There he was, no older than 14, trembling and naked amidst a group of equally terrified boys. The stone floor beneath them was freezing, though sweat slicked their trembling bodies, mingling with the grime of their confinement. The air stank of incense and smoke, thick and choking, as though the heavens themselves turned away from this place. Around them, people chanted—voices raised in fevered cries of desperation, hope, and madness.

At the far end of the hall stood a jarring statue, towering over everything else. It was a long, serpentine dragon, its body coiled around a jagged spire. Its gaping maw was filled with razor-sharp teeth, and its hollow eyes seemed to glare down at the proceedings. The people called it Lord Ryuzoji. Offerings of rotted fruit, crude wooden carvings, and bloodied cloth were strewn at its base. Wax from countless candles dripped over the altar, pooling at the feet of the statue like molten tears.

“Please, great Ryuzoji, hear our cries!” a woman wailed, clutching a withered bundle of what might have once been flowers. Her voice cracked with desperation. “End the drought! Save our children!”

Another man fell to his knees, pounding his fists against the floor. “Spare us! We’ll give you whatever you want!” he sobbed, his voice raw.

The crowd surged forward, their cries growing louder. “Make the god happy!” someone screamed. “Offer more blood! More sacrifices!”

Fuma stood frozen, his bare feet rooted to the icy stone, trembling so violently he thought his legs might give out. His eyes darted toward the monstrous statue, its sinister visage only amplifying the suffocating terror gripping his chest. Around him, the other boys whimpered, their small hands clutching at one another as if the touch could ward off what was coming.

The man at the center of it all, the priest, stepped forward—robes of red and black flowing around him like flames. He was an imposing figure, gaunt and hollow-eyed, as if he hadn’t slept in years. His cracked voice reverberated through the space, piercing through the chaos of chants.

“Oh Lord Ryuzoji!” the priest bellowed, spreading his arms to the sky. His movements were theatrical, almost serpentine, mimicking the god they worshiped. “Our saviour, our God! Accept this sacrifice and deliver us from suffering!”

The crowd erupted in a frenzied chorus of agreement. “Praise Ryuzoji-Sama!” they chanted. “Blessed be the sacrifice!”

Fuma’s knees buckled as the priest’s bony hand seized him, dragging him to the center of the hall. He clawed at the floor, trying to resist, but the man’s grip was like iron. Tears streamed down his face; his cries muffled by his own terror.

“Please! No!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to die!”

The priest paid no mind, his voice rising above Fuma’s protests. “Accept this life!” he roared, his voice shaking the walls. “Bless your children once more! Grant us rain! Grant us prosperity!”

Fuma’s struggling grew frantic as the priest raised a long, jagged knife.

“No! Stop!” Fuma shrieked, his voice lost amidst the crowd’s fervent cheering.

The blade came down.

Fuma’s body convulsed as the knife pressed against his face. The priest worked with terrifying precision, plunging the blade into his left eye. Hot, unbearable pain ripped through his skull, and Fuma screamed—a sound that shattered through the hall like a banshee’s wail. His shrieks echoed, shaking the rafters above as the crowd erupted in cheers laughing, clapping, jubilant cries mixing with his agonized wails.

Blood poured down his face, slick and sticky, blinding him to the world. He heard the priest chant louder, his words indistinguishable but soaked in malice. The knife scratched cruelly down his cheek, leaving a thin scar just below his now-empty socket.

“The drought ends! The Lord is satisfied!” the priest proclaimed, holding the bloodied blade aloft like a trophy, he threw Fuma’s limp body aside like a piece of garbage. Fuma hit the cold stone floor, hands clutching the ruin where his eye had once been.

The cheering grew louder—a cruel, mocking choir as he curled up, his body shaking from sobs and agony.

The memory shattered like glass.

Fuma’s breath came out ragged, his chest rising and falling as he returned to the present. He felt his hand instinctively go to the lock of hair that covered his scar—his fingers brushing against it as if to reassure himself it was still hidden. He blinked his remaining eye to clear the haze.

Before him, Fallow was advancing, steps steady and deliberate.

Focus, Fuma thought, shaking the memory off.

You can’t falter here.

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Fuma exhaled sharply, his posture straightening. He spread his stance as his hands began to hum faintly with flowing Pneuma. His gaze locked onto Fallow’s approaching form.

“Come on, old man. You call that running? Did age finally catch up with you?” Fuma muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Fallow tilted his head, his weathered face showing no emotion. “Still got time to mouth off, huh?” He pointed his razor-sharp sword towards Fuma, the steel gleamed darkly against the crimson-soaked ground.

Don’t think. Move.

Fuma charged forward, Pneuma flowing through his arms, enhancing every muscle fiber to its limit. Fallow swung first—his blade arcing fast and wide. The impact of the air following the swing was deafening, splitting the silence like thunder. Fuma ducked, just barely avoiding the sweeping blade. Blood welled up instantly from his scar on cheek, stinging against the cold wind.

Fuma flinched but didn’t stop. Instead, he pivoted, bringing his hands up in a sharp motion, deflecting the follow-up strike just enough to sidestep it. The ground beneath them kicked up dust as the two clashed—Fuma dancing between deadly swings with impressive speed, while Fallow advanced with calculated precision, each strike deliberate and bone-shaking.

“Fighting me barehanded against a blade? Ballsy,” Fallow said, voice as calm as ever, though sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Blades are a crutch,” Fuma shot back, his lips twitching into a grin despite the blood trailing down his face. He shifted his weight, dodging another horizontal slash, before planting his feet firmly. His fist snapped forward, connecting with Fallow’s stomach.

At that exact moment, Pneuma surged from Fuma’s fist like a cannon blast. A burst of energy exploded outwards, the shockwave kicking up dirt and rattling nearby stakes. Fallow’s eyes widened slightly as the impact sent him flying backwards, his body screeching across the blood-soaked ground before slamming into a stake. The wood cracked audibly under the force.

Fuma didn’t pause his gaze shot across the battlefield. There, in the distance, he saw Ivo collapse under Boko Salerno’s relentless punches.

“Captain!” Fuma shouted, his voice sharp with panic.

For a split second, his attention wavered.

Too late.

Fallow was already moving—his silhouette a blur. He closed the distance in the blink of an eye, blade swinging straight for Fuma’s head. Fuma barely managed to twist away, the edge of the blade whistling past his ear. A stray lock of his hair floated to the ground.

“Paying attention elsewhere while you’re fighting me?” Fallow sneered; his voice edged with disdain. “How disrespectful, kid.”

Fuma clenched his fists, his thoughts racing. He had to get to Ivo. But Fallow wasn’t letting up the man was relentless.

Fuma struck back, dodging another swipe before launching a Pneuma-infused punch square into Fallow’s jaw. The swordsman’s head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth as he staggered backwards. Fuma didn’t waste a second. His sharp gaze darted across the battlefield, scanning through the chaos until it locked onto Nobu.

“Nobu!” Fuma shouted, his voice carrying across the chaos.

At the sound of his name, Nobu’s ears twitched, his massive form turning towards Fuma. Polar-bear fur bristling, Nobu stood amidst a pile of unconscious gang members, his twin swords dripping with fresh blood as he jerked them to the side, flinging the crimson droplets onto the ground. His deep, gravelly voice boomed across the battlefield.

“Hold on, Fuma! I’m coming!”

Fallow didn’t let up. With a burst of speed, he lunged again Fuma barely catching the strike with his enhanced hands. Sparks flew as steel clashed with Pneuma-coated skin.

“You’re done,” Fallow growled, pressing forward.

Fallow’s sharp eyes widened as he spotted Nobu charging toward them. With a quick movement, Fallow leapt backward, disengaging from Fuma. His boots skidded across the bloodied ground as he adjusted his stance, his blade rising to meet this new threat.

“Another one?” Fallow muttered, his voice cold and edged with anger. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Nobu’s deep growl rolled like thunder as he closed the distance. “Get away from him!” he roared, swinging both of his long swords in a wide arc. The blades hissed through the air, slamming against Fallow’s weapon with a deafening clang.

The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, kicking up dirt and blood. Fallow grunted, bracing himself against the force, but his feet slid backward slightly. With a sharp shove, he pushed Nobu away, his stance steadying once more.

Nobu didn’t relent. His muscles coiled, and he lunged again, one blade aimed high and the other low. Fallow’s movements were a blur as he parried the first strike and twisted to avoid the second.

Fuma took a step back, his chest heaving as he watched the intense exchange. Nobu’s words broke through the clash of blades.

“Go help Captain!” Nobu said gruffly, his teeth bared in a snarl. His fiery gaze didn’t waver from Fallow. “I’ll handle him.”

Without hesitation, Fuma nodded. “I’m on it!” he shouted, turning on his heel and sprinting toward Ivo. His shoes pounded against the churned ground, the chaos of the battlefield blurring around him as he focused on reaching his Captain.

Behind him, Fallow’s voice rang out, sharp and mocking. “Running already?” He shifted his focus back to Nobu, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “And you mutt! —you let my prey escape. Now you’re dead meat.”

Nobu narrowed his eyes, his twin blades gleaming as he shifted into a defensive stance. “Big talk for someone who’s about to get skinned alive.”

Fallow’s smirk widened. “Damn animal, talking about skinning someone.”

The air between them seemed to crackle with tension as they circled each other, their steps slow and deliberate. Fallow lunged forward, his blade cutting through the air with deadly precision. Nobu met the strike with a powerful block, the impact sending another wave of sparks flying.

As Fuma sprinted toward Ivo, the clash of steel rang out behind him, sparks scattering like fireflies under a stormy sky as Nobu and Fallow collided in a blinding exchange of blows.