Chapter 55
The beast was closing in.
Pio couldn't see, but even a blind fool would know he was alone—alone with death itself. The snarling echoed in his ears, and instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to survive. But he couldn't. Not without his glasses. Not with the blur that twisted the forest into a shadowy void.
He dropped to his knees and curled into himself, trembling.
Then—a silence.
But not peace. The air rippled with tension. Then came the clash—steel against fang, flesh against claw. A battle. Fierce. Brutal. He could hear it all: the growls, the grunts, the slicing wind of a blade. Then, silence again.
Footsteps.
A blurry figure approached, kneeling beside him. A hand placed something in Pio's palm. Cold. Familiar.
His glasses.
With trembling hands, he slipped them on—and the world snapped into focus. Standing before him, bloodied but unbowed, was Ronan—expression unreadable, eyes like storm clouds.
"You... saved me," Pio whispered, still shaking.
Ronan didn't respond. He simply stood, wiped the blood from his blade, and turned to leave.
"My name is Pio," he called after him.
Ronan kept walking.
"Please! Don't leave me. I... I'm scared."
Ronan paused just long enough to say, without turning, "Be grateful I saved your life. What you do with it is up to you."
And with that, he disappeared into the trees.
Pio sat in the silence he left behind, his heart sinking. The forest suddenly felt colder, darker. He didn't want to return to the others—the same cowards who had fed him to the beast. But Ronan didn't want him either.
"I'm going to die here..." he muttered bitterly.
Rain began to fall, thin and icy. Soon, he was soaked through, sneezing, teeth chattering. The cold numbed his fingers, then his thoughts. Exhaustion dragged at his bones. His vision dimmed.
"I guess… this is it."
His eyes closed.
But then—warmth.
Soft, creeping warmth that wrapped around him like a fading memory. Was this death?
He opened his eyes to a glowing red light.
He was crawling toward it, drawn to the light. Inches from the flame, a voice snapped him out of his trance.
"I've seen fools do a lot of things. But crawling into a fire? That's a first."
Pio jerked back, narrowly avoiding the flames. He looked up.
Ronan sat nearby, calmly sharpening his knife—less rusted now, slightly refined. The firelight danced off his emotionless face.
"You... saved me again," Pio murmured. "Why?"
Ronan gave a half-shrug but didn't speak.
"You're not like the others," Pio said, voice low.
Ronan scoffed. "You know nothing about me."
"True. But I know we're in the same nightmare," Pio said. "We all hate the bald Exterminator, don't we?"
Ronan didn't answer—but he didn't walk away either.
"When he tortured us," Pio continued, "I used to stare at his shiny head. It reflected my face like a mirror."
Ronan raised an eyebrow. "Mirror head?"
A small chuckle escaped his lips.
Pio grinned. "That's what I called him. Helped me cope."
The two sat by the fire. Pio talked. About pain, memories, absurdities. Some things made Ronan frown. Others made him laugh—just a little. For the first time in years, he wasn't entirely alone.
Days passed.
Where Pio lacked skill in combat, he made up for in wit. A born strategist. Ronan fought, Pio planned. Together, they weren't just surviving—they were thriving. They moved like shadows through the forest, taking down beasts and dodging traps with precision.
Weeks later, they found the others.
Twenty had entered the forest. Only eight remained—hollow-eyed, malnourished, barely clinging to life. Even the green-haired boy, once cocky and cruel, looked like a ghost.
"We should leave them," Pio said softly. "They threw me to die."
Ronan was surprised. Pio was usually the kind one.
After a long silence, Ronan shook his head. "We won't take them in. But we'll help them. Just for now."
Pio nodded.
They shared food. Shelter. Not friendship—but mercy.
Days later, the weakened group stood before Ronan and Pio.
"We owe you our lives," the green-haired boy said, bowing. "Let us follow you."
Ronan exchanged a glance with Pio. No words were needed. They understood.
They nodded.
Not because they trusted them.
Not because they needed them.
But because in this cruel world, they were all victims of the same monster.
The group of eight had joined Ronan and Pio. Together, they hunted, camped, and fought to survive. For the first time in a long while, Ronan almost believed he had real friends. He remembered his master's final words about him finding someone he could rely on.
He should've known better.
That fragile illusion shattered a few days later. Pio dashed through the forest, Ronan slumped on his back—unconscious, pale, and poisoned.
"I knew those bastards couldn't be trusted," Pio muttered, his voice ragged with fury and despair.
He had warned Ronan, but Ronan had believed in them—right up until he overheard their plot to murder him. The only reason he escaped their ambush was because a nearby beast had disrupted their ambush. By the time Pio returned, Ronan had already been poisoned.
He'd forced a detox pill into Ronan's mouth, but it would take time—and that was a luxury they didn't have.
An arrow whistled past and buried itself in a tree.
Pio ducked and ran.
Behind him, Tulip—the green-haired traitor—charged forward with the remaining seven, weapons drawn and madness in their eyes.
"If we offer his body to the Exterminator, we'll be free!" Tulip yelled.
A chorus of hatred followed.
"That's what they told us—kill Ronan and we walk out of this hell!"
Another arrow grazed Pio's leg. He stumbled, gritted his teeth, and gently placed Ronan behind a thick tree's roots. Then he stood to face them.
Eight enemies. One wounded strategist.
He clutched his weapon—a chained metal ball—shaking with adrenaline.
"You sly bastard," Tulip spat. "You should've joined us. His death is our salvation."
"Salvation?" Pio chuckled, though it was hollow. "Tell me... would any of you still be breathing if Ronan hadn't helped you? He gave alot to save you. And now you repay him with betrayal? Offering his head to the one who made us all victims?"
Rage lit his eyes. "You rats never once thought for yourselves."
"Enough talk! We'll kill you and then your friend!"
The battle began.
Pio met them head-on.
Despite his lack of strength, he fought like a man possessed. He injured them—cut skin, cracked ribs—but his wounds piled higher. If it were one-on-one, he could win. Maybe even two. But not eight.
An arrow pierced his hand. His grip faltered. They struck him down with ruthless precision.
Bloodied and broken, he collapsed.
Tulip approached Ronan's wrapped figure with a sneer, blade ready to strike—only to find a pile of stacked wood under the cloak.
"He tricked us!" Tulip snapped.
He stormed over to Pio, grabbing him by the collar.
"Where is Ronan?!"
Pio coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. "He's right there. Can't you see him?"
Tulip's face twisted with rage. "You think this is a game?!"
He sliced off Pio's hand.
A scream tore from Pio's throat.
"You ready to talk now?!"
Pio, through the pain, smiled weakly. "Has anyone ever told you... you look like a mushroom with that stupid green hair?"
Tulip howled and severed the other hand.
Still, Pio laughed.
"You think this is over?" Tulip growled, driving his blade through Pio's chest.
Pio chuckled weakly, blood dripping from his lips as he looked at Tulip.
"You're… a dead mushroom," he muttered with a hollow smile, then faced forward.
"Sorry friend… I won't be there when you kill that monster."
He collapsed.
But the laughter died.
The forest fell eerily silent.
Then... footsteps.
Tulip turned—and froze.
There he stood.
Ronan.
Alive.
His expression empty, cold. Eyes devoid of humanity as they scanned the scene.
"Ro... Ronan...?" Tulip stuttered.
Everyone knew it—their chance to kill him, especially now that he was fully awake, was zero.
Ronan didn't look at them. He stared at Pio's crumpled, lifeless body.
One of the traitors lunged, hoping to catch him off guard.
He didn't even blink.
Ronan caught the descending blade with one hand. Blood gushed from his palm.
Then he turned.
"I was wrong," Ronan said quietly, his voice emotionless. "There are no friends. Only enemies."
His hand snapped the attacker's neck twisting it brutally.
"...And all enemies are targets to be eliminated."
He grabbed the fallen sword and charged.
What followed wasn't a battle—it was a massacre.
Screams. Blood. Bones crushed. Eyes gouged. Limbs severed.
Agony.
Terror.
Death.
Beasts came to feast on the scent of blood—but Ronan cut them down, too. Piling their bodies atop his victims.
A mountain of corpses rose—human and beast alike.
At the top sat Ronan, lifeless eyes staring into the void.
He looked less like a teen and more like death incarnate.
A grim reaper in flesh.
Han and the rest watched as the scene unfolded and stumbled, gasping in horror.
Ronan stood slowly. Blood dripped from his blade.
His gaze passed over them like death's shadow.
Then he spoke.
"Unto the next target."
To be continued...