GOLIAD'A STREET — CENTRE CITY

  Prince Chille and his guards slip into a narrow alley, shadows swallowing them whole before spilling into a bustling market square alive with color, smoke, and noise.

  A guard’s keen eyes sweep the area. Children roam. Merchants shout. Nothing looks wrong.

  The guard gives a tight nod.

  They melt into the crowd.

  On Goliada Street, amid clustered spices and hanging fabrics, the guard pauses at a weathered signboard, its branding-iron marks burned deep.

  “We’re almost at the Holy Land,” he murmurs.

  Prince Chille grins, eyes gleaming. “Jager’s people haven’t spotted us?”

  The guard keeps scanning. “Not yet.”

  They move quieter now. Watchful. Tension threads the air.

  Ancient stone pillars soon frame a worn doorway that opens into a wide, wild field — the Holy Land.

  From a nearby alley, a kid peeks out. His eyes narrow.

  “Wait… ain’t that Prince Chille?”

  His lips curl. He slips away.

  ---

  Footsteps approach.

  The Adviser and his crew emerge from the opposite side of the field.

  Prince Chille exhales, relieved.

  The Adviser steps forward and offers his hand. “Your Highness.”

  They shake.

  Behind him stand two Elites and two Firecracker junior captains.

  The pink-haired Elite has her rifle slung loose at her side.

  The composed male Elite stands half a step behind her.

  Beside them, the junior captain in the worn coat watches with a faint smile.

  The second junior captain stands slightly back, silent and observant.

  The pink-haired Elite steps forward.

  “No time for talks. We—”

  The male Elite quickly covers her mouth. “Show respect, Ayra.”

  The pink-haired Elite drives her knee into his stomach.

  He folds, clutching it.

  “Don’t stop me, Paxon,” she snaps.

  The Adviser raises a hand. “Lady Ayra, please. Follow procedures.”

  The pink-haired Elite glares. “Procedure? Not my thing. We’re here to scout. Not talk.”

  The junior captain in the worn coat steps forward, smiling lightly.

  “Lady,” he says calmly, “slow your tempo. You’re running too hot.”

  The pink-haired Elite swings her rifle up and points it at him.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Don’t interrupt me.”

  The worn coat doesn’t flinch.

  “We’re not here to argue. Stay calm. Let the negotiation—”

  She pulls the trigger.

  The rifle is gone from her grip.

  A faint whoosh lingers in the air where the worn coat stood a heartbeat ago.

  Now he stands six feet away.

  The pink-haired Elite’s eyes snap wide. “Huh—?!”

  The other junior Firecracker captain has her rifle pinned, grip locked tight.

  The worn coat’s smile remains.

  “I don’t get aggressive with beauties like you,” he says softly. “Relax.”

  The pink-haired tries to move.

  A palm settles on her shoulder.

  The male Elite leans in, voice low.

  “Ayra. Don’t. Fury’s Edge will get involved. Stay calm.”

  The second junior captain releases the rifle and hands it to the worn coat.

  He steps forward and offers it back to the pink-haired Elite.

  She snatches it aggressively, jaw tight.

  Prince Chille exhales. “So. What’s the verdict? Do you accept the offer?”

  The Adviser smiles.

  “Yes. King Silas will take as many parts as you’re willing to offer.”

  “Good.” The prince turns. “Daniel.”

  Daniel steps forward, drawing a folded map from his coat. He hands it to the Adviser.

  “This is Nightshade Keep’s layout. The blue-marked section is what we’re offering.”

  The Adviser studies it. His eyes glint.

  “This much… impressive. We accept.”

  He gestures toward the Alliance delegation.

  “Two Phantom Elites. Two Firecracker junior captains. They’ll secure the area.”

  “They’ll occupy it?” the prince asks.

  “Yes,” the Adviser replies. “With them stationed there, you’ll be protected.”

  A voice echoes from behind.

  “So the childish prince is selling pieces of his kingdom for security.”

  The air tightens.

  “Silas meddles too much,” the voice continues. “I’ll deal with him myself.”

  Prince Chille’s hands tremble.

  “Jager… how did he find me?”

  Daniel swallows. “We’re finished…”

  From the alleyway, Jager steps into the open field.

  Nathan, his Adviser, follows close behind.

  They stride forward.

  And the fragile balance shatters.

  THE WOODS — CENTRE CITY

  Johnny moves through the forest. The jungle thickens. Vines snag his boots. He heads toward New Sage.

  He stops.

  “Who goes?”

  A man lunges from the brush,

  gun raised.

  He fires.

  Johnny twists sideways.

  The shadow of a thick oak swallows him.

  Dry leaves snap.

  He reappears behind the attacker.

  Barrel presses cold against the man’s temple.

  “Who are you?”

  The man swallows. Silence hangs.

  Another man swings a baseball bat at Johnny’s head.

  Johnny shifts.

  The wind rushes past his ear.

  Leaves snap beneath him.

  He warps aside.

  Three more men appear.

  Then five.

  They form a jagged circle.

  Johnny doesn’t flinch.

  “Don’t have time for this.”

  They leap together.

  Johnny dissolves into thin air.

  Gunfire cracks through the trees.

  Metallic tang of smoke hangs in the air.

  Two men drop.

  One bullet pierces a skull.

  Another tears through a chest.

  Bodies hit the ground with heavy thuds.

  Johnny’s outline blurs into view.

  They shoot.

  He warps aside.

  Muzzle flashes illuminate the forest like lightning.

  A single shot.

  Bullet splits the air.

  Another skull drops.

  Two remain.

  Trembling.

  Eyes wide.

  Terror they can’t speak.

  Johnny surges back.

  Calm. Cold.

  Leaves rustle. Only the forest marks his presence.

  “Run. Or die.”

  A voice echoes from the shadows.

  “Johnny… cold as hell. Miss your Merc days, man?”

  Johnny snaps his eyes toward the sound.

  “Timaya…”

  Timaya leans against a tree, half-hidden.

  A cruel smirk curls his lips.

  The bark creaks under his weight.

  “Miss you, old rival.”

  Johnny glares.

  “Why attack me?”

  Timaya chuckles, dry, mean.

  “Heard about the Latvilo massacre.”

  Johnny mutters.

  “Why tail me?”

  Timaya’s brows furrow.

  “One King… and it’s me.”

  Johnny smirks.

  “King? Still clinging to that?”

  Timaya flicks forward.

  Pistol aimed and ready.

  Johnny dissolves.

  Moves.

  Warps.

  They flicker through the trees like ghosts.

  Muzzle flashes spark against the bark.

  Cracks echo through the valley.

  Smoke curls between branches.

  Bullets shred leaves into green confetti.

  Johnny surges back.

  Timaya closes in.

  Boots skid on damp earth.

  The other two men flank him.

  Johnny shifts behind them.

  Soft crunch of leaves — their only warning.

  Twin shots ring out.

  They collapse.

  Lifeless.

  Heavy.

  Timaya closes the gap.

  Inches apart.

  Predators meeting in the wild.

  Johnny warps back.

  Air hisses.

  Two bullets tear through empty space.

  Timaya twists.

  Whistle of air slices past.

  Eyes snap wide.

  Johnny stands behind him.

  Barrel pressed to temple.

  Johnny chuckles.

  “You lose. My timing was faster.”

  Timaya freezes. Shock across his face.

  Breath hitching.

  Johnny’s brows tighten.

  “Not in the merc rhythm anymore. My Symphony’s gone.”

  Timaya smiles, small, sad twitch.

  “Once a fighter, always a fighter. Live by the gun. Die by the gun.”

  Baa.

  Forest echoes.

  Sharp.

  Final.

  Timaya drops.

  Lifeless in the brush.

  Johnny holsters his weapon.

  “Farewell, old friend.”

  He chuckles low, walking deeper into the woods.

  “Timaya’s been tailing me… hadn’t noticed. Guess I’ve been slacking. Don’t fight for titles anymore. My merc days are gone.”

  Johnny vanishes into the Afternoon sun.