CHAPTER 170: ACT II, SCENE IV: TWILIGHT MARIONETTE

The heat still hung in the air. Around Regulus, a perfect circle of burned ground glowed softly.

He stood alone, barely holding himself up, clothes torn, his hand still glowing faintly with magic.

The whole battlefield fell silent.

Regulus dropped to his knees, breathing heavily. Every breath burned inside his chest.

Pain was everywhere. He couldn’t think clearly. But then he noticed something.

He was on the ground.

He could move. The strings were gone.

Slowly, he raised his trembling hands. They moved. His arms ached, but they obeyed. He stared, not sure if it was real.

He glanced down and tried twitching his toes. A sharp jolt ran through his foot. The pain was intense, but it moved.

Then he shifted one leg slightly. The ache shot up to his hip. Most of his bones felt like they were cracked.

Even a small motion made his whole body burn.

But still, he could move.

He didn’t know how, or why. But he was free.

"I... I did it?"

But then...

His body snapped upright.

His back straightened sharply, forcing him into a stiff bow. He gasped.

And the dance started again.

His foot slid forward, ankle twisting. The other followed, knee clicking painfully. His arms stretched outward. One shoulder cracked.

Regulus groaned.

The smoke ahead parted, revealing a calm figure walking out slowly, clapping.

Hypnos.

He smiled.

"That was a good try. Almost fooled me."

Regulus shook with pain and anger.

"H-How...?"

Hypnos stepped closer.

"You gave everything. In the real world, that might’ve been enough. But not here."

He lifted a hand. Thin glowing strings became visible under the blue light, connected to every part of Regulus’s body.

"I told you," Hypnos said softly. "When you dream of the Slumbering King... you belong to him."

Regulus’s legs moved on their own. His arms twisted. His body danced like a broken puppet, joints cracking with each step.

He looked up.

Through the shattered ceiling above, the moon shone bright and cold, casting silver light over the wreckage.

Cracks in the stone framed the sky, and in the broken pieces of the arch, faded images of crying angels stared down at him.

The scene felt distant, like a dream slipping away. Regulus blinked slowly, tears mixing with blood on his face.

He wished he could close his eyes and sleep under that sad sky, among the forgotten angels.

The joint between his thigh and left hip popped with a sickening sound. A loud groan escaped his throat.

He tried to resist. Nothing worked.

Another spin. His hip turned too far.

He nearly passed out.

Then his back cracked.

Regulus finally screamed, loud, raw, and full of rage.

Hypnos laughed, clapping slowly.

"There it is! Finally, a real sound. I’ve been waiting for that."

He moved his hand slightly.

Regulus’s wrist twisted unnaturally. The bone snapped with a sharp, horrible crack.

He let out a loud scream, voice breaking from the pain. He gasped for breath, shaking.

"Fucking... BASTARD!!!" he roared.

Hypnos laughed louder.

"Give me more. More, more! Let me hear all of it!"

Another pull.

Regulus’s body bent forward, his spine pushed far beyond its limit. His arm lifted by force, shoulder twisting so far back it popped from the joint.

His head dropped, mouth open in a silent cry, eyes red and twitching in a compressed face.

He tried to breathe, but each breath came with pain.

Suddenly, his leg kicked up. The knee bent sideways, and a loud, awful crack echoed in the air.

"AAAHH!" Regulus screamed, his voice ragged.

The invisible strings shone faintly in the moonlight, revealing how they wrapped around every limb like a cruel web.

Then his whole body turned sharply. Muscles tore. Bones snapped. The sound was horrible, like wet wood breaking.

His chest heaved.

His last scream died in his throat, blood dripping from his lips.

And then... He collapsed.

A lifeless shape in a growing pool of blood, arms and legs twisted in unnatural ways.

Moonlight poured through the broken ceiling, casting a pale light over the ruined theater. Everything was silent.

Hypnos stood still, his smile fading slowly. He blinked, looking at Regulus’s body. It took him a moment to realize.

It was over.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared.

"...Already?" Hypnos whispered.

He stepped closer, watching the broken body lying on the floor like a broken doll.

A long silence followed. For the first time, Hypnos looked almost unsure.

Then he chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"No... no, this can’t be all. You were such a fun little toy... I wasn’t finished yet."

He crouched down and gently touched Regulus’s hair.

"You really broke, didn’t you?" he said, more to himself. "You poor, brave thing."

He stood up again, brushing off his hair.

"Regulus... I’ll remember that name. You were the best toy I ever had."

Hypnos took one last look, then turned.

With a slow step, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the ruined theater.

Regulus’s body lay still in the moonlight, blood shimmering around him like a dark mirror.

Not a sound remained but the faint wind brushing through the shattered windows above.

The wind whispered through the streets, carrying the silenced tale of a tragedy.

Far across the theater, something stirred.

In a twisted alley wrapped in swirling fog, Astros stopped running.

His breath caught in his throat.

He looked up.

The moon hadn’t moved, yet something felt wrong.

Elsewhere, Maël stood alone in a maze of mirrors. He paused, turning his head slowly. His eyes caught movement, a familiar flash of yellow hair in the reflection.

Lyraen.

She flinched in surprise, her wand half-raised.

"What?! You again," she muttered. "Don’t sneak up like that!"

Maël didn’t answer at first. He stared at the mirror behind her.

"What is it?" she asked, her tone sharper now.

His voice came softer than usual.

"I... I don’t know."

But deep down, something in him did.

Across the city, scattered Sacred warriors paused. Each one, without knowing why, turned their heads in the same direction.

Toward the place where a soul had just been broken.

Regulus’s fate remained unknown, but the bloodied hand responsible for his doom moved across the dreamworld like a scarecrow.

Demon Generals weren’t a threat in appearance, but the terrible one who called himself a Marshall walked, drawn by the scent of his next victim.