The fire was weak, shadows leaning long against the broken planks and torn canvas of their makeshift shelter.
Johan sat cross-legged on a stone, his coat off, his yellow shirt wrinkled and burned at the cuffs. A cigar hung lazily at the corner of his lips, smoke curling into the night like a thread.
Arlong sat opposite him, his bandaged left arm resting stiff on his knee, his bow propped beside him. He was trying to draw sparks between his fingers, tiny arcs of electricity snapping but vanishing before they took form. His brows knitted in frustration.
"Don't squeeze it so hard," Johan said, watching without looking directly at him. "You're forcing the current. Electricity's not a hammer, it's a river of "connection" and "structure or form". It doesn't move because you shout at it. It moves because you let it flow where it should."
Arlong sighed, exhaling through his nose. "Easy for you to say. My body feels…. off. Like it won't listen, telling you can't do it."
Johan smirked faintly. "That's what makes you worth teaching. Anyone can swing a sword. Not everyone can wrestle with an affinity that doesn't belong to them."
Arlong tilted his head. "Artificial affinities, huh? You've mentioned them before. You make them sound like curses instead of gifts."
The older man chuckled, shaking ash from his cigar. "Because they are both. Artificial affinities don't come from your birth, your bloodline, or any relic or training. They're grafted onto you by forcing in, like replacing an organ with something your body isn't sure it wants. That's why they're hell to master. If you push too hard, they'll harm your psychic energy a lot. If you let them go, they'll rot away into nothing."
Arlong looked down at his hand, where faint static still danced between his knuckles. "So what am I supposed to do? Practice until it either kills me or listens?"
Johan leaned forward, his voice low but steady. "No. You visit the ones who have bled for it already. Lead, electricity, flame, water, etc. All these affinities have their professionals. Hermits, sects, even criminals who've devoted whole lives on those elements. They'll teach you the fundamentals I can't, I mean I am not that knowledgeable yet. There are more experienced people than me."
Arlong's brows lifted. "You're saying even you can't teach me that?"
Johan exhaled smoke, then smiled thinly. "I can teach you how to swing a blade, how to kill a man before he blinks, how to fight until your bones screams but affinities like yours? They're roads I never walked. I don't waste time pretending otherwise."
There was a silence, broken only by the fire popping. Arlong finally asked, "Then what about your disciples? You've trained dozens, right? Who mastered what you couldn't?"
Johan's eyes narrowed, and for a moment his smile carried something heavier—almost pride, almost grief. "Among all of them, two names rise above the rest. Marshall Jacob and Charlie."
Arlong leaned in. "Tell me."
"Marshall Jacob," Johan began, his voice thoughtful, "was a tactician with the patience of stone. Never rushed, never shouted. He studied every fight like it was a riddle, then broke it apart until the answer was obvious. His magic? Simple thoughts but in unpredictable way, he turned it into fortresses and traps that destroyed armies whole all alone. He was…. dependable."
Arlong nodded slowly. "Charlie?"
Johan's smirk flickered, but his eyes turned sharp. "Charlie's different. Charlie is a devil."
The words hung in the air, heavy enough that the fire seemed to dim.
"A devil?" Arlong asked cautiously.
"Yes," Johan said, his tone switches calm but edged. "A creature bound in devil's blood, feeding on what others feared to touch. Where Marshall built walls, Charlie broke them apart. Where others saw men, Charlie saw prey. She was brilliant…. terrifying. The kind of disciple who made me question if training him was a mistake. But he was mine and in his way, he was great."
Arlong looked unsettled. "You.… respected them?"
Johan's gaze lingered on the stars, smoke rising past his cheek. "I respect what people become when they burn everything soft in them and keep walking. Doesn't mean I agree. Doesn't mean I forgive. I respect… yes. Charlie and Marshall both earned it."
The younger man was silent, fiddling with his broken bowstring. After a moment, he asked, "Do you regret it? Teaching them?"
Johan let out a low chuckle, leaning back. "Regret? No. Every disciple shapes themselves. I just gave them tools and the power to use your thoughts. What they did with those tools that's their weight to carry."
Arlong thought about that, staring at his sparking hand. "What do you think about me? What about me?"
Johan smirked faintly, tapping his cigar against the stone. "You? You're still in the growth stage. Can't say what you'll become yet. I'll tell you this, don't chase being Marshall, and don't fear being Charlie. Learn who the hell Arlong is. That's all that matters."
The younger man finally cracked a small grin. "You're bad at pep talks."
Johan chuckled, smoke drifting from his lips. "I'm not here to pep. I'm here to keep you alive long enough to figure yourself out."
They sat quietly after that, the night carrying the weight of disciples past and futures unknown.
....
The hall was endless, white marble stretching into silence. The pillars rose higher than any cathedral, vanishing into a ceiling that shimmered faintly, like frost or bone dust.
There was no tapestries, no windows. Just flat emptiness, so bright it should have felt pure. But the air was rotten. The whiteness wasn't holy. It was sterile, like the inside of a morgue.
Four figures wandered in that white void, their shadows spread long, their gestures were careless.
Xamin leaned against one of the massive pillars, his pale coat unbuttoned, collar bloody as if he hadn't bothered wiping his last meal. His hair was silver, slicked back neatly but sticky with red stains. Every now and then, he licked his fingers like a man checking if soup had cooled.
Fahrenheit was pacing barefoot across the marble, dragging his nails against the polished floor. The scratches recalled like knives on glass. His red eyes twitched, sharp with mania. His voice broke the silence first.
"You always eat like a dog, Xamin. Very sloppy, messy.... uh, do you even feel taste?"
Xamin chuckled, low. "Taste? Coming from the freak who cooks his meals alive, inch by inch? Tell me again, Fahrenheit, how long does it take for a body to stop screaming when you boil the blood inside the veins?"
Fahrenheit grinned wide, his teeth streaked crimson. "Depends on how polite they are."
They both laughed, a humorless sound that bounced off the empty walls like static.
On the far end of the hall sat Karma. His chair was massive, carved from a block of white stone streaked with veins of dried red. A dining table stretched before him, draped in silk soaked through with stains.
On it lay half a head, the skull of a child, scalp dangling, face pale. Karma chewed slowly, the crunch of bone loud in the silence. He didn't rush. He bit again, tearing the temple away with his fangs, lips slick, hands steady.
None of the others looked at him directly in fear, trying best to keep themselves busy by doing anything but looking at him.
Sonia stood near Karma, her dress dragging behind her like spilled ink. Black lace wrapped her body, her pale shoulders stayed bare. She ran her nails along her throat absentmindedly, humming as though she was somewhere else. Her eyes were glowing in bloody lense, flicked between the others like she was bored of them already.
Xamin flicked blood off his wrist. "You hear that, Sonia? He says I eat like a dog. What about you? You ever share meals with Fahrenheit? Or is his cooking too.… hot?"
Sonia smirked faintly, her voice low, melodic, dangerous. "I'd rather starve than let his filth inside me."
That made Fahrenheit laugh. "Starve? You couldn't starve if you tried, little doll. You'd drink the marrow of your own ribs before hunger touched you."
Xamin barked a laugh, but the next second Fahrenheit's body blurred. Blood burst from his palms, threads sharp as wire, whipping toward Xamin's throat.
Xamin caught them mid-air with a grin. His wrist split open but it wasn't bleeding, but sprouting fangs, rows of them like a jaw growing sideways. They bit down on the wires and shredded them like paper.
Fahrenheit snarled. His own veins bulged, skin cracking as boiling blood jetted out like steam. He formed a whip, swung it, cracking across the marble. The air shook.
Xamin moved very fast. His wrist-jaws snapped, and his arm lashed forward. Dozens of fangs extended like blades, piercing through Fahrenheit's stomach. The blood inside Fahrenheit writhed and hardened, forming armor around his ribs. He grinned even as the fangs stabbed through.
Both crashed together, teeth snapping, claws raking. The sound wasn't like men fighting. Of course, it was two animals tearing apart meat in a slaughterhouse.
Skin ripped, bones cracked, but their bodies healed instantly. Each wound closed almost before it opened. It was a game, cruel and endless.
Karma chewed slowly, ignoring them. His voice finally rumbled, calm and cold.
"Enough"
The word was full of aggression, it made the walls ring like a funeral bell. Both fighters froze mid-motion, their wounds dripping red steam.
Fahrenheit sneered but stepped back. "He started it."
Xamin's laugh echoed. "You were always the first to bleed, Fahrenheit."
Karma bit once more into the skull, then set the remains on the table. His long tongue ran across his lips. "You two are acting like caged dogs. Drop the growl, or I'll make you both sit. Throw another punch, and you're both answering to me."
The air darkened and slowed. A ripple spread across the far end of the hall. Azmaik stepped through, his robes were ink-black, his face unreadable in the half-light. His presence made the white marble itself groan, like the building remembered the old fear.
"That was an impressive match."Said Azmaik. His voice wasn't loud, but it pressed into their heads like a emotion. "There is work to be done."
Sonia tilted her head. "Work?"
"The Lea Infra," Azmaik replied, his gaze cutting across them. "It must be stolen. Without it, everything unravels. With it, we ascend."
Fahrenheit licked his lips, hungry. "So.… slaughter?"
"Stealth," Azmaik corrected. "For now."
Xamin laughed softly. "Not your usual request."
Azmaik ignored him. His hand lifted, pointing lazily. "Fahrenheit, Sonia.... you will go. Xamin, you stay. Practice your little trick."
Xamin's wrist split again, the multi-fangs unfolding like a grotesque flower. They snapped against the air, their bite sending sparks, reality itself warping slightly as they struck. The sound was wrong, as if the marble was biting back.
"These can tank spatial strikes now," Xamin murmured, almost proud. "And once they pierce flesh…. the victim stays immobilized. Like a human in a locked toilet full of shits!"
Azmaik gave him no praise. His gaze shifted toward Karma.
The leader sat back, wiping blood from his chin with his thumb. His eyes glowed with a light that made the others glance away.
"Every one of them here," Azmaik said slowly, "is Uptie 2, Level 2." His finger flicked lazily at Fahrenheit, at Sonia, at Xamin. "Lord Karma…. you are Uptie 3, Level 1. To the noble Lord, whose wisdom guides and strength protects, we owe our deepest respect."
Karma smirked faintly. He tapped the table once. The sound echoed like thunder throughout the large hall
"They bow because they know what happens if they don't." Karma said. His voice was low, almost amused. "Fear is the sentinel at the gate of soul, demanding we prove our courage before passing into the unknown and here, I am the Unknown One."
Azmaik's lips curled faintly, though his eyes stayed cold. "Survival is all that matters, isn't it?"
No answer came after.
Only the slight drip of blood from the ruined skull on the table broke it.