The group had split.
Each shadow moved into position with quiet precision, weaving through broken streets and hollow alleyways.
Fang crouched atop a collapsed rooftop, its rusted frame groaning under his weight as he leaned against a cracked chimney. From there, he could see the entire park—a once beautiful square of trees and stone paths now reduced to dead trunks and shattered fountains.
Across from him, on the opposite building, Kharon perched silently, both spears slung across his back. His eyes scanned the perimeter, measuring distances and angles, tracking every moving figure below without pause.
Near the park's western edge, Burngear crouched behind a toppled statue with Gummy beside him, both pressed low as they watched a pair of Black Roots patrols march past.
Further east, Zima and Istina moved in tandem, slipping between broken stairwells and hollowed-out apartment blocks, careful not to disturb the loose rubble littering the floor.
On the northern street, Rosa and Leto took cover behind a collapsed balcony, Rosa's rifle steady against her shoulder, her breathing controlled, while Leto peeked nervously but determinedly over the edge.
The speech began.
It wasn't shouted—it was projected, broadcast through mounted speakers that crackled faintly with feedback, the voice deep and commanding, echoing across the empty buildings like scripture being read from a pulpit.
"Brothers. Sisters."
"Look upon this city and its ruin. Look upon the chaos it breeds when left unkempt. The weeds choke what beauty once lived here."
Patrols passed by the narrow roads bordering the park, their weapons at the ready but their formation perfect—five soldiers per group, movements synchronized, every step measured and identical, like machinery with a heartbeat.
"We have been chosen to tend this garden. To make it thrive once again. But as all gardeners know… there is no growth without pruning."
Fang's eyes narrowed slightly as the words reverberated across the ruins.
"A garden will die if its weeds are not culled."
"And so, we prune not in cruelty… but in necessity. We prune for salvation."
The patrols began to converge on the park center.
Rows of civilians stood there, wrists bound, their necks and arms marked with glowing red seals. Some were slumped over, exhausted, while others shivered silently. Children clung to their parents, faces buried in worn clothing.
And at the front of it all, standing atop a raised platform of polished black steel, was the Black Roots executive.
His armor was sleeker than the soldiers', his pauldrons lined with thin metal branches that extended upward like antlers. A single strip of crimson light ran from his chest to his helm, pulsing faintly in time with his words.
"These… parasites," he said, turning his gaze toward the gathered civilians, "have leeched long enough."
"They live without giving back. They take without purpose. They linger, breeding more weakness into the roots of this world."
"And now… they must be culled."
There was no outcry.
No one dared to move.
Until one woman, trembling but desperate, stumbled forward from the group.
"P-Please!" she cried, falling to her knees. "Please, I am worthy! I believe in your cause! I… I can change! I swear I can!"
Her voice cracked, raw and desperate.
The executive stepped closer, his helmet angling downward to meet her gaze.
"Belief without proof is just noise," he said coldly. "And this garden has no room for noise."
Fang's gaze didn't waver from the park below, his body coiled like a spring waiting for the signal.
The Doctor's voice, calm and steady, still echoed in his mind:
"Wait until they're fully exposed. Let them believe no one will intervene. When they are at their most certain, strike."
It was the right plan. The efficient plan.
And Fang would follow it.
For now.
Down below, the kneeling woman's pleas grew louder, more frantic.
"I'll prove it!" she cried, her voice cracking from strain. "I'll show you I'm worthy! Whatever it takes—whatever I have to do!"
Her hands darted to the ground, snatching a shard of broken glass from the rubble. She gripped it so tightly that blood welled between her fingers, dripping onto the stones.
"Look—!" she screamed, dragging the jagged edge across her forearm in wide, erratic strokes, carving the Black Roots' emblem into her own flesh. "I can bear the mark! I can belong!"
The executive didn't even tilt his head.
His silence was colder than any condemnation could have been.
The lack of acknowledgment twisted her desperation into something darker.
"Fine!" she shrieked, spinning toward the group of civilians behind her. "If you won't see it, then I'll prove it another way—I'll kill every weed you hate!"
Her hand shot upward, glass glinting in her trembling grip.
The other prisoners stumbled back in horror.
And then—
Fang dropped from above.
He landed lightly in front of the woman, his robes whispering with the movement. His hand shot forward, seizing her wrist with precision so controlled it looked effortless. The shard of glass clattered harmlessly to the ground as Fang twisted her arm just enough to make her fingers open in reflex.
His other hand pressed lightly against her shoulder. A pulse of warmth surged through her nerves, and her body went limp, collapsing into Fang's waiting grasp.
He laid her down gently.
"I apologize," Fang murmured softly, his voice heavy with both sorrow and resolve. "I could not watch any longer."
A flash of steel behind him.
One of the Black Root operators lunged forward, his segment-linked glaive whistling through the air as its edge extended toward Fang's exposed back—
CRACK.
The blade froze mid-arc.
Kharon's spear had cleaved cleanly through both weapon and wielder in the same motion. The operator's body fell in two silent halves before it even hit the ground.