Dolbi was gone.
The last door had closed, leaving behind the faint scent of clean linen in a house that was already rotting—and a single gold coin still lying on the floor, bright as a bruise.
Julia stood rigid, breathing unevenly.
Vincent didn't look at the coin again.
He rose slowly from the chair. This body was fragile. His eyes were not.
"Julia."
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Bring a lamp. Come."
He didn't head for his room. He turned down the western corridor instead.
"The armory," he said.
The armory was empty.
Not smashed.
Stripped.
The walls still carried pale outlines where spears and swords had once hung—ghost-marks in the wood. Dust coated everything except for a long, clear strip where hands had recently swept the racks bare.
In the corner, an old chest sat open. Its seal had been ripped apart.
Fragments of red wax clung to the lid, stamped with the Merchant Association's crest.
Julia's hands curled into fists. "They even took the low-grade ones…"
Vincent stepped inside. His fingers traced a gouge in the rack—wood scarred by metal dragged away.
"They made sure Aldebaran has no teeth," he said quietly.
He didn't linger.
He walked to the head chamber.
Once, it had been command.
Now it was bare.
No desk. No chair. No carpet. No crest.
Only tall windows and stained curtains, yellowed and limp, stirring faintly as wind slipped through cracks that no longer bothered to be polite.
Vincent stood in the center of it, listening to the empty air.
"Power leaves quietly," he murmured.
He turned away before the silence could dig deeper.
In the corridor outside, Julia packed her belongings into a small bag.
Simple clothes. Needle and thread. A small knife. Oil. A worn comb.
That was all a loyal servant was allowed to carry when a house died.
All the other maids were gone.
The eldest daughter had left.
The youngest son had left.
Now even the walls were being sold.
Julia's hands paused on the knot.
"Mother…" she whispered, voice thin. "Was I right to stay?"
Silence answered.
She inhaled, then tapped both cheeks lightly—once, twice.
"I chose," she told herself. "And I won't run just because everyone else did."
She tied the bag shut. Her eyes steadied.
The night passed too fast and too quiet.
Vincent didn't sleep much.
Neither did Julia.
Outside, wind rolled over the backyard, carrying damp air from the forest behind the mansion.
The gauntlet on Vincent's left hand felt awake.
Not glowing.
Listening.
Dawn came gray.
Wheels creaked at the front of the mansion as the sky began to lighten.
The carriage arrived.
Not a noble carriage.
A freight cart.
Dull wood. Rough iron. One wheel slightly off balance. Worn rope.
And nailed to the side—left on purpose—was the Merchant Association's crest.
Dolbi didn't come.
Two workers dropped several sacks and left without meeting their eyes.
The smell hit immediately.
Rot.
Julia covered her nose, fury rising hot. "They want us to rot. They want us to eat garbage."
Vincent knelt and opened one sack.
Meat—blackened in places. Sticky fluid seeping through the fabric. Mixed within were small bones that didn't belong to livestock.
This wasn't neglect.
It was intent.
Julia took a step after the workers.
Vincent lifted one hand.
A small motion. A quiet stop.
He studied the rot calmly, like a hunter judging bait.
Then he said, evenly, "Good."
Julia snapped her head toward him. "Good?"
"Rot attracts something," Vincent replied. "And something attracts something else."
Julia went still.
She understood—just enough to hate it.
"Take everything," Vincent said. "Don't waste a drop."
They entered the forest behind the mansion just after sunrise.
Trees stood close together, choking the light. Damp ground. Cold air.
What unsettled Julia wasn't the dark.
It was the silence.
No birds. No insects.
As if the forest itself were holding its breath.
Vincent stopped, inhaled slowly, and tested the wind. He pointed to a narrow corridor between two thick trees.
"We stop here."
Julia lowered the sacks.
Vincent removed his outer coat.
"My Lord…?"
He didn't answer.
He dropped to the ground.
Push-ups.
One. Two. Three.
By eight his arms trembled. By ten his breathing broke unevenly—sharp and ugly.
Julia took half a step forward.
"Don't," he said.
He stood and moved to a low branch.
Pull-ups.
He made it to five before his shoulders shook. At seven his face drained of color.
At nine his grip slipped.
He fell hard, shoulder striking a root.
For a moment he lay there, gasping like a man who had just crawled out of water.
Julia rushed forward. "My Lord!"
Vincent lifted a hand to stop her.
"I'm fine," he rasped—more order than truth.
He forced himself upright. Humiliation burned deeper than pain.
"Weak bodies die," he said quietly.
Not drama.
Law.
He stood again and did squats—slow, controlled.
Five. Six. Seven.
At eight his legs shook violently. He stopped, swallowing air.
The gauntlet sat dull on his left hand.
Waiting.
Vincent looked at Julia.
"Now."
He spread the rotting meat across three points.
At the first, he hung pieces from low branches.
At the second, he hurled chunks into thick brush.
At the third—the main point—he left one sack open in the narrow corridor between the two trees.
He placed himself against the wind, forcing the stench deeper into the forest.
"You're not running," Julia said quietly.
"No."
Vincent stared into the dark.
"We're feeding."
A twig snapped.
Then another.
A faint scrape—claws against wet earth.
Julia stiffened, hand on her knife.
Two yellow eyes appeared in the brush.
Then four.
Then more.
Carrion Gnawers.
Forest scavengers twisted by rot—lean bodies like starving dogs, patches of loose skin exposing dark flesh beneath, too many teeth for narrow jaws. Black drool dripped onto grass, making it curl and darken.
Julia shifted her weight.
"Not yet," Vincent said calmly.
One Gnawer slipped left, using the trees as cover.
Julia didn't see it.
Vincent did.
He stepped half a pace—exactly where he wanted to be.
The Gnawer lunged.
Vincent raised his left arm to meet it—
and his knee buckled.
Just for a heartbeat.
Not fear.
Weakness.
His balance tilted, and the Gnawer's jaws came closer than they should have—close enough for Julia to hear teeth scrape against dragon scales.
Vincent gritted his teeth and forced the joint to hold.
A second too late would have meant his throat.
He twisted his wrist and drove a precise counterstrike—short, ugly, efficient.
The Gnawer dropped.
Vincent's breathing came out harsh.
He didn't let Julia see the tremor in his leg.
A thin black vapor rose from the corpse—filthy, final—and flowed toward the gauntlet.
It vanished into the gem.
This time the sensation hit harder.
A stronger pull—like something filling an empty space inside him.
His breathing steadied. Muscles that had trembled minutes ago responded faster.
Not much.
But enough.
Vincent stood straighter.
Julia stared at him. "You wanted this."
"Yes," Vincent said simply.
More movement answered.
The ground trembled lightly.
Rotback Crawlers emerged—boar-shaped bodies gone wrong, backs covered in pulsing black fungus. Each step released faint spores that made the air itch.
One charged.
But Vincent had chosen a narrow corridor.
No room to build momentum.
He met it with the gauntlet and forced its head down.
Julia moved—not in panic, not blindly.
She struck beneath the jaw and retreated fast.
Coordination.
One by one the creatures fell.
More black vapor fed the gem.
The pulse deepened—still restrained, but undeniably alive.
The forest went silent again.
Too silent.
Vincent lifted his left hand slightly.
The gem pulsed stronger.
Then—
a heavy sound, deeper in the trees.
Not claws.
Not snapping twigs.
Something large shifting its weight.
Julia swallowed.
Vincent crouched and brushed aside damp leaves near the narrow corridor.
There—pressed into the earth—were tracks.
Not paw-prints.
Not hooves.
Too long.
Too symmetrical.
Like something that walked with purpose… and edges.
Vincent's gaze sharpened.
"Now," he said quietly, "this is interesting."
The trees ahead didn't move.
The forest didn't breathe.
But somewhere beyond the trunks, something waited.
The gauntlet pulsed once, small and cold, as if recognizing a familiar kind of hunger.