Just then, a faint vibration rumbled through the floorboards, followed by the heavy sound of a door opening further down the corridor. A deep, familiar voice floated toward them, filled with amusement. "Are they doing what I told them to, Spike?" Boko Salerno's voice echoed through the empty hallway, sending a chill through the trio. "I want it done exactly as I described. By tomorrow morning, Cornwall Village will tremble in fear."

The three paused, breathless. The tone in Boko's voice was pure malice, and they felt the weight of his intent settle heavily over them.

Thinking quickly, they ducked into a nearby room, shutting the door softly behind them. Pressing their ears against the wood, they strained to listen as Boko's footsteps drew nearer, his booming voice filling the corridor. They exchanged nervous glances, knowing that even the slightest sound could expose them.

Then—creak.

The door they'd hidden behind let out the smallest sound under their combined weight. All three froze, their breaths caught in their throats as the footsteps outside paused. There was silence for a heartbeat, then the soft scrape of Boko's heavy boots as he stepped closer to the door. They could feel his presence on the other side, almost smell the faint mix of leather and cigar smoke.

The knob rattled. Zenji remained calm, his gaze sharp as he quietly placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready but composed. Beside him, Rio's heart hammered in his chest, and his breath caught. His hand instinctively lifted; fingers poised for his signature explosion move. Meanwhile, Asper simply stared, frozen as the door began to inch open.

Boko twisted the doorknob slowly, pushing the door open a crack. All three could see the shadow of his looming figure from the narrow sliver of light that crept into the room. Boko's fingers gripped the edge of the door, and he began to push it open further.

Then, just as Boko's eyes seemed about to meet theirs—

"Sir!" Spike's voice rang out from down the hallway, urgent but deferential. "Scuttle and Fallow have arrived, just as you requested."

The shadow hesitated. Boko's hand froze on the door, his attention torn between curiosity and the allure of his arriving guests. With a small grunt of irritation, he let go of the door, leaving it slightly ajar, the silence from within unnoticed.

Zenji, Rio, and Asper waited, their bodies pressed tightly against the wall as Boko's voice called out in a gleeful tone, "Finally! Let's go eat dinner. And plan what we'll do to Cornwall tomorrow," he added, his laugh low and menacing as he stalked off.

Their hearts hammered in their chests as they listened to his heavy footsteps retreating, only daring to exhale once they were sure he was gone. Zenji shook his head. "We have to do this fast," he muttered urgently. "Boko's planning something... and we can't wait around while he carries it out."

Taking a moment to scan the room, they noticed how surprisingly plain it was compared to the rest of the lavish mansion. A small, dusty window faced the outside wall, a few shelves lined the walls, and a sturdy table sat in the middle, holding a silver tray with a domed lid.

Asper's eyes widened as they fell on the tray. "Oh, look! There's food here!" he said, brightening up and reaching for it before Zenji could react.

"Wait, Asper!" Zenji warned, his eyes narrowing, sensing a trap. But it was too late—Asper had already lifted the lid, his face lighting up with expectation, only for a thick, billowing smoke to suddenly pour out from underneath.

"Ugh! What's this?" Asper coughed, stepping back as the room filled with a strange, heavy fog. Zenji cursed under his breath, rushing to shut the door to contain the smoke and prevent it from alerting anyone outside. But as he did so, his vision began to blur.

Rio staggered, clutching the table for support as his knees wobbled. "Damn... you... Asper..." he muttered with a groan, before slumping to the ground in a dazed heap. Asper was next, falling back onto the floor with a dull thud, unconscious.

Zenji struggled, his hand reaching for the small window to open it and let the smoke out. But as he fumbled with the latch, his strength ebbed away, and his vision darkened. The last thing he managed to do was push the window open a crack before he, too, collapsed to the floor.

Asper lay motionless on the floor, his face oddly serene, as if finally given a chance to rest. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only movement in the still, smoke-filled room. Though this trap had been nothing more than an unlucky accident, the forced slumber seemed almost merciful—his body needed it. Today, after all, had been his first true taste of the world beyond the tranquil confines of Cloverdel Dojo and the rugged peaks and roaring shores of Darzine Village.

From the moment he'd left, it had been a whirlwind of battles, revelations, and brushes with death. He had lost to Riven, argued with his mother, learned about the Guardian Qurint, and visited the mystical Task Nebula. Danger had followed close behind, nearly claiming him more than once—first to a Suntooth Leopard, then to an ominous swordsman. Rescued by a stranger with a katana and a kid who could make explosions with his hand, Asper had then arrived in Cornwall Village, where he'd met a talking bear, the person he hated the most, and now, somehow, he found himself infiltrating a mansion with two unlikely allies. So much had happened that his senses had been constantly heightened, his mind racing, his body barely pausing.

And now, at last, he was asleep, his face softened into calmness as the chaos of the day faded away into the quiet darkness.

The morning light filtered softly into the inn, casting a calm glow over the room. Zuri stirred first, easing herself upright with a soft groan and resting her back against the headboard. Cherrie was curled up beside her, breathing steadily, oblivious to the aches and tensions that filled the room. Across from her, Nobu looked up, his expression worried.

"You should really rest, Zuri," he said gently.

"I'm fine, Kuma," she replied dismissively. But before she could say more, Fuma chimed in, his tone firm.

"No, you're not," he said, crossing his arms. "You should've realized Fallow was using Pneuma in that last attack. Your Anima wasn't enough to stop it. That was reckless, Zuri—especially going up against someone who can channel Pneuma into their weapon."

Zuri rolled her eyes, waving her hand in a mocking imitation. "Yap, yap, yap, Fuma. Here we go again with the lectures."

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But before Fuma could respond, Ivo cut in, his tone stern. "He's right, Zuri. I told you to fall back, and you should have listened. Charging in like that was reckless. It could have cost you your life."

Zuri's eyes clouded with frustration as she snapped back, her voice quivering. "But it was my mess to begin with! If I'd managed to capture Duke Gilles, things would have been different. We could have...maybe saved more people. I failed, and it was my fault. Just blame me if you want, but stop trying to make excuses for me." Her voice wavered as her hands clenched tightly.

Fuma sighed, his gaze softening. "We don't blame you, Zuri. Our planning missed crucial details—that was on all of us. My calculations should have accounted for more possibilities."

Nobu spoke up quietly, a hint of guilt in his voice. "I'm sorry, Captain. Maybe if I'd been there, we could've won. Maybe we could've taken down those Scarhead scum."

"It wasn't your fault, Nobu," Ivo said, shaking his head. "Cherrie was hungry, remember? She was exhausted and throwing a fit—you had to get her back here and feed her."

The conversation hung in the air, heavy with regret and tension, each of them lost in their own thoughts about what might have been. Just then, the door to the inn flew open with a bang. A woman stumbled in, her face streaked with tears, hair wild, clutching her chest as she gasped for breath. Her clothes were disheveled, her hands trembling. She looked at the Guild members with a mixture of anger and heartbreak.

"You damn kids," she sobbed, her voice raw with anguish. "It's because of you... look what he did. Look what that monster did to my husband, to my son!" Her knees buckled, and she collapsed, clutching the doorway as she wept bitterly, cursing between breaths.

Nun Mira, who had been tending to the room, rushed over and knelt beside the woman, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Hush, dear," she said softly, her gentle presence a balm to the woman's grief. "Tell us what happened. Try to breathe."

But the woman's sobs only grew louder, her grief too vast for words.

A shadow fell across the doorway, and Clergyman Winfreth entered, his face ashen, his eyes wide and hollow. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by a haunted, almost trembling expression, as though he had stared into something unspeakably dark.

"The things I saw..." he began, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed, and his voice grew stronger, carrying a weight of dread that filled the room. "What I witnessed... no human could have done that. The village ground—it's stained with blood. Children, men, women... he made them examples."

He paused, his eyes misting as he clenched his fists. "This was not the act of a man. This... was the work of a demon. A creature with no soul. This wasn't justice, or power—this was a show of absolute, merciless evil. May God forgive me, but I... I've never seen anything so vile."

The room fell silent, the weight of Winfreth's words sinking into each of them, a suffocating, pulsing dread. The intensity of the horrors he described left the air thick with fear and despair, and even Ivo's steady gaze faltered.

He turned to his guild members, his jaw clenched. "Get ready. This can't go unanswered."

Just then, a small whimper sounded from the bed. Cherrie, now awake from the commotion, looked around in confusion, her innocent eyes catching the dread painted on everyone's faces. Nobu scooped her up without a word, cradling her close as the group made their way to the village ground. The urgency in their footsteps matched the thundering in their chests.

As they emerged from the inn and moved closer to the gathering crowd, a stench filled the air—metallic, sickly sweet, unmistakable. A murmur of horror rippled through the villagers, the mix of anguished cries and gasps slicing through the morning quiet. The Guild members pushed through, and the scene before them made even the strongest among them falter.

Rows upon rows of tall, wooden stakes stretched out like a grim forest, each one holding a body—men, women, children—all splayed out in positions of utter cruelty. Some were bound upright, others had been strung up in crucifixion, their arms outstretched, heads slumped forward. Others hung upside down, their limp forms swaying slightly in the breeze, a morbid dance choreographed by death itself. It seemed endless—dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of lives cruelly displayed like grotesque ornaments on a twisted canvas of suffering.

The faces of those bound were hidden behind white cloths soaked through with dark, congealed blood, the red stains running down their chests, dripping slowly to the earth below. The ground was a dark, wet patchwork of blood. It pooled around the stakes, staining the soil with echoes of pain and loss. Each heartbeat felt like a thunderclap in the oppressive silence, the only sounds breaking through being the faint groans and soft whimpers from those still alive, their agony barely audible over the cries of the onlookers.

One child, not older than ten, had been fastened with their small arms stretched wide, their head lolling to the side. A cloth wrapped tightly over their face muffled weak, shuddering breaths. The sight tore through the crowd like a blade, and a few villagers collapsed to their knees, their own cries blending with the tormented sounds around them. Mothers held their children close, shielding their eyes, yet unable to tear their own gaze from the scene of abject horror.

The Guild members stood paralyzed, grappling with the brutality before them. The sheer scale of Boko Salerno's cruelty weighed down on them—a calculated display of power, a message of unrestrained malice. Every stake was a testament to his dominance, his utter disregard for human life.

Clergyman Winfreth's voice cut through the thick silence, trembling but resolute. "This... this is beyond sin, beyond cruelty. This is the work of a man who has abandoned his humanity—who has become something darker, something twisted. I've served in this village for years, and I have never seen... never imagined... such vile, demonic savagery."

A murmur of fury rose among the villagers, the air thickening with outrage, sorrow, and helplessness. Children clung to their parents, tears streaming down their faces, while the adults wore expressions etched in grief and fury.

Beside Ivo, Zuri's fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her eyes, usually bright with warmth or humor, were pools of barely contained rage. Nobu's jaw was set, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the stakes, his muscles taut as he held Cherrie close to shield her from the view. Even Fuma, usually calm and composed, clenched his teeth, his face betraying a rare anger.

Ivo's jaw clenched, his mind echoing the words: This ends here. Today, we are going to put a stop to Boko Salerno's reign. No one... no one should be able to walk away from something like this.

But before he could act, a sickening sound broke through the tension-laden air—amused snickers, mocking laughter ringing out like a twisted melody. Standing at the forefront, Boko Salerno's gang members watched the scene with smug satisfaction, their eyes gleaming as they took in the horror they had orchestrated. Not a trace of remorse crossed their faces; only twisted pleasure filled their expressions.

They grinned, delighting in the terror they inspired. The villagers shrank back, instinctively shielding their children and retreating from the vile figures in front of them, fear rippling through the crowd as they struggled to keep a safe distance, yet a line of defiance held at the front: Ivo, Fuma, Zuri, Nobu, and Clergyman Winfreth remained rooted, their expressions unwavering.

The gang parted, and from their ranks, two familiar figures stepped forward—Scuttle, his smirk vile and eyes brimming with dark amusement, and Fallow, who grinned as he surveyed the Guild members with contempt. The ground beneath their heavy footsteps seemed to tremble, as if recoiling from their presence.

Then, behind them, with a slow and deliberate step, Boko Salerno emerged, his presence suffocating, his very aura drenched in malice. His lips twisted into a sinister grin, and he raised his arms wide, as though presenting his grim display to an audience. His gaze met Ivo's, gleaming with an eerie satisfaction.

"Welcome, Ivo 'The Magnificent' Gadall," he called, his voice darkly welcoming, his tone dripping with cruelty. The smirk on his face grew as he glanced around at the field of stakes, the suffering etched on each tortured soul. Then, his gaze returned to Ivo, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, though every word sliced through the silence.

"Welcome to my Graveyard of the Living."