Isaac’s breathing grew shallow as continued gazing out through the small opening in the vent. Zeke stepped into the center of the room, a vast space that seemed to hum with an ominous energy. His gaze drifted nervously to the right, locking onto Amelia, the woman standing next to him. His thoughts were in disarray, a chaotic storm of anxiety and awe at the scene unfolding before him.

“I don’t care what happens,” Amelia whispered softly, her voice barely audible over the tension in the room. Isaac turned his gaze to meet hers, her intense green eyes locking onto his with an unshakable determination. There was something about the way she looked at him—a calm confidence that left Isaac both unsettled and strangely fascinated. He had never felt such an inexplicable pull before. The moment stretched intimately between them, heavy and unspoken.

As the two watched in tense anticipation, Zeke marched confidently toward the center of the room. His every step resonated with quiet strength, his posture calm but poised, ready for whatever was to come. He stopped, squaring his shoulders as he looked up at the Contractor King.

“So, what rules do you want us to play by?” Zeke asked, his voice even and controlled.

The Contractor King rubbed his hands together, seemingly amused by Zeke’s question. “Rules?” he pondered, the word hanging in the air for a moment before he smiled. “Let me see... Magic and souls are permitted. However, I ask that you do not transform,” he said, his voice casual but commanding. His eyes gleamed with barely concealed excitement.

Hound, standing across from Zeke, grinned wickedly. “You’re dead, pretty boy,” he sneered, stepping confidently into the center of the arena.

In an instant, Hound dropped to one knee, his hand pressing against the ground as he channeled his magic. “Soul!” he bellowed, his voice ringing out through the chamber. His outstretched hand grasped something intangible, and suddenly, a weapon began to manifest—a Morningstar, with a large spiked head formed from condensed rock, glowing faintly with a fiery orange light that seeped through the cracks.

Hound straightened, dragging the Morningstar along the floor behind him as he began to approach Zeke. The weapon left a trail of sparks and deep gashes in the ground, the spikes grinding ominously against the stone.

At the same time, Patrick Birdman stepped forward, summoning his own soul weapon—a pair of curved daggers made of black metal, intricately patterned with silver serpentine designs that twisted up the blades. His movements were precise and deliberate, his eyes cold and calculating as he sized up his opponent.

Hound quickened his pace, building momentum as he swung the Morningstar toward Zeke’s head with all his strength. The weapon cut through the air, deadly and swift, but Zeke stood motionless, his body completely still as the strike approached.

Just as the weapon was about to make contact, time seemed to slow. Zeke’s eyes flickered to his right, noticing Fredric standing in the distance, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“He’s using his magic to speed me up,” Zeke thought, his mind clear as his body began to move on its own.

With fluid precision, Zeke ducked effortlessly under Hound’s attack, his movements so fast they seemed almost mechanical. “Is this it?” Zeke wondered. His voice was cold and robotic, devoid of any emotion.

Hound growled in frustration, swinging his Morningstar again, but this time, before the weapon could even complete its arc, Zeke moved in, planting a powerful kick squarely against Hound’s chest. The force of the blow sent Hound crashing to the ground, his body skidding across the arena.

Without pausing, Zeke spun to face Patrick Birdman, who had barely registered Hound’s defeat. Zeke dashed toward him with blinding speed. Birdman instinctively raised his daggers in a defensive stance, but before he could react, Zeke swept his legs out from under him, sending Birdman crashing to the ground.

For the first time in his life, Birdman felt true fear—an overwhelming sense of helplessness in the face of an opponent he had no chance of defeating. His body trembled, frozen in place, as he stared up at Zeke with wide, terrified eyes. It was the primal fear of prey standing before a predator, the desperate, paralyzing realization that survival was impossible.

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Zeke wasted no time. He pulled two black blades from his pockets and, with a swift motion, drove one of them into Birdman’s leg. Birdman howled in pain, his hands grasping futilely at the wound.

Just then, Zeke felt something strange—a shift in the air, a sense of danger creeping toward him. He looked over his shoulder to see Svetlana Chamilova, standing in the distance, chanting a spell. Her magic was subtle, invisible, but potent. She was creating an odorless, invisible poison that began to spread through the air.

“If she’s creating poison, she probably can’t control it with enough precision to move it toward me,” Zeke thought, smirking.

“Someone’s helping you!” Zeke growled, his voice filled with contempt.

Svetlana’s eyes widened in fear as Zeke turned his attention to her. He took aim and, with a flick of his wrist, hurled his second blade at her. The weapon embedded itself in her right shoulder, causing her to cry out in pain. She grabbed at the blade, trying to pull it free, but the moment it lodged into her flesh, hundreds of tiny, barbed whiskers extended from the blade, digging deeper into her body.

“What the fuck!” she screamed, her voice filled with agony as the barbs twisted and squirmed inside her wound, refusing to release her.

Zeke’s smile widened, his expression dark and menacing. “Aren’t you lot a little too soft to be guardians?” he taunted.

Behind him, Hound staggered to his feet, his eyes burning with rage. With a snarl, he summoned his magic, causing the ground beneath Zeke to shift. Rocks shot up from the floor, encasing Zeke’s legs and trapping him in place. Hound gripped his Morningstar with both hands, charging forward with renewed determination. He swung the weapon over his head, aiming for a devastating blow.

Despite the support from Fredric’s magic, Zeke didn’t have enough time to escape. His mind raced, analyzing the situation. “Think, damn it, think. There has to be a way out of this. His soul’s ability is probably tied to those spikes. They can likely pierce anything with less demonic energy than them."

Zeke’s brain went into overdrive, and in an instant, he made his decision.

Hound let out a roar, putting all his strength into the swing, but just before the Morningstar struck, Zeke raised his hand, stopping the weapon mid-swing. A deafening clang echoed through the room, the sound like the toll of a massive bell, reverberating off the walls of the chapel.

The Contractor King’s eyes widened in shock.

Zeke stood motionless, blood gushing from his arm where the spikes had pierced deep into his flesh, severing arteries. Despite his injuries, he remained calm, his grip on the Morningstar unyielding. Across from him, Hound’s wrists hung limp, both arms broken from the impact.

Hound tried desperately to wrench the weapon free, but Zeke didn’t budge. “Oh? You want this back?” Zeke asked, his voice cold. “But you were the one who gave it to me.” He pulled hard, forcing Hound down to his knees.

The Morningstar slipped from Hound’s grasp and clattered to the floor. Zeke picked it up, his left hand gripping the weapon tightly. The glow of the spikes shifted from orange to a cold, eerie blue. Blue flames danced along the surface of the weapon, licking at the air around them.

With a single motion, Zeke slammed the Morningstar into the ground, shattering the stone that encased his legs.

“No way!” Sofie Lock gasped from a distance, her eyes wide with disbelief. “How did he just wield someone else’s soul?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before she could react, Sofie felt a strange sensation around her neck. Dust gathered in the air, forming a tight stone collar with sharp spikes pointing inward toward her throat. She froze, too terrified to move, the spikes pressing ever so slightly into her skin.

She twisted her gaze, looking desperately around for the source of the magic. Her eyes locked onto Nolan, who sat watching her with an intense, grim expression. The collar tightened, and Sofie swallowed reflexively, the spikes cutting into her flesh, causing small rivulets of blood to drip down her neck.

Footsteps echoed behind her. She barely had time to react before Fox appeared in her peripheral vision, his movements swift and silent. He leaned close, his voice a whisper against her ear.

“I think it’s best if you keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, Sofie,” he murmured, his tone darkly intimate. He lifted his mask slightly, revealing a twisted smile hidden beneath the cold porcelain.

Fox sat beside her, casually draping an arm around her shoulders, his presence suffocating. “It was cute how your girlfriend sacrificed herself so you could live,” he whispered, his words dripping like venom. “But using the King’s love of gambling against him? That was a poor move. Your wind magic steering Svetlana’s poison? Child’s play to figure out.”

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. “We knew who the traitors were before anyone even arrived. The King just wanted a show,” he said with a cruel chuckle.

Fredric leaned in and kissed Sofie’s cheek, his presence overwhelming, pressing in on her from all sides. “No one can see you suffer here, inside my little bubble,” he said, caressing her hair with an eerie gentleness. “You stupid lesbians, all tits and no brains,” he sneered, his voice filled with venom.

Sofie gasped, struggling for breath as the collar tightened further, but Fox’s grip on her remained firm.

“You don’t have to die,” Fox whispered, his tone suddenly soft, almost tender. “I can help you. I can protect you from the King. But you have to cooperate.”

“I...” Sofie trembled, her body shaking from fear and pain. “I’ll do whatever you want.”