Their boots squelched with every step, the blood beneath them long cooled but still thick, soaking deep into the earth like the screams that had been silenced hours ago.
Arawn now—walked as if burdened by invisible chains. Each movement slow, deliberate.
His body, still aching from the backlash of overusing his abilities, trembled faintly beneath the black coat that was now soaked in gore and soot.
His fingers twitched involuntarily, and sharp stabs of pain pulsed along the nerves of his arms, but his expression remained still. Cold.
Beside him, Rufus Everhart walked with small, hesitant steps. Though he’d grown used to death far too quickly for his age.
The silence was deeper. The shadows darker. And the look in Arawn’s eyes—it wasn’t just exhaustion.
A deep, bone-carving hatred that lingered in the air like smoke.
Not from the bodies twitching in some dying spasm, nor the echo of falling debris. These were real.
Measured. Calm. Approaching from the haze of the ruined street ahead.
Rufus flinched, his tiny body stiffening. Without thinking, he shrank behind Cassius’s black coat, hiding in the folds like a shadow curling away from light.
Cassius, meanwhile, said nothing. He didn’t shift into a defensive stance. He didn’t raise his blood-stained blade. He simply waited. Silent.
Breathing shallowly, the edge of his mind hazy with pain and fragmented thoughts—therapy, blood, Sophia, betrayal, death, all swirling into one unholy blur.
But the hatred stayed. Clear. Pure.
The figure emerged from the veil of dust and ash moments later.
Slightly above average in stature, broad-shouldered, his presence confident but not overbearing.
His golden-blond hair fell in natural waves, brushing past his ears, and his green eyes—sharp as blades—immediately took in the scene.
A white dress shirt tucked into dark slacks, the black coat draped over his shoulders bore the golden rose insignia of Rose Academy.
"Long time no see... bro," the man said with a crooked smile.
But despite the smirk on his face, his voice faltered slightly. As if unsure whether to joke or mourn.
The man standing before him—Cassius—looked more corpse than human. He was pale beneath the blood, posture stiff with both fatigue and fury.
His aura felt unstable, cracking at the edges like glass under pressure.
And then there was the boy.
Rufus. Clinging to Cassius like a lifeline, small white fingers clenched tightly to the back of his coat.
’Who is this kid?’ Art wondered, his gaze flickering between them. The crimson-eyed child looked just as haunted.
Cassius didn’t answer his greeting. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t even flinch.
Art raised both hands playfully, taking a cautious step forward. "Whoa, salty are we? What, no hug? You run off on your own while I’m planning a nice diplomatic visit to the Everharts with the group, and now I find you neck-deep in Region-60’s apocalypse zone?"
He gestured broadly to the wreckage, the ruined buildings, the mangled corpses lying like discarded meat.
"Let me guess... you did all this?"
Cassius finally exhaled, a slow breath that seemed to rattle in his chest. "No. Not everyone."
Art blinked. "Oh. Right. You spared a few people then?"
Cassius looked at his blood-soaked hands. "Only the Opalcrest bastards."
Art’s smirk faded. His eyes narrowed. "So you ran into them too."
Cassius nodded. "Trafficking. Torture. Sacrificing children. They were using human life as bait for something."
Art’s lips tightened into a thin line. "They’re escalating. No more back-alley deals or political bribery. Now they’re just... devouring cities."
"They’ve hidden it well," Cassius muttered. "Most of the operations are being handled by Everhart-affiliated nobility. No official ties to Opalcrest. Legally? They’re ghosts."
Art swore under his breath. "So there’s no evidence. No leads. No one to hold accountable."
Cassius’s eyes glinted behind the strands of amethyst hair falling across his white mask. "So I decided to become their evidence."
Art gave a slow whistle and crossed his arms. "So that’s your plan. They left no mess for the world to see, so you made one so big it couldn’t be ignored."
Cassius didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
Art glanced at Rufus again. The boy hadn’t said a word since his arrival, but his red eyes were locked on Art’s every movement.
"Where’d you pick up the kid?"
"His name is Rufus. Rufus Everhart," Cassius answered.
Art’s brow furrowed. "Everhart? Amelia’s brother?"
Cassius nodded. "I found him locked in a cage. He was being brutally tortured. I killed his torturer since then he is following me."
Art muttered something under his breath—something unrepeatable.
Then, softly, he said, "You saved him."
Cassius didn’t answer.
Art stepped forward, close enough now that the scent of blood hit him full-force. It made his nose crinkle, but he didn’t recoil.
Instead, he gently placed a hand on Cassius’s shoulder.
"You look like hell."
Cassius finally cracked a small, bitter smile. "I feel worse."
Art turned, looking out over the sea of death. "You know they’ll come for you, right? This many dead—nobles or not—someone will raise hell."
"They can try," Cassius murmured.
Art looked back at him. "The others are on the way. Amelia, Zyon, Freya, Evelyn. I warned them not to follow me. But..."
"I need to clean up, Yeah I know. I’m exactly presentable." Cassius said suddenly.
They stood in silence, just for a moment, surrounded by blood and ruin. And in the distance—faint hums of teleportation echoes.
The others had arrived.
With a shimmer of spatial light and the high-pitched whine of activated teleportation chips, four silhouettes emerged at the edge of the crimson-soaked battlefield.
Their forms were hazy for a moment, as the mana distorted around them, until the final pulse of energy settled and they fully stepped into view.
Amelia Everhart stood at the front—her long white hair swaying lightly behind her, her crimson dress slightly singed at the edges from the teleport. Her eyes locked forward, already narrowed with worry and instinctive focus.
Zyon stepped beside her, gaze scanning the wreckage with an unreadable expression. His fists clenched the moment his boots touched down on the blood-soaked stone.
Behind them, Evelyn’s eyes widened in horror as her foot accidentally slid over a severed limb. She covered her mouth instinctively, but her attention darted instantly toward the two standing figures in the middle of the carnage.
Freya followed last, pale-faced and grim. Her white dress shimmered faintly under the red light, already stained at the hem. "Gods..." she whispered.
Amelia took one step forward.
And then she saw him.
He stood amidst the devastation, wounded, and soaked in blood not his own. His amethyst hair was matted, sticky at the ends.
A white plain mask covered his entire face except for his eyes. No part of his face was visible.
A child stood close beside him.
Her knees nearly buckled from shock, but she didn’t hesitate. She rushed forward, arms trembling, heart pounding.