Adam didn't like being called a traitor. The word clung to the air like the stench of old blood—bitter, unjust, and undeserved. But before he could spit a retort, Diggen lunged.
The sword came fast, steel gleaming with murderous intent. Years of retirement hadn't dulled Adam's reflexes. He pivoted to the right, boots skidding in the dirt as the blade sliced through the space where his ribs had been moments before. He didn't panic. He never did.
Diggen pressed the attack with a snarl, twisting his wrist into a savage horizontal slash. But Adam moved like a ghost. His foot snapped up, striking the flat of the blade and knocking it wide. In the same motion, he stepped in, drove his forearm into Diggen's throat, and dropped him like a sack of stones.
Dust rose in a thick cloud as Diggen crashed onto his back. Adam stood over him, his shadow swallowing the fallen man whole. He sighed—long, heavy, full of weariness and something close to pity.
"Look at you," Adam muttered, shaking his head. "From a proud aura-user to this... a washed-up bandit king, ruling over beggars and thieves in a rotting village."
Diggen's face contorted in rage and humiliation. His pride—once steel-strong—was brittle now, shattered by grief and failure. He hadn't always been like this. He used to be respected. Feared. A master of the blade, admired for his balance and discipline. But now?
Now he was a storm of fury and broken instincts, drowning in loss.
Gritting his teeth, Diggen tried to rise—only for Adam's boot to slam down on his throat, pinning him to the ground. The pressure was steady, unrelenting.
"I could kill you right now," Adam said, his voice like ice. "But I've spent too many years keeping my hands clean to dirty them over a fool's pride. So listen closely, boy. Save yourself. Save your men."
Diggen's fingers clawed at the dirt, gasping, choking—but Adam didn't budge.
"Brenda's gone. The people coming for this village? They're beyond you. Best case, you take a few of them down before you die. Worst case, you drag every one of your men into the grave with you."
Adam lifted his boot and stepped back, letting Diggen suck in a ragged breath.
"This is my last mercy," Adam said. "Don't waste it."
He turned to leave.
Diggen's voice rasped behind him. "Who are they?"
Adam paused mid-step, casting a shadow over the grave. His reply was low, but it hit like a war drum.
"The Black Scimitar."
The name struck Diggen like a blow to the gut.
He had once scoffed at the stories—as an aura-user, he had dismissed them as shadows in the underworld, lapdogs for corrupt nobles and tools for cowards. But now? Now he realized the truth.
They weren't rats.
They were wolves.
And he was a crippled lamb.
As Adam vanished into the night, Diggen lay on the ground, teeth grinding until his jaw ached. For the first time since his teacher had ripped out his core, he felt small. Powerless. The weight of that realization choked him far worse than Adam's boot ever had.
Fear crept in slowly, and with it came an unsettling shift. The desire to avenge Brenda—the one thing that had anchored him—began to fade. What good was vengeance when he couldn't even guarantee his own safety?
Morning came, but it brought no solace.
The village stirred with whispers. One of Diggen's men had been found dead—naked, mutilated, his eyes and manhood carved out like trophies. The corpse lay beside a shack, a grotesque message spelled in flesh and bone.
Worse still was the silence from Diggen's house. Not even Stanley—loyal, scheming Stanley—was allowed inside. He lingered on the doorstep, fingers drumming against his thigh as he stared toward the shuttered windows. He knew that man. Knew his pride, his rage. If Diggen wasn't storming out by now, then whatever had happened was worse than fire. Worse than blood.
Then Dan appeared, jerking his chin in summons.
Stanley didn't hesitate.
Inside, the air was heavy—thick with dread. Diggen's men huddled together on the ground floor, their usual bravado replaced by hollow silence. Stanley's pulse quickened. What the hell could shake these dumb bastards this badly?
Upstairs, Diggen waited.
Alive. Unharmed. But his eyes?
Hollow.
"Now that the fat pig's here," Diggen rasped, "we talk. We're being hunted. And it's worse than you think."
He laid it all bare: Brenda's murder. Adam's warning. The Black Scimitar's shadow creeping in like a noose tightening around their necks.
Stanley's face went pale. He'd spent his whole life neck-deep in the underworld—he knew exactly what the Black Scimitar did to those who got in their way. His hands trembled.
We're dead. All of us.
"Our options are limited," Diggen said flatly. "One, we fight back and die. Every single one of us."
He paused, letting the weight of that truth settle.
"Two… we hand over the village. Try to become part of whatever they're planning."
The room fell silent, the men staring at him in disbelief. Then Dan spoke up, voice tense.
"But what about Brenda? You're just gonna let that slide?"
They all expected a violent outburst—rage, screaming, blood. But Diggen only closed his eyes. Said nothing.
That silence told them everything. He wasn't going to risk his life for revenge. Not even for her.
"Join them?" Stanley barked, his voice cracking. "You might have a shot, but me? They'll gut me the moment I'm no longer useful!"
Dan exhaled hard. "If this is true… it's suicide."
Diggen gave a grim nod. "We sell our last cargo to Vekir. Then we deal with the traitors who sold us out."
His eyes shifted toward Dan and Bull. "Tonight, we kill Adam. Friz owes us a favor. Cash it in."
Then he turned to Stanley.
"As for you… this is where we part ways."
Stanley's breath caught.
Those words weren't just a farewell.
They were a death sentence.
The meeting ended just like that. No arguments. No second chances.
Stanley walked back to his house like a man already buried. Wayla was waiting by the door, her face drawn with worry.
The moment she saw him, she knew something was wrong.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice tight with fear.
Stanley didn't answer right away. He grabbed a jar of water, gulping it down like he was dying of thirst. Then he turned to her, eyes hollow.
"What happened is—we're fucked," he said flatly. "The ones who torched the farm? They're out of our league. And Diggen… Diggen wants to surrender. Worst part is, I don't think I have anything they'd want."
Wayla's face drained of color. "B-but… you can find a way out of this, right? You always do…"
Stanley shook his head. "I don't know. This time, things are bad—really bad. We might end up doing labor. Or worse. All depends on how merciful our new masters feel."