No one spoke as the last chain groaned—and snapped. With a deafening crack, it shattered, metal links whipping across the hallway like flung shrapnel. Then the door moved. It didn’t creak open. It lunged, flinging itself wide with such violence that a gale exploded out of the chamber beyond. Dust and stale air howled into the corridor, nearly knocking them off their feet.

  John held his breath, heart hammering in his throat. He gripped his revolver so tight his knuckles turned bone-white, finger resting just shy of the trigger. Every second crawled, drawn out and sharpened by the dread crawling up his spine. He expected another spider-limbed monstrosity to come lurching out of the dark.

  Ziraya braced herself, muscles screaming in protest as she raised her sword, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.

  Beside them, Sarah's staff trembled in her hands.

  Then—click. A soft mechanical snap echoed from within.

  The room beyond flickered to life. One by one, brilliant white orbs embedded in the ceiling pulsed awake, casting sterile, artificial light across a space untouched by time.

  Sarah’s breath caught in her throat.

  The room was massive—half the size of a football field, circular and hauntingly pristine. White tile gleamed beneath their feet, unblemished, almost too clean. The walls were lined with black obsidian panels, each carved with reflective hexagonal tiles etched with golden runes. They shimmered faintly, whispering meanings just out of reach.

  At the center of it all, a dais slowly rose from the floor. Upon it stood a single stone pedestal, and resting atop it beneath a glass bell—

  Was a skull.

  John’s eyes locked onto it—and he felt the world tilt. It was humanoid only in the most generous sense. Twice the size of a normal skull, its bone-white surface seemed too smooth, too intentional, like it had been carved by something that didn’t understand humanity—but wanted to imitate it. Three empty eye sockets were set in a triangular arrangement across the forehead. From the crown, three swept-back horns curved like ivory blades. Its teeth were jagged, razor-sharp in the front—serrated in the back, like something that shredded, then chewed.

  John staggered back, gasping as a stabbing pain lanced behind his eyes, sharp and sudden like a needle of ice.

  “What the hell is that?” he hissed, clutching his temple. His vision blurred around the edges. A low hum of nausea settled in his gut.

  Ziraya cursed and turned away too, her sword-hand trembling as a similar pain gripped her mind like a vice. It was like the skull wasn't just wrong—it disapproved of their existence.

  Sarah, ever the scholar, forced herself to look. Blood beaded at her nostrils. She blinked, then wiped it with the back of her hand, too shaken to even register the crimson stain across her skin.

  “This… this isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen,” she whispered, her voice uneven with wonder and dread. “This isn’t from any known species… This is something new—”

  Her words died in her throat.

  The lights brightened—and the back of the room became visible.

  Rows of metal statues lined the chamber, standing at perfect intervals along the walls. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Silent. Unmoving.

  It was the same creature that had nearly killed them—but new. Undamaged. As if they’d never seen battle. Polished armor gleamed under the light. In place of two arms, they had four—each one ending in a different kind of death. One bore a brutal sawblade, still smeared with something long dried. Another held a massive crossbow integrated into its wrist. A third wielded a strange hexagonal crystal set in gold, and the last—perhaps the worst—was a spike mounted on a piston assembly thick as a man’s thigh.

  John froze, sweat rolling down his temple.

  They weren’t moving. Yet.

  “D-Don’t move,” he whispered, barely breathing. Every muscle in his body screamed to run. His eyes darted across the room, searching for something, anything—and then stopped. Across the chamber sat a massive vat filled with a thick, greenish fluid. Suspended inside were dozens—hundreds—of the same sinister, red-hued jewels they had encountered before. The ones that pulsed. The ones that thought. They floated in the goo like parasites in a bloodstream, swaying gently, connected to a long pipe that ran toward the base of the pedestal.

  John's eyes followed the pipe to the hose attached to it—ending in a bronze applicator shaped like a triangle. He stared. “What is this place?” he muttered, voice nearly cracking. The revolver in his hand suddenly felt like a toy.

  “A-a forge,” Ziraya said. Her voice was hollow, distant. “A temple. Maybe both.”

  “It’s where they made them,” Sarah added, trembling. She pointed at the motionless machines, her staff rattling in her grip. “But they’re... they’re not alive. Not yet.”

  “What makes you sure?” John asked without taking his eyes off the creatures. His thumb rested on the hammer of the revolver, half-cocked.

  “The jewels,” Sarah said quickly. “None of them have the jewels. Not yet. The hose over there—it’s a feeder. A way to implant them. To wake them.”

  Silence. Cold. Suffocating.

  John stared at the vat again. The longer he looked, the more the jewels seemed to notice. His vision throbbed. The green slime stirred.

  He lowered his gun, very slowly. “We can’t let those things live,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I agree with the mercenary,” Ziraya said, her voice sharper than usual. “If these things ever get into the wrong hands…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence. None of them wanted to imagine what that would mean.

  “I hope I’m right,” Sarah whispered. Her eyes flitted nervously between the slumbering constructs. “Destroying them won’t be easy. It has to be fast. If they wake and reach those shells…”

  The thought was left hanging, heavier than silence.

  John stood still, eyes locked onto the creatures—then slowly lowered his gaze to his gloved hand. The spell circuits etched into the metal pulsed softly, faint motes of light flowing along its seams. He flexed his fingers, feeling the distant hum of potential coil within the mechanism. “I can only hope I won’t need you again too soon,” he murmured under his breath—not to them, but to something far away. Something watching.

  The Ship.

  Ziraya, standing just behind him, caught the flicker of movement. She didn’t hear his words, but through the tether that bound them—a link that felt more alive with each hour—his emotions flowed through her like a ripple on still water.

  Doubt. Sorrow. Resignation.

  And then—finality.

  The kind of decision that couldn’t be undone. Her breath hitched. A chill traced her spine. Her curse suddenly stirred like a coiled serpent waking to thunder. It wrapped around her soul—not attacking, but shielding, sensing what her mind hadn’t yet acknowledged.

  She raised her hand without realizing. A defensive instinct. Then caught herself, stepping back. “What am I doing?” she thought, scolding herself. Her mana reserves were almost dry. She’d already spent everything unleashing the Scalebound secret spell—her trump card, her ancestral technique. And it hadn’t been enough. “That was supposed to be mine, hidden.” she muttered bitterly. “And yet… I revealed it.” Her eyes locked on John’s back. The quiet resolve in his posture unsettled her more than a war cry ever could.

  He exhaled slowly, raising the Spell Glove toward the vat. His revolver hung loosely in his off-hand, its barrel now pointing at the inert constructs. “Stay alert,” he said. “Run if they move.” He took another breath, deeper this time—like a diver preparing for the ocean's crushing depths.

  His glove lit up.

  The digits burned themselves into his eyes, flickering faintly before vanishing.

  Then came the spell.

  Five projectiles of green flame screamed from the glove’s reinforced gauntlet. They weren’t bullets or blasts—they were events. Aberrations born from impossible calculations and twisted fate, launched at reality like cannonballs.

  They struck the vat dead-on.

  The impact was cataclysmic. A flash of green-black light seared through the room like a miniature sun exploding. The floor groaned—then melted. The heatwave rolled through them, violent and sudden, warping the air and ripping breath from their lungs.

  Ziraya shielded her face with her forearm, teeth bared. The ancestral blood in her screamed, reacting instinctively to the unnatural fire. The force pressed against her like a crashing tide, threatening to rip her from herself.

  Then it stopped—and something deeper began.

  Where the vat once stood, a crater glowed softly. The abominable aura of the jewels had been scorched away—but in its place, something else had taken root. Something quieter. Stronger.

  It wasn’t a presence.

  It was a scar in reality.

  A stitch in the fabric of the world, as if the very laws of existence had been rewritten in that space and hadn’t finished settling. Energy twisted there. Not wild or chaotic—but purposeful.

  Coiling.

  Permanent.

  Ziraya’s curse howled.

  She dropped to one knee with a strangled gasp. The pressure was overwhelming, like a thousand claws digging into her spirit and pulling in opposite directions. She clutched her chest, panting, heart racing like a war drum.

  Across the tether, the pain hit John like a hammer. He staggered, hissing through clenched teeth. “Are you—are you alright?” he asked, voice raw, throat scorched by the heat and the guilt in his gut.

  “I—I’m fine,” Ziraya said through ragged breath. She forced herself up, swaying slightly, hand still pressed to her sternum. Her eyes flicked to the crater, now quiet. Still glowing, but silent. She saw nothing wrong—but she felt it. That lingering tension in the world around it, like a breath held too long. “I couldn’t have imagined it… could I?” she whispered, then winced as her chest gave another sharp sting. She pressed her palm there and spat bitterly, “Damn curse.”

  But even as the pain subsided, her gaze lingered on John.

  “T-That was… quite something,” Sarah muttered, her voice unsteady. A hollow, humorless chuckle escaped her lips as she rubbed at her stinging eyes, trying to blink away the residual light and smoke. “We should—” She stopped. A gasp tore from her throat.

  The cracked gem on her bracelet pulsed, then glowed—a deep, angry crimson. Heat surged through the metal like molten fire. Her hand spasmed. The bracelet tightened, constricting around her wrist like a living thing, and suddenly she dropped to her knees with a strangled cry.

  “Sarah?” John stepped forward, alarm flashing across his face.

  She didn’t answer. Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as her body shuddered. The scent hit him a moment later—burning flesh.

  John gagged, stumbling back before forcing himself forward again. He dropped beside her as she writhed, reaching for the cursed jewelry. But as his fingers neared, the heat flared—searing. He yelped and recoiled, the tips of his gloves smoldering.

  “It hurts!” Sarah screamed, her voice hoarse, cracking from the pain. “Remove it! Please—remove it!” Her cries echoed through the chamber like the screams of a wounded animal. Her entire body convulsed, limbs kicking weakly against the stone as smoke rose from her arm.

  Then the bracelet moved. It uncoiled, unfolding like a metallic centipede, molten edges tearing through her skin as it slithered down her arm. Chunks of charred flesh clung to its shifting form, steam and blood hissing into the air. Sarah shrieked once—sharp and agonizing—before collapsing entirely, foam bubbling at the edge of her lips.

  John froze, breath shallow, unable to tear his eyes away.

  The thing—no longer just a bracelet—slithered like a silver serpent across the ground, dragging behind a trail of blood. It moved with purpose. It reached the pedestal and coiled itself tightly around the glass bell, the relic shuddering as though aware of the metal's touch. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Ziraya stepped forward, but too late.

  The glass shattered in a burst of splinters.

  The skull was exposed for less than a second before the writhing metal coiled around it completely, swallowing it whole. The mass twitched, then rolled like a stone possessed—launching itself back across the chamber.

  Straight toward Sarah.

  John barely had time to react before the metallic blur slammed into her chest.

  Sarah’s eyes snapped open as she was forced upright by the sheer momentum. She screamed, a ragged, soul-tearing sound, as the thing wrapped around her arm again—not like before. This time it wasn’t wrapping—it was merging. Fusing. Bonding.

  The skull was akin to a ball on a chain, the jagged shape of its protective metal shell constantly distorting, folding and twisting. It was as if it became part of the bracelet—now a grotesque gauntlet of metal fused to her flesh. Her skin sizzled. The stench was unbearable. Her whole body arched back as

  she shrieked to the heavens.

  “Cut it off!” she howled, her eyes bloodshot, frenzied. “Cut it off, please!” She lunged toward Ziraya, grabbing at her sword with trembling fingers.

  Ziraya flinched and stepped back, her expression caught between pity and fear.

  Then—silence.

  Sarah stopped moving.

  The screams vanished like smoke in the wind.

  She stared down at the grotesque construct that had become part of her arm, eyes wide… but vacant. Her breathing slowed. The manic panic was gone—replaced by a chilling stillness. “Looks like… I have to bring this back,” she said flatly. The voice wasn’t hers. It wore her tone, her cadence—but none of her life.

  John stepped back, a chill clawing up his spine.

  The curious dwarf, the eager researcher who dragged them into this ruin with her manic obsession—she was gone. Not warped. Not twisted. Just… absent.

  Then the world changed. The lights above them flickered—then died. The low, ever-present hum of machinery vanished in an instant, as if someone had cut the cord to the city’s very heart. The air itself seemed to recoil, and the silence that followed was thick, oppressive, like the breath before a scream.

  Ziraya stiffened. “What’s happening?”

  “It sounds like the city is shutting down,” Sarah said, her voice flat. “Maybe this was its power source. Either way, we should go back. The pump’s likely been turned off, so—”

  A deep, echoing crack reverberated through the stone walls.

  Then a groan. Then another rumble—heavier. Closer.

  “Oh,” Sarah said with the same eerie calm. “Maybe it’s collapsing.”

  “Collapsing?” John snapped, eyes wide. “We need to leave. Now.”

  “It would be advisable,” Sarah said, her tone unchanged. She discarded her staff without hesitation, now using her good hand to pick up the stone tablet. Her left arm dragged behind her—cloaked in warped metal, the fused skull glinting beneath shifting plates. It scraped the floor as she walked, like a shackle.

  The three of them ran.

  They tore through the twisting corridors, each step a defiance against the encroaching doom. John tasted blood, his legs burning with every stride. Behind him, the rhythmic clank-thud of Sarah’s cursed arm echoed with every uneven step. The sound was too mechanical. Too inhuman.

  They rushed past the fallen creature, sprinted through debris, ignoring the rising flood sounds behind them—rushing water, grinding stone.

  “Come on!” John shouted, breath ragged. He skidded to a halt at a crossroads, heart pounding in his throat. Panic clawed at his ribs. “Where is it—?”

  “To the left,” Sarah said simply, pointing. Her face didn’t flinch. Her eyes didn’t blink. Not even as the ceiling behind them began to fall.

  “Let’s go!” John gasped, stumbling forward as the trembling flashlight from his phone carved a shaky beam through the pitch-black corridor. Each breath felt like a knife in his chest. His lungs screamed. His legs buckled beneath him with every step.

  But he didn’t stop.

  He wouldn’t.

  They burst into the deserted shopping plaza—a ghost of a place that had once been the site of Ziraya’s death in another timeline. The eerie familiarity made his stomach churn.

  “F-Fuck—!” John staggered against a cracked column, barely able to see, his vision tunneling. He spat out a thick glob of blood and shoved himself forward again. “Come on! We’re almost there!”

  His boots pounded across the buckled tile. Behind him, Ziraya kept pace—just barely.

  Her muscles screamed with each stride, her breath ragged and loud in the suffocating silence of the dying city. Pain lanced through every fiber of her being. But then she looked up—and saw the vast dome overhead. It was cracking apart like fragile glass, each new fissure glowing faintly with pressure from the crushing ocean above.

  That was all the motivation she needed.

  They raced past rusted signage and broken benches, over collapsed scaffolding and cracked fountains. Sarah hadn’t spoken a word the entire time. She followed without pause, her breaths short and sharp, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, like she wasn’t seeing the world around her at all. When they reached the recirculation station, Sarah didn’t hesitate—just vaulted over the warped steel of the doorframe, landing hard but running still. Like a puppet on broken strings, she didn’t stop.

  “Almost there!” John shouted.

  The submarine loomed ahead like a lifeboat in a storm.

  John lunged through the open hatch and collapsed headfirst into a seat. His body trembled. His limbs were dead weight, his shield crackling weakly around him as his breathing came in shallow gulps. His tongue tasted like copper.

  “N-Never again,” Ziraya groaned, slumping into the chair beside him. Her whole body glistened with sweat, and her skin was streaked with dirt and blood. “I mean it this time. Never again.”

  John let out a breathless laugh as he flopped against the seat beside her. “Was that too hard for you, princess?”

  Ziraya gave him a tired glare before looking away. “You look like a corpse.”

  Silently, Sarah dropped into the captain’s chair, her movements oddly mechanical. Her fingers danced across the controls with perfect efficiency—without emotion. The hatch sealed shut with a hiss, and a low rumble filled the cabin as the vessel submerged just in time. The station behind them collapsed in on itself with a deafening roar. Dust and debris swallowed the display, turning the outside world into a black, swirling void.

  John stared at the screen in quiet awe, watching the underwater city—the ruins they’d fought so hard to reach—sink into eternal darkness.

  Then—

  “Ah!” Sarah cried out, pitching forward and falling from her seat. John was instantly on his feet despite the fire in his joints, rushing to her side. She blinked up at him, dazed. Her eyes darted around the cabin, filled with confusion and alarm. “We’re… in the submarine?” she whispered. “How did we—how did we get here?”

  John’s heart sank. “You don’t remember?”

  She sat up slowly, and that’s when she saw it—her arm. The cursed bracelet—no longer just metal, but something fused to her. Something wrong. Bone. Steel. She could see a fragment of the skull still embedded in the coils. “What is that?!” she screamed, trying to pull her arm away from itself. The pain flared in her expression, but she froze—wincing, gasping. “It’s burning… but… distant. Muted.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t remember.”

  She looked up at him, stricken. “I didn’t… I didn’t do anything too rash, did I?” she asked, her voice small. Vulnerable. “You can tell me. Be honest. I didn’t have another… episode?”

  John hesitated. Her eyes were so familiar again. Hers. The emptiness was gone—but it had left something fragile behind. Something afraid.

  “No. Not really,” he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But your imp investors are going to have to answer a lot of questions.”

  Sarah groaned, covering her face with her good hand. “I did do something.”

  “Let’s just say we need to surface and break the curse.” John offered a weak grin.

  Sarah nodded, settling shakily back into her seat. “I… I unlocked the secondary ballast before I passed out. We should rise quickly now.” She stared at the rising numbers on the depth gauge, her voice trembling with exhaustion. “It’s a shame. About the city. I wanted to explore every inch of it. Learn its secrets. But now…” She looked down at the stone tablet lying at her feet. “Now I just have this.”

  “We’re alive,” Ziraya grunted. “That’s all that matters.”

  Sarah looked down again and flexed her fingers. The metal creaked faintly. “Of course,” she whispered. “After everything that happened… I’m sorry.”

  Ziraya didn’t answer—just crossed her arms and looked away, lips tight.

  A silence fell over the cabin—deep, thick, and strange.

  No alarms. No shaking. No screams.

  Just the steady hum of the submarine’s ascent, and the slow return of breath to their chests.

  “Back to normal,” John muttered, though he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

  And in that eerie silence, with the city buried behind them, the three of them sat—alive, changed, and waiting for the next ripple of fate to find them.

  John clenched his fist, knuckles whitening as his breath fogged the interior of the still-rising submarine. His eyes stayed fixed on the blinking console, silently begging for one thing. “Let the checkpoint have moved. Let me be free of the sunken city.” He could still hear the groaning of metal, the rush of crushing water, the screaming silence of that cursed place. Even now, after the escape, his mind wouldn’t let go. “I need more training… more spells… better gear,” he muttered, voice low and sharp like the edge of a cracked blade. His aim had been off. His hands had trembled when it mattered most.

  The revolver? Nearly useless now—most of the ammo lost in his panic. And the Spell Glove—

  His gaze dropped to it.

  Each spell it cast used up the Improbability Factor—a finite currency that decided his life and death. Every activation felt like placing a bet against the universe, and the odds were never kind. “I can’t keep relying on you,” he whispered to the glove, or maybe to himself.

  Across the cabin, Ziraya sat in a pensive stillness, her blade resting across her knees. She turned it slowly, watching the light catch on the surface. In dragon-blooded culture, being chosen by a sword was a rite of passage. A mark of trust. Responsibility. Identity. She’d have to report everything to her father. Every word. Every choice. Every failure.

  Her eyes drifted toward John.

  She used to think of him as just another arrogant mercenary with a death wish and a bad attitude. But somewhere between the collapsing ruins and the desperate spells he threw to protect them all, something shifted. She understood him now. More than she wanted to admit.

  They were alike, in a way that was almost painful. Both of them lived under invisible weights—hers in the form of legacy and expectation, his in the form of secrets and sacrifices no one would ever see. No one but her. “Maybe I’ll have to lie,” she murmured, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her lips.

  Not from humor. From exhaustion. Because if she didn’t… her father would come for John. Would demand honor be restored. Would kill him for what the curse had done to her.

  Her stomach twisted. She looked down at the floor. What am I saying? she thought, shaking her head. “It’s the curse,” she whispered. “It has to be. There’s no reason I should care about someone like that.” But her thoughts betrayed her. She kept remembering the way John moved when he cast those forbidden spells. How he never said a word about the pain—how his whole body locked up, the light dimmed in his eyes—but he still did it.

  To save them.

  The devastation of those spells wasn’t free. She knew that. He was paying a price, one he hadn’t spoken aloud. And maybe he never would. But she saw it. She felt it. And it made something in her chest ache. He didn’t care about her status. Never groveled, never postured. He treated her like an equal. Sometimes even less than that.

  But he stood. Every time. Against odds even she was ready to run from. And she had been ready to give up. To let the curse win. To become something else—something monstrous. But he never stopped fighting. “Damn it,” she muttered, tugging her collar. Her ears were hot. “It’s the curse. That’s all.”

  She cleared her throat. “Mercenary.”

  John blinked, pulled from his thoughts. “What is it, princess?” he said, lips curling in that familiar cocky smirk. The title dripped with irony, but lacked venom.

  Ziraya laughed. Just once, quiet and bitter. “Others have called me that before,” she said, “but never like that.” She looked away. “Once this is over… my family might have work for you.”

  John tilted his head.

  “I know you’re with the Wolfheart right now, but—”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said before she could finish. Despite everything—her pride, her arrogance, her blade always at the ready—he found himself thinking Ziraya wasn’t so bad. Sharp edges, sure. But maybe those edges had purpose.

  Then again… maybe it was the curse talking. John exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as his mind slid toward the name he hadn’t spoken aloud yet.

  Chase.

  The one who brought him into all of this. The one who vouched for him, shielded him from his own family’s investigations. The werewolf who said he owed John a blood debt by the laws of his ancient clan.

  And yet… Ziraya had been the one to tell him about Fallwater.

  About the massacre.

  About things Chase had never mentioned.

  John trusted Chase. He wanted to trust Chase. But now, a crack had formed in that foundation. A tremor, small but undeniable.

  “Why is everything so complicated?” he whispered, leaning back in his seat.

  Outside the submarine, the ocean stretched into black infinity.

  Above them, the surface waited.

  And between them, in that cramped glass chamber, two curses sat in silence—tethered by fate, mistrust, and the smallest, most dangerous thing of all: Understanding.

  “We’re surfacing!” Sarah’s shout snapped through the silence like a whipcrack, shattering the stillness that had settled between John and Ziraya. The submarine jolted, then rocked upward as the ballast hissed and the dark waters peeled away. The overhead chains rattled, catching the spherical submersible in their mechanical grip. Slowly, the vessel began its ascent, groaning like a beast too long submerged. John pressed his palm to the cool wall and closed his eyes. Each jolt of movement sent a jarring reminder through his bones—they were leaving it behind. The sunken city. The nightmare.

  Finally.

  The sub’s hull shuddered one last time before hissing open with a steam-filled sigh. Light poured into the chamber, and familiar smells—machine oil, dry air, rusted steel—rushed in like a forgotten dream. He stepped out first, boots hitting the floor with a heavy finality. “I can’t believe it,” he muttered, a shaky smile forming. “It’s finally over, we—”

  “Welcome back.” The voice didn’t belong. It slithered out of the shadows—silky, slow, and impossibly close, though the source was still hidden. John spun instinctively, his revolver already halfway raised.

  Ziraya stepped out behind him, brows furrowing. Sarah followed… then froze.

  Six figures emerged from a forgotten corner of the hangar. Tall. Unnaturally tall. Each wore a tattered, hooded robe the color of dried blood, the fabric clinging as if to something too thin, too sharp beneath. The Glamour around them rippled like disturbed water, distorting light and logic in the same breath. It clung to their bodies like a second skin, too bright for John’s eyes.

  Beneath it all… John caught it. A faint haze. Crimson, almost smoky. It was the same color as the jewels. As the cursed skull.

  Sarah moved quickly, inserting herself between them and John, her smile forced and brittle. “W-Welcome! These are… my investors. They've been very generous—” Her voice faltered.

  A sharp sound cut the air—a snap, like a whip. The bracelet coiled around her arm came alive, unspooling like a serpent, tearing through scar tissue and fresh scabs. It became a blur, and with a sickening hiss, wrapped itself around the outstretched palm of the nearest hooded figure.

  Sarah let out a strangled cry and clutched her wrist as blood welled up.

  Without a word, the imp produced a vial of shimmering red liquid and tossed it with casual ease. John moved to raise his gun—but the vial was already mid-air. It shattered against Sarah’s wound.

  Steam hissed from her arm. The skin writhed. Reformed. Regrew. She groaned and stumbled back, blinking in shock. Ziraya’s hand was already resting on her sword, her stance coiled and ready to strike.

  “Call it a courtesy gift,” the robed figure said. The voice was distorted—too distant, yet somehow inside John’s ear. It made his skin crawl. The imp flexed its fingers. One slipped out from beneath its robe—long, sinewy, blood-red. The nail was jet black, curved like a talon. “This item you brought us…” the imp murmured. It sounded almost… delighted. Three blurs erupted before John could blink. Cloth tore the air, and three heavy burlap sacks slammed into the ground at their feet. “As promised,” the imp said. “A supplementary payment. For you and your helpers.”

  The word dripped with disdain.

  John didn’t move, but his hand drifted lower. His fingers curled around the grip of his P50 pistol, tension like lightning in his spine. The imp turned its head. No face—only a glimmer of red light within the hood.

  That was all it took. John’s heart seized. Just from the gaze. The imp smirked. Its mouth—what passed for one—opened to reveal a spiral of teeth, twisting inward like a vortex. “Interesting,” it drawled, amused.

  Then, without warning, the six figures simply vanished.

  No flash. No sound. One moment there. The next—gone.

  As if the world itself had rejected their presence.

  John blinked, heart hammering. The air still buzzed with wrongness. “What the hell was that?” he asked, voice flat.

  Sarah didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. She shook her head slightly, as if waking from a dream. “They’re… a bit mysterious,” she offered weakly, scratching the back of her head with her newly healed hand. “But they’ve always paid well.”

  John stepped closer, incredulous. “Your arm was nearly cooked off! And you’re just fine with that? For a skull?”

  “I—” Sarah paused. Her mouth opened, then shut again. Finally, she pointed toward the sack. “It wasn’t just for the skull. Look, if I’m right… you’re going to want to see this.”

  John hesitated, then nudged the sack open with the barrel of his gun, breath held, finger tight on the trigger.

  What spilled out made his jaw drop.