The gigantic doors of the Tower cracked again as a figure strolled in.

Hung on the figure’s face was a thinly veiled mask. A mask to hide a lot of things. A mask to simply erase an area of someone’s memory of the figure: a facial recognition that would instantly make him unrecognisable. A mask that covered only the figure’s left eye like an eyepatch.

The figure went by a lot of names, but names were a different matter. Names were like streaks. Names are attached to regrets and mistakes, before the inevitable change and to start anew.

The name was just an indication. It was the most recognizable thing on paper. But then the features, the weapons, the scars: those were fundamental. Those were designed to be seen, to be flaunted. The name was just there to be heard.

The figure’s darting eyes that revealed itself in the dark lit hallway made him impressionable. The dark strokes of his hair and the air of arrogance breezed into the room, the bartering room, with him, and settled as he did on the seat that was once occupied by the scavenger.

He placed his scythe, broken but mended in fine arching shape, down by the side of the rocky table and laid his restless eyes on the Espa Orb that sat in the center of the table.

“You came,” Arnbor said with a smirk that caught the figure’s eyes.

“You should understand only a few things interest me more than credits.” The figure slipped out his steel knife, his white hands and black leather gloves gleaming under the incandescent light. He begun to spin his weapon of choice, like biding for time or wasting it. “And one of those things are indeed an Espa Orb.”

“Ravagers are only in this because of the Orb, Ferdynand. I could pawn off my set of statues and they wouldn’t even fetch a price for it.”

Ferdynand, as he was revealed, wasn’t interested. In fact he was hardly listening. His beating eyes were concentrated on the glowing Espa Orb, and only that. So long had he tried to find one, and hearing all of the mystical ventures and troubles that one had to get to, and yet, here he is, only inches away from prying his ravenous hands on the Orb.

“I assure you, the scavenger has more,” Arnbor said. “That’s why I want you to track him down. He tells me nothing. No location. No place. Nowhere.”

Ferdynand grinned back at the Casaline boss. Naivety was born in both idiots that made the deal.

“What about this Orb, now?” The figure’s weighted eyes lifted, staring at Arnbor.

He hadn’t come because of a plan. He hadn’t come because he knew that there would be more. He came because there was already one Espa Orb just out of reach. And he couldn’t wait.

Ferdynand stretched his arms and grasped the Orb, but Arnbor’s reactive fingers pulled it towards himself.

Ferdynand’s eyes turned, and so did his expression.

“It’s not for you,” Arnbor stated. “Maybe if you track down Gino Reynder, there will be more.” His voice started trembling, as if knowing that one wrong step could lead him down a terrifying path.

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The figure was confused but his hardened expressions didn’t show. He was done being patient, and he was done being a slave.

He didn’t want more. He wanted what he could now. More can always be done later. More will always be more.

It was now, and that was what counted.

Ferdynand flipped his scythe up in the air as it now morphed into a deadly shotgun, and climbed up the table to catch it. With not a second wasted, he trained the barrel straight at Arnbor.

In shock, Arnbor flew backwards, casting the Espa Orb aside but floundering as he crawled away from the figure, who was not going to let him off.

“What are you doing?” Arnbor shouted at Ferdynand, but he wasn’t listening. He had walked over to pick up the stray Espa Orb, now rolling in his soft powerful hands.

“Perhaps it’s time,” the figure muttered.

The Casaline boss could hide behind nothing. Not even a slab, or a rock, or the pillar of a table. Nothing.

The sick, twisted grin appeared on Ferdynand’s face again as the Espa Orb hopped in his curled fingers.

“Perhaps it’s time I’ve done enough of the dirty work for you, Mr. Groves. Perhaps it’s time the tables turned,” Ferdynand spoke with heft in his voice.

“What are you talking about?” Arnbor shifted his feet about, the anxiety rising in him and fear popping out of from his chest.

“That was my original plan, but no. So many Espa Orbs have lead me here, but not a single one was true. Do you know how many Ravagers I’ve killed for you to be in your position?!” Ferdynand paced about the room, one hand gripping the orb and the other on the trigger of the shotgun that was pointed at Arnbor.

“We can work this out. There are many more orbs where Gino is,” Arnbor said. He tried to reason, and he tried to get into his head. But it wasn’t worth the effort and he knew. Sooner than not, the orb was going to crumble.

“Don’t you realize? I don’t care about the orbs.”

“What?”

“Well, I do. The more the merrier, of course. But you,” Ferdynand’s grip on the orb had grown tighter and tighter to the point of breaking, and Arnbor knew more than most of what would happen if it did. “You mean a lot more than these orbs. And so, I’m taking over from this point on.”

Ferdynand crushed the orb in his hand and pushed the energy towards Arnbor.

No.

A flurry of energy torpedoed its way out from the orb and into the chest of Arnbor, digging into his very heart. There was no time wasted when the orb extracted the power of the Casaline boss and transferred it over to Ferdynand.

Blood poured from Arnbor’s mouth as the final essence of his Ravager power dissipated, ending in a blinding shock wave that slammed the room light shut.

The hollow body was sent tumbling with no resistance as Ferdynand watched on, the Arnbor’s power now wriggling within him.

He felt good. So, very good. Power like he had never felt before, rolling like thunder in his veins.

Merfyn popped out from the door on the from the vault, but he appeared astonished to find his boss lying down on the ground with every inch of life sucked out of him. Black spots and patches were planted and continued to grow on Arnbor’s smouldering skin.

“Boss!” He called out to him, but the body laid lifeless. Merfyn turned towards Ferdynand who morphed his shotgun back into a scythe. He hadn’t planned on killing Merfyn, even if his power was limited. He was still an asset.

He turned to the Casaline assistant, eyes lit with satisfaction.

“I’m your boss now,” Ferdynand said. “And if you don’t mind, which I’m fairly sure you will, we’re going to go finish what we started.”

The sick, twisted grin re-surfaced on the new Casaline boss’s face.