A few kilometers away from where Ethan faced the most intense danger of his life, Desmound sat cross-legged in a luxurious chamber far removed from the carnage. His hand hovered above a crystal ball, black smoke swirling around his fingers like snakes. His expression was manic—eyes wide, lips twisted into a grin, laughter spilling from him at unpredictable intervals.
"This is too fun," he cackled. "I haven't had this much entertainment in years. These insects are making it all worth waking up for. Nyahahaha!"
Desmound leaned closer to the orb. "Let's see... eenie, meenie, miney... you! Let's pick the ugliest one to die next, nyahaha!"
At that precise moment, the Doomblade vanished from view on the battlefield and reappeared behind one of Jenkins' comrades. In one clean motion, the unfortunate man was sliced into three grotesque pieces. Blood, brain matter, and organs sprayed across the forest floor in a gory and grotesque painting.
Desmound's glee only grew. He was a creature of cruelty—sadistic, manipulative, and volatile. Most who knew him avoided contact, not because he was too mysterious or powerful, but because his personality was venomous.
Long ago, he had created a false map to his domain and leaked it to various corners of the world. It was bait—a siren call for treasure hunters, vagabonds, and fools. What they didn't know was that the only treasure waiting was their own demise. Stanley had been one of those fools, and now the fate of that decision echoed in Ethan's unfortunate life.
As Jenkins' men began to scatter, Desmound sneered. "Fools. You think you can run from that thing? The Doomblade is the final sentinel of this forest. Even an advanced aura user wouldn't stand a chance. And speed? Nyahaha, it would hunt you down to the four edges of the continent without breaking a sweat!"
He weaved his fingers above the orb like a puppeteer, eyes dancing with delight.
Ethan, meanwhile, was running with all he had. Beside him, Jenkins and Olmo followed suit, their footsteps frantic through the thick brush and tangled roots. Fear had gripped their hearts. Jenkins clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him.
"This is my fault," he thought, leaping over a fallen branch. "I brought him into this. I brought all of us here. Damn it!"
Olmo led the way, surprisingly swift for his age. His eyes were bloodshot, and his mouth hung open as he sucked in air, lungs burning with each desperate breath.
The Doomblade struck again. Another man died, his body impaled on seven jagged blades and thrown against a tree with such force that it stuck to the bark like an insect pinned to a board.
Desmound watched, practically vibrating with glee. "Only four left! Let's see... where is the little abomination?"
He rotated the orb, cycling through different viewpoints until Ethan appeared. He was running hard, eyes wide with desperation.
"Ah, there you are," Desmound whispered. "Maybe I should keep one of the adults alive. Could use another pig like Stanley."
But then, something clicked.
Desmound's smile faded. "Wait... the direction they're heading..."
His body tensed.
"Shit. No, no, no! Damn it all! They're heading there. How the hell did I let this happen? Curse my twisted hobbies!"
The smoke around his hands flared as he moved frantically. "Gotta finish this. Fast. Before he finds out I'm involved."
Desmound began weaving his hands frantically, manipulating the dark energy like a puppeteer pulling strings. The moment he did, the Doomblade launched forward at breakneck speed in the direction of the fleeing trio. Unfortunately for Desmound, its last victim had been in the complete opposite direction of Ethan—yet the Doomblade hurtled ahead, cutting through the forest like a bullet, unstoppable and precise.
Back in the forest, Ethan felt the creature's eyes on him again. A suffocating, hateful pressure coiled around his chest. He had no explanation—only instinct.
"We need to move faster!" he cried to Jenkins, breathless. "It's here! It's coming!"
Jenkins didn't question him. "Weapons ready! Increase the pace! Stay alert!"
Even Olmo, despite his skepticism, obeyed.
The group pushed harder, dodging trees and leaping over roots. The forest was dense and unforgiving, yet even that was preferable to what hunted them. But fate had no sympathy.
In a blink, the Doomblade appeared ahead, cutting off their escape.
Olmo's knees buckled. He collapsed, hands clutching the dirt. Jenkins stopped just behind him, breathing hard.
Looking left and right he couldn't see Piter anywhere, and he smiled bitterly, we didn't even see him die
"This is it," Jenkins muttered. "We're done."
"Pleasure working with you," Olmo said quietly.
The Doomblade approached, slow and deliberate. Its seven blades hummed like a predator growling.
But then—
It walked past them.
Straight toward Ethan.
Ethan backed away with each step it took. He turned to run—
And the creature vanished.
It reappeared behind him.
Pain exploded in his skull as something struck him. The world went dark.
Jenkins and Olmo gawked in stunned silence. The Doomblade hadn't killed Ethan. It had knocked him out.
"Shit," Jenkins whispered. "Old man, I think I screwed up bad."
"You regret it?"
Jenkins shook his head slowly. "No. I don't."
Olmo smiled faintly. "Then it's all good. Shit happens."
The Doomblade raised its arms and vanished in a blur. A split second later, Jenkins felt something hot and wet splash across his face.
He turned to his left—and froze eyes wide in shock.
Olmo's body had been split clean in half. His upper torso lay twisted on the forest floor, eyes lifeless and wide with shock, while his lower half remained upright for a breath longer before toppling over. Blood spurted violently from the gaping wound, a gruesome fountain painting the earth in red.
Jenkins exhaled a shaky, resigned sigh. As he watched the creature begin to repeat the same fluid, ominous motion with its bladed arms, he closed his eyes and braced for death.
But nothing came.
Opening his eyes he found a figure in a blue cloak now stood between him and the Doomblade.
Jenkins blinked, too shocked to speak.
The cloaked man raised a single finger.
"Begone."
Reality twisted.
The Doomblade began to spin as if pulled into a void. Its form unraveled, pulled into itself, and vanished entirely.
Jenkins stared in awe.
The man turned to him. "Count yourself lucky. This place is about to become even more dangerous."
He pointed north.
"Run. At least five kilometers. Don't stop."
Jenkins nodded. He turned to retrieve Ethan, but the man held out a hand.
"The boy stays. You can't protect him. I can. Leave him to me."
There was something final in his tone.
Jenkins paused, gave a small bow, and ran.
He didn't look back, not even for a second.
He didn't know if he would ever see Ethan again.
But he hoped, with every fiber of his being, that the boy would survive.
At least then, their deaths wouldn't be in vain.