The three-headed frog croaked, a guttural, echoing rumble that vibrated through the night air, and its central head snapped open its jaws.

From the darkness of its mouth, a familiar glint of metal emerged—a sleek, blackened archery bow that shimmered with a faint, ominous light.

Vonjo's eyes narrowed with satisfaction as he extended his hand, letting the frog drop the weapon into his grip with a wet clunk.

The bow felt warm, alive, like it resonated with the pulse of his curse energy.

He rolled his shoulders, the soft leather of his coat whispering against itself, and took a slow breath. His voice, steady and clear, rose in the dead street.

"Alright… let's try this again. Are you going to attack me, or are you just here to waste my time?"

The bandaged mummies gave no answer. Their eyeless, hollow faces stared—or seemed to stare—past him, their posture unmoving.

Their weapons, crude but deadly, stayed raised, yet there was no twitch of muscle, no lunging strike.

Then Vonjo's aura surged.

A low hum filled the air as his curse energy erupted from his body in a violent flare, spiraling like a cyclone of dark light.

The street itself seemed to shiver beneath the oppressive pressure.

Loose debris—shards of glass, scraps of bandage from the dead, splinters of wood—lifted into the air as his power exploded outward.

His dark violet hair whipped back in the invisible wind of his aura, and the three-headed frog croaked once more, its throats vibrating like war drums.

Vonjo let the black energy roll off his skin, his silhouette now a shadowy figure outlined in writhing, nightmarish light.

He imbued the bow with that energy, dark streams crawling along the limbs of the weapon and coiling around the string. His voice was sharp, ringing across the silent massacre site: "Go on. Attack me now. Let's see if you're as fearless as you look."

Inwardly, he mulled over the sand man.

That relic… underestimating the curse sorcerers of this era like we're children. I can't just let that slide. This fight wasn't about the mummies—it was about testing the will of the era itself. He wanted to make a statement.

But then… something unexpected happened.

One of the mummies shifted. Not toward him, but away.

Vonjo's eyes narrowed as he caught the first subtle turn of its head.

Slowly, the bandaged body pivoted on creaking, uneven legs and started walking.

Away from Vonjo.

Away from their confrontation?

"What?" he muttered under his breath, dumbfounded.

Then, another turned. And another.

One by one, the mummies began to shuffle in the opposite direction, their weapons lowering, their glowing eyes dimming as if he were nothing more than a ghost in their periphery.

Vonjo, who hoped to face assassins, blood curses, and horrors that would make a man claw his eyes out, was left speechless.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said flatly, his voice echoing across the desolate street.

He took a step forward, frustration bubbling in his chest. "Hey! I'm talking to you!" he called, his voice rising. "I'm right here! Big, glowing aura, scary three-headed frog, guy who killed your prey? Hello?"

No response. Only the faint rustling of their bandages and the dull scrape of their weapons dragging against concrete.

Vonjo clenched his jaw. He wasn't done.

"Oi! Don't you dare ignore me!" he barked, pointing the bow at their retreating backs. "You ugly sacks of moldy cloth—you invade my fun, try to threaten me, and now you just… what, walk away like I'm not worth your time?!"

Still, nothing.

"You think I'm some side character in the background of your little horror show?!" His voice boomed louder, reverberating down the narrow street. He was hurling insult after insult, words sharp as blades, each one meant to provoke. "You slaughter a few trash robbers and think you're kings? Look at me when I'm talking to you! I said look at me!"

Even his frog joined in, letting out a series of deep, guttural croaks that shook the air like distant thunder.

Yet the mummies did not falter.

They simply walked, single-minded, dragging the corpses of the robbers and vanishing slowly into the fog at the end of the street, like ghosts returning to their graves.

Vonjo finally fell silent, his shoulders heaving with the effort of shouting at things that didn't care if he lived or died.

The faint stench of blood and decay clung to the air as the last bandaged figure disappeared into the shadows.

Then, slowly, a glint flickered in his eyes.

A smile crept across his face, sharp and menacing. His fingers itched against the bowstring, his bloodline thrumming with the desire for action. "Alright… if you won't acknowledge me," he murmured, voice low and dangerous, "then I'll make you acknowledge me."

He raised the bow, nocked an arrow infused with swirling black curse energy, and drew the string all the way back until it hummed under the pressure.

His aura flared, streaking like a dark halo around him, and with a whisper of intent, he released.

The arrow whistled through the air like a predator's scream.

—

Meanwhile, deep within the apartment where blood still dripped from shattered walls, the sand man stood among a carpet of corpses.

His massive form, composed of swirling, granular dust and compacted sand, pulsed with irritation. His voice boomed, echoing against cracked walls and broken windows.

"Is this it?" he roared to no one in particular, his words full of scorn and disappointment. "This… this is the era of prophecy? These are the cursed sorcerers who were meant to rival the legends of old? Pathetic! Worthless!"

His sand-coated fists slammed against the walls, leaving dents and cascading grit as he paced through the hallway. "In my era, the cursed wielders would tear the sky apart with a single duel! Their auras could drown armies in despair! We were warriors—no, we were kings of the abyss! And this… this is what I am reborn to witness?"

He glanced around at the limp, broken bodies of the robbers, most of them only half recognizable. The smell of blood mixed with dust, the air heavy with the stench of death.

"I crushed them without effort," he muttered, voice tinged with bitter disdain. "I wanted to feel the struggle. I wanted to taste the fear of equals. I wanted to see if this era was worthy of the tablet's prophecy… and instead, I find weaklings."

His words grew louder, shaking with anger and disappointment. "If this is all, then the prophecy is a lie. A farce! A—" He cut himself off, drawing in a harsh, grainy breath.

He had just realized something.

His glowing eyes swept across the floor, scanning the bodies. The dust in the air stilled, his towering frame stiffening. "Wait," he muttered, voice dropping to a growl. "Where are… the rest of them?"

He extended his senses, grains of sand scattering through the apartment, feeling every corridor and stairwell.

A moment later, his expression twisted with rage and disbelief.

Through his telepathic link, he reached out to the remnants of his cursed servants.

Return to me.

No answer.

He tried again, a sharp mental command that would have snapped any underling to attention in his era. I said, return to me!

A sudden jolt slammed into his awareness. He felt it—the tether of his command snapping. One of them was gone. Not just dead. Killed in an instant, its curse extinguished like a candle.

His glowing eyes flared as his voice rumbled through the abandoned apartment, rattling the loose window frames.

"One of them… was killed in an instant?"