The unknown: orb world

chapter 9: only the worthy bleeds

The apple cracked between her teeth with a sickening crunch.

Juice dripped from the corner of her lips—thick and red like blood—as the old woman leaned forward, eyes locked on the glowing orb.

Within its shifting light, the scenes played out like a violent opera.

Wounded men. Wild fists. Blood-soaked dirt. Fear. Rage. Betrayal.

She licked her thumb slowly, savoring the juice, and whispered—

> "Mmm... the Orb World never ceases to entertain me."

Her silhouette remained still, but her eyes gleamed—hungry.

---

Mud exploded beneath their feet.

Bjorn and the Wrath leader clashed again, teeth bared, soaked in blood and fury. Every punch was thunder. Every blow—meant to shatter bone.

Their grunts and growls echoed through the trees like wild beasts.

Bjorn's elbow cracked into the leader's ribs.

The Wrath leader roared, grabbed his arm, and threw him—Bjorn skidding across the wet ground, his back smashing against the cursed tree once again.

But Bjorn pushed up—breathing heavy, defiant.

Then—he heard them.

Footsteps.

Dozens.

From the east.

> "Tch."

Through the mist emerged the rest of the Wrath faction—dirty, shirtless, weapons in hand, eyes filled with tribal rage.

They hadn't come to break up the fight.

They came to join it.

Bjorn's knuckles cracked.

> "Of course."

He glanced at the Wrath leader—who was still standing, battered and bloody, but smiling with savage delight.

> "Run, if you dare," the leader coughed, blood trailing from his mouth. "Let's see if your spine is just for show."

Bjorn didn't answer.

Instead—he turned.

And ran.

---

The chase was instant.

Wrath members screamed and lunged after him like wild dogs, boots pounding, branches snapping.

Bjorn ran low, fast, weaving between trees like a ghost. His lungs burned. Blood dripped down his side. But his mind was razor sharp.

Behind him came snarls, taunts, howls of fury.

This wasn't strategy.

This was the hunt.

And they were Wrath.

They didn't want him captured.

They wanted him torn apart.

Bjorn ducked under a branch—rolled through mud—pivoted as one of them leapt at him from the side.

CRACK!

A vicious counterpunch shattered the attacker's jaw. He dropped like a sack of bone and teeth.

Bjorn kept moving.

Another came at him with a rusted blade—swinging wildly.

Bjorn stepped in—grabbed the wrist—and twisted until the man screamed.

A headbutt. A knee. A stomp.

Down.

No time to breathe.

He ran again.

The forest stretched ahead like a cage of claws. The mist gave way to raw jungle undergrowth, leaves slapping his face as the wrath pack chased—howling his name like a death rite.

> "RUN, BJORN!" "COWARD!" "COME BACK AND DIE PROPER!"

Bjorn ducked under another swing—grabbing the branch and using it to flip over his next attacker's shoulders.

Mid-air elbow to the spine.

Collapse.

But more came.

Always more.

He sprinted downhill now—legs screaming, ribs cracked, vision blurred.

The wrath were still behind him, bodies crashing through the woods, uncaring if they bled or broke, as long as they caught him.

> They don't stop.

They don't think.

They just rage.

Bjorn's boots slid on wet stone. He almost slipped—but caught himself on a hanging vine, yanked forward, and slammed a shoulder into the face of another enemy trying to ambush him.

He didn't even wait to watch him fall.

He just kept running.

One final Wrath member launched himself from a tree—screaming, arms wide, teeth bared like an animal.

Bjorn didn't stop.

He met the charge with a sprinting tackle—lifted him—and slammed the man against a boulder with such force the scream cut off in his throat.

Bjorn stumbled back, chest heaving, blood dripping down his brow like war paint.

Silence.

Only his breath.

Only the twitching of the fallen.

The others?

He didn't know.

But he couldn't stop now.

He looked down at his fists—cut, swollen, trembling.

> "Come then,"" he muttered to the trees. "Let's see how far wrath can chase before it dies"".

The trees rustled as Kane emerged from the mist, boots heavy with dew, cloak torn at the edges.

Lucien stood at the center of a makeshift clearing, arms crossed, his posture regal despite the dirt and blood that still streaked his armor.

Kane dropped to one knee, head bowed.

> "Commander."

Lucien's voice was sharp and immediate.

> "What did Envy say?"

Kane hesitated.

Then slowly raised his eyes.

> "Nothing."

Lucien's expression didn't shift.

> "Explain."

Kane exhaled.

---

Flashback: The Envy Territory

The forest had been unnaturally quiet.

No guards.

No movement.

Just trees and the wind.

Kane had walked past stone markers carved with Envy's emblem, past shrines and banners—but found no one.

Not even a corpse.

The camps were abandoned. Beds still warm. Firepits smoldering. Traces of food left uneaten.

It was like they'd vanished mid-thought.

He called. Waited. Wandered deeper.

Nothing.

Even the birds refused to sing in Envy's woods.

---

Back in the present, Kane shook his head.

> "It was as if they'd never existed."

Lucien narrowed his eyes, face unreadable.

Then he stepped away—just once—and began pacing.

Slow. Calculated.

His fingers tapped his forearm as his mind lit up.

> "Possibilities…"

"They retreated to regroup?" No. Envy does not retreat. They study.

"An ambush elsewhere?" Then why abandon supplies? Too clean.

"A trick?" Perhaps... but who would they fool?

He stopped.

Eyes glowing.

> "Or…"

His voice dropped.

> "They didn't vanish at all."

Kane looked up sharply.

Lucien turned, his voice rising with conviction—fierce and full of pride.

> "They've infiltrated. The cowards have slithered into the other sins—hidden, unnoticed. Parasites, dressed in borrowed skin. Spreading lies. Gathering secrets. Preparing to strike from within."

Kane's mouth tightened.

Lucien's grin widened. Not with joy—with dominance.

> "It's brilliant," he said. "Cowardly. Weak. But brilliant."

He turned sharply, eyes locked on Kane.

> "Prepare tomorrow to contact the others. Every faction. I want an audience."

Kane nodded. "What should I tell them?"

Lucien's voice cut the air like a blade drawn in ceremony.

> "Tell them I bring prophecy… and if they're wise—they'll pay in secrets to hear it."

The air inside the hut had gone cold.

Aira stood frozen near the entrance—her chest rising and falling with quiet rage, defiance simmering behind her eyes.

The Lust leader stood before her now, closer than before. Too close.

Her smile was gone.

Replaced by something else.

Something lethal.

She turned slightly, addressing both Aira and the Sloth leader without blinking.

> "Let me be clear."

Her voice slithered—low, breathy, every word caressing the air like silk over a knife.

> "If either of you… even so much as breathe wrong in the direction of what's mine—"

She took a step forward, and the scent of her perfume filled the room like poison.

> "If a single strand of hair falls from one of my subordinates' heads because of your cowardice, your pride, or your idiocy—"

She paused, lips curling upward—feral.

> "—then I will paint the roots of this forest with your entrails… and call it art."

Her gaze pierced Aira, unblinking.

> "That includes you, little rabbit. I don't care how brave you think you are. I don't care what you've been through. Lust doesn't play fair. Lust owns."

Aira's breath caught—but she didn't step back.

Her fists clenched.

Her heart pounded like war drums in her ears—but her eyes?

They stayed fixed.

Determined.

> "I didn't stab him because I wanted to win," she whispered. "I did it because I refused to be prey."

The Lust leader smirked—barely.

> "Then keep refusing. Or you'll find out what happens when the hunter decides the rabbit is fun to break."

Aira didn't blink.

The room tensed—

Until—

> "Mmm…"

The Sloth leader stretched lazily in his root-throne, yawning so hard it cracked his neck.

> "So noisy."

He waved one hand slowly.

> "Kill each other later. I'm tired now."

The Lust leader's head tilted.

She glanced at him with subtle irritation.

> "Your little toy is becoming a problem."

The Sloth leader didn't even lift his head.

> "That's what makes her interesting."

Another yawn.

Another berry popped into his mouth.

> "Just don't ruin the game too early. Or I might sleep through the climax."

The forest seemed to breathe.

Bjorn crashed through the underbrush like a hunted beast, mud flying beneath his boots, blood trailing in ragged lines down his back. Behind him—Wrath.

Still chasing.

Still snarling.

Still too stupid to give up.

His lungs burned. His limbs throbbed. Every heartbeat slammed against his ribs like a war drum.

But he didn't stop.

He couldn't.

> "Can't fight a pack with half a body…"

His voice was a whisper to himself—raw, cracked.

Another branch slapped across his face.

Another rock underfoot nearly took his ankle.

Still… he ran.

The trees grew denser now. Towering, ancient things. The sunlight barely broke through the thick canopy, casting everything in green shadow. The further in he went, the more silent it became—like the forest was watching.

And then—he saw it.

A tree.

Massive. Gnarled. Twisted by time.

Its roots curled outward like the ribs of a buried god, forming a hollow beneath the trunk, shadowed and deep.

Bjorn didn't hesitate.

He dove.

Rolled hard into the dark beneath the roots, dirt scraping his skin, leaves sticking to the blood on his arms. His breath came in ragged gasps as he pressed his back against the curved root wall, every nerve on edge.

He closed his eyes. Counted his heartbeat.

> One.

> Two.

> Three—

Voices.

Footsteps.

The Wrath members thundered past the area, unaware. Some slower. Some ahead. But all of them loud. Angry. Sloppy.

Just like he hoped.

> "WHERE IS HE?!"

> "Check the north ridge!"

> "He couldn't have gone far!"

Bjorn didn't move. Not a twitch.

He watched them through a slit between roots—eyes cold and calculating.

Mud smeared his cheek. Blood trickled down his neck. But his face held nothing but focus.

> "They don't search. They hunt."

> "They think rage is a weapon. But they don't know how to aim it."

He adjusted slightly, settling deeper into the earth's hollow embrace.

His voice, barely audible:

> "Let them scream into the trees."

> "Let them exhaust themselves."

> "Then I'll bury them one by one."

A breath escaped him—sharp, bitter.

> "Wrath without control is just noise."

One of the Wrath members got too close—feet crunching leaves just meters from the tree.

Bjorn's hand moved silently to a broken stone near his foot.

Ready.

Waiting.

But the idiot turned away, yelling something about tracks in another direction.

Bjorn exhaled through his nose—slowly.

His body ached. His skin burned.

But in his mind, the hunt had already turned.

> "They think I'm the prey."

His eyes narrowed.

> "Good.

The Wrath camp stank of blood and smoke.

Tents were half-collapsed. Armor littered the muddy ground like shed skin. The air pulsed with frustration—rage without a target.

The Wrath leader sat on a jagged stone near the firepit, his chest bandaged in thick layers soaked with dark red. One arm hung limp at his side; the other gripped a cracked flask he hadn't drunk from.

His face was bruised, split at the brow, swollen at the jaw.

But his eyes?

Still sharp.

Still burning.

A group of Wrath members stood before him, fresh from the failed chase. They shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact.

> "He slipped past us," one muttered. "Must've doubled back… or hidden somewhere deep."

The Wrath leader didn't respond right away.

He stared into the flames.

Then spat blood into them.

The hiss of it echoed like a curse.

> "You idiots think you were chasing a wounded dog," he growled. "You weren't. You were chasing a fucking wolf."

Silence.

> "You think he ran because he was afraid? No. He ran because he thinks. And that makes him worse."

He slowly leaned forward, grimacing as his ribs protested.

> "That boy survived the yesterdays fight!!."

His voice dipped into something deeper—almost reverent, like speaking of a demon he couldn't kill.

> "Then he fought me. Alone. And he didn't break."

His one working hand clenched around the flask.

> "That kind of wrath doesn't vanish. It circles. It waits."

He finally looked up—face a twisted mask of pain and pride.

> "He'll come back."

He jabbed a finger at them, each word heavy like a drumbeat.

> "To that tree."

> "The creepy one. The one no one goes near."

> "The one he claimed."

A few exchanged glances—uneasy.

The Wrath leader stood now, legs trembling slightly, but spine unbending.

> "I want eyes on it. All day. All night."

> "You see even a shadow near it, you alert me."

His teeth bared in a bloodstained grin.

> "He thinks that tree gives him power?"

> "Then we turn it into a fucking tomb."

He turned his back and limped toward his tent, leaving the silence behind him smoldering like coals.

And though no one said it aloud… they all felt it:

This wasn't over.

Bjorn would return.

And when he does!!!…

Wrath would be waiting!