In the heart of the Forest of Giants, darkness reigned supreme.
Standing at the base of the centuries-old baobab tree, Narissa kept her senses razor-sharp, scanning the murky treeline for the slightest movement.
She cast a quick glance down to check if Lucas was holding up, only to find the boy already slumped against the coarse bark, locked in a heavy, feverish sleep.
He must be completely running on empty… she thought, her brow furrowing in silent perplexity.
What in the world drained him that fast?
Refusing to lower her guard, the Neïd returned her gaze to the creeping shadows.
She harbored zero trust for this bleak jungle, well aware of the uncharted horrors hiding in the dark.
Still, she was the one who had called for the break.
Lucas’s critical state would have made him easy prey for the first creature that stumbled upon them; taking refuge beneath the roots of this colossal tree offered at least a temporary shield for the night.
Meanwhile, at the far edge of the clearing, perched on the rocky ridge overlooking the chasm, terror kept most of the recruits from closing their eyes.
The paranoia that a monster might haul itself up from the bottomless pit to devour them in their sleep gnawed at their minds.
Yet, amid the collective panic, one individual didn’t seem to have a single care in the world.
Leaning against a boulder beside a young feline hybrid, the massive Grod exuded a ridiculous amount of confidence.
Spiky hair, eyes sparkling with amusement, Chogo flashed his neighbor a crooked, charming grin.
“So, gorgeous… what’s a pretty girl like you called?”
The hybrid girl sat up, turning to face him with a slightly intrigued smile.
“I’m Dulce.
Dulce Cavalenti.”
Chogo’s eyes lit up.
Ever since landing on the island, his advances toward the Neïd had been shot down with icy precision.
But the Grod wasn’t one to give up easily.
True to form, he always preferred to keep a back-up plan within arm’s reach.
“Dulce…” he purred, tilting his head with a smooth smirk.
“Pretty name for a beauty like you.
Me?
I’m Chogo.
They call me The Maelstrom.
A full-blown hurricane that can blow you straight to cloud nine.
What do you say?”
He leaned in a fraction closer, his tone dripping with fake innocence.
“So, sweetheart… once this nightmare training is over, how about you and me go grab a drink, huh?”
Dulce let out a quiet, flustered giggle.
Deep down, the girl—who was naturally quiet, ordinary, and reserved—was shocked by her own bravado.
She was still trying to process where she had found the nerve to walk up to this giant Grod at the edge of a cliff and suggest they camp together.
Fidgeting slightly, she offered a bashful smile and stammered, “Uh… yeah… sure… why not, Chogo?”
Chogo stared at her, pleasantly surprised, laying on his best charmer smile while thinking to himself: Shy too?
Oh, I am going to love this.
Not far from where they sat, a small cluster of recruits huddled together in the shadows around a grizzled man in his thirties.
He was one-eyed, a worn leather patch strapped over his left socket.
His deathly pale skin, slicked-back light blue hair, and solitary grayish eye betrayed his lineage: he was an Asthartés, the only representative of his race among the crowd.
The Asthartés and his crew glared at Chogo and Dulce with barely concealed malice.
One of the men spat onto the dirt.
“Look at that bastard… That’s the same piece of shit who told us all to jump into the void earlier.”
“Guy’s utterly unhinged,” another recruit muttered, his fists clenching tightly.
“Makes sense, though.
Look at the size of him.
He’s a Grod.
Thinks he’s king of the world just because he’s got raw muscle in his veins.
Total asshole.”
The bitter whispers against the giant grew louder.
The one-eyed Asthartés, his gaze locked on the Grod, let a predatory sneer warp his features.
“You’re right, boys,” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel.
“That desert bastard really thinks he can step on us and treat us like scum.
Guess we’re gonna have to teach him a little humility…”
Around him, the other men exchanged knowing, wicked smiles.
Hundreds of leagues away, in the Nowern district of Malbour.
Louis Ponti strolled casually toward his home.
As he wove through the dark, narrow alleys, the informant took in the daily, broken rhythm of the lower city.
At a nearby intersection, a pickpocket sprinted past at breakneck speed, closely pursued by a furious shopkeeper.
The merchant whipped out a Fantasia firearm and let loose two bright, sparkling shots, dropping the thief face-first into the mud.
A few meters down, a screaming match erupted from an second-story window.
Consumed by rage, a woman pulled a hidden blade from beneath her apron and repeatedly stabbed her husband as neighbors shouted from their doorways.
Just another ordinary night in Nowern.
Though technically part of Malbour, this district sat right on the fringe of the nameless slums—a lawless wasteland where violence and sudden death were simply part of the scenery.
Louis finally arrived in front of a small house with a faded, crumbling facade.
He knocked once.
Paused.
Knocked twice.
Waited three full seconds.
Then delivered a final, sharp rap against the wood.
A thin, high-pitched voice piped up immediately from the other side of the door.
“Password?”
A fond smile broke across Louis’s freckle-dusted face.
He adjusted his hat and called out warmly:
“Niv, allegory, Louis’s tartar.”
A heavy metallic click echoed, and the thick wooden door swung inward.
Standing on the threshold was a young girl no older than ten.
Short-statured, she sported a head of gorgeous black hair, pointed ears, and wide, sparkling eyes.
A young Sprigan.
“Papa!
I missed you!” she squealed, flinging her arms around the informant’s neck.
Louis lifted her gently in his arms before turning back to lock the door behind them with two heavy deadbolts.
“Well now, my little Niv… What kind of grand adventures did you have while Papa was out working?”
“Nothing special!
I played with Chacha, and then an old lady came knocking on the door, but I did just like you said—I didn’t answer!” She looked up at him with wide eyes.
“What about you, Papa?
Did you catch any more bad guys today?”
Louis let out a booming, theatrical laugh and patted her hair softly.
“You bet I did!
The great Captain Louis Ponti never lets criminals outrun him!”
The little Sprigan’s eyes shone with unbounded admiration.
“One day, I’m gonna be just like you!
I’ll catch all the bad guys and be the Great Captain Niv Ponti!”
“Hahaha!
Yes, Captain Niv!
But for now, Captain Niv is still a little girl who needs to take her bath and eat her soup if she wants to grow up big and strong.”
“But… Papa!
I already took my bath!” she pouted, crossing her arms in protest.
“No arguing with the Supreme Commander!
Off to bed!”
Back on Gregory Island, in the depths of the Forest of Giants.
As she kept her vigil beneath the baobab tree, Narissa suddenly caught a faint, sharp whistling sound cutting through the canopy above.
A cold shiver raced down her spine.
A sweet, heavily spiced scent abruptly flooded her nostrils.
In less than two seconds, a crushing weight slammed into her limbs.
Her eyelids turned to lead.
Narissa fought with everything she had, reaching blindly for her knife, but her body refused to respond.
She collapsed heavily onto the damp earth, claimed by an instantaneous, narcotic sleep.
Over by the rocky cliff, the same invisible mist crept across the camp.
The recruits who had been plotting, as well as Chogo, who was just finishing up his grand courtship of Dulce, dropped one after another, plunging into absolute lethargy. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
A dead, eerie silence settled over the island.
Then, from the depths of the abyss and the high branches above, silent figures began to emerge without making a single sound.
Draped in dark robes that seemed to swallow the moonlight, every single one of them wore an immaculate, featureless white mask.
Moving with supernatural agility, the shadows systematically checked every sleeping recruit, monitoring their breathing and examining their wounds.
One of the white-masked figures glided over to the baobab tree.
It bent over the motionless bodies of Narissa and Lucas, studying them in absolute silence for several long seconds, before vanishing back into the gloom as quietly as it had arrived.
Trapped within the artificial slumber, Narissa was dragged into a terrifying nightmare.
She saw herself swimming through the crystalline depths of an endless sea.
Cool water caressed her scaled skin, and shafts of golden sunlight cut through the surface in perfect, serene harmony.
Suddenly, a booming, distorted voice roared up from the abyss below:
“Narissa… Narissa… NARISSA!”
The vision shattered.
She was instantly bound to a wooden chair inside a pitch-black room.
Standing directly in front of her was a man with a gaping, torn abdomen, holding his own spilled entrails in both hands.
He slowly raised a gaunt, bloodied face—his eyes torn cleanly from their sockets—and shrieked:
“WHY, NARISSA?!
WHY DID YOU ABANDON US?!”
The Neïd snapped awake with a violent shudder.
Cold sweat beaded across her forehead.
She sat up in a flash, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird… only to realize that soft morning light was finally filtering through the canopy above.
In the nameless slums of Malbour.
In front of a weather-worn shop, a wooden sign was flipped over to reveal the word: OPEN.
A man with a thick white mustache and a round, prominent belly stepped out onto the porch, took a deep breath of the crisp morning air, and sighed.
“Right then… time to face another day.”
Cassam had just opened his doors.
Back on Gregory Island, Narissa wiped the icy perspiration from her forehead.
Beside her, Lucas was already up, staring out at the forest bathed in the gold of the rising sun.
Hearing her move, the boy turned around, offering her a shy, timid smile.
“You’re awake?
Thank you for everything, Narissa… You didn’t have to help me last night, but you did.
I’m only standing here because of you.”
The Neïd stared at him for a moment, momentarily thrown off by his sheer innocence, before letting out a soft, amused huff.
“We need to move,” she cut in, pushing herself to her feet.
“We’re probably the last ones trailing behind.
We need to catch up to Commander Mélo.”
Lucas nodded eagerly, and the two set off into the forest.
At the edge of the chasm, the camp was groggily coming back to life.
Chogo pushed himself up, noting with a smug grin that Dulce had curled up against his chest during the night.
The young hybrid woke up a second later, her cheeks flushing a bright crimson.
The Grod strolled over to the edge of the drop.
Below, the pitch-black shadows had cleared, revealing a sheer, dizzying vertical drop that offered zero guarantees of survival.
Around him, the recruits—including the one-eyed Asthartés—stared at him in tense silence, wondering if he was actually insane enough to go through with it.
Chogo adjusted his pack, turned back toward the crowd, and flashed his most arrogant, razor-sharp sneer.
“Alright… you useless bastards, I’m outta here!”
Dulce panicked, grabbing his sleeve.
“Wait!
Are you… are you really going to jump?!
That’s literal suicide!”
Chogo looked down at her with a playful wink.
“What’s wrong, gorgeous?
You wanna tag along?”
Without giving anyone a chance to answer, Chogo threw his head back in a thunderous roar of laughter, took a single step backward, and let himself plunge headfirst into the abyss.
“See ya later, dwarves!”
No one knew if he would reach the bottom alive, but one thing was undeniably clear: the Syndicate’s trial had just entered its most ruthless phase.