as Silas turned to leave, his thoughts burned bright behind his calm, calculating gaze.

> Let's use these fools.

Let them think it's an alliance... while I drain them dry.