Bone and Flesh, Warped and Mended

The scent of charred wood and blood clung to the air as Vincent Kabonde knelt beside the fallen soldier. The man's ribs jutted through his torn armor, his breath shallow and wet. Around them, the battlefield lay silent save for the distant cries of crows and the crackle of dying flames.

*Another life hanging by a thread.*

Vincent's fingers hovered over the wound, his pulse quickening. The power within him—*cellular reconstruction*—itched beneath his skin, a coiled serpent waiting to strike. He could feel the soldier's agony like a second heartbeat, a rhythm begging to be rewritten.

*Do it. Mend him.*

But the whispers of his past slithered in. *Or twist him. Make him a weapon, like they did to you.*

A hand clamped onto his shoulder. "We don't have time for doubt," Kalima Chileshe growled, his voice rough from smoke. His blue-white eyes burned with impatience. "Zhang Wei's scouts are closing in. Either heal him or leave him."

Vincent exhaled. The choice was never simple.

He pressed his palms to the soldier's chest.

Flesh trembled under his touch. Tendrils of qi—warm and golden—threaded through the broken bones, knitting them back into place. The soldier gasped, his back arching as muscle fibers wove themselves anew. But then—

A spasm. The man's veins darkened, bulging like roots under his skin.

*No.*

Vincent recoiled, but it was too late. The soldier's fingers elongated, nails hardening into claws. His jaw unhinged with a sickening *pop*, teeth sharpening into fangs.

"What the hell did you do?" John Mwanabeti barked, stepping back as the transformed soldier lurched upright, snarling.

Vincent's stomach twisted. "I—I lost control."

The creature lunged.

Kalima moved faster. A flash of blue fire erupted from his fingertips, engulfing the mutated soldier in an instant. The figure writhed, then collapsed into ash.

Silence.

Humphrey Bwalya's voice cut through the tension. "We can't keep doing this. Every time you heal, you risk creating another monster."

Vincent clenched his fists. "I saved his life."

"Did you?" Mwansa Nkalamo's shadow stretched long across the scorched earth. "Or did you just delay his death?"

The truth stung. Vincent had spent years trying to atone for the horrors he'd wrought as one of Zhang Wei's enforcers. But redemption wasn't just about mending wounds—it was about resisting the urge to warp life itself.

A distant horn blared.

"Scouts," Chisangalalo Zulu muttered, his toxic miasma curling at his lips. "They've found us."

Timothy M'hango cracked his knuckles, gravity bending faintly around him. "Then we fight."

Kalima shook his head. "No. We run."

John bristled. "Since when do we flee?"

"Since we're outnumbered and exhausted." Kalima's gaze flicked to Vincent. "And since we can't afford another *mistake*."

The words landed like a blow. Vincent said nothing as the Ghost Tigers melted into the ruins, leaving the ashes of his failure behind.

---

The marshlands swallowed them whole. Thick mist clung to their skin, the air heavy with the scent of rotting vegetation and something sharper—alchemical residue. Zulu's doing. His toxic miasma had seeped into these swamps long ago, turning them into a graveyard of mutated flora. Now, it was their sanctuary.

"We need to regroup with the White Lotus," Mwansa said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They'll have supplies. Intel."

"And if they turn us away?" Humphrey asked. "We're not exactly welcome anywhere."

Vincent kept his eyes on the ground. He knew the answer. They were *cursed*. Affinity-bearers. Demons in the eyes of the empire.

A twig snapped.

All seven of them froze.

From the mist emerged a figure—a woman, her robes tattered but her stance unbroken. A scar ran from her brow to her chin, and in her hands, she held a rusted spear.

"Hana," Vincent breathed.

His wife.

She hadn't seen him in three years. Not since the night he'd fled Zhang Wei's service, leaving her behind to face the consequences.

Her spear didn't waver. "You shouldn't be here."

Vincent stepped forward. "Hana, I—"

"Save it." Her voice was steel. "The White Lotus won't shelter you. Not after what you've done."

Kalima's flames flickered in his palms. "We're not here to fight."

"Then leave." Hana's gaze never left Vincent. "Before I remind you why they call me the Forge's Wrath."

The threat hung in the air. Vincent could see the pain in her eyes—betrayal, fury, but beneath it all, a grief that mirrored his own.

He opened his mouth.

A scream tore through the marsh.

Human. But not quite.

Hana's grip tightened on her spear. "Zhang Wei's hunters. They've been experimenting again."

The Ghost Tigers exchanged glances. They knew what that meant.

*More victims. More twisted creatures.*

Vincent turned to Kalima. "We can't run."

Kalima's jaw tightened. Then, grudgingly, he nodded.

John cracked his neck, golden aura flaring. "About damn time."

As one, they turned toward the sound.

Redemption, Vincent realized, wasn't just about healing.

Sometimes, it was about killing the monsters you helped create.

---

The mist parted to reveal them—a dozen figures, their bodies grotesquely fused with machinery and beastly traits. One had a scorpion's tail. Another, the jaws of a wolf. All bore the mark of Zhang Wei's alchemists.

At their head stood a man in black lacquered armor, his face hidden behind a demon mask.

"Ghost Tigers," he rasped. "The Warlord sends his regards."

Kalima's flames roared to life. "Tell him we'll return them in person."

The battle began.

Vincent fought with everything he had—mending his allies' wounds, twisting the enemies' flesh when he had to. But with every life he took, the whispers grew louder.

*Monster. Killer. Demon.*

Then, through the chaos, he saw her.

Hana, fighting