Rafael staggered toward Malrek's fallen body.
The cave reeked of blood and ash. The echoes of laughter were gone, replaced by an unbearable silence. Malrek lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, his chest barely rising, blood soaking through torn fabric. Rafael dropped to his knees beside him.
"No… no, stay with me." His fingers pressed against Malrek's neck. For a terrifying second, there was nothing.
Then—a pulse. Weak. Faint. But there.
Rafael exhaled sharply, his chest tightening. This mission was never supposed to end like this. He had imagined something quick. Clean. A criminal hunted. A bounty claimed. As easy as one two three, he thought. But that was not the case.
Instead, he stood surrounded by blood and bones, his own blood still drying on his skin, and Malrek—half-dead—because he had dragged him into hell.
He had gotten what he wanted.
And paid far more than he had ever intended.
Rafael's jaw clenched as he stared down at Malrek, mind racing. Taking him to a doctor wasn't an option. Malrek was wanted across the village—recognized by guards, whispered about by drunks. The moment anyone saw him, it would be chains… or worse.
There was only one choice.
He would have to heal him himself.
Rafael looked down at his palm. Then at the deep, ugly scars carved across his own stomach—proof of what had killed him… and what had brought him back.
"This power healed me," he whispered. "So it should be able to heal you too… right?" His fingers brushed the ring on his hand.
"I won't let your blood be on my hands," he said quietly. "Not after this."
He gently lowered Malrek flat onto the ground and closed his eyes. Focused, he reached inward—toward that cold, coiled presence now resting inside his chest. The shadows answered immediately. Darkness bled outward from Rafael's own shadow, crawling across the cave floor like living ink. It wrapped around Malrek's body, thick and suffocating, lifting him several inches into the air.
Rafael's concentration sharpened to a razor's edge. He pictured the wound closing. Flesh knitting. Blood reversing its flow. The shadows obeyed. They pressed into Malrek's chest, stitching torn muscle and sealing shattered tissue with unnatural precision. Bones aligned. Bleeding stopped. Slowly, the darkness withdrew.
Malrek fell back to the ground with a soft thud. Unconscious but alive. Rafael opened his eyes. The wound was gone—replaced by a thin, jagged scar. Malrek's chest rose and fell steadily now, breath deep and even. Rafael sagged forward, exhaustion crashing into him all at once. "…Good," he muttered.
He didn't waste time. Hoisting Malrek onto his back, Rafael made his way out of the cave. In his other hand, he carried a small sack. Something round inside it shifted with each step. Blood dripping through the fabric.
The walk home felt endless. By the time he reached his house—hidden far from the village's eyes—his legs trembled beneath the weight. He laid Malrek down gently beside the bed where his mother lay motionless, her breathing shallow, her heartbeat faint.
Rafael reached into his pocket and pulled out the crystal.
Without hesitation, he crushed it. The crystal shattered, releasing a pale, shimmering essence that drifted toward Sara's chest like smoke drawn to a flame. It seeped into her body. Her form glowed softly.
Then—nothing. The glow vanished. Her breathing remained weak. Her heart still slow. Rafael stared at her in silence. Minutes passed. Hours. Night fell. Malrek didn't wake. Sara didn't stir.
Rafael sat on the floor between them, knees pulled to his chest, mind spiralling into darker thoughts. Had he failed? Had he misunderstood the goddess's gift? Worse—had he killed Malrek trying to save his mother?
His shadows couldn't heal her. There was no wound to imagine closing. No blood to stop. Her life wasn't broken, so there was nothing to fix. All he could do now… was wait.
And waiting had always been the cruellest punishment.
His thoughts drifted back to his first life. To a night soaked in blood. To a mission gone wrong. To his brother, lying unconscious while Jason Bartel sat beside him for two full days, watching every breath, refusing to sleep.
He remembered thinking then that nothing could ever break that bond. He never thought that the same brother would betray him and cause his demise, being wrong.
Rafael lowered his head, eyes burning. "Please," he whispered to the darkness. "Just… wake up." And, Rafael feared that all his efforts might have been in vain. With all his thoughts scattered, he drifted into a deep sleep.
Rafael woke to the scent of roasting meat. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Warmth filled the room, rich and comforting, a smell so out of place after the night he'd endured that his body refused to believe it was real. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open.
Malrek stood near the hearth.
He moved with ease—too much ease for a man who had been dying hours ago. A small fire crackled beside him, meat sizzling over the flames. The morning light spilled through the window, casting long shadows across the room.
"Morning, sleepyhead," Malrek said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.
Rafael pushed himself upright, confusion washing over him. His body ached, but it was the dull soreness of exhaustion, not injury. He realized then—he must have drifted off while waiting. He hadn't even remembered falling asleep.
"You're… alive," Rafael said carefully.
Malrek chuckled. "Very much so."
Rafael studied him closely. His skin looked healthier. His posture was relaxed. Too relaxed.
"How do you feel?" Rafael asked.
Malrek paused, expression turning thoughtful. "Honestly? Great. Better than ever. I feel… energised. Like I could run for days."
Rafael frowned slightly. He didn't understand what that meant—but relief flooded him all the same.
"I'm glad," he said quietly.
His gaze drifted to the far corner of the room, where a barrel sat untouched. Inside it lay the sack he had carried from the cave.
Rafael stood.
"I have something I need to take care of." Malrek nodded, not asking questions. Rafael retrieved the sack, pulled his cloak over his shoulders, and left. he walked gracefully to the police office.
The guards recognized him the moment he entered the office.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Bounty Hunter," one of them said with a crooked smile. "How'd the hunt go?"
Rafael didn't answer.
He stepped forward and placed the sack on the desk.
The guard raised an eyebrow, then untied it.
The stench hit him first.
He recoiled, face twisting in disgust as he stared into the sack. Inside lay a severed head—eyes glassy, mouth frozen in terror.
The criminal.
Proof.
The officer swallowed. They had wanted the man alive—but he wasn't foolish enough to voice that complaint. Anyone capable of killing a four-star wanted criminal wasn't someone you lectured.
Instead, he forced a smile.
"Well… you certainly got the job done."
He counted out the reward—heavy gold coins clinking loudly as they hit the table.
Rafael accepted them with a brief nod. Before leaving, his eyes drifted to the bounty wall.
So many faces.
So many monsters.
His lips curved faintly.
"This wall is full of strong people," he thought. "And I want to kill them all."
For just a moment, his blue eyes flickered—cold, sharp—as the memory of his last kill surfaced. The satisfaction lingered longer than it should have.
He turned and walked out.
The village streets were quiet. Too quiet.
People moved with their heads down, faces drawn tight with exhaustion and fear. War had drained the life from this place, leaving behind only survival.
Rafael passed them silently. Then he noticed something strange.
Men dressed in unfamiliar red uniforms stood near the road—breastplates polished, black trousers beneath crimson drapes that marked them unmistakably as soldiers.
Not royal guards. Rafael didn't know what their uniforms meant, and he didn't care enough to ask, so he walked on. Nothing good ever came from pointless curiosity.
As his house came into view, relief settled into his chest. Malrek was awake. Safe.
Now all that remained was Sara. Before he even finished that thought he saw a a thunderous boom ripping through the air.
A towering cloud of dust erupted from his compound. Flames surged skyward, painting the heavens in violent orange.
Rafael froze. "What—?"
He broke into a sprint. Then he jumped. The ground vanished beneath his feet. Wind screamed past his ears as he soared far higher than any jump should allow. His heart hammered in his chest—but when he landed, it was effortless. No pain. No injury.
He stared down in shock. "I… jumped that far?" He had crossed the entire distance in a single leap. No time to think. He looked ahead.
His house was half-destroyed.
And in the yard—
Malrek was fighting someone.
Blows collided with explosive force, each strike sending shock waves through the ground. "STOP!" Rafael shouted. Both fighters halted instantly. They turned. That was when Malrek stiffened.
"…Draven," Rafael whispered.
Rafael's breath caught.
The man standing before him was taller, broader, hardened by years of war. His hair was cropped short, and a vicious scar ran from his eyebrow down to his jaw.
Draven turned fully toward him.
"Little brother," he said slowly. "I'd recognise those blue eyes anywhere."
Rafael couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
"Why," Draven continued, voice sharp with accusation, "did you break your promise?"
Rafael frowned. "What promise—?" He never got to finish. Draven exploded forward. Steel met air. Rafael stood frozen as his brother charged, confusion paralysing him. All he could do was stare as his brother charged at him.