Callahan spat a thick glop of blood onto the pavement, the rain washing it into the gutter like filth. He staggered upright, clutching his side, then reached for the dagger strapped to his thigh. Six inches of polished silver flashed in the lightning, its glint pale against the storm-drenched alley.
Across from him, Gunnar gripped the broken blade lodged in his chest. With a guttural grunt, he tore it free, blackened blood spilling down his armor. He let it drop with a metallic clatter. His breath came heavy, teeth bared, amber eyes locked on the man before him.
No words. Just a silence that burned.
Callahan roared and lunged.
Gunnar moved—not fast, but sharp. The dagger missed. A meaty fist slammed into Callahan's ribs with a sickening crunch. The captain gasped, buckling, only for a brutal backhand to crack across his jaw and send him sprawling face-first into the dirt and rain.
Gunnar stepped over him, fists clenched, chest heaving.
"All these years," he growled, "I dreamed o' splittin' yer head clean open wi' me axe. Let yer brains spill across the floor like the rotten filth ye are."
Callahan groaned, spitting blood into the concrete.
"But now I see…" Gunnar crouched, looming over him. "That'd be too kind. Too quick." His lips curled into something dark. "Nay… I'm gonna break every bone in that slimy body. One by one. With me own two hands. And when I'm done—ye'll be beggin' for the end… just like she did."
Callahan twisted around and drove the blade into Gunnar's thigh.
The dwarf roared, stumbling back as pain lanced through his leg. But his fury only flared. With a guttural cry, he seized Callahan's arm and brought his knee up with a sickening crack, snapping the elbow clean in two, the bone protruding from the flesh.
Callahan screamed.
Gunnar didn't stop.
His hands clamped around Callahan's throat like iron, lifting him effortlessly from the ground. The captain gagged, feet kicking uselessly as Gunnar slammed him against the side of the dumpster with a bone-jarring crack. Blood sprayed from Callahan's mouth, spattering the dwarf's armor.
Then came the fists.
Gunnar drove his knuckles into Callahan's gut, then his ribs—again, again, again. Every punch thundered with rage, turning muscle to pulp, caving bone with each blow. The air filled with the wet crunch of breaking cartilage and the hoarse gurgle of a man drowning in his own blood.
With a snarl, Gunnar dropped him and raised his boot—then brought it down with a sickening snap.
Callahan's leg broke at the shin, bone tearing through meat and skin.
The scream that tore from his throat echoed down the alley like a death knell.
He then grabbed the bastard by the collar and hurled him into the wall with enough force to make it shudder. Stone cracked. Plaster split. Callahan dropped into a cluster of wooden crates near the dumpster, splintering them beneath his weight.
Gunnar wrenched the dagger from his thigh, gritting his teeth through the pain. Blood trickled freely down his leg as he limped forward, rain soaking his frame.
"My wee lass… me baby girl…" Gunnar growled through clenched teeth. "Took her into me home when she was just a bloody kit. I bathed her, clothed her, gave her every scrap o' love I had left in this old carcass."
He threw the blade aside with a clatter and raised both fists high, bringing them down like hammers on Callahan's back.
The captain shrieked—his body buckled, limbs spasming.
"She showed this worn-out old brute—this bastard who knew nothin' but steel and blood—that he could feel again!" Gunnar roared, fists crashing down once more. "She reached in… into this broken soul and showed me I still had a heart!"
He yanked Callahan up by the collar like a rag doll, and with his other hand, smashed it into the man's face. Once. Twice. Again. The sound was sickening—bone cracking, skin splitting, teeth scattering like dice on stone.
With each blow, memories surged behind Gunnar's eyes—Abigail's beaming face, her laugh in the morning light, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck… then the cold cobblestone, the sheet soaked red, the silence that followed.
"You killed her!" Gunnar roared; the words torn from his chest like shrapnel. "You took her from me, ye sick, murdering bastard!" His tears mingled with the rain, falling freely. "You and yer lot—I'll rip every last one o' ye apart!"
He slammed Callahan again, each word punctuated by a strike, a cry, a crack of bone.
"Limb… from limb!"
He lifted Callahan like he weighed nothing and hurled him into the dumpster. The metal buckled inward with a deafening clang. Callahan slumped out, wheezing, bloody and broken.
The old dwarf came in low and slammed an uppercut into his jaw. Blood sprayed. The captain sagged.
Gunnar then seized his head with both hands and slammed it against the steel. Once. Twice.
Then he grabbed him again—grunting with effort—and hurled him headlong into the brick wall.
The impact knocked loose a spray of brick and mortar, leaving a jagged dent where flesh had struck stone.
He wasn't finished.
Gunnar pulled him back, and did it again.
This time, the wall caved in.
Gunnar's breath came in ragged heaves, chest rising and falling with every labored inhale. Rain slicked his face, mixing with blood and sweat, as his amber eyes locked onto the broken form slumped in the rubble. Callahan was barely conscious—one eye swollen shut, the other blinking through blood. Deep cuts marred his face, his body battered beyond recognition. His lone remaining arm dangled uselessly at his side.
He coughed—wet and ragged—blood pouring from his lips in thick, sticky ropes. Shattered teeth clinked against the pavement as he tried to form words, his jaw hanging slack, face half-caved in.
Gunnar let out a roar, fist drawn back, the air around him trembling with fury.
"W-Wait…" Callahan wheezed, each breath a labor, a tremor rolling through his mangled body. "Please…"
The old dwarf froze mid-swing, chest heaving, rain soaking his beard, his breath loud in the silence between heartbeats.
"You win… I yield…" Callahan choked out, raising what was left of his arm—just a bloody stump, shaking like a leaf in the wind. "P-Please… I'll give you anything—anything you want. M-My father… he'll pay—he'll pay anything…"
His words collapsed into coughs, thick with blood and desperation, eyes wide with a pathetic, flickering hope.
Gunnar's lip curled into a snarl. "There it is," he growled. "The good ol' Callahan routine. Let me guess—ye're gonna offer me coin, aye?"
"Yes—whatever you want—" Callahan croaked.
"Power?"
"That too—"
"Anything this old dwarf's heart desires, aye?" Gunnar stepped closer.
Callahan gave a faint nod, hope flickering in his mangled face.
Gunnar knelt. Reached out. Cradled the bastard's head like a father would a child, his hands gentle for the briefest of moments.
Callahan let out a shaky breath. A smile began to form—relief. Gratitude.
Then Gunnar's voice dropped, low and hollow.
"A want ma daughter back, ye son o' a bitch."
Before Callahan could speak, Gunnar's thumbs drove into his eyes.
Callahan screamed.
The alley rang with his cries as Gunnar bore down. He writhed, legs kicking, body convulsing. But the dwarf held him fast, his fingers digging deeper, crushing the sockets, cracking bone. Blood poured. Flesh gave way.
The screams were harrowing—raw, jagged things ripped straight from the pit of Callahan's throat. Each cry a shriek of agony, laced with suffering so deep it bordered on inhuman. The sound clawed at the air, echoing down the rain-slick alley, like some ghastly hymn of every soul he had ever broken, every life he had ever ruined.
His screams cracked into gurgled sobs, throat torn ragged, reduced to choking whimpers as blood filled his mouth. A cruel irony—becoming the echo of his own sins.
And then with a final, thunderous roar, Gunnar's grip clenched tight, and Callahan's skull caved in like wet clay. The body shuddered once. Then went limp.
Gunnar sat there for a moment, trembling.
His face was wet, but not from the rain.
A low, guttural hum vibrated through the alley as the air thickened—then split. A blackened portal tore open beneath Callahan's mangled body, its swirling depths veined with streaks of molten fire. From its depths emerged twisted, ember-lit hands—clawed and smoldering—reaching with unnatural hunger. They coiled around the corpse like serpents, dragging it down into the abyss below.
There was no ceremony. No resistance. Only the faint crackle of fire and the sudden, suffocating stillness as the portal vanished—leaving behind nothing. No body. No blood. Not even the echo of breath. As if Callahan had never existed at all.
Gunnar sat in the silence that followed, chest heaving. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all buckled him. A sob tore loose, raw and unfiltered. His shoulders shook beneath the weight of grief too long buried, his tears lost in the unrelenting downpour.
And above him, thunder cracked like the heavens mourning with him—loud, furious, and heartbroken.
****
Manfred's wand snapped and slashed through the rain, streaks of magic hurtling toward Isha. She met each one with unwavering precision, black-flamed arrows slicing through his spells mid-air. She moved like a phantom—leaping off car hoods, rolling across the soaked pavement, loosing arrows even as she twisted mid-flight.
He blocked what he could, spells shearing through the darkness, but not all. Arrows found their mark—buried in his arm, his thigh, one grazing across his ribs. He panted, sweat mixing with rain, blood trailing down his sleeve.
Isha surged forward in a trail of smoke and ashen fire, her cloak snapping behind her like a blade of shadow. She gripped her bow like a staff, swinging it in a wide arc. Manfred's wand flashed—golden shields shimmered to life, each one shattering on impact with a crack of raw magic.
They clashed, her strikes relentless. A sharp kick to his torso sent him staggering, followed by the bow cracking hard across his jaw—blood sprayed, and his face twisted in rage. He barked a word—spells burst from his wand, streaks of green and gold slamming into her chest. She spun, deflecting some with the flat of her bow, others bursting harmlessly against a veil of smoke as she flipped back, landing low with grace and grit, eyes never leaving him.
"You won't take me, you worthless little peck!" Manfred roared; eyes wild. "You don't know what I've done to get here! The bodies I've buried. The deals I've struck. I've clawed my way out of the mud, out of obscurity, through filth and betrayal—and I'll be damned before I let you drag me back down!"
Isha strung and loosed another arrow. "You call that strength? You twisted the law, turned justice into your personal theatre. You built your name on innocent blood—on lies! You sent countless to the noose and called it ambition!"
He batted the arrow away with a flick, face curling into a sneer. "And what of it? That's the world, girl. The strong carve their names in stone while the weak rot in the gutters. Those without purpose should be grateful to be useful, even in death."
His gaze hardened. "Like your brother."
Isha's scream tore through the rain. She twisted the next arrow in her grip, the shaft igniting with blackened flame. She let it fly.
"Burn in Hell!"
Manfred raised his wand, casting a shield—too late.
The arrow tore through it like parchment, slicing across his face. Blood spattered across the window of the car beside him as his glasses flew from his face, shattered on the ground. Staggering, he turned, catching sight of himself in the rain-slicked reflection of the glass—his cheek torn open, teeth bared in a grotesque, broken smile. He touched the wound, staring at the blood smeared across his trembling fingers.
"Fits you perfectly," Isha sneered, eyes locked on the blood trailing down his ruined face. "Now the world can see you for what you are—mangled, twisted… hideous. A monster, inside and out."
His breath hitched—then twisted into a snarl. Rage overtook pain as he whipped back toward Isha, wand flicking with a violent snap.
"Bombarda!"
The spell erupted like a cannon blast. Isha dove to the side, but the shockwave caught her mid-roll, sending her crashing into the pavement. Fire and smoke billowed in her wake.
Manfred's eyes darted to the twisted metal sign beside him. With a slash of his wand, he severed the pole clean at the base—then again at the top—fashioning a jagged spear.
"You should've stayed dead," he hissed.
With a flick, the makeshift weapon flew.
Isha's eyes widened—too late.
The metal slammed into her gut, impaling her and pinning her against the brick wall. The impact shattered the stone behind her. Blackened blood like tar sprayed from her lips as her bow clattered to the ground, dissipating into blackened smoke.
Manfred limped forward, one hand pressed to his torn cheek, a crooked smile curling beneath it.
"You brought this on yourself," he muttered, each step dragging through broken glass and ash.
Isha looked up, her face twisted in pain, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth.
Manfred stood before her; wand aimed squarely at her chest. The tip glowed a sinister lime green. "A shame, really. I'd hoped you'd live long enough to stand trial. Thought I might get another notch on my record… then watch you dangle like your brother did." He smirked coldly. "But no matter. Lamar wanted a body. Yours will do nicely."
Isha coughed, the smirk curling on her lips. "Then do me one favor," she rasped. "Tell me the truth, to my face. No lies. No pretense. My brother was innocent… wasn't he?"
Manfred was quiet. Then, with an almost theatrical exhale, he lowered his wand and chuckled softly.
"Oh, why not? Last breath and all. Might as well leave you with something honest."
He leaned in. "You're right. Your dear brother Arno didn't kill Lady Gloreth…"
He paused, smile spreading across his torn face.
"…I did."
Isha's breath hitched, her eyes widening in horror.
"Not that I held any great love for the woman—though rest assured, I despised her," Manfred said coldly. "Sanctimonious little peck with a saviour complex and a compulsive need to meddle in affairs far beyond her grasp."
He paced; his gaze sharp. "Oh yes, elven nobility from the Woodland Realm. Graceful. Beautiful. Worshipped by the masses. But painfully naïve. She hadn't the faintest idea how the world truly works. How the gears of society are oiled with blood and compromise. How the rest of us are forced to get our hands dirty just to keep it all from falling apart."
He scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. "She wanted to fix the city. Clean the filth. Abolish slavery. Noble, wasn't it? But idealism like that—well, it's a threat. She upset the Union, unsettled alliances that took decades to build. And we knew it was only a matter of time before she turned her gaze to the Tower. To us. She would've torn it all down."
"We couldn't have that now, could we?" He straightened slightly, twirling his wand absently between his fingers.
"So, when Lamar said she needed to go, I volunteered. Simple, clean… until your idiot brother wandered in. Wrong place, wrong time. He had Platas in his pocket, blood on his boots, and panic in his eyes. The rest practically wrote itself."
Tears streamed silently down Isha's face, rage and grief entwined.
"Clegane and Callahan worked their magic, I played my part, and the jury? Ate it up. A perfect little tragedy. And best of all…we all walked away a little wealthier. A little more powerful."
Isha gritted her teeth. "And all of it… all of it under Lamar's orders?"
Manfred gave a small, sardonic laugh. "Please. Every dirty secret. Every corpse swept under the rug. Every life destroyed in the name of 'order'—it's all Lamar. The rest of us?" His smirk twisted into something darker. "We were just the instruments."
Isha drew a slow, steady breath. Her eyes, once clouded with pain, sharpened with purpose. "That's all I needed to know."
In one sudden movement, she reached out and grabbed Manfred by the front of his jacket. His eyes widened—but before he could react, she yanked him forward with a cry and drove him into the shattered pole protruding out of her.
The steel punched through his torso with a sickening crack. Blood burst from his mouth in a violent spray as a ragged scream tore from his throat, echoing off the rain-slicked alley walls. His wand slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground.
Isha didn't stop.
Her grip clenched tight around his jacket, jaw locked, eyes burning. With a guttural cry, she dragged him forward, the jagged length of the pole tearing deeper into him. His body convulsed as it slid down the steel, painting it crimson inch by inch.
Manfred choked, his teeth bared in agony, his limbs flailing weakly as he tried to push her back—but she didn't yield. She was stronger. And she wanted him to feel every second of it.
"Y-you… filthy, gods-damned peck—" Manfred snarled, blood bubbling from his lips. "You bitch—!"
"Take a good look, Manfred," Isha hissed through clenched teeth. "Because mine is the last face you'll ever see, and it'll be the only face waiting for you on the other side."
His head lolled, trembling. "O-other side…?"
"Do you know what Tartarus is?" Isha whispered. "It's not a myth. It's real. A realm of endless torment. Where your flesh is peeled from your bones, your skin scorched by flame, hooks and blades tearing into you, over and over."
She leaned in closer. "You'll scream until your voice is nothing but a rasp. You'll beg for mercy—knowing it won't come. Because there is no mercy in Tartarus. Only pain. Endless, perfect pain."
Her smile curved. "And when your body breaks, when there's nothing left to tear—you'll be made whole again. And it starts all over. Again. And again. And again."
She locked her gaze with his as he trembled in horror.
"And I'll be there, Manfred. Every time. Watching. Listening. Smiling. For the rest of eternity."
Her amber eyes flicked around him as the air shifted—thickening, distorting with an unnatural hum. A low, guttural sound tore through the street like the growl of something ancient and starved. Reality split open behind Manfred, the blackened portal yawning wide like a wound in the world. From its depths surged a mass of shadowed limbs—jagged and veined with glowing fire, clawing toward him with ravenous intent.
"Most of all," Isha said, "I want this moment to haunt you. To know that everything you built—every lie, every life ruined—meant nothing. Manfred Kaltz, the man who climbed a tower of corpses, is nothing but dust."
Manfred turned, panic overtaking him as the shadowed arms coiled around his torso. "No—wait! Please!" he shrieked.
The tendrils wrenched him from the pole with a sickening, wet crack. Blood poured freely as he thrashed, limbs flailing like a fish on a hook.
"Stop! Stop! Don't!" he screamed, nails breaking as he clawed at the slick asphalt. "Help me! Gods, please—HELP ME!"
His cries grew shrill, unravelling into incoherent sobs as the darkness dragged him further into the void.
A slow, cruel smirk curved across Isha's lips. "When you see Clegane," she called out after him, "give him my regards."
The last thing of him she saw was his face—twisted in agony—as he was ripped into the blackness.
Then silence.
Only the steady patter of rain remained.
Isha reached for the pole still lodged through her body. With a grunt of pain and effort, she wrenched it free. It clattered to the ground, a dull metallic thud as her blood splashed across the asphalt—thick and dark. She dropped to her knees, panting, her vision swimming. Slowly, the wound along her side began to cauterize—veins of molten fire sealing the flesh shut.
Her breath hitched. She looked up, grimacing.
"Gunnar," she murmured.
She staggered to her feet and took off, limping but determined, down the alleyway.
****
Isha stumbled into the alley, her steps uneven, heart hammering. Her amber eyes locked onto a familiar figure slumped beside the dented dumpster.
"Gunnar!" she cried, rushing to his side.
The old dwarf cracked a faint smile, his beard matted with rain and blood. His breaths were ragged, the glow of molten healing gone from his frame. She dropped beside him, reaching for his arm.
"We need to get out of here," she said, grabbing hold of him.
She paused—nothing. No surge of magic. No pull into shadow. Her brow furrowed as she looked down at her hand.
"What?"
"It's no use, lass." Gunnar shook his head. "I tried already. Whatever power Asriel gave me... it's fadin'. Slippin' through me fingers like ash in the wind." He grunted, pushing himself upright with effort. "But you—ye've still got some left. Enough to get outta here."
"I'm not leaving you!" Isha said.
"Dammit, girl," Gunnar growled, teeth clenched. "You know what's gotta be done. Get yer arse back to Asriel. Finish what we started."
"But—what about you?"
The wail of sirens echoed across the rooftops. Both turned their eyes to the skyline, red and blue lights flickering in the distance.
Gunnar turned back to her, softer now. "Don't fash yerself over me. I'll be alright… one way or another."
Tears welled in Isha's eyes, masked by the rain. Gunnar reached out, rough fingers brushing her cheek with surprising gentleness.
"I got what I came for," he said. "An' if this is where my road ends… then so be it. I'll greet it wi' pride." He smiled, tired but full of warmth. "But this ain't the end for you. You, Asriel, Orgrim—you lot are the spark now. Bring this cursed Tower down, brick by bloody brick."
His voice trembled with something close to reverence.
"When I look at you, lass… I see her. I see my Abigail. And part o' me likes to think… if she'd lived… she'd be just like you."
"Gunnar…" Isha whispered, pressing her face into his hand.
He held her gaze a moment longer, then pulled back.
"Go."
She hesitated, her eyes pleading.
"Go!" he roared.
She shut her eyes, jaw clenched—then vanished in a wisp of smoke and embers.
Gunnar exhaled shakily, pulling up his hood. The sirens grew louder.
"Come on then," he muttered, climbing to his feet before limping toward the mouth of the alley. "Let's see what the bastards've got left in 'em."
****
Back in the executive suite of Dryfus Tower, Bran stood with arms folded, eyes fixed on the floating neon-green screen suspended in the air. Laxus leaned casually against the edge of the wide executive desk, one hand resting on its polished surface, the other cradling a ceramic coffee mug. Steam curled lazily from the top as he took a sip.
On the screen, a phone icon blinked while the tone rang out. After a moment, the call connected.
The image shifted to a modest, oak-paneled office. Rich brown and muted green tones gave the room a scholarly warmth. Books lined the shelves—spines worn, pages well-thumbed. Seated at a large leather chair was an older man. His grey hair was combed neatly back, and the sharp lines of his face hinted at a life of discipline and quiet authority. His steel-grey eyes turned to the screen. Removing his thin, frameless glasses, he set them down gently on the desk.
"Bran, my boy," the man greeted with a warm smile. "How have you been? I trust the recovery's coming along well."
"Grandfather," Bran replied, though he halted as the man's gaze shifted.
"My word," he said, brightening, "is that young Dryfus I see? Looking remarkably well. Still carrying the presence of an Ignis Visionary, I daresay. A physique like that would put most Tower agents to shame."
"You're too kind, sir," Laxus said with a lopsided grin. "Though, uh… forgive me, but your name slips my mind."
Bran sighed, running a hand down his face. "Winston Ravenclaw. You've met him several times before."
"No offense taken, lad," Winston chuckled. "If the younger generation's forgotten me, that likely means I've done retirement properly."
He folded his hands together, fingers laced, resting his elbows on the table.
"Now then, not that I don't enjoy hearing from you, Bran, but when I received word you'd called on me with urgency, I must admit I grew concerned."
"It wasn't my intention to cause alarm," Bran said, adjusting his glasses. "But I've uncovered something troubling… and I require your insight."
Winston's expression sobered. "I see. Would this have anything to do with the Tower, by chance?"
"Oh, you don't even know the half of it," Laxus muttered under his breath.
Bran shot him a look.
"Well," Winston said, "if I can be of service, you need only ask."
He paused, then shifted slightly in his seat. "Before we go further… have you spoken to Rowena lately?"
Bran's eyes flickered, the question catching him off guard. He glanced away.
"No. Not recently," he said. "Things are… strained, at best."
"I'm not entirely surprised," Winston said softly. "I don't blame you for what happened. You acted as any Adjudicator would, bound by duty."
Laxus's hand tightened slightly around his mug.
"But I've warned you before," Winston continued, "about the cost of duty. Heaven knows I've had my share of rows with your grandmother over the decisions I made in the name of justice. The law may be your shield, Bran, but it's cold comfort when it sets you at odds with the ones you love."
His gaze sharpened, though his tone remained calm.
"Choosing what matters most—that's how you become the man you're meant to be."
Laxus shot Bran a cheeky grin, to which Bran responded with a tired roll of his eyes.
"I understand, Grandfather," Bran said, offering a reluctant shrug. "I'll speak to Rowena… when the time's right. But for now, I need your help."
"Of course, dear boy," Winston replied. "Ask what you will."
Bran drew a slow breath, steadying himself. "I need you to tell me about the Dah'tan Incident."
Winston's expression changed instantly. The warmth in his face vanished, replaced by something far more distant—haunted. Even Laxus caught it, his brow rising at the shift in the old man's demeanor.
"My boy…" Winston began cautiously, "that's not a subject to be taken lightly."
"Please," Bran cut in. "Something's happening. Something that could unravel the Tower itself—everything I've spent my life trying to uphold. I need to know the truth, Grandfather. All of it."
Winston's eyes closed slowly, as if weighed down by the memory. He was silent for a moment, then opened them again, dim with resignation.
"Very well," he said softly. "But be warned, Bran. Whatever comfort you think you'll find… you won't. Nor will you find justice. Only understanding—and that, too, is a heavy burden to carry." He exhaled. "It's a burden I've shouldered since the day I walked away from the Tower for good."
Bran nodded, his expression still.
"I understand."
Winston leaned forward slightly, the light of the screen casting shadows across his aged face.
"Then listen well… it all began twenty years ago."