The heat of the flames danced along the walls, casting distorted shadows like starving specters. The silk nest that had once pulsed with life was now a smoking hell—every fiber burning, every corner steeped in the stench of scorched flesh.
What unbearable heat…
A figure emerged from the depths of the tunnel, walking with the indifference of a bored king—hands in his pockets, gaze languid.
"Hey, Safira."
Safira pushed herself upright—her body scored by cuts and burns—but a tired smile formed.
"Mr. Colin!" She ran to him as, before them, the cultist narrowed his eyes.
The man's presence unleashed a surge of hatred, bubbling like poison through the survivor's thoughts.
That's the man who killed Ghouv…? Then, if he's here…
"That means Ghesali is dead."
The cultist's teeth ground together. His hatred burned hotter than the fire that consumed the nest.
"You… are dead!"
Colin understood in a single glance. Safira was exhausted, but she still had mana. He, on the other hand, was a wall of flesh and bone.
"Safira."
"I know!"
The cultist lunged, conjuring swords of ethereal energy that ripped the air—deadly as the claws of a vengeful god.
FWOOSH!
But Colin stepped in front.
He was a living shield. A bastion of brutality and lethal instinct.
Each blade skimmed too close, whistling as it sliced the air. He didn't flinch. The blows he couldn't avoid, he absorbed. Cuts marked his skin; sweat mingled with blood; his gaze never wavered.
A user of Migth?! the cultist panicked. My blades should have carved through him like butter! Damn it!
While Colin held the line, Safira unleashed the inferno.
Bursts of fire roared toward the enemy, forcing him to fall back, stripping away his advantage.
BOOM!
"Die, you wretches!"
The cultist kept retaliating, each blade of mana more furious and ravenous than the last—but it was useless.
I can't get past Ghouv's killer. Damn it!
He realized too late that he was at a disadvantage, yet he wouldn't fall without one last strike.
He poured everything he had left into a devastating spell.
"Safira!"
"Got it!"
They surged together. Fast. Unpredictable.
They moved like predators in sync, silhouettes carving a frenzied zigzag through the air, forcing the cultist to falter. Panic gnawed at his instincts.
Whom should he strike? Who would move first? The hesitation cost him everything.
Colin moved first.
BAM!
His fist exploded against the cultist's temple with the force of a ceremonial hammer falling on a profane offering.
The enemy's head snapped, his neck twisting under the impact. His body flew backward, a blur of blood and cracking bone.
He tried to stand, trembling arms searching for purchase on a floor that no longer supported him.
Then came the end.
Safira gathered what remained.
BOOM!
Flames engulfed him.
He screamed.
But he didn't fall.
Not yet.
His body smoked, clothes burned to black rags, skin flayed and split like dry earth under a blistering sun.
Still, he refused to die.
He staggered, chest heaving, mouth bubbling blood that dribbled down his chin in viscous scarlet threads.
With a final roar, he conjured and hurled his ethereal blades in a desperate charge.
"DIE!"
But Colin was already moving.
Swift. Elegant. Lethal.
For Colin, this wasn't merely a battle. It was a game.
Adrenaline blazed through his blood like liquid fire, the heat of combat fusing with the raw thrill of watching his opponent come apart beneath the inevitable.
The cultist's despair was an intoxicating symphony.
Every erratic motion, every ragged breath, every frantic look for a way out that didn't exist—fuel for something primal inside Colin.
He could feel it.
Fear.
The cultist was no longer an enemy; he was prey—and Colin loved to hunt.
He didn't just dodge the ethereal blades—he danced through them. As if it were a pastime, a macabre ritual where he set the tempo and his opponent merely followed the script of his own death.
Colin's golden eyes gleamed with wicked amusement. A grin stretched across his face, teeth clenched, savoring the tension of the moment.
He wanted to tear.
To see hot blood spurt, to feel the impact of flesh yielding under his strikes, to hear bones break under the pressure of his hands.
The desire was visceral.
Almost a hunger.
He wanted to prolong it.
Savor it.
To see how long the bastard could resist before accepting the truth—he was facing something he could never defeat.
He's so much weaker than the golem's cultist it's almost pathetic.
With a precise leap, he closed the distance.
Behind him, Safira readied the final torrent of fire.
"Mr. Colin!"
He slipped between the attacks, evading the last desperate flicker of resistance.
And then the inferno fell on the cultist.
FSSHHH!
Safira's magic ignited the air around the enemy.
He tried to raise a barrier.
He failed.
Fire consumed him.
Skin split; his eyes bulged in horror. He dropped to his knees, smoke hissing from his open mouth in a soundless scream.
Colin closed in.
BAM!
A brutal elbow strike.
The cultist's head whipped aside; his magic shattered on impact.
BAM!
Another blow came down like a butcher's stroke. Something snapped. A bone yielded—cracking like thin ice beneath impossible weight.
The cultist collapsed. Heavy. Without grace, without dignity—like a puppet of flesh and bone with its strings cut.
But he wasn't dead yet.
His body trembled; his fingers clawed at the blood-slick floor, trying in vain to hold on to the life spilling out of him. A spasm raced through his limbs; his breathing dragged in wet gasps, like a stabbed animal that doesn't understand it's already been butchered.
Colin watched him with disdain.
"Be grateful." His smile was wide and cold. "You're going to see your sister again—wherever she went."
Safira looked away, and Colin set his boot on the cultist's chest.
"AAAAA!"
The boy screamed, his body jerking beneath the crushing weight.
Colin pressed harder.
CRACK!
Ribs broke like dry branches in a wildfire.
"You should stop screaming." Colin's grin widened. "No one's coming to save you."
The cultist choked on a cry. Shattered bones punctured organs; his mouth fell open in shock.
A gush of blood spilled out.
His eyes went glassy, and the last trace of life ebbed away.
Colin lifted his foot. The cultist's body didn't move again.
He regarded him as nothing more than a rotting slab of meat tossed to the wind.
"Come on, Safira. We need to find Brighid."
Safira drew a deep breath, her eyes still absorbing the brutal scene.
"Okay…"