The arena broke like a wave. The hall emptied, heavy with the weight of announcements—seven days until the matches, seven days until fate.
Dylan, bandaged and pale, leaned on Hakari as they walked out into the night air. His steps were heavy, his chest still raw from the wounds he'd suffered in the Kinji castle.
DYLAN (grunting, forcing a smile):
"Seven days, huh? I'll be ready… whether my body agrees or not."
Hakari smirked, adjusting Dylan's arm over his shoulder.
HAKARI (lazily, with a playful drawl):
"You better be, mate. I can't carry you into the ring, stylish as I am. It would ruin my image."
Dylan managed a weak laugh, then coughed. Axel, trailing behind them, said nothing. His eyes were distant, as though the council hall still echoed inside his skull. His return had shaken the room, but to him, it felt more like walking in someone else's skin.
Lena, quiet all this while, reached for his hand. He didn't pull away—but he didn't meet her eyes either.
The group drifted out into the city's lantern-lit streets. They would rest, regroup, and prepare for the matches in seven days. Each step home was heavy with questions, but no one spoke them aloud.
The world seemed too fragile for words.
Scene: The Night Meeting
But not everyone went home.
Damion Snow remained, his pale eyes fixed on the council hall as the last of the torches guttered. He had felt it when Axel walked in—the wrongness, the stain in the air. Demon.
And so he moved deeper into the empty hall, chains rattling faintly, whip at his side.
Scene: The Night Meeting
The council hall was draped in shadows, the kind that swallowed breath and bent silence. Torches burned low, their flames barely holding against the weight of midnight.
Damion Snow moved through the back corridors like a blade unsheathed. His cloak swayed behind him, silver chains clinking faintly. Coiled at his side was his executioner's weapon—a black leather whip, tipped with shards of sanctified steel. Each step he took carried the discipline of the Church, but his eyes burned with something less holy: grief.
He had felt it earlier, when Axel Spades entered the arena. A foul ripple, not Infernal, not human—demonic. And Damion needed answers.
He found them, or rather the man who held them, in the throne room.
Theodus Nightshade, temporary ruler of the council, sat sprawled in a high seat that wasn't his, wine in hand, his grin sharp and playful. He looked as if the world itself was his private joke.
DAMION (voice low, edged with gravel):
"That boy… Spades. His aura is wrong. Demonic. Every hunter, every executioner scoured the lands and found nothing. Yet you bring him here, like a prize. How?"
Theodus tilted his head, swirling his chalice.
THEODUS (mock gasp):
"A demon, you say? My, my. Executioner, you make it sound so scandalous. As if I plucked him from the pits myself."
Damion's hand brushed the coil of his whip. The torches flickered as his voice cut sharper.
DAMION
"Spare me your games. How did you find him?"
The grin widened. Theodus leaned forward, resting his cheek against his knuckles, eyes glittering like a serpent's.
THEODUS
"A secret, dear boy. And what are secrets but the finest coin? If I told you, it would lose all its value."
Damion's jaw clenched, the whip sliding from his belt with a soft hiss across the stone. Theodus only chuckled.
THEODUS (softly, almost teasing):
"Don't scowl so. I'll tell you something else instead… Something you'll find more delicious than truth."
The grin faded into something colder, sharper.
THEODUS
"Murphy did not die by his own hand."
Damion froze mid-step, breath catching.
DAMION (hoarse whisper):
"…What?"
Theodus rose from the throne, stretching like a cat. His boots echoed as he crossed the chamber, cloak dragging along the floor.
THEODUS
"The pistol? Oh yes, it bore his print. A single bullet left. So very poetic."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
THEODUS
"But no shot was ever fired. No sound echoed. And while the world wept for his 'suicide'…"
Theodus's lips curled into a wolfish grin.
THEODUS
"…He was in the next room. Feasting. Eating a mountain of fufu."
Damion's grip on the whip tightened until the steel tips rattled. His pale eyes widened, then narrowed, fury twisting with disbelief.
DAMION
"You lie."
THEODUS (laughing softly):
"Oh, I wish I was. But tell me, executioner… what kind of man arranges his own death and his own feast in the same breath? Curious, isn't it?"
The words dug like knives. Damion's grief churned with rage, but beneath it all… a seed of doubt. His father's death had always felt wrong, unfinished. Now Theodus dangled that doubt like bait.
Theodus stepped back to his throne, lifting his chalice in mock salute.
THEODUS
"Secrets, Damion. Always secrets. Murphy's is only the first. And I suspect… young Axel will give us the next."
The torches sputtered as he drank deeply, the chamber thick with silence.
Damion did not move. His whip hung taut in his hand, his knuckles white. His mind screamed with questions, but one truth pressed down heavier than the rest:
Murphy's ghost was not at rest.
And Axel's presence was no coincidence.