Chapter 61: Cracks in the Chain
Elara sat cross-legged in the clearing, a rare smile lighting her face. The morning sun shimmered through the leaves above, and for the first time in weeks, she felt a glimmer of hope.
"He can be killed," she whispered, more to herself than to Ariella.
Ariella leaned against a tree nearby, fingers tracing the runes along the hilt of the serpent-bone dagger. "We know his name. We have the weapon. The girls from the prophecy finally have an edge."
Elara met her gaze. "It's more than that. We're no longer running from him—we're facing him."
The two shared a solemn nod. Victory wasn't yet in hand, but the tides had shifted. The Shrouded One—Little 9—wasn't untouchable anymore. His secret had been uncovered, and with it, his armor had cracked.
---
Meanwhile, across the valley, within the Master's fortified mansion, all was not calm.
Little 9 writhed on a velvet couch, his chest bare, bandages soaked crimson and black where the dagger had cut him. His breathing was shallow, ragged. Every few seconds, his body convulsed with pain.
Percy knelt beside him, sweat dripping down his temple as he channeled his healing magic into the wound for the third time. But the result was the same—nothing. The skin refused to mend, and the cursed venom beneath seemed to burn hotter with each passing hour.
"It won't heal," Percy said quietly, looking up at the Master with helpless eyes. "I've tried everything I know."
The Master's jaw was clenched, his eyes stormy with frustration. "Move aside."
He stepped forward and placed his hands over the wound. Ancient runes glowed beneath his palms as a dark blue aura spread through his fingertips. Little 9 screamed, his voice tearing through the room like a blade. But even the Master's magic couldn't seal the damage.
The glow faded. The bleeding did not.
The Master turned away, fists trembling.
"I'll find the source," he muttered. "Whatever cursed this blade... I'll undo it."
But deep down, a gnawing dread coiled in his gut. This wasn't an ordinary weapon. This was something else entirely.
---
Later that evening, cloaked in a heavy black robe, the Master entered a hidden chamber deep beneath the mansion. The air was cold, laced with ancient dust and the scent of ash. At the center of the room, a flickering portal shimmered with shadows—reaching into the realm beyond.
From within, a figure emerged. Cloaked in darkness, faceless and tall, it pulsed with an ominous energy. The Master bowed his head.
"I seek your counsel," he said.
The figure did not move, but its voice echoed through the chamber like a whisper and a scream all at once.
"You failed to protect him."
The Master's face twitched. "The girls have discovered something… a weapon that bypasses the pot's protection. My son—Little 9—is gravely injured. Nothing heals him."
The shadow shifted slightly. "Then he is of no further use."
The words hung in the air like poison.
"He is still alive," the Master countered. "And he's stronger than the others. He'll recover."
"Doubt clouds your mind," the shadow hissed. "A weapon like that—crafted by one of the Serpent bloodline—can end him. Only one of their own can kill their kind without beheading or destroying the pot. Your enemies are no longer blind."
The Master stiffened. "Are you certain it was made by a Serpent?"
"No ordinary blade can wound one bound to the pot," the shadow replied. "The dagger was born of fang and venom. Likely forged with their own ancient rites. It was meant to kill."
The Master's brows furrowed. "Then the Queens must have guided the girls… They've found a way to finish him without touching the pot."
A long pause.
"Then remove him," the shadow said finally. "Before he becomes a liability. His secret is out. He cannot be trusted to hold power any longer."
The Master remained silent, eyes cast to the ground.
"Your silence is weakness," the shadow hissed.
"He's still my son," the Master said at last. "My youngest. He may have failed, but that doesn't mean he's finished."
The shadow's presence grew darker, colder.
"You defy me."
"I choose to believe in his survival," the Master said with resolve. "He's not broken. Not yet."
"You will regret this."
With a final pulse of energy, the shadow vanished into the swirling portal, leaving only echoes and frost in its wake.
---
Back in the mansion, Little 9 lay still, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes barely open.
Percy sat beside him, quietly changing the bandages. For once, there were no smug comments, no sharp glances—just silence and concern.
"You don't have to stay," Little 9 rasped.
Percy looked at him, frowning. "You're not dying yet."
"You're not sure."
"No," Percy admitted. "But I know the Master hasn't given up."
Little 9 chuckled bitterly. "That's because he doesn't want to waste his project. I'm not his son. I'm his weapon."
Percy didn't argue.
"Do you think I'll survive this?" Little 9 asked.
Percy paused. "Do you want to?"
A long silence stretched between them.
"I don't know anymore," Little 9 whispered.
His thoughts drifted to the girls—to the moment the dagger touched him. The look in Ariella's eyes. The determination in Elara's voice. They were no longer scared of him.
He had been the nightmare in their stories, the monster in the dark. Now, they were writing his end.
And yet… he wasn't ready to die.
Not like this.
Not without answers.
Not without revenge.
---
Far away, Elara sat sharpening the serpent-bone dagger by the firelight, the blade humming softly with each stroke. Ariella stirred the small pot of stew, eyes lost in the flames.
"Do you think he's dying?" Elara asked suddenly.
Ariella looked up. "I hope so. But it won't be that easy."
"He's not the same as before. There was something… human in his eyes when he fled. Like he remembered pain."
"Maybe that's what scared him," Ariella replied. "Feeling something again."
Elara sighed, setting the dagger down. "We have the means to end him. But what if we're too late?"
Ariella's expression hardened. "Then we don't wait. We go after the source—the pot. The ruins. Whatever it takes to finish this."
The night deepened around them. But this time, it wasn't heavy with despair.
It was filled with purpose.
With strategy.
And with the quiet, persistent beat of vengeance