The steam curled thick between the columns, veiling the world beyond the water's edge. Vincent leaned back in the oversized bath carved from obsidian and white stone, head tilted against the edge, hair wet and white over one eye. His voice echoed low and lazy, but his eyes were far away.
🎵 I broke too many bones, but none were of my own.
A flash — his fist slamming down on a knight's gauntlet, shattering the man's elbow. The clang of steel on stone. A scream muffled by his grip.
Cut down giants just to build my throne.
He steps between falling rubble as a troll-like colossus crumbles, its throat sliced open. Blood like tar. Breath ragged. He stands atop the wreckage, half-naked, chest heaving.
Ain't a crown on my head — just scars I earned,
And a fire in my chest that still hasn't burned.
His hands are ablaze. Not with magic, but fury. A man lies on the ground. A traitor. Vincent doesn't even speak — he just looks — and the traitor begs.
I don't march with kings or beg for grace,
I carved my name on a god's own face.
A temple collapses behind him. Statues cracked in two. A blade scorched with holy light still hums in his grip. Around his feet: broken idols and melted icons.
They sent armies — I sent 'em back cold,
With the weight of a world I refused to hold.
Snow-covered hills littered with steel and dead men. He walks alone, wounded but upright, the only living thing for miles. The wind carries a banner past him — singed, unclaimed.
So tell 'em all to run, tell 'em all to pray,
But I don't kneel and I don't obey.
I'm not the blade — I'm the hand that swings it.
Not the fight — I'm the war that brings it.
His reflection in a blade. A king behind him, kneeling. Not by choice. Vincent doesn't even turn around. He just keeps walking — the king drops the sword.
I'm bad.
He exhales. Calm. Steady. Like a man who's seen his own shadow and made peace with it.
Bad like a secret never meant to live.
Bad like a storm with nothing left to give.
I was made in the dark, now I walk alone —
And I broke too many bones... but none were of my own.
The echo lingered in the marble air.
Then a soft, pointed voice cut through it like a knife through velvet.
"Do you always bathe in your own legend?"
Vincent snapped upright, water sloshing around him. "Aeloria?! What the hell—how long—?"
She stood just beyond the curtain of steam, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised with all the subtle menace of a court assassin. "Since your god-face carving. Lovely image, really."
He coughed, yanked a towel over himself. "It was… a metaphor."
"Oh, clearly." She smirked. "You forgot the part where you taught dragons to kneel and seduced the moon."
"I was getting to that," he muttered, face burning hotter than the bathwater.
Aeloria's gaze went downwards, to something titanic, her cheeks turned red.
"Vincent, control!"
He offered a smug grin. Leaning back, he patted the water beside him.
"Come on, sweetheart."
Aeloria bit her lip. Her fingers tightened around the towel as she hesitantly stepped toward the bath.
SPLASH!
She sank in beside him, head resting on his shoulder. His chin brushed gently against her hair.
"Where did you get that song?" she asked softly.
Vincent rolled his eyes.
"Nothing serious. Just a band called Royal Delox. From my old world."
"Your… old world?" she asked, turning to look at him.
"Hm." Vincent replied, gazing into the mist.
"Were you happy there?" Aeloria whispered, fingers tracing the scars across his chest.
"Because… I'm not happy. You work so much, fight so much, bleed so much…"
Tears welled in her eyes as her hand lingered on the long scar running across his torso.
"Why do you keep putting yourself in harm's way?"
Vincent cupped her face gently, brushing away the tears.
"Because," he murmured, kissing her forehead, "first… it makes me feel alive."
He glanced down at her pouting expression.
"And second," he added, smirking faintly, "because you look cute when you worry about me."
She blushed deeper. He pulled her close again, letting her rest against him.
"It makes me both happy and sad," he said quietly, "to see you cry. Cry for me."
RING!
A sudden chime startled them both.
[SKALEG WISHES TO CONNECT]
An interface shimmered into view before Vincent.
"Okay," he sighed, tightening his hold around Aeloria.
CRRK!
A purple window flickered open. Graph-like sound waves rippled across the screen.
"Speak," Vincent said flatly.
"Master Vincent, apologies for the intrusion. But I require one of your notes… on 'hunting'."
Vincent arched an eyebrow at the request.
"Didn't think they'd need it so soon. Fine."
"Thank you for your boundless gra—"
He ended the call.
Aeloria stared at him in silence, her elven ears flushed with embarrassment. Vincent looked at her, unbothered.
"Now," he said, settling back into the water with a deep breath, "let's relax."
While Vincent reclined beneath the misty ceiling, far removed from the murmur of urgency, something far more dangerous stirred in the forest's heart.
Skaleg joined Sigmund and crouched beside him, peering over his shoulder.
Not far below, the clouded leopard emerged from its den—a hollow carved within the gnarled bark of an ancient pine. The tree loomed like a petrified sentinel, its roots swallowed by moss and shadow.
The feline paused at the threshold. It licked its bloodied paws and ran its tongue across its face in a slow, deliberate motion. Its ears twitched once. Then it stepped silently into the undergrowth, vanishing like mist caught in the wind.
Sig glanced at Skaleg, who had already buried his nose in the cracked leather spine of an old journal.
"What's that?" Sig asked.
"A lifesaver," Skaleg muttered, barely looking up.
He gazed toward the hollow, brows furrowing slightly. Then his focus returned to Sig.
"Sigmund, trace its mana. Carefully. I want to be sure it's really gone."
Sig nodded, placing two fingers to the soil. Pale wisps of colorless mana fanned out from his palm, spreading like morning fog across the forest floor. His brow furrowed.
"It's gone," he whispered after a moment. "It's hunting. No trace within the den."
"Good." Skaleg pointed toward the tree's hollow. "Then let's rig the wire."
Sig slid down the incline, boots scraping quietly over dry leaves and dirt. He approached the hollow with care, stooping low and peering inside.
"Fresh scratch marks," he observed. "Still warm with residual mana. And the space—tight. One leopard at most."
"Perfect," Skaleg nodded. "Youngblood. Maybe your age."
He gave Sig a half-grin. "Wanna tame it?"
Sig blinked. "Tame a leopard?"
"Simple question." Skaleg raised a brow. "Yes or no?"
Sig hesitated for only a heartbeat. "Yes."
"Good lad." Skaleg ducked into the hollow, his voice echoing faintly off the pine walls. "You'll control the wire with mana. I'll show you the anchor points."
He pointed—here, there, and one last hook close to the back wall.
Sig moved as instructed, fingers steady, magic threading through the steel wire like a puppeteer stringing a marionette.
"Leave slack in the coils," Skaleg said, glancing up at the sky. "We lure him in, then snap them shut. Cover the wire with mud and ash—kill the shine. And the moment he steps between the lines… you tighten."
Sigmund gave a quiet nod.
Hours later—
The leopard returned.
It was lean, long-limbed, and powerful—a creature born of shadows and branches. No larger than a panther, its coat shimmered with a misted pattern of golden-grey rosettes. They moved like drifting clouds over its body as it padded soundlessly through the ferns. Its eyes, sharp and green, flicked left and right, every sense alert.
Crimson painted its jowls, a grim souvenir from an unfinished kill. There was tension in its movements now, an edge—frustration.
It slipped into the hollow as it had countless times before.
"Now," Skaleg hissed.
SNAP!
ZING!
The forest screamed—a brittle crack, followed by the whipcord snap of steel wire drawn taut in a flash. Branches shuddered. Leaves exploded into the air. The wire coiled around muscle and fur like a serpent.
The leopard let out a low, rasping growl that swelled into a furious snarl. It twisted and bucked, the trap groaning, metal scraping bark as it fought for freedom.
"Tighten it!" Skaleg barked.
Sig's hands trembled as he pulled. The wire responded, mana stiffening it into deadly precision. But it bit back—hard. Steel dug into his palms, slicing into flesh.
TRICKLE.
TAP.
A single drop of blood slipped from his hand and struck the soil.
The leopard froze.
Its head turned sharply. Green eyes locked onto Sigmund like blades drawn in silence. Its snarl deepened.
SWISH.
With a flicker, the cat vanished into the shadows. The trap now held nothing but memory.
LUNGE!
A blur erupted from the gloom behind him.
"Behind you!" Skaleg shouted—too late.
Sig's world spun. Claws raked across his back, shredding leather and skin in one savage arc.
"Aagh!" he cried out, stumbling forward as blood spilled freely.
He caught himself, breath ragged, pain sharp.
'The plan failed...
Time for Plan B.'
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