"So… today's the day, huh?" Olivia whispered, her voice barely rising above the steady drip of water echoing through the stone corridor. She leaned against the dungeon wall like it owed her a favor, arms crossed, one pale brow arched. Her silver-white hair fell over one eye, catching what little light the flickering manastones offered. "We're finally doing this."
Arthur didn't look at her. His golden eyes stared straight ahead, sharp and feral in the dark. "You sure about the route?"
"I've been mapping it for weeks," she said, brushing dust from her torn sleeve. "If we time it right, we slip through while Scarface and the others are upstairs changing shifts."
"And if we're wrong?"
Her smirk didn't waver. "Then we die in the dark like legends."
Arthur snorted. "Dramatic."
"I've got flair. Sue me."
He looked her way then. "You always this calm before throwing yourself into suicidal plans?"
Olivia shrugged. "Only when I'm absolutely certain they'll work."
He shook his head, half-smiling despite himself. "And here I thought I was the reckless one."
"I'm calculated," she said, stepping in close. "You're just angry."
That quiet truth settled between them like a blade.
Arthur's jaw clenched, eyes flicking to the iron gate at the far end of the corridor.
Footsteps.
They both froze.
Torchlight flickered against the wall as a guard rounded the corner, boots heavy, keys jingling lazily on his belt. His eyes met Olivia's first, narrowed in suspicion. "What're you two whispering about?"
Arthur stepped forward, slow, deliberate. "Freedom."
The guard's hand moved toward his sword. "The hell did you just—"
Too late.
Arthur surged forward like a loaded spring, claws erupting from his hands mid-stride. One swipe—wet crunch. The man's throat opened in a crimson spray.
He fell gurgling, fingers twitching.
Olivia exhaled softly. "Well. That escalated."
"Still think it's not anger?" Arthur asked, wiping his hand on the guard's tunic.
More voices echoed up the corridor—shouts, boots pounding. The alarm was spreading fast.
Olivia turned to him, eyes gleaming. "Ready to make a scene?"
Arthur's grin was all teeth. "Born for it."
They moved like demons unleashed.
Another guard stormed into view, blade drawn, face pale with panic. "You bastards are dead!"
Arthur ducked his first swing, caught the second with his forearm, and drove his knee into the man's gut. The guard doubled over. Arthur brought his elbow down—hard. Skull cracked. He didn't get up.
"Two down," Arthur muttered. "Where's Scarface?"
"I can find him," Olivia said, eyes narrowing. "But you're not gonna like it."
The next second, she melted into the shadows—literally. Her body became smoke, slipping across the wall and vanishing down the hall.
Arthur stayed still, every muscle humming, waiting for the storm to arrive.
It didn't take long.
Four guards rounded the corner at once—swords drawn, magic flaring, panic in their eyes. Arthur was already moving. No hesitation. No mercy.
Steel flashed.
Flesh tore.
He tore through them like paper dolls—feral, fluid, unstoppable. One tried to run. Arthur caught him by the back of the neck and slammed him into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.
"Jeffrey!" Arthur roared into the blood-slick hallway. "Come out, you coward! You still owe me screams!"
He turned the corner—and froze.
The stench hit first. Smoke. Alcohol. Burnt skin.
Then came the voice. Gravel soaked in fire.
"You should've stayed in your kennel, beast."
Scarface The head Guard for floor 50 stepped from the shadows, fists wrapped in flame. That signature scar still cut down his cheek like a jagged canyon. And his smirk? It hadn't changed at all.
"I've been waiting for this," Scarface said. "You think claws make you a predator? Let me show you what real power looks like."
He lunged.
Fire met flesh. Arthur snarled as a burning fist smashed into his ribs, but he didn't fall. He caught Scarface's wrist mid-swing, steam rising between their locked arms.
"You talk too much."
Arthur slammed his forehead into Scarface's nose—crack!—then drove his claws toward the man's gut. Fire flared, knocking him back.
They clashed again, blow for blow. Scarface had fire, but Arthur had fury. He didn't block. He absorbed. Every punch fed his rage. Every burn lit him up from the inside.
"Still breathing?" Scarface hissed.
Arthur spat blood. "Barely warmed up."
Scarface raised his fist one last time, magic coiling. "Die."
Arthur lunged—
Splat.
Scarface's head hit the ground before Arthur's claws did.
His body swayed—then collapsed in a heap.
Behind him stood Olivia, calm and radiant in the blood and smoke, holding Scarface's head by the hair.
"Took you long enough," she said.
Arthur blinked. "You... decapitated him?"
"Was I not supposed to?"
"I mean... I was winning."
"Debatable," she said, tossing the head aside. "Come on. I found the door. It goes deeper. We move now, or we die here."
Arthur wiped blood from his mouth. "You sure about the plan?"
Olivia smirked. "Not at all."
He grinned, following her toward the passageway she'd found.
"Wait," he said, stopping.
Olivia turned, impatient. "What?"
"Where's Jimmy?"
His voice echoed, hungry and low.
"Jimmy!" Arthur shouted. "You're still breathing, aren't you? I've got something special for you!"