Bora had Terna's body slung under his arm, nearly dragging him with every desperate step. Each stride felt like a lifetime. They stumbled through the street and finally reached the door. Tomris was just about to step outside— She froze the moment her eyes landed on Terna writhing in Bora's arms.
"No..." she whispered, then snapped back into motion.
"Get him inside. Now!"
Without hesitation, Bora rushed in, heading straight toward the center of the room.
Tomris threw a mattress over the layered rugs on the floor.
"Lay him down!"
They lowered Terna gently. Bora knelt beside him, still gripping his shoulder. Terna's face was pale, lips trembling.
Tomris moved fast. From her robe's inner pocket, she pulled salves, herbal extracts, and a scalpel.
"Blade or dagger?"
"Dagger. He struck from behind," Bora growled through clenched teeth.
Tomris nodded and quickly examined the wound.
"Might be poisoned—there's no time to waste."
She began her work, disinfecting her hands and prepping tools. She called for a bowl of water and cloth. Child rushed to bring them. Tomris pulled on her gloves, burying any panic beneath her practiced calm.
Bora stepped back. His palms were slick with sweat, his breathing still ragged. His eyes never left Terna's face.
"Hold on. Don't you dare leave us now…"
Tomris cleaned around the wound, applied a pungent extract, then cut deeper to draw out a thick, black clot.
"Poison, but it hasn't spread far. You're lucky."
The room was silent. Only the sounds of Tomris's hands at work—rattling tools, rustling cloth—filled the air. And somewhere, between all that, Hope quietly bloomed beneath the tension etched across her face.
Outside, Attila, Ebren, and two soldiers were deep in the chaos of battle. Enemies sprang from every direction—from rooftops, alleyways—like vermin from the shadows.
For every fallen foe, two more seemed to appear.
Ebren, panting and drenched in sweat, stepped beside Attila. They stood back-to-back.
"They're like damn Unde!" Ebren cursed.
"Cut one off, and two more grow back!"
Attila's voice was cold, sharp.
"Then we'll keep cutting until there's nothing left to grow."
His sword gleamed, his eyes fierce with fire.
Ebren drew a dagger from his belt.
The brown light on his forehead suddenly flared— And the blade burst into flames.
Attila's own mark, the white light on his forehead, glowed brighter than ever. He began to spin in place— A small cyclone formed around him, wind spiraling upward.
Ebren thrust his flaming dagger into the heart of the spinning wind. The whirlwind ignited— Flames roared, wrapped in wind, blazing like a living inferno.
Ebren leapt up onto a rooftop.
In that instant— The flame-touched vortex exploded. A ring of fire surged outward, consuming everything in its path. Some enemies leapt toward rooftops, desperate to escape the searing heat.
Under the noon sun, the fire rose like a burning storm.
Beside Attila, the air shimmered. A silhouette emerged from the haze, slowly coming into view.
Attila's instincts flared— He raised his sword.Then paused. He recognized the face.
A smirk danced on the man's lips.
He looked at Attila with calm, irritating ease.
"Hey, Attila. How's it going?"
his voice is too casual for the battlefield.
That barely hidden smirk made Attila narrow his eyes.
"What are you doing here, Enkidu?"
His tone was firm, but there was unease beneath it.
Just then..
From the rooftop...
A dagger flew straight at Enkidu.
He didn't blink.
He Didn't flinch.
As the blade neared his chest, he simply raised his right hand— Snatched it between two fingers like catching a fly.
He glanced at the dagger. Then turned his head slowly toward the attacker. There was nothing but annoyance in his voice.
"How rude…" he muttered, and let the weapon drop to the ground.
Then, turning back to Attila,
he said with the same infuriating calm.
"We need to talk."
The smirk remained on his face but in his eyes, a storm was brewing.
Attila, still panting, turned to Enkidu, eyes flashing with both rage and disbelief. Blood dripped from his sword onto the ground.
"Is this really the time for that, Enkidu? Can't you see we're surrounded? We need to finish this fight first!"
But Enkidu remained calm. Tilting his head slightly, he stared back without blinking.
"Hmm... Is that so?"
Then, with a simple snap of his fingers.
A deep rumble echoed from beneath the earth. Thick, gnarled roots burst up from between cobblestones, cracks in the walls, and beneath the streets. In the blink of an eye, the scene shifted—from the middle of a city to the heart of a wild forest.
The roots slithered like serpents, coiling around the enemies' legs, waists, and chests. Men screamed and tried to run, but it was too late. The roots tightened. Bones cracked like dry twigs. Some eyes bulged, others choked out one final cry.
Then: Pop! Pop! Pop!
Enemy bodies exploded in a grisly rhythm.
Flesh, blood, and limbs splattered into the air. Organs rained down in a grotesque red shower, painting the street like a butchered battlefield.
Attila froze. His chest heaved. His eyes locked on Enkidu.
Enkidu hadn't moved. Not a single drop of blood had touched him.
Still smiling, he said with cool indifference.
"Now… can we talk?"
Suddenly, Ebren appeared behind him—eyes burning with fury. His left hand gripped Enkidu's shoulder; the right held a sword pressed against his neck. The cold blade hovered just above the skin.
But Enkidu…
Didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He didn't even turn his head.
His gaze remained fixed on the corpses bound in bark and root. Not a single twitch, not even a breath of tension.
Ebren's voice erupted, trembling with fury.
"You bastard… I haven't forgotten what you did to Almila!"
Enkidu's lips moved lazily, his voice laced with mockery.
"Oh my... Such a grudge. All these years later… and you still tremble like a child. Your sword hand is shaking. You really haven't changed at all."
Ebren's jaw clenched. His finger curled tight on the hilt. But Enkidu's condescension only stoked the fire inside him.
"If you were me... you'd have slit your own throat."
Enkidu tilted his head with amusement, grin widening.
"But I'm not you. And sadly... you'll never be me."
Attila had stepped closer, struggling not to intervene. The air was thick with tension.
Any sudden move from either side and things would spiral beyond return.
Then...
Like a gust of wind, Enkidu vanished.
Before anyone could react he was behind Ebren. Ebren stiffened. He could feel the cold at the back of his neck.
Enkidu's fingers were shaped like a gun.
He pressed them gently against Ebren's head.
"Bang!"
He said and laughed.
Ebren's jaw tightened, paralyzed by fury and humiliation. That was when Attila stepped in.
"Enough!"
His voice cut through the air like a warhorn.
"Are you here to fight, Enkidu? Or to talk?"
Enkidu turned his head, looked at Attila.
Then rolled his eyes like a scolded child.
"But he started it," he said, feigning innocence. Then let out a wild laugh and lowered his hand.
Ebren stood fuming. Attila took one step forward.
"Do that again… and not even Gılgamısh will save you," he warned, voice low and sharp.
Enkidu rolled his eyes again.
"Oh, the noble warrior's code… Always the same boring stories…"
The tension still lingered like thick smoke.
But at least, for now, words had replaced swords. Enkidu smirked, his voice smooth and mocking.
"Shall we go inside?"
Attila narrowed his eyes but gave a subtle nod. Ebren clenched his jaw, barely keeping his blade sheathed.
And so, the three of them walked toward the house— With swords silent, but storms still brewing in their hearts.