From Hell, Watch Me Rise
Together, they stepped into formation—three surrounding one.
Leon stood firm, sword lowered but ready, his golden eyes locked onto the lone masked figure before him. To his right, Captain Black's blade gleamed, still wet with blood. On the other side, Ronan held his axe in a tight grip, posture tense, gaze sharp and unwavering.
The masked man said nothing.
No threats. No curses.
Only silence... thick and suffocating, as if his rage was a living thing—coiled behind his mask like black smoke waiting to ignite.
This was it.
The final confrontation.
Only four men remained.
Leon. Ronan. Black.
And the masked leader—the one who had lit the fires of this chaos—now standing alone, surrounded by the storm he'd summoned.
Just when the air brimmed with a silence too heavy to hold, a strange sound broke through it.
A soft chuckle.
At first, it was high-pitched, almost childish.
Then it rose, steadily—growing louder, deeper, sharper.
