Night fell like a black abyss in the old port district of Gaia. A thin fog rolled between the empty warehouses, the sounds of rats and sewage mingling with whispers of conspiracy. Lark and his two allies—The Hooded Man and Jorlan, who had just escaped from prison—gathered behind a wooden house, planning their next act of sabotage.

  No one noticed Fitran standing at the end of the alley, his shadow slicing through the fog. His shoes stepped into puddles of blood and dirty water, his eyes cold, his voice like a knife. Every movement was measured and calm, like a predator observing its prey. He raised an eyebrow as he watched the fog enveloping the surroundings, as if assessing the battlefield before making his next decision.

  Fitran: "Enough. The new world only needs one more night to be truly free from the rotten snakes."

  A bitter smile etched on Lark's face, pouring out all his disbelief. Lark: "You came alone, King? Do you think you can kill the old world with empty hands?"

  Fitran did not answer. He stepped forward, his right hand forming a spiral mudra. His hand movements were smooth and controlled, expressing calmness amidst the growing tension. In the air, blue-black light danced, creating an illusion of waves that drew attention. The atmosphere around him seemed to vibrate—cold, thick, and filled with pressure that made breathing difficult. Each heartbeat felt slower, as if time had slowed down, and every sound around became faint; he focused solely on his main objective.

  Fitran: "Excruciatum Spiralis: Wounds of the Mind—feel the justice you have created yourselves."

  Suddenly, the wind stopped. The world around Lark and his two allies collapsed. They froze, their bodies lifted from the ground, spiral roots emerging from the stone, wrapping around their legs, arms, and chests, piercing their pores, tearing skin, and stabbing directly into their nerves.

  For a moment, silence gripped this old warehouse, its walls stained with mold and dampness, while moonlight seeped through the cracks in the rotting wood. In an instant, space and time transformed into a realm of torment. Lark and his allies were stretched out on a blood-soaked stone altar, spiral vines twisting tightly around their joints. Fitran's proficiency emerged—every movement, every spell, seemed as if he had practiced it thousands of times on the battlefield of souls and blood.

  With controlled hand movements, Fitran stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with calculation, as if analyzing every detail, even the smallest ones. He raised his hand, summoning shards of magical mirrors in the air. The mirrors displayed all the vile memories of Lark and his allies: the faces of starving victims, children poisoned to death, people burned alive during sabotage. Each shadow became real—their flesh torn apart, skin blistered, blood flowing between the spinning needles, writing wounds on their bodies. A sharp, cold sensation enveloped the environment, as if everything around them craved revenge.

  The unbearable pain made Lark scream, Lark: "Stop! Spare me! You're no better than us!"

  Fitran merely stared, cold and judgmental. A micro-expression of reluctance flickered across his face for a moment, but he quickly steeled his resolve. A burden he hid behind his trained calmness. Fitran: "I am not a god. I am just a man tired of watching you pretend to be weak so you can prey on others."

  The Hooded Man struggled to pull the roots from his thigh, but as he tugged, the spiral roots sliced through his flesh, bones protruding beneath the torn skin. Black blood mixed with thick mucus flowed onto the floor. Jorlan screamed silently, his tongue entangled in roots, his eyes bulging as his own eyes were plucked out by the illusory hands of their victims. Every time they tried to move, the spirals dug deeper, gnawing at muscles, breaking bones, inscribing symbols of betrayal on their shoulder blades and foreheads.

  In the corner of the room, a foul stench wafted, emanating from the thickening pool of blood that was beginning to dry. The once-grand walls of the warehouse were now cracked and moldy, as if trapped in time. The dim light from the flickering oil lamp cast eerie shadows on the stunned faces, emphasizing the deep-seated fear within them.

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  Lark endured the greatest suffering: the spiral mirrors displayed the deaths of his entire family in hundreds of versions—each version a direct result of his own decisions. Bloodied hands pulled his insides out, wrapping around his still-beating heart, forcing him to witness the last throes of his life through the eyes of all the victims. Voices in his head echoed thousands of wails, "Why did you let us die? Why did you sell our hope for power and gold?"

  Fitran stood calmly, his sharp eyes observing every movement, calculating possibilities and tactics, his fingers slightly outstretched, as if controlling the flow of power spreading around him. His cold face showed no hint of empathy, though a slight furrow in his brow indicated deep contemplation. In his gaze, there was a struggle between logic and emotion, yet he remained steadfast in his argument. "Power is not to be protected, but to be fought for," he murmured, his voice a dark part pressed by silence.

  Every drop of their blood in the real world formed a pulsing spiral glyph, growing faster and faster, filling the alley with the scent of iron and decaying earth.

  Finally, Fitran stepped forward to the dark stone altar, covered in fine scratches like nerves that evoked a sense of horror. He looked at Lark, whose body was now nothing but torn flesh full of wounds and tears, his breath coming in shallow gasps. In the dim gloom, the moonlight filtering through the gaps in the warehouse roof highlighted every detail of Lark's face, adding a tragic impression to the horrific state.

  As his hand rose with smooth and controlled movements, Fitran's gaze focused, assessing every passing second. He knew that what he was doing was not just punishment but carving history—one that would be remembered and whispered about in the dark streets. The atmosphere around him grew tense, as if the wind was reluctant to move, trapped between hope and fear.

  Fitran: "I will not kill you with my hands. But starting today, every night, you will live in your own spiral of evil. The new world does not need your blood—it needs your soul to be shattered, until you no longer know what sin is and what forgiveness is."

  Every word Fitran spoke only added weight to the atmosphere, hanging in the air like poison. With this emotionless execution, he observed Lark's micro-expressions; fear, pain, and fading hope, all etched into the creases of his bloodied face.

  Fitran released the final spell—the spiral roots absorbed Lark and his two allies into the cold, hard stone of the alley, merging like an indelible mark. Leaving only blood stains, broken bones, and the lingering scent of death that would not fade even as the morning wind came, as if reluctant to touch this place full of pain.

  After that, the streets fell silent again. In the distance, dim lights flickered faintly, resembling morning dew reluctant to provide warmth. Only Fitran stood, his body weary, his eyes empty—but in his heart, he knew that night the new world had drawn a clear line: Betrayal would always be paid for, and justice would no longer wait for mercy. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of damp earth and blood. All of it felt familiar, just like his cold decision.

  Fitran returned to the palace at dawn. The sky began to change color, a dull orange hue creeping over the horizon, allowing the dark shadows of the night to slowly fade. As his steps hit the wet ground, the cold dew scent pierced through, as if shining a light back on his soul filled with blood and betrayal. He washed his hands of the blood that clung to him, hands that did not tremble, hands trained to perform every movement with utmost control. He gazed at his reflection in the mirror, but the image seemed foreign, as if showing someone trapped in the labyrinth of his own mind.

  In his mind, he still heard Lark's screams—the screams of all who had ever felt that the new world was no better than the old one. In an instant, part of him longed for Lark's presence, but the reminder of his cold response quickly suppressed that feeling. He touched his temple, feeling the tension mixed with guilt and regret. His eyes scrutinized every detail in the room; the cracked walls, the dust clinging to the corners, and the soft light streaming in from the window, as if worsening his dark mood.

  He whispered to himself: "If this world is to survive, let me be the monster for one night. Tomorrow, may my children be brave enough to start the morning without blood again."

  His whispered voice was merely an echo in a space far from life. His right hand reached out into the air as if trying to grasp the hope that was now fading; his fingers clenched tightly, showing uncertainty mixed with a desire to protect. His face crinkled for a moment, a rare micro-expression, and his heart trembled as he understood this choice—where this path would lead him.

  As he stepped away from the intimidating mirror, outside the sound of his footsteps echoed on the rough streets, filled with debris from the battle of the night before. The cracked pavement felt the weight of his body as a symbol of the decision he had made, like chasing the shadows of unseen enemies.

  Facing this new reality created an oppressive atmosphere, with the burden of his choices filling the air around him with palpable tension as he contemplated the nature of sacrifice and the weight he bore.