In the dim, damp alleyways of the city outskirts, the group of robbers huddled together under the flickering glow of a lone streetlamp.

Their breath misted in the cold air as they whispered in harsh, trembling tones.

The night had been nothing short of disastrous for them, and all eyes turned to the tax collector—the very man whose greed had dragged them into Vonjo's path.

"This is all your fault," hissed the tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white. "If you hadn't told us that the 'target guy' was some spoiled rich brat with more money than brains, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

The tax collector, a rotund man with a nervous twitch in his left eye, raised his hands defensively. "H-how was I supposed to know he's a monster in disguise?! He looked normal! Rich! Arrogant! He even had a pet frog, for crying out loud! Who brings a frog around if they're dangerous?"

"That's not a frog," muttered another man, shaking his head violently. His teeth chattered, though whether from the night chill or the memory of Vonjo's terrifying aura, none could tell. "Whatever that thing is… I saw its eyes glow. A real sorcerer pet. He was toying with us the whole time."

The blame flew like knives in the darkness.

"You said we could take him easy!"

"You said he had no backup!"

"You said this would be a quick job!"

The tax collector's face turned crimson as he snapped back, "Shut up! All of you! You think I wanted this? We all thought it'd be easy money! How could we know he'd—he'd eat the shadows? Who even does that?!"

The group fell into a heavy silence at the memory. The way Vonjo had swallowed the darkness itself, pulling every comforting shadow from the walls and ground, leaving them exposed under the cruel moonlight—it was unnatural. It felt like he had taken a piece of their courage with it.

Finally, the man with the scar exhaled sharply. "Enough. Fighting won't fix anything. It's just… our bad day. We picked the wrong target. We thought he was just some arrogant rich folk to shake down, and instead, he—"

He didn't finish his sentence because, at that moment, a shrill, jarring RIIIIING sliced through the air.

Everyone froze.

The sound was coming from a battered cellphone in the hands of one of their younger members. His fingers trembled as he fumbled to answer it, the screen lighting his pale face. "H-hello? Boss? Hey, we're—"

The voice on the other side wasn't calm. It wasn't even coherent.

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH—HELP! HEEEELP! IT'S—IT'S—AAAAAHHHH—"

The scream was so raw, so primal, that it sent a shiver down every spine in the alley.

"What the hell?!" the scarred man barked. "What's going on?!"

The younger man's hand shook so hard the phone almost slipped from his grip. "T-the apartment—he said the apartment's—"

The line crackled violently, followed by more bloodcurdling screams and the sound of something crashing, glass shattering, and a wet, sickening squelch that made their stomachs turn.

Another voice, ragged and distant, broke through the chaos: "IT'S NOT THE POLICE! IT'S NOT—AAAAAAHHHHHH—"

Then the line went dead.

The silence that followed was deafening. Only the wind whistled through the alley, carrying the smell of the river and garbage with it.

The men stared at the phone like it was cursed, their imaginations filling the void. Usually, a raid from the Sorcerer Police was brutal but professional. Arrests, suppression, maybe a beating or two if you resisted. But screaming like that? That was the sound of people being dragged to hell.

"…No way," whispered the man with the scar, his voice cracking. "The cops don't make people scream like that. Not like that."

"So if it wasn't the police…" another muttered, voice tight with dread. "Then what the hell was it?"

No one answered. The air itself felt heavier, pressing on their chests, as if the city was holding its breath.

The tax collector licked his dry lips. "W-we can't just stay here. We need to check it out. The main powerhouses of the gang are us—if something wiped them out, w-we need to know what's coming."

"Are you insane?!" the youngest hissed. "You heard the screams!"

"We can't run forever," said the scarred man grimly. "If it's police, we'll be hunted for abandoning our post. If it's… something else…" He trailed off, his eyes shifting uneasily toward the distant city lights. "Then running won't save us either. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Reluctantly, the group came to an agreement. Murmurs and curses passed between them as they tightened their belts, adjusted their meager weapons, and steeled themselves for the walk back toward the apartment district. Every step felt heavier than the last, but the fear of the unknown gnawed at them worse than the fear of Vonjo.

They slunk away into the darkness, their voices low and tense, plotting routes and escape plans in case things went wrong again.

None of them noticed the faint hum of an engine nearby, nor the way the shadows of the street seemed to shift unnaturally.

A sleek black car idled a block behind them, its headlights off, gliding like a predator in the night.

Inside, Vonjo lounged in the driver's seat, one hand casually draped over the wheel.

His eyes glittered with mischief as he watched the little procession of would-be predators shuffle away, their heads constantly swiveling, fear practically radiating off their bodies.

"Heh," Vonjo murmured to the three-headed frog on the passenger seat, each of its heads blinking lazily in turn. "Looks like the night's not over yet. Let's see where this little adventure leads."

The frog croaked in soft agreement—ribbit, ribbit, croaak—as the black car began to follow, moving like a shadow that had grown teeth.

…

The dimly lit hallway of the apartment building was a battlefield of carnage and echoes.

Flickering fluorescent lights cast stuttering shadows across the peeling walls, and the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood.

A wet squelch followed by a sharp, cracking sound reverberated through the corridor as the sand creature—a hulking humanoid with skin like cracked desert stone and eyes glowing with molten amber—tore another curse sorcerer apart with bare, grainy claws.

"TOO WEAK!" the sand man roared, his voice a guttural earthquake that rattled the broken windows. His clawed hand swung wide, scattering blood and sand in equal measure as the dismembered body fell lifelessly to the stained floor.

A burst of wind seemed to follow his shout, carrying fine grains of his body into the air, which hissed like snakes slithering across the walls.

Another curse sorcerer tried to retreat, his trembling hands raising a charm and muttering a spell—but the sand creature moved with a speed that defied his towering bulk.

In a single step, he was upon the man, a blur of beige and gold. His fist, encased in coarse sand that hardened like stone, punched through the man's chest as though he were made of paper.

"TOO WEEAAAK!" the creature bellowed, shaking the limp body free and hurling it down the hall like a discarded ragdoll. It hit the floor with a sickening thud and slid until it crumpled against the wall, leaving a streak of blood in its wake.

The creature threw his head back and howled, the sound both furious and despairing. His voice reverberated off the cracked plaster and iron doors, vibrating in the bones of anyone unfortunate enough to hear it.

"Why!? WHY ARE THE CURSE SORCERERS OF THIS ERA SO PITIFULLY WEAK?! I WAS PROMISED GLORY! I WAS PROMISED AN ERA OF WAR AND BLOOD!"

His words echoed with something ancient, something that did not belong in this age. Each syllable was soaked in a fury born of disappointment, as though the universe itself had failed him.

He stomped down the hall, crushing debris underfoot, his molten gaze sweeping over the carnage. "In the ancient texts, I was told… in this era, the barriers the Fallen Angels cast to chain us would crumble. Humanity would be overrun by hell, and the curse sorcerers of this age—" he paused, his claws trembling with unspent wrath, "—would be titans. WARRIORS. GODS AMONG MORTALS!"

Another broken groan reached his ears—a survivor. He whirled, sand trailing from his body in swirling streams, and seized the injured sorcerer by the neck, lifting him as if he weighed nothing.

The man's hands clawed at the gritty grip, his eyes wide with terror.

"Is this all your era has to offer me?!" the sand man thundered, voice breaking into a guttural snarl. "Where is your strength? Where is the defiance that shakes the heavens?!"

"P-please…" the man wheezed, choking on the sand that crumbled into his mouth.

"TOO WEEEAAAK!"

With a single, savage twist, the creature snapped the man's neck and hurled him through the nearest apartment door. The wood splintered, and the body skidded across a carpet now soaked with the blood of his comrades.

The sand man's chest heaved with each breath, his voice rising into a half-manic roar. "Is this the era of prophecy? The era where my name, Kharoth of the Endless Dunes, will reign supreme once more? The Fallen Angels whispered lies if this is the best your kind can muster!"

Then, soft shuffling broke the rhythm of his wrath.

From the far end of the corridor, shadows peeled back like curtains as the group of surviving robbers emerged, hesitant and pale.

Their movements were slow, deliberate, each man's eyes darting between the bloodied walls and the sand creature standing amidst the corpses of their comrades.

The scarred man swallowed hard and found his voice first. "…W-who the hell are you?"

The sand creature turned, his molten eyes narrowing as if assessing whether they were even worth acknowledging. When he spoke, his voice was deep and heavy, each word like a weight dropping into a tomb.

"I am Kharoth… once a lord among curse sorcerers. A king of the shifting deserts… born of storms, reborn of death. Your era is new to me, but I recognize your stink. Weaklings who prey on the weak. Rats wearing the guise of men."

The robbers exchanged uneasy glances.

Another one stammered, "You… you're not from… this time?"

Kharoth's chest rose and fell, grains of sand cascading from his shoulders like a miniature dune collapsing.

"I am from the age before the sky was chained. When shadows obeyed the strong, and the earth trembled beneath our footsteps. I was told the chains had broken… that this age would challenge me. And yet—" He gestured to the corpses littering the hall, his claws dripping with blood and sand. "—this is all I find."

Despite his words, a faint, disturbing smile curled his lips. "Perhaps… you will be stronger?"

The scarred man flinched. "S-stronger? Us? We're just…"

"Thieves," Kharoth finished for him, the word rolling off his tongue like poison. "Yes. But even thieves can fight like wolves when cornered. Show me you are not completely useless."

The tax collector, trembling, tried to force a grin. "L-look, we don't want any trouble… We just—uh—wanted to see what happened to our friends…"

"Friends," Kharoth repeated, his tone mocking, tilting his head to the side. "Then join them. Or prove to me that your hearts are not made of mud."

The hallway fell silent except for the faint hiss of sand cascading from his body.

Then a sharp, broken cry shattered the tension.

One of the robbers—a younger man, barely more than twenty—had staggered to the side, his eyes locked on a crumpled figure lying half in a pool of blood. His voice cracked as he fell to his knees, clutching the lifeless form.

"BROTHEEER!" he screamed, the sound raw and jagged, cutting through the hall like shattered glass. His hands shook as he lifted the head of the man, the blood staining his palms.

Kharoth tilted his head, unblinking, watching the display of grief with a curiosity that was almost clinical.

The robbers' fear and grief thickened the hallway like smoke, and somewhere, beyond the walls and broken lights, the city held its breath.