The air hung heavy with incense and whispered schemes. Around the blackwood table, the witches gathered, their eyes fixed not on each other, but on the glowing orb suspended in the center of the room.
Inside its swirling depths, shadows shifted—fragments of chaos, betrayal, and rising sin playing out like a dark theater. The factions' dramas unfolded within, raw and violent, pulling tight the threads of fate.
The witches debated fiercely, each certain their champion would emerge victorious. Wrath's fury, Pride's dominion, Gluttony's insatiable hunger—all boasted, claimed, argued.
At the far end, the main witch sat still, her fingers tracing restless patterns on the armrest. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly—an almost imperceptible twitch betraying her calm.
Only two witches remained quiet—the main witch, and the one who had bet on Envy.
The Envy witch's gaze was sharp, unblinking, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. When she spoke, her voice was smooth and cold like a blade sliding through silk:
> Envy Witch (calm, assured):
"This game is already over. The rest of you just don't see it yet. The Envy has all of yours backed into a corner—every last one of them."
A murmur rippled through the room. Some witches exchanged wary glances, others' fingers clenched briefly, knuckles whitening. Doubt flickered, but no one dared interrupt.
The orb's pulse slowed… then quickened, like a heartbeat syncing with the rising tension.
Before the brewing storm could break, the main witch's voice cut through the silence—soft but laced with sly, piraty wisdom and a hint of dark mischief:
> Main Witch (soft, philosophical):
"Seems to me, ye all judge a book by its cover, eh? But the deepest tales lie hidden, beneath calm waters and quiet skies. Fate's no respecter of pretty faces or bold claims—it moves unseen, like the tide that pulls you under when you least expect."
Her words curled through the room like smoke from a well-worn pipe, carrying centuries of secrets and quiet threats.
The orb pulsed again—this time harder, as if answering the challenge.
The room fell utterly silent.
Bjorn's eyes flicked from one leader to another, each face carved with suspicion, cunning, or raw power. The weight of their gazes pressed down on him like the thick forest canopy above, yet he did not flinch.
Who the hell are thes-, oh it the wrath bastard, he thought, muscles coiled beneath torn fabric. All watching, waiting. Like vultures circling a dying prey.
His breath steadied, slow and deliberate. Every instinct screamed to lash out, to break through their ranks with the fury that roared inside him. But this wasn't the time for blind rage—not yet.
Instead, he let the silence stretch—long and heavy—until the tension cracked and spilled from their tight lips.
Then the Sloth leader's heavy lids fluttered open, a sardonic grin teasing the corners of his mouth, voice slow and dripping with lazy amusement.
> "You don't look like the type to beg."
Bjorn's jaw twitched. His eyes locked onto the sloth's without blinking.
> "Do I look like I'm here to beg?"
The Sloth leader yawned, stretching his fingers with exaggerated sluggishness.
> "No… you look more like a storm holding back the flood."
A faint murmur rippled through the room. The other leaders exchanged glances, surprise flickering into cold calculation.
The Lust leader's eyes gleamed with wicked hunger, a mischievous smile curling her lips. Her voice was smooth silk over razor blades.
> "So… what then? A challenge? A plea for alliance? Or just a wild card itching for a fight?"
Bjorn's stare sharpened, ice cold and unforgiving.
> "None of your fucking business."
The Lust leader's smile deepened, as if she suddenly desired to unravel him right then and there.
The Wrath leader's eyes darkened. With a grunt, he slammed his fist into the battered table, splinters flying. The table creaked under years of rage, almost breaking from the impact.
> "You really think I'll let you slip away now—after you've thrown yourself straight into the lion's den?"
Bjorn's lips twisted into a thin, bitter smile.
> "Last I checked, I wasn't the one saved by my own men."
The Wrath leader's expression flickered—anger, grudging respect, and a deep, simmering fury—but he said nothing, letting the silence linger like a challenge.
Lucien's presence sliced through the tension like a sharpened blade. His voice was smooth, dripping with cold disdain and pride.
> "Enough posturing."
eyes narrowing with regal command.
> "Sit down, Bjorn. You are not worthy to speak standing before us."
His gaze locked onto Bjorn's, daring him to obey—or be crushed beneath the weight of their combined scorn.
Bjorn's eyes flicked with contempt as Lucien's command hung heavy in the air. Without a word, he turned sharply, muscles coiling as he stepped toward the forest's edge.
> "Not worthy? I don't have time for your games."
The soft rustle of leaves snapped his attention.
Footsteps—careful, deliberate—echoed through the underbrush along the very path Bjorn had followed to the clearing.
He paused, gaze slicing back to the gathered leaders, lips curling in a knowing smirk.
> "Did you set this up? Tried to trap me here?"
No one spoke. Tension thickened the air.
Then, like a storm breaking loose—
The guards stationed beside each leader sprang into action.
Without warning, the Lust leader's guard lunged at the Wrath leader.
Simultaneously, the Wrath leader's guard charged the Greed leader.
The Greed leader's guard swung toward the Lust leader.
Gluttony's grotesque guard barreled toward Pride's remaining sentinel—the lone protector standing beside Lucien and Kane.
One sloth guard attacks the sloth leader himself (almost like a sudden betrayal).
The other sloth guard attacks the gluttony leader at the exact moments
The chamber erupted into chaos.
The leaders froze, shock and confusion etched on their faces. None had given the order.
Lucien's eyes, however, remained calm—unchanging, as if this turmoil was expected.
The leaders deftly dodged and retaliated in their signature styles.
The Lust leader, her crimson gown flowing like liquid silk, reached to her thigh with deliberate slowness.
All eyes—save for the Sloth and Pride leaders—locked onto her as she pulled free a massive hammer, its polished head gleaming like bloodied moonlight.
The hammer whispered against the floor with deadly promise.
She smiled—a predator revealing her secret weapon.
The Wrath leader moved with brutal force, smashing his guard aside in a whirlwind of rage.
The Greed leader twisted and parried, his wooden mace thudding against bone and leather.
Sloth flinched, barely shifting from his seat, half-lidded eyes opened just enough—his hand shot out in a lazy arc, striking with bone-cracking precision.
Gluttony's lips curled into a greedy grin, seizing the attacker's wrist and sinking his teeth in with a wet crunch.
Gluttony's grotesque guardian lunged with savage bites, snapping at Pride's stalwart defender, who parried with precise, flowing strikes.
Meanwhile, Bjorn's gaze sharpened as two figures emerged from the forest shadows—silent, deadly, moving with intent.
Without hesitation, he met their charge head-on, fluid and unrelenting.
In moments, the two intruders crumpled at his feet, defeated with brutal ease.
Bjorn's eyes flicked back toward the leaders—now embroiled in their own violent dance—and he smirked.
> "Looks like the hunters just became the hunted."
Kane lunged like a hammer.
He swung low, then high—two brutal strikes meant to finish Bjorn before the room fully erupted. He meant to punish, to humiliate.
Bjorn took the hits and smiled through the pain.
Elbow—snap to the temple. Knee—driving into Kane's ribs. A twisting wrist lock and a palm to the face finished it: Kane folded like rotten timber and crumpled at Bjorn's boots.
A stunned hush cut the chaos for a breath.
"That Kane… taken down in seconds?!" someone spat.
"Impossible," another echoed.
Suddenly, the air in the witches' chamber shimmered, and the main witch's voice floated through the orb's swirling depths—calm, yet carrying a sharp edge:
Main Witch (soft, almost teasing):
"My friends… after witnessing this, do you still think he's half dead?"
Then the hall detonated.
Wrath exploded—first and fiercest. He vaulted the table, fists like sledgehammers, charging Lucien with raw, bone-breaking intent.(thought lucien was behind the guard attacks)
Lucien was a blade in a storm—calm, surgical. He slipped Wrath's first haymaker, met the follow with a palm strike to the throat and a low sweep that grazed Wrath's ankle. Wrath answered with a brutal elbow—Lucien twisted away, countering with a crisp shoulder strike that echoed like a snap of glass.
Across the clearing, Lust's gown flashed(again) —she slipped a hand to her thigh, and half the room watched, hungry and wary. With a soft, dangerous smile she drew the hammer free; the metal flashed, thighs parting silk like a secret revealed. Greed lunged, wooden mace chopping in long, greedy arcs. She closed the gap, hammer compressing space into impact—short, bone-crushing blows that shattered guard shields. Greed grinned through the assault, parrying with reach, trying to catch her swing and yank the hammer free.
Sloth moved like syrup—slow but lethal. He barely rose from his seat, then his palm flicked out in a lazy arc that unbalanced Gluttony for a heartbeat. Gluttony lunged to clinch, wanting to maul; Sloth let him overcommit, then used minimal torque to pivot him into a tree trunk, a small, precise strike to the temple while Gluttony's mouth snapped for the bite. Gluttony responded with animal cruelty—hands like traps, teeth flashing, trying to clamp onto a forearm; Sloth shrugged it off as if annoyed at a fly.
Amid that storm Bjorn moved.
He stepped between Wrath and Lucien as their strikes braided. He walked into the center like a man who welcomes blades. He pointed one hand to Wrath, then to Lucien—the gesture clear: Come at me both.
Wrath didn't hesitate—he launched himself at Bjorn with a howl, fists rolling like thunder. No finesse, pure crush.
Lucien paused. For a heartbeat his eyes narrowed, the smallest flicker of calculation crossing his face—it seems I am being underestimated, he thought — and then he flowed. A cold, precise lunge aimed to take advantage of Bjorn's left flank.
Bjorn met Wrath's charge with —short, savaging strikes: forearm to jaw, elbow under the chin, a shoulder ram that redirected Wrath's momentum into the fallen table. He used the table's edge to slam a shoulder, a bone-breaking press that tasted like iron.
Lucien's kick danced between Bjorn's ribs: small, surgical cuts meant to slow, to bleed. Bjorn grunted, closed the space like a collapsing star, and they traded—Lucien's elegant, economy-of-motion counters snapping against Bjorn's relentless forward pressure.
Around them the leaders continued to collide.
In any case, this was a battle royale, Steel met flesh, blows rained like thunder, and every glance flickered with death's promise.
The sights of leaders colliding , a storm of rage and ambition tearing through the clearing.
From the shadows, a new presence slipped forward—a woman wrapped in a cloak darker than night, her eyes glinting with cold malice. She moved like a ghost through the chaos, untouched and unseen.
This was the Envy leader.
With cruel calculation, she struck.
A silent dart of poison to Lust's back made the leader stagger, eyes wide with shock. A shadowy blade grazed Greed's neck, drawing a thin line of blood before vanishing.
Bjorn felt a sharp sting—a blade nicked his arm, but he barely flinched, already turning to face the unseen threat.
The other leaders barely had time to react, twisting and ducking with razor focus—their reflexes razor-sharp, every attack dodged completely though just barely.
All but Gluttony.
His slower reflexes betrayed him—a crushing blow slammed into his side, staggering the monstrous leader, a guttural growl ripped from his throat.
The Envy leader's cruel smile deepened, eyes glinting with venomous delight as she didn't retreat but instead advanced—her presence a dark storm settling over the battlefield.
"Did you really think the game was this simple?" she hissed, voice cold and mocking.
The leaders barely had time to recover. The air crackled as she struck again—swift, brutal, targeting exposed openings with precision born of deadly patience.
Bjorn narrowed his eyes, muscles coiling. The other leaders gritted their teeth, their previous fights forgotten as all eyes fixed on the new, dangerous player.
Around them, the space exploded into chaos.
"This is no longer just your petty war," the Envy leader whispered, a dark promise. "It's survival."
The leaders snarled, weapons flashing, fists flying—a merciless battle royale where every attack invited a counter, every move was a gamble between death and dominance.
The forest clearing echoed with the clash of power, rage, and cunning, as none dared show weakness—not when the true storm had just arrived.