Omfry's eyes burned red with purpose.
Dreados crouched beside him, aura flaring like a blood-red tempest.
Without speaking, they launched.
Twin blurs streaked forward, red lightning trailing in their wake. They moved like war gods—too fast for sound, too heavy for reason. The ruin bent beneath their speed, craters blooming in their path like flowers of annihilation.
The machine stood still.
Watching.
Judging.
They came from opposite angles—Dreados from above, Omfry from below.
Omfry pivoted mid-air, bringing down a devastating spin-kick toward the machine's neck. Dreados, meanwhile, darted behind it, ready to catch its foot and flip it over for a pincer move they'd never used before
Everything was perfect.
Until it wasn't.
At the last possible moment—the machine turned its head.
It saw Omfry.
Its right arm blurred.
Not a punch.
An edge strike—sharp, controlled, surgical.
The edge of its hand cut through the air like a guillotine and collided with Omfry's left side.
CRAAAAACK!
Omfry's left arm snapped backward, useless.
His scream was swallowed by speed.
His body was flung like a broken spear, spinning end over end through the sky. He crashed into the ground with comet force—skidding, tumbling, carving a trench nearly sixty kilometres long. Each bounce tore stone, sent dust flying, split ancient slabs.
When he finally stopped, he didn't move.
Blood soaked the terrain.
Dreados, still mid-air, shifted his angle. Rage crackled in his eye. He clenched both fists, channelled all his weight downward, and aimed for the machine's skull.
The machine turned again.
Then—
CLAP.
Both metallic palms slammed together from opposite sides.
BOOOOOOOM.
Dreados vanished between them.
A concussive shockwave ripped outward like a collapsing star.
The surrounding ruins trembled. Ancient towers cracked. Beasts howled and fled.
When the machine lowered its hands, blood dripped from its palms.
Dreados's body fell down. He slammed into the ground.
Silence fell.
Smoke rose.
The machine straightened its posture, slowly flexing its fingers.
> "Your coordination is impressive," it said, voice as calm as ever.
"But even so, if you struggle this much against this pathetic metal body of mine, then...you have no hope."
Its glowing eyes scanned the rubble.
No movement.
No resistance.
Just blood.
---
The third floor was colder. Quieter. But not dead.
The hooded man stood at the edge of a bottomless abyss. All around him lay a sea of bones—twisted ribcages, shattered tusks, skulls from creatures no one had ever named. The floor creaked under centuries of death.
In one hand, he dangled Valerius by the scalp—his body limp, bloody, broken.
He looked down at the boy with quiet disapproval.
"So you really don't know," he said, almost amused. "The anomaly that you are."
Valerius whimpered, trying to breathe. His ribs felt like fire. His throat tasted of metal.
The man's voice darkened.
"Well… you're an anomaly I cannot allow to continue living."
Then—without warning—he raised his free hand, extended three fingers, and drove them vertically into Valerius's stomach.
SCHLUKK.
The boy's scream ripped through the cavern. His body arched in agony. Blood burst from his mouth. His eyes widened—then clenched shut—tears streaking down his face.
The man leaned closer, his voice calm again. "I'm not particularly fond of killing children," he whispered. "But I do what I must."
He twisted his fingers inside the wound.
Valerius convulsed.
"Just so you know," the man added softly, "your siblings… will follow."
Valerius's eyes snapped open.
Something snapped inside.
His breathing quickened—sharp, erratic. His body shook, not from pain, but from fury. His hands trembled, fingers curling weakly.
The man noticed.
"Oh," he said, intrigued. "You're angry."
He raised his voice—mocking, taunting.
"That's it. Yes. Let it in. Show me."
He leaned in—face still hidden in shadow.
"Lash out. It's the Elvhein way, isn't it?"
He sneered.
"Isn't it?!"
Silence.
Then—cold again.
"Your bloodline should have vanished with the others," he said, almost kindly. "Today… I'll make sure of it."
And with that—he let go.
Valerius fell.
Air tore past him.
The darkness below swallowed him.
No light. No end. Just the roar of the wind and the silent stare of the man above, growing smaller as Valerius plummeted.
Then—
The scream came.
Not from his mouth. From inside.
Damn it.
Damn it.
DAMN IT!
The agony in his body was nothing—nothing—compared to what tore through his mind.
Am I so fucking weak.
His arms flailed. There was nothing to catch. No hand to reach. No magic. No wings.
You can't do anything you worthless bastard.
You couldn't save anyone.
You nearly killed your own sister.
You cut off your brother's leg.
And now you can't even save yourself.
Tears ripped from his eyes. The abyss howled louder.
His own voice screamed inside him:
You're worthless.
You're nothing.
This is what you get for being weak.
But then—
No.
His jaw clenched.
No. I'm not my fault.
His scream built again, raw, hateful.
It's this fucked up world! This twisted, messed up world!
These heartless people!
His blood boiled. His veins pulsed with a hatred deeper than anything he had ever felt.
They should all go to hell.
His fingers twitched.
But there was still nothing to hold.
The fall continued.
Damn it... Damn it… DAMN IT!
His voice tore through the darkness, echoing with desperation, fury, and something else—power.
"DAMN IT ALL!!"
Then—
CRACK.
He hit the stone.
His back shattered against jagged rock.
He screamed.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
There was no light.
No sky.
No sound.
Only pain…
And the seed of something terrible beginning to stir.
---
Surface — Entrance of the Ruin
The wind had changed.
It whispered around broken stone and blood-soaked dirt as if holding its breath—because something had arrived.
A man stood before the ruin's gaping entrance.
Tall. Very tall—fourteen feet of muscle, confidence, and quiet threat. His coat—deep blue and trench-style—flared with an asymmetrical cut that flowed behind him like a regal banner, though it remained a single seamless garment. Its high collar framed his neck, plunging into a bold V-shaped opening that exposed his perfectly sculpted chest and torso down to his pelvis.
His sleeves ended just past the elbows, revealing forearms carved with tight, corded muscle—each vein pronounced, every fibre defined with sculpted tension. They were not bulky, but honed—like steel cables wrapped in sun-warmed bronze. His dark honey-brown skin shimmered faintly under the suns light, taut over sinew and sinewed purpose. These were the forearms of a man who didn't just fight—but enforced.
There—etched in bold, silver lettering across the back of the coat—were five chilling words:
NONE
IS
ABOVE
THE
LAW
He stood like he owned the land.
As if the chaos within was nothing but background noise.
Ola saw him.
She had hidden herself on a rocky outcrop not far from the ruin's entrance, perched like a terrified animal.
She didn't breathe.
Didn't move.
Prayed he wouldn't notice her.
But the man didn't even glance her way.
His attention was on the ruin itself.
His black hair, swept back and wild, framed a neatly trimmed beard. His piercing green eyes studied the ancient symbols carved into the stone walls. Then—his lips curled into a smirk.
His voice was smooth, deep, and amused:
"Never thought I'd see one of these opened."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, pen-like device. Pressed a button.
A faint crackle. Then static. Then—
A voice: "Are you there?"
The man brought the device to his lips and answered casually, "Yes, I've arrived."
A pause.
"Good. You know what you have to do."
He exhaled slowly, eyes still on the ruin's dark maw.
"Don't worry. It'll be over soon. I won't let him cause havoc."
Another beat.
"Take this seriously. This is very important. No mistakes can be afforded. Countries are at stake."
The man laughed softly—a dry, quiet scoff.
"You do your job, sir… and I'll do mine."
Then—he walked forward.
With calm, measured steps, he entered the ruin. Not like a soldier. Not like a hunter.
Like a king returning home.
The moment his shadow passed the threshold, the very air shifted. A weight descended. A pressure that made the stones ache.
Ola felt it.
Still hiding.
Still holding her breath.
But now—trembling.
She clutched a small device to her lips. Whispered into it:
"Omria… Omria, are you there?"
A voice crackled back—urgent, worried. "Yes! I'm here. What happened to you? I can't find you!"
Ola whispered, "I—I grabbed a return scroll during the fight. It must've activated. I'm at the entrance."
Omria's voice sharpened. "How did you—"
"No time," Ola interrupted. "Listen to me. You need to get out. Now. Find a return scroll. There are dead bodies everywhere—someone has to have one."
A beat of silence.
"What's going on?" Omria asked. "We can't leave without Omar and Orian—"
Ola's voice cracked.
"Omar's dead."
Silence.
"And Orian... we don't know. We don't know what happened to him. But you have to get out. Right now."
Omria's breath hitched. "Wait… what do you mean?"
Ola's eyes welled. Her fingers shook.
"He's here."
"What? Who's here?"
Ola's voice rose into a whispering scream.
"Pungence."
Silence.
Then Omria's voice returned, trembling. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious."
Omria didn't answer.
She only moved.
A burst of flame shot from her hand, incinerating a beast that lunged at her from the rubble.
She kept running, heart hammering, eyes wide.
"I haven't found them yet," she said, breathless. "Ola… you really want me to leave them behind?"
Ola's voice cracked with emotion. She rubbed her face, barely holding it together.
"Of course I don't want you to. But this isn't just some enemy… it's Pungence. The Pungence. The unstoppable weapon. If you don't get out of there now, Omria—you're all going to die."
Omria nodded grimly to herself.
"…Okay. I hear you."
She looked up.
At the gigantic hole torn through the floor above.
Her gut screamed at her.
Something bad was coming.
Something final.
---
And she was right.
Pungence had already made it.
From the entrance to the first floor—in mere seconds. In the span of that conversion.
Pungence stood at the edge of the second floor, eyes scanning the wreckage below—the broken beasts, scattered corpses, craters that still smoked with heat. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring faintly in the shadows.
He exhaled.
A tired sigh.
Then, softly—almost to himself, but loud enough for fate to hear—he muttered:
"Willing to throw your lives away for ancient treasure, huh…"
His green eyes narrowed, flicking across the bodies with a hint of disappointment.
"Why is it so hard to just live by the law?"
"The world would be a far better place if people simply...behaved."
He stepped forward, smoke trailing behind him, voice quiet but sharp as a blade:
"But no… you had to choose the lives of criminals."
"Such a pity."
He dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under his boot.
And walked into the war zone like it was already over.
Feet pointed down.
Coat flaring behind him like the wing of a predator.
As he fell—silent, graceful—he removed the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers. Let the smoke drift upward. Then calmly placed it back between his lips.
The ruin groaned.
Because Pungence had entered.
And everything was about to change, because bodies were about to fall like dead birds.
---
To Be Continued.