Ryke and Sherlyn entered the brothel—a chilling name in Ryke’s mind. Inside, it was hotter than the freezing night air. The room was thick with perfume, so much so that he couldn’t even smell Sherlyn anymore. The place was well-lit, though shadows lingered in the corners. Several doors lined the walls—likely where “business was spoken.” Having Sherlyn with him was an advantage; given how her powers worked, he knew they weren’t walking into this blind.

  They sat at a table. Ryke kept his eyes scanning, cautious, while Sherlyn faced the other way, occasionally stealing glances at him, waiting for a signal that her brother was near. By coincidence, the seating worked perfectly with their plan.

  When Ryke spotted Sherlyn’s brother looking their way, he calmly raised his hand. Just as the boy reached their table, Sherlyn turned her head aside, pretending to search for something.

  “What’s the order, sir?” Sherlyn’s brother asked.

  Ryke grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him close. Before he could react, Ryke whispered in his ear:

  “Karl.”

  On the outskirts of Os’Thera, Leon and Azeya, backed by twenty men, advanced toward Jack’s house. Jack stood waiting outside—a proud, towering figure with a small bag in his left hand. He was taller and more muscular than Leon, darker-skinned, his brownish eyes unforgettable.

  One of Leon’s men whispered, “Is that him? He’s huge, but I’ve seen bigger.”

  “That’s the legendary Jack,” another replied, his eyes shining. “Just wait.”

  Leon conjured a fireball and hurled it with force. It tore through Jack’s house, his garden, and part of the forest. Flames roared. Jack stepped aside at the last instant, sword already raised. When Leon’s blade followed, Jack blocked it, steel clashing against steel as their eyes locked.

  “Leon, you dumb bastard, look what you’ve done to my beautiful place,” Jack seethed.

  “I can’t believe it. You’re still as dumb and big as ever,” Leon shot back.

  “So, the sword, huh? Just know mine is angry,” Jack growled.

  “Still mad? Tell her hi,” Leon quipped. “So where’s this person? What’s her name? " Leon asked

  "You know the deal, don’t you—or have you forgotten?” Jack replied

  The blades strained, each pushing the other. Jack had the advantage, but Leon didn’t resist for long. He gave ground, leaping back with fluid precision—better than the leap he once showed Ryke in training.

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  “What just happened?” Leon muttered under his breath.

  “Azeya, still as beautiful as ever!” Jack called.

  “And since when do barbarians give compliments?” she shot back with a smile, though even she was questioning at what she saw.

  “Maybe you can help him, or else he’ll need to take off a limiter,” Jack said with a grin.

  “Maybe then, Jack. But not now,” Azeya replied smoothly.

  “Enough talk, old man—let’s finish this,” Leon barked.

  From time to time, Leon flung fireballs with his left hand, gauging Jack’s reactions. Azeya observed closely—Leon probing for weakness, Jack flawless in his form, switching his sword hand with fluid grace.

  At last, Leon unleashed one fireball stronger than all the rest. Jack used all his strength to cut but during this period Leon blurred forward at impossible speed—faster than anyone but Azeya could follow—and struck

  Jack fell, sword still in hand, a smile tugging at his lips. “Dumb bastard… miscalculating isn’t so bad,” he muttered, eyes drifting skyward.

  Leon knelt beside him. “Stop stalling, Jack. The girl.”

  “Are you still after Os’Thera?” Jack deflected, grimacing through pain.

  “The girl, Jack.”

  “…Sky,” Jack whispered. Then, clutching Leon’s coat, he murmured something so heavy that Leon’s expression faltered for the first time in years.

  Leon nodded. “What’s your last wish?”

  “No remnants left. Take my sword. Burn me.”

  Leon slid two rings from his middle fingers. At once, flames roared outward, threatening to consume everything. Jack’s final words forced through the fire: “Azeya—just like I said. He had to take them off to fight me…” Then silence.

  Azeya stepped into the blaze beside Leon, watching as Jack’s body turned to ash. “Once upon a time, it took three of us to defeat him. Goodbye, Master,” she whispered.

  Leon rose, gazing upward, grief hidden behind his faint smile. “Sky is the name,” he said softly. Then he turned, flames vanishing with his departure. “Take care of Julien’s men. Don’t worry, he won’t come. I know my brother too well.”

  Meanwhile in Zurehn, tension hung between Ryke and the waiter. At the mention of “Karl,” the boy froze. His eyes widened like he’d heard the name of a ghost. Muscles tensed—he nearly struck Ryke—but Ryke whispered another word that stopped him cold.

  A man approached. “What seems to be the problem here?”

  “The damn boy spilled water on me,” Ryke said smoothly.

  “Ironic. You look younger than you should,” the man mused.

  “Blessed, I suppose,” Ryke replied with a merchant’s grin.

  “Forgive the boy. He’s clumsy. Go back, Steve,” the man ordered.

  Karl moved away, only to bump into someone else. “Steve!” the man barked again.

  Sherlyn took a gulp of wine, muttering under her breath. “Damn fool… of all the names, he picks Steve?”

  “Let’s eat,” Ryke said calmly. “We’ll need the energy.”

  They ate, Karl slipped away, and Ryke followed shortly after.

  At the back of the brothel, Karl waited with another man.

  “Karl or Steve—which do you prefer?” Ryke asked.

  “Karl. Steve’s dead now,” Karl replied flatly.

  “Then go with Sherlyn. I’ll handle these men.”

  “You’re confident, facing us alone?” another man sneered, stepping from the shadows.

  “Eight against one? Hardly fair,” Ryke said with a smile.

  “You want fair? Then just you and me,” the man said, shrugging off his coat.

  Ryke took his stance—left leg forward, right leg balanced, left hand extended, right hand hidden. His eyes read the man’s every twitch. A shift in the leg, then sudden speed. Too late—Ryke’s dagger sliced only air, grazing the man’s arm.

  The man was tall, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, dressed sharp in black jeans and a white shirt. His speed was frightening. Ryke parried, ducked, blocked—but always a second too late.

  Blows landed. Pain spread. Blood trickled from Ryke’s nose.

  The man stopped briefly. “I see… yes, that should be it,” he muttered.

  The fight resumed. Ryke could sense the movements but not keep up. Sloppiness—Sherlyn’s ability still clinging to him. With her near, he was dulled, weakened, but the tradeoff was survival.

  He pushed harder. Switching stance again and again. Left to right. Forward, back. Slowly, the man’s strikes lost precision. Ryke countered more cleanly, his defense sharpening, dagger biting closer.

  Finally, an opening. Ryke lunged—but the air changed. Trap. Fire , Ryke thought , in that moment he squeezed his eyes shut instinctively.

  And then he felt it—like whispers in his mind. His senses surged. He mapped the man’s body from leg to head.

  “The left hand,” Ryke thought.

  The same hand which was making it's way towards his head .

  He caught it with his palm, then cut across the man’s right hand, ending the exchange.

  “You didn’t want to kill me. Smart,” the man said, stepping back. “I’m Darmian. We’ll meet again, boy.”

  He left, men trailing after him, each giving Ryke a silent stare.

  Ryke stood, bleeding from the wrist burn , body aching, exhaustion dragging at every muscle. He avoided the crowds and staggered his way back to Leon’s safehouse.