The dark chamber buzzed with the sound of alchemical vapors, rusted coin-trades, and smuggled laughter. Overhead, glowing fungus dripped spores into the moldy air, and down below, in the marrow of the Undergut, Thurna lounged on a throne made from the stacked crates of contraband relics and taxidermied curses.
Before her knelt the triplets—Tirell, Varrel, and Sarrel—identical twins, even more identical with the way their heads tilted like wolves awaiting command. They wore mismatched armor and tattoos of Thurna's face on their backs, amateurishly inked, like children drawing gods with dirty fingers.
"You three," Thurna drawled, puffing smoke out of her cigar like an exhale from hell's nostrils, "I've got a package incoming. End of the continent. Near the god-blasted beaches where the stars look wrong and the tides speak in tongues. You know the place."
"Done," Tirell said without blinking.
Varrel nodded with a stupid grin. "We'll swim there if we gotta."
"Hope it's cursed," Sarrel added, bouncing excitedly on his heels.
Thurna chuckled, "Could be. Might be wrapped in plaguecloth. Might be guarded by screaming corpses with swords for spines."
"Hell yes!" The triplets said in sync.
"Might need you to eat a mermaid who's stuck halfway through turning into a squid."
"Hope it's raw," Sarrel said, licking his teeth.
"Might be that you have to lie to a god and trick him into marrying a rock."
"I'll buy a ring now," Tirell said proudly.
She laughed for real this time—hoarse and rough. "You're all insane! That's why I like you three."
'—It's crazy..They're the closest thing I've got to loyalty. Real loyalty. Not like the drifters, the sellouts, the old names who once bled beside me and walked away when my gold outweighed my love— If I lost them, I'd never admit it broke me.'
'But it would. Wouldn't it?'
'I've let people leave. Let them die. That's what it means to win. You burn the bridge and keep the map.'
'But the triplets? They're what I wish people were. Always coming back. Always mine. They know I'm greedy. But they stay. Shit, am I actually missing the people that left me before? It was my fault anyway, I'll admit that. Dammit Qorrak, why did you have to pour your heart out to me, making me overthink now…'
Just as the triplets turned to leave with a salute and a synchronized "We'll make you proud, boss," a soundless presence shifted the stale air behind them.
A figure stood there—still as grave roots.
A robe of braided ashcloth hung from their shoulders, dyed in muted, lichborne gray, stitched with veins of ivy-fiber. The hem dragged across the dust like forgotten prayers. Their hood hung low, and from beneath it, only light gray eyes stared—lifeless, fogged, and embedded with sprigs of leaves jutting from their sockets like growing rot.
The triplets encircled him instantly, blades half-drawn.
Tirell sneered. "Hey, mold-eye. You lost?!"
Varrel circled. "What d'you want from the boss?! Don't just stare at her beauty!"
Sarrel tilted his head. "You selling something? 'Cause you're already dressed like a corpse!"
The figure did not move.
"I am Gellem," the man said. His voice was calm. Wet. Like soil after a shallow burial. "I speak for the faithful. The ones who worship Elsha."
Thurna stood, brows lifting. "You what…?"
'The hell is he doing here…?'
Gellem didn't look at her. "We are the ones who bathe in the name. We offer pain and devotion. Sacrifices. Death. Magic. And in return, we are gifted with closeness. Whenever her name is uttered, we feel it."
He turned his gray eyes to her. "You spoke her name. That's why I'm here. And when you spoke it, it carried malice. Saying her name with such negative energy…will always attract us."
Tirell cracked his knuckles. "So you're a cult rat, huh? One of those shrine-humpers."
Thurna looked at the triplets, "Settle down, my loyal goons." Then she narrowed her gaze towards Gellem. "What do you want?"
Gellem slowly lifted his hood.
His face was inhuman, yet not monstrous—cheekbones carved by age and faith, lips stitched closed at the corners with thornwire. Vines coiled behind his ears. Moss bloomed in the cracks of his skin. His breath fogged unnaturally from his nostrils despite the warm air.
From beneath his robe, he pulled forth a lantern—its flame was not flame at all. It was grey, swirling with aether-smoke, a twisting storm of whispering shadows.
"We are drawn to those who mean her harm," Gellem said softly. "We've sacrificed too much to let her story end."
The triplets darted forward—
"NO!" Thurna screamed.
VRROOOMMMMMMMM!
The lantern shrieked like a dying beast. A vortex of warped sound sucked the air from the room. The triplets were dragged mid-leap, limbs flailing—
—and then, in slow motion, Thurna lunged.
KATHOOM!
The lantern exploded.
A crater bloomed where her throne had been.
Blood. Organs. Screams.
Gore painted the walls—triplet limbs splattered like grotesque murals. Merchants screamed, dragging broken bodies out of ruined stalls, crying and choking on soot and blood.
Thurna stood at the center.
Face cut. Blood dripping down her neck. Her arm trembled as she raised her weapon—a griffon's leg bone, wrapped in copper wire and barbed teeth. Her eyes were locked on the smoking remains of her boys.
Gellem stood untouched.
"They were just—" she whispered.
"You called them goons," Gellem said.
His voice was low. Sad. "They died for you. And you couldn't give them the dignity of brotherhood."
"You think I give a damn about titles?" Thurna barked, though her voice cracked. "I've survived this long because I don't get attached. That's how I stay on top."
"But you're alone," Gellem said. "Drenched in sin and solitude. Faithless, greedy, addicted to winning so deeply that you forgot what losing even meant."
Thurna's hand clenched around the bone weapon.
"You want to know what faith is?" Gellem asked. "It's not coin. It's not survival. It's sacrifice. We offer ourselves to Elsha, knowing her pain."
"She wants to die," Thurna spat. "She said herself she wants someone worthy to kill her where her husband died."
"She wants to be worshipped," Gellem snapped. "We are her family. And outsiders will never understand that. The cult leaders will be the one who will silence her for her glory alone. We can't let others interfere."
"You're delusional."
The flames flickered. The corpses bled.
'—Is this what it means to win? Is it really?'
'To stand alone in a crater of your own making? With blood on your hands and no one left who ever called you "boss" and meant it?'
'But they were goons. Just goons. Right?'
'…No. They were mine. Mine.'
'Damn it.'
'No. I don't care.'
'…I care. A little.'
She wiped blood from her lip and glared at Gellem.
"I won't lose," she said, quietly. "Even if I die. I've always won in the end."
She smirked, bitterly.
"And you? You fucked up my stall. And my loyal goons, asshole."
Gellem narrowed his moss-ringed eyes.
"So spare me the sermons," Thurna finished.
Gellem stepped forward, the grey lantern humming with echoes again.
"And you don't understand her. Elsha tests us. Those words about death and ruin? They're myths wrapped around truth. Our leaders say it's metaphor. To ward off the wicked. To sharpen the faithful. She wants protectors, not executioners."
"And you people just eat that up, huh?" Thurna laughed coldly. "She says she wants to die, and you're like, 'Nooo, that's a test,' huh? Delusional."
Gellem's breath turned sharp.
Their eyes locked.
Weapons hummed.
The air thickened.
The fight was about to begin.
The surrounding area was no longer an underground black market. It had become a collapsing cathedral of blood and ruin. Stalls were torn into splinters, sigil-etched stones dangled from shattered ceilings, and flames licked the bones of the dead. Pillars had caved inward, forming jagged towers of rubble that jutted like teeth from a hellmouth. The air was thick with chalky dust and the acrid scent of burnt flesh, flickering in the dim orange glow of shattered lanterns and still-burning braziers. Blood painted the walls in slashes, echoing the violence that tore through the world like an old god screaming. And at the center—Thurna and Gellem—two silhouettes clashing in ruin's theatre.
The moment Gellem raised his lantern and the grey flame inside began to howl, Thurna was already moving. She twisted low, sliding across debris like a serpent through cracked glass, vaulting off a shattered table, and smashed her griffon bone into the lantern.
Grey light shattered like stained glass, the roar reversed into a death screech as the cursed object cracked, splintered, and died in her swing. Gellem didn't flinch—he grinned. "Timing. Most just scream." He reached into his sleeve and drew out a massive iron bell, its surface etched in sickly green veins, rusted at the base, its handle wrapped in braided cords of white hair. He rang it once.
Thurna didn't see the blade. She felt it. A kiss of air across her jawline, and suddenly her cheek was split open to the bone.
She stumbled back, gripping her bleeding face, but her stance was tight. She parried the second strike with raw instinct, spinning her leg bone with a screeching howl of air, barely matching the angle. He rang again. Her ears burst. Blood gushed from one, and she screamed through gritted teeth, diving through falling stone as rubble exploded around her.
Blinded, deafened, aching—she fought with the throb of a war drum in her skull. She slammed her bone down at Gellem's knees—he leapt back, flipping seamlessly into a grounded crouch and swung the bell again.
"Fighting to preserve your life. I love it! You fight with the fire the leaders fight with!" Gellem smiled.
Invisible blades. Everywhere. Thurna vaulted, tucked, rolled, feeling slices kiss across her ribs, her thigh, even her back. He moved like a preacher in ritual, ringing the bell with dancer's elegance, carving the space around him into a sphere of death. She lunged, feinted, struck low—but each time her blow was either parried, or his counter was already ringing, forcing her back. Her bone met empty air or the ghost of an attack that never landed.
Her skull throbbed. Blood leaked from her nostril. She roared and hammered her weapon down—Gellem ducked beneath and countered with a backstep and ring—her vision flashed white. Rubble exploded behind her, chunks slamming into her back and flinging her through a broken pillar.
'He's too methodical. Too structured!' She dragged herself up, spitting blood and bile, watching him pace.
'He fights like he's dancing to some divine sheet of music.' Her weapon was cracked, but not broken.
'I have strength. Timing. Revenge.' She huffed and centered herself. 'He rings. Then slashes. He thinks I'll always move!'
She stood still next time. Waited. As he rang for another slash—she felt it. Not the blade—the air whispering toward her collarbone. She twisted, caught it—and redirected it. Her bone clanged against invisible force—and flung it back. Gellem's robe ripped as his shoulder was gashed.
'Got it!'
His smirk was gone. "Oh?"
'She's adapting to my attacks..'
He began combining bells. One in each hand, moving like a puppeteer unraveling chaos. The air became unpredictable. A blade then a deafening chime—stone exploded while her ears rang—and a third blade came at a different angle. Thurna gritted her teeth, spun, and braced her weapon like a shield, feeling the energy hammer through her forearms.
'I'm wearing down. Head splitting. Timing's off.Dammit I'm getting my ass kicked!'
But she kept moving. She ducked through fire, slammed into falling rock to hide, then launched herself up in a somersault, twisting mid-air to strike at the blind angle behind his shoulder—but he ducked, rang—her vision went black again.
'I'm going to die down here.' Her thoughts cracked like ice. 'But if I can time one hit. A good one!'
One. She parried an invisible blade blow, then angled her next redirect, forcing it back at his chest, but he countered—two bells rang, and a storm of blades cut through the air. Her legs were slashed. Her left arm mangled. She crashed again, skidding across rubble as her breath rattled out of her lungs.
'I never let anyone close. I used people like coins. I knew it. I saw it. Let them leave. Let them die.'
She clenched her jaw.
'But those three—those stupid bastards—they never stopped. Even when I didn't deserve it.'
She pushed herself up, legs trembling. 'What does it mean to win if no one stands with you? Is this what losing looks like? Was I always losing?'
She coughed, wiping the blood from her eyes. 'No. I win. Because I survive. Because I stay on top, even if I crawl through graves to get there. Right…? Or was that the shit I've been telling myself for years…?'
She rushed again—but her foot caught a loose stone due to her vision hazy and head ringing.
'No!'
That one mistake—Gellem stepped in, rang twice—and the last set of blades tore through her. One pierced her hip. Another her stomach. A final one slashed across her chest. She collapsed, coughing, her weapon slightly falling from her blood-slicked hand. Gellem walked toward her, bloodless, pristine, serene in his cruelty. His eyes—grey, cold—gleamed behind leaves crusted into the sockets.
Thurna bled onto the stones, her body twitching, breath shallow. And still her grip clenched around the bone. Gellem stopped above her. Raised the bell again.
Thurna's breath hitching in ragged gasps, her blood soaking into shattered stone, bones trembling beneath the weight of defeat.
'He broke me.'
The words echoed in her head like bells themselves, cruel and bitter, reverberating through the hollows of her cracked skull. She tried to move her hand, but it barely twitched.
'I can't feel my side. I can't even lift my goddamn weapon.'
She stared up at the dark, fractured ceiling. Smoke floated like slow snow. She wanted to spit at it, laugh at it, scream into it. But all she could do was bleed.
Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed, trembling. 'That's not it. I'll win. I'll rise. I always do. Always.'
Her mind clawed at stubborn truths, scraped against every bruised memory that got her this far.
'I'll bury him under my bones if I have to. I'll bite his damn throat open if he gets too close.'
But even as she thought it, something cold slithered in. Doubt. 'Or maybe I already lost.'
Her heartbeat slowed. Her eyes fluttered. 'Maybe… this was it from the start.'
Greed. She remembered every job she'd taken. Every life she'd cut short. Every time she told herself it was for gold, for power, for survival.
'Could this be the victory of greed?'
The question pierced deeper than any blade.
Then—footsteps. She heard them. Slow, deliberate, ritualistic. Gellem's silhouette loomed above her, bell held low. "You fought well," he murmured, voice like silk against the whetstone of death. She clenched her jaw, but couldn't move. The bell rang again, soft and sharp.
But before the invisible blade could strike—
KATHRACK!
A fist crashed into Gellem's chest with monstrous force, sending him flying backwards. He slammed into a broken column, stone shattered behind him, his body skipping across rubble like a stone over water. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he landed hard, coughing and stunned, trying to register what hit him.
Thurna's eyes widened, disbelief and awe cutting through the haze of pain. Standing in front of her, muscles tense, chest heaving, was a boy. A teen. Spiked brown curls, dusted with ash. Freckles across his cheeks. Dark blue eyes—burning with fire.
"Tojin…?" She whispered, voice cracking. "Tojin of Kalazeth's Bloodhunters… the youngest witch hunter…"
'What's he doing…?'
Tojin didn't turn to her just yet. He stared ahead at the rubble where Gellem had landed, fists clenched. His voice was still shaky. "I… I was the first one in my squad to wake up after the witch summons attack on the capital. I tracked Cainan and Lynzelle here with the Bloodhunters stone in the capital; this was the last place I caught it. But then—" he swallowed. "I felt something—something wrong—and I thought maybe… maybe they were here."
Gellem slowly pushed himself up, eyes wide with disdain. He laughed, brushing blood from his lips. "You think you can stop me? Another misguided child playing hero? Leave whim you can, so I can punish this woman for defiling—."
"—Please shut up.."
Tojin turned at last to Thurna. He saw her blood, the torn flesh, her barely-clinging breath. And then—he froze. His pupils shook. A memory flashed—his grandmother, writhing in a pool of red, crying out for help as he stood motionless. Too afraid. Too slow.
He pulled a strip of his own coat, strong fabric laced with steel threading, and pressed it into her wounds. "Wrap it. Tight. As tight as you can. I-I know you can hold on." Then he stood, facing Gellem again.
"I won't make it out if I try to run with her," he muttered to himself, steel spreading across his skin like growing armor. His arms, legs, chest gleamed like forged iron—flesh becoming unbreakable. "So I have to be fast. I can't stop. I have to be reckless." His eyes locked on Gellem, unwavering. "I won't be late again."
Then he pointed at the bell-ringer.
"I'll beat him up."
Gellem rose fully, now wielding both bells. His eyes narrowed. He began to combine his sounds—blades, dissonance, explosions, distortion—all fused into one cacophony. The bells rang in asymmetrical rhythms, invoking chaos incarnate, a symphony of ruin. The air twisted, rubble lifted, blood shivered.
Tojin's steel body gleamed. He took one step forward, his breath steady, his eyes calm.
The fight had begun.
Tojin lunged forward with the fury of a storm unhinged, fists clenched like warhammers, legs pumping with reckless abandon. His steel skin shimmered beneath the ruin-stained light, cracked and blood-flecked, steam rising from fractures left by cursed Sorneth blades. Gellem's bells rang out in discordant tandem, invisible blades slashing through the air with surgical lethality—but Tojin didn't flinch.
He vaulted over a mound of rubble, shoulder-slamming a collapsed pillar to gain height, then twisted midair, dodging a blade that barely skimmed past his neck. He landed on one foot, body spinning low like a coiled predator, and cleaved upward with a savage uppercut that collided with Gellem's ribs. Bone cracked, bell tones wavered, but Gellem retaliated with a backstep and immediate double chime. Rubble exploded behind Tojin—he somersaulted through the flying debris, a jagged shard piercing his side, steel fracturing with a grotesque crunch.
He didn't stop. He charged again, sprinting sideways along a fractured wall to avoid the second sonic strike. Blood trailed behind him. Gellem stepped with eerie calm, bells weaving hypnotic rhythms as he hurled another barrage of invisible slashes in precise spirals.
Tojin tucked his body tight, rolled beneath a collapsed girder, and pounced upward with a rising knee strike so forceful it lifted Gellem off his feet. As Gellem reeled, Tojin followed through with a spinning backfist that caved the man's cheek in with a wet snap.
'This brat…he fights like an animal! He's in another league! My damn luck to be going against a Bloodhunter from Kalazeth…!' Gellem thought. 'I waited to move in after the Bloodhunter Cainan left this area, but…'
Yet the old hunter rang a low note—Tojin's ears screamed, blood poured from his canals. He faltered. Gellem slammed a knee into his gut, then grabbed a rock from the ground and bashed it across Tojin's temple, sending him crashing into a wall. Steel shattered, leaving jagged cracks webbing down Tojin's arms.
'Magic doesn't work against steel…but my magic has been weaker now because of the battle against the witch summon…! How long do I have until it's completely useless…?!'
But as his skull rang, Tojin remembered. His grandmother's voice—frail, bleeding out, calling his name. Pain sharpened his vision. He had thought of that on purpose to fuel him.
Raw speed.
He roared and sprang forward, all restraint gone. Gellem barely had time to parry as Tojin delivered a ferocious flurry: elbow to temple, jab to throat, spin-kick to kneecap, heel stomp to shoulder.
'I-I can't keep up!' Gellem thought while blood poured from his mouth and nose and head.
Tojin moved like an animal trapped in burning walls, his body dancing between destruction and desperation. Gellem tried to ring another combination, but Tojin grabbed his wrist and snapped it with a downward twist, then hurled him against a support beam that instantly collapsed around them. Dust swallowed them both.
From the haze, bells chimed again. Blinding sound, shattering stone—Tojin was hit mid-dash, sent flying into the floor with a vicious slam that cracked his steel hide down his spine. His hands trembled. He spat blood. And yet—again, he purposely made himself remember that helpless moment.. His grandmother's still eyes.
He forced his broken limbs to rise. "I won't be late," he whispered.
He was faster.
Then—he bolted. Gellem spun to defend, but Tojin faked a punch, slid under him, vaulted off a falling brick column, and came down with a flying hammerfist that shattered Gellem's collarbone. Gellem screamed and swung a bell—but Tojin grabbed his arm and kneed it until bone jutted out.
With one last primal roar, Tojin grabbed Gellem's robe and delivered a brutal six-hit attack in less than half a second in speed: elbow to the temple, jaw-breaking hook, palm to throat, knee to sternum, punch to eye socket, and a final rising uppercut that lifted Gellem off his feet.
In the silence that followed, Tojin lunged, grabbed Gellem mid-air, twisted, planted his feet, and drove his fist through Gellem's chest—piercing clean out the other side. His hand clutched something warm and pulsing. Gellem gasped, choking, and whispered through blood, "…Elsha… receive…" before his body slackened, sliding off Tojin's arm.
For a moment, there was no sound. Only Tojin standing still, body cracked, steam rising, blood dripping from his chest and arm.
Then—his eyes widened. "I'm coming!" He spun and ran, sprinting to where she lay half-conscious beneath the debris. Her lips were pale, chest rising in shallow bursts. "You're still breathing…" he breathed, relief flooding his face. He knelt, tearing away more of his coat, wrapping it tighter around her. Her eyes fluttered open, and she rasped, "I saw them… Cainan and Lynzelle… I can tell you where they went…"
Tojin shook his head, hoisting her onto his back. "Later. First you need to live." He stood, legs shaking, and started running through the broken underground chamber, dodging collapsed beams, vaulting over jagged rubble. His breath was sharp. His vision blurred. But he kept going. Carrying her. Searching.
'This kid…what's got him riled up…? Probably the same thing that had me riled up. No wonder he's a Bloodhunter.
And above them… the entire arena of shattered stone had caved inward. They were buried beneath the earth.