"Those damn terrorists." His jaw tightened, mustache twitching like it wanted to leap from his face. "Can you believe it? They had the gall to confront me. They've turned this Fortress—my Fortress—into a graveyard. I've given everything to this place. And now?" His voice quivered, teetering on the brink of violence. "Animals."
"They're trying to get to you, General," Gorrote said, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. "Want us to storm their stronghold? Just say so. We'll take care of them—and whoever's pulling their strings. And don't worry, we'll make sure she and her kids are safe."
"No." Gandamme's reply cracked, sharp and forceful. "Not yet. We have to prep for the op. Find that Pluton Code, get Chuvannel back into the woods. That's the mission. Don't go in blind." He glared around, daring anyone to push back.
"We know, General. Just… cool it. If you keep this up, you'll bring the whole Fortress down. Maybe the whole damn wall," Gorrote said, grinning like he wanted to see the General snap.
"And that Chemira'n Devil? Done for."
"How did they sneak that code in here?"
"There's only one explanation, General. Someone inside is a traitor." Gorrote's words trembled with rage. "Whoever that rat is, the DA should make them suffer—teach them a lesson worse than what Ishuweh took at the Crux. I'll do it myself." He spun, voice booming across the room. "Listen up—all of you. Whoever's the Judas who sold out Maximus Fortress, you spit on the brotherhood's name. That's forbidden in all San Sinocob." He bellowed, "A hand for a hand."
"So, wherever you're hiding—eating, crawling through the city—the whole Squad is coming for you." His eyes blazed. He meant every word.
"Gorrote."
"General."
"Get the kids to Huagdoh's Place. Their fight isn't finished. We need that Pluton Code back—fast."
"Understood," Gorrote said, all business.
"We need backup at Huagdoh's. Damien, you're in charge. Five teams. No arguments."
"Clear", he said.
"One of the Squad goes with you," Gorrote declared, swelling up like the General's own shadow.
"You mean me, Gorrote?" Killer spoke up at last, breaking his silence. "Good. I could use a warm-up. Let's see how scary this Chemira'n Devil really is."
Gorrote just sighed, but Killer wasn't finished. Or maybe he was, because a hand shot out and blocked his chest—Killubin, groaning from the side. "No. I'll do it," he said. Killer scowled, irritated, and stepped back.
*******
The wind howled around them. Somewhere nearby, someone struggled for breath—gasping, choking, barely holding on. That man hung in the air, legs thrashing, sword dripping blood in his fist. Blood leaked down, steady as a broken faucet.
"Bad luck crossing me tonight, huh?" The stranger's voice was flat, almost bored. He'd already taken care of the others, hadn't spoken a word about himself, and clearly wasn't about to start now. "Last shot," he said, pulling a picture from somewhere beneath his hand. Magic, maybe. One moment, sword—next, paper. Couldn't be, but there it was. The crowd stared, silent and spellbound, glued to their phones like they were watching some midnight bloodbath on TV. But the man only stared at the photo. "You know this girl? Tell me where to find her."
The victim tried to answer, couldn't get a sound out. The grip eased, just barely—enough for a gasp of air. But that didn't make things any easier.
"I—I don't know," he stammered, his voice cracking like he could barely catch his breath. "Hi—I don't know her, I swear. He seems like he's lying, but those eyes… like a demon's. Just let me go, I can't take this." His words spilled out, desperate. "Please," he pleaded. "I won't do it again, I promise. Please, I'm begging you. Have mercy."
His eyes widened under heavy lids—lit up, wild and bright, almost beautiful. "Have mercy—I won't do it again."
"Do you even hear yourself?"
"I'm sorry—only God gives mercy."
He lifted his sword, ready to finish it, but one word—just a single word—made him stop cold. All the fury in his eyes disappeared, like someone pulled the plug. It was done. His face went blank, but he still looked ready, bracing for whatever came next.
"Just let him go. He's drunk out of his mind, he doesn't know what he's doing. I don't know you, and you probably don't know me, but I'm sorry if I ruined your night. That guy's innocent too."
"What do you know?" His glare could kill, but the other man just smiled back, cool as ice, like they were equals.
"Who picks on someone helpless? Only kids do that," he said, shrugging. That guy isn't so different after all. You get it, right? So please, I'm begging you—let him go. Don't worry, I'll watch over them.
"I'm Ashong," the man said, smiling, hand out for a handshake. No one took it.
The world snapped. In one swift motion, the sword lunged forward, stabbing deep—ripped out fast, blood gushing like a butchered pig. The body hit the ground, dumped and twitching, dying slow and ugly.
The man just smiled. Moonlight caught his eyes.
His head slumped. Blood pooled and spread, mixing with the mess already on the street. It looked like a dumping ground for bodies. People stood frozen, faces blank with shock. No one spoke. A woman screamed, sharp and sudden. Others just sat there, lost, slumped against the walls, eyes wide and wild with fear.
"My phone—why's it dead?" a man mumbled, staring in disbelief. He wasn't the only one. Every phone, every camera—it all died at once, no matter how many memories they tried to save.
The mysterious man slipped away, sword clean, vanishing into the night like nothing had happened. Like the world meant nothing at all.