After his meeting with Jolix, Sesugh wasted no time. He moved through the underworld with urgency, seeking out the scattered remnants of the Assassination Guild. Every hour mattered. In six days, he was to meet Jolix at Thork Peak, where the twins were meant to converge with them. None of them knew the truth yet. The twins were already dead.
Henry awoke to darkness that had no shape. No horizon. No walls. Just an endless void pressing in from every direction. He gasped, instinctively reaching for solid ground that was not there, only to realize he was not alone.
Solomon stood beside him.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning the emptiness, and then he saw it. At the heart of the void stood a throne, impossibly distant yet unmistakably present. Upon it sat a figure wrought in gold and shadow, radiant and terrible, its form unmoving, its presence absolute. The air itself seemed to bow before it.
Neither brother spoke. They moved forward with measured steps, drawn by a force they did not understand, their minds heavy with questions. What was this place. What was that being. And why had they been brought before it.
"Hmmm… the fury that festers within you is not a burden meant for gods."
The voice rolled through the void, calm yet immense, echoing as the figure rose from the throne and stepped forward, its form gradually surrendering to the light.
The twins froze.
"Khalamanja…" Solomon breathed, disbelief tightening his chest.
"The Dragon of the West," Henry whispered, the name carrying both dread and reverence.
Before them stood Khalamanja, the ascended demigod feared across ages and realms. Legends spoke of his ascent, of how, at only ten years of age, he had slain an ancient god in single combat. For centuries, his power stood unmatched, his name spoken only in awe and terror until the birth of Israel and Emmanuel, the twins' elder brothers, whose emergence reshaped the balance of the divine.
"You do not belong here," Khalamanja declared, his words carrying the weight of an unchangeable truth. Their time had not yet run its course, and the mortal realm still held duties they were bound to fulfill.
"Your cruelty mirrors my own. That must be why fate cast your souls before me after death," he continued, his voice keen and cold as honed steel.
"Ariel… Nahar? What of them?" Henry asked, grief and fury tangled within his voice.
"They are of no consequence. Still, I will speak of them under a single condition," Khalamanja replied.
"And that would be?" Solomon said.
"Once I reveal the truth, you will not be permitted to leave," Khalamanja answered.
"Yeah, no. You tell us first, then we decide whether we stay or walk away," Solomon shot back, his patience long gone.
"Temper your tongue, boy. You do not wish to tread that path," Khalamanja warned, displeasure evident in his tone.
"Will you tell us?" Henry asked, his voice steady and respectful.
"Very well," Khalamanja said, rising slowly from his seat. "But know this… you will not welcome what you are about to hear."
Along his path, Sesugh crossed ways with Felix, a twenty one year old elite assassin whose mere presence tilts the balance of any confrontation. Standing at 6'1", he bears a lone sword forged by an unknown master, a weapon bound only to his soul and impossibly heavy in the hands of any other.
In a blur of motion, Felix drew his blade and surged toward Sesugh with overwhelming speed. Sesugh managed to meet the strike, steel clashing as he parried, but Felix held the greater edge. His true advantage was not strength or skill, but dominion over time itself. Felix could peer fifteen seconds into the future, enough to foresee lethal missteps, and rewind thirty seconds to undo them, reshaping defeat into certainty. Every contract ends the same way, the target falls, and Felix departs without a single wound.
Cold, composed, and intentionally solitary, Felix read Sesugh's next movement before it happened, striking to counter the very counterattack meant to stop him, drawing the two into a relentless clash.