Jonathan had been wandering the Wild Zone for days. Alone. The trees stretched in twisted columns, their gnarled branches clawing toward the overcast sky. Moisture clung to the wide leaves, and the ground gave way beneath his boots with a soft, wet squelch. Hidden thorns beneath moss tore at his soles as he moved in total silence—like the world itself had forgotten that life still lingered here.

Even without his right arm, he faced everything in his path with raw, almost feral determination. The missing limb didn't make him less lethal—if anything, it made each strike more vicious, as if he was determined to make up for the loss with sheer hatred.

Ever since Luke fled the Safe Zone, Bartholomew's men had hunted him like a rabid dog. The Haven might have been a faction apart from Bastion, but Angelica... Angelica had been too beloved for her death to go unpunished. The memory of her burned like the heat of a dead sun—beautiful, radiant, and now... ashes.

Luke no longer had a place in the world. Anywhere he was seen, he'd be killed. And Jonathan wanted to be the one to drive the blade into his chest.

Paul had vanished—and to Jonathan, it didn't matter. The Haven was in chaos, but none of that concerned him anymore. Thiara had healed his leg, and after that, he left. No goodbyes. No explanations. First, he chased Luke like a predator. Then, he gave up on the direct hunt. He knew that bastard could hide—he'd survived a month alone among orcs. That took skill.

Jonathan had never believed Luke's class was Mercenary. The man lied too easily. He cut down a tree. The blade sank with surgical precision, and the trunk fell with a dry crack. A notification appeared. His race and profession levels had increased. And his arm... regenerated.

Jonathan stared at the new limb with cold detachment. He clenched the fist. He was ready now. He would hunt Luke to the ends of the earth.

"I'll find you," he muttered, voice low, "and make you suffer."

That's when he heard the voice.

"Good evening."

Jonathan froze.

His entire body locked up, like a cornered animal. A chill ran down his spine. His swords appeared in hand with a reflexive motion. The steel glinted under the dim light as he turned slowly, eyes narrowed, scanning every shadow. The forest held its breath.

"Who's there?" he growled.

No immediate answer. Only the soft rustling of leaves in the distance, like whispering voices carried on the wind.

Then—light. A faint flicker between the trees. Unsteady. Yellow. Like an old lantern resisting the darkness swallowing everything around it.

He tightened his grip on the hilts. The cold of the metal grounded him—familiar, reassuring. If it was a renegade, he wouldn't hesitate. They were just as guilty in Angelica's fall. Guilty by silence. By inaction.

They all were.

Silent, measured steps brought him closer to the light. Every footfall on leaves, every branch avoided, done with the precision of a seasoned hunter. The forest seemed to close in around him, the trees bending like silent witnesses.

Through the underbrush, his eyes found the source: a simple wooden cabin, half-swallowed by the vegetation. The boards creaked gently in the wind's breath. A lantern swung from a rusted hook by the door, its glass fogged with soot. The light trembled—as if it, too, was afraid.

Sitting on an old chair at the cabin's entrance was an elderly man. Hunched, bones almost visible beneath his weathered skin, he shuffled a deck of cards with trembling, age-stained fingers.

"Oh, my boy..." the old man rasped, coughing hard. His voice sounded like dry wood cracking. "It's getting dark. Dangerous to be wandering out here. If you'd like, you can take shelter in my cabin."

Jonathan stayed where he was. His eyes swept the area around the cabin. No sounds but the living forest—unseen cicadas, rustling leaves, a distant owl. This part of the Wild Zone was barely explored, almost forgotten. Even maps failed here. Perfect for ambushes.

He gripped the hilts of his swords until his knuckles turned white.

"I'm just passing through."

He turned his back to the old man, his steps slow and measured. But he didn't get far.

"Are you sure?" the old man called after him—his voice suddenly clear, far too strong for someone so frail. "It's been so long since I've had company. And you seem like... a good man."

Jonathan stopped. The words struck something deep, resonant.

Good man?

He nearly laughed.

Still, he turned. His eyes locked on the old man, as if trying to see through him. He walked back, each step deliberate and cold. Stopped just a few feet away.

"Are you a Renegade?" he asked, voice like ice. His blades remained raised, ready to split flesh and bone.

The old man didn't flinch. He continued to shuffle his cards with ceremonial slowness.

"Me?" He smiled gently. "You think I have time for those foolish little wars?"

Jonathan said nothing. He stepped forward. Without hesitation, he pressed the edge of his sword against the old man's hand—just enough to threaten a cut.

"But you live here. You've seen them. I want to know where they're going." His voice was a verdict. "Tell me, or you die."

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The old man chuckled—a sound muffled by a fit of deep coughing. His throat wheezed like it was choking on its own memories.

"I see... vengeance, is it?"

Jonathan flinched slightly, startled by the accuracy. He pulled the sword back, but didn't lower it.

"H-how did you know that?"

"I recognize my own."

The old man drew a single card and placed it softly on the rough table in front of him.

"My name is Hanged Man."

The card revealed was dark: a man hanging upside down by one foot. The Hanged Man.

"I listen to what the cards have to say. And right now... they're speaking about you."

Jonathan's brow furrowed. Distrust flickered across his face—but he didn't move.

The old man closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a long breath, and began shuffling again, slower this time. Like each motion carried spiritual weight. With deliberate reverence, he cut the deck. The cards moved like windblown leaves across his calloused fingers.

The atmosphere around the cabin thickened. The world held its breath, as if waiting respectfully for the words that would follow.

Jonathan stood still. His eyes, though burning with the impatience of someone who'd lost everything, remained locked on the ritual. He didn't have room left in his soul for riddles—but something here… was different.

The old man pulled the first card.

The Sun.

A vivid illustration: a golden woman wrapped in rays of light, beaming warmth and life over a blooming field. The paper itself seemed to glow, even though the forest outside had long surrendered to night.

"Ah… now I see," the old man whispered, his voice reverent, almost devotional. "Yes… a powerful reason."

He hadn't spoken to Jonathan—he'd spoken more to himself. But the young man took a step forward, eyes locked on the card.

"What did it say?" he asked, more anxious than he wanted to admit.

The old man rested his hands on the table, each movement accompanied by the creaking of ancient bones. When he finally lifted his gaze, he looked at Jonathan with true intensity for the first time. His eyes were deep-set, but alive. Ancient.

"She showed me a woman. Very beautiful. A presence full of warmth… so radiant she lit up everything around her." He paused, then added, "That woman was your Sun, wasn't she?"

Jonathan felt the air grow heavier, like the forest itself had leaned in to listen. He swallowed hard. His eyes widened slightly, but no words came.

They didn't need to. It was written all over him.

The old man gave a slow nod, as though he'd known all along.

"Of course. It's her death that drives your vengeance."

He drew another card. It slid from his fingers as though it had chosen itself.

The Moon. A hauntingly beautiful image: a lone wolf howling at the full moon, a shadowy path winding behind it, lost among hills and illusions.

"The cards tell me…" the old man murmured, "you're searching for power."

Jonathan remained still, fingers clenched around his sword's hilt. His newly-regenerated arm tingled—as if something dormant within him had stirred at those words.

"Not just brute strength," the man continued, "but something deeper. A power that can bring justice. A power that can reach where the blade alone cannot."

He drew a breath, his expression turning contemplative.

"You're looking for someone."

Jonathan gave a slow nod. Wordless. The rage in his eyes said enough.

"Someone who hides. Who lingers in the shadows, beyond your reach. Someone who…" — he closed his eyes for a moment — "stole the light from your Sun."

The tension radiating from Jonathan's body felt like a thread pulled to its final strain. His breath was slow, but heavy—measured pain, mastered over time.

"But I'm wasting your time," the old man said quietly. "Forgive me. An old man tends to talk too much."

He began to gather the cards with great care, as though each one carried a sacred weight.

But before he could finish, Jonathan's hand came down over his.

"Wait." His voice was rough, rasping from something deeper than his throat. "The cards… what did they say about that person? Tell me."

A faint smile appeared on the old man's lips, almost as if he had been waiting for that very moment. Without haste, he drew another card.

The Wheel of Fortune. Gilded gears and symbols rotated across the image—mythical beasts and masked faces spinning in an eternal cycle of rise and fall. A wheel that gave and took without mercy.

"That person is running," the old man said. "They know there's no sanctuary left. Everything around them has turned to ash." He paused.

"But for now… they're happy."

Jonathan clenched his fists tighter. His hand trembled slightly.

"Because he's still alive," he growled, "and walked away from what he did to the woman I loved."

The old man drew another card.

The Devil. A grotesque figure loomed across the image, chains hanging from its hands. Twisted smiles were frozen on the faces of those shackled at its feet.

"This person..." the old man's voice dropped, grave and sharp, "laughed at your beloved's death. To him, your love was nothing more than a pawn. Something disposable."

Jonathan couldn't stop himself—he stepped forward. The old chair creaked beneath the sudden shift of tension.

His blood was boiling. The veins in his new arm throbbed, as if reacting on their own. Every word pounded into his skull like a nail.

The old man didn't flinch. He drew another card.

Justice. A blindfolded woman stood firm, a sword in one hand and a scale in the other. The image radiated cold authority.

"He escaped the judgment you meant to give him," the old man said. "But that doesn't mean he'll escape again."

Jonathan took a deep breath. His eyes burned red with fury—but deeper than that... there was something else. Certainty.

The old man tilted his head slightly. His gaze dropped to the final card, still face-down at the top of the deck.

"The world is sealed," he said, voice muted. "There are no safe places left. No sanctuaries. No neutral zones."

A colder wind moved through the trees, sliding between bark and shadow, brushing the clearing with a subtle, almost imperceptible chill. The lantern hanging by the cabin door swayed, casting flickering silhouettes across the wooden walls.

The forest, somehow... was listening.

"He wants to escape," the old man went on, his tone solemn now. "He longs to return home. But…"

With ceremonial calm, the old man turned over the last card.

The Hanged Man. The same symbol as before.

Time stopped.

The world held its breath. The cicadas fell silent. The trees stood frozen. Not even the wind dared to pass between them.

"So then, Jonathan..." the old man's voice was a whisper from among the dead, "if what the cards say is true... all you need to do is stop him."

Jonathan's eyes remained locked on the card, as if it were a mirror into his soul. A man hung upside down, arms outstretched. A calm expression on his face—accepting fate, even as tragedy wrapped around him.

"Even if it means..." the old man laid a hand over the symbol on the card, "no one escapes this world."

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