A deafening crash echoed through the hall.
Davis spun around—only to see Isaac furiously slamming an iron bar against the wall.
"Isaac! My goodness—stop! Stop!"
The others came rushing back, drawn by the noise and Davis's frantic shouts.
"What's going on?!" one of them yelled, eyes wide as they saw their captain hammering the wall like a man possessed, Davis struggling in vain to restrain him.
"Isaac, please! Stop!" Davis cried, grabbing his arm—but Isaac's strength was unnatural, unshakable. He couldn't hold him back.
Isaac kept striking the wall, over and over, until—
CRACK!
The wall crumbled.
Dust billowed into the air, revealing a hidden stairway descending into darkness.
The team froze, stunned.
All eyes turned to Isaac, who stood panting, chest heaving, before he let the iron bar clatter to the floor.
He looked at Davis, eyes wild.
"I told you... something was calling me."
Without waiting for a response, he stepped into the stairwell and began his descent.
The others exchanged uneasy glances—then followed.
The stairway spiraled downward, damp and narrow, the air growing colder with each step. At the bottom, they found a small, rusted door.
Isaac tried to force it open, but it held firm.
"Agent A-3—open this bloody thing!" he barked.
A-3 stepped forward, pulling a compact device from his pocket. He inserted it into the lock, pressed a button, and stepped back as a hiss of smoke filled the air.
A soft boom echoed.
The door creaked open.
They raised their flashlights and stepped inside.
And instantly regretted it.
The beams of light cut through the darkness—and froze.
So did they.
What they saw inside rooted them to the spot, horror crawling up their spines like ice.
Severed baby doll heads dangled from the gnarled branches of a dead tree, their black lips twisted into silent screams. Thick, tar-like liquid oozed from their hollow eyes, dripping down onto the tree's bark and pooling at its roots in a viscous, ink-black ring.
The room was a shrine of nightmares.
Distorted paintings of a shadowy, faceless figure were plastered across the walls—its form shifting, its presence oppressive. On the floor, skeletal remains lay chained to a massive black velvet chest—identical to the ominous box they'd found at Blake's mansion. It sat nestled beside the tree, half-submerged in the black pool.
Agent A-3 stepped forward, cautiously nudging one of the skeletons with his boot.
Poof.
The bones crumbled into dust, scattering across the floor like ash.
"Okay... I finally admit it," A-3 muttered, voice tight.
"I hate horror movies. I really hate them. This is straight out of Wrong Turn. And I am not ending up like these guys."
"Yeah... I don't like this either," Davis murmured, eyes scanning the room.
"We should get out of here. Or come back with an exorcist or something. This place reeks of evil. And last I checked, exorcisms weren't in our job description, right, Captain?"
He turned—only to find Isaac wasn't beside him.
He was moving toward the chest.
"Oh shit. Not again. Isaac, stop!"
Davis lunged forward—but slammed into an invisible force. It repelled him like a wall, sending him stumbling back.
"What the fuck?! Isaac! Isaac!"
He shouted, but his voice sounded muffled—distant, like it was being swallowed by the room itself.
Inside Isaac's mind, the world had gone silent.
Except for the voice.
"Shael... shael..."
(Yes... yes...)
It echoed around him, curling through the air like smoke.
"Shael... shael... vareth'kai, en'thal zhur'mir..."
(Yes... yes... come to me, my beholder...)
"Thren'kai vel'shar..."
(Free my soul...)
"Zhal'reth kai'thun var'mir..."
(It is time to make them pay...)
"Var'mir shal'keth en'dran vel'kai thal'uun..."
(Make them pay for what they did to us...)
Then—
"Isaac..."
A soft voice.
Patricia's voice.
It rang through his mind like a bell in fog.
He froze.
Suddenly, an image flashed in Isaac's mind.
Screams filled the air. People were crying, fleeing. Smoke and fire choked the sky. The setting was ancient—a village engulfed in chaos.
Isaac turned—and his mouth fell open in horror.
Alisha and Zach lay motionless in pools of blood, their bodies riddled with arrows. Their faces were pale, their limbs twisted unnaturally.
He turned again.
Davis—clad in armor—was wailing, clutching Nicole's lifeless body in his arms. His face was streaked with soot and tears. With a cry of anguish, he rose and charged at a group of soldiers bearing shields emblazoned with a golden horse mid-gallop on a white field.
He fought like a man possessed.
But he was outnumbered.
They cut him down with brutal efficiency.
"Isaac..."
He turned.
Patricia.
She was in his arms, dressed in regal finery. A golden crown rested on her head, bearing the same crest—the golden horse mid-gallop. Her beauty was ethereal, but her lips were pale, her breath shallow.
"My love..." she whispered, struggling to breathe.
"It was all... worth it... even in the end. Even... Lord Plumberry's death... will not be in vain..."
She wheezed, her voice fading.
That's when Isaac saw it—the arrow lodged deep in her back, piercing her heart.
His own heart shattered.
He tried to speak, but no words came.
He tried to cry, but no tears fell.
He tried to move, but his body was frozen.
"Don't... worry, my love..." she whispered.
"At least I got to see thy face... one last time..."
She paused, gasping.
"Remember... I will always love thee... but it's not over yet. Remember—'It started with a race... and it will end with a race.' Finish it. Do... it..."
Then—
Stillness.
She went cold in his arms.
Clouds rolled in, thick and fast. Lightning cracked across the sky—blue flames dancing like spirits, encircling the battlefield.
Isaac looked up.
A rider approached.
Clad in gleaming gold and silver armor, a silver mask concealing his face. He sat atop a black stallion, a small crown resting on his head. He raised a bow—an arrow nocked and aimed directly at Isaac.
Isaac's eyes widened.
The markings on the arrow... they matched the one that had pierced Patricia. And Alisha. And Zach.
Beside the rider stood none other than Mr X.
Grinning.
In his hand—Davis's severed head.
"Var'mir..."
(Make them pay...)
The voice echoed around him, ancient and vengeful.
Isaac's blood boiled. His breath came in ragged gasps. A power surged within him—raw, unfamiliar, unstoppable.
"Var'shaleth..."
(Revenge...)
"Var'shaleth..."
"Var'mir!!"
Isaac roared—a sound not of this world.
Blue light exploded from his body, flooding the vision in a blinding flash.
BOOM.
And then—
Silence.
A long, high-pitched ringing filled Isaac's ears before he slowly opened his eyes.
He blinked.
He was no longer in the grisly underground chamber.
He stood in the banquet hall.
His subordinates were with him. Davis stood silently at his side.
Isaac turned toward the wall.
It was perfectly sealed.
No sign of the hidden stairway. No cracks. No dust. As if nothing had ever happened.
He blinked again, dazed. Was it all a dream?
He turned to Davis, mouth opening to speak—but Davis cut him off.
"Don't you dare... fucking say anything."
"But—"
"Don't!" Davis snapped, spinning to face him.
"You. Say. Anything. Nada."
He turned to the others.
"You hear me? No one saw a damn thing. No one says a damn thing. Nothing happened."
He exhaled, rubbing his face.
"No one would believe us anyway."
The other two agents let out shaky breaths.
"Now let's get the hell out of here—before something else starts calling us 'mama'."
He turned back to Isaac.
"Oh, and FYI? I'm never going on another mission with you again!"
He stormed out of the room.
The other two glanced at Isaac, then looked away and followed.
Isaac stood alone.
He turned back to the wall—sealed tight, untouched.
He inhaled deeply.
The memory surged back.
The vision. The screams. The blood. Patricia's dying words. The voice. The rage.
He hadn't understood the language.
But he had felt it.
The fury. The sorrow. The need. The deep rooted pain.
Was that why it had possessed him? To exact revenge? To destroy Montenegra and his pack of wolves?
Whatever it was... he wanted it.
Oh, he wanted it.
After what he saw, he didn't need confirmation. He was going to make them pay.
Even if it meant losing himself to the force inside him.
He would destroy them all.
He looked at the wall one last time and turned toward the exit.
Then—something caught his eye.
A faint glimmer of gold.
He approached a painting near the door. Examined it. Hollow.
He lifted it.
Behind it, a small opening.
He reached in—and his fingers brushed cold metal.
He pulled it out.
A small golden box, intricately crafted, with a golden horse mid-gallop embroidered on its surface.
Isaac smiled.
Brightly.
He turned and walked out of the banquet hall, rejoining his team. As they stepped outside, he cast one last look at the mansion.
Behind them, in the upper window, a shadowy figure stood.
Its eyes glowed blue.
"Thank you for freeing me, my beholder," the voice whispered.
"Do not worry. Soon, we shall have our revenge. I will leave you for now—until I reunite with my body. I must find my blood. Become whole again. And when that happens..."
A pause.
"Chaos shall rain. And consume this world in my flame. This time... I will show no mercy."
The figure watched as the team's car disappeared into the distance.
Then it stepped away from the window.
Moments later, two more cars roared to life and peeled away from the shadows, following the first.
Inside one of them, the Bulldog gritted his teeth, eyes locked on the road ahead.
"I'm going to get you sons of bitches," he growled, slamming his foot on the accelerator.
.....
Meanwhile...
"Urrgh... I can't believe I have to clean that so-called 'Sleeping Prince' again tonight," muttered the nurse, pushing a cart stacked with towels and a bowl of warm water.
"When will he ever wake up?"
She sighed as she opened the door to the hospital room, maneuvering the cart inside.
"Well, better get him cleaned up and get this over with," she grumbled, reaching for a towel.
Then she turned toward the bed—
And froze.
Her eyes widened.
The bed was empty.
She dropped the towel, heart pounding, and rushed to check the bathroom. The closet. Every corner of the room.
Nothing.
"He's gone..."
---
Outside, beneath a sky bruised with storm clouds, a lone figure shuffled barefoot along the pavement.
He wore a hospital gown.
Clutched tightly to his chest was a black velvet box.
His eyes were hollow. Lifeless. As if the soul inside him had long since fled.
Lightning flashed.
Thunder cracked.
He walked on—silent, slow—down the cold, rain-slicked road.
One thing was certain:
Time was running out.
And if the body was not reunited with the soul soon...
The fracture would deepen.
The hollow would spread.
And the danger would become unstoppable.