Beneath the ashes of the fallen, a storm stirred—and it remembered everything.
The rain had just started when Amelia stepped into the city streets, her hood low over her face. The pavement shimmered with water, shadows thick in the alleys. Something felt off. Her crimson eyes scanned everything.
She wasn't afraid. She was the Sin of Lust. Her charm could wreck people. Her aura alone made others weak in the knees. But tonight? Tonight was different.
A whisper rode the wind.
"You've been careless, Amelia."
She spun, magic already rising in her chest. Her aura flared—smoke and silk wrapping her in power. But the man who stepped out of the shadows didn't even blink. Dressed in black, violet eyes glowing—he looked like trouble.
"You're bold, showing up like this," Amelia said, her voice smooth but sharp. "Either you're stupid... or sure you can take me."
"Not stupid. Just prepared," he said calmly. "We've been watching you for a while. You got sloppy."
She gave a dry laugh. "Stalkers usually regret it. Badly."
He smirked. "You talk like someone still in control. You're not."
"We'll see." She took a slow step forward, the pressure from her aura growing heavier. "You think you're the first who's tried this?"
"No," he said. "But I'll be the last."
"I don't remember inviting you for a walk," she said, smirking.
He tilted his head. "You Sins always think you're in control. This time? You're the target."
Figures emerged all around her. Five. Maybe more. Too many.
Amelia backed up. "Tch. Should've brought more."
She moved first. Her aura exploded—blinding, overwhelming, meant to melt minds. But these weren't pushovers. One rushed her. She dodged—barely. Another grabbed her wrist. She twisted free—then pain. Sharp. Her shoulder lit up.
A needle.
Her vision spun. Limbs heavy.
Poison.
She stumbled, tried to summon her power again—but everything tilted. A hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up.
"Impressive," the man said, almost amused. "But you lean too hard on your powers."
She couldn't respond. Her body didn't move.
And then—
Darkness.
—
Back at camp, Arthur couldn't shake the feeling. Something was wrong. Off. The tension hadn't eased since the last fight. Camila felt it too—sharp-eyed, every nerve on alert.
Everyone was on edge. Survivors patched themselves up, traded scraps, kept watch. But it was too quiet.
Then came the scream.
Arthur and Camila bolted toward it. An older man—Elias—was clutching his arm, bleeding, panicked.
"He... he tried to kill me!" Elias shouted, pointing.
There, at the edge of the clearing, stood Lorin. One of the newer survivors. Quiet. Seemed harmless.
Until now.
Arthur stepped forward. "Lorin. What the hell is this?"
Lorin just smirked. His eyes glinted with something cold. "You're fast. But not fast enough."
Camila's stomach dropped. The air felt wrong. Thick. Heavy.
Then it hit her—a dark aura. Oily and suffocating.
"Dark Clans," she hissed.
Lorin chuckled. "You really thought they'd let you roam around without someone watching?"
Arthur's fists clenched. "Where's Amelia?"
"Alive. For now."
Arthur surged forward, but Camila stopped him. Not yet.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"It's not me. It's Rael."
Arthur's patience snapped. He lunged.
Lorin didn't stand a chance. One punch—he went flying into a tree. Blood splattered.
Still, he laughed.
"Okay," Lorin coughed, wiping his mouth. "Let's play."
In a blink, he vanished—reappearing behind Arthur, strike aimed for the spine. Camila shouted—Arthur ducked and countered, spinning into a kick. Lorin twisted away, just skimming the ground.
He flipped into the air. Black energy coiled around his arms like snakes. He slashed—dark blades flying. Arthur dodged, just barely.
Camila was already in motion, sword drawn. Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Lorin weaved between her strikes, still grinning like a maniac.
"You're fun," he said. "No wonder Rael's watching."
Camila's eyes narrowed. "You're not getting away."
"Don't need to."
Then—he was gone. Melted into the shadows.
Arthur started after him, but Camila grabbed his arm.
"No. It's a trap."
He growled, furious.
But she was right.
One of their own had been a spy.
And Amelia was gone.
—
Later that night, the fire burned low. Camila sat across from Arthur, sword in her lap, eyes locked on the flames. He paced, each step tighter than the last.
"We're running out of time," he said.
"Then stop wasting it doing dumb stuff," she snapped. "We do this smart. Or not at all."
He stopped, sighed. "Okay. What's the plan?"
She pulled out a map, hand-drawn and rough. "Manor's at the edge of the city. Guarded all over. But there's an escape tunnel underneath. Barely watched. I'll take that route."
"And me?"
"Go loud. Cause chaos. Pull their eyes off me."
Arthur grinned. "That I can do."
"And if Amelia's too hurt to move?"
His grin vanished. "I'll carry her."
"Good."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Arthur muttered, "They're gonna regret touching her."
Camila nodded. "Every last one."
—
The manor's tavern reeked—booze, sweat, blood. Shadows clung to warped walls. Near the back, Jake sat alone. Drink in hand. Watching.
Then—he noticed.
Arthur.
Jake didn't turn. Just smirked. "Staring that hard? Might think you've got a crush."
Arthur stepped closer, no smile. "Just wondering if now's a good time to kill you."
Jake finally looked at him. Calm. Casual. Dangerous. "Always this friendly with strangers?"
"Strangers don't smell like death and broken genes."
Jake chuckled, sipping his drink. "And you've got power you don't know how to use."
Silence stretched.
"You're in my way," Arthur said.
"Funny. I was about to say the same thing."
The table cracked as Arthur struck first.
Jake dodged—smooth, almost lazy. The tavern exploded into chaos. Chairs flew. Demons scattered.
Only two stayed locked in place.
Arthur.
Jake.
And neither of them planned on losing.