Chapter 56 – Return of the Unburnt.
A day passed before Little 9 woke again.
He didn't stir with panic this time. Instead, his eyes blinked open slowly to the familiar ceiling—plain, gray, sterile. The old room. His old room. The smooth metal door, slightly ajar, creaked on its hinges. The air carried the faint scent of antiseptic and ash.
A faint breeze from the open window stirred the thin curtain beside his narrow bed. There was no mistaking it now.
He had died. Again.
The realization didn't bring fear—only quiet resignation. He sat up slowly, the rough blanket sliding off his body. The pain in his bones was dulled now, his wounds already sealed. Magic or time, or both. But what confirmed the truth wasn't the ache in his limbs.
It was the fact that the Master hadn't sent anyone to fetch him. He was back… and no one seemed surprised.
The room was just as he'd left it long ago: a single, stiff bed, a chipped steel pot by the door, and a single overhead bulb humming gently. No comforts. No distractions. Just a space to survive in. The contrast between his room and the rest of the sleek, modern mansion was stark—deliberate, maybe.
He rose and opened the door. The hallway gleamed with polished floors and clean lines, minimalist and cold. He passed by the Master's study without hesitation.
"Master," he greeted evenly.
The Master, standing by the window, merely nodded. Not shocked. Not confused.
Expected.
And that told Little 9 everything.
He continued on without pressing for answers. What was the point? The Master wouldn't say it. Wouldn't admit it. Wouldn't speak the words: You died. But Little 9 didn't need to hear them anymore.
Down the corridor, he found them—Percy and Little 7 in the shared living space. A low table, long couch, and screens displaying combat simulations occupied the room.
They looked up.
No shock. No wide eyes. No ghost-like stares.
"Where the hell did you disappear to?" Little 7 asked, half-frustrated, half-relieved.
Percy added, "You left him there. They nearly gutted him."
The words stung, but not because they were accusatory. Because they were proof.
Proof that Little 9 had died. That Little 7 had survived. That something—someone—had made sure of it.
And oddly… that gave him peace.
He didn't reply right away. Instead, he sat opposite them, watching the flames in the small wall-heater flicker. "I thought I'd lost him," he said after a moment. "But he lived."
Percy leaned forward. "That's not the point. You need to change how you approach them. They're reading your moves now. You're not just facing raw power—you're facing memory."
Little 9 nodded. He had already been thinking the same. But this time, he had an idea. Something different. Something wicked.
"They trust each other," he said slowly. "They move like reflections—Elara and Ariella. So what if I turn them against each other?"
Percy's brow rose. "You mean… manipulate their bond?"
"I won't face them head-on. I'll strike when they're vulnerable—create illusions, bend memories, make them believe the other is hesitating, doubting. I'll make them see betrayal where there is none."
Little 7 cracked his knuckles. "That'll piss them off."
"That's the point," Little 9 murmured.
---
Three days later, the trap was set.
Ariella woke in the middle of the night, heart racing, sweat on her brow. She had dreamed of Elara—burning her. Laughing while she did it.
Elara, too, woke haunted by a vision: Ariella, cloaked in white light, standing over her with cold eyes and a blade pressed to her chest.
Both girls said nothing at first. But unease began to bloom between them—subtle, sharp. They hesitated in battle practice. Their synchrony faltered. They questioned, if only silently.
And then it happened.
In a quiet clearing near the village edge, the Shrouded One appeared—not with fire or beasts, but with whispers.
"You saw it, didn't you?" he told Elara, his voice low and laced with unnatural calm. "She'll turn on you. She already has."
He spoke to Ariella next. "She dreams of burning you. I know. I put the thought there."
The worst part was—they believed it. Not fully, not consciously… but enough to spark fear.
And fear gave way to fury.
When they found him two days later, nestled between the rocky hills that bordered their valley, there were no warnings. No speeches.
Only vengeance.
"You dare play with our minds?" Elara roared, her eyes blazing blue.
"You dare pit us against each other?" Ariella added, her white aura crackling like lightning.
They attacked as one, but without the grace of before. This time, their fury made them wild, their power untethered.
The Shrouded One fought back with every dark trick he knew—mirror illusions, fear magic, stolen voices. But they didn't hold. Not this time.
"You're done," Ariella said as she pierced his side.
"You're dust," Elara added, her flame erupting into a cyclone.
He screamed once—then fell.
Together, the girls buried him with their combined magic, sealing the ground with ancient runes. Blue and white stones shimmered over the fresh earth.
"This time," Elara spat, "you're not coming back."
They walked away, panting. Shaken. But sure.
---
But beneath the earth, the ground shifted. The runes flickered… and died.
In silence, his body vanished.
---
The Master stood in his study when the body appeared at his feet once again. Smoke curled from the fabric of Little 9's robe, but his face was untouched. Peaceful.
Master stared down, unmoving.
Another death. Another return.
He carried the boy's body to the same small room, laid him on the narrow bed, and shut the door with a sigh.
It was no longer a question of loyalty. Or even power.
It was something else.
Something deeper.
As he returned to his private quarters, a memory struck him hard—unbidden and cruel.
A young man, kneeling before a throne. Tears streaked his face as he begged the king above him.
"I didn't mean for it to end like this. I only wanted what was mine."
The king said nothing. Just lifted a hand.
Banished.
He had been exiled—stripped of title, cast into the forest to rot. But he hadn't. He had built his own empire, raised shadows from dust, shaped warriors from children.
And still, the throne haunted him.
When the Master came back to himself, he was standing at the window, fists trembling, a tear clinging to his cheek.
He wiped it away quickly.
And when he turned back, his face was stone once more.
As if the man who had shed tears a moment ago had never existed at all.