Chapter 1: The Veiled Sanctuary
The year is 2025. In a secluded valley nestled deep within the Samar Region, far from the frenetic pulse of Manila's gleaming spires and the digital hum that pervades modern life, lies Neo-Costabrava. To the outside world, it's a remote, self-sufficient commune, an anomaly of peace in a nation often grappling with its own tumultuous currents. Here, the air carries the scent of pine and damp earth, the nights are hushed save for the distant cry of geckos, and the rhythm of life adheres to ancient cycles. Children, rosy-cheeked and unburdened by screens, play amidst thriving beaches and forest, their laughter echoing through the sustainable, earth-integrated dwellings. This serene façade, however, conceals a truth far grander and more dangerous than any local legend.
Neo-Costabrava is the quiet refuge for beings of extraordinary power, individuals who have long shed their formidable pasts for the deceptive balm of normalcy. Among its chosen residents are Felomina, whose hands, though gnarled with age, once commanded infernos; Demetrio, whose presence is that of a gentle elder, but whose spirit hums with the memory of steel; Meg, a shy data analyst, whose mind once danced through pure light; Ely, the community's calm civil-engineer, who once filtered the very thoughts of a dimension; Sgt. Alan, the CAT Commandant, whose every movement holds the echo of impossible strength; and Kap. Benjo, the retired tactician, whose mind dissects not maps, but the very fabric of conflict. These are the fragments of ancient power, gathered here by a shared, unspoken vow of anonymity.
Their collective secret, indeed, Neo-Costabrava's very existence, revolves around "The Tree." It stands not merely as a monumental, Balete tree in the central plaza, its roots delving deep into the earth, but as a living, pulsating gate—a bridge between Earth and a realm of pure Elemental energy. For centuries, it has served as a conduit, allowing beings of raw flame, ethereal light, living steel, and more to escape a dying dimension consumed by endless war. They stepped onto Earth seeking peace, a quiet haven from their own cataclysmic existence. They believed Earth, in its untouched beauty, offered only tranquility, oblivious to the deeper cruelties and complexities that lurked beneath its surface – a truth diligently, meticulously shielded from them by Neo-Costabrava's earliest inhabitants.
The meticulously crafted peace of Neo-Costabrava shatters on a rain-slicked evening in July 2025. The "Waray-waray," a notorious band of murder for hire thugs, their leader, Lik-lik, a walking testament to crude augmentation, stumbled upon the arcology. Their greed-driven instincts, honed by raids on every bank of Metro Manila and all murder and kidnapping in the entire country, saw only an easy, undefended target. Blind to the ancient powers cloaked in human guise, they smashed their way into the humble dwelling of Felomina, the seemingly frail old woman. They envisioned frightened, cowering victims. Instead, they unknowingly breached the lair of a sleeping lioness, stirring an ancient fury that would rip through their shallow perceptions and unleash a storm of elemental power, awakening not just the lioness, but every slumbering guardian within Neo-Costabrava's carefully constructed peace.
Chapter 2: The Unwitting Prey
The lead thug, Lik-lik, a crude mountain of muscle and with lots of tattoos from every gang in Muntilupa Penal Colony that hummed with cheap, barely contained power, shattered the silence of the night. His combat boot, reinforced with low-grade durasteel loothed from a police officer he once murdered in Pateros, splintered the antique hardwood door of Felomina's unassuming dwelling with a deafening CRACK. "Clear!" he barked into his group, his voice a gravelly snarl that cut through the humid air. Behind him, three more of the Waray – waray Gang—Bardot, a snatcher and maniac-ghoul; Baleleng, a hulking brute with a sansibar (famous waray waray sword); and Onyot, a shadow-slim infiltrator—slid in, their black shirts casting an eerie green glow over the dim, quiet living space. This was their routine, honed to brutal efficiency across countless raids on soft targets. Neo-Costabrava, with its tranquil hum and unassuming populace, felt like another easy mark, ripe for the taking.
Bardot, his fingers like predatory spiders, immediately open the refrigerator looking for food as if it is his home, intent on siphoning every food. Baleleng, a grin splitting his scarred face, began a systematic demolition of synth-vases and handcrafted decor, savoring the small acts of destruction. Onyot, ever the professional, ghosted through the immediate rooms, looking for every drawer in every cabinet he seen. "Clear," he whispered, a hint of bored dismissal in his tone. The whole operation was unfolding with textbook ease. Their heavy boots scuffed the polished floorboards, their low chuckles echoing, a brazen symphony of invasion. They were a pack of jackals, emboldened by perceived weakness, trotting into a den they believed empty. The sweet scent of effortless plunder filled the air, a scent that was about to curdle into the metallic tang of blood and ash.
The transition from hushed invasion to utter, brutal annihilation was instantaneous, a shift so swift it blurred the very fabric of perception. Before Onyot's stun-maul could desecrate a cherished, classic faded preserved family portrait, a blur of incandescent motion erupted from the back room. It was not human speed; it was something born of pure, elemental fury—a ripple of heat that warped the very air, a sudden, explosive displacement of space. Felomina, the frail old woman they'd so callously dismissed, moved like molten gold, a figure of terrifying, liquid fire.
Lik-lik, for all his athletic and heavy physique, barely registered the first impact. A strike, delivered not with a physical fist, but with an arcane surge of pure thermal energy that shimmered around her palm, connected with his arm holding a sansibar (long waray sword). The limb buckled, like circuits frying with a shriek of tortured metal, and Kael roared, a sound torn from his gut as he stumbled backward, his bravado dissolving into agony. Bardot, still hunched over the drawer full of jewelries, felt an invisible force slam into his back, propelling him face-first into the reinforced wall with a sickening, bone-deep crunch. His blood splashed, then died. Onyot, turning with his "mejaluna" (long knife) raised, found himself ensnared in a shimmering, etheric net woven of pure light and heat. It tightened with impossible speed, searing his skin as it lifted him off his feet. He thrashed, a desperate, guttural bellow tearing from his throat, but the net pulsed with increasing, suffocating pressure, burning, crushing, until his struggles ceased, and he hung, a charred, grotesque marionette.
Baleleng, the infiltrator, was the only one with the reflexes to even attempt a counter. His sumpak (home-made shotgun), a glint of deadly blast as he triggered towards her. But Felomina was already there, a blur that defied the very laws of physics. She didn't dodge; she phased, a shimmer of heat, becoming insubstantial. One moment, she was before Baleleng; the next, she was behind him, an ancient, strangely elegant hand resting gently on Baleleng's neck. A faint, internal glow pulsed from Felominas's fingers, a transfer of pure, fiery decay. Balelengs's body went rigid, then collapsed, his eyes wide and unseeing, a look of shocked horror frozen on his face. The entire, brutal engagement had lasted less than forty-five seconds. Four elite waray-waray gang, notorious across the Samar - Leyte sector, rendered utterly, violently inert by a single, unassuming old woman.
Felomina stood amidst the wreckage, her breathing surprisingly even, a soft tremor running through her that was not of fear, but of profound, exhilarating release. Her eyes, usually clouded with the quiet wisdom of age, now blazed with a vibrant, almost youthful light, molten gold catching the dim reflections. For centuries, she had been Ignis, an Elemental of pure, primordial fire, a force of destruction in a dimension consumed by endless, all-consuming war. She was the very first of her kind to discover the dimensional tear, "The Tree," and step through, driven by a desperate yearning to extinguish the inferno that had defined her existence. Earth, with its subtle energies and boundless potential for peace, had called to her weary spirit, promising solace. She had chosen Neo-Costabrava, drawn by its quiet hum, its promise of anonymity and a gentle, human existence. She had spent decades, centuries even, suppressing her true nature, mastering the art of invisibility, of existing as nothing more than an elderly human, cultivating not just malunggay, but a fragile, hard-won peace.
But watching these crude, violent humans defile her sanctuary, trespass on her last vestige of calm, something deep within her had stirred. The spark of Ignis, long dormant, had not just flared; it had roared to life, a magnificent, consuming flame. She looked at Lik-lik, still groaning on the floor, his muscled arm a full of blood, useless meat. A slow smile, ancient and terrible in its beauty, spread across Felomina's face. The fierce joy of the hunt, the primal thrill of the kill, the exquisite, raw release of suppressed power—it surged through her veins like molten lava, hotter, more potent than anything she had felt in millennia. She hadn't felt this alive, this real, since before she had crossed the gate. "It seems," Felomina murmured to the silent, shattered room, her voice a low, dangerous purr of utter satisfaction, "I haven't forgotten how to dance." With a renewed sense of purpose, a dark, exhilarating hum beneath her skin, she began the methodical process of ensuring that these "Crimson Scythes" would never again threaten the fragile peace of Neo-Costabrava. The old lioness had awakened, and she was very, very hungry.
Chapter 3: The Price of Affinity
In their past lives, within the Elemental realm of pure, unbridled energy, their bond was a dangerous, breathtaking defiance. Ignis, Felomina, was a princess, her lineage tracing back to the primordial flame that birthed their dimension, destined to rule with searing authority. Her essence was pure, consuming fire, a force meant for dominion. Ferrum, Demetrio, was a warrior of peerless skill, a master of metal and blade, but he was no royalty, merely a weapon forged for war. Their love was a profound transgression, a whispered secret in a world that valued strict hierarchy and elemental purity above all else.
"You cannot," her father, a being of incandescent rage, had thundered, his voice a tremor through the molten core of their palace, shaking the very foundations of their world. "She is destined for the Throne of Biringan! You, a mere blade, are beneath her! A distraction from her duty!"
Felomina, then Ignis in her radiant, true form, her body a shifting landscape of liquid fire and burning light, had stood defiant, her own flames flickering with rebellious fury. "My heart chooses him, Father! Not destiny, not duty! Our essences are bound, regardless of your decree!" Her eyes, pools of molten gold, met his, unwavering, the inferno within her refusing to be quenched. The very air around them crackled with the raw, untamed force of her will.
Demetrio, then Ferrum, always the silent, unyielding strength, simply stood beside her, his solid form a shield against her father's wrath. His broad shoulders, honed by countless battles, were an anchor, his resolve as unyielding as the deepest ore. He knew the cost of this love, the iron laws of their world, the certain retribution. Yet, he would not abandon her. Their dimension was a perpetual battleground, each Elemental faction locked in a vicious struggle for dominance, and love, especially between forbidden castes, was seen as a weakness, a dangerous anomaly that threatened the purity of their ceaseless war. Their romance was a desperate, exquisite secret, snatched moments of tenderness amidst the clangor of forging and the rigid protocols of the royal court. A single, illicit touch of his cool steel hand against her searing, flaming skin was a forbidden ecstasy, a clash of primal elements that, against all logic, created a perfect, breathtaking harmony. It was in those stolen moments, when their opposing essences found balance, that they truly felt alive.
The decision to flee was not made lightly; it was a desperate gamble against certain annihilation in their dying realm. The constant warfare was reaching a fever pitch, threatening to consume their very essences. Felomina, using her profound understanding of elemental energies, and Demetrio, with his innate connection to physical anchors, had discovered the nascent stirrings of "The Tree"—a raw, volatile dimensional tear, a desperate, almost mythical escape route. It was a chaotic, unpredictable rift, pulsing with untamed energy, but it was their only hope for a future, for a life where their love wasn't a crime but a sacred truth.
"The Earth calls to me, Ferrum," Felomina had whispered one night, her fiery hand entwined with his steel one, the heat and cold a dance of perfect counterpoints. "A place of peace, of silence. We can be free there. We can be as we are meant to be." Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of ages of longing.
Demetrio had simply nodded, his gaze, usually sharp with the focus of a warrior, softening into an intense, possessive warmth as it met hers. "Wherever you go, Ignis, I follow. To the ends of this or any other world, through any gate, you are my north star. My very essence is yours." Their escape was a desperate dash through the volatile, tearing energies of the forming gate, a painful severance from everything they had ever known, a leap of faith into the unknown, hand in hand.
They emerged onto a pristine Earth, a world so quiet after the cacophony of their own that it was deafening, so lush and vibrant it was overwhelming. It was a harsh transition, forcing them to suppress their true forms, to learn the fragile, limited existence of humans. But the peace, the sheer, profound absence of war, was a balm to their weary souls, a silence that allowed their bond to deepen beyond anything they had ever known. And the freedom to love openly, without fear of reprisal, to simply exist as a couple, was a solace that healed wounds deeper than any blade, wounds that spanned millennia.
Centuries melted into decades, then years. They chose the Philippines, drawn by its vibrant culture and the way its hidden nooks offered anonymity. They eventually settled in Manila, not the quiet remote provinces, but within the bustling, chaotic heart of the metropolis. Here, amidst the ceaseless rhythm of traffic, the constant digital hum, and the vibrant cacophony of human life, they found the ultimate camouflage. No one would ever suspect that the unassuming couple running a small, unpretentious antique shop in an old building in Sta. Cruz were ancient beings from another dimension, their love story older than empires.
They built a life, a quiet sanctuary in the midst of urban sprawl. They had children, then grandchildren, their lineage quietly inheriting diluted but potent elemental affinities, echoes of their incredible heritage. Their son, Ramon, possessed an uncanny knack for making complex electronics work, often fixing intricate systems with a mere touch, his fingers humming with latent energy. His daughter, Maya, could calm a panicked crowd with just her voice, her presence radiating an almost palpable tranquility, a soothing light. They were a family of extraordinary people, living in plain sight, their secret talents subtly woven into the fabric of their "normal" lives, a hidden tapestry of power.
They were a family of quiet wonders, maintaining the ancestral home in Manila, a place that now, in 2025, served as an unseen anchor for their kind. Felomina, living as the old woman in Samar, and Demetrio, the reclusive "Maestro" in the terraces, were still lovers, still bound by the forbidden affinity that had led them to this peaceful, if sometimes perplexing, human world. Their hearts, though aged by centuries, still beat with the fierce, unwavering rhythm of their bond, a silent, burning promise. Their family in Manila was their legacy, living proof that love, even against impossible odds, could blossom and thrive, creating its own quiet miracles, ensuring their lineage would continue to guard the precious peace of their new world.
Chapter 4: The Whisper of Steel
While Felomina, the fiery Ignis, found solace in the quiet hum of Samar, her very being woven into the tranquility she so fiercely guarded, the verdant, mist-shrouded hills of Samar and Leyte held another ancient secret. Here, amidst the meticulously carved rice terraces that ascended to touch the clouds, lived Kapitan Demetrio. To the local villagers of Neo-Costabrava, he was simply a reclusive old man, sometimes seen at dawn practicing what looked like impossibly graceful arnis and syete-pares forms, his movements fluid as water. But to those who truly knew him, or rather, to his beloved Felomina who felt his essence across the distance, Demetrio was Ferrum, an Elemental of pure, living steel, whose very essence was the ultimate blade. His mastery of the sword transcended mere skill; it was an extension of his being, a whisper of steel so fast that no mortal eye could ever track the draw from scabbard to strike. The glint of his blade, a fleeting flash of silver, was always the first and last thing an opponent saw.
Demetrio was the second Elemental to step through "The Tree," drawn not by chance, but by the irresistible pull of Felomina's energy signature, a beacon of warmth that pierced the chaos of his old world. Their bond, forged in the crucible of their war-torn dimension, deepened into a profound, almost spiritual love on Earth, a sanctuary for their intertwined souls. Felomina had shown him the way, a refuge from the endless clang of metal and the incessant roar of battle that had been Ferrum's brutal existence. He had sought a place where his unique power could lie dormant, where the very act of drawing his sword was an act of profound, deliberate choice, not an instinct for survival. He yearned for the gentle touch of her hand, the soft curve of her smile, the quiet solace of her presence, far more than the fleeting thrill of any duel. His existence here was a testament to his love, a constant, quiet sacrifice.
Centuries ago, long before the modern age, Ferrum found himself entangled in a pivotal moment of Earth's history: the Battle of Mactan in 1521. The island, shrouded in the humid heat of a pre-colonial dawn, buzzed with the primal tension of impending conflict. Ferdinand Magellan, driven by imperial hubris and the raw might of his European steel, faced off against the defiant chieftain, Lapu-Lapu. Demetrio, drawn by the fierce, unyielding force of will emanating from the native warriors, and sensing the encroaching, irreversible violence, observed from the periphery, his presence an almost imperceptible ripple in the air. He had sworn off battle, dedicating his existence to peace for Felomina, yet the echoes of his past life as Ferrum stirred within him, a deep, resonant hum of latent power. A sharp pang of a life he'd left behind for his love pierced his carefully constructed tranquility.
Magellan, armored and leading his men into the shallow waters, pressed forward, convinced of his divine right to conquer, his arrogance blinding him to the true nature of his foe. Lapu-Lapu, armed with nothing but his courage, sharpened bamboo, and a keen, tactical understanding of his terrain, met the charge with an unwavering gaze. The clash was brutal, a chaotic dance of cutlasses against wooden shields and desperate, primitive spears. As the battle raged, Magellan found himself isolated, his heavy armor proving a cumbersome burden in the chest-deep water. A native warrior, driven by fierce determination, struck him down. But it was not that blow that ended the explorer's life.
In that precise, chaotic moment, as Magellan stumbled, a flash—so swift it was barely registered as light, a mere flicker in the periphery—emanated from where Demetrio stood. No one, not the frantic Spanish chroniclers, nor the brave, blood-soaked warriors of Mactan, saw the sword leave its scabbard. They only saw the immediate, fatal gash that appeared across Magellan's exposed neck, a wound so clean and deep it defied logic, a line of perfect, surgical finality. The famed explorer collapsed, lifeless, before anyone truly comprehended what had happened. It was a single, elegant motion, a silent apology to his own vow, yet a necessary, swift act to prevent a greater, more prolonged bloodshed, to preserve the nascent peace he so cherished with Felomina.
Only one man, the Baranggay Captain of Mactan, a formidable swordsman in his own right, caught a fleeting glimpse of something impossible. A ripple in the air, a whisper of displaced wind, and then the sudden, definitive end of Magellan. He instinctively knew that no human blade, no matter how fast, could move with such utterly silent, devastating precision. He sought out the unassuming figure later that day, not with hostility, but with profound awe. He became the first, and for a very long time, the only student of Demetrio. This was Panday Pira, a title that would become synonymous with master craftsmanship of metal, a nod to the elemental nature of his new teacher, a quiet legacy built on an unseen legend.
For Demetrio, the act was a necessary aberration, a brief, sharp return to his true self, a momentary unleashing of Ferrum to avert a greater, more prolonged torrent of violence. The battle had been messy, but with Magellan's swift end, the Spanish forces retreated, and the immediate threat to the islands subsided. He had drawn his sword once more, a single, decisive strike, a sacrifice of his hard-won peace for the peace of others, a decision that cemented his commitment to this new, fragile world, and to the Elemental love who awaited him, far away, in her own quiet haven. He could almost feel her essence, a warm flicker of flame against his own cool steel, a constant reminder of why he had chosen this path, why he had fought, even in silence.
Chapter 5: The Farmer's Scythe
The man they called "Mang Tonyo" was a fixture in the remote, sun-baked fields surrounding Neo-Costabrava. Always smiling, always clutching a tattered handkerchief to his mouth with a theatrical, hacking cough, he was the picture of a frail, unassuming farmer. He'd offer passersby ripe mangoes from his trees, share melancholic stories of his ailing wife, and complain good-naturedly about the oppressive heat. No one, not the local military patrols nor the hardened guerrillas of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF), ever suspected that Mang Tonyo was anything but what he seemed. Yet, beneath the sun-weathered skin and the forced, rattling cough lay Umbra, an Elemental of pure shadow and chilling efficiency, a being who reveled in the swift, brutal cessation of life. His power was not just invisibility, but a terrifying omnipresence of speed, allowing him to strike and vanish before the eye could even register a blur. His favored weapon was a single, wicked mejaluna—a crescent-shaped knife, obsidian black, its edge sharpened to molecular precision.
His relationship with Aling Nena was a dark, twisted mirror of Felomina and Demetrio's transcendent bond. Where theirs was love forged in the desire for peace and harmony, Tonyo and Nena's was an affinity born of shared darkness, a profound, mutual understanding of the brutal joy found in chaos and control. He found her chilling intellect, her capacity for insidious destruction, and her subtle, pervasive malice utterly alluring—a kindred spirit in their shared preference for widespread, silent horror over direct confrontation. Their coupling was a quiet pact of devastation, a chilling romance fueled by the unraveling of life.
The ambush site in Mamasapano was a cauldron of chaos. The SAF 44, elite police commandos, were caught in a brutal, unexpected crossfire, their desperate cries echoing through the marshy terrain. Gunfire ripped through the humid air, interspersed with the guttural shouts of the MILF fighters. But amidst the visible battle, another, unseen force was at play, orchestrating a deeper, more brutal kind of terror.
Umbra moved like a phantom, a whisper of shadow across the contested ground. One moment, an SAF trooper was taking aim, sweat stinging his eyes, his finger tightening on the trigger. The next, a shadow detached itself from the dense foliage beside him, the almost inaudible shink of the mejaluna barely registering over the din of gunfire, and the trooper's throat opened in a gruesome, silent spray. He didn't even have time to scream. Umbra was already gone, a ripple in the humid air, appearing behind another soldier, plunging the mejaluna deep into his spine. The soldier crumpled, a lifeless heap, his life extinguished before he understood why.
"Tang-ina! What was that?!" a commando yelled, whirling, his weapon raised, but found only the swaying reeds, the silent, mocking sway of the tall grass.
Umbra found a chilling rhythm, a dance of death perfected over millennia. He would appear behind a soldier, a swift, precise cut to the jugular or the heart, then vanish. The SAF 44 fell not just from MILF bullets, but from these unseen, brutal assassinations, a mystery that would forever haunt the survivors. Blood bloomed like dark, morbid flowers in the muddy water, staining the earth.
Then, he turned his attention to the MILF. A seasoned guerrilla leader, roaring orders, his face contorted in battle fury, suddenly clutched his chest, his eyes widening in disbelief as a black knife hilt protruded from his sternum. Umbra, a mere tremor in the air beside him, yanked the knife free with a wet shluck and dissolved into the shadows, leaving the leader to gurgle his last breath, choking on his own blood. A young MILF fighter, celebrating a kill with a triumphant shout, felt a cold pressure behind his ear, followed by a sudden, intense pain as the mejaluna severed his brain stem. His body twitched once, then slumped, his youthful zeal extinguished.
"Who… who is doing this?!" a frantic MILF fighter screamed, firing wildly into the empty trees, his sanity fraying under the unseen assault.
Umbra chuckled, a silent, internal sound of pure delight that sent shivers down his own concealed spine. This was art. This was purpose. The screams, the terror, the sudden, violent end to life – it was a symphony to his twisted senses, a macabre ballet that fulfilled a deep, inherent need within his Elemental core. A symphony he knew Aling Nena, his beloved Venom, would appreciate with equal, chilling fervor.
Later that night, the massacre complete, Umbra, meticulously disguised as Mang Tonyo, walked the lonely dirt path back to his secluded farm, the faint sounds of distant sirens doing little to disturb his peace. He was still smiling, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of satisfaction running through him, the afterglow of a successful hunt. Then he saw them: a small, ramshackle hut, and a child, no older than seven, peering out from behind a torn curtain. The child's eyes were wide with a terror that transcended childish fear, fixed not on Mang Tonyo's face, but on the stubborn bloodstains that marred the farmer's worn barong tagalog—a splash from one of his recent kills that had stubbornly refused to vanish in the dim moonlight. The child had seen.
Mang Tonyo's smile didn't waver, but something cold and reptilian entered his eyes, a glint of predatory calculation. He stopped, feigned a racking coughing fit, then slowly, deliberately, walked towards the hut, his movements deceptively languid.
"Good evening, hijo," he croaked, his voice gentle, almost paternal, a cruel deception. "Are your parents home?"
The child, frozen with fear, a silent scream trapped in his throat, could only nod.
"That's good," Mang Tonyo said, stepping inside, the last vestiges of the harmless farmer falling away. The mejaluna was already in his hand, a black extension of his will, its edge reflecting no light. He moved with the terrifying speed that had decimated soldiers and rebels alike, an unstoppable force.
A woman's frightened gasp. The dull thud of a body hitting the floor. A man's strangled, desperate cry. Then, the child's piercing scream, abruptly cut short, a final, chilling note in the silent night. Umbra left the hut moments later, wiping the mejaluna clean on a discarded cloth. The blood was just a minor inconvenience, easily cleansed. The family, a father, a mother, and their child, lay broken inside, their lives extinguished with a brutal, dispassionate efficiency. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the chirping of crickets, oblivious to the horror.
Umbra paused at the edge of his field, turning his head slightly, his 'farmer's' smile still in place. He knew. He could feel it, a subtle shift in the air, a presence that was just as silent, just as observant as his own. He hadn't just killed that family to tie up a loose end, though that was a bonus. He had done it because he knew someone was watching, someone who valued life, someone who would be drawn out by such an act of unmitigated cruelty. The child's scream was merely bait, a carefully placed lure for the silent, unseen observer, a challenge. And from the shadows of the nearby trees, a presence that radiated an almost imperceptible aura of ancient steel, did not move. Demetrio was there, and he knew it. The game had begun. The fragile peace had been irrevocably shattered, and the true players were finally emerging.
To be continued...