Emmet observed the unfolding chaos from a distance, a silent, unbothered spectator. The townsfolk were spiraling in fear, but their panic wasn't his concern. With a casual stretch, he turned on his heel, heading back toward the bar. "Man, I haven't eaten for days. I could eat a whole cow," he murmured.

  The bar was quiet, abandoned save for the lingering scent of smoke and spilled liquor. He knocked twice. "Anyone there?" Silence answered. "Oh great. Unlimited food and drink for me, then." He scanned the shelves, selecting fruit-based, sweet drinks, eschewing alcohol for sharp flavors over bitter intoxication. "Beef. My favorite." No meals were prepared. He simply grabbed raw meat, expertly flipping slabs over an open flame. Inside, he was perfectly content, even as the town outside descended into madness. The savory aroma filled the bar, thick and rich. He dipped slices into various sauces, casually testing each combination. "What kind of meat is this? Thought it was beef... Eh, who cares. Tastes great." Outside, the world spiraled into chaos. Inside, Emmet feasted, untouched by the growing panic.

  The town square was suffocating under a pall of dread. Douglas stood on the wooden platform, facing a populace with no choice but to listen. "We do this quickly," he declared, his voice cutting through the tension. "We must decide now." There was no time for moralizing; this was about survival. "We will do a raffle draw," he announced. A ripple of murmurs spread; some had expected a more honorable system, but no one objected. "Those who wish to be included, step forward. If you choose not to participate, go back to your homes now." Hesitation hung in the air, broken by quiet whispers among families making silent, desperate decisions. Slowly, one by one, names were scribbled onto slips of paper and dropped into the draw box.

  Yet, among them lurked wolves disguised as sheep. Not everyone had accepted their grim fate. Hardened criminals and opportunists watched the names being recorded, eyes gleaming with greedy intent. "If my name isn't picked, I'll kill to replace it." This was the chilling understanding among them. They wouldn't act yet, but once the names were drawn, the killing would begin.

  From a distant rooftop, Divina watched, her glowing eyes flickering against the deepening dusk. Beside her, another Bloodbound noble observed the scene with a bored sigh. "Why give them time?" he mused. "We could attack now." Divina's smile was lazy, amused, thoroughly entertained. "Ah, you're quite the bore, aren't you?" She traced a slow circle in the air, watching the humans below scatter like ants, deluded into thinking they controlled their fate. The noble exhaled, understanding dawning. "And the Totemwalker?" "Ahh," Divina hummed, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "That pilgrim. That Demoncrusher. He killed our kind in an instant. He is a factor." She paused, her gaze distant. "I want to see how he reacts before we make a decision. I don't know how strong he truly is. But I do know one thing." Her smile widened, unsettling. "I can't beat him alone." The noble paused, realization settling in. "So this delay—this entire charade—is just to observe him?" Divina's grin turned sharp. "Right." And as the town fell deeper into panic, as the names were written, as murder began festering in the hearts of desperate men, Divina simply waited—watching, enjoying the spectacle, letting time orchestrate the destruction for her.

  The leader stepped forward, solemnly declaring his exclusion from the draw. "Ten will be chosen," he announced. One by one, names were pulled: Rosa, Lydia, Elias, Vincent, Mara, Theo, Silvia, Damian, Hugo, and Elara. A murmur rippled through the crowd as the chosen few stared at each other, relief warring with disbelief. The wealthy, excluded, immediately tried to bargain, flashing coins and promises. But money held no sway here. No one dared sell their slot. "Please accept your fate," the leader stated firmly. "The draw was fair."

  But acceptance was not universal. The lucky few instinctively recoiled, wary of the rising tension. Then, chaos struck. A man, face contorted in desperation, shrieked, "I'll take his place!" as he lunged with a knife, plunging it into Damian's chest. Screams tore through the crowd, people scattering. Yet some didn't—some saw opportunity. More rushed forward, aiming for new victims, while others fought to defend loved ones—a father shielding his daughter, a husband standing between his wife and approaching blades. The square erupted in madness.

  On a nearby rooftop, Divina watched with mild amusement, leaning against the railing. "Fools," she mused. "We don't even have to do a thing. They'll kill each other for us." Her laughter was sharp, chilling. Then, with a smirk, she straightened. "Why not give them a hand?" Moments later, she appeared at the scene—not as the monstrous force she truly was, but in the guise of civility, a figure of poised authority. She ascended the platform beside Douglas, her voice radiating calculated ease. "Well, well," she purred, surveying the broken crowd. "It seems you've reached an impasse." Douglas could only stare, speechless. Divina turned to the people of Black Hollow, addressing them with calculated ease. "It appears survival means more to you than fairness," she said smoothly. "So why not modify our arrangement? What if more of you could be free?"

  Emmet arrived like a shadow, moving through the burgeoning chaos with measured steps. His gaze swept over the carnage—the fallen, the desperate, the ones still clinging to their slim chances. He stepped past the bodies without hesitation, his massive totem resting against his shoulder like an unshakable burden. "Ah, Demoncrusher," Divina's voice rang out, smooth as silk. "I'm glad you decided to join us. We were just about to refine our arrangement." Emmet barely spared her a glance. "I came to see the results of the draw. And this," he gestured vaguely at the bloodied remains of Black Hollow's people, "seems to be the outcome. Oh well. Don't mind me. Carry on."

  Divina chuckled, unfazed. "Oh, well then, where was I?" The ever-present figure beside her leaned in. "You said more could be freed." Divina's lips curled into a thoughtful smirk. "Right, yes." Then, raising her voice so all could hear, she declared, "I have decided. Fifty percent. Half of you will be free—no extensions. Tomorrow, the gates will open." The stunned silence was brief. Emmet let out a soft breath, feigning consideration. "Tomorrow? That's a bit abrupt. How about one week?" Divina arched a brow, intrigued. "A week? That's quite the stretch." He met her gaze, amused. "I'm haggling." She let the game play out, folding her arms with feigned contemplation. "Three days," she countered. "And that's final." Emmet glanced at Douglas, the leader's skin pale beneath the weight of expectation. It was clear—accept or risk something worse. Douglas swallowed hard. "We... we accept. Three days. Please, grant us three days." Divina leaned back, savoring the moment. "Oh? Since you're so sincere in your begging... fine. Three days. No more extensions." Then she turned to Emmet, tilting her head ever so slightly. "Well played, Totemwalker." With that, she departed, graceful as ever, her entourage following close behind. Emmet lingered, watching the crowd unravel. A smile tugged at his lips—not in cruelty, but in something unplaceable. And that was enough. To those around him, to the desperate survivors, he was just another monster playing games with their lives.

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  Emmet stepped onto the platform, his eyes locked onto Douglas—a silent request weighted with expectation. Douglas, pale and trembling, understood immediately. He hesitated, then gave a sharp, desperate nod, a clear sign of his unwilling surrender to Emmet's demand to take charge. "Please do," he whispered. Emmet exhaled, turning toward the restless crowd. "Attention, everyone." His voice was strong, but the murmurs and unrest drowned him out. He gestured, and technicians quickly amplified the sound. "Hello. Good evening." The hum of voices dimmed slightly as Emmet continued. "Starting now, I'm taking over." He let the words settle before continuing. "We need to gather as many people here as possible. Quickly."

  Then, shifting effortlessly into the tone of a seasoned speaker, he addressed the crowd as if this were a presentation rather than an impending catastrophe. "The Bloodbounds—half-human, half-demon. They've sold their souls for power. You've seen their cruelty, but I've faced them firsthand. I've fought, killed, survived. But now, there are too many." He turned to the Luminaries. "I need confirmation. Report to the people—tell them what you saw." Silence. Disdain hung thick in the air. The Luminaries regarded him with veiled hostility, refusing to acknowledge him. "None?" Emmet asked, unfazed. His gaze settled on Conor, the highest-ranking among them, present during the parley. "You saw them," Emmet prompted. A tense pause. Then, reluctantly, Conor cleared his throat. "Yes. It's true. Their numbers... I couldn't count. But they're too many." Emmet nodded. "Thank you."

  Then, his tone shifted. "Now, does anyone object to me taking charge?" The response was immediate. Angry voices rose—some screaming outright insults, others demanding why they should listen to him at all. The Luminaries were the most vocal, their contempt clear. Emmet smirked. "Ah. Lively tonight, aren't we?" His stance remained calm, but there was a glint in his eyes—something unreadable. "I suppose talking nicely won't work." Then, in a single movement, he leaped from the platform. A pulse of force radiated outward upon his landing, a gravitational push sending people stumbling, forming a wide circle of empty space around him. "If you refuse to cooperate," he said, his voice carrying over the stunned murmurs, "then I'll do this instead." The air shifted—heavy with something primal. Emmet raised his earth totem. It expanded, swelling in size until it towered over him—ten times its usual mass. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the air, then followed, leaping high to meet its descent. For a fleeting moment, his silhouette against the sky was monstrous. Then, with precision, he positioned himself—bringing the totem crashing down. The impact sent tremors racing through the ground. The earth split, cracks rippling outward in growing, chaotic rings. People screamed, scattered, seeking safety from the unstable terrain. When the dust settled, ten bodies lay crumpled—those who had murdered for a place in the draw, now nothing more than remnants of judgment. Emmet landed lightly, lifting the totem back onto his shoulder before ascending the platform once more. Silence reigned. Fear, raw and palpable, clung to the air. His voice was calm—almost professional—as he addressed them once more. "Now that I have your attention—kindly listen." Then, like a madman indulging his own amusement, he announced, "Fifty percent. I need half of you to step forward." A pause. "You have ten seconds." Then the countdown began. "Ten. Nine. Eight..."

  The panic was immediate. As the countdown began, people surged forward, desperate to be among the fifty percent Emmet demanded. "Me! Please, take me!" "Take my son! My mother!" "Please—I'll do anything!" Voices cracked in terror, bodies pressed together, all scrambling to secure their survival. Even the Luminaries, once defiant, understood—no matter how many of them stood against him, they wouldn't win. Not against him.

  Before the count reached five, Emmet lifted a hand. "There, there," he mused, amusement laced in his tone. "Now you're cooperating." Then, his expression darkened. "Silence." His voice didn't need the amplifier. Something in it—some force, some unseen resonance—carried his words across the entire town. A pulse through the air, as if sound itself bent to his will. Everyone listened. "Do you understand now?" His tone was measured, calm, but heavy with implication. "This is chaos. They've been playing with you—just as I did." Then, he gestured downward. "Look below you. Tell me, what do you see?" Hesitant murmurs spread as eyes turned downward, gazes locking onto the fractured earth—the gaping wound left by his totem. Shock rippled through the crowd. There, within the ruin of the ground, was a massive sigil—a grotesque, ancient binding circle, its form etched in blood. Inscribed runes pulsed faintly, feeding on the carnage.

  Emmet allowed the weight of realization to settle before speaking again. "What you're looking at is a sacrificial seal—an altar designed to siphon energy from the dead. Blood fuels it, death strengthens it. It does not matter if the victim was consumed by demons, murdered by humans, or killed in desperation—if they died within its range, they were offered as sacrifice." The revelation sent a chill through the air. "The demons never intended to let any of you live. You were bound to death from the moment the ritual began." Murmurs turned to terrified whispers. He surveyed the mark with a practiced eye. "Judging by its state, it has finally accumulated enough power. The Bloodbounds needed time to absorb it, to harness its strength. It isn't complete yet, but after three days..." He exhaled slowly, as if calculating. "After three days, they believe they'll be strong enough to defeat me." He let that sink in before adding, "You see? They've been playing with you all this time." A woman gasped. A man cursed under his breath.

  "Why now?" Emmet echoed the inevitable question. He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "The Malice Bloom is upon us." Silence. "The Herald of Chaos has begun to reveal itself. I've heard reports, sightings from other cities—and I've confirmed it. It's coming. A week, maybe less." People stiffened. "This is why the Bloodbounds are rushing things," he continued. "Once the Malice Bloom arrives, they won't be able to complete the ritual. They need every ounce of power before it happens." A long, suffocating pause stretched across the square. Then, a single, broken voice whispered, "We were never meant to survive..."

  Emmet let the weight of his statement settle over the crowd. "We have two problems—the Bloodbounds and the Malice Bloom." His gaze swept the uneasy faces before him. "Right now, the immediate threat is outside these walls." Conor scoffed, arms crossed, his disdain barely concealed. "So what do you propose we do?" His tone carried challenge, skepticism. Emmet's smile was slow, deliberate—like he had already won the argument. "We fight." The words landed like a hammer. Some flinched. Others exchanged uneasy glances. Conor let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. "Bold words," he muttered. Emmet tilted his head slightly. "Bold but necessary." He stepped forward, allowing the tension to build. "Your only other option is waiting for them to come for you. And they will." Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant. Then, like clockwork, the murmurs began. Were they truly capable? Could they even stand against the Bloodbounds? What chance did they have? Emmet exhaled, flexing his grip around his totem. "I don't need all of you to fight," he said, his tone smooth, assured. "Just the ones who don't want to die waiting."

  Emmet stood unmoving, his presence suffocating against the silence. "Let me make this clear," he said, his voice razor-sharp. "You have two choices—die at the hands of those demons or die fighting them." The words sliced through the crowd like cold steel. "I don't care which path you take." He tilted his head slightly, scanning their terrified faces. "But know this—if you choose to fight, I will stand alongside you." A pause. He let the tension settle, let the weight of inevitability seep into the bones of those around him. Then, his expression shifted—his aura darkened, something primal bleeding into his presence. "But if you choose to submit... if you choose cowardice..." His gaze was ruthless, calculated. "Then I propose this—those fifty percent who wish to be saved... step forward." The hesitation was thick—choking. No one moved. Emmet exhaled, slow and deliberate. Then, with the voice of judgment itself, he declared, "I will kill you myself." The words slammed into the crowd with horrifying finality.