Back in Xing Long, Farrah and Marla were tending to Castor, who had been growing alarmingly worse with each passing hour. The once-vibrant old man—who just yesterday had been cracking jokes and sneaking second helpings of soup—now lay curled in a dampened heap on the bed, his skin pale, his eyes glazed with fever. The room was thick with the sharp tang of herbs... and something else. Something wrong.
Farrah paced, her jaw clenched tight, eyes flicking between the potions lining the table and the old man gasping on the sheets. She'd cycled through every scroll, every tonic, every drop of elixir she had.
Shit! This isn't good. He was fine five hours ago—how the hell did it get this bad so fast!? Her fingers trembled as she checked his pulse. It beat erratically beneath her fingertips, fluttering like a bird trying to escape a cage.
Across the room, Marla knelt beside the bed, whispering frantic prayers—some to gods long forgotten, others made up on the spot. Please, someone... anyone. Don't take him. Not yet.
Suddenly, Castor's hand twitched, grasping Marla's as his eyes fluttered open. His voice, barely more than a breath, cracked through the stillness.
"Honey…"
Marla paused mid-prayer, clutching his hand tightly.
"It's okay..." he whispered.
Marla's lips quivered. "Farrah… stop with the scrolls." Her voice trembled, her faith faltering. "He's… at peace with it."
"No!" Farrah snapped, already reaching for another potion. "We just need to get out of the district—there's a scientist two over, he can—"
"Farrah!" Castor rasped, louder than expected, before a violent cough overtook him. Blood spattered across the sheets. He squeezed Marla's hand with surprising strength.
"It's over, get with the music," he said with a wry smile, smearing the blood from his mouth. "I'm already dying—do I really have to raise my voice too?"
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Farrah froze, scroll half-unfurled in her hand. Her eyes welled, lips trembling with everything she wanted to say but knew wouldn't help.
Slowly, silently, she let the scroll drop to the floor and sat beside him. She brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead with shaking fingers.
"I lost a friend three years ago," she whispered. "I can't—" her voice broke, "I can't lose you too. It's too soon."
Castor chuckled, breath catching. "Well, that's your fault for befriending an old couple. We're closer to kicking the bucket than you." His weak grin warmed the air despite the fevered chill.
Farrah bit back a sob, managing a brittle laugh. She squeezed his hand tight, tighter than she meant to.
"You always knew how to lighten the mood," she said, voice cracking, "even when the whole damn world's falling apart."
"It's what he always does..." Marla murmured, gently rubbing his cheek. "That's why I love him so much. But we can't ignore the truth." She turned to Farrah, offering a soft, sad smile. "He's been holding on for us... but now it's our turn to let him go."
"Yeah, I'm just glad the kids are gone," Castor rasped with a grin, surprising them with the strength in his voice. "All that crying and whining—I'm already dying, I don't need to hear complaints on my way out."
Farrah let out a small, choked laugh, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"But if you really want to help, Farrah..." Castor's voice shifted, growing more serious. "Do one final prayer with Marla. Give me a proper send-off."
"You do know I'm an Apatheist, right?" Farrah said, half-laughing, half-crying.
"Then flip a coin. Pick a sky ghost. I don't care about Apathee-sis or whatever—just do—"
A harsh cough cut him off, more violent than before.
Farrah and Marla exchanged a look—that knowing, heavy kind—the kind that didn't need words. He was making jokes not for them, but to dull his own edge.
They knelt beside him, hands entwined. Marla placed one gently on his forehead. Farrah leaned closer. The heat radiating off Castor was searing—a cruel contrast to the cold knot forming in her stomach.
She bent down, whispering, "I'll do it. For you."
Castor's eyes lit up for a flicker of a second... and then dulled again, like a fading ember.
Marla began to pray, voice trembling but steady, like someone walking barefoot over broken glass:
"Gracious Yahawah, we come before You in sorrow, yet in hope, for Your servant Castor. We entrust him into Your loving hands, praying that through Your infinite mercy, he may find eternal rest in Your heavenly kingdom. We ask Your forgiveness for all his sins, known and unknown, trusting in the boundless grace of Your Son, Yahaw, who died so that we might live. May his soul be purified and welcomed into the joyous company of saints."
The words wove through the room, weighty and reverent. Farrah squeezed Castor's hand, her eyes shut tight, silently begging her thoughts to be heard.
"For those of us left behind, grant Your divine comfort," Marla continued, her voice thick with grief. "Ease our pain, soothe our sorrow, and give us the strength to mourn—not without hope, but with the assurance of Your presence. Help us hold tight to the love we shared, the memories we carry, and the life Castor lived... and to find peace knowing he is now at rest with You."
Farrah's quiet sobs turned into trembling gasps.
"Sustain us in our grief, dear Lord," Marla whispered, her voice beginning to break. "Empower us to move forward, holding to the promise of reunion in Your perfect timing. Guide us to live lives that honor Castor's memory—and Your will. Always looking to You, the author and perfecter of our faith."
Then... silence.
Castor's chest no longer moved. His eyes stared blankly upward, locked on something neither of them could see.
Farrah's grip clenched tight around his hand—white-knuckled, unyielding, as if she could hold his soul in place by sheer force of will.
Marla's hand gripped the cross around her neck like it was her anchor in a world suddenly spinning out of control. Then, gently, she leaned in and kissed Castor's forehead.
Her tears fell onto his face like soft rain... too late to wake him.
"We ask all this in the precious name of Yahaw, our Lord and Savior..." Marla whispered, gently closing Castor's eyes. Her voice faltered, trembling under the weight of her heartbreak.
Farrah felt the moment hit her like a slow-moving wave—quiet, relentless, suffocating. Amen... she echoed, voice no louder than a breath.
She reached over, covering Castor's face with a towel, sealing the truth of his absence behind cloth and silence. The room was still, thick with the scent of herbs... and the unmistakable weight of death.
"I'm surprised you're so calm," Farrah said finally, her voice rough with the effort of holding it all in. "Even after losing your husband."
Marla gave her a tired smile. "I'm fifty-five, Farrah. Around here? Most don't make it past twenty-five." Her thumb traced the edge of her cross. "I've seen men kill each other over a silver coin, or an unfaithful woman. I've buried friends for reasons so stupid they'd be funny if they weren't so tragic." She sighed. "I'm just grateful sickness took him from me... not a sword, not fire, not some drunk with a grudge."
She turned to Farrah, her voice soft. "But it's not the end. We'll meet the Lord, all of us. I hope one day, you'll put your full faith in Him too."
Farrah looked down, eyes drifting to the floorboards. I don't even know what I believe in anymore...
"I don't really know myself," she murmured. The concept of faith felt like chasing fog—untouchable, impossible. In a world twisted by magic and machinery, gods felt like old stories meant for other people. But watching Marla now—watching that kind of peace—Farrah couldn't help but feel a flicker of envy.
"If there is a god," she said slowly, "it wasn't kind to me. I've been on my own since I could walk. When I was eight, my parents—junkies, both—sold me for a hit. After that? The streets."
Marla sat down, her posture patient but heavy with compassion. "Well then, my child. Since you opened the door…" She patted the bed beside her.
Farrah hesitated, then crossed the room like someone stepping into old wounds. She sat, eyes still on Castor's covered form.
"I've slept in alleys, abandoned shops, under freight trains. Places most people wouldn't even walk by, let alone rest in." She took a breath—sharp and brittle. "And no matter where I was... there was always some man. Young, old, didn't matter. Always trying something."
Marla's fingers tightened around her cross, heart breaking for the girl she'd come to love like her own.
"Farrah—" she began, but Farrah held up a hand, sharp and dismissive.
"It was funny, though. They never knew what I was." A bitter smile pulled at her lips. "When they found out I was a Viltrumlight? The look on their faces, right before I bashed them in... that was the best part."
Her voice was venomous, full of glass and gravel. She had never told this story—not even Bella. And now that it was out, it poured like oil on a fire.
"You've carried that for a long time," Marla said gently. "And alone. That kind of pain—it's suffocating. No child should've ever had to survive the world like that."
Farrah gave a hollow chuckle. "Yeah, well. At eighteen, I found a coliseum in Bingxue District. They hosted death matches. I had nothing. No family, no food, no future. So I signed up." Her eyes glazed over, replaying blood-slick floors and roaring crowds.
She held up her robotic arm. "That's where I lost this." Her voice didn't waver, but the pain lingered beneath the steel. "Fought a water mage. He took it clean off—I didn't even feel it till I saw it on the sand."
She flexed her metal fingers. "But look at me now. Got this bad boy, and I'm still standing."
Marla nodded, eyes misty. "You're stronger than anyone I know, Farrah." She paused. "But there's something I need you to understand."
Farrah glanced at her, uncertain.
"The love of the Lord... it's not earned. It's given. No matter what you've done. No matter what you've survived. His arms are open to you, even in the blood, the dirt, the dark."
Farrah said nothing, but something in her jaw softened. The silence between them wasn't hollow this time—it held something.
Possibility.
"It couldn't be too bad—you met Bella at the brothel at one point, didn't you?" Marla said, offering a gentle smile in an attempt to lift the mood.
Farrah nodded, eyes locked on a spot on the wall. A faint smile crept across her lips, heavy with memory. Nostalgia washed over her like warm rain—comforting, but never without that ache.
"Yeah... she was just a kid back then," she murmured, voice drifting as the present slipped away.
Sixteen Years Ago
At eighteen, Farrah stalked the dim streets of the Zhumo District, her cybernetic arm gleaming under moonlight, a sleek futuristic katana strapped across her back like a warning. A man emerged from the shadows, greasy and whispering about the underground fights like it was sacred scripture.
"Yo, I've seen that girl before. Champion of the Bingxue District," said a smoker, his voice as rough as sandpaper. The stench of old tobacco clung to him like rot. His bloodshot eyes flicked to her as she passed.
"Yeah, she got like fifty wins and no losses," chimed in a younger man, clearly related, clearly in awe.
"And I bet you think she's pretty too, huh, nephew?" The older one chuckled, giving him a smack on the back.
"She's pretty dangerous," the kid said, voice dropping. "Forty-five kills. Only spared five. I'm guessing she's not into the meat diet, if you know what I mean..." He shuddered—not sure if it was excitement or fear. Maybe both.
Farrah kept walking, eyes ahead, expression flat. She didn't have to look to feel their stares trail behind her like ghosts.
I quit a month ago and they're still talking? A smirk tugged at her lips. Good. Let the stories grow—maybe next time some creep'll think twice before testing me.
She climbed a cracked stairway and sank onto the porch, cybernetic fingers flexing in the moonlight. Her breath fogged in the air, but her thoughts were somewhere else. The money was good, she muttered, the words bitter on her tongue. But those mages... Fire and earth? Fine. Tough, but fair. Her arm twitched as a phantom ache shot through her side. Water and wind, though? Her breath caught. The wind mage almost cut me in half. I couldn't even scream.
She leaned back against the cold wall, body heavy. "Figure it out later," she mumbled, more instinct than decision. Her hand slid to the hilt of her sword. She drew it halfway and held it against her chest—like a warrior's lullaby. Her gaze swept the shadows. Then... stillness. Eyes shut. Rest came.
Hours later, a younger Urbano kicked in the doors of the Lustful Oasis. "Where the damn toms at?!" he roared. His voice thundered through the empty halls like a stampede. "They usually crawlin' out for pussy by now!"
Bella followed close behind, heels clacking. "You're right, Urba, it's weird. Guess we're not pretty enough tonight?" she teased, smacking his back with a playful grin.
"Nah, baby doll... somethin's up." His hand dropped to the heavy pistol at his side. Leather creaked as his cyber-muscles tensed beneath a vest covered in ink—each tattoo a confession carved in skin.
He shoved open the front door and stepped into neon night. A group of regulars huddled across the street like scared schoolboys. Urbano squinted. Their pale faces, wide eyes—locked on something.
He followed their gaze.
Farrah. Slumped against the far wall, sword in hand, fast asleep.
"Y'all scared of her?" he barked, marching across the street, disgust curling his lip.
No one answered—just a ripple of nervous energy.
Urbano reached her and nudged her boot. "Ain't no homeless camp, chump. Get up."
Nothing.
He leaned down, about to shake her. "Bitch, I said—"
"NO!" The crowd screamed.
Too late.
THUD. A wet smack echoed through the silence.
Urbano looked down.
His hand was gone.
Clean off at the wrist. His fingers still twitched beside his boot.
"When did she..." he whispered, the pain not even registering yet. His voice trembled as realization caught up.
"Bitch! Do you know how much I paid for that hand?!" he roared, fury igniting. He pulled his pistol—aimed right at her chest.
But before his finger could twitch—
SNAP. The gun split—top first, then into pieces, then into splinters. Metal clinked against the concrete like falling teeth.
Urbano froze. Cold sweat soaked his spine. His face drained.
"Oh... Oh, nah..."
Farrah didn't even flinch. Still asleep. Still resting like a loaded weapon.
Across the street, the men trembled.
"Who the hell is this bitch, bro?!" Urbano shouted, voice cracking.
One man stepped forward. "That's Farrah. Farrah the Reaper." His voice broke like a glass dropped on tile. "Undisputed champ—men's and women's division. One fifty wins. No losses."
The crowd behind him parted like the Red Sea.
Urbano stood frozen. Pale. Shaking.
"C-champion...?" he stammered, staring at the mangled gun in his hand and the sleeping woman who'd torn it apart without waking.
The truth dropped like a blade:
He had just poked the Reaper.