Earlier, while preparing the fireworks, Nicholas noticed Philip stirring in his cage. He seized the opportunity, knowing he needed help. Grimacing at what he was about to do, he moved swiftly, shaking Philip awake while clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle the inevitable screams.
As expected, Philip flailed in panic, muffled screams escaping against Nicholas's palm. Nicholas leaned in, his masked face inches away. His voice, distorted by the mask, was low and commanding.
"Listen carefully," he hissed. "We're all in danger. You've been kidnapped, and I'm here to help. But if you scream, I'll have no choice but to silence you. Understand?"
Philip's wide eyes darted around, taking in the rows of cages filled with frightened captives. Slowly, he nodded, his breathing shallow and rapid. Only then did Nicholas remove his hand.
"You... you're Unknown?" Philip whispered, suspicion and fear lacing his words.
Nicholas nodded once. Internally, he cringed. He was beginning to regret the alias.
"Here's what you'll do," Unknown began, keeping his voice calm but firm. "Wake people one by one. Don't cause a commotion. I've left fireworks in here—set them off outside as a signal for help. With luck, heroes will notice."
Philip's face twisted with uncertainty. "And if they don't?"
Unknown met his gaze. The unspoken truth hung heavily between them: if help didn't come, they were on their own. After a moment of silence, Nicholas responded. "Then you fight. Wake those who appear capable of handling a gun. I'll find weapons and bring them back."
Philip hesitated but eventually nodded. Before Nicholas could turn to leave, Philip grabbed his arm.
"Have you seen my friend? Black hair, blue eyes? I... I couldn't see him anywhere in the cages."
Unknown froze for a moment, his expression hidden beneath the mask. His voice, however, was even. "I haven't."
Philip's shoulders sagged in disappointment. Unknown said nothing more as he disappeared into the shadows.
***
Back in the tent, the wendigo stood motionless, its eerie calm unbroken despite the distant explosions. Its hollow gaze followed the flickering lights of the fireworks.
"How troublesome," it murmured, almost wistfully. "After all the effort I expended acquiring this body... it seems I'll have to start over."
It raised one of its clawed hands, inspecting it as if the inconvenience were no more than a broken nail. Then, with a casual swipe, it crushed the red light that hung above them.
"Run as far as you like, child of dark," it whispered, its voice carrying through the clearing. "The shadows will still find you."
Nicholas's muscles coiled, adrenaline surging through him. You think I'll let you get away? he thought, charging forward with renewed determination. The mask helped him see in the suffocating darkness, its faint shapes guiding him toward his target.
His knife of Darkium gleamed faintly as he leaped, aiming for where the creature's heart should be. But the wendigo was faster. It turned with unnatural speed, its clawed hand snapping up to grab Nicholas's arm mid-strike. The knife slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground.
The creature's grip was unrelenting, sending sharp pain radiating through Nicholas's arm. He gritted his teeth, certain that if the wendigo applied any more pressure, his bones would snap like twigs.
"I have shown you mercy, child of dark," it said, its tone low and filled with disdain. "Yet you clearly have no regard for your life."
Nicholas's glare burned through the mask. "Like I care about your mercy!" he spat.
As he spoke, he commanded the fallen knife with a surge of will. The blade sprang from the ground, flying toward its target with lethal precision.
The wendigo's eyes widened in the split second before the knife struck true, embedding itself in its chest where its heart should have been. For the first time, the creature's composed demeanor shattered. It released Nicholas, who collapsed onto the ground, his legs giving out beneath him. Pain flared in his right leg—he was sure it was broken—but he didn't care. The Wendigo itself also dropped down onto its knees.
Nicholas forced himself to stand up, his left hand seizing the knife's hilt. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he twisted the blade, driving it deeper.
The wendigo let out a screech, a bone-chilling sound that pierced the night. Nicholas winced at the sheer volume, but a grim smile crept across his face. 'So you can feel pain too, bastard.'
The creature's body began to disintegrate, black smoke pouring from the wound. The smoke spread and dissolved into the air, leaving behind only a deer skull, its hollow eyes staring lifelessly at Nicholas.
He wasn't satisfied. Dragging himself closer, he raised his uninjured leg and brought it down on the skull with all his might. The first stomp cracked it. The second shattered it. He didn't stop, unleashing all his rage and frustration until the fragments were little more than dust beneath his boot.
Finally, he slumped to the ground, breathing heavily.
"It's... It's over, right?" he muttered, staring at the roof of the tent.
But as he sat there, the silence that followed felt heavy, almost oppressive. Somewhere in the distance, faint echoes of the fireworks continued to light up the night. Yet Nicholas couldn't shake the feeling that something—someone—was still watching him.
Time to leave. Get out of here while you still can.
He forced himself to his feet, his entire body aching with exhaustion. As he exited the tent, the sharp, unmistakable sound of cocked guns greeted him. Four of the five female clowns stood before him, their faces eerily calm, their firearms trained directly on him.
"Can't believe you took down the boss," one said, her tone dripping with disdain.
"It was a real nice gig, working for that clown, you brat," another chimed in, her voice venomous.
Nicholas blinked in disbelief. Are they serious? Did they not realize they'd been working for a monster that would have devoured them eventually?
"Fire at 'em, girls!" one of them barked, her voice sharp and commanding.
Nicholas flinched, instinctively bracing himself. But his body betrayed him—his legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, lying flat on his back. He closed his eyes, too drained to summon his powers or even dodge. This is it, he thought bitterly. This is how it ends.
But the shots never came.
Instead, an icy silence fell over the clearing. When Nicholas opened his eyes, he froze. The clowns' expressions had shifted to something unnervingly blank, their eyes wide and glassy, as if they were no longer in control of their own bodies.
"Now, now," a cold, detached voice resounded in their minds. "We can't have that."
The clowns' guns turned in unison, their barrels now aimed at their own heads.
What the hell?! Nicholas's mind raced, his body trembling as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Before he could utter a word, four deafening gunshots echoed around him.
His breath caught in his throat as the clowns' lifeless bodies crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath them. The metallic scent hit him immediately, sharp and nauseating. His stomach churned as his eyes darted to the lifeless forms, their faces frozen in unnatural calm.
Who... or what... could have done this?
Footsteps broke the suffocating silence. They were deliberate and unhurried, growing louder with each passing second. Nicholas's pulse quickened as three figures emerged from the shadows.
The first was a woman he recognized—the fortune-teller. Her familiar presence offered no comfort. Behind her stood two men. The one at the back kept his face hidden beneath a hood, his posture slouched and unassuming. But the man at the forefront drew Nicholas's attention immediately.
He walked with a measured grace, his back straight, radiating an air of authority. His blond hair gleamed faintly even in the dim moonlight and his eyes... Nicholas shivered. They were inverted, the whites replaced with an inky blackness, and his pupils glowed faintly, like embers in the dark.
Nicholas wanted to respond, wanted to rise to his feet, but his body refused to obey. His limbs felt like lead, and a deep, instinctive dread rooted him to the ground. It was the same suffocating fear he had felt when facing the wendigo—but worse.
The man stepped closer, his unsettling gaze boring into Nicholas like a predator savoring its prey. His faint smile held no warmth, only a chilling amusement that made Nicholas's skin crawl.
"There's no need to be afraid," the man said, his voice smooth yet menacing. "I can't have you dying so soon after proving your worth to me."
Before Nicholas could react, the man placed a hand over his wound. A soft, golden glow radiated from his palm, enveloping Nicholas in an unfamiliar warmth. The sensation was eerily similar to the turquoise light of Slash Draw's ability but carried an almost oppressive weight.
Nicholas gasped as strength flooded back into his body. The searing pain in his side dissipated, replaced by a dull ache. Within seconds, his wound closed completely, leaving behind a pale, jagged scar. Even his injured leg felt as good as new.
He stared at the man, stunned, but before he could speak, the man reached out and plucked a strand of Nicholas's hair. The act was deliberate, almost reverent, as if the hair were a precious trophy.
"And for my repayment..." the man said, holding the strand up to the faint moonlight, "I'll be taking this."
Nicholas's jaw tightened, but his body felt too weak to retaliate.
"In the meantime," the man continued, his tone calm yet commanding, "I need you to grow stronger, more powerful. There is much you must accomplish before we meet again."
He reached out once more, this time pressing his hand against Nicholas's mask.
"Ah, but I can't let you remember this," he murmured softly, his tone both mocking and resolute.
At his touch, Nicholas's body went slack, his eyes fluttering shut as he collapsed onto the ground. The boy was utterly defenseless.
John leaned over, his fingers brushing against the edge of the mask as he attempted to remove it. Before he could succeed, a tendril of darkness shot out from the mask like a striking serpent, swatting his hand away with surprising force.
Startled but intrigued, John recoiled, cradling his hand. Then a slow, amused smile spread across his face.
"How fascinating," he said, examining the faint mark left by the mask's retaliation. His voice carried a hint of awe as if he had just stumbled upon an unexpected treasure.
The fortune teller, watching from the shadows, frowned and tilted her head. "Aren't you going to remove it? I didn't bother to pay attention to his face—too plain, too boring."
Without glancing at her, John replied coldly, "How cruel to insult a child so casually. No, I won't remove the mask. Doing so would likely tear his face off, and that's not something I care to see right now."
The fortune teller shrugged, losing interest. "Suit yourself," she muttered, stepping back into the shadows with the other one.
The trio began to retreat, their figures fading into the night. Once they were a safe distance away, Nicholas's eyes snapped open.
"What... what happened?" he muttered, pushing himself to his knees.
Fragments of memory flooded back to him—the fight with the wendigo, exiting the tent, the horrifying scene of the clowns' deaths. He touched the mask instinctively, a shiver running down his spine. "Did I pass out from the shock?"
Something in his gut told him that wasn't the case, but he couldn't piece together the truth. Shaking his head, he scanned the area.
"Time to get my things and get out of here," he muttered, forcing himself to stand despite the lingering exhaustion.
***
Elsewhere, in a dark, narrow alley, faint black smoke began to coalesce into a shape. Before it could fully form, however, a sharp stomp broke through the silence.
The smoke recoiled as if alive, its voice rasping with familiar venom. "What... are you doing?" it hissed, the wendigo's unmistakable growl echoing in the stillness. "You dare betray me?"
John stood over the dissipating form, his golden energy radiating from his hand like sunlight piercing a storm. His expression remained calm, but his eyes gleamed with contempt.
"I always planned to betray you," John said, his voice unnervingly steady. "You're nothing more than a beast of the dark. And while I might be a monster, I am still a human monster. You? You're filth—a beast of the dark."
The wendigo's smoke writhed in anger, its voice now a menacing snarl. "You will regret this... I will return... one day."
John's laughter cut through the alley like a blade, loud and mocking. "By the time you return, I'll have already ascended to Godhood… You're nothing more than a pest. Farewell, foul thing."
With a final surge of golden energy, John extinguished the smoke completely, leaving only silence in its wake.
The echo of his laughter lingered in the empty alley long after he was gone.