Smoke. Burnt wood. Blood.
Not the metallic tang of a clean cut, but thick and charred—soaked into carpet, into bone. Lingering like a ghost too stubborn to move on.
The Ardent mansion stood in eerie silence. The thick, suffocating kind that settles only after devastation, like the breath held between a lightning strike and the thunder.
Victoria stepped through the shattered entrance.
The grand double doors hung off their hinges, one cracked in half. Marble tile glistened with something dark and sticky. Her heels clicked softly—then stuck faintly to the floor. A soft skrrch every time she moved.
The foyer, once pristine and immaculate, was now painted in ruin. Limbs twisted and bent at impossible angles. Men in dark suits, collapsed where they stood—or tried to run. Throats gaping. Eyes open. Skin pale.
Some were missing pieces.
Some were barely recognizable.
Bullet casings lay scattered like dead insects. When her foot brushed them, they clinked softly, nerveless echoes in the cold air.
Because no matter what they’d done—no matter who they worked for—this wasn’t war.
And then—she saw him.
Sitting on the marble steps, body still, back slightly hunched. A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, ember fading in the haze of the smoke-drenched air.
His hoodie was soaked in blood. Torn across the ribs. His hair was matted and tangled, streaked with crimson. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes... they were hollow. Empty in a way that wasn’t exhaustion.
They were calculating.
His hands rested loosely at his sides, fingers twitching now and then, like something mechanical rebooting between kills.
But his posture—it was still coiled. Not slumped. Not defeated.
A predator, waiting for one last heartbeat to pounce.
Victoria stepped forward. The sound of her own footfall unnerved her. It felt too loud in this cathedral of death.
Then took another step.
No sudden motion. No menace. Just movement—measured and steady.
Each step he took toward her left a footprint. Deep red. Wet. Imprinted on the pale tile like accusations.
Lifted one hand—bloodied, cracked at the knuckles—and ran it slowly through her hair. It clung to her strands, smearing streaks of red through the curls. Cold and damp.
"You’re free," he said softly.
Then he walked past her.
The sound of his footsteps faded behind her, leaving only the ticking silence and the stench of death.
Victoria turned, hasted her limbs moving before her mind caught up.
She looked up the grand staircase—its railings shattered, portraits defaced, walls scorched with gunpowder residue.
There was Elliot Ardent.
Slumped forward, arms out like crucifixion. His body was half-suspended on the doors at the top of the stairs, riddled with bullets. One hand was still twitching, blood dribbling from the holes in his chest. His mouth was frozen open mid-command, or maybe mid-scream.
Behind him, the hallway was no longer marble.
It was painted in gore.
The moonlight poured down like a spotlight from a cracked skylight above the ruined west courtyard.
Franz stood beneath it.
Bare-chested now—his hoodie discarded somewhere behind him. The wind tugged at his belt loops. Blood dried across his chest like ancient war paint. His hands were red to the wrists. His jawline was streaked. His eyes fixed on nothing.
A cigarette burned low in his fingers, the glow flickering.
The world was quiet now.
The mansion behind him no longer screamed.
He stared upward at the sky.
The stars were bright, uncaring. Far away.
"Why do I always choose the hard way..." he muttered.
The car ride was quiet.
Franz sat in the backseat, eyes lowered, expression blank. His body language calculated—just enough nervous energy to sell the role. Hands curled loosely on his lap. One foot tapped gently against the floorboard.
The two guards in the front didn’t speak much. The driver hummed to himself.
Franz’s thoughts, however, were screaming.
[ARC SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[New Decision Tree Uploaded]
➤ Objective: Save Victoria Ardent
Equivalent Exchange Required.
To restore balance: Sacrifice 30 lives of equal narrative weight.
Time limit: 24 hours.
"...The fuck is this?"
"Huh?" he hissed under his breath. "That’s it? That’s your input? This some bullshit tutorial screen? Why didn’t this pop up the first time I saved her?"
< I don’t know. I don’t control that screen. Either automated response, or... one of the gods messing with the admin settings. >
"You two are really fucking useless."
[ What did I do? I gave you emotional support. ]
< Excuse me? I offer explanations for things. That’s literally my function. >
Franz stared at the glowing UI for a long moment.
"Oh, good," he muttered. "So one of you makes jokes while the other gives me fucking bullet points."
[ Do you want us to make a pro/con list for the decision? ]
He groaned, pressing his head against the seatback.
"God, shut up. I only need to ask myself two things."
"One: Do I want Victoria to die?"
"Two: Do I care if I have to kill 30 random bastards instead?"
"Looks like we’ve made a decision, boys."
Far above the mortal world, in a realm layered in stars and mist, divine figures loomed over a spiraling pool of fates.
Mist exhaled steam from a silver teacup that never emptied.
Flame leaned back, chin resting in one hand, flipping a golden coin between his fingers. It never fell. Just rotated in defiance of gravity.
Mist: "...He made the choice."
Flame (grinning): "Told you he’d take the blood path. Pay up."
Mist didn’t sigh. Just tilted the cup and flicked a luminous chip across the obsidian table.
Mist: "You’re going to get us flagged again."
Flame: "Relax. Thirty souls is pocket change. We’ve bent worse. That realm’s laws are soft anyway."
Below them, a die rolled across a velvet mat—then stopped. Balanced on its edge.
Mist (quiet): "You keep rolling dice like that, one day you’ll crash a whole system."
The city blurred past.
"Old man," he said into the phone, voice low. "What happens if I kill everyone backing Elliot?"
On the other end, a breath.
"I’ll make arrangements."
Franz raised an eyebrow.
There was something strange in the old man’s tone. A tremor. A hint of fear.
"You don’t sound surprised."
Agustin hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.
Then—smooth. Too smooth.
"Oh, we were planning to move against him anyway," he replied.
He stared at the phone. Then shrugged.
"Ooh. Okay then. I’m at the Ardent family mansion. Send your men here."
Agustin ended the call without another word.
But his hand trembled slightly as he lowered the phone.
"Tell them," he muttered to the aide beside him. "Tell them I’m doing everything he asked."
The aide nodded, left quietly.
Agustin remained where he was, unmoving.
Sweat glistened at his temple.
His eyes stared at nothing—just the woodgrain of the wall in front of him.
He didn’t knew what was coming.
And he wanted no part of it.