The brotherhood of the Devil's Flames had always been a fragile thing, built on a foundation of shared trauma and mutual greed. In the end, it took only seconds for that foundation to crumble completely.
As the Abyssal vanguard surged forward, the two ex-generals didn't stand back-to-back. Instead, Quel, driven by a frantic, jagged terror, bolted away from Gunther, trying to put space between himself and Jarul's longsword. It was a fatal mistake. By isolating himself, he gave Kales and Jarul the opening they needed to dismantle him, leaving the other three elites—John, Savier, and Hemlock—to focus entirely on Gunther.
Gunther was a realist. He saw Quel's skull shatter out of the corner of his eye and didn't feel a flicker of grief—only the cold, electric realization that he was next. Unlike his peers, Gunther held no delusions about a "warrior's death." He notched five arrows, released them in a desperate, glowing fan, and then he did the only thing that made sense: he turned and ran.
He tore through the soot-stained streets of Fluxton, his boots pounding a frantic rhythm against the cobblestones. He was heading for the border, for the darkness of the woods, for anywhere that wasn't here. As he sprinted, he fired blind shots over his shoulder, his fingers raw from the bowstring.
Behind him, John, Savier, and Hemlock moved with the terrifying, rhythmic pace of tireless predators. They caught his arrows out of the air with contemptuous ease, snapping the light like dry twigs.
"Damn them," Gunther hissed, his lungs burning.
In a desperate bid for cover, he dissolved his bow. He exhaled a thick, clotted crimson mist, a veil of blood magic designed to obscure his trail. It was a novice's trick, and he knew it; vampires of their caliber could track the heat of his heart and the scent of his sweat through a brick wall, but it was all he had left.
Hemlock, a lithe vampire with a face like a hatchet, grew tired of the chase. "Enough of this," he spat. He unslung a heavy throwing dagger and launched it at the back of Gunther's skull.
Gunther sensed the displacement of air, tilting his head just as the blade hissed past his ear. But the relief was short-lived. Hemlock flicked his fingers, and the dagger pivoted mid-air, snapping back toward Gunther's blind spot—the exact same trick Gunther had used on Raphael. Simultaneously, Hemlock threw his second blade.
Trapped between the two seeking daggers, Gunther leaped into the air, his cloak snapping like a sail. He watched the blades collide and spiral beneath him, but as he reached the apex of his jump, a shadow eclipsed the moon.
Savier was there. He had used the distraction to launch himself upward, his dual blades spinning in a lethal, silver-red blur aimed at Gunther's neck. Gunther's eyes went wide. Mid-air and defenseless, he forced a surge of *malum* into his hands, generating a crude blood shield. The impact of Savier's blades against the shield vibrated through Gunther's very marrow, sending him spiraling back toward the earth.
He hit the ground in a rolling crouch, only to see John—a mountain of a man—descending upon him with a massive crimson battle-axe.
"Die already!" John roared.
Gunther's scowl deepened into a mask of pure spite. He conjured an axe of his own, throwing it with every ounce of his remaining strength. The two weapons collided with a bone-shaking *crack*, and Gunther didn't wait to see the result. He scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged, bloody sobs, and continued his headlong flight toward the border.
"Finish him!" Hemlock's voice echoed through the narrow street, sharp with irritation. "Kales and Jarul have already put the spear-man in the dirt! If the boss sees us struggling with this coward, it's our heads next!"
The chase resumed, the gap closing. Gunther could see the edge of the town, the dark treeline of the no-man's-land between Wilson and Fluxton. He was so close, but the shadows behind him were growing longer, and the air was getting colder.
Every lung-burning breath he took was a testament to a life spent running—from the shadow of Patrick Gallows, from the ruins of his own morality, and now, from the literal embodiment of his failures.
As he sprinted, his boots thudding against the same ground where Armal had decapitated the border guards, a crushing realization began to settle in his gut. This was pointless. Even if he crossed the line, even if he reached the hollowed-out carcass of Wilson, there was no sanctuary waiting for him. There was no gang, no army, and no throne. There was only a cold, empty enclosure and the inevitable arrival of the Night brothers to finish the job.
I am a coward, he thought, his teeth grinding together so hard they threatened to shatter. A brilliant, tactical, pathetic coward.
He didn't just hate Raphael or the traitors; he hated the version of himself that still clung to the illusion of escape. Yet, the animal instinct for survival was a cruel master. He funneled the absolute last of his *malum* into his legs, his veins bulging with the strain as he forced his body to maintain a pace that should have torn his muscles apart.
He sprinted past the cooling corpses of the guards, his eyes fixed on the treeline of the no-man's-land. Behind him, the sound of the pursuit didn't falter. It grew more rhythmic, more certain.
Hemlock, trailing slightly behind John and Savier, felt a surge of genuine fury. This was an insult. A general of the Devil's Flames was reduced to a track star, and they were the ones looking incompetent for not catching him. He stopped running for a heartbeat, his eyes narrowing as he tapped into a memory he had tried to bury.
Two months after the Night of Crimson, the Shadow Fiends had taught everyone in the West a lesson in terror. Hemlock remembered their silhouettes against the sky—the jagged, purple bat-like wings, the arrowhead tails, the absolute predatory efficiency of their forms.
"If you want to be a pest," Hemlock hissed, his voice a low, distorted growl, "then I'll be the killer."
He funneled a massive surge of blood magic through his upper back, shaping the raw energy with meticulous, hateful precision. He wasn't changing his flesh, but rather weaving a construct of solid crimson light. With a violent hum of power, a pair of massive, translucent crimson wings materialized from his back—a perfect, mocking imitation of the Shadow creatures.
"Savier! John! Pin him!" Hemlock roared, his feet leaving the ground as he took to the air, propelled by the rhythmic, magical beat of his new wings.
From above, the battlefield was a map of inevitability. Gunther was a flickering red spark in the dark, and Hemlock was the shadow that eclipsed him. The three of them were no longer just chasing a man; they were closing a circle. Gunther looked up, the wind from Hemlock's wings ruffling his hair, and for the first time, he saw the face of the monster he couldn't outrun.
A primal, jagged scream tore from Gunther's throat. It wasn't just the sight of Hemlock soaring above him; it was the memory the form evoked. He saw the ruins of Wilson in his mind's eye—the Night of Crimson, followed by the terrifying, silent invasion of the Shadow Fiends. To see that shape again, even as a magical imitation, felt like a herald of the end.
To his left and right, Savier and John were closing the distance like the jaws of a trap. Gunther could feel the cold, hollow ache in his chest—his malum was almost entirely spent. The frantic archery and the long-distance sprint had drained him to the dregs.
"Fine," Gunther hissed, his voice cracking. "If I'm going into the dirt, I'm taking one of you with me."
With a final, desperate surge of resolve, he funneled every remaining scrap of energy into his right hand. A crimson blade materialized, pulsing with a violent, unstable light. It was a weapon of pure desperation.
The three vanguards struck simultaneously. Hemlock dove from the sky like a bird of prey, while Savier and John lunged from the flanks. Gunther's eyes locked onto John, the largest of the three. As John swung his massive battle-axe down in a crushing arc, Gunther didn't dodge. He stepped *into* the strike.
The axe sheared deep into Gunther's shoulder, the sound of bone meeting iron echoing through the street. But Gunther didn't flinch. With the maddening focus of a man who has already accepted his death, he drove his crimson sword straight into John's chest.
John's eyes went wide. A wet, startled curse escaped his lips. He had been reckless, fueled by the arrogance of the hunt, forgetting that the most dangerous thing in the world is a man with nothing left to lose. He felt the blade pierce his lung and bite into the edge of his heart.
"You... bastard," John wheezed, blood foaming at his mouth.
But Gunther's victory was a flash in the pan. Using the opening, Savier swung his own blade with clinical precision. The steel bit deep into Gunther's neck, a horizontal gash that unleashed a spray of hot, dark blood.
Gunther collapsed, his sword slipping from John's chest as he hit the cobbles.
"Easy now," Savier muttered, pulling his blade back. "The boss was very clear. This one needs to stay breathing."
With a series of brutal, rhythmic movements, Savier systematically mutilated Gunther's legs, severing the tendons with terrifying efficiency. "You shouldn't have enough magic left to fix those," Savier said, looking down at the mangled general. "Just enough to stop the leak in your neck and keep your heart beating until we get back."
Savier turned his attention to John, who was clutching his chest and looking at his own blood with an expression of pure, existential shock. Savier scoffed, stepping forward to grip the hilt of the sword still sticking out of John's ribs. With a violent yank, he pulled it free.
"Stop shaking, you idiot," Savier spat. "It hit the heart, but you've got more than enough *malum* for a blood-weave. You weren't fighting alone. Heal up."
John blinked, the shock receding as the discipline of the Abyssal Gang took over. He began the agonizing process of weaving his cells back together, the red light of his magic knitting the internal damage.
From above, Hemlock descended, his crimson wings shattering into glowing dust that vanished in the wind. He landed heavily, clutching his chest and wincing. The high-output magic had taken its toll on him as well.
"Is it done?" Hemlock asked, his voice strained. "Is he alive?"
Savier gave a sharp, rude reply, glancing sideways at Hemlock. "He's alive. I only followed your lead because it worked, bird-man. Don't think this makes us friends. We'll settle our differences at the base."
John, now standing steadily, looked down at the ruined state of Gunther. "The boss wants the new recruit to land the finishing blows," he said quietly. "He needs the boy to grow, and what better way than to kill the 'kings' of Wilson?"
The other two nodded in grim agreement. Raphael's plans were always layered in blood and growth. John reached down and hoisted the unconscious, mangled body of Gunther onto his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Without another word, the three began the slow trek back toward the center of town. They walked in silence, the weight of the night pressing down on them, wondering if Darion and Jay had found their own work as bloody and tedious as this.