The force of the blow sent Radimir stumbling backward, his vision briefly shaking as he barely managed to steady himself against a nearby table.

  “Ooorgh…” He groaned, his fingers gingerly pressing against his throbbing nose. Blood spilled freely, dripping down his lips, staining his chin. With an annoyed huff, he used the long sleeve of his martial robe to wipe it away, though the crimson streaks stubbornly clung to the fabric.

  His sharp blue eyes narrowed as he glared at the woman before him.

  “Ya seriously need therapy or sumthin’!” He spat, voice thick with pain. “Ya can’t just call upon little ol’ me whenever ya got pent-up rage or whatever dumb shit crawls into that twisted head of yours!”

  His words barely had time to settle before she moved.

  The moment her name left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.

  Fire.

  Not literal flames, but something equally searing, a suffocating presence that felt as though the air itself had been set ablaze.

  Anastasia Imperius turned, her fiery orange hair whipping behind her, and in an instant—

  Her fist crashed into Radimir’s jaw.

  The impact sent him reeling, but she didn’t stop.

  Fist after fist, each blow landed with relentless precision, his head snapping back, teeth rattling, skin splitting beneath the sheer force of her assault. He didn’t even have the chance to let out a cry of pain before a particularly vicious strike sent several of his teeth flying, blood splattering against the lavish floor of the tower.

  The world spun. His body slammed against the cold, unyielding wall.

  And then—

  A sharp, precise stomp landed dangerously close to his groin.

  The heel of her boot barely missed its mark, but the silent threat was deafening.

  “Not only did you talk back—” her voice dripped with venom, “—but you dared to speak my name as if you were equal to me.”

  A sharp inhale.

  Radimir forced himself to swallow down the pain, his body still trembling from the brutal onslaught. He knew better than to move.

  Anastasia towered over him, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the chamber. If her beauty had been divine, her wrath was godly—a force of nature that cared not for reason, only for dominance.

  She turned with an air of finality, heels clicking against the marble as she strode toward the door.

  “Get yourself cleaned up, pawn.”

  The words cut deeper than any wound.

  “I have a task for you, and I need it done as fast as you can possibly work.”

  With that, she vanished beyond the door, leaving only the echoes of her steps behind.

  Silence settled.

  Then—

  Radimir let out a deep, exasperated sigh.

  Slowly, he pushed himself up, leaning against the bloodstained wall as he rolled his shoulders.

  “Tch… Fifty-third,” he muttered, lifting a hand before him. A soft, ethereal glow of blue flickered to life at his fingertips. “That was my fifty-third time coming close to death with that corrupt goddess.”

  The warmth of the glow spread across his skin as he pressed his palm to his battered face.

  A faint shimmer.

  And just like that—

  The damage was undone.

  When he pulled his hand away, his nose was unbroken, his bruises gone, his teeth perfectly intact.

  With a light shake of his head, Radimir turned, making his way toward the window. His eyes narrowed as they focused on the streets below.

  Through the bustling crowd, two figures stood out.

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  A brown skin male with long dreaded hair and a pale male with equally white hair.

  Radimir’s lips curled into a grin.

  “Alrighty…” He murmured, tilting his head as his intrigue sharpened.

  “New playthings, eh?”

  .

  ..

  …

  The streets of Cinderhaven were alive with sound—laughter, shouts, the occasional melody from a street musician weaving through the air. Vendors called out to passersby, the scent of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread mixing with the faint smokiness that lingered in the air.

  Despite the liveliness of the place, Warren walked with a sharp, focused gaze, scanning each stand they passed. Twenty minutes had passed since they split up, and still, nothing. No food, no blankets, nothing that fit what they were looking for.

  Figures.

  “You two!”

  A voice boomed from the side, cutting through the chatter.

  Warren and Ronan turned to see a middle-aged man leaning over his stand, grinning wide enough to show the gaps between his teeth. His stall was cluttered with odd trinkets—small statues, rusted tools, playing cards worn from use. Nothing immediately useful.

  “Don’t ya wanna win something?” The man gestured grandly at his collection. “Boy, do I have the opportunity for you! All ya gotta do is trade me something and—”

  “No thanks.”

  Warren didn’t even let him finish.

  The man blinked, looking genuinely surprised at how fast he was shut down. Warren simply kept walking, his expression unreadable.

  Ronan hesitated, his steps slowing as he glanced back at the stall. “Seriously?” he muttered, reluctant to walk away. “You’re just gonna turn it down like that? What if it’s an opportunity to win something big? Maybe even better than what we need?”

  Warren sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Do you seriously believe that?” he shot back, side-eyeing Ronan. “What if we trade him something valuable, and he just takes it? No prize, no nothing.” His eyes flickered back to the man, who had already started calling out to other potential victims. “It’s probably a scam. Reminds me of carnival games. All rigged.”

  “Right, right…” Ronan muttered, clearly unconvinced. His shoulders slumped as he let out an exaggerated sigh, but ultimately, he picked up his pace to match Warren’s.

  Turning the corner, Warren and Ronan continued their search, though it felt less like a mission and more like a journey through something out of a dream. Every step revealed something new—rows of stands filled with handwoven fabrics, the scent of grilled meat drifting from an open-flame cookfire, children laughing as they ran through the streets. It was easy to forget the world outside this place was anything but kind.

  “The hell is that?”

  Ronan’s voice broke through the moment as he pointed toward a gathering crowd. The air buzzed with energy—cheers, shouts, the kind of roaring excitement that made it sound like a stadium just before the final moments of a game. The source of all the commotion was hidden within the swarm of people, but whatever it was, it had their full attention.

  “I’m gonna check it out… ’kay?” Ronan barely waited for a response before stepping toward the noise. “You don’t mind, right?”

  Warren exhaled sharply, watching as his companion practically vibrated with curiosity. He should have told Ronan to focus, to stick to what they were here for—but part of him was curious, too. He almost followed. Almost.

  Then something else caught his eye.

  Away from the spectacle, just slightly off the main path, an old man sat behind a weathered stand, humming an unfamiliar tune. His stall was different from the others. No food, no blankets, no jewelry or useless trinkets. Instead, laid out in front of him were weapons—daggers with worn hilts, bows that had seen years of use, swords sharpened to a fine edge.

  A weapons dealer.

  Not uncommon in a world like this, but it wasn’t the weapons that made Warren stop—it was the way the old man, without even looking up, seemed to sense him.

  Slowly, the elder lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Warren before gesturing him over. The movement was casual, almost indifferent, yet Warren felt an odd weight behind it.

  He hesitated.

  He didn’t have money. He didn’t have anything to trade. Walking over was pointless, yet his feet moved anyway, carrying him toward the stand before he even fully processed why.

  ‘That ability of yours… Echo Rebound. It’s a gamble. For now, until you learn how to properly control something as dangerous as that, stick to staying out of trouble.’

  Silas’s words echoed in his mind.

  Warren clenched his fists.

  “I’ll still need something to protect myself with…” he murmured, standing before the weapons dealer with a look of quiet determination.

  Even if he had nothing to offer, he wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

  Meanwhile, Ronan slipped through the packed crowd with ease, his short and wiry frame making it effortless to weave between people without drawing much attention. The further he pushed forward, the louder the commotion became—cheers, laughter, the occasional groan of disappointment. It was electric, the kind of excitement that made his heart race even before he could see what was happening.

  Then, at last, he broke through to the front.

  A makeshift stage stood before him. On it, three figures:

  A man in a suit and top hat, megaphone in hand, standing with the exaggerated confidence of a showman.

  Another man—exhausted, shoulders slumped, stepping down from the stage with a look of quiet defeat.

  And finally… him.

  A brown-skinned man dressed in a loose martial robe, something straight out of an old-world wuxia tale. His long black dreadlocks, tied into a bun, swayed slightly as the wind brushed past. Yet despite his seemingly relaxed posture, there was something about him that sent a chill through Ronan’s body—like staring at the surface of a still lake, knowing something monstrous lurked beneath.

  “And that’s another win for—!” The top-hat man hesitated, glancing at the martial artist. “Erm… what was your name again?”

  The defeated man had already disappeared into the crowd, lost among the sea of spectators, but the energy of the match still lingered in the air.

  The martial artist let out a low chuckle, his expression unreadable. “Haha, no worries… I’m Radimir. Radimir Vostok.”

  His voice was light, almost casual. Yet something about it sent an involuntary shiver down Ronan’s spine.

  Then, Radimir’s eyes met his.

  A slow, deliberate gaze—one that felt far too knowing for someone he had never met before.

  Ronan stiffened.

  It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even intimidation. It was something else, something wrong.

  Before he could process it, Radimir casually reached over and plucked the megaphone from the announcer’s hands. He lifted it to his lips, his tone as smooth as silk.

  “Nice to meet you all.”

  The words were meant for the crowd, but to Ronan, it felt like they were meant for him alone.

  And for some reason, they made his blood run cold.