Darkness swallowed the cave until it became endless—as if the entire world had collapsed into a blind void from which spirits never emerged.
Only the sound of water dripping from a crumbling ceiling echoed within—its rhythm slow, reminiscent of dwindling time.
Time that no longer belonged to the living.
The air was suffocating, thick with the scent of blood and iron—as if the very walls had bled dry, then petrified.
Amidst the rubble and shadows, Boris sat—cradling the exhausted body in his arms.
It was no longer the body of a companion, but a slab of cold flesh slowly leaking its last warmth, drop by drop.
Blood soaked clothes and skin, trailing in winding lines, crawling slowly across the stone—
freezing at the edges, then seeping back in hesitant droplets, as if the earth itself mourned him.
The chest was still.
No breath.
No sound.
Only a void, widening—swallowing every attempt at understanding.
Boris bent forward, his own body stained with blood, until his face pressed against the soaked chest.
His silver eyes drowned in an abyss of sorrow—bottomless, unfathomable.
Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, falling onto the blood and mixing with it—as if trying in vain to wash away what could never be cleansed.
His voice broke—shattered between gasps, like a child robbed of speech:
"Ruakuru… don't leave me… please… I can't do this alone…"
He gasped violently, his chest heaving as he pressed his trembling hands against the wounds.
"God… Creator… Grant me patience…" he prayed in despair.
Blood slipped through his fingers like water from a powerless hand.
His whole body shook—as if his weary heart, battered by cruelty, had finally been forced to burst.
"I'm not strong… I never was… I was just wearing a mask of stone…"
His tears grew heavier. Each word emerged with a sob, trembling, fractured:
"Ruakuru… I don't want to return to the darkness alone… not again…"
He pressed his forehead to his friend's shoulder—and from him erupted a shattered scream. It bounced off the cave walls, made the stones tremble, then dissolved into the darkness without a trace—as if the cave itself had devoured it.
The torn corpses of monsters around them lost all meaning. They were no longer beasts or enemies—just lifeless fragments drowned in nameless gloom.
The cave was too vast to hold either despair or hope; it seemed as if both had drifted together into a single abyss—one that belonged to death alone.
And Boris—amid all that emptiness—
kept holding the body in silence that grew heavier with every passing second, as if his embrace were the final prison for a soul that would never return.
***
High atop an ancient tree rising above the sleeping forest,
its gnarled branches stretched like protective arms shielding what lay beneath from the shimmering glow of the moons—
as if draping a silver veil of shadow over the earth, leaving the world below steeped in mystery and secrecy.
There, on one of its highest branches—where only the whisper of wind and the chirp of insects reached— sat Lia…
Still as a statue, her silver eyes—cold as ice, deep as night—
watched below with mechanical focus, as if a princess seated in her palace, observing every motion without emotion, without reaction.
In the deep silence of the night, she murmured—her voice barely grazing the air, as if refusing to break it:
"It seems Dad is about to reach Darmon's location…"
Words not meant for anyone.
Suddenly—
From among the tangled leaves, a shadow slipped… A hawk—
Somehow transformed into human form, stood on the branch directly above Lia.
It was Leo.
His pale silver eyes—twins to hers—burned like fire beneath ice.
His tone opposite, his nature contrary—his mere presence rippling the calm of the place.
He stood, hands in his pockets, gazing down at her with a look that felt threatening even in stillness.
Then he spoke—his voice crackling with inexplicable, suppressed anger:
"I really want to crush him with my own hands! If only Dad would let me!"
Lia replied without turning her head, without blinking—as if reading from a script carved into her mind:
"As for me, I'm not interested. I only agree with whatever Dad decides."
Leo growled—the wind itself seemed to hiss in anger with him:
"I agree with Dad's decisions too! But… Father is too kind. I don't want his hands stained again… not once more."
Lia shifted slightly, swinging her legs gently forward and back—a childish motion clashing with the coldness of her eyes.
She reminded him of a truth:
"Dad's hands… are already stained. Many times over."
"What?!" His voice rose for a moment—then softened, as if realizing he'd shouted at her.
"Do you blame Dad?! He ended up like this because of circumstances! He had no choice!"
"I know…" Lia whispered, calm as a frozen river.
"I don't blame Dad. But… Dad himself always says, 'Everyone must bear the consequences of their actions.'"
Leo leapt from his spot, dropped down, legs dangling from the upper branch—face to face, eyes meeting hers: fire against ice.
But after a moment… he sighed.
As if all his anger had evaporated into the air.
"I don't know how to argue with you… you're like a wall. Anyway… what happened to the girl and boy in the forest?"
Lia turned her head slightly—as if retrieving data from memory:
"I planted a spatial encryption on them… no matter how far they wander, they'll eventually reach the caravan."
Then, after a short pause, she added in her icy tone:
"And you? What happened with the caravan? More died than expected… why were you late in rescuing them?"
Lia stopped swinging. She turned to him directly—her gaze still cold, but now demanding details.
"I saw someone…" Leo continued, his eyes scanning the darkness as if fearing he might still be there.
"Among the trees, after the fog cleared… he was watching me. Didn't move, barely breathed… but I felt him—for just a moment."
"Did you confirm it?" Lia asked—her voice still calm, but its rhythm subtly altered.
"I tracked him. Ran after him through the forest—but he was… unnaturally fast. Wore a cloak that hid all his features."
"And did you follow him?"
"I chased him, but he vanished in the end—as if the earth swallowed him."
Lia breathed slowly, then resumed swinging her legs—but more gently now.
A short silence fell. She looked at Leo as he continued:
"In the end, more died than should have… because of my mistake."
Leo didn't move his head.
"Maybe…" he murmured, "I should've eliminated the wolves first… then investigated him later."
"Maybe…" Lia agreed, "but now… 'maybe' is useless."—she answered with logic.
Leo closed his eyes—but even in their closure, natural anger didn't leave his face.
He spoke as if delivering a report:
"Anyway… after that, I eliminated the sentient wolf… I think his name was Bagheera. After their leader fell, the rest fled like frightened rats."
He paused… as if gathering thoughts.
"Then…"
"Then?" Lia asked—no raised eyebrow, no shift in tone. Just a mechanical question.
"I ran away…"
"…" She only looked at him—a long, light gaze. No condemnation… no sympathy. Just… recording.
"What?! I had no choice! Dad didn't contact me! I didn't know if he wanted us to reveal ourselves to them! And besides… you're no better than me!"
"…"
"Say something! Anything!"
Silence.
Silence deeper than the forest.
Heavier than the tree's shadow.
Lia didn't move her lips.
Didn't change her gaze.
She simply…
kept swinging her legs—as if Leo's anger and the whole world were just a passing breeze.
***
Calm settled over the campsite as Boris stood before Darmon among the bandits' tents.
Their eyes met in heavy silence.
Boris stood like stone—gaze fixed, expression furious yet frozen like ice.
Darmon's face flickered with confusion—quickly replaced by a wide grin revealing sharp fangs: the smile of a man who sees his enemy as mere plaything.
Boris spoke in a low voice dripping with cold: "…Darmon."
The other replied with cunning boredom: "It's been a long time, Boris."
Boris's fists trembled—but his face remained silent, hiding a volcano within.
Darmon tilted his head, his voice slithering like a knife:
"So… you survived? I was sure you were dead. What about Ruakuru? Did—"
"Shut up."
One word. Short. Sharp as a blade.
Darmon faltered for a moment—then his grin widened with greater mockery.
"Hmm… your reaction says enough. So, this is what hurts you?"
He stepped closer, eyes gleaming with malicious delight:
"What do you want, old adventure partner? Some delayed revenge?"
Boris's eyes burned with contained fire—but he took a deep breath and forced his voice steady.
Slowly, his words fell like calm verdicts:
"I don't want to prolong this… Just tell me… why?"
Darmon fell silent for a moment—then twisted his lips into a smirk, as if he'd waited long for this question.
"I could fabricate excuses…" he muttered sarcastically, "Others forced me… it wasn't my choice…"
"Stop dodging…"
One look from Boris was enough to silence every lie.
Darmon chuckled lightly, then raised his hands like a surrendering man:
"Alright—you want the truth?"
He leaned slightly forward, voice oozing filth:
"Money. Yes, money. A thousand small gold coins."
The air between them froze.
Boris's eyes widened, pupils contracted—rage seeped through his veins like poison.
"You sold Ruakuru… and me… for a thousand coins?" His voice choked.
"Yes!" Darmon shouted shamelessly. "A thousand coins can change a man's life! But don't misunderstand—your death wasn't intended. It was just… coincidence. Only Ruakuru was supposed to die."
Boris's ice hardened further.
Darmon's smile grew even filthier, his voice dripping with arrogance:
"You know? I actually wished Ruakuru had survived. Do you know why?"
Boris remained silent.
"Because Falcon and Serena stole the money we got and abandoned us like dogs. I wished he'd lived so the client would hunt them down and reclaim his money… in disgrace."
He laughed shortly, then spread his arms as if offering a new deal:
"Let's forget the past. I've been leader here for months—I've learned the arts of theft, become a commander, and very soon, we'll have a big job. What do you say? Join me. Let's relive the old days—this time, my way."
But Darmon's words never reached their mark.
Betrayal for money, arrogance without a shred of remorse—each word was a fresh stab in Boris's chest.
His fists trembled—but he forced himself to stay composed.
*I must stay calm… so Leo and Lia don't worry…*
A cold, mocking smile formed—one that never reached his eyes.
Pure contempt.
He spoke in a low, flat tone—sharp as a knife:
"A thousand gold coins… that was our price. And now? Where is the life you bought with our blood?"
Darmon's face twitched—but he forced a laugh: "Haha… just details…"
But Boris gave him no escape.
He stepped closer, words cold as needles:
"Details? You sold your comrades. All that's left of you now is an empty shell—without money, without honor, without even regret."
Darmon's lips quivered, his fist clenched—but he stayed silent.
Boris continued, his eyes like hollow mirrors:
"And you call yourself a leader? Leader of what? A pack of thieves who follow you only because they couldn't find anyone more despicable."
He leaned down, whispering with icy mockery:
"Do you know what you really are? Just a lizard—"
Darmon's smile shattered—his laugh choked in his throat.
"Graaah! You wretch! It's my mistake for even wanting to include you in my plan! Just die!"
All that remained was a blind scream of rage.
His body became wrapped in a dark red Kora dust, erupting into an aura that radiated his fury.
Boris calmly raised his head, drew his knives, gripped them reversed, surrounded them with Koshin, and made swift finger motions—
Darmon lunged with a massive punch toward his face.
But Boris twisted his body—his arm struck Darmon's forearm, then a sharp slice tore from wrist to shoulder.
Blood erupted.
"Aaagh!" Darmon cried—but countered with a hook from his other hand.
Boris dodged with a calculated backward lean—and cut his second arm.
*His body is tough…* Boris thought.
The red aura began peeling dead skin layers from Darmon's body—mixing with Kora to form small red orbs.
Then they launched like explosive magma shards toward Boris.
But Boris formed a Koshin shield—absorbing the shards like a sponge—then sliced them with his knives, turning them to ash.
But it was only a distraction.
Darmon's body began to transform.
He shifted into a crawling beast—bones cracking beneath his skin, thick green scales bursting through his arms and shoulders, as if his body were growing outside its original shell.
His fangs slowly protruded, and the sound of his bones grinding echoed like shattered rock.
He laughed roughly, voice blending with the hiss of transformation:
"Hahaha… you'll see for yourself—"
But Boris didn't wait. He gave him no moment.
He shot forward like a flash—his Koshin-wrapped knife piercing Darmon's shoulder, lodging like a spike.
The laugh choked—Darmon staggered back.
The red Kora aura surrounding him suddenly faded—as if losing its anchor.
Darmon groaned, mouth opening to scream: "Wha—"
But he couldn't finish.
Boris seized his wrist and slammed him ruthlessly to the ground.
His body crashed into the grass—dust billowing around him.
All Kora dust dissolved in the air, one by one—until it vanished completely, as if it had never existed.
His massive body trembled—his scream broken: "Why… why can't I—?!"
Boris stepped on his pinned arm, voice cold as steel—steady, emotionless:
"Did you think I'd wait for you to finish transforming? We're not in some cheap theater."
Ethan, watching from afar, gaped in disbelief—eyes wide:
*Wait?! Did he just do that?! Impossible… He broke the golden rule! The eternal law: "Let the villain finish his transformation"!*
But Boris leaned closer to Darmon, whispering with deadly calm:
"Believe it or not… I truly considered forgiving you… if I'd found even a grain of remorse in you. But you have nothing. You're pure garbage."
Darmon trembled—his brittle laugh cracked, a desperate attempt to mask his fear:
"You'll pay… you'll regret this…"
But Boris's eyes remained like empty metal—no warmth, no reflection.
He didn't slaughter him. Didn't leave him to suffer slowly.
Instead, he reached into Darmon's pocket and pulled out something small—
a black disc the size of a coin, as if scorched metal.
Darmon's eyes bulged—terror consumed his face:
"Impossible…! How did you know?!"
"Your eyes kept worrying about something in your pocket during the fight…"
Boris replied, examining the disc. "Grade 5 Black Token. If it were Grade 4, I couldn't use it—but it doesn't matter now…"
Boris gave a strange smile and looked straight into Darmon's eyes:
"You know… even though it's Grade 5, in your current state, they'll easily accept a kill request…"
He gripped the token between his fingers—and snapped it gently.
It crumbled like cracked charcoal, leaving black residue on his hand.
Suddenly—the very air tore open.
A dark rift formed in the void, swallowing light around it.
From it emerged figures in cloaks that shifted colors like chameleons—playing with shadows, making their bodies appear translucent.
Their faces bore no features—smooth, blank skin: no eyes, no nose, no ears—just empty surfaces.
Darmon gasped—terror melting his defiance:
"No… no… this is impossible…"
Boris leaned to his ear—voice barely audible:
"I'll file a simple request: your death… slowly, until you beg for it. Good luck."
Darmon's eyes trembled—he couldn't scream.
His body froze in horror as the faceless ones approached.
He knew—everyone knew—the brutality of the Request Guild.
A guild that fulfilled any request: protection, assassination, rescue, investigation… anything at all.
Boris rose from him, walked past one of them.
He murmured obscure words—the other responded with a silent nod.
They exchanged a signal like an agreement—then Boris stepped away.
One of the faceless extended a hand and seized Darmon. The others followed.
Despite his violent resistance, he was taken effortlessly—his massive arms useless against their grip.
Darmon was dragged toward the dark rift. His screams rose, fragmented:
"No! Boris! Don't do this…! I—!"
But his voice faded gradually into the darkness—until it vanished with the rift's closure.
The camp fell still again.
Only the crackle of the campfire remained.
In Boris's mind, a cold, familiar voice echoed—
Lia's: *You were far too merciful, Dad.*
He replied inwardly: *I don't think so—*
Cut off by another voice—angry, fiery—Leo's:
*You were. After all, you asked them to hand him to the Guards. You didn't kill him. All you did was hide him.*
Boris stood silently—then a warm, strange smile formed on his face amidst the camp.
He raised his eyes to the starlit sky and whispered within:
*Thank you both… Lia, Leo… for always being with me.*
He lowered his shawl—his pupils returned to black.
Then he turned toward the bound stranger—Ethan.
He thought calmly: *These clothes…*
Ethan stared at him in awe, mouth half-open:
"You…! The protagonist!"
Boris smiled gently, blinked slowly.
*I forgot about language… damn communication issues,* Ethan thought painfully.
But Boris whispered a word Ethan never expected:
"English?"
Ethan's eyes widened even more—as if the whole world had shaken in that instant.
The wind around them seemed to stop abruptly—leaving absolute silence.
*Plot twist…* Ethan thought in utter disbelief.