Niko burst through the final bubble with a thunderous crack, the explosion wrapping around his body like fire, searing his skin. His coat was nearly shredded, and blood painted his arms—but he didn't feel it.
His eyes were locked. His mind—silent. No thoughts. No words.
Only her.
The woman took a single step back as he advanced, her hand twitching toward the flute. But she hesitated. Something in his presence had changed—no anger, no panic. Just raw, surgical intent.
And then he moved.
Faster than before.
He vanished and appeared behind her in the same breath. His fist drove into the base of her spine with a sickening crunch, launching her forward. Before her body hit the ground, he was already above her, heel crashing down on her ribs with the force of a hammer. Bone shattered. She gasped, blood spraying from her mouth.
She spun, flinging a desperate arc of sound from her lips—a dissonant scream meant to disorient him. But Niko dipped beneath it, slid forward, and drove both palms into her gut, lifting her off the ground. Midair, his hand snapped forward, grabbing her face.
He launched them both skyward, crashing through the upper rafters of the library. Books exploded around them like confetti. Up in the air, still gripping her face, he slammed her skull-first into a beam, then flipped, his foot catching her jaw and spiking her straight down through two floors of smoldering wood.
She hit the bottom hard. The ground cratered. Blood poured from her mouth and ears.
Still, she tried to rise—flute cracked but gripped in trembling fingers.
Niko landed in front of her, calmly. His shadow towered over her broken body. No hesitation. No pause.
He raised a hand—energy humming low and furious.
"Blitz"
A harsh hum split the air as his hand sank into her chest, slicing through flesh and bone with clean, crackling precision. Her scream never left her throat. His other hand followed, striking upward, punching her jaw-now broken,
He yanked her body upward, lifted her off her feet, eyes still silent, and then used all the energy he could to cause her to implode. No final words. No ceremony,
Just smoke.
The force of the final strike sent her crumpling into the shattered floor, blood trailing like a falling comet. Her body didn't move. The light in her eyes flickered—once—then vanished.
Niko stood above her, panting. His arms were still raised, twitching slightly from the sheer strain of what he'd just unleashed. The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
His fingers relaxed slowly, stained red.
Her blood dripped from his knuckles.
The world around him was still trembling from the aftershock. Cracks webbed across the walls, the air was thick with ash and static. His body radiated heat. Energy still buzzed along his skin like angry wasps—but now it had nowhere to go.
He looked down.
Her chest didn't rise.
He didn't blink. Couldn't.
His mouth stayed shut, but his jaw clenched tighter and tighter until it ached. There was no pride. No satisfaction. Just that sickly burn crawling up the back of his neck—a mixture of heat and cold, a realization that made his gut twist.
She was dead.
She was dead.
And it was him.
Niko staggered back a step. His breath hitched. His heartbeat was slowing now, but the world felt louder—every sound like glass cracking in his ears. A ringing set in, sharp and unrelenting, drowning everything else.
His eyes flicked to his own hands. Still trembling. Covered in blood not his own. Her blood.
Something in him tried to speak—but there were no words. Not even in his head.
He turned away, but found no relief. The battlefield was a graveyard of broken things. The echo of her last breath haunted every corner. Even the ground beneath him felt heavier now, like the House itself was watching in silence.
Niko sank to one knee, his head bowed—not in reverence, not in sorrow, but in something worse.
Confusion. Fury. Guilt.
The stillness of her corpse was a mirror.
What have I done?
He didn't say it. Couldn't.
But he felt it. Over and over again.
Burdened by the weight of his own guilt, Niko's knees buckled. His breath grew shallow, the world around him fading to a dull, distant hum. With his eyes closing slowly—almost in surrender—he collapsed to the ground, unconscious, as if the grief itself had finally pulled him under.
...
On the far end of the corridor, footsteps echoed softly—a boy emerged from the shadows. He couldn't have been older than fifteen, small in frame with a baby face that didn't match the weight in his gaze. His hair was pitch black, eyes darker still—bottomless voids stained faintly with purple.
Behind him, a desperate voice called out. A man, maybe a dozen feet back, shouted hoarsely, "Juno! Why—why would you kill him?! We didn't even fight back!"
The boy stopped. Slowly, he turned his head, not with concern, but with irritation—like the man had just interrupted a boring dream.
"What a waste of breath," he muttered, his voice dry, uncaring. "You should've just stayed dead."
Before the man could move, a spike of solid darkness burst from the floor beneath him—too fast for the eye to register. It tore clean through his chest. Blood coughed from his lips as he staggered, falling to his knees.
"…you… monster…" he gasped. Then nothing. His eyes glazed over, lifeless.
Juno didn't blink. He stared at the body, expression flat, then yawned. Stretching lazily, he thought to himself, What now? Maybe I'll find something fun to break.
Juno stepped over the cooling corpse without a pause, his shoes lightly tapping against the blood-slicked floor. The shadows in the corridor seemed to curl toward him, drawn to the boy like moths to a flame they couldn't understand—only fear. His hands were stuffed casually in his pockets, his posture slack, his expression one of effortless boredom.
Then, with a breath of sound that wasn't quite wind, she appeared.
Mena.
Her form seemed to slip into reality as if she'd always been there, draped in flowing silks of midnight and shadow. Her long, deep violet hair shimmered faintly, and a black blindfold covered her eyes—not from lack of sight, but by choice. She stood still, her presence quiet and graceful, and yet there was something ancient in her stillness.
"Master Juno," she said, voice gentle, yet edged with disapproval, "must you always be so… merciless?"
Juno didn't look at her at first. He stared forward, as if pretending she wasn't there. Then, with an exaggerated groan, he rolled his neck and turned to face her, smirking.
"Come on, Mena," he said, sarcastically, "the guy was whining like it was going to bring someone back. He should've just walked away. Boom—still breathing."
He scoffed and twirled his finger in the air like he was tracing imaginary circles of power.
"I barely even tried," he muttered. "That wasn't a fight. That was cleanup."
Mena didn't respond. She knew better than to argue with him—especially when he was like this.
He turned toward her fully now, finally showing a flicker of seriousness in those eyes of endless black, that faint purple hue in them swirling like something waking up.
"So… you're supposed to be finding me worthy opponents, right?" he asked, tilting his head like a mocking child. "And this is what you bring me?"
"I have searched," Mena replied calmly. "But at your level… there are few options left."
Juno narrowed his eyes.
"Don't tell me it's the same answer as last time."
She nodded.
"There are none left outside the Ten. The rest would fall before they even drew their weapon."
The corridor was silent for a moment.
Then, Juno smiled.
Not his usual smug grin. This one was colder. Sharper. It carried a hunger—the kind only destruction could feed.
"…Then I guess it's time," he whispered, eyes glowing faintly. "Let's see if the legends are worth the ink they're written in."
Mena gave a subtle bow. "Shall I prepare the path?"
Juno nodded once. "Yeah. And this time," he added, voice darker, "don't waste my time with warm-ups."
And with that, the corridor darkened, the light seeming to bend around him as the boy who killed without blinking vanished into the black—off to find those who could finally give him a reason to try.