Emperor Ciro wore a smile. A genuine smile – not the sharpened upturn of lips meant to rattle simpering nobles. It was an unfamiliar sensation, although hardly an unwelcome one.

Little painter. Usurper of Penumbria. His smile deepened. Our duel is the most enjoyment I've had in ages. Oh, how I hope you're having as much fun as I am! On this auspicious day, Ciro was so pleased that he nearly felt like being considerate.

Only nearly, however.

Pity for the elf.

"Most kind of you, Nayt," Ciro told his Hangman, "to accompany me on this trip."

The lazy soldier of death grunted in response. "The kindness lies in your words, Your Imperial Highness – not the actions themselves."

"You accompanied me on a trip where I cannot take even my honor guard. That is worthy of praise."

"My duty as an Imperial Hangman is to follow your orders, within reason." With a rude motion, Nayt rested his elbow on the carriage's windowsill. His pointed Elven ears twitched with suppressed emotion. "These orders bear enough reason for me to follow."

Had anyone else behaved in such a way, Ciro would have collapsed their mass into a lightless void. But then again, he had ordered the slaughter of the last elven city, so some allowances needed to be made. At least he knows to serve me rather than oppose me – however grumpily it might be.

Besides; Ciro found a certain enjoyment in testing the limits of the man's loyalty and patience. "But were my orders reasonable?" the Emperor asked, in a pondering tone. "I could've requested anyone else to follow me. It is hardly an emergency. And most importantly, this isn't within your usual imperial service hours."

Ciro often thought that the day Nayt's patience ran out would come before his loyalty.

Yet today was not that day.

Nayt grit his teeth, making no effort to hide an audible sigh, yet he did little beyond that. "You needed to travel far for this. It's not as though you could just demand any man to take you, whether they be of the coach or Hang variety."

"True," Ciro agreed, looking at the blurry exterior outside their carriage. "Those beasts only listen to elves, do they not?"

Surprisingly, that drew more of a response than the rest. "Only certain elves can. It's a rare aptitude," Nayt spat out. After a moment of hesitation, he added bitterly, "Rarer these days with so few elves left."

Ciro didn't mind upsetting the man, but upsetting him unintentionally was most displeasing. He was the Emperor of the world, and very keen to have things behave precisely as predicted.

Thus he changed the topic of conversation to the chessboard positioned between them. "Nayt – might I interest you in my duel with Adam the Pretender?"

The Hangman's tight expression loosened somewhat. "You mean to duel the Painter?"

"I already am," the Emperor answered, as he shifted the board's pieces. "Albeit not personally. He is the leader of this would-be rebellion in the Eastern Frontier, and their strategist, at that. Even if our blades are not clashing against one another, the winner will ultimately be decided by our choices."

Nayt blinked blankly in response. Little surprise there – the elf was nearly as lazy as he was intelligent. Despite being a capable man, he wouldn't spend a sliver of energy to understand something when he could make others explain it to him instead.

This suited Ciro just fine. It was a long journey to Penumbria, even with the beasts pulling their carriage, and this would serve as an adequate distraction. "Have you heard of chess?" he asked the elf.

"No."

Of course not. "It's a game from the World of Ink," Ciro said, with more enthusiasm than when giving a speech to his subjects. "Each piece has its own solidly-defined role. You always know how each will perform when put against another. As such, victory is decided not just by the pieces that you have – but mostly by how you wield them."

Nayt nodded once. He picked up a marble rook between two long fingers, his interest outweighing his disgust. "And you're using this game to determine whether you or the Pretender is playing their pieces more effectively?"

The elf gave a sudden start, then studied the pieces more closely. "Is this one supposed to look like me?"

"It had better. I crafted it myself," Ciro told him, with a haughty chuckle. "That is also what makes this situation rather unlike chess – and why I know not if I've truly played to greater effectiveness than the Pretender. This game of ours was never equal or fair. I simply have stronger pieces than he."

The Hangman studied the board carefully. "Our side has...four Hangmen, two lords, five hundred men, and Your Imperial Majesty. Though I doubt you plan to fight yourself."

Ciro agreed with gusto. "Aye, my Hangman. It would not look good if I were to massacre my own people who were merely tricked by Aspreay's false son."

There are the Puppet Mines to consider as well, but no matter how much the immortal fool hates me, the Grandmaster would not dare to fight the Empire. He knows what happened to his precious Mountain last time he tried. The Puppets will remain neutral.

"That's the justification you gave to the two Eastern lords, yes?" Nayt quietly asked. "They fight because Adam the Painter has no rightful claim."

This was true, yet the Emperor frowned nonetheless. He hated that he'd needed to appease even the weak Eastern lords. They think themselves worthy of more rights than I give them. Unfortunately, although he could easily kill them, sweet satisfaction would not undo the damage done to his Empire's economy if the fools thought to rebel.

"And for the Hangmen," Ciro continued, "I have yourself, Ernanda of the Ash, Eric the Gryphon, and Valente the Dark Captain."

"What's the point of strategy when you direct Valente at the traitors?" Nayt, in an incredulous tone. "He could win this fight by himself."

"Mayhap so," the Emperor acknowledged, outwardly confident. Inwardly...

He's shaken from his duel with Aspreay. Too young, too kind for his own genius, that one. I need to shape him better. "Nevertheless – Adam cannot best me. My strategy is flawless, and my pieces are overwhelmingly stronger."

Ciro gazed down at the chessboard. For a moment, he almost felt disappointed.

"This game was rigged from the start." He laughed. "As it ought to be."

–

Solara walked atop the city's crumbling walls, feeling sore, tired, hungry, and miserable. The Empire's army was still a small cluster of torches in the distance, but preparations to receive them had taken all night. Her father was in charge of leading Adam's army, which left her in charge of carrying out his orders.

"The left wing is finally ready," the elf snapped, leaping over a cracked stone and nearly falling to her death. "Any more requests?"

Her father kept his eyes on the distant enemy. "Not unless you can reinforce the walls. They're liable to crumble to dust if those miserable fucks so much as touch them."

"You said they wouldn't try, though," she remarked, her eyes also fixated on the incoming army. "Not for a few days. That was your plan."

Vasco nodded, his face grave. "They cannot resupply this far out from the Empire – especially not in the middle of Stained territory. Would bet anything they'll be careful."

"Why?" Solara asked. "A single Hangman can destroy a Lord's Realm, and they have three. Why bother exercising caution?"

"Because strong or not, Hangmen die just as easily as other men. Becoming embroiled in a chaotic battle could end their legend with just one loose arrow." He sighed. "No. Much better for them to approach us man-to-man first. At least until they think Lord Adam or I would resort to reconstructing our Realms here."

The elf snorted. "Neither of you would ruin your cities for this."

"Aye, but the Empire would. They expect the same of their enemies. That's why they'll keep most of their army on my side of the wall – defeating me in combat is their priority."

Solara's eyebrows shot upward. "Father, surely your plan is not for my sake."

Her father's expression tightened. "If only. I have not the luxury of keeping you safe." His voice lowered. "I must trust that you'll be fine. That is key, as we have less men than the Empire. If they're forced to split their forces unevenly, then you'll have a chance at sallying forth, destroying their left wing, and flanking them from behind. My men and I will fight defensively from atop the wall while you do so – it'll make up for how they outnumber us."

"I thought Adam only wanted us to buy time."

"Our orders were to ensure he wasn't disturbed while setting the corpse's soul to ink." Vasco's eyes narrowed in focus. "And winning will ensure he'll have all the time in the world."

Solara smiled. "As you wish, fath– as you command, General."

The elf quickly whirled back around to her side of the wall. Although she didn't fully trust Vasco's bravado, it still held its own purpose. The Empire won't attack on the first day. Not immediately. If they know we have a way of winning, unlikely as it may be, they'll be more hesitant to strike decisively. Aiming for victory will see us buying time if we fall short.

There was no point in saying that aloud to Vasco. Not when the Stained Monsters were likely going to make defending the Walls even more difficult. Just tonight, five of her men had already succumbed to an abomination before it was finally put down.

In the end, her duty was the same – to keep an army from invading the city of the damned, until Adam could dance with the Grandmaster's corpse.

I suppose it could be worse, she reasoned, breathing in the night air and taking in the sound of crossbow bolts being loaded. I could be in Adam's shoes.

–

Adam was just about to tell the soldiers how to avoid the Stained Monsters when they stumbled upon a corpse. "It looks fresh," he murmured. "But it's probably not actually fresh, is it?"

The young Captain Diego of Adam's makeshift honor guard lifted his helmet's visor. "No. That...that's not a person. It's a Puppet. One infected with the Rot."

He drew a hesitant step back and pursed his lips. "My lord, we can't – it's too dangerous. If we get too close to it, we might get infected."

"I have a resistance to the Rot," Adam noted. "Most likely, anyhow."

"Most...most likely, my lord?"

Being able to use Stained Ink probably meant that he was resistant to Rot. At least partially. And truth be told, if Adam wasn't resistant to the Rot in some fashion, then this expedition had been doomed from the start.

Best to act with the assumption that I am, then. "More importantly – you brought the paintings I prepared on the ship? Plus the supplies I requested?"

Captain Diego gestured at his men, who were busy pulling the paintings from their supply bags. He then fumbled through his own bag to produce the paint, brushes, and other tools that Adam had left him in charge of. "As requested, my lord. You think this is wise?"

Adam nodded absently, stepping through the ruins as he inspected them. "It's the only logical way to do this. The Grandmaster is so powerful that calling him a monster would be an understatement – and his corpse can't be too much weaker than that. Not to mention how it's been empowered by the Rot infection. We're going to avoid direct contact with it if we can."

If that means doing some cave painting, then that's just fine with me.

His Painter Talent didn't require the use of a tablet. The death of Belmordo, Solara's uncle, had been proof of that. Adam left the would-be lord a parchment drawing as a present, and it still captured his soul just the same.

There was no margin for error when dealing with an opponent like the Grandmaster's corpse. A single mistake would spell death. So rather than risk their lives by getting up close and personal...why not devise a similar trap for this scenario?

It was a simple plan. To start, they would stake out their quarry's location. Next, they would leave one of Adam's paintings nearby where the Corpse could see it. If that painting failed to steal its soul, they would repeat the process with more until one eventually succeeded.

Today was their first attempt.

"Alright," Adam muttered, eyeing the last incomplete painting. "What should your name be?" He'd prepared a number of them aboard the ship, but this one he meant to finish here, after getting to see the ruins with his own eyes.

It was a sight that fascinated him in many ways. Aspreay's hometown, Santuário das Chamas, seemed familiar yet different. The city itself didn't look entirely unlike Penumbria in architecture, but the geography of the land made it appear wholly unique.

Ornate buildings had been built around a towering landmark, ascending up into the sky and all the way past the clouds themselves. Rather than a natural phenomenon, the edifice was halfway between a hill and a mountain, but somehow steeper than both. Like a bridge connecting the Earth and the heavens above.

Scaled Rock. Where the Dragons of Old used to reside.

Wonder what Aspreay must've imagined, gazing upon that massive thing every day as he grew up. The Dragons would've been long gone before Aspreay was born, but corrupted as the land had been, its complete surrender to the Rot was a more recent development. Thinking about it really got Adam's imagination going.

And now was time to commit those thoughts to ink.

Given his time constraints, it was to be a simple painting. One crafted based on what little he knew of the Grandmaster. Which are all things he told me himself, Adam mused, recalling their meeting. Who knows how much of that is true or not.

He peered around at Santuário das Chamas and the Scaled Rock, taking in their sights, sounds, and smells, immersing himself in their contours and shapes. What information could he infer from this environment?

What did it tell him about the Grandmaster's history?

This place used to belong to the Dragons of Old...but they aren't here anymore. Although they fashioned themselves as something akin to gods, their mortality proved them false, in the end.

Despite possessing the ability to focus much of the Rot plague on one spot – like a lightning rod that defended the land from infectious death – it still wasn't enough. The Dragons had needed a more mobile solution to their problem.

Which is where the Puppets came in.

To stave off the Rot, no transgression would have been considered too great. Thus did the Dragons, the ancient rulers of the world, grasp and reshape the souls of the dead, trapping them in semi-functional bodies robbed of autonomy.

'At the time, we looked far more inhuman than we do now,' the Grandmaster had once said. 'Our bodies had no skin over them; just misshapen, pragmatic wood, and rare spots of Dragonforged steel on plain display. We weren't allowed to wear clothes nor take a name, lest any truly 'living' creature grow attached to the dragons' disposable tools.'

The Grandmaster himself was a mistake. A product of happenstance. Unlike all other Puppets, he'd retained his consciousness.

Which meant that from the moment of his birth...the Grandmaster had been aware of his eventual fate.

'Do you know why Puppets are made of wood, rather than steel? Because once we absorb too much of the Rot, we are meant to set ourselves ablaze, reducing the infection to mere ashes. Burning the Rot itself does little, but if it's absorbed by a Puppet first...'

How exactly would that affect someone? To know that they were born made to absorb a horrific plague unto their body, then immolate themself and disappear, as if they were never there – all to protect an uncaring creator?

The souls of the dead were robbed of the emotions they had when alive, Adam remembered. No one would even mourn their deaths. Not even the souls themselves.

Just how cruel had the Dragons of Old been?

The Puppet Grandmaster was a being of overwhelming strength. His aura of power, his sheer presence, was matched only by the Emperor himself. Yet when recalling his past...Adam had seen the Grandmaster tremble ever so slightly.

'I saw...I saw many of my friends – my family – burn. Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Every day, someone else embraced the cleansing fires. And slowly, but inevitably, my own body started to fail me.'

What would have been more frightening? To see your friends die, consumed in pyres of burning Rot, or to know that you would soon be next?

Even so, the Grandmaster persisted. Night and day, he invaded the domain of his old masters, stealing the technique of Puppetry from their archives. With it, he saved the friends he could, lost the ones he couldn't, and continued making Puppets for centuries to follow.

That's what Adam's painting needed to capture.

But what was 'that', precisely?

What was the core of the Grandmaster's being?

His burning determination to save his people, surely? Or maybe the melancholic, desperate grip of a life doomed to a fate far worse than death? Perhaps his defiance of the very draconic gods that had created him?

No. Adam didn't think so.

Oh, he'd painted a few different portraits with each of those feelings in mind, just in case they landed closer to home than he expected. But his gut was telling him otherwise.

This final painting, the one he finished as they walked through the ruins of that once-beautiful city...it focused on loneliness.

He depicted the Grandmaster as a distant, shapeless figure, climbing the massive mountain of Scaled Rock that rose up into the clouds above. He can't remember what his original body looked like. The exact form doesn't matter. What I want to portray is...

A bright, scarlet figure that contrasted the suffocating darkness encroaching on him. However, Adam didn't want to simply paint him as a noble, lonely light that shone in the darkness. That faint glimmer was a dark shade of red, nearly unable to illuminate its blackened surroundings.

But even so, it was there.

Even so, it persisted.

It wasn't brilliant. It wasn't destined at birth for greatness. The glimmer was a happenstance of fate; a mistake that occurred when it was shaped into the world. Only mere coincidence allowed it to have the slightest of fighting chances.

And the Grandmaster embraced that chance with all his might.

Need to balance the colors just right. The dark red should be noticeably different, but not so different you can't miss it. His fragility has to be captured there as well.

This contrast...this nobility...it only shows up because of how lonely a walk his life has been.

"There we go," Adam said, rubbing the sweat off his brow and grinning. "This is a good start – provided we can make the Corpse see my paintings."

Of course, that only meant anything if they could track down the Grandmaster's Corpse. That wasn't something Adam could accomplish himself. He needed to rely on his – well, Vasco's – soldiers.

It was most fortunate, then, that they appeared up for the task. "Fear not, my lord!" said the young Captain Diego. "Lord Vasco assigned me the lead for a reason. My Talent of Tracking won't fail us here."

Adam nodded, although he remained doubtful. "Surely it must have some limitations, though."

The captain rubbed the back of his head and looked away. "Well, some." He spoke in a low voice, as if dismissing the notion. When he continued, it was with a loud, excited tone. . "They won't matter, my lord! It's just that I, ah, can't use it unless I have something that connects us to the target. And, well, there's a range limitation, too – but we'll be fine!"

"I see." Adam didn't hide the wariness in his voice. "What do we have available that connects us to the Corpse?"

Diego smirked. "His Highness Prince Tenver provided us with some of his royal hair before departing for Penumbria."

"What does Tenver's hair – oh." Adam frowned as he rationalized the connection. Tenver was reborn as a Puppet thanks to the Grandmaster, and the Grandmaster is obviously connected to his Corpse, so...

Well, I guess that holds up. Considering how flimsy the connection was between the Puppet Prince and the Puppet Grandmaster's Corpse, Adam didn't even want to think about how many Orbs Vasco had likely spent to improve Diego's Talent. "So our target will show up here at night?"

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"That he will, my lord," the Captain affirmed. "The Corpse has been following a specific route. It seems quite fond of repeating it, for some odd reason."

Adam eyed the ruins around them. He spotted a house that had gotten most of its walls and ceiling blown off by some disaster or another, yet had still retained a solid foundation and one solid side to place his paintings on. With Captain Diego's Talent, we'll know where it's safe to hide from the monster. Don't want to get overconfident...but this might work.

For the most part, it did.

When night came, Adam's honor guard moved quickly and efficiently, relocating their camp to a safe spot. From there, they could observe the paintings without being at too much risk of being found out by the Corpse.

Diego's instructions were precise, professional, and most of all, perfect. Despite the young man's earlier exuberance, he appeared quite capable when it was time to get serious.

Which, Adam had to admit, was something he should've anticipated. Vasco wouldn't have spent this many Orbs on a soldier who wasn't in control of his own nerves. Guess I didn't need to worry so much about this part of the plan.

But there were still other things he couldn't have accounted for.

Chief among them was his own stunned reaction upon seeing the Grandmaster's Corpse with his own eyes.

Adam had expected the creature to resemble the Lord of All Puppets. At least in some general way. He'd prepared himself for a sudden, crushing pressure, not unlike the Grandmaster, or even the Emperor himself.

To his surprise, the creature possessed no such aura of invincibility.

His first impression was that the Corpse was a vaguely human-shaped tree, one cut out from a large trunk by a particularly unskilled artisan. Though it had legs functional enough to walk – if stumbling forward could be considered walking – none of his limbs seemed to have the same width, height, or even shape. Each appendage had at some point been carelessly cut from wood, and the passage of time had not been any kinder to its appearance.

As the Grandmaster had told him, every part of his Corpse was made of wood, except for a few small areas near the joints where Dragonforged Steel connected them together.

The passage of time had covered its darkened wood with moss – to say nothing of the thriving plants growing both on top of and inside the Puppet, their roots swirling around the Corpse's arm. Some of those were only small flowers, yet others were misshapen trees so large that they felt as tumorous as the Rot itself.

And of course...there was the Rot.

To Adam, it was a substance akin to dried, rotting ink. To this world, it was the visage of misery incarnate. Inked tumors protruded in some fashion from every inch of the corpse. Sometimes in small spherical masses, other times larger, more wildly grown, twisting and turning in a multitude of shapes and forms. There were even some blots of Rot that seemed to grow from other blots of Rot; a sort of infection within an infection.

Slowly, this shambling creature halted at the sight of Adam's paintings, its march stopping dead cold.

Could it see in the dark?

Or had it simply done this same walk so many times that any deviation, no matter how minor, would grab its attention?

Whatever the cause, the Corpse was enthralled by the paintings set in the ruins of that old house. With hollowed surfaces where eyes should have been, it scanned each and every painting Adam had prepared, intently studying them as if perusing an art gallery.

And then, without fanfare, it simply turned around and moved on.

A grim silence passed by.

"Okay." Adam kept his tone calm and forthright. "So none of my paintings worked. We might need a Plan B."

–

"DON'T BE A COWARD, VALENTE!"

Ernanda, the Lady of Ash, accelerated the lifespan of the tent around her. The cloth turned to dust, and the dust to wind. "Emperor Ciro commanded us to take the Pretender's head immediately!" she bellowed. "Have you no shame? Have you no desire to make up for your failure to His Imperial Majesty?"

Valente didn't look up. The Strongest Man in the World clutched his hands in silence, wearing a face carved from stone. "If only I could forget." Nightmares washed over his expression. For him, they lived when asleep, and haunted him when awake. "Hundreds died because of my recklessness. I cannot allow more to die because of my pride."

Even now, he found himself unable to forget Aspreay's taunting expression. A weak Lord...yet I couldn't kill him. I let him trick me into slaughtering innocents. What if I fail again?

Ernanda stomped on the ground. "Let their deaths live in your heart," she snarled. "Let us avenge the fallen. Let us avenge your – our failures. So long as the Empire lives, it won't have been in vain."

On this point, the Strongest remained firm. "No. I won't lead men to a needless, early end. We'll leave it up to the Gryphon. He can end this with minimal bloodshed."

"And if he succeeds in preventing the sacrifice of the innocent, then we shall pay with our pride instead!" Ernanda shouted. "We need this victory to regain our honor, our dignity – to regain Ciro's trust!"

"I owe more than my life to His Imperial Majesty." Valente's tone was hoarse. His gaze dropped as he thought back to the piles of corpses he'd created in the capital city, their bodies crushed, bent, and broken under piles of collapsed buildings. "My answer is still no."

Ernanda tightened her expression. "Our army's right wing is yours to do with as you please. If you wish to stay idle, be my guest. But know that the left wing is mine, and that the Empire shall take flight beneath my wind."

–

"I don't suppose you have any more hints for me?" Adam asked, directing his question to the raven perched on his shoulder.

"No," it replied, with Valeria's voice. She's spoken through the raven enough times that nowadays Adam associated the detective with the bird moreso than her actual body. "Not a single one."

"You do realize how imperative it is that I succeed here, yes?"

Valeria pecked at his ear, as naturally as a normal bird very much wouldn't. "The Grandmaster is already going to be unhappy with the amount of help I'm giving you now. He especially wouldn't take kindly to me looking more deeply into his past."

The Painter winced, but decided that he couldn't complain much. In fairness to the King of Puppets, feeding Adam information about his character was akin to hand-gifting him a blade that could cut the Grandmaster down. It was an act nearly as treasonous as assassination.

Still, three days and many paintings later, his growing sense of annoyance was no longer rooted in reason. "Stubborn coward," Adam grunted. "I know it's risky, but trusting me should be a better option than living according to the Empire's whims."

"I agree," said the raven detective. "Yet I dare not speak of 'reasonable' to someone as stubborn and strong as the Grandmaster. I'm hardly even admitted into his Workshop these days."

Adam frowned. "What of our project? How did it go?"

"Smoothly. It completed without issue, and is currently on its way."

He wanted to ask for more details, but chose not to, just in case. The two of them preferred to speak about their plan in code, lest they be overheard. There's always a chance the Grandmaster would betray us to the Emperor. Can't be too specific when we're using his goddamn birds to communicate.

At least he could trust Valeria to understand his plans without him needing to say much. She'd shown how capable she was when the Ghost of Waters attacked their airship. They'd also had multiple meaningful pauses in their conversion that were too consistent to pass off as coincidence.

And more than anything else...Valeria spread ravens through the capital on the day that Adam met with Emperor Ciro. Weeks have passed since then, yet there remains a certain bounty that I'm sure the Empire would've publicly claimed if able to.

None of that would matter if he couldn't paint the Corpse's soul, though. "There's gotta be something you can give me," Adam insisted. "Anything! You've lived in the Mines all your life! If you can't tell me of his past, then what about something more current?"

The bird laughed, pecking at Adam's face, seemingly just to annoy him. "My lord, what use would that even be? Anything current would be irrelevant to the corpse. Its experiences diverged from the Grandmaster far too long ago for recent events to matter."

Adam had already started to sigh – and was then surprised by his own smirk. "Actually? That's a really good point."

–

On the third day of fighting, Solara stumbled off her horse. It was a bad enough fall that her knees nearly touched the ground.

But only nearly.

Righting herself at the last second, she hurled her helmet aside, grit her teeth, and cried out: "Water! Give me water, gods – gods damn the Hangwoman!"

A short, nervous-looking man no older than fourteen brought her a canteen. Solara emptied it all in a few short sips. "Bring me news of the battlefield in one hour's time," she commanded, wiping her mouth. "I'll be in my tent."

Only when alone did she allow her breath to catch, her pain to show on her face, and for the curses to leave her throat. My men cannot see me falter. They need very little convincing to dislike being led by an elf.

A woman elf at that, and one with little firsthand military experience on top of everything. Solara had been taken by her father to suppress the Dockmaster's Rebellion just once, and then twice more to hunt down bandits. Apart from that, her knowledge of warfare had come about solely from books and tutors. It was hardly enough to justify leading a small army of elite soldiers against the Imperial Army.

Especially a small army led by Ernanda, the Lady of Ash.

Charitably, Tenver and Adam's combined efforts in the Capital had ended in a stalemate against the Hangwoman. More objectively, the two managed to barely escape with their lives when Solara rescued them with the Airship. And now the woman was her problem to deal with. Somehow.

Ernanda's Talent of Hanging had manifested in the cruelest of ways. It sped up the passage of time in whatever she touched, so that even the mightiest of soldiers would crumble to ash at her fingertips. When the Lady of Ash descended upon the battlefield, there was little for an opposing army to do but to cede ground and let her push them off the battlefield. Her mere presence was more effective than a siege tower.

If not for Solara's existence, they would already have lost.

"Kill me," the elf muttered, in a feverish haze. "Turn me to ash. I'll come back as many times as it takes."

Her Talent of Resurrection was a natural counter to the Talent of Hanging. Twice a day, every day, she had died crossing blades with the Lady of Ash and made for a desperate retreat. Their army had held with only a few losses, as most of the Imperial Army was still focused on Vasco's side of the wall.

Ernanda could still die from an errant arrow. Despite her monstrous offensive strength, she wouldn't dare press onward by herself – nor could she fight without drawing attention. Conversely, Solara had coordinated her men so that they would prioritize delaying the enemy, using her very life as a shield when needed. Until now, it had worked.

But what of tomorrow?

Solara couldn't continue to outmaneuver a more experienced, stronger opponent, even with the advantage of terrain. Not forever. Resurrection didn't heal the mental wounds each death inflicted upon her. Neither did it rid the elf of her mounting exhaustion, the ever-rising pressure of duty, or the crumbling morale of her men.

With every passing day, it felt like her final death drew closer.

Adam...you said you needed one week. Please...please...make it less than that.

–

Captain Diego seemed particularly weary that morning. He had good reason to be. Six days had passed since their detachment entered the heart of the ruins. Six long days of running for their lives, fending off attacks by Stained monsters – all while his Lord failed to produce results and capture the Corpse's soul.

Adam understood the man's sentiments. He really, truly did. But at the same time, he found reason to feel optimistic today. They'd managed to avoid casualties so far – albeit barely – and had just discovered a new lead.

More accurately, Adam had developed a new approach. A bolt of inspiration came after Valeira once again denied his request for information on the Grandmaster. It'd forced him to reassess what he was doing, pushing him to view his existing knowledge in an entirely new light.

The facts hadn't changed. But the way he looked at them had.

"The Corpse is approaching, sir!" Captain Diego reported, his voice trembling. "Let's leave the painting behind and retreat to a safe position, quickly–"

Adam dismissed the possibility, choosing to stay. He knew it was risky and irresponsible. But when he thought about his theory on the shape of the Corpse's soul...the painter knew he owed the shambling curse this much.

You continued to walk, to live, like an echo of a life that didn't belong to you – all without ever being looked at properly. That must've hurt, didn't it?

He was a Painter, not a god. There was no way to turn back time and undo the lonely, tiresome road the creature standing before him had been forced to tread.

But he could look it in the eye.

Like a colossus of tortured oak, the Corpse appeared from around the corner. Upon catching sight of everyone, it froze, scarcely able to comprehend the presence of living creatures who weren't Rot-mutated abominations. The creature's eyes fell on the portrait tucked under Adam's arm, its countenance stirring with unreadable emotion.

"Hello there," said the Painter Lord. He waved off his men, striding towards the monstrosity with his painting in hand. "Might I interest you in something?"

At first, Adam wasn't sure whether the Corpse could comprehend his words. It just stood there and gawked at him, the blots of ink pulsating in its eyeballs approximating something between a blinking motion and a heartbeat.

Then, reluctantly, the Corpse nodded at the Painter.

And, immediately, the Painter showed the Corpse his portrait. Its title was emblazoned in restrained, subdued lettering.

The One That's Left

"This is who you are." Adam said, after a long pause. "It's not about who the Grandmaster is today – it's about you. The person you became."

A long silence stretched onwards.

The Corpse lowered its wooden fists. Frail, hoarse, mechanical laughter echoed from within its broken throat, mixed in with a static that seemed to fade in and out of reality. It shouldn't have been possible for it to feel exhaustion. Dragon Puppets were crafted to be perfect tools above all else.

Yet, beneath the crumbling tornado of ink, the Corpse's slumped shoulders could tell no tale other than this:

He was tired.

So tired.

And within that drained, desperate face, was now a blooming relief that hadn't been there a moment ago. "...I accept...your understanding, Painter..."

It spread its arms wide.

Were it only possible to give you a life elsewhere...but the Rot inside of you is too unstable. There's no other choice.

The least Adam could do was deliver him this final end gently, with the most beautiful painting his imagination could muster. He pressed his pen to the canvas and drew a deep breath. "Farewell, strong Puppet. May you find peace in–"

A familiar jolt of blue, electric light shot out from the Corpse.

What? Adam stood there dumbfounded, shock coloring his features. I...captured his soul? How?! I haven't finished the painting yet!

His gaze followed the familiar travel of the light as it danced across from the Puppet, around the soldiers, and finally towards Adam. It had a sort of hesitancy about its movement, as if uncertain what to do. Instinctively, the Painter held up his tablet toward the misty soul, offering it the home it craved so dearly.

At first, the soul remained motionless. It only regarded Adam carefully – almost apologetically.

Until, at last, it moved.

Right through Adam's tablet.

The soul ignored him completely. It moved all the way behind him, suddenly curved upwards to the rooftop of a ruined building.

Where a man with winged boots and a tablet of his own stood proudly.

"Ah, Adam...you always make sure to help me out, don't you?" Eric Gryphon wore a smile that was closer to a sneer. "You really came through. That corpse was too strong for me to steal its soul, even with my Genius Realm. Would've needed to understand what it was about and, eh, who cares about a dead man's dreams, you know?"

Writhing like a fish caught on a lure, the Corpse's soul rushed into Eric's tablet. A glow of blue suffused the surrounding air, illuminating the joy dancing in the Hangman's eyes.

"Thanks for doing the hard part for me again."

–

Miles away, back in his carriage, Emperor Ciro gazed down at his chessboard. He pointed at one piece in particular, nodding confidently.

"I have faith in my youngest Hangman." Eric's piece had been carved with two wings and a cocky grin. "The Gryphon will deal with the Painter quite easily. Adam's defeat is assured."

Ciro let out a sigh. "And good thing, too. After that disaster with Valente and Aspreay, I don't want to leave anything up to chance."

Nayt, the elven Hangman, appeared far less convinced. "And you think that so long as the Gryphon doesn't hesitate, the Pretender has no hope of victory?"

"None. Eric Gryphon's Talents are all ranked higher than the Painter's – to say nothing of their sheer quality. The only troublesome Talent of his is the Lord Talent, but that is not something to worry about."

The Emperor's face turned vicious. "Using his Lord Talent would put Penumbria at the monsters' mercy until he was able to raise its Walls again. And Adam, for all his bravado and audacity, is no hardened battlelord. He's a boy. One who lacks the resolve necessary to sacrifice his lessors in order to prosper."

Though Nayt huffed gravely in response, he did nod along with the argument – albeit with an air of dark reluctance. "I suppose there is some truth to that, Your Imperial Highness."

"Some?" Ciro laughed. "There is only truth in my words. Consider Adam's past behavior. Historically, the Painter has never once attempted to use the Lord Talent, even when his life was in peril."

"And yet he survived all of those instances," Nayt pointed out.

The Emperor hardened his gaze. "That is exactly his undoing," he firmly told the elven Hangman. "His ability to survive when dancing on the knife's edge of life and death will make him believe he can do so again. And even if he changes his mind..."

With a dismissive gesture, Ciro knocked the Painter's piece over. "It would already be too late."

–

Eric's thoughts were plain on his face. He didn't think that Adam had it in him to accept the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands of people who had entrusted themselves to him. The Painter was a naive, optimistic, risk-averse person who liked to believe he could always find the perfect solution for any dilemma.

It was why the Hangman laughed as he stole the Corpse's soul and plagiarized its Talent, taking the time to appreciate the impact of his sudden appearance. Even surrounded by twelve of the Painter's crossbow-wielding soldiers, he feared nothing. What could wooden bolts do against a Hangman, the Lord of Death, and a master of the Genius Realm besides?

He had plenty of time to calmly enjoy the result of his actions.

And that was precisely what the Painter had bet on.

"Adam," Eric managed to get out, his face turning white in shock. "What are you–?"

The Hangman hesitated. The Painter did not. Adam drew up his arm in a grand gesture, as if saluting an opponent in a duel, and thundered:

"–REALM–RECONSTRUCTION–!"