CHAPTER FIFTY TWO: EMBERS OF VENGEANCE

The corridor stretched endlessly, bathed in an eerie crimson glow. Eve's boots clicked against the polished obsidian floor, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence that loomed over the stronghold. The air was thick, pulsing with an unseen energy, and the deeper she ventured, the more the weight of unseen eyes pressed against her.

Tall, jagged pillars lined the hallway like silent sentinels, their carved surfaces inscribed with forgotten symbols that seemed to shift under the dim lighting. At the far end, a set of enormous black doors stood, adorned with intricate silver engravings that shimmered like dying stars. Two heavily armored guards flanked the entrance, their faces hidden beneath dark helmets. They did not speak. They did not move. But Eve felt the cold scrutiny of their gaze as she approached.

She stopped before them, her breath steady, and knelt on one knee. The doors groaned open without a word, revealing a vast chamber shrouded in shadows. A throne of black stone stood at its center, elevated upon a platform of jagged obsidian steps. The air inside was frigid, unnatural, carrying the faint scent of something ancient—something rotten.

And then, she saw him.

Steve Nazar.

He sat upon the throne like a specter of a bygone era, his presence drowning the room in suffocating authority. His fingers tapped lazily against the armrest, each movement deliberate. Shadows coiled at his feet, twisting unnaturally as if alive, responding to his very breath. His crimson gaze, devoid of warmth, locked onto her the moment she entered, cutting through the darkness like a blade.

Eve stepped forward, falling to one knee once more. Her voice was steady, but the weight of the moment pressed against her chest.

"I found them," she announced, her head bowed. "Liam Remmick, Ken Dante, and… the Princess of the Underworld, Nicole Valtoria. They were inside our abandoned lab. They fought the beast… and won."

For a moment, silence reigned. A heavy pause stretched between them, thick with unseen tension.

Then, Steve chuckled.

It was a low, dangerous sound, a whisper of amusement laced with something far more sinister. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist, his expression unreadable.

"Well, well," he mused, his voice smooth, yet carrying an edge sharp enough to cut through steel. "It seems the little rats have scurried further into the darkness than I expected."

The shadows at his feet writhed in response, the very air in the room seeming to hum with restrained power. His fingers curled, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as if the entire chamber itself shuddered under his will.

"Tell me, Eve," he continued, his tone soft—too soft. "Did they look… afraid?"

Eve hesitated. The image of the battle flashed in her mind—My cold focus, Nicole's unwavering resolve, Ken's sharp awareness. We had been pushed to our limits, but fear? No. We had stood against the impossible and refused to break.

"No," she admitted. "They weren't afraid."

Steve exhaled, the corner of his lips curling in a phantom of a smirk.

"Good," he murmured, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. "It will make breaking them all the more satisfying."

... ✍️

Darkness pressed against the walls of the secluded hideout, broken only by the dim glow of lanterns swaying from iron hooks. The air was thick with the scent of blood—his blood—mingled with the sharp tang of medicinal herbs. The stone chamber, deep beneath the earth, was eerily silent save for the occasional dripping of water and the faint, distant murmur of voices. Hunters moved beyond the doors, their boots scuffing against cold floors, oblivious to the storm brewing inside their leader.

Steve Nazar lay still, his body stripped to the waist, wounds stitched and wrapped in fresh bandages. The healer moved around him with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to patching up warriors after battle. She was a quiet woman, her expression unreadable as she crushed herbs and mixed them into a foul-smelling salve. Her fingers, cool and efficient, pressed against the bruised skin along his ribs.

"You should be dead," she murmured, breaking the silence.

Steve's lips curled in a humorless smirk. "I get that a lot."

She dipped a cloth into warm water, wringing it out before dabbing at the dried blood on his chest. The flickering lanterns cast elongated shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his clenched jaw.

His thoughts weren't here. They were still in the Shadow Realm.

Still in that damned battle.

Henri had humiliated him. Him. He survived the fight. He killed Henri but his body had barely survived the aftermath, and his mind… his mind burned hotter than ever.

He had lost everything. Again.

The Death Scythe, the power he had fought for, the vengeance he had nearly grasped—all ripped from his hands. And I… had vanished without a trace, swept away into the unknown.

A slow exhale escaped his lips, but his rage didn't lessen. It only simmered beneath the surface, restrained but deadly.

The healer studied his face as she worked. She had seen this before—this quiet fury, the kind that preceded a storm. Carefully, she asked, "What's next?"

Steve didn't answer immediately. He flexed his fingers, feeling the sting of fresh stitches pulling at his skin.

Then, a whisper from the past crept into his mind.

"You don't belong here."

The words echoed from childhood, spoken by Tenebri elders who had dismissed him as weak. They had seen him as an outsider. A failure. Unlike them, he couldn't bend the shadows to his will. He had been nothing to them.

But he had changed that. He had forced them to recognize his power. He had become something far greater than they had ever imagined.

And yet… he was still denied what should have been his.

His fingers curled into a fist. No more.

"If I can't take what belongs to them," he said at last, voice low but edged with steel, "then I'll burn everything they hold dear."

The healer didn't react, simply pressing another bandage against his skin. She had no love for the Tenebri, no concern for the war he waged. She only mended flesh and bone. But she knew this man, knew the kind of destruction he left in his wake when wounded pride and fury guided his actions.

"You'll need more than rage to win," she murmured, binding his ribs with fresh linen.

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing himself to sit upright despite the sharp protest of his injuries.

"That's why I'm calling a meeting."

The healer arched a brow. "A meeting?"

"An urgent one," he confirmed. "Every Hunter organization across the world. It's time I remind the Shadow Realm that they are not untouchable. If the Death Scythe remains out of my grasp, then we'll make them suffer in ways they never imagined."

His eyes burned with a terrifying resolve.

The healer said nothing else. She had done her job. Whatever happened next was beyond her hands.

Steve clenched his fists, his mind already working through his next move. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the hunger gnawing at his soul.

Hunter's Conclave

The room was vast, yet suffocating. A grand hall carved into the depths of an abandoned stronghold, its towering walls lined with torches that barely pushed back the consuming shadows. A long, rectangular table dominated the center, surrounded by the most powerful figures of the Hunter's Organization—each a leader of their own domain, their gazes sharp, assessing. The air smelled of damp stone, gunpowder, and the lingering sting of dried blood.

At the head of the table, Steve Nazar sat, his presence commanding despite the bandages wrapping his torso beneath his cloak. His usual air of effortless superiority was now sharpened by something colder—rage barely held at bay. His right hand rested on the armrest of his seat, his fingers tightening every now and then as if suppressing the urge to lash out. The dim lighting cast deep shadows over his face, accentuating the dark bags under his eyes, the result of sleepless nights spent stewing over his failure to acquire the Death Scythe.

His voice, when he spoke, was measured but carried an undeniable weight. "We have wasted enough time. From this moment forward, every Hunter branch across the world will double its efforts. I want eyes on every city, every realm. The moment Liam Remmick surfaces, I want him marked for capture." He exhaled slowly.

Murmurs spread across the table, some nodding in agreement, others cautious. One of the leaders, a scarred brute named Garrick, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His grin was full of arrogance, his tone laced with mock concern.

"You speak as if you're still at full strength, Nazar," Garrick mused. "Word is, you barely walked away from your last battle. Maybe it's time someone else took the reins."

The room fell silent.

Steve's fingers tapped once against the table. The flickering torches barely revealed the way his eyes narrowed in quiet amusement. "You think I'm weak, Garrick?"

Garrick smirked, pushing back his chair as he stood. "I think you've lost your edge. And that means your authority is slipping."

There was a beat of silence.

Then—golden portals split the air behind Steve, a thousand in number, their gleaming edges humming with raw energy. The room was bathed in their eerie glow. Before Garrick could react, a torrential storm of weapons surged forth—blades, spears, axes, and arrows, each imbued with deadly precision.

The bombardment was swift, merciless.

Garrick barely had time to widen his eyes before the first blade impaled his chest, followed by another, then another—until his body was nothing more than a bloodied, unrecognizable mess pinned against the stone wall. The impact shook the room, leaving behind only a grotesque display of what happened to those who doubted Steve Nazar.

The other leaders remained frozen, horror evident in their expressions.

Steve stood, his presence towering, his voice now dripping with authority.

"Let this be a reminder," he said, his tone slow, deliberate. "I may be injured, but I am not weak."

His golden portals vanished, leaving only the silence of absolute submission.

Steve Nazar's chambers were dimly lit, the flickering glow of a single lantern casting long, restless shadows along the walls. The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and dried blood, remnants of the wounds that still marred his body. Two weeks had passed since the Hunter's Conclave, and though his body was healing, his mind remained restless.

Seated in an ornate, high-backed chair, Steve exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. His fingers drummed lightly against the armrest, his thoughts circling the same frustration he had carried since he defeated Henri in the Shadow Realm but failed to acquire the Death Scythe. The Death Scythe was lost to him. I had vanished. My patience was thinning.

Then came a knock at the heavy wooden door.

Steve's gaze snapped toward it, irritation flashing in his golden eyes. He did not like to be disturbed unless it was necessary.

"Enter," he commanded.

The door creaked open, revealing a Hunter operative—a lean man in a dark cloak, his stance tense but disciplined. He stepped inside, bowing slightly before meeting Steve's gaze.

"My lord," the operative began, voice carefully measured, "we have found him."

Silence stretched between them. The weight of those words settled like a stone in the air.

Steve's fingers stilled.

"…Where?" His voice was quiet, deceptively calm, yet the room itself seemed to darken with the force of his restrained emotions.

"Helen Remmick's school," the operative revealed. "Liam Remmick is there."

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—crack.

The wooden armrest beneath Steve's fingers split, crushed beneath his tightening grip. His other hand curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm as something dangerous flickered across his face.

"Helen! And Liam… right under her protection. The audacity."

Steve inhaled deeply, forcing his anger into something controlled, something sharper. His mind was already calculating—how to move, how to strike, how to ensure that this time, his plans would not fail.

The operative hesitated, gauging Steve's expression before speaking. "Shall we storm the school and retrieve him?"

For a moment, there was silence. Then—laughter.

Low at first, then growing into something sharp and cold, like the edge of a blade scraping against stone. Steve tilted his head slightly, golden eyes gleaming with amusement as he stared at the operative.

"Storm the school?" he repeated, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Not even Seth, her beloved husband, could break the barrier protecting that place. Do you think a direct assault would be any different?"

The operative swallowed hard but said nothing.

Steve exhaled slowly, his amusement fading into something far more dangerous. He turned away, pacing toward the large map spread across his table, his fingers tracing over its surface absentmindedly.

"There are many ways to smoke out a rat," he murmured. "For now, let Liam grow comfortable… let him bask in Helen's ever-so-caring protection." He chuckled darkly, eyes narrowing.

"Because when the time comes, I want him to realize—there is nowhere safe."

***********