Scaling the castle wall unnoticed was a challenge. Doing so with multiple fractured ribs felt nearly insurmountable, not to mention excruciating. Yet, his relentless metal arm bore the brunt of the effort, hoisting him up the wall as if a comrade was pulling him from the midst of a tavern brawl gone awry. Each tug sent jolts of agony through his chest, making him feel like a puppet being torn apart by a ravenous hound. Once atop the battlement, he deftly evaded the guards, their patrol patterns already etched in his memory. The final hurdle was the ascent to his chamber's window atop the tower. As he climbed, he mentally noted the need for future security enhancements to close that entry from others.

His chamber was untouched, just as he'd left it. He staggered to a hefty locker and unlocked it, revealing an assortment of garments, maps, and relics from his journeys. Among them, he found a petite white leather pouch. Inside were dried fragments of black lotus petals. Placing one on his tongue, the searing pain dulled, replaced by a foggy drowsiness. His tolerance to the potent analgesic had evidently diminished over time, as the effect was much more pronounced than when he had used the substance more consistently during his search for the Gauntlet, punctuated with fights with the malignant one's forces as it was. Before succumbing to the drug's effects, he secured his stash and made his way to the bed, shedding his soiled cloak and boots.

He collapsed onto the mattress, the weight of exhaustion pulling him swiftly towards sleep.

A subtle shift in the bedding. A faint sway.

He wasn't alone.

"Rough evening?" Inanna's voice teased from beneath the sheets, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"You shouldn't be here," he rasped.

Feigning shock, she replied, "When I heard my beloved had secluded himself, denying entry even to his closest allies, I simply had to ensure all was well. The guards, after all, aren't exactly in a position to deny me."

Her gaze was predatory, reminiscent of a feline toying with its doomed prey. "It's fortunate it was only me who found you, not one of the king's envoys."

Her finger traced a delicate path along his chest. "Imagine the consequences if the king discovered you've been neglecting to inform the officials of your comings and goings, in direct violation of the terms set in the Treaty."

He read the unspoken threat in her eyes. "You mean 'imagine if I were to inform him,' my dear fiancée," he mused inwardly. Aloud, he retorted, "The Treaty never specified that I report every minor excursion, only when I venture to another region."

"Dare you challenge that interpretation against King Duriel's judgment? I wonder, between your perspective and his, who would prevail?"

His response was an expressionless silence, a quiet defiance to her rhetorical query. Her smug demeanor left no doubt; she was certain of her position and relished in his awareness of it.

"You plan to inform him?"

Her smirk was nonchalant, as if the weight of the world was but a feather on her shoulders. "Where, pray tell, were you?"

"Confined to this garderobe. Prove otherwise," he retorted with a calm resolve.

She met his gaze, her eyes unyielding. He returned her stare, careful to not let his eyes drift to his discarded garments. In the dimness, she might not discern their gory details, but a closer inspection would betray him.

"You think yourself so astute, but I'm aware of your escapade to the brothel."

Externally, he remained as unyielding as stone. Yet, internally, he felt like a hare sensing the imminent pounce of a predator, its heartbeats echoing the seconds before the strike. Even the sedative's haze couldn't numb the icy grip of dread.

"That's the prime reason for men of your stature to go sneaking about, after all. Don't presume you're an exception, even if you can keep your face impressively straight right now."

He barely concealed his relief. "If that's your belief."

Suddenly, she leaned in, their faces inches apart, and inhaled deeply. "Her scent lingers on you."

"Some of the thick atmosphere must have rubbed off on me," he figured.

"But why seek another's embrace when you have me?" With a sultry motion, she swung a leg over him, straddling him. Her nightgown, ending just above her thighs, barely concealed her undergarments. Her hands glided sensuously over her shapely thighs, up her stomach on onto her breasts, fingers teasing the edges of her red, semi-translucent bodice. As she began to unfasten her brassiere, her breaths grew ragged with desire.

His mind, dulled by the drug, struggled to process her sudden shift in demeanor. Drawn into her allure, his hand reached for her, desire igniting within him.

With a triumphant laugh, she sprang away, standing beside the bed. "So beneath that imperturbable facade lurks a rutted cur, no different from the rest. Hope you got a nice handful since that's all you're going to get, for it's all you'll get. I must remain pure until our formal union, lest our lands face the wrath of the Antediluvian royal lineage. And I've heard they're not eager to visit this cesspool." With a final, disdainful glance, she declared, "Mark my words, castoff: I will find a way to be rid of you and return to my homeland." With that, she stormed out, the door slamming in her wake.

The embers of his thwarted desire smoldered briefly before the sedative's embrace pulled him under. He managed to secure his belongings before succumbing to the depths of unconsciousness.

Awakened by sharp pains in his chest, Buren realized that, although it felt like mere moments had passed, hours had elapsed. Rising was an ordeal, prompting him to revisit his stash of medicinal plants. After consuming enough to dull the pain, he pocketed the bag for later use. Servants soon arrived, filling his bathtub with water. Once they departed, he cleansed himself of the previous night's grime and blood, ensuring his cloak was free of the worst stains. He then emptied the murky, blood-tainted water from the tub through his window.

His torso was a canvas of red, purple, and yellowish bruises, but his face remained unmarred, save for a swollen nose. This meant he wouldn't need to concoct any elaborate tales to explain his appearance. Donning fresh attire, he decided that maintaining his usual demeanor was the wisest approach. With long, purposeful strides, he made his way to the dining hall, all the while contemplating how to acquire more of the white lotus.

As he neared the corridor leading to the hall, he spotted two district guards, each with a bloodhound on a leash, conversing with the seneschal. Inanna stood a distance away, visibly incensed, her own guards flanking her.

"Leave at once," the seneschal ordered, his voice echoing with authority. "The lady of this house will not tolerate your presence."

The hounds went wild as Buren approached, lunging and barking furiously.

"My apologies, my lord," one of the guards said, yanking the leashes so hard the dogs whimpered. "We're merely performing our duties. The hounds led us here."

"And what duty might that be?" Inanna inquired, her tone dripping with disdain.

"There was a massacre at one of the district's... establishments," the guard began, hesitating slightly. "The perpetrator was seen fleeing the scene, clearly wounded but still able to escape. We've been tracking a scent the hounds picked up, which led us straight to the castle walls."

"Is that so..." Inanna's voice trailed off, her gaze flitting between the agitated dogs and Buren, who remained impassive.

"Your pursuit ends here, especially within these walls," the seneschal declared, firmly escorting the guards out. As Buren continued towards the breakfast table, he could feel Inanna's piercing gaze on his back.

The gruesome murder and mutilation became the district's prime topic of discussion for over a week. However, as King Duriel's deadline loomed, the fate of Buren increasingly overshadowed all other chatter in taverns and marketplaces. The once-revered image of Buren, the war hero, had been systematically eroded by the missionaries. They painted a portrait of him as a quasi-monster, a man who had delved too deeply into the shadows in his battle against malevolence and had left a part of himself behind. They depicted their king as the only bulwark—apart from the Faithful—protecting the common folk from nocturnal creatures and malefic forces.

Buren became an outcast. The nobility distanced themselves, unwilling to be linked with someone so reviled by the king. Many of his subjects, influenced by the tales, viewed him with a mix of fear and loathing. Even the destitute no longer approached him for charity. Those not swayed by the Faith still held memories of his valor, but they too now saw him as a letdown. Their once-great champion had receded from public view, seemingly resigned to his fate or engaged in inscrutable activities within his castle's confines.

No one felt the sting of this transformation more acutely than Flynn. He watched in growing despair as his master seemed to meekly await his doom, like a lamb waiting in its pen for the butcher. When Buren abandoned efforts to amass the requisite taxes for the king, Flynn took up the mantle. Despite his exhaustive investigations into various business sectors, the coffers remained alarmingly empty. Time and again, he laid out the dire situation, hoping to ignite some semblance of the old fire in Buren. Yet, all he received was a vacant stare, leading Flynn to suspect some narcotic influence.

During one such tense exchange in Buren's private study, Flynn, surrounded by scattered papers and ledgers, tried to pierce through Buren's apathy. In a moment of exasperation, he slammed his fist onto the table.

"Flood it, sir!" he exclaimed. "Won't you even make an effort? If need be, flee the city, but do something!"

"I'm doing the only thing I can," Buren responded, his voice dripping with lethargy.

Flynn choked on his words, his emotions threatening to spill. He hastily exited the room, unwilling to let his tears be seen. The door's echoing slam left Buren in solitude. He remained motionless, even as the fireplace's flames dwindled and the candles snuffed out one by one, enveloping him in the room's encroaching darkness.

The morning after, Buren awoke from a fitful slumber. With newfound determination, he left the sedative lotus petals untouched in his chest. Though remnants of pain lingered in his ribs and arm, it was a mere shadow of the agony he'd endured immediately after the injuries. Donning simple trousers and a shirt, he bypassed his collection of coats and ornate doublets. With a steely glint in his deep blue eyes, he made his way to the castle's basement, to the gymnasium.

This was the day he had been waiting for: the day his wounds would be sufficiently healed to allow him to train.

The gymnasium was a bare chamber with a dirt floor, equipped with wooden racks for athletic training. Alongside wooden training swords and blunted metal weapons, wrestling circles were etched into the ground, and rings dangled from the rafters above. After a thorough warm-up stretching, Buren approached a strawman bearing a painted target on its torso, designed for weapon-handling exercises. He began to weave back and forth, his feet following a familiar dance of combat. Evading imaginary strikes, he unleashed a powerful right cross, obliterating the target and sending straw flying.

Retracting his fist, he examined the seven talons and serrated edges of his metallic arm. "This won't suffice," he mused. The adversary he'd encountered was unparalleled, surpassing him in strength, speed, and agility. He needed a novel approach. Glancing at the rafters, memories of the man's effortless ascent flashed in his mind, sparking an idea. Clearing a space, Buren whirled his metal arm with such ferocity that it became a blur that would pull him out of balance if his concentration lapsed. Crouching, he then leaped while also simultaneously hurling his arm forward with the accumulated momentum. He'd anticipated that mastering this maneuver would require extensive practice, but the arm, as always, performed impeccably. It synchronized with his movements, catapulting him upwards and forwards. He soared over the rafters, crashing into the distant wall near the ceiling. Sparks flew as his arm's claws scraped the stone.

The maneuver had exceeded his expectations, as was often the case with the Gauntlet. Buren had long suspected that it was more than a mere a cast replacement of an appendage. It seemed to grasp the intent behind his commands and then set out to perfect it, bypassing the typical human errors and misjudgments.

"More like a improvement rather than replacement," he mused. "In function, if not in comfort."

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

On his next attempt, he gracefully arced across the room, landing on a rafter. The arm acted as a counterweight, ensuring his balance. Feeling emboldened, perhaps even a touch reckless, he spread his arms and let himself fall backward. Inches from the ground, he twisted and struck the dirt with a backhanded punch from the Gauntlet. The force redirected him, propelling him parallel to the floor. He executed several backflips before halting in an upright stance.

" I'm getting the hang of this," he realized with a hint of pride.

The wooden door groaned on its aged hinges as Flynn burst in, eyes wide with astonishment.

"Sir, that was incredible!" he exclaimed. "How did you manage that?"

Buren's gaze hardened. "Spying on me now, are you?"

"I... I just wanted to see what you'd do now that you've emerged from your seclusion."

"Enough. Shut the door." Once Flynn complied, Buren motioned towards some vegetables he had fetched from the pantry. The young squire hesitated, holding a potato in each hand, his expression puzzled.

"Throw them at me. As hard as you can."

Flynn's eyes darted between the potatoes and Buren, searching for a hint of jest. Finding none, he hurled one of the tubers. As it left his hand, Buren closed his eyes. Flynn gasped, fearing the impact, but was stunned as the metallic arm snapped out, catching the potato effortlessly between its talons. Buren opened his eyes, examining the vegetable before closing his fist, slicing it to wedges that scattered on the floor.

"Again. And this time, don't tell me when it's coming." Buren immediately closed his eyes, even covering them with his flesh-and-blood hand.

Taking a deep breath, Flynn threw the second potato with all his might. To his horror, it struck Buren squarely in the mouth. Buren winced, touching his swelling lip.

"I'm so sorry, sir!" Flynn cried.

Buren paused, seemingly deep in thought. "What was the purpose of this?" Flynn finally ventured.

Buren shrugged, making his way to the door. But Flynn's face lit up with realization. "Ah! Pretending to be mad might earn you the king's mercy. You could be spared! Brilliant!"

Buren halted, fixing Flynn with a withering gaze. When Flynn hoped the ground would swallow him whole on that spot the taciturn man said, "Keep this to yourself. This was an exercise to understand the Gauntlet's capabilities. Its power and precision are evident, but I've overlooked its nuances."

Flynn swallowed hard. "And what have you deduced?"

"It appears the Gauntlet operates on my awareness. "Seems to me the arm only knows what I know, even if it can use that information more perfectly than I ever could. For example, as long as I so much as catch a glimpse of something coming my way, be it a potato or an arrow, it can catch it even when it would be impossible for me to do so, but even it cannot stop an attack that I haven't noticed coming."

Flynn nodded slowly. "That's insightful."

"It's a beginning," Buren mused. "I have few allies in this town, but this Gauntlet has been steadfast. It's time I understood it more deeply."

"Sir, I just had an idea as well," the boy said with a bright look in his eyes.

Buren gave him a questioning look.

He gestured to the potato slices. "What if we fried these in oil and seasoned them? We could name them 'Coldwood-style Fried Potatoes' or perhaps just 'fries' for short."

Buren stared at him flatly. "I doubt such a thing would catch on," he remarked dryly, exiting the room.

His cloak billowed behind him, caught by the chill of the night as he darted from one rooftop to another in the Eastern District. The shabby houses below were a stark contrast to the freedom he felt above. The melancholic facade he'd worn for weeks had been an excellent ruse, concealing his continued nocturnal adventures. Though his injuries had forced a more prudent approach, he had managed to acquire a District guard uniform. This guise granted him access to nearly every corner of the district and the liberty to ask questions without arousing suspicion.

From the prostitutes and their clientele, he gathered information about the frail old man and his hulking companion. Both were familiar figures in the brothels, though never seen together. A disturbing pattern emerged: the larger man would appear first, followed by the elderly man about a week later. They would always choose the same girl, who, as some reluctantly revealed, would subsequently vanish.

His investigations led him to another brothel, where he sat incognito, a dyed beard and a bandana concealing his identity, with a woman on his lap for added disguise. He watched intently as the towering brute entered, the patrons instinctively making way. Though no murder occurred that night although the girls he carried with him to his room made such sounds all night one might think otherwise. As dawn approached, and the man exited, smelling of sex and looking like he knew himself invulnerable, Buren discreetly trailed him to a well-maintained house, once owned by a prosperous merchant who had fled the district. The District guards, who were supposed to prevent trespassers, casually allowed the man entry. Buren's suspicions deepened; the guards were clearly in cahoots with these presumed slavers.

Each night, he would return to his castle just before dawn, ensuring he was securely locked in before anyone grew suspicious. From his gathered intel, the man's indulgences were consistent: feasting, drinking, and women; all night, every night. However, a peculiar transformation was underway. Initially, Buren thought it was a trick of the light, but as the week progressed, it became evident: the giant was diminishing in size. By the fifth or sixth night, he was just a head or two taller than the average man, not the towering figure he once was.

On this particular night, the man was heading home earlier than usual. Buren shadowed him from above, but a misstep caused a tile to dislodge, skidding down the roof and crashing onto the street below. He quickly hid, heart pounding. After a tense moment, he cautiously peered down, trying to gauge the situation on the street.

"Nice night for a stroll?" a voice drawled from behind him.

Whirling around, Buren faced the man. Despite missing a noticeable amount of height and mass compared to their last face-to-face confrontation, he still was still massive, albeit no longer superhumanly so. Yet his arrogance remained undiminished. With a theatrical flourish, he spread his arms wide, declaring, "I could've ended you in your castle any time I wished. But frankly, you weren't worth the effort. I assumed you'd have the sense to steer clear, but it seems you're even more foolish than I gave you credit for." With a swift motion, he discarded his cloak, revealing a physique of coiled power. His elongated teeth gleamed menacingly against the backdrop of his dark stubble. Buren, however, remained unyielding, his cloak billowing in the night breeze.

"Any final remarks?" the behemoth sneered.

"You obviously know me," Buren retorted calmly. "But what should I call you?"

The man's laughter echoed in the still night. "Balthus. Remember it as the name of the one who bests you, Gauntlet Bearer." With a roar, he lunged at Buren. But only a few strides in, the rooftop betrayed him, crumbling beneath his weight and sending him plummeting into the building below.

With measured steps, Buren approached a window, entering the attic. The room was thick with age, its air stale and heavy. Forgotten garments, blackened with time, hung suspended, casting eerie shadows. Below, Buren found Balthus ensnared in a metal net, thrashing and even biting down at his confines. The chains held firm, but so did Balthus's teeth, a testament to his lingering supernatural strength.

"What treachery is this?" Balthus bellowed, his eyes wild with fury.

"You claim you could kill me any time you wish," Buren replied coolly, "but let's see if that bravado remains when you're ensnared in a trap designed especially for you."

For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed Balthus's eyes. "What?" he spat.

"Did you truly believe I'd be careless enough to step on a loose tile?" Buren's taunting smirk was the final straw for Balthus. In a fit of rage, he managed to snap one of the beams holding the net aloft, inching closer to freedom.

"You cannot contain me!" he roared. "I'll rend you limb from limb!"

Ignoring the threats, Buren retreated leisurely behind the hanging cloths. Moments later, Balthus crashed to the floor, discarding his restraints.

"Hide all you want! I'll hunt you down!" he bellowed, sniffing the air like a bloodhound.

Buren, concealed nearby, thought, " Tracking me by scent? Can't have that."

Buren's first strike caught the man completely by surprise, a full-power iron haymaker to the nose. Emerging from behind the shadow of the black cloth, the attack sent the brute sprawling backward. Yet, almost instantly, the man sprang to his feet.

"You think that hurt?" he taunted. "I barely felt it."

Indeed, his thick hide and fortified bones seemed impervious to conventional assaults. Yet, as he tried to sniff out Buren's location, he realized his nose was congested, making it difficult to breathe, but thought little of it. Undeterred, he charged into the labyrinth of dark drapery.

Buren's next blow landed on the man's left occiput, causing a disorienting ring in his ears. As he staggered, he reached out, thinking he'd grasped Buren's cloak. Instead, he pulled down a swath of the dark fabric, revealing nothing. Realizing the cloths matched Buren's attire, providing an ideal camouflage, he was caught off guard by another strike to his neck. A barrage of blows followed, each powerful enough to fell any ordinary man.

But not him.

"How many times must I say it?" he roared, rising repeatedly and tearing through the veils. "You cannot harm me! I am invincible!"

A piece of cloth descended upon him, and as he shredded it, he looked up to see Buren perched on a rafter.

"Thought you'd never show yourself," he sneered, leaping onto the same rafter. But the beam, already compromised, snapped under his weight. As he plummeted, he caught a glimpse of the cleanly sawed-off end of the timber. He could just barely register that he had fallen for yet another trap when a fleeting shadow caught his peripheral vision, but before he could react, another blow sent him crashing through the worm-eaten floorboards below.

The floor there seemed even more unsteady, wobbling so hard even he had difficulty getting back on his feet. He saw Buren gracefully descend through the hole above.

"Out of tricks?" he spat, lunging forward. "Out of time!"

"Yes, won't be long now," Buren replied calmly, parrying the onslaught. In a swift move, Balthus hurled Buren against a wall. But Buren, using the Gauntlet, absorbed the impact and landed nimbly. As Balthus swiped at him, Buren evaded and jabbed a talon into the man's right eye. The behemoth halted, wiping at his eye in confusion.

"What did you do?" he growled. "I can't see."

Silently, Buren raised his hand, displaying the claw: it had blood on it.

The hulking figure examined his own hands, and to his alarm found they were stained with his blood as well. As his gaze traveled, he realized his entire torso was marred with bruises, gashes, and fresh blood. A gasp of shock escaped him, his remaining eye widening in disbelief.

"How is this possible?" he cried out. "I felt no pain, as always when I'm in this form."

"Did you find your drink particularly intoxicating tonight?" Buren's voice was soft, yet it held the weight of a hidden storm. "I laced it with black lotus."

The behemoth's gaze dropped, and he noticed the unsteadiness wasn't from the floor but from his own trembling legs. He stood amidst a pool of his own blood. A foreign sensation gripped him, one he thought he'd long abandoned: panic, though dulled by the sedative effects of the drug. As more blood seeped from him, he felt a foreign object lodged in his neck. His numbed fingers couldn't discern its nature.

"Giant needles," Buren clarified, seeing the man's confusion. "Remnants from my travels. Giant hunters use them on their arrows, aiming for the jugulars of the larger giants. The needles are too slender for them to extract during battle, so the hunters merely keep the giant engaged until it succumbs to blood loss. It seems they're effective on you as well."

The bloodied man began retreating, appearing even smaller due to his hunched posture, a result of his weakening state and growing fear.

"I figured your constitution might be waning along with your size, and when your nose bled from my initial strike, I knew I had a chance," Buren continued. "Don't bother running. My traps are everywhere, and I'll just follow the blood wherever you go."

The man halted, his demeanor shifting.

"Answer my questions, and—"

"You're too confident," the man interrupted, his voice dripping with rage. "You truly don't understand what you're up against. Let me show you."

With gritted teeth and eyes clenched shut, he tensed every muscle. A primal groan emanated from him as, impossibly, he began to expand. Gaining both height and muscle mass, the needles embedded in his neck were expelled, and the wounds sealed. Bulging veins traced patterns over his now massive form, throbbing with the rapid beat of his heart. When his growth ceased, a malevolent grin stretched across his face. He exhaled a gust of warm steam, and when he opened his eyes, even the one Buren had injured was restored. They were now disproportionately small for his angular face, which was accentuated by a pronounced brow, jaw, and chin. His serpentine tongue slithered out, reaching down to his chest. His head grazed a rafter, but he seemed unfazed.

The behemoth's voice rumbled, "Round two," as he lunged at Buren. Though Buren tried to evade, the creature's enhanced speed allowed him to seize Buren's leg, his fingers wrapping entirely around the thigh. With a swift motion, Buren was hurled through the decaying boards of the opposite wall, landing in an adjacent room. As Buren scrambled to his feet, the monster's head appeared through the breach, his skin stretched taut over his grotesque musculature.

"Knock knock," he rasped, barreling into the room with such force that the walls crumbled as if made of parchment. He raised his fist, bringing it down in a swift arc towards Buren. In defense, Buren raised his Gauntlet. While the metal arm held firm, the floor beneath him crumbled, causing him to sink waist-deep. The titan yanked him out, hurling him upwards. Buren managed to grasp the ceiling, but the creature leapt, swatting at him like a child reaching for a high-hanging fruit. The force sent Buren sprawling face-first onto the dusty floor.

"Ouch," was all that he could think as he fought to get his feet under him.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Buren discreetly slipped a black lotus petal into his mouth, numbing the worst of his agony without clouding his judgment.

The towering figure loomed over him, gloating, "It's been ages since I've had such fun with a man. But, as they say, all good things must end. I'll adorn this room with your entrails, and as for the Gauntlet? It'll make a fine backscratcher." With a swift motion, he kicked Buren onto his back and placed a massive foot on his chest. The weight was unbearable, and Buren felt his ribs creaking ominously.

The giant sighed, " Wish I had more time to play with you," and reached down to end Buren's life.

"Time?" Buren thought and realized something: The creature hadn't ducked under the rafter when he had walked across the room just now. He must have been shrinking again, at an even more accelerated pace. Seizing the moment, Buren shattered the weakened floor beneath him, plummeting to the ground level. But with a swift motion, he grabbed a rafter and propelled himself back upwards, bursting through the floor and emerging above the behemoth. He struck down at the crown of the beast's head, and the remaining floorboards gave way, sending the monster crashing below.

The beast tried to rise, but the floor was slick with oil from urns and barrels Buren had strategically placed. As the creature registered the oil-soaked surroundings and the lit wick in Buren's hand, terror flashed in his eyes. Without hesitation, Buren dropped the flame. The room was instantly consumed by a roaring inferno, drawing the oxygen away and suffocating the trapped behemoth. Buren made his escape through a window just as the fire surged upwards, turning the entire structure into a blazing pyre.

Using the momentum from his metallic arm, Buren vaulted across the street, landing atop the opposing building. He nestled into the shadows, watching intently.

Emerging from the inferno, the monstrous figure burst through the wall, his body aflame, reminiscent of a witch at the stake. His agonized howls pierced the night as he thrashed, desperate to extinguish the fire. Though he had been obscured for mere moments, the transformation was stark. The flames seemed to devour him, much like the rapid melting of a candle, causing him to diminish in size with each passing second. By the time he collapsed into the mud, rolling frantically to douse the flames, he had reverted to a size smaller than an average man.

Drawing closer, Buren observed the once-mighty creature, now reduced to a frail, blistered form, smaller even than the average farmhand. As Buren's metallic talons encircled the creature's throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground, the creature's feeble attempts to resist only resulted in his hands being lacerated by the sharp edges of the Gauntlet. Desperation filled the creature's eyes as he sought mercy, but all he found was the chilling blue gaze of Buren, reflecting the blazing inferno behind.

"You might be short on time," Buren intoned coldly, "but I have all the time in the world. And you won't be leaving until you've given me the answers I seek."