The small voice sounded almost like the whisper of a leaf falling to the ground. One of the Kitsune children lowered her head, her tiny hands clutching the wooden bowl as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Ren simply offered a warm smile. "You’re welcome," he replied softly, using a gentler tone than he usually did.
It was a simple phrase. But in a world that often silenced children before they even had the chance to learn how to speak, that quiet voice filled with gratitude had the power to warm the heart like a campfire on a stormy night. For a moment, the wounds in Ren’s chest felt just a little bit lighter.
But on the other side of the city, inside a marble building adorned with crystal lamps and blood-red drapes cascading from the ceiling, luxury and cruelty mingled in the air. Beneath a chamber shaped like a small arena, filled with plush seats and wine tables, Trek sat with legs crossed, watching his favorite kind of performance.
Screams echoed from below.
Not ordinary screams—but the desperate, guttural howls of Polaris, his former business partner, whose body now lay half-devoured, surrounded by arena monsters—fang-covered beasts Trek affectionately called his "babies." Blood poured freely, forming dark crimson patterns across the iron floor.
Trek sipped the dark wine from his silver goblet and let out a sigh.
"Hmm... Not dramatic enough. Did we sever his vocal cords?" he muttered, as if reviewing a poor opera.
"No, My Lord," replied the beastwoman beside him, her voice flat yet cautious.
"Hohoho... Ah, perhaps he just lacks theatrical talent." Trek chuckled softly, then leaned back against the plush chair wrapped in dragon-snake leather.
"What about the task I assigned?"
The girl bowed respectfully. "I’ve coordinated troops to the southwest. Latest intel places the target setting up camp near a small river, not far from an old ruin."
Trek tapped his clawed fingers against the armrest, eyes narrowing with interest. "Hmm... So the gossip I heard from those filthy market rats was true. The little human brought along some cute kitties."
Cute kitties. A sarcastic phrase from Trek’s lips, clearly referring to Alfred, Bella, and their three children from the Penal Plains—great tigers who once caused chaos within the arena system. But to Trek, they weren’t living beings. Just exotic collectibles. Rare beasts too stubborn to tame.
"I really do love cats," he said, tilting his head, his tone turning almost cheerful. "Ah, not the ones who walk on two legs and talk. But as pets... obedient and wild—that’s far more fun. You remember... like the one from before."
The girl nodded silently. Of course she remembered. She vividly recalled how Trek once tortured a full-grown Penal tiger for three straight days. The creature was whipped, torn apart, and hunted in last year’s "event." And when they were finally about to haul it into the main arena... it died mid-transport from internal bleeding.
But Trek still smiled, his eyes gleaming.
"BUT NOW WE HAVE ONE MORE CHANCE, DON’T WE?" he stood abruptly, his aura swelling like a predator scenting fresh blood. "Wouldn’t it be just... delightful... to ’adopt’ one of them? A tiger cub. Not as strong as its mother. But still wild. And quite fun to shape through discipline."
Trek laughed. Not a full, hearty laugh—but a short, sharp one that created an odd pressure in the room, like a cold breath exhaled from a vacuum.
"Also," he continued, wiping the corner of his mouth with a clawed finger, "I don’t like it when people take what’s mine. So... kill him." His voice turned flat. "And take back what belongs to me."
The "what" he spoke of was not some lifeless object. It was the Kitsune children—living, breathing, and wounded. But to Trek, they were nothing more than exotic trophies. Fragments of bloodline heritage meant to be caged and displayed until the end of their days.
Night draped the southwestern ruins in a thin veil of mist and air that bit at the skin. The campfire had died down halfway, leaving behind red embers that slowly dimmed. The tents were quiet. The sound of deep, peaceful breathing came from the direction of Alfred’s family and the Kitsune children—soft as a lullaby in a world far too loud.
In the midst of that darkness, only one figure remained awake.
Ren sat cross-legged behind his van, surrounded by stacks of metal, flexible cabling, and holographic schematics hovering from a small projector. Dim blue light lit up his focused face, his eyes narrowing as he twisted a micro screw deep within a metal glove he was assembling.
That gauntlet wasn’t an ordinary weapon. He called it the Pulse Knuckle. Designed to manipulate the momentum of a punch by focusing directional thrust according to Newton’s third law—"every action has an equal and opposite reaction." But in Ren’s hands, that reaction could be adjusted.
"Ultro," he whispered, tapping a small panel on the gauntlet’s wrist.
Immediately, a calm yet intelligent male voice responded from the internal speaker [Yes, Master].
"Recalculate the max output pressure if the target mass is about one hundred fifty kilograms and I want to limit recoil to the arm at no more than two newtons."
[Processing... Increase impact surface area by twenty percent, add four micro-compressors to the knuckle base. Recommendation: use yellow plasma core, not red. More stable,] Ultro replied efficiently.
Ren gave a slight nod. His hands never stopped working. Screw after screw fell into place, cables insulated, circuits recalibrated.
"You think I’m crazy?" Ren asked suddenly, his voice quiet, like he was speaking to the wind.
[Technically? No. Emotionally? Maybe a little.]
Ren chuckled. "I know this is stupid. But when they said those kids carried a curse... all I saw were hungry, terrified children. I couldn’t just... pretend not to care."
Ultro paused before responding.[Master, you once said: don’t be just a spectator. Empathy isn’t weakness. It’s your roadmap.]
Ren paused, gazing up at the dark sky stretching over the ruins. "Roadmap, huh?"
[Yes. But wear your chest plate. You always forget,] Ultro added flatly.
Ren laughed quietly. "Noted."
The gauntlet was nearly done now. One side gleamed in the soft light, revealing a reflective coating with near-invisible micro-heating lines. He clenched his fist, hearing a soft click from the internal locking system. Perfect.
"Alright," Ren said, his voice calm yet firm. "If they come tonight... we’ll give them a little lesson in Newtonian physics."
Ultro chimed lightly [With a side of pain.]
Ren smiled. "Exactly."
In the distance, the wind carried the scent of iron and freshly dug soil. The night wasn’t over. And a storm was coming.
Among the tall brush and wide-rooted trees that loomed like pillars holding up the sky, dozens of silhouettes hid in the night’s shadows. Some wore scale-hide armor, others carried the tools of hunters: twin-bladed spears, poison-tipped arrows, and even enchanted rifles crafted in the underground workshops of Eks. A dull yellow glow from swaying lanterns lit the temporary camp.
Flad stood at the edge of the hunting party, arms crossed, his expression unmistakably annoyed.
"So... we’re just here to catch one human, right?" he muttered, glancing around. "Why the hell are there so many people here? This is starting to look like a siege, not a hunt."
Beside him, a lean man with hair braided in leather cords gave a short laugh. "Hey, relax. We’re not hunting an ordinary human."
Flad raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Our target... he beat Greg."
Flad blinked. "Greg? You mean that gate guard who thinks he’s a badass? The guy who picks fights with rookie adventurers, extorts them, then spreads fake stories about how great he is? That Greg?"
Flad scoffed. "So all of us... are being sent out to catch the guy who made Greg kiss dirt? What a joke. I should be laughing."
His companion immediately glanced around nervously and leaned closer. "Shhh! Keep your voice down, idiot! If the Champion’s private guards hear that, I’m not scraping your body parts off the trees."
Flad frowned. The atmosphere really was tense. Some of the faces present weren’t ordinary grunts. There was Jakar the Silent Tracker, Kima the arcane sharpshooter, and even one of the royal executioners from Eks—people normally sent on dirty missions, not minor arrests.
"Why did the Champion issue the order himself?" Flad whispered, his tone now low and cautious.
His partner simply shrugged. "Heard the human’s traveling with Kitsune. Three kids. And tigers from the Penal Plains."
Kitsune and tigers in the same group? That was like walking into a city with a barrel of gunpowder under your arm.
"...Shit," Flad muttered finally. "This isn’t a hunt. It’s a political execution."
"And even worse," his partner added, "the Champion wants one of those ’cute kitties’ alive."
Flad couldn’t hide the nervous chuckle laced with fear. Trek always had a strange way of referring to anything he saw as beneath him. But if he wanted one of the tigers alive... it meant they were going to hit that camp in full formation—and with zero mercy.
He looked toward the dark woods, where the silhouette of the ruins loomed faintly in the distance. Tonight, blood would spill. And even though their target was just one man... for some reason, Flad’s stomach churned with a cold dread he couldn’t ignore.