The red-lit district loomed before us like a gargantuan, open wound in the earth, its jagged stone walls weeping with the crimson glow of a thousand flickering magical lamps. This part of the underground city felt fundamentally different from the districts we had traversed before; the air here was thick, tasting of iron and old smoke, pressing against our lungs with an almost physical weight. I kept my hand firmly clamped around Salphy's smaller one, feeling the nervous heat of her palm. She walked between Elphyete and me, her silver eyes reflecting the bloody hue of the lamps that hung from iron chains above the path. Every few steps, her small boots would scuff against the dry, cracked earth, the sound echoing unnervingly against the silent, towering structures that rose into the darkness of the cavern ceiling. Elphyete walked with a rigid, alert grace, her silver hair shimmering with an unnatural rust color under the red light. Her long ears were pinned back, the tips a deep, throbbing pink that signaled her mounting distress. We were still traveling, pushing deeper into the shadows in our search for the Building of Entertainment, but the very atmosphere of this place seemed designed to swallow hope whole.
The silence was shattered not by a scream, but by the rhythmic thud of many boots hitting the stone at once. From the alleyways and behind the jagged pillars of a nearby collapsed tower, the bandits from the bridge re-emerged. But this time, they weren't just a handful of desperate scavengers. They had brought backups—a ragged, snarling army of nearly fifty men and women, clad in mismatched scraps of leather and rusted iron. They swarmed onto the path, effectively cutting off our route forward and flanking our rear. The lead bandit, his face still pale from witnessing Sir Vael's earlier display of power, stood at the front with a newfound, desperate bravado. He held a curved blade that glinted wickedly in the red light, his eyes darting between us and the overwhelming numbers he had summoned. Salphy let out a soft, sharp gasp and pressed herself against Elphyete's leg, her silver eyes wide with a terror that made my chest tighten.
Zhandra stepped forward before the bandits could even finish their first sneering demand. There was no hesitation in her movement, no wasted breath for parley. She drew her sword in a single, blurring motion, the steel singing a high, cold note as it left its scabbard. The blade caught the crimson light, appearing as if it were forged from frozen blood. With a focused grunt, Zhandra swung it once in a wide, horizontal arc. The world seemed to pause for a heartbeat, the air rippling around the edge of her blade, and then a big explosion happened. It wasn't just a burst of fire; it was a violent release of compressed kinetic energy that detonated upon impact with the air. A shockwave of white-hot pressure and thunderous sound slammed into the front line of the bandits, turning the red-lit street into a chaotic vacuum of dust and debris. The force of the explosion sent bodies flying like autumn leaves in a gale, some tumbling into the dark ravine beside the path while others were slammed into the jagged stone walls with sickening force.
The initial blast cleared a massive circle around us, leaving a crater in the dry earth and filling the air with the smell of ozone and charred cloth. The survivors of the front line lay in broken heaps, while those further back scrambled to find their footing, their ears ringing and their courage shattered. Many of the backups turned instantly, their greed instantly replaced by the primal urge to survive. Some ran, disappearing back into the dark crevices of the district, their panicked shouts fading into the gloom. However, a small group of about a dozen bandits remained, either too concussed to flee or driven by a mindless, cornered fury. They snarled, brandishing their rusted weapons and preparing for a desperate, final rush.
Ishighi had enough. The stoic patience he usually maintained snapped like a dry twig under the weight of the constant delays and the threat to the child. Without a word to any of us, he surged forward. His movement was so explosive that he seemed to vanish and reappear several feet closer to the remaining bandits. He ran to the remaining bandits with a speed that defied the heavy air of the district, his eyes narrowed into cold, predatory slits. What followed was not a battle, but a brutal, systematic massacre. Ishighi reached the first man before he could even raise his rusted axe, his fist connecting with the bandit's chest with a sound like a hammer hitting a hollow log. The man was launched backward, his chest collapsing inward as he was silenced instantly.
Ishighi moved through the remaining group like a dark storm. He didn't use a weapon; he used his entire body as a blunt instrument of destruction. He caught a spear mid-thrust, snapping the shaft and using the jagged remains to disarm the next attacker in a single, fluid motion. Every strike was precise and devastating. He pivoted on the cracked earth, his movements a blur of lethal efficiency that left no room for mercy or escape. The wet thuds of his impacts and the sharp, staccato cracks of breaking bone filled the silence of the district. One bandit tried to crawl away, but Ishighi was upon him in a heartbeat, ending the struggle with a final, crushing blow that echoed off the cavern walls. It was a display of raw, unbridled violence that transformed the path into a graveyard of broken stone and shattered lives.
I stood frozen, my hand still holding Salphy's, trying to find a way to shield her from the sight, but the violence was everywhere. She watched it all, her small body trembling as she saw the man who had been so quiet and protective turn into a force of absolute carnage. Elphyete's ears were a vibrant, pulsing pink, her hands hovering near her own weapons, but she didn't interfere. She knew as well as I did that in this world, sometimes the only way to protect a life was to end many others. The last bandit fell with a choked cry, leaving Ishighi standing alone in the center of the carnage. He stood there for several long seconds, his chest heaving as the red mist of his rage slowly receded. His hands were stained with the dark evidence of the massacre, and the absolute silence that returned to the district was more haunting than the screams had been.
Ishighi took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly straightened his back. The tension left his muscles, and he began to walk back toward us, his boots clicking softly on the blood-stained earth. He didn't look at Zhandra, who was cleaning her blade with a piece of cloth, nor did he look at Sir Vael, who was merely watching with a bored expression. His focus was entirely on Salphy. As he got closer, his expression shifted from the mask of a killer back to the face of a guardian. He stopped several feet away, ensuring he didn't loom over the five-year-old girl, and slowly lowered himself onto one knee. He looked down at his ruined hands for a moment before looking up at Salphy's pale, frightened face.
He was calmly apologizing to Salphy for making her see that, his voice a low, steady murmur that stood in stark contrast to the violence he had just unleashed. "I am sorry, Salphy," Ishighi said, his eyes filled with a heavy, sincere regret. "A child should not have to see the world like this. I lost my temper, and for that, I am truly sorry. I wanted to make sure they could never hurt you, but I should have been more careful." He didn't try to make excuses or explain the necessity of the act; he simply offered his apology to the little girl who had witnessed the darkest part of his nature. He stayed on one knee, waiting, his head slightly bowed in a gesture of genuine humility.
Salphy didn't pull away. She looked at the blood on the stone, then at Ishighi's bowed head. She took a small, hesitant step forward, releasing my hand. She reached out and placed a tiny, grey-skinned hand on Ishighi's shoulder. Her silver eyes, usually so full of wonder, were now filled with a strange, quiet gravity. "It's okay, Ishighi," she whispered, her voice clear and surprisingly steady. "You did it for us. You're our protector. I'm not scared of you." She patted his shoulder gently, a simple act of child-like grace that seemed to wash away the lingering horror of the massacre. Salphy forgave Ishighi with a sincerity that only a child could muster, her words bringing a finality to the violence. Ishighi closed his eyes for a moment, a visible wave of relief passing over him, before he stood up and took his place back in our formation. The group turned back to the path, moving forward into the red-lit gloom once more, the search for the King continuing through the silent, bloody district.