Lokey knelt on the blood-slick stone, cradling Artemis against his chest. His little brother’s body was still hot, faint wisps of smoke rising from his skin where the blue fire had burned him from the inside out.

  Beside them, Hela clutched Artemis’ limp hand with both of her own. Her eyes were wide and frantic, tears streaking her face, the echo of her screams still bouncing in her ears.

  “Stay with me… please, Artemis,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  Her Hellhounds circled them in tight formation, hackles raised, growls rumbling low in their throats. Any time one of the fallen cultists twitched—or even shifted in death—they snapped their jaws, ready to kill again.

  Lokey looked up, chest heaving. For a moment, he thought the silence would crush them.

  Then footsteps echoed from the far passage.

  A group of adventurers appeared, torches casting their light across the chamber. Their gear was worn but sturdy, weapons drawn until they spotted the trio among the carnage.

  One man—broad-shouldered with a scar across his jaw—lowered his blade first.

  “Adventurers at this hour?” He smirked faintly. “You’ve got guts. Most avoid the dungeon this late. We prefer to hunt at night ourselves. Fewer people clogging up the floors.”

  But his eyes fell on Artemis’ limp body, and his tone hardened.

  “He’s hurt bad. We have a healer.”

  A woman in light blue robes rushed forward, ignoring the warning growls of Hela’s hounds. She knelt beside Artemis and began to chant softly, hands glowing with pale green light.

  Lokey felt the warmth of the magic sweep over them. Artemis’ burns eased, the angry red fading to pink scars. His breathing steadied, though he remained unconscious, his body drained to the last drop of strength.

  The healer exhaled.

  “He’ll live. Barely. But whatever he did… the strain was enough to kill him. The gods must favor him.”

  Hela swallowed hard, still holding Artemis’ hand as though she might lose him if she let go.

  “They came out of nowhere… hooded men. They said I was an abomination. A threat to their god.”

  Her voice cracked, rising with panic again.

  “They dragged me to that altar and tried to kill me. They wanted to end my life because of my magic.”

  The adventurers exchanged uneasy glances.

  The scarred man muttered, “The Church again…” His jaw tightened.

  “Damn zealots. Been whispering for weeks about her. Looks like they’ve finally taken action.”

  Hela hugged Artemis’ hand to her chest, trembling. Her skeletal knights hadn’t returned, her mana still sputtering uselessly inside her.

  “I couldn’t summon anything. They threw powder on me… something that made my magic freeze.”

  The healer nodded grimly.

  “Anti-magic powder. Nasty stuff. Wears off, though. After a hot bath and a night’s rest, your mana flow should return.”

  She gave Hela a soft look.

  “Don’t push yourself until then.”

  Lokey gritted his teeth. His hammer was still slick with blood, his knuckles white around the handle.

  “So they can just do this? Ambush us? Try to sacrifice my sister like some offering?”

  The scarred adventurer met his eyes, his voice low.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “This isn’t the last time you’ll cross them. The Churches have power in every city. If they see you as a threat… they won’t stop.”

  Lokey said nothing, but his glare promised fire.

  Meanwhile, Artemis stirred faintly, his face pale. Even unconscious, his body twitched, small sparks of mana still rippling off him uncontrollably.

  The healer leaned back, frowning.

  “Whatever skill awakened in him nearly killed him. His mana is still fluctuating wildly, like a storm with no center. I cannot fix that. Mana comes from the soul—I can only heal the body.”

  Lokey looked down at his brother.

  “…He burned through everything he had just to save us.”

  Hela brushed damp hair from Artemis’ forehead, whispering softly. She wasn’t sure if he could hear, but she hoped.

  As they gathered themselves, one more detail began to settle in—something Artemis had done instinctively in his rage, but its echo still lingered.

  A new skill had appeared.

  [Twin Connection]

  It was what had fused him with her knight. What had given him the strength to shatter their enemies. What had also nearly destroyed his body in the process.

  The price had been unbearable. But it had worked.

  The healer’s glow faded, leaving Artemis breathing steady, though his skin was pale and clammy with exhaustion. Lokey exhaled slowly, relief fighting with the rage that burned in his chest. Hela wouldn’t let go of her brother’s hand, her Hellhounds pressed close like shadows guarding her.

  The adventuring party who’d found them—four in number, a balanced team by the look of it—stepped back once Artemis was stable.

  “We’re called the Ashen Hawks,” the scarred warrior introduced gruffly.

  “We work together, always have. You three…” his eyes flicked to the corpses scattered across the chamber, “…you don’t exactly look green, but what you walked into would’ve killed most.”

  Hela whispered a soft thanks, her voice weak but earnest.

  The Hawks smiled politely, but it was clear they weren’t ones for lingering bonds. Their healer added gently,

  “Your brother needs rest. Don’t push him further tonight. Get him somewhere safe.”

  Lokey nodded once.

  “We owe you.”

  That was enough for them. They gave their farewells and disappeared deeper into the dungeon, the glow of their torches swallowed by the dark.

  It took effort, but Lokey lifted Artemis into his arms, Hela steady at his side. Together, they made their way back to the surface and then to the Guildhall.

  The night was quiet, but to Lokey, every shadow felt like an enemy waiting to strike.

  Once inside, the Guild attendants rushed to help, but Lokey waved them off. He carried Artemis up himself, guiding Hela to their private quarters. There, he laid his brother in bed, pulling the blanket over him like when they were children. Hela curled onto the other cot, still clutching Artemis’ hand even as she drifted into uneasy sleep.

  Only when they were both safe—breathing, resting—did Lokey step back. His fists trembled. His hammer was already in his grip, though he hadn’t recalled taking it from the table.

  He turned toward the door.

  “Murder on your mind, boy?”

  The voice was calm, firm, but not mocking. The Guildmaster leaned against the wall, arms crossed as if waiting for him. His scarred face was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp and steady—watched Lokey like a man who’d once stood in his place.

  “They tried to kill her,” Lokey said, voice low, shaking with fury.

  “Dragged my sister to a damn altar like some fucking animal. They nearly killed Artemis, and they’ll keep coming. You think I’m supposed to just sit here and wait for the next strike?”

  The Guildmaster stepped closer, not flinching at the anger rolling off him.

  “You strike back now, in anger, you’ll bring the whole Church down on your heads—maybe more than one Church—all before you’re ready for a fight like that.”

  “I don’t care,” Lokey growled.

  “They put hands on my family.”

  The Guildmaster searched his face, then sighed.

  “You’re just like I was. Blood for blood. But listen, boy—sometimes the best revenge isn’t the swing of a hammer, it’s becoming strong enough that your enemies choke on their failure.”

  Lokey’s grip tightened.

  “No. This won’t wait. They need to understand.”

  Before the Guildmaster could stop him, Lokey walked past, each step heavier than the last. His boots echoed like thunder through the Guildhall as he pushed out into the night.

  The city was quiet, lanterns glowing, streets nearly empty. But when the Church spire came into view, tall and proud against the stars, Lokey’s breath turned into a snarl.

  “You tried to kill my sister,” he screamed—not at anyone really, but it was the only warning they got.

  He hefted his hammer, the steel humming with power, his strength and anger surging through his veins.

  “For Hela. And for Artemis.”

  He swung.

  The strike didn’t just hit stone. It hit the world itself. It sounded like a bomb exploded. A roar like an earthquake split the night, the ground trembling beneath the city. Windows shattered. Cobblestones cracked. The Church groaned like a wounded beast before its walls split apart, towers crumbling in a spray of dust. The very foundation in the ground cracked.

  The holy spire that had watched over the city for centuries fell in one deafening crash.

  Silence followed—then screams.

  People rushed from their homes, standing frozen in the streetlights, staring in disbelief at the ruin where the Church had stood. Some gaped in horror, others in awe. Mothers pulled children close. Old men fell to their knees, praying to their gods.

  Lokey stood in the center of it all, chest rising and falling, hammer resting against his shoulder. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his smile was cold and sharp.

  “Now they fucking know,” he muttered, turning back toward the Guildhall.

  The people parted before him, watching as he walked away. None dared to stop him. None dared to speak.

  Behind him, the Church lay in rubble, its god silently watching.

  And for the first time, the city understood just how dangerous Lokey truly was.