The ground beneath the Judicial Plaza trembled as Rosewalt fully unsheathed Rita, the black blade drinking in the moonlight with a hungry gleam.
"I hope you've all been eating well," he said, his voice low and dark, carrying the weight of inevitable violence. "Rita prefers nourished blood."
I have to end this quickly, he thought, eyes scanning the frozen statues of Godfall's citizens around them, without causing more collateral damage.
The three remaining cloaked figures closed ranks, forming a tight triangle, bodies tensed and ready.
"Bring it on, cowards," Rosewalt challenged, a faint smirk curling his lips.
In the corner of his vision, one of the figures melted into the stone floor as though slipping into water. Rosewalt's instincts flared, but before he could pivot, a pair of hands erupted from the ground beneath him, clamping around his ankles like iron manacles.
He slashed downward to free himself, but in that frozen instant the other two attackers were already upon him—one brandishing a curved dagger, the other a heavy machete. Bright sparks exploded in the night as Rita met both weapons at once, the impact ringing like a bell. Held fast by the grip from below, Rosewalt could not dodge.
With a single, fluid twist of his wrist, he severed the hands at the wrists. Blood sprayed across the stone. Before the submerged figure could withdraw, Rosewalt spun, blade carving two diagonal arcs through the air. The attackers staggered back, robes parting to reveal deep gashes from abdomen to jaw. They collapsed in a spray of crimson.
"These are shallow wounds," the fourth figure spat, clutching his chest. "They won't kill us."
"Who said I was trying to kill you?" Rosewalt replied, his tone calm and absolute.
"I'm done with this," the fourth snarled. "This stupid cloak is hindering my movement, and Rosewalt isn't someone we can afford to be sloppy against."
In unison, the first, second, and fourth figures tore away their scorched robes, revealing themselves beneath the pale moon.
The leader—tall, brown-skinned, dark hair tied back in a tight ponytail—was Rusty Midnight, a name whispered in the underworld beside a bounty of ten million ref.
The fourth figure stood five-eleven, light-skinned, black hair framing red-rimmed eyes and sharp brows. Baby-Face Sewth Earth, worth two million ref, and notorious for looking far younger than the blood on his hands.
The second was shorter, five-six and powerfully built, his chubby frame deceptively solid. Blue-tinted skin marked him as Khatontak, another two-million-ref ghost of the underground.
"And you?" Rosewalt asked the last figure, voice laced with ice. "Won't you grant me the honor of seeing your face?"
A low, familiar chuckle answered him.
"Well, well, well. So the Captain can't recognize his most trusted aide anymore?"
The final robe fell away.
The ground's trembling eased, but Rosewalt's heart stuttered. Doubt—sharp and unwelcome—flooded him. The face staring back was one he had prayed never to see among enemies.
"My head told me with perfect logic that you would be one of them," Rosewalt said quietly, voice cracking for the first time, "but my heart simply refused to accept it, no matter the evidence."
Damascus stepped forward, dagger gleaming, eyes burning with something between madness and conviction.
"Captain, Captain, Captain," he mocked, voice rising. "You always had such a soft heart. And do you know what happens to people like that, Captain? They die. They all do."
"I see there is no other way," Rosewalt murmured, sorrow briefly softening the steel in his gaze.
"No, there isn't!" Damascus roared, charging full speed, dagger raised high for a killing thrust.
"I see," Rosewalt answered, voice steady once more.
Their blades collided with a thunderous clash that sent a mild shockwave rippling across the plaza, cracking nearby stone. Neither man yielded an inch. Before Damascus could recover for a second strike, Rita was already descending in a fatal arc.
At the last possible instant, a thick arm wrapped around Damascus's waist and yanked him backward.
"Khatontak—now!" Sewth screamed.
The ground liquefied beneath them. Damascus and his rescuer sank into the dark mire just as Rita's edge kissed the air where Damascus's neck had been.
An instant later, a massive iron slab—ripped from the plaza's architecture—slammed into Rosewalt's face with brutal force. Blood trickled from his nostril, warm against his skin.
He thrust Rita forward to cleave the slab in two, but the metal twisted unnaturally, evading every strike as though alive.
"Ah," Rosewalt said, wiping the blood with the back of his hand, eyes locking on Midnight. "So your curse doesn't only steal life force. You can gift it as well."
"Partially correct," Midnight replied with a smug tilt of his head. "I can drain life force, leaving bodies petrified… but I can only transfer it into inanimate objects and that infact is the curse i have to keave with."
He raised both arms theatrically. "So tell me, Rosewalt—what do you think of my army?"
From the shadows behind him, hundreds of figures stirred: wooden mannequins, rusted iron statues, discarded buckets, broken dolls—all jerking to unnatural life as stolen vitality poured into them.
"Aren't they magnificent?" Midnight crowed.
Damascus and Sewth stepped out of a fresh void beside him, Khatontak taking position at Midnight's flank. All four activated their curses in perfect unison, power crackling in the air.
"You may be strong, Rosewalt," Midnight shouted, "but you cannot possibly defeat the four of us and my army of over five hundred!"
"We'll see about that," Rosewalt answered, planting his feet and raising Rita.
The animated horde surged forward alongside the four men.
Then—
A deafening crack split the night.
Tayo's head collided with Sewth's face at impossible speed, the impact shaking the very foundation of the plaza.
At the same instant, Bachi's foot drove into Damascus's jaw with meteoric force.
Neither villain had time to register the assault. The twin collisions hurled Damascus and Sewth backward like rag dolls, smashing through columns and stonework. A section of the Judicial Plaza's grand facade crumbled in their wake.
A fierce wind whipped across the battlefield, tousling Rosewalt's hair as he stood frozen in disbelief, staring at the two boys who had appeared from nowhere—Tayo and Bachi, wide-eyed but unharmed, standing where their targets had been moments before.
The invicible war for Godfall had just gained two impossible new players.