The forest was cloaked in a pale, hazy morning light, beams of gold slipping through the thick canopy above. The Sloth camp lay still, its eerie silence broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the distant caw of a crow. Mist still clung to the undergrowth, curling around roots and stones like spectral smoke.Aira lay unconscious on the damp earth, her body limp beneath Bjorn's protective weight. His chest rose and fell unevenly, eyes sharp despite the fatigue in his bruised frame. He stood guard over her with a feral protectiveness, gaze flicking between the Sloth leader and the woman of Lust.The Lust leader stood opposite, her presence like a blade cutting into the morning calm. Her lips curled faintly, half a smirk, half a threat, and in her hands were the twin hammers she had been ready to swing. Behind her, her members lingered in silence — young men and women with predatory eyes, watching the standoff with a mixture of bloodlust and unease. Their breath

The Sloth leader leaned back against the crooked trunk, his usually half-closed eyes flickering with a rare sharpness. His voice, though slow, carried a weight that made Aira listen. Sloth Leader: "I was from the family of dojo owners." Aira blinked, surprised. Aira: "Even in this civilization… dojos existed?" He gave a small nod. Sloth Leader: "Of course they did. Discipline, combat, tradition—these things outlive civilizations. My family's dojo wasn't just for fighting… it was our bloodline, our pride. Generations before me trained under the same roof, passing down every technique as if it were scripture." He paused, his tone dragging as if remembering old dust-covered days. Sloth Leader (continuing): "I was the one next in line… destined to inherit it all." Aira frowned softly. Aira: "Wait… but you just told me y

The night air was heavy, the echoes of music and drunken cheer still spilling faintly from the great hall. But outside the dojo gates, the mood was far colder.Seven disciples stumbled in through the courtyard, their robes dirt-stained, their lanterns dim. Faces grim, they bowed low before the dojo master, their leader stepping forward.Disciple (bowing, voice low):"Master… we searched the roads, the riverbank, even the shrines in the woods. Ashura… he was nowhere to be found."The words rippled through the silence like a blade.Lan clenched his fists, teeth grinding. His voice cracked with restrained anger as he turned to his father.Lan:"Father, this is why I told you to let me go myself! You think your disciples could bring him back? He's my brother — I would've found him!"For the first time since the duel, the dojo master rose fully from his seat. His presence silenced even the murmurs of the crowd still lingering in the hall. His eyes were sharp, unyielding, and his words rang

The eve of Walpurgis dripped crimson beneath the moon. Its light seeped through the thin fabric of the Sloth faction’s tent — a slow pulse of red that moved like breath.Inside, the air was dense with the scent of herbs and burnt incense. The canvas walls sagged slightly, weighed down by damp mist. A small brazier hissed weakly in the corner, giving off a lazy glow that barely chased the shadows away.Aira sat on a mat, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty cup. The world outside murmured — distant laughter, the crackle of torches, the restless wind.Her gaze drifted toward the flicker of light that cut through the tent’s entrance.Bjorn’s name still echoed in her mind — captured by the Lust leader.Her heartbeat quickened. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, quietly, she began to rise.The shift of fabric, the creak of the floor mat — that was enough to stir the figure reclining on the couch nearby.Lan, the Slot

The camp had become a furnace.Rain-soaked earth hissed beneath the spreading flames as burning canvas collapsed inward, sparks drifting into the damp night like dying stars. Smoke clung low to the ground, thick and bitter, crawling through the torn tents and shattered lanterns of the Lust faction’s compound.Bjorn moved through it like a wounded animal refusing to die.Mia’s hammer roared past his face, the wind of it tearing through his tangled hair. He twisted aside, boots sliding in wet ash as the weapon slammed into the soaked soil with a violent crack. The ground shuddered. Bjorn answered with a low swing toward her ribs, but Mia pivoted smoothly, her body turning with the grace of someone who had fought countless battles. Her second hammer came in fast from the side.Bjorn raised his forearm to intercept.Pain exploded through his injured wrist.His guard faltered for half a heartbeat.The hammer glanced off his shoulder, forcing him backward through a curtain of smoke. His boo