"That actually worked?" Dirga muttered, still catching his breath.
The lingering hum of his Crimson Core faded to a dull glow.
A grin tugged at the edge of his bruised, blood-smeared lips.
This was the form he had imagined — a weapon that could wrap, bind, pull — that could make his ultimate strike land without relying on timing alone.
A tool perfectly synchronized with his concept.
He didn’t need to wait for the enemy to enter his range anymore.
Now he brought them in.
A familiar voice cut through the air like a teasing breeze.
"Nice one," Sasa said, suddenly hovering nearby like a smug genie. "At least you earned your day off. Remember — twenty-four hours, exactly. Then you’re back in the meat grinder."
Sasa gave a dramatic thumbs-up, his expression somewhere between cheerleader and chaos god.
Before Dirga could reply, the devil snapped his fingers.
The world bent — and Dirga was standing in his penthouse once again.
He looked like a man torn straight from the trenches — his body a canvas of bruises, gashes, crusted blood in shades no human should bleed.
Dust clung to his skin like ash.
His left eyebrow lifted slightly, accentuating a scar that hadn’t fully closed.
"Okay..." he exhaled. "First, shower."
He limped toward his room, body aching in all the worst ways.
The Crimson Core — now hovering in the air like a silent familiar — floated after him, quietly pulsing with a soft red glow.
Just as Dirga reached for the bathroom door, he paused.
"...No mosquito, right, Sasa?" he called, glancing over his shoulder.
The devil was sprawled upside-down in midair like he was lounging on an invisible couch, sipping from a juice box.
"Hmm?" Sasa blinked innocently. "Mosquito? Nah. Promise. Happy sleep, sweetheart." He winked.
Dirga narrowed his eyes but said nothing. He disappeared into the bathroom.
Inside, the steam quickly fogged the mirror.
Hot water pounded against his sore muscles like heaven and hell combined.
Blood — red, black, green, and something disturbingly blue — swirled down the drain in streaks.
His breath came easier now. The weight of constant combat, the ache of vigilance — they finally loosened their grip on him.
His sweatpants and shirt? Ruined. Torn, scorched, and reeking of death.
He pulled out his phone with one hand, still letting the water run across his back.
Need new sweatpants & shirt. XL. Urgent.
He checked the time: 05:13 PM.
Exactly twenty-four hours until the next round began.
Dirga stepped out of the shower, water dripping from his skin.
The Crimson Core hovered nearby, spinning slowly — loyal, patient, silent.
"Tomorrow," Dirga muttered, towel slung around his neck. "We start again."
After the shower, steam still clinging to his skin, Dirga stepped out feeling slightly human again — or at least less like something freshly carved from war.
His body was cleaned, but exhaustion still clung to his bones.
Behind him, the Crimson Core hovered like a loyal ghost — buzzing faintly, almost purring. It followed him through the penthouse, a soft red glow pulsing with every step he took.
As Dirga rounded the corner, he found Lilith in the living room, arms crossed with a box at her feet.
"Boss!" she chirped. "Got the clothes you asked for. I bought twelve pairs — sweatpants, shirts, even socks. You’re officially stocked like a cartoon character."
Dirga offered a tired smile, taking the box. "Thanks, Lilith. You’re a lifesaver."
He paused, glancing around. "Where’s Sasa?"
Lilith shrugged. "Probably floating somewhere. We’ve been watching soap dramas at night."
Dirga blinked. "Soap dramas?"
"Yeah," she said with a grin. "Uncle Sasa’s got surprisingly good taste. We just binge-watch tragic romances and argue about which character is secretly a devil in disguise."
Dirga gave her a thumbs-up with a straight face. "I’ll leave you two to it."
With that, he turned, box of clothes under one arm, Crimson Core trailing behind like a red moon.
Inside his room, the curtains were drawn. The world was dark and quiet.
He didn’t even change.
Dirga dropped the box on the floor, kicked the door shut behind him, and collapsed onto the bed.
No thoughts. No words.
The second his body hit the mattress — his mind shut off.
And for the first time in what felt like eternity...
When Dirga finally woke, sunlight was bleeding through the blinds, casting soft lines across his sheets. His eyes blinked open slowly, and for a moment he just lay there, breathing.
His body felt... new.
Muscles that had screamed for days were quiet. The weight in his bones — gone. Even the usual phantom sting of mosquito bites was absent.
He sat up, cracked his neck, and checked the time.
A long sleep. The kind his body had begged for.
And for once, he had the time.
Today... there were no monsters. No mosquitoes. No crushing gravity. Just the stillness of earned peace.
He dressed in his usual — black hoodie, gray sweatpants — then grabbed the keys to his motorcycle. The Crimson Core floated near the window, watching him, but didn’t follow.
Today wasn’t about training.
It was about remembering why he trained.
The ride to the hospital was quick. Familiar. Wind brushing against his face, the city gliding by. The tall structure of Vantasio Medical glimmered in the late morning sun — modern, cold, elegant.
He made his way up quietly, helmet under his arm.
When he stepped into the room, she was still there.
Unmoving. Unconscious. But breathing.
Jane was sitting beside her, arms crossed, eyes narrowing the moment Dirga entered.
"Well, look who gets a break," she said, half-teasing, half-scolding. "I thought you were supposed to be off training?"
Dirga shrugged and dropped into the chair beside the bed. "Rest is part of training, too."
Jane rolled her eyes — but smiled. "Take care of yourself."
She stood and stepped toward the door, pausing just before she left. "And don’t make her wait too long."
Then she was gone, giving them the room — the silence — and the space they needed.
Dirga leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"Hey," he said softly.
He spoke to her the way he always did. Words filled with everything he hadn’t said when she was awake. About the Crimson Core. The mosquitoes. The pain. The victories. The exhaustion. And the fear that never quite left him.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
Eventually, he reached out and touched her cheek — gently, reverently — then took her hand in his.
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I’m going to save you," he whispered. "So wait for me, okay?"
In that moment, all the noise of battle, of training, of bleeding and hurting and barely surviving — it all disappeared.
Why he can’t afford to lose.
Why even hell itself wasn’t enough to stop him.
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