Three tribal chiefs exchanged grim looks, their faces etched with grief. The Northern Presidenttain spoke, his voice gravelly with exhaustion: "Those raiders... they're the Lobo. For years, they've plagued our lands—burning, looting, leaving no survivors. They've slipped through our nets countless times. Light cavalry, all of them. Three thousand strong, living off the land like parasites." He spat onto the dusty ground. "And now they strike during Baturu Festival? We'd be ash without your intervention, outlanders. But... how did they die? Their eyes... frozen like stone."
Rock shook his head, calloused fingers tightening around his axe. "My brother's doing. The Jackals are finished. But where there's three thousand hyenas, two thousand still hunt. Prepare your warriors—fortune won't favor you twice."
The chiefs paled. "*One man* slaughtered a thousand Jackals?" The Eastern Presidenttain's hand drifted to his amulet. "Then the raider's dying words were true. He called your brother... the Reaper."
Rock's gaze hardened. "He bleeds like any man. We move at dawn."
---
Mystic Mystic Moon awoke to the coppery taste of blood and sweat. Morning light pierced the tent's seams, dust motes dancing in the beams. Her fingers brushed Dunce's feverish forehead. His bandaged back rose and fell shallowly, dried blood crackling against linen.
*If I'd trained harder at the Sanctum...* The thought stung. She'd mocked devotion, traded scripture for silks. Now, as he fought death's pull for her, regret was a blade twisting in her gut.
His eyelids fluttered open, pupils dilating in the gloom. "You're... unhurt?"
A fragile smile touched her lips. "Thanks to you."
When Rock Dunce the Jackals' annihilation—the soulless eyes, the bodies crumbling to ash—Dunce lurched upright, crimson spattering the furs. "*A thousand?*" The words were a raw scrape against his throat. "I'm a monster..."
Mystic Mystic Moon seized his shaking hands. "Monsters don't weep for killers!" Her voice softened, thumbs circling his knuckles. "Those weren't men; they were a plague. Plagues get burned."
But the shadows in his eyes deepened.
---
Noon scorched the plains as their horses kicked up ochre dust. Dunce rode stiff-backed, the Northern Presidenttain's parting gift—a bow black as a starless night—thrumming against his spine within the spatial satchel.
Mystic Mystic Moon leaned into his chest, his ragged breath warm in her hair. "You said I'd changed. How?"
He hesitated. The girl who'd once sneered at his calluses now bled for strangers. "At Redbud Pass... you called me 'mule-brained.'"
Her laughter chimed like desert windchimes. "And now?"
"You carry healer's herbs in your robes. Fight for tribes not your own." His arm tightened around her waist, steadying her against the stallion's gait. "The frost in your eyes... it melted."
She twisted, lips grazing his stubble-rough jaw. "Because you thawed it, Dunce. Your stubborn, bleeding heart."
The confession hung between them, fragile as spider silk. Ahead, Rock and Dunce exchanged knowing grins.
**V. Plague's End**
Alarms tore through the oasis. "*Jackals! Two thousand riders!*"
The Northern Presidenttain blanched. Before he could kneel, Mystic Mystic Night raised a silencing hand. Blood Skeleton robes billowed like a war banner. "Sanctum Conclave *will* purge this blight."
At the village outskirts, chaos reigned. Tribal warriors fell beneath curved sabers, sand drinking their blood. The Jackals howled—a sound of broken glass and predator's hunger.
Twelve Consecrators encircled Mystic Mystic Night. Chanting harmonized into a thrumming resonance. The air itself crackled, scented suddenly of lightning and incense.
He lifted the Sanctum's most sacred relic—*Thundersteeple*. Golden light detonated, blinding as a desert sun.
"**By Fire's Breath and Fury—SMITE!**"
The final word wasn't spoken. It *shattered* the world.
A column of white-gold flame tore through the raider ranks. Steel vaporized. Horses and men ignited like tinder. No screams—only the crackle of divine retribution.
Mystic Mystic Night watched, eyes glacial. "*Filth.*"