The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed against the uneven dirt road, the carriages swaying gently as they pressed forward beneath the cool afternoon sky. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily above, their peaceful appearance contrasting the tension that thickened the air inside one of the cramped wooden carriages.
Nebula sat by the lantern's light, his expression darkened as he flipped through a crumpled bounty notice. The poorly drawn sketches of himself and his companions stared back at him, twisted and exaggerated in the worst of ways—Daryl's face was childishly misshapen, Naritsa's portrait was eerily off, and Jasmin's features had been distorted to that of a crude caricature.
"This ain't us," he muttered, shaking his head in disapproval. "The Gog Empire's got the resources of a goddamn superpower, and yet they can't even hire a decent artist?"
"That's what you're worried about?" Laria, who was seated beside him, scoffed, though the humor in her voice was faint.
But Naritsa, seated opposite them, didn't share the amusement. Her ruby eyes gleamed with concern, reflecting the dim firelight. "It doesn't change the fact that things just got worse for us all."
She turned her gaze toward Daryl, whose small hands trembled slightly as he clutched his knees. His usual lively innocence was overshadowed by a weight far too great for his young shoulders.
"Where did you get this?" she asked, her voice softer now.
The boy hesitated before speaking, his voice low and heavy with regret. "I stumbled upon it somewhere across the northern district," he admitted. "I never thought things would get to this extent—"
"—And if we're seeing this now," Jasmin cut in sharply, his deep voice carrying a grim certainty, "then it only means one thing. The Ghost Land has fallen."
The weight of his words pressed down on them like an iron hand. The air inside the carriage grew heavier, as if the walls themselves had shrunk inward.
Nebula's eyes darkened. He leaned back, processing the statement. "Hold on," he said, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Are you telling me that Yaron—that shrewd, stubborn bastard—is probably dead?"
"Not probably," Jasmin corrected, his jaw tightening. "Definitely. And not just that. Yaron wasn't some minor warlord. He was the tyrannical, feared King of the North. For the Gog Empire to take him down so easily…" He exhaled, his expression grim.
Silence descended upon them, thick and suffocating.
Outside, the horses pressed forward, their breath misting in the crisp afternoon air. A cold breeze whispered through the surrounding trees, rustling the brittle autumn leaves. The once-lively road ahead seemed emptier than usual, eerily devoid of travelers. It was as if the land itself had stilled, holding its breath in the wake of the empire's conquest.
Laria glanced out the carriage window, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the hilt of her concealed dagger. "The Ghost Land was powerful," she murmured, almost to herself. "And yet it fell in the blink of an eye…"
Daryl swallowed hard. He already knew what she meant.
If a kingdom as mighty as the Ghost Land could be conquered so effortlessly, what chance did they—mere fugitives—have against the empire hunting them?
The thought hung unspoken in the air, heavy and unrelenting.
"We still have to do something about the bounty placed on our heads." Laria continued, her voice firm and edged with an undercurrent of urgency.
"Indeed." Daryl agreed, his grip unconsciously tightening around the parchment that condemned them. "It's only a matter of time before the bounty hunters track us down."
But Nebula, seated in his usual relaxed posture, spun the barrel of his revolver with an almost amused air, the metallic click-click-click filling the silence. His sharp gaze gleamed under the weak lantern glow, his lips curling into a knowing smirk.
"...And I'll be waiting."
His words sent a chill through the carriage. Daryl, Laria, and Jasmin all turned toward him, stunned by his response.
Daryl exhaled sharply, his hands gripping his knees. "You don't get it," he protested, his voice tinged with panic. "The price on our heads isn't just high—it's enough to send entire kingdoms after us. And the bounty hunters… they won't be the usual lowlives looking to make a quick fortune."
He hesitated for a moment, his breath hitching as a darker thought surfaced.
"...Especially the one known as the Bounty Priest."
The name alone seemed to suck the warmth from the air.
But Nebula only smirked, his calm defiance cutting through the tension like a blade. He cocked his revolver, the clank of the hammer setting in place as he spoke, his voice laced with confidence.
"The Bounty Priest?" he scoffed, amused at the title. "Sounds like some self-righteous bastard trying too hard to be scary." He then proceeded to meet everyone's wary gazes head-on. "You all forget—we're just as strong, if not stronger, together. And more importantly, we have a legendary Guardian Vessel on our side."
As he said this, his gaze shifted toward Naritsa, her ruby-red eyes reflecting the lantern's glow like molten embers.
"You do realize you hold the power to rival even the Gog Empire itself?" His words were not spoken as flattery but as cold, undeniable truth.
However, Naritsa only shook her head, her hands folding over her lap as doubt twisted through her. "But regardless of my power, I am no warrior," she confessed, her voice laced with uncertainty. "I do not thrive in the midst of violence—"
"—Then let the violence thrive in you," Nebula interjected without hesitation.
His voice was neither gentle nor harsh, but it carried a weight that could not be ignored. He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers as he sought something beyond fear.
"You remember what you told me?" he pressed. "You said I had a legacy to craft. That you'd do everything in your power to see it through with me."
Naritsa's breath hitched. Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her cloak as memories rushed back to her—promises whispered under the Jebaddon Island's moonlight.
"Yes… I remember," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her guilt surfaced like a tidal wave, drowning her in remorse. "I'm sorry I got you all dragged into this mess," she said, her ruby eyes glassy with emotion. "We're partly in this situation because of me… because of my existence as a Guardian Vessel."
But before her sorrow could take hold, Nebula reached out.
His fingers wrapped around hers, firm yet warm, a silent assurance that she wasn't alone in this battle. His voice was steady, unwavering.
"Wrong."
She blinked at him.
"We're in this situation because the Gog Empire envies you," he corrected. "Because they know the power you wield poses a threat to their conquest. But more than that… we all chose this path. We all chose to bring an end to their cruelty."
A faint, tired smile pulled at his lips, but his next words came with steel-edged conviction.
"And to Sara's grave, I swear—they will fall."
Naritsa gasped softly, and before she could stop herself, she threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest. The warmth of his presence, the unyielding strength in his words, fueled a fire inside her that had nearly burned out.
A newfound determination settled among them.
Laria clenched her fists, her green eyes flashing with resolve. Jasmin remained silent but firm, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Even Daryl, though still shaken, found his heart pounding with renewed purpose.
Up ahead, a tavern's light flickered just beyond the bend, the first sign of civilization in miles.
Their carriage rattled onward, carrying with it more than just weary fugitives.
It carried a promise—one written in vengeance, defiance, and an unbreakable will to fight.
Meanwhile—
Atop a distant mountain ridge, a lone figure stood against the encroaching twilight, her silhouette sharp against the bleeding hues of the setting sun. Her raven-black hair whipped violently in the breeze, framing the ghostly white skull painted across her face.
Yet she remained utterly still—like a predator watching its prey from above.
In her gloved hands, she held a scouting camera, adjusting its lens to survey the fleet of carriages trundling along the dirt path below. Her dark eyes glinted with intrigue as she finally diverted her attention to the crumpled bounty notice in her grasp.
The inked faces of her targets stared back at her—five marked names, three of which carried prizes so high they could buy out an entire kingdom.
A slow, predatory smile curled at her lips.
"Hmm… looks like we've got a big catch this time, Sly," she murmured, barely above a whisper, yet the presence behind her reacted instantly.
Towering at ten feet tall and spanning over thirty feet in length, a Drake of unrelenting muscles—restlessly prowled behind her. Its talons scratched against stone, its massive frame shifting with an almost unbearable impatience. Razor-sharp scales jutted across its spine, and its green reptilian eyes gleamed with the primal hunger of an apex predator.
It was not just any myth-level guardian; it was a monstrous behemoth of sheer primal might. Hardened, little violet scales plated its serpentine body, each one jagged like forged metal. It was a walking nightmare whose kind was only inferior to the legend-level beasts.
The draconic creature exhaled sharply, releasing a plume of smoke from its nostrils. It wanted blood.
"My Mistress, I hunger for a kill." Sly's voice was a low, snarling rumble, her scaled tail flicking dangerously as she continued pacing. "Grant me the permission to honor this mission in your name."
The girl didn't answer immediately. Instead she exhaled slowly, as though savoring the moment, before turning her gaze skyward. A storm was brewing beyond the horizon, the first rumbles of thunder rolling through the heavens like distant war drums.
A slow, amused chuckle escaped her lips.
"Patience, Sly," she murmured, stepping toward her beast and placing a gloved hand against its armored hide. The scales were ice-cold beneath her touch, contrasting the raw power lurking beneath them. She traced slow, deliberate patterns along its ridges, as though soothing an unruly beast.
"Food," she whispered, eyes gleaming beneath her skull-painted face, "is best served hot."
Sly stilled, her muscles tensing with dark anticipation, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled the scent of the approaching hunt.
Down below, their unsuspecting quarry rode on, completely unaware that Death itself had already marked them.
***