Hazle sat slumped on the ground. His head hung low, his breathing shallow—each inhale a struggle, as if even the act of staying conscious defied the will of his body. Around him, the battlefield lay scorched, scattered with ruin. Ash and embers drifted faintly, dancing like mournful fireflies in the twilight of violence. One more breath, one more step—and he would collapse.
Then, heavy footsteps broke the silence.
From behind the shattered wall of stone, a figure emerged. Cloaked in black robes frayed with age, her presence carried with it a chill deeper than wind. A pointed, vulture-like nose jutted out beneath the folds of her hood, and her gait, though slow, radiated authority.
She paused, her gaze settling first on Hazle—then lowered herself into a deep bow before the man who now ruled the battlefield.
"I must atone for my failure," she murmured, her voice like dry leaves scraping over stone. "Forgive me, Lord Jester."
From her pouch, she withdrew a magical orb. It pulsed a dull gray, a sickly light—like the breath of an old soul that refused to fade into death. She held it up reverently, both hands trembling.
"This magic… is imperfect," she confessed, eyes never meeting his. "But sufficient for a moment like this. It will suppress the force rising within him—this 'Awakening,' as they call it."
Jester's expression did not change. He watched her without blinking, as if weighing whether she was a tool still worth keeping.
"But," the witch added softly, "it has a limit. The spell can only be cast on three souls per era. Beyond that, it loses all effect. If it works… Hazle will be the second soul. After that man."
A crooked smile tugged at Jester's lips. Something ancient flickered in his eyes—an echo of a long-forgotten plan, now crawling into fruition.
"This is what I've wanted from the beginning," he whispered. "Do it."
The witch began to chant.
The orb grew brighter, its pulse erratic. The wind howled anew, lifting dust into serpentine spirals around them. Hazle, still unmoving until now, began to twitch. Then convulse. His body fought against something unseen.
"AAAAAARRRGHHHH!!"
His scream tore through the battlefield like a thunderclap. The ground trembled. His back arched in pain, muscles spasming. Veins bulged like cords of fire beneath his skin. His face contorted—rage, sorrow, confusion—all devoured by agony. The orb's light bored into his soul, stripping it bare.
Zeco, farther off, took a step forward. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his katana.
Charlotte, hiding behind a crumbled ridge, cocked her slingshot with mechanical precision. "We can't just sit here," she hissed. "I refuse to die with my hair undone."
Hazle collapsed, motionless.
Zeco lunged forward.
But Jester was already there.
Like a shadow stretching too fast for reason, he materialized before Zeco.
"It's too late, Zeco."
THUD!
One clean blow to the chest—and Zeco was airborne. He hit the ground hard and did not rise.
Charlotte's shot was already in motion.
WHISTLE—
CLINK!
Jester shifted just enough. The bullet grazed his coat—but in the next instant, his leg snapped forward.
CRACK!
Charlotte's body was flung back like a doll. Her slingshot spun out of her hand and landed with a sad clatter.
She gasped, pain radiating from her ribs—but still managed a laugh, weak but defiant.
"Ughhh… Brought the wrong ammo," she groaned. "Should've packed the one that makes enemies sing dangdut… You're just lucky, old man."
She coughed, then crawled—bit by bit—back toward Zeco.
Jester, unusually, responded with a gentle smile. Not the sinister smirk of a man enjoying dominance, but something quieter… as if he believed he'd done them a kindness they'd never understand.
Then—
From the hill above, a new presence made itself known.
A deep voice—calm and clear—cut through the settling dust.
"So," it said, measured and composed, "is the game over… or has it just begun?"