Chapter 74: Severed Bonds, Fallen Children
Percy burst into the desolate ruins where Little 7 and Little 9 had taken shelter, remnants of the Master's possessions still burning around them. Smoke and ash danced in the air like twisted confetti, a celebration of their rebellion. The scorched earth trembled faintly beneath Percy's boots, as if recoiling from the chaos these two had brought.
"You have to stop," Percy urged, his voice raw. "He's not bluffing this time. Master's serious—he's going to kill you both!"
Little 7 glanced at Percy, a flicker of old brotherhood shining through the fury in his eyes. But it vanished just as quickly. "He created us to be his weapons. If he wants to break us, let him try."
Little 9's expression was blank, but his hands trembled with restrained power. "We warned him. This war… he started it. We're just finishing it."
Percy hesitated, heart heavy. "What if… what if you're right?" The doubt that had quietly festered inside him for weeks now surfaced with an aching clarity. "What if there's more behind him, and we've all just been pawns?"
But the moment passed as quickly as it came. Percy shook his head, forcing the thought away. My loyalty is to the Master. It has to be. "Just… don't do this," he whispered before vanishing into the shadows, leaving them to their choices.
When word reached the Master that his warnings had been tossed aside like dust in the wind, fury ignited in his eyes. The shadow behind him whispered without touching—no contact, but enough to claw into his thoughts with icy fingers.
"You're losing them," it rasped. "And with them goes your empire. You know what must be done."
The Master's heart pounded. These weren't just failures; they were betrayals. And betrayals had to be punished.
He stormed through the burning remnants of his domain until he found Little 7 standing defiantly before a shattered statue of the Master himself.
"You used to obey," the Master snarled. "You used to be loyal."
"I used to be blind," Little 7 spat, teeth bared.
The Master's hand rose, and in a swirl of dark energy, a spiked chain of raw magic burst from the ground and wrapped around Little 7's limbs. He struggled, snarling like the beast within him. With a flick of the Master's fingers, the chains snapped his bones in place, leaving him suspended mid-air.
"You were born from ashes," the Master hissed, his voice venomous. "And to ashes, you shall return."
A scream ripped from Little 7's throat as his skin began to boil. The fire that had once claimed his village and brother now devoured him from within. His eyes melted, jaw dislocated, and flesh cracked open, revealing the glowing embers that had always lived beneath the surface. His body finally collapsed into a heap of charred bones and smoldering flesh, smoke curling like a mourning veil into the sky.
The Master turned, panting, and shouted, "Let that be a warning!"
But Little 9 did not run. The Shrouded One watched from afar, his eyes emotionless, though a deep tremor echoed through his chest. Without a word, he clenched his fists, and another section of the Master's holdings—an ancient chamber of cursed artifacts—erupted into flames.
The Master's jaw tightened. "So be it."
Far away, Elara and Ariella stood with the Queens—who had appeared once more, not in form but in whispers of memory and glimmers within their dreams. The visions struck deep, showing the Master crumbling under pressure, the shadow pushing from behind, and his own children rising against him.
"He's falling apart," Elara murmured.
Ariella nodded slowly. "And we don't need to lift a finger. Let them destroy each other. We'll deal the final blow."
The Blue Queen's voice echoed gently, Do not rejoice too early, my child. The one behind him still lives.
"He will rise the moment the Master falls," added the White Queen," and he will come for you all."
Even so, the girls chose to wait. There was wisdom in letting enemies tear themselves apart.
Back in the ruins of his empire, the Master stood in his private chamber, staring at the shabby pot that had once held Little 9's life. The pot glowed faintly, the runes across it pulsing like a fading heartbeat.
He knew what he had to do.
"I created you," he whispered. "And I must end you."
The pot shattered under his hand, its shards shrieking as they fell. Far away, the beasts that served the Shrouded One howled in agony, their spirits severed in an instant. Without the pot, there would be no resurrection. No return.
Little 9 fell to his knees as the pain slammed into his chest. His body quaked, the bond between him and his beasts suddenly torn, his strength draining like blood from a wound.
Before he could recover, the Master arrived, cloaked in a storm of dark power. The sky overhead turned gray, and thunder grumbled like an angry beast.
"Your life now hangs by a thread," the Master said. "And I hold the blade."
Little 9 stood slowly, breath shallow. "So kill me. But I'll never obey you again."
"Then perish."
The battle was short and brutal. The Master moved like a force of nature, his magic fueled by desperation, fear, and grief. Little 9 fought back, but with his connection to the pot gone, he was slower, weaker.
A final surge of power cracked the earth, sending dust into the air. And through the haze, the Master emerged with a blade formed from raw magic—dark, jagged, and pulsing with wicked energy.
He brought it down without hesitation.
The blade cleaved through Little 9's neck. His head flew from his shoulders, spinning through the air before landing meters away, eyes still open in shock. His body swayed once before collapsing, lifeless and still.
Silence fell. Not even the wind dared move.
The Master dropped the blade and staggered forward. He collapsed beside the boy's corpse, his hands shaking as he reached toward the head.
"I didn't want this," he whispered. "You were mine… You were my son…"
He wept then, not for redemption, but for the unbearable weight of loss. The Shrouded One—his creation, his pride, his doom—was gone.
And still, behind him, the shadow lingered. Watching. Waiting.