"Well, I never said I'm going to kill him... you simply assumed that yourself," Veythor replied, his voice smooth as oil as he turned his head to regard Shimi. She stood with her hands clenched so tight her knuckles whitened; her voice trembled when it finally broke out.

"Then why did you cover him in oil?" she demanded, each word a thin thread of accusation pulled taut.

Raika's gaze sharpened at the question. Veythor snorted soft... a sound that slid into a whisper meant for no one but them. "He's nothing but a distraction for the tribesfolk. When the fire ignites, everyone will melt into panic as their resources are destroyed. Tell me, what do you think they'll do when they see one of their own slicked in oil? Chaos will follow. Confusion and fear. That is the point."

Listening, Shimi's furrowed face softened a fraction— the idea of a distracted crowd somehow easing the edge of her alarm. But Raika's eyes only narrowed further, fixed and accusatory.

"Why must we burn the tribe? Is that even necessary? We could just run. We could escape."

Veythor raised his eyebrows, as if the very suggestion amused him. "That's not how it works, Raika. Do you imagine they'll simply let us leave after what happened to Dasha? No. They'll hunt us. This forest isn't a kindly road to freedom; it's a maze of eyes and memory. Crossing it without being tracked is nearly impossible."

Raika ground his teeth until they ached. "Do you have no empathy for the innocent?"

Veythor's expression grew colder; his crimson eyes bored into Raika like a blade. "You return to the point you began with," he said flatly. "Don't you understand? Innocents must be dragged into the calculus of surviva.... that is the terrible cost. Why should I care for a handful of brutes who would just as soon skin us for ritual? Do you imagine they would show compassion when they become hunters?"

The words landed like winter frost... harsh, yet carrying a bitter logic that chilled the marrow. Still, Raika's youthful heart recoiled. "This isn't justice," he said, turning to Shimi for agreement. She kept her eyes on the ground, unwilling to meet his.

Veythor smiled then, slow and wry. "Justice is a lie," he murmured. "Whoever holds power reigns. I would love to live in a world where justice mattered more, but that is a childish fantasy."

Raika's body trembled; an inner voice pricked at him with sharp moral certainty. No... this shouldn't be done. This is wrong. "Say something, Shimi. Stop him," he pleaded. "You understand, right? If we destroy their resources, we are killing just them."

Even as Raika spoke, Shimi's gaze remained lowered. The realization had carved a tired, adult crease into her face. Raika's features darkened; his jaw worked.

Veythor's smile thinned into a smirk. "See? Shimi has learned the cost of survival," he said, prowling past them with the languid certainty of a predator. "Now it's your turn, Raika. Will you choose the path of blood, or will you give up your life for those damned monkeys? The choice is yours— whether you rest in hell or live."

Veythor walked past Raika. Shimi and Bantam followed quietly. Raika remained frozen where he stood until Veythor halted before an isolated hut untouched by the slick of oil. He turned and tossed a conspiratorial smile at Bantam.

"Bantam, big sister Dasha will wake soon," he told the child.

Bantam's dark eyes brightened, joy spilling across his face as he hurled himself at Veythor in an excited hug. "Yay! We saved her!" he crowed, the innocence of his voice cutting sharply through the gloom.

Veythor's face adopted a mock-sad, almost cartoonish look. "There's one more thing to do," he said, the smile slipping into something that might have been serious. "To wake her, you must go inside that hut and hide until you hear someone call. If you don't, big sister will never wake."

Bantam paled at the directive but wavered only for a heartbeat before nodding in fearful obedience. "No— no, I'll hide," he stammered, and then, urged by hope or terror, he raced inside the hut, vanishing into shadow.

Veythor had poured very carefully. The liquid catching in thin black veins along the narrow paths between huts. The stuff smelled sharp and solvent-like, an acrid tang that clawed at the throat and pooled in dark mirrors where the thatch met the earth. It made the dawn light glint sickly; where it lay, the village looked suddenly fragile, as if someone had spilled ink over a sleeping map.

Veythor and Shimi walked toward the bonfire, where Dasha's dead body had already begun to reek of blood and rot. Shimi pressed her nose, her stomach twisting, while Veythor moved ahead toward a bamboo pole stabbed into the ground. A torch burned at its top, its wavering light carving shadows into his face. He climbed swiftly and tore the torch free.

Shimi watched in silence, awe and dread intertwining within her chest her mind and heart both torn between impossible choices. Veythor climbed down without a sound, his movements sharp and deliberate.

"That's it," he murmured. "Now all that's left is ignition. The oil I found… it's most likely crude oil."

He turned his gaze toward the bonfire and the statue of Dogundra, its monstrous grin flickering in the torchlight.

"I'm lucky this bonfire exists," he said softly, almost to himself. "Its burning stench masks the scent of the oil. Otherwise, even in their deepest sleep, someone would've noticed."

He smiled faintly— then laughed under his breath, the sound hollow and cruel.

"Now it's showtime, sleeping monkeys."

He smirked and stepped closer to Shimi, ready to speak again when his words froze in his throat. Shimi stood utterly still, like a statue caught mid-breath. Veythor's eyes darted toward the torch flame— and his blood chilled. The fire had stopped moving.

"What the fuck…" he whispered.

Then, the world itself seemed to shudder. The sky darkened, clouds boiling into an unnatural black. Rain began to fall— first a few droplets, then a relentless downpour hammering the earth. Veythor's confusion deepened; his instincts screamed, yet his body refused to obey. He looked down and saw the impossible the ground beneath him rippling, swallowing his feet, his legs, as if the soil had turned to liquid shadow.

He tried to move, but his body had become stone.The ground devoured him whole— without sound, without mercy.

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