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The Skinner Chief wasted no time questioning Carmen, quickly piecing together the events. Fortunately, thanks to Dr. Chan's warning, everyone had evacuated the camp. He had spent all this time alone, outmaneuvering mercenaries, heart pounding in fear—only now could he finally breathe.
Days later, the Skinners held their funeral in their new camp.
There were no coffins, no flowers—not even bodies.
Only scraps of armor and equipment gathered from the battlefield, woven together with iron wire into rough, human-shaped frames. They stood by the fires, silent and hollow.
A battered metal horn echoed through the cave, a deep, ancient sound that carried like wind rising from the depths of the earth.
Then, outside the cave, they lit the black-root resin.
Its thick, foreign scent curled into the night air, each wisp like a quiet prayer.
An elder Skinner placed bloodstained helmets before the flames, then retrieved a rough bone dagger from his cloak.
Pressing it against his chest, he traced a line, letting blood drip into the fire.
"We do not say'Rest in peace,'" he murmured. There was no theatrical grief in his voice—only firm resolve.
"We say—until we fight side by side again."
The fire roared, reflecting in every eye—more than a farewell, more than a vow.
Maverick stood still, staring into the blaze.
Something settled in his chest, a strange calm—like the sea after a violent storm.
He didn't know if this ritual truly sent them to some"better" place.
But he knew—this death could not be reduced to dust and numbers.
The Skinner Chief hammered wooden crosses into the graves—some held the remains of men he had spoken to, some were empty.
Then, quietly, he said—
"As long as someone remembers, you are still with us."
When dinner approached, Maverick hesitated before asking,
"Chief… what do you plan to do next?"
The Skinner Chief froze.
He turned to his bloodied comrades, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.
But then—his expression hardened into something certain.
"Can I ask something of you?"
He reached for the silver cross hanging from his neck—one of the few possessions he had ever kept.
It had been a gift, a supposed charm of protection.
He held it out toward Maverick, voice unusually serious.
"Leave. Take this. Go to the outside world, find a cure, find someone who will listen.
Make sure our dead aren't covered in lies."
"I'm not going."
Dr. Chan's voice broke the moment.
Maverick turned sharply.
"I'm staying here." Dr. Chan smiled, hands open in a quiet shrug.
"There's something I have to finish myself. You go."
"You… sure?"
Maverick could hardly believe it.
Dr. Chan patted his shoulder.
"Plans change. People do too. But you—you need to survive.
See what's out there.
Now, it's just you."
Maverick opened his mouth—but didn't speak.
After a beat, Dr. Chan let out a short laugh, gripping his arm.
"Go.
And don't forget to visit."
The Skinner Chief nodded.
"You're always welcome back. We won't be gone forever."
"You trust me _that_ much?" Maverick narrowed his eyes.
"What if I betray you?
What if I hide once I escape?"
The Skinner Chief smiled, his voice firm.
"I only ask for one thing—"
"A promise."
"A promise?"
Maverick frowned.
Modern life had made promises worthless.
The Skinner Chief lifted his gaze to the sky, vines shadowing the stars.
"A king who breaks his word is no better than a beggar.
And a man who keeps his promise—stands equal to any king."
Maverick, weary and lost, only nodded.
Smoke swirled in the distance.
A silent reminder.
This nightmare was far from over.
The Skinner Chief smirked.
"Still here?"
He gestured toward a pile of bloodied remains.
"Or… would you like to stay and'eat' with me?"
Maverick's stomach twisted violently.
He didn't hesitate.
Turning, he left, as the Chief burst into laughter.
---
At a lavish political banquet, a middle-aged man basked in the spotlight, weaving through the powerful guests with effortless charm.
Confident.
Poised.
His goal for the night was clear—securing government allies, ensuring victory in the next election, dismantling the opposition.
While exchanging pleasantries with an energy official, a secretary hurried through the crowd, whispering something urgent into his ear.
His smile froze.
His pupils shrank, color draining from his face.
But only for a second.
He recovered swiftly, raising his glass in a toast, flashing an easy grin.
A joke to a nearby businessman, then a quiet farewell to the guests.
He left without a trace of alarm.
Once outside, his steps quickened.
"You're certain?" His voice was low, seething.
The secretary nodded grimly.
"Yes. It's connected."
At his private suite, the man hurled his glass to the floor.
Shards scattered across the carpet.
"Damned fools!"
His breath came fast, fury tightening his chest.
"Who?! Who did this?!"
Faces flashed through his mind.
A blood-stained gallery.
Within seconds, he had his suspects.
His rage hardened into cold vengeance.
"Find them."
"I want their heads."
The secretary handed him surveillance photos.
He scanned them.
His expression darkened.
Then—
A sound at the door.
A guard entered, dragging a bound, battered figure.
Shen Lu.
Once a privileged heir—
Now a wreck.
"You?"
The man pulled a gun, pressing the barrel to Shen Lu's forehead.
"Tell me—how did you kill my son?"
Shen Lu stared at him, bruised and broken.
His swollen eye twitched—something almost bitter surfacing.
It was always like this.
Success belonged to others.
Failure rested on his shoulders.
His gaze was empty.
Then—
His mouth twisted.
A laugh—weak, scraping against his throat.
Then louder.
Then hysterical.
"Hahaha! You want the truth? I'll tell you everything! Stop wasting time!"
Breathing hard, his voice tipped into madness.
"Go on—kill me! Hurry up!"
The man's jaw clenched.
"Fine.
But first—"
His voice dropped into a vicious whisper.
"Before you die, I want you to watch as I tear your friends apart.
One. By. One."
Shen Lu froze.
The man's eyes burned with murder.
The room was suffocating.
(Stay tuned for the next book- Crimson Hallucination, Nightmare at Dawn 4)