"Over there," Fall Night said quietly.
Purple Night turned her head, trying to make out what Fall Night had spotted in the Misty Rain Forest.
They approached. The surface of the water reflected the pale light of the moon struggling through the fog. It was one of the few calm things they'd seen in days.
Before going over to where the pond was located, Fall Night struck out with a palm and broke several nearby trees. He gathered the branches and slowly built a small fire, big enough to roast meat, then pulled the preserved meat from his dimensional pouch—the Golden Bear cub he'd killed earlier.
As he worked, the crackle of wood and the smell of roasting bear fat filled the clearing. For the first time in days, it almost felt… normal.
He looked up once at the sky, the mist swirling faintly above, then went back to slicing and cleaning the meat. His movements were practiced—silent, efficient.
Purple Night watched him from across the pond, her mask reflecting the faint firelight. She didn't say anything—just studied the way he worked. The silence between them was thick, but not hostile. It was the quiet of two killers conserving their words.
Several hours had passed since their last real conversation—since the talk about monster tiers and cultivation. Neither seemed in a rush to fill the silence again.
For Fall Night, the quiet was something he was used to. Many hours of training had left him comfortable in solitude. The same could be said for Purple Night, with her long hours spent honing her skills in talisman crafting.
After a while, Purple Night tapped her small pouch. Two talismans appeared between her fingers. She waved them in the air—their faint light spread outward, creating a sound barrier that shimmered like heat in the mist. All the while, Purple Night's eyes never left Fall Night.
Fall Night glanced over, his expression hidden but unmistakably aware. Without a word, he rose and stepped a few paces away, giving her space.
The fire crackled softly between them.
In that strange quiet—half peace, half tension—both warriors finally rested, their minds still alert even in the calm.
In the Misty Rain Forest, peace was just the silence before something else stirred.
Inside the sound barrier, Purple Night finally made contact with Death Sword.
When the sound barrier shimmered and faded, Purple Night called out to Fall Night.
Even if they didn't see eye to eye, they were part of the same unit—Quiet Storm—and survival demanded cooperation, not friendship.
"Death Sword and Jagged are coming," Purple Night said, her tone as flat as the mist around them. "When they arrive, we'll go over the map and plan our next move."
Fall Night didn't respond. He just gave a short nod—acknowledgment without submission—and went back to the fire. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the faint, wet scent of moss and fog. He stirred a pot beside him, the simmering soup faintly reflecting his sharp eyes.
His cooking wasn't anything to boast about—but it was edible, and that was enough.
When he'd eaten his fill, he left a portion aside for the rest of the unit. Rising quietly, Fall Night turned toward the pond.
Purple Night looked up from where she sat.
"What are you doing?" she asked, a hint of irritation in her voice.
He didn't answer—only looked at her briefly over his shoulder before walking to the edge of the pond. Twenty feet from the water, he stopped and stripped off his cloak, then his shirt and undershirt, tossing them carelessly onto the grass.
Purple Night's gaze lingered on him—not out of curiosity, but calculation. The wound she'd left on him days earlier was still visible, faintly pulsing beneath the moonlight.
Fall Night stared down at it, his eyes darkening.
I need more power, he thought, the words silent but sharp in his mind.
He slid into a fighting stance. His right palm extended—slow, deliberate—then retracted. His left hand followed.
The rhythm built.
One strike, then another, faster each time.
The air began to ripple. A faint bubble of energy formed around him, almost invisible at first. As his movements accelerated, the bubble solidified—like a dome woven from sheer will and spirit.
Each palm strike struck with growing force. The sound of each impact echoed through the forest—muffled but deep, like thunder rolling far away.
The aura around him darkened, tinged with a red-black glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. It was cold, suffocating, alive.
Then he twisted his body into a horse stance, pivoted, and unleashed a final palm strike—angled upward at forty-five degrees.
The bubble shattered violently, collapsing into a rain of light and dust that scattered like ashes in the wind.
Purple Night's eyes narrowed.
It wasn't unusual for Fall Night to train after a battle—he always did, pushing himself beyond exhaustion. But tonight… something was different. The air around him was heavier, darker.
Then she saw it.
A seal—faint and pulsing—on his back.
It moved.
"What… is that?" she whispered under her breath, her usual composure slipping.
The seal crawled slowly across his skin, like ink alive beneath flesh. It spread across a third of his back, then half—and for a moment, it looked ready to consume him entirely. The energy coming off him surged wildly, unstable, forcing Fall Night to reach into his pouch.
He pulled out a strange rock, rough and dull gray at first glance, but as soon as he set it down, it began to glow faintly—absorbing the overflowing power pouring off him.
Purple Night leaned slightly forward, trying to see. The angle was poor, the mist obscuring her view, but she could feel it—whatever that stone was, it wasn't ordinary.
Then she looked back at him—and froze.
The seal was retreating.
Rapidly.
It slid back across his skin, shrinking and fading until it disappeared entirely—like it had never existed. The forest fell silent again. Only the sound of soft breathing and the faint hiss of the pond remained.
Purple Night stayed motionless, her mind running wild.
If she told Death Sword and Jagged what she'd seen, they'd never believe her. Her words carried weight in battle, but trust? That was something she didn't have, even among her own.