Inside the Third Space’s shadow vault, Drey lay broken on the stone floor, drained of every drop of strength.
He no longer even had the energy to speak.
This motionless state was starting to irritate Crawford.
Stripped of his voice, the boy couldn’t utter a single scream under the bite of the blows and the agonizing torture of the Lock Photons.
With an annoyed sigh, the Cleaver reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small vial filled with a murky, reddish liquid.
He uncorked it and poured the contents directly over his victim’s blood-soaked body, a sinister grin curling his lips.
“This ought to get a little fire back into your veins…
Not that it’s going to make your wounds disappear, mind you.”
Sprawled on the freezing stone, Drey remained motionless.
His lifeless eyes stared into nothingness like a corpse’s, a thin stream of saliva dribbling from his lips.
After three agonizingly long minutes, the potion took hold, dragging him painfully back into reality.
A surge of excruciating agony tore through every single nerve in his body.
He forced his eyes upward toward Crawford, who was adjusting his monocle with affected elegance.
“A…
I…
I…”
The syllables collided in his bone-dry throat, failing to form a coherent word.
Exhaustion and pain were crushing him into the dust.
With a lazy flick of his hand, the Cleaver commanded the Lock Photons to deactivate.
The crimson runes flickered out, plunging the chamber back into a suffocating darkness.
Crawford cast one final look at his prisoner before turning on his heel.
“See you tomorrow…
Ahahahah!”
Following his grating laugh, the heavy armored door creaked open, letting a single beam of blinding white light filter into the room.
Drey shut his eyelids instantly, unable to tolerate even the faintest glare.
The door slammed shut with a deafening crash.
Left alone in pitch-black silence, bathing in his own pool of blood, Drey softly closed his eyes, desperately chasing sleep to escape the living hell.
“Wake up, Drey…
Up on your feet, you little rascal!”
Startled, the boy sat up with a jolt and scanned his surroundings.
Standing right beside him was a woman with long, cascading flame-red hair.
Her porcelain-white skin practically glowed, and her emerald-green eyes sparkled like a thousand stars.
Her name was Katarina.
But to Drey, she was simply…
his mother.
Katarina looked down at him with tender confusion, wondering why her son seemed so deeply shaken.
Drey stared at her for a long, frozen moment before tears began welling in the corners of his eyes.
Driven by pure instinct, he threw himself around her neck and clung to her with all his strength.
Surprised yet moved, Katarina wrapped her arms gently around him.
“Well now…
What about me?
Don’t I get a hug?” a deep male voice called out from just above them.
“Don’t be jealous,” Katarina replied with a warm laugh.
“Your son had a bad dream and he’s crying like the big baby he is!”
“Ah…
It’s true this kid’s always had tears on tap.
But don’t forget, champ: that’s my wife you’re squeezing like that.
As her husband, I have rights too!”
Both parents broke into rich, booming laughter.
Drey looked up at the man with silver-white hair, whose dark skin perfectly contrasted his meticulously groomed beard.
Wearing neat spectacles on the bridge of his nose, he could easily be mistaken for a scholar.
But he was a former public official: Gildo, Drey’s father.
Meanwhile, in Malbour, within the Nowern district.
A man was fighting a losing battle in front of a mirror, desperately trying to tame a stubborn lock of hair so he could hide it beneath his hat.
All around the room, a little girl was prancing about, imitating the screech of an archeflea.
The man threw a vibrant red coat over a crisp white vest, complete with bright yellow trousers.
The little girl stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes wide with unbridled awe at her father’s sheer style.
“Lieutenant Niv!” the man barked in a mock-authoritative tone.
“Fetch the Supreme Commander’s necktie at once!”
The girl immediately snapped into a crisp salute.
“Yes, sir!”
“Flawless.
Today…
the Ponti family goes out in style!”
Niv bounced with joy.
Louis scooped his daughter into his arms, stepped out the door, and locked it behind them with a unique, practiced trick of his own.
He then took Niv’s small hand in his, and together they stepped out into the alleyway.
“Listen to me carefully, sweetie: hold Papa’s hand tight and do not wander off under any circumstances, clear?”
Niv looked up at him and nodded with a beaming smile.
“Excited that your father’s taking you to the Caravan Festival?”
“Yes, Papa!
It’s awesome!”
“Awesome?
Ahahah!
You bet it is…
The great Commander Louis Ponti always keeps his promises!”
As they walked, the brutal reality of Nowern quickly intruded on their stroll.
In a side alley, a passerby was being mugged in broad daylight.
Further down, barefoot kids ran across the cobblestones, smiles on their faces but eyes wet with tears, pursued by a shady figure in ill-fitting pants.
Niv’s face contorted with sudden fear.
Louis noticed instantly.
He knew how hard it was for a child to witness the sheer misery of Malbour, and he refused to let his daughter be tainted by the darkness of the City of Miracles.
A little further still, a man was aggressively haggling with prostitutes before tossing them a bill and continuing on his way.
Meanwhile, back on Gregory Island.
The recruits were taking advantage of a brief moment of respite.
Grouped up by affinities, they chatted in hushed voices.
Lucas stood slightly apart, sitting near the edge of the waterfall.
Beside him, sprawled out in the soft grass, Chogo was snoring peacefully.
Despite Mélo’s chilling threats, most of the candidates were savoring the fresh air, the soothing murmur of the water, and the lush greenery around them.
Yet, politics had already crept back into the camp.
One man had managed to rally about a dozen followers around himself: Lakan, an Asthartés in his thirties, instantly recognizable by his eye patch.
He had distinguished himself earlier in the Forest of Giants by confronting the winged beast.
Even though he had failed to kill it, he had managed to lift the spirits of his fellow survivors.
At the edge of the ravine, he had firmly opposed the Grod’s suicidal leap, convinced it was sheer madness.
Many saw him as a natural leader who could shepherd them through the eight brutal months ahead.
Flanked by his lackeys, Lakan spotted Dulce Cavelenti wandering aimlessly, her eyes darting around as if searching for a familiar face.
With a predatory grin, the Asthartés licked his lips and stood up to cut off the young hybrid.
Not far away, Narissa was pacing through the camp.
Drawing on her past as a gang leader, she observed the recruits, evaluating who among them was worthy of joining her own strike squad.
Chogo finally cracked an eye open.
Sitting up, the Grod witnessed a scene that pulled an amused smirk from his face.
Dulce, still desperately looking for a reassuring face, suddenly bumped into Lakan.
The eye-patched man flashed her a crooked smile.
“Aren’t you a pretty thing?
I like you.
How about you join my crew?”
Caught off guard, Dulce froze, unable to stammer out anything more than, “Um…
I’m sorry…
I can’t.”
Lakan’s men exchanged stunned looks, outraged by such blatant insolence.
One of them stepped forward, raising his voice:
“What did you just say, bitch?!
The boss is giving you the honor of an invite and you dare refuse?!”
Dulce flinched, hastily dropping her head.
“I…
I’m so sorry…”
Lakan put on a deceptively magnanimous smile.
“Don’t worry about it, beautiful…
Forgive him, he doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.
I’ll teach him some manners.”
The recruit who had just shouted turned to his leader, utterly confused.
Before he could even register what was happening, Lakan grabbed his head and twisted it with lightning speed.
A sharp, violent crack echoed through the air.
His neck snapped cleanly, the man’s body crumpled heavily to the ground.
He was dead before he hit the dirt, without even a chance to raise his hands.
Lakan turned toward his remaining men, his single eye glinting dark and cold.
“Listen to me carefully, boys: with me, you’ve got nothing to fear.
But I despise it when people disrespect my prey.
Any other girls we run into, you can do whatever you want with them.
But hands off what belongs to me.”
The recruits swallowed hard and bowed frantically.
Dulce, having just witnessed the cold-blooded execution, was paralyzed with fear.
“Now then, sweetheart,” Lakan continued, stepping closer to her.
“I promise you, if you come with us, you’ll be treated like a princess…
No, like a queen.
Come on…”
He was already reaching his hand out toward the girl’s shoulder when a massive, crimson-skinned arm cut in between them, wrapping casually around Dulce’s neck.
Lakan looked up to find a towering Grod colossus flashing a wide, provocative grin: Chogo.
Perfect!
Talk about cinematic timing!
the Grod gloated internally.
I’m gonna look like a total badass hero to this chick!
Yeah, Chogo, you smooth bastard…
After this, I’m definitely…
Oh man, I’m gonna scoop her up like nobody’s business, I can’t wait!
Wait a minute…
Didn’t this guy just snap a dude’s neck at light speed?
What if he pulls that same crap on me…?
Nah!
I’m way too tough for that, I’m a Grod!
Sure, my horns haven’t grown in yet, but this guy’s gonna be a walk in the park.
Meeting Chogo’s eyes, Dulce felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over her.
Meanwhile, inside the Third Space, deep within the mental palace of Drey’s mind.
The young man was strolling through a field of glowing flowers under a starry sky alongside his parents.
In the distance, the peaceful outline of their family home rested against the horizon.
“So…
having fun?”
Drey stopped dead in his tracks.
Standing right before him was an exact double of himself—but with a hardened face, darkened by deep-seated resentment.
This projection embodied the radical, ruthless shift that had taken place inside him since the tragedy.
Drey had spent a full year hunting down the man with the dragon tattoo, braving armed gangs, starvation, and utter ruin until he reached Malbour, where he met Lucas.
Though he had originally sworn to grow stronger solely to exact his vengeance, his brotherhood with Lucas had given him a new purpose: to become powerful enough so he would never lose anything ever again.
The dark Drey flashed a demonic smile and snapped his fingers.
In an instant, the peaceful setting shattered like glass.
Drey was violently thrust into his parents’ bedroom.
His father, Gildo, was bound to a wooden chair, heavy iron nails driven straight through his eye sockets, while swarming insects devoured his innards from the inside out before burrowing through his skin.
His mother, Katarina, was crucified against the wall, her face horrifically mutilated by deep, bloody lacerations.
Drey stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.
Spinning around, he saw the looming silhouette of a scarred man with a dragon tattoo etched across his neck.
And pinned in front of this beast was Lucas, drenched in tears, staring at Drey with an expression of absolute, soul-crushing despair.
The dragon-tattooed man shoved his fingers violently into Lucas’s mouth, clamped onto his upper jaw, and yanked upward with a brutal snap.
Paralyzed by an invisible force, Drey’s body refused to obey.
Lucas let out a choked, gurgling gasp as his executioner tore the entire top of his skull clean off.
The boy’s lifeless body collapsed into a pooling red stain.
The man with the tattoo turned back to Drey with a sadistic sneer.
“Well then…
shall we continue?”
Meanwhile, back in Malbour.
Louis and Niv had arrived at the city’s central square, where the Caravan Festival was in full swing.
The little girl watched in pure wonder as decorated floats and lively dancers filled the streets with color and movement.
Filled with joy at the sight of his daughter’s happiness, Louis pulled out a cigarette and casually lit it up.
At that exact moment, perched high above on a nearby rooftop, a hooded man sat in the shadows.
“I have located your informant, my lord…
Do you wish for me to eliminate him?”