2025-12-17 06:10:22The orb pulsed faintly in the darkness, casting ghostly light across the witch's chamber. Rain wept against its curved surface, streaking down like tears on glass.
In the shadows of the room, she stood still—her silhouette veiled in darkness, unmoving, but fully awake. Her eyes fixed on the storm within the orb. And then, as chaos began to unravel, a whisper passed her lips. "Hmm... interesting." --- The forest groaned beneath the weight of rain. Trees swayed like grieving witnesses. Mud splashed violently beneath Aira's bare legs as she ran—breath ragged, soaked to the bone. Her heart pounded in her ears louder than the thunder overhead. Behind her—footsteps. Relentless. The Lust faction member hadn't stopped. She choked on her breath, lungs burning, but didn't slow. Suddenly, she ducked behind a massive tree. Her knees hit the wet ground hard. Her hands clamped over her mouth. She trembled, every muscle tight with fear. Tears mixed with rain as she watched—eyes wide—through the leaves. A shadow passed. Close. Searching. It paused. Aira's body froze completely. The figure lingered for a moment, peering through the trees... Then moved on. Silence returned, broken only by the storm. Aira let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her part in this nightmare had ended. --- Not far away, deeper in the storm-wracked woods, Bjorn staggered through the trees. His body was wrecked. Blood leaked from cuts and bruises. Rain washed over him without mercy. Every breath rattled like glass in his chest. But he wasn't wandering aimlessly. He knew where he was going. Ahead, past the thorny roots and crooked trunks, stood that tree—twisted, eerie, unnatural. The one no one dared approach. The one everyone else had avoided. But Bjorn remembered it. From when he first arrived. From that quiet moment of dread. And in some strange, unspoken way—it had remembered him too. He limped toward it. His strength failed. He collapsed at its base. His body slumped forward, forehead resting against the bark, as if surrendering to it. Blood and rain streamed down his face. His eyes fluttered, heavy. The storm poured without pause. Bjorn didn't rise again. --- Open field. Night. Raining hard. Two groups stood facing each other across the mud—Pride, split in two. On the left, Lucien's side. Composed, organized, deadly. On the right, his rival's—fierce, wild-eyed, ready to tear the world apart. Faces tight with fury. The rain hammered down like war drums. Neither side moved. Until, at last, the rival broke the silence. "I won't follow a false king," he spat. "This ends tonight." Lucien's expression remained cold. Calm. Unreadable. Then came the first scream. And with it, the battlefield exploded. --- A riot. A storm. A bloodbath. Rain turned earth into sludge. Fists slammed into jaws. Bodies crashed against trees. People were tackled, strangled, headbutted. No weapons. No mercy. No tactics. Just raw, ugly violence. The forest echoed with roars and curses. You couldn't tell who was winning—only who hadn't fallen yet. --- In the thick of it, Lucien fought like a beast. Every movement was brutal and precise. He caught a man by the wrist, snapped it sideways, and drove an elbow into his throat. Another lunged from behind—Lucien ducked, spun, and drove a knee into his ribs. But then, across the battlefield—his rival charged. The two collided like forces of nature. Lucien's fist slammed into the rival's jaw. The rival retaliated with a hook to the ribs and a wild slam that threw them both into the mud. They rolled, grappled, bit, struck. Mud flew. Blood poured. Neither backed down. Around them, the rest of Pride was tearing itself apart. --- The storm never relented. Rain washed over shattered faces. Boots sank into soaked dirt. People crawled, clawed, choked, screamed. It wasn't a battle anymore. It was a purge. Far away, in her dark room, the witch tilted her head. She watched them tear each other to pieces. "Dance for me, little fools..." Her grin widened. "Let the rain baptize your ruin." And still they fought. No one surrendered. No one begged. No one paused. Not until the last strength bled from the last man standing. Not until someone finally—broke.
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chapter 28: a face to bite, a name to curse
They say beauty is a blessing. They lied. Beauty is a weapon — and I was born holding it. I bent the world with a glance,made gods and beasts alike kneel for a touch they could never keep. Even in this cursed realm, thrown here by that wrinkled witch, I believed my charm would conquer everything. But then came the two who would not look at me. Lucien ......pride carved into flesh. A man too immaculate to be tempted. And Bjorn......the broken wolf, silent, scarred, and maddeningly indifferent. Their refusal was a wound… and a challenge. I craved the taste of what denied me. To chase Lucien is to chase war......and I am not a fool who wastes her soldiers before Walpurgis. So I chose the smaller beast. The one who defies beauty itself. The one who makes my hunger feel human. --- The drums had gone quiet. Only the wind spoke now— a low, rhythmic moan that slipped between the torn veils and half-burned lanterns of the Lust camp. The moon bled down like an opene
chapter 27: the critic and the flame
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
chapter 26: eve of the red moon
(volume 2)The night before Walpurgis bled quietly into the Lust faction's camp. Moonlight dripped through torn silk canopies and broken lanterns, painting everything in shades of pale desire and decay. Perfume and blood mingled in the air — sweet, cloying, wrong. Bjorn stirred. His body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt torn. His wrists were swollen and raw, skin rubbed bloody where the ropes had bitten too deep. He'd fought before — tried to break free when they first dragged him here — but exhaustion had conquered rebellion. Now he hung against the log, bound by thick cords slick with sweat and rain. His breath came in short, cracked bursts. His vision swam. The world around him was sound before shape — laughter, whispers, the faint rhythm of drums somewhere in the dark. He blinked. And then he saw them. Figures — dozens of them — forming a half-circle around him. The Lust
chapter 25: the strong survive
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
chapter 24: the silent departure
Ashura's body, battered and broken, sways on his feet. Blood trickles down his lips, his arm hanging uselessly at his side. His vision blurs, but he refuses to kneel. For a heartbeat, the arena goes silent as his body finally gives in.Slow motion fall:His knees buckle, his body falling forward. In his mind, fragmented thoughts echo:"So this… is my limit? Life… it's never been fair. No matter how much I try… I'm always… the shadow…"His body collapses with a heavy thud against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the hall. Dust rises, mixing with the dark stain of blood beneath him.---"HANA!!!" a voice gasps — it's Hana, breaking through the stunned silence. She rushes past the guards, tears streaming down her face as she falls beside her brother."ASHURA!!" she cries, clutching his limp body, shaking him as though her voice alone could drag him back. His head rolls slightly, his face pale, chest rising weakly but still alive.---The silence shatters.Half the crowd erupts in ro
chapter 23 : ashura's stand
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
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