In the broken chapel of their base lay a freshly dug grave — Felicia's final resting place.
Igba had just finished saying his goodbyes, along with the other laborers. Their eyes were swollen, not just from grief, but from a night without sleep.
Both Nula and Arma were nowhere to be found.
"Where's Nula?" Vina asked.
"Don't bother. He's not the type to respect the dead," Bolca replied.
Just as everyone was preparing to leave, Arma quietly entered and took a seat in the back.
Igba approached him. "You're late."
"Sorry," Arma said. "I wanted to speak to the dead man in private."
After the others exited the chapel, Arma walked up to the grave.
He stood in silence. He'd already said everything that mattered before Felicia died.
Now, he said only one thing:
"I'll make sure your efforts weren't in vain."
Then he turned and followed the others.
Later, as the new day began, Nula and Arma entered the makeshift tavern.
Igba, Morma, and Bolca were hammering at the wall, clearing space for the ornaments they planned to hang in honor of the dead—Shu's favorite compass, Deborah's collection of seashells, Eve's bracelets, Cleo's favorite razor, and Felicia's comb—the very one he used to fix his pointy beard.
Nearby, Peeros and Vina were slicing meat and vegetables for the day's meal.
Usually, the tavern bustled with activity—people constantly bumping into one another as they went about their chores.
But now, it felt more spacious—
and a little lonelier—
with the five of them gone
Meanwhile, in a spacious office that looked nothing like the ruined, makeshift base—surrounded by high-quality oak furniture: desks, drawers, chairs, and a large clock ticking steadily in the center—a man in a black barong stared intently at Liba.
Liba yawned, clearly bored.
"Well? Are you not going to explain what happened?" asked the man in the suit. He had a mustache, a slightly receding hairline, and looked to be in his fifties. Papers filled with theories, diagrams, and formulas cluttered his desk.
"What else is there to say?" Liba replied. "They tried to escape. We stopped them. Sounds like a win to me."
"It shouldn't have happened in the first place!" the man snapped, clearly furious. He let out a deep sigh.
"We can't afford any more deaths. We still have loose ends to tie up, and I NEED them trained! We can't just keep recruiting laborers—the capitals are getting stricter, and we're running out of time."
"Well, I can tell you they're getting better. Maybe if you buy more slaves, I can have the laborers execute them! HAHAHA!" Liba said with a grin.
"Not everyone is as psychotic as you," the man said coldly. "That would only backfire. I already have a plan—I just need to make sure they're ready."
"Fine…" Liba muttered.
"And what about the new batch of huntsmen? Anything unusual?"
"No. Nula and the others aren't showing any side effects from the experiment," Liba reported.
"Good. That means we're one step closer to our goal. But about the recent incident—it's clear you're not fit for the job. I'll need to implement more… fail-safes."
"All righhhht. I promise I'll be more careful next time," Liba said with a mocking tone.
"Hmpf," the man grunted.
"Hey, I'm curious—what exactly did you do to the new batch?" Liba asked.
The man stared at him for a moment before answering.
"The Awakening Ritual is a process meant to unlock part of the full potential hidden deep within the human soul. My experiment was simply to do it more efficiently."
He stood up, signaling the end of the conversation.
"Now, if you don't have any more questions—return to your post."
"Aye aye, captain," Liba said sarcastically, saluting with a smirk.
Days passed.
It was time again for their weekly hunt. As usual, they boarded their vehicles blindfolded and were transported to the same ruins they'd visited before—they still weren't done with the cleanup. After the long drive, they exited the vehicles, grabbed their weapons, and equipped their hunter straps.
But before they could proceed, Liba stepped forward and spoke.
"LISTEN UP, EVERYONE! We're slightly behind schedule, and due to recent events, we need to pick up the slack. So starting today, your quota will increase from seven to ten!" Liba shouted, much to the dismay of the laborers.
"Overtime…" Shise muttered.
"I'll also be rearranging your teams! I believe that forcing you to work outside your comfort zones will improve the overall efficiency of the group in the long run. Now—onto the new teams!"
Liba began calling out names, shuffling the workers into different groups. Vina was placed with Arma and Morma, while Nula…
Nula was assigned to a team with Peeros and Bolca.
"Damn, looks like I got the short end of the stick," Bolca groaned. "Overtime and now I have to work with that thug?"
Nula shot him an irritated glance but said nothing.
The trio made their way to their designated area, searching for Decadents to hunt. The air was tense. No one spoke. The silence stretched—awkward and heavy—until finally, Peeros broke it.
"H-Hey… We haven't decided who's going to be the watcher yet…"
"Oh yeah," Bolca responded, then silence returned—until he broke it again.
"So why weren't you there, Nula? During his burial?" Bolca asked, while Peeros looked at him in shock.
"I never knew the guy. There's no point in going," Nula said without looking back.
"You could've at least come... Ah, whatever. Why'd I even bring it up? You're a thug—of course you wouldn't give a shit," Bolca replied.
Nula stopped, shooting him a sharp side-eye. "You prick."
"C-C'mon guys, now isn't the time. I know things have been really bad, but—" Peeros tried to step in and deescalate.
"STOP."
Nula turned and approached Bolca. The two stood face-to-face, eyes locked.
"Do you have a problem?"
"YEAH! YES, I do! You—you didn't even visit Felicia's grave! No, you never even give a shit whether someone dies, and that ticks me off. You act like an asshole—a cold, unfeeling thug bastard!" Bolca shouted.
Nula was silent for a moment before finally responding. "This was never about them, was it? You're just looking for someone to vent your anger on. Look, I don't give a shit about your past, and maybe you shouldn't be snooping around mine either."
"N-Nula, stop! Both of you!" Peeros pleaded.
But the scuffle had already drawn attention.
From the rubble, a Decadent stirred—its grotesque body towering above them. It resembled a giant bat, but its face was replaced by a sagging, human-like visage. It spread its wings wide, and in a sudden blitz, it lunged at the trio.
Before they could react, the creature snatched Nula and Peeros in its razor-sharp talons and shot into the sky.
"FUCK!" Nula screamed, struggling against its grip.
"Shit!" Bolca yelled, taking off in pursuit—only to realize almost instantly how futile it was. The beast soared out of reach, leaving him behind.
And worse—his chase had drawn the attention of another Decadent nearby.
A one-eyed, human-like beast emerged. Its pale, sickly skin stretched tightly over its grotesque frame. The top of its skull was missing—its brain fully exposed, pulsing grotesquely. A thick, fleshy neck supported a singular, oversized eye embedded deep in its center. Its left arm was a cluster of retractable tentacles, writhing and twitching like serpents.
Bolca reached behind his back and drew his twin knives. One blade had a serrated spine, the other curved with a hook-like edge. He crouched, focused, and ready.
The Decadent lashed out with its tentacles, and Bolca, swift as a cat, dodged and sliced through them mid-swing. But as the pieces fell, sizzling drops of acidic blood splattered in every direction.
"Shit—acid," Bolca muttered, shielding his face. Luckily, the blood hit the hunter straps on his arm, hissing but not burning through.
"This is bad…" he thought.
Before he could regroup, a high-pitched screech pierced the air behind him. Another Decadent had arrived.
This one was a monstrous head—massive, bulbous, and grotesquely grinning. Its only limbs were a pair of gigantic, muscular legs that supported its unnatural body. It took a deep breath.
Then it screamed.
A sonic blast ripped through the air, blowing Bolca and the brain Decadent off their feet and scattering rubble everywhere. Dust and debris filled the area.
The screeching Decadent grinned wider, seemingly pleased.
But from within the chaos, movement stirred. The brain Decadent got back on its feet.
And so did Bolca.
Blood trickled down his face. His muscles trembled—but not from fear. He pushed off the debris and stood tall, eyes burning with rage.
"I've been passed on and sold for God knows how long…" he muttered through clenched teeth.
"I've endured countless bullshit from a lot of asses…" He gripped his knives tighter. Veins bulged down his arms, his fury uncontained.
Then, he roared.
"I'VE COME TOO FAR! I'LL SLAUGHTER ANY FUCKERS THAT COME MY WAY—AND AFTER THAT, I'LL SLAUGHTER THIS SHITTY MERCENARY GROUP AND REUNITE WITH MY POPS!"
He raised both blades and pointed at the Decadents.
"SO COME AT ME, YOU FREAKS!"