Lucien stood motionless, his figure carved from the silence—tall, unbending, framed by the blood-soaked ground that bore witness to his triumph.

Before him, Kane still knelt.

But now, something had shifted.

Not in Lucien.

In Kane.

Submission had calcified into something more dangerous.

Obedience.

Lucien's voice finally broke the stillness. Cold. Commanding. Drenched in pride.

> "Rise, Kane. You no longer kneel for forgiveness. You kneel for purpose."

Kane lifted his head slowly, bruised features hardening beneath the weight of Lucien's gaze.

> "Yes… commander."

Lucien didn't blink. His eyes, like polished obsidian, held no warmth.

> "Your pride failed you. Your tactics failed you. And yet, here you stand. Not because of worth... but because I see use in you."

Kane remained silent. He understood now: survival wasn't a right—it was permission.

Lucien turned slightly, the wind catching the edges of his tattered cloak as he pointed to the east.

> "The Envy faction, they're too dangerous to be left alone . They hoard whispers like riches. They speak in shadows and plot in corners—too cowardly to challenge us directly, too foolish to understand their place."

He stepped closer to Kane, voice sharpened to a blade.

> "You will go to them."

Kane blinked. "…Alone?"

> "Of course."

Lucien's tone was clipped, almost amused.

"You'll deliver a message. One only a broken man could carry."

He leaned down now, so that Kane could see the fire behind the calm.

> "Tell their leader this: Pride does not negotiate. We do not beg. We do not barter. We conquer."

Kane swallowed.

> "And if they refuse?"

Lucien stood tall again.

> "Then remind them what happened to you. Let your face be prophecy."

A cruel smirk tugged at the edge of his lips.

> "And if they still resist... burn their flags. Snap their bones. Drag their envy into the dirt."

Kane's shoulders squared.

The humiliation that had once weighed on him had been transformed—weaponized.

He bowed his head, not in shame this time, but in dark allegiance.

> "I will deliver your message, Commander Lucien. Word for word."

Lucien nodded once, then turned his back.

> "Good. Now go. Show them that even the fallen carry my voice."

---

Silence.

The kind that weighed on the lungs. The kind that made even the walls hold their breath.

The Sloth leader lounged lazily on his throne of roots, eyes half-lidded, as if he might fall asleep mid-drama. The Lust leader stood tall, draped in crimson silk, her gaze sharp as a blade drawn in velvet.

And Aira—trembling, heart pounding—stood before them both, her fists clenched at her sides.

She couldn't feel her knees. Her vision swam. But her spirit—

It ignited.

A voice inside her, raw and unyielding, whispered:

> I promised not to run anymore.

I can do this.

She took a breath, then snapped her head up.

> "You expect me to sit quietly," she said, her voice rising like a sudden storm, "when I was going to be humiliated by those thugs you call subordinates?!"

The words hung like fire in the incense-heavy air.

A sharp inhale. A ripple of tension.

The Sloth leader's inner voice stirred—an amused hum in the back of his mind.

> Oh… now she's done it.

Interesting.

But he didn't move. He simply shifted his weight lazily, tossing a half-eaten fruit core toward a distant corner.

The Lust leader, however, stepped forward.

Slowly.

Each step a performance.

Her hips swayed with the grace of someone who knew exactly what power she held—on her lips, in her eyes, and between her hands.

She circled Aira like a predator with time to savor the hunt.

Then she spoke.

Low. Controlled. Seductive with a razor edge.

> "Bravery is such a fragile thing, darling. One moment it sings… the next, it chokes."

She stopped just beside Aira, her breath brushing the girl's cheek.

> "You think what they did was humiliation? No, no, sweet thing… that was foreplay."

Aira's jaw tensed, but she didn't step back.

The Lust leader smirked—pleased.

> "You should thank me. My men saw value in you. Most girls with your look… they're ignored. But you? You made them curious."

She leaned closer, whispering now.

> "That curiosity could have made you powerful. Desired. Worshipped. Instead…"

She flicked a single strand of Aira's damp hair off her shoulder with two fingers.

"…you chose violence."

She stepped back, voice rising again—this time to address the Sloth leader.

> "This little rabbit doesn't understand the world she's in. She confuses fear with strength. Flesh with dignity. She bleeds too easily to play with wolves."

Aira bit her lip. But her eyes burned—not with fear anymore, but with defiance.

The Sloth leader yawned.

> "Mmm… Maybe she's just not yours to play with."

The Lust leader turned her head sharply, eyes narrowing.

> "Then whose is she?"

The room tightened.

But the Sloth leader only chuckled softly and popped another berry into his mouth.

> "That's what makes it fun, isn't it?"

The mist was thinner now.

The morning sun bled dully through the canopy, casting fractured light over Bjorn's broken body. The damp earth clung to him like a burial shroud, the bark of the cursed tree pressing coldly against his spine.

Then—his eyes opened.

Fully.

Clear. Sharp. Dangerous.

He stared upward, vision steady now, breath slow and controlled.

The voices above him were still arguing. The Wrath leader's tone, always on the verge of combustion. The subordinate's—measured, infuriatingly calm.

Bjorn's lips curled into a sneer.

> "You should've taken me out when you had the chance."

Silence. Sudden. Immediate.

The two men turned.

Bjorn didn't rise. Not yet. But his voice cut like ice wrapped in flame.

> "You don't really think I'll accept being under you… or follow your orders, do you?"

The Wrath leader's fists clenched. His boots scraped forward.

> "You arrogant little—"

His voice was already climbing, veins pulsing at his temple, but before he could finish the sentence—

> "Enough."

The subordinate cut in—calm, but loud enough to freeze the tension mid-swing.

He stepped forward, locking eyes with Bjorn.

> "We'll need each other. Maybe not now. But soon. You've seen what the witch sent already… and it's only going to get worse."

Bjorn's eyes narrowed.

> "Tch."

The smart one's voice pressed on, more urgent now:

> "Think straight. It's only six days until Walpurgis. Whatever game she's playing… it ends there. None of us are making it unless we start thinking beyond our factions."

Bjorn moved.

Slowly—gritting through pain—he pushed himself to his feet. The dirt clung to his clothes. Blood had dried across his side. But his stance was still proud, posture unbroken.

He brushed off his shoulder, then turned—eyes locking on the Wrath leader.

A smirk twisted across his face.

> "Your wrath is so feeble… that some nonsense your underling says is enough to stop you from going into a rage?"

The Wrath leader's eye twitched.

Bjorn leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

> "Tell me… is that how you lead? Bark loud… but wait for permission to bite?"

The wrath leader surged forward but the smart one intervened between them. 

Bjorn's smirk still lingered when the Wrath leader's fury finally snapped.

> "ENOUGH!"

Before the smart one could finish his warning—

WHAM!!

A blur of motion. The Wrath leader's fist hammered into his subordinate's chest, lifting him clean off the ground and flinging him backwards like dead weight. He crashed into a nearby trunk with a sickening crack, bark and bone splitting in the same breath.

The Wrath leader's eyes burned.

His rage had spoken.

Bjorn's smile vanished as the air thickened, charged with violent intent.

No more words.

Only motion.

He moved first.

Bjorn lunged with a tight left jab—wounded but precise. The Wrath leader deflected it with a brutal forearm and swung low—a haymaker aimed at Bjorn's ribs.

Bjorn twisted—just barely—but the blow grazed him, pain bursting like lightning through his side.

He didn't stagger.

He stepped in.

Elbow to jaw.

The Wrath leader's head snapped sideways—but his grin only widened.

> "Now that's more like it."

Then hell broke loose.

Both fighters surged forward at once—like beasts uncaged, fists and feet flashing in a savage blur.

Every strike came with intent to maim.

Bjorn ducked a hook and rammed his shoulder into the leader's gut, slamming him back into a tree—but was caught in a counter-knee that crunched into his sternum.

He gasped.

The Wrath leader grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head forward—headbutt.

Bjorn's vision sparked white.

But he responded with a wild swing upward—uppercut to the throat.

The leader reeled—but didn't fall.

They circled now, panting, bleeding, unblinking.

Close.

Intimate.

This was no duel.

This was murder, paused and resumed with every heartbeat.

The Wrath leader lunged—Bjorn pivoted, grabbed his wrist mid-strike and yanked, slamming him into the ground, then dropping onto him with elbow after elbow.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Blood sprayed.

But the leader bucked, roared, and reversed it—grabbing Bjorn's wrist, biting down hard until skin tore, then flipping him onto his back with raw, animal strength.

He mounted.

Fists rained down.

Bjorn's lip split. His cheek burst open. But he raised his legs—wrapped them around the Wrath leader's torso, twisted sideways—

THUD!

They tumbled, rolled, and came up together.

Bjorn's shirt was torn, blood streaked across his eye.

The Wrath leader's nose was broken, breathing ragged.

And yet—both smiled.

No fear.

No mercy.

Just two animals who had nothing left to lose but wrath .

They squared off again, no crowd, no rules.

Just dirt. Blood. Bones.

And rage.

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