Jinn's vision began to darken, the edges of his sight blurring into a dull haze as if the world around him was slipping through water.
Every breath he took burned like hot iron in his lungs, and each inhale became heavier than the last, as though the very air had turned against him.
A deep, echoing ring began to pulse in his ears—loud, pounding, and relentless—like war drums being beaten in the hollow of his skull.
His heartbeat thundered within his chest, erratic and overwhelming, pounding against his ribs as though it was trying to break free.
His knees wobbled beneath him, legs trembling and weakening, until they finally buckled under the weight of exhaustion, pain, and strain.
And then—his body collapsed.
But before he could fall flat to the cold, unforgiving ground, a pair of arms caught him mid-fall—gentle yet firm.
The arms wrapped tightly around his torso, steadying his limp form before easing him carefully down to the ground, letting him rest against the warmth of someone's body.
Even through the fog of his fading consciousness, Jinn recognized her.
Ophelia.
Through the years, ever since the very first day he met her, Ophelia had always been the one to watch over them—the unspoken guardian of their ragtag orphan group.
Whether it was bandaging Kain's skinned knees after yet another clumsy fall, or forcing Jinn to sit still so she could patch him up after one of his reckless brawls, she was always there.
Always kind.
Always dependable.
She wasn't a saint—not some holy figure sent to protect them—but she didn't need to be.
She was just someone who genuinely cared.
That was more than enough.
And for that, Jinn, even in the growing haze of unconsciousness, felt a deep, wordless gratitude for her presence.
"Ji… wa… up! …Ji…" Ophelia's voice struggled to reach him—muffled and fading into a soft blur—as Jinn finally succumbed to exhaustion, slipping into darkness.
Moments later, another pair of footsteps came rushing in—Verhedyn, Hector, Orin, Vox, and Kain—each one of them scrambling toward Jinn and Ophelia the moment they realized something was wrong.
"Lay him down carefully, Ophelia!" Hector called out as he ran over, quickly grabbing the bundled cloth that was used to wrap Fangeryth, Jinn's sword that was given by Venedix herself.
He crouched beside her and re-wrapped the sword before laying the cloth on the ground, forming a makeshift pillow for Jinn's head.
Ophelia nodded and gently rested Jinn's head onto the cloth.
"He's got a fever," Vox murmured, placing a hand gently on Jinn's forehead, his brow furrowed in worry.
"It's rising fast…"
"Okay—what the hell do we do now!?" Verhedyn shouted, throwing up his arms in frustration, panic starting to creep into his voice.
"I don't know! Maybe cast a hibby-jibby spell or something!" Orin snapped, her tone sharp and biting, more from fear than anger.
"Guys, calm down!" Ophelia cut in, her voice firm but not harsh, as she placed her palm over Jinn's forehead, trying to soothe his fever with whatever little comfort she could provide.
As the friends gathered protectively around Jinn, the air shifted once more—
*clack! *clack! *click!
the sound of deliberate, heavy footsteps clicking on the pavement echoed toward them.
Venedix.
*fwhip!
She flicked her twin swords outward with a single motion, flinging off the blood of the noble she had just slain.
Her gaze locked coldly on the group as she advanced, each step echoing like the toll of a bell.
Hector, noticing her approach from the corner of his eye, immediately stood up and moved in front of Jinn.
His hands were clenched into fists, and though his frame wasn't nearly as imposing as hers, he stood his ground like a wall.
"When will you be satisfied?" Hector said sharply, his voice full of a rare, seething resolve.
"You've burned our home… killed our friend… and now you're tormenting Jinn again. When does it end!?"
His voice rang through the open air like a strike of lightning—cutting, raw, and full of pain.
To the spectators watching from a distance—both slaves and nobles—he might have seemed small.
Unimportant.
But in that moment, his defiance made him feel larger than life.
Venedix narrowed her eyes at Hector, her fingers drifting toward the hilt of her hip-mounted sword.
But just as she seemed about to act, a deep, growling voice interrupted her.
"Keep those swords sheathed, lass," said Biyo,
stepping forward.
His entire frame was a mountain of muscle and old battle scars.
His face, etched with age and war, carried no trace of fear as he stood beside Hector.
"I'm in a cold mood," Biyo added,
*crack! *crack!
cracking his knuckles slowly, his voice low and sharp as a frost-edged blade.
An unnatural cold began to bleed from his chest, wrapping around him like a winter storm—his breath misting in the air as the temperature dropped around him.
Venedix's fingers gently tapped the hilts of her swords with her index fingers, ready—but not yet striking.
"Whether it's in the boiling pits of Milivren or the frozen hell of Emforkrost, I'll still cut you down, Titan," Venedix replied, her voice laced with warning.
Biyo scoffed.
"You can try. But unlike those pits or frozen beasts—I ain't so easy to kill."
The tension between them was thick enough to snap.
Crimson heat and glacial frost collided between their glares.
"Try me," Biyo said again, cracking both fists as his aura surged—a storm threatening to erupt.
"Damn, that's cold," Zendrell muttered with a chuckle from behind them. "Literally."
"Tch," Venedix finally clicked her tongue and exhaled sharply, relaxing her fingers as she released her grip on the hilts.
Seeing her back down, Biyo did the same—his freezing aura slowly dying down as he crossed his arms again.
"I have places to be," Venedix muttered, brushing past them with a sigh before turning her eyes to Zendrell.
"Bring Jinn to the house."
Zendrell raised an eyebrow. "And what about the others?"
Venedix glanced over her shoulder, briefly meeting the eyes of Jinn's friends.
"Them too."
Zendrell gave a small nod and looked toward the disguised Evakhell, giving her a half-grin and a wink.
"You hear that, warden?"
Evakhell's eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded. "Carry on."
She pressed a button on her datapad, and the neck devices worn by Jinn and his friends blinked a faint green light.
"Four days," she reminded. "Return them before the second ritual."
Venedix turned away, gripping her blades once again.
With a motion both deliberate and filled with elegance, she slashed horizontally and vertically through the air.
*Whirrrrr!!!
The motion tore open reality, crackling with crimson red energy until it widened into a swirling, humming portal—unstable, mysterious, and deep.
"Wait—where are you going?" Zendrell asked.
Venedix glared back at him.
"If not for some idiotic barbarian like you, my audience with one of the Warlords wouldn't have been interrupted."
Zendrell scratched his head. "Woops."
"Hmph."
Venedix scoffed one final time, her gaze briefly drifting toward Jinn, then locking once again with Zendrell's.
"Show them to Merilyn," she ordered. "She'll know what to do with the others."
And just like that, she vanished through the portal—its energy snapping closed behind her with a low, thunderous crack.
"Phew…" Zendrell exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Uhh… right. To Merilyn it is."
He strolled toward the unconscious Jinn, prompting Orin to instinctively flinch.
"W-What are you doing?" she stammered.
"Calm down, squirt," Zendrell said casually.
He knelt beside Jinn, placing a hand on his chest.
His palm began to crackle with faint crimson energy as he murmured something in his native tongue.
"Evkar in zerkain… Eidra Vok Vikain…"
Within moments, Jinn's breathing steadied.
His fever began to drop, and the color returned to his face.
He was stable.
Zendrell gently lifted Jinn's unconscious form into his arms before turning to the rest.
"Come on," he said, his voice calm and unshaken. "We're going to House Sorellia."