The remaining two opponents exploded into motion at once, a synchronized storm of rage and steel under the throbbing crimson sky.
"Let's kill him, Farie!" the one with the rebar snarled, already charging, his weapon raised high like a guillotine.
"Mmm!" Farie—the one who'd sworn vengeance for Tony—answered with a guttural grunt, scooping his fallen axe from the blood-slick ground,abandoning the jagged shard.
In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, eyes wild with grief-fueled fury.
Ragna's world narrowed to razor edges: pain screaming from his broken arm, blood pouring from his ruined mouth in thick ropes, every breath a wet rasp through shredded lips and shattered teeth. But Mimi's earlier scream still echoed in his skull like a war drum. *Not yet. Not while she's still screaming my name.*
He targeted Farie first—the closer, the angrier, the one whose swing would carry the most hate.
Farie lunged, axe arcing down in a vicious overhead chop meant to split Ragna from crown to sternum. The blade sang through the air, a low whistle of death.
Ragna didn't retreat. He surged *forward* instead—straight into the killing arc—reading the flow of the attack like he'd read opponents in the dojo a lifetime ago. As the axe descended, Ragna slipped left, body twisting in a fluid pivot that used Farie's own momentum against him. The blade hissed past his ear, close enough to shear a lock of hair and nick the skin of his shoulder.
In the same heartbeat, Ragna's knife flashed upward—impossibly fast, a silver blur born of desperation and muscle memory. The edge caught Farie's exposed throat in a clean, surgical line from collarbone to jaw. Blood erupted in a bright, arterial fan, spraying across Ragna's face in hot droplets. Farie didn't even scream at first—his eyes simply widened in shock as his windpipe parted.
Ragna didn't stop. He planted his good foot and drove a brutal kick into the small of Farie's back. The impact shoved the dying man forward like a ragdoll, boots skidding on blood-smeared permacrete.
"Farie, what are you doing?!" the rebar-wielder shouted, confusion cracking his voice.
Farie staggered two steps, hands rising instinctively to his throat. Blood poured between his fingers in pulsing rivers. "A… A… A…" The sound was wet, bubbling, more air than voice. Then his knees buckled. He dropped to the ground face-first, body twitching once, twice, before going still in a spreading crimson pool that drank the red light from above.
The rebar-man froze for one fatal second—eyes locked on his fallen comrade, mouth open in disbelief.
Ragna saw the opening and took it.
He charged, broken arm dangling uselessly, blood streaming from his mouth in dark strings. The man recovered too late—raising his studded bar in a clumsy block. Ragna ducked under the swing, drove upward, and rammed his knife through the soft underside of the enemy's jaw. The blade punched up through the mouth, through the tongue, and into the brainpan with a sickening crunch of bone and cartilage.
"Yo… You…" The words came out garbled, blood and spit bubbling around the hilt. Ragna twisted once—hard—then yanked the knife free in a wet spray. The body collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, eyes already vacant.
Ragna stood there for a fractured heartbeat, chest heaving, blood dripping from his chin in steady plops. His vision swam—black spots dancing at the edges—but Mimi's voice cut through like a lifeline.
"Ragna! Ragna!! Ragna!!!"
She was still struggling in the woman's grip, kicking, screaming, tiny fists pounding uselessly against the arm clamped around her waist.
The boss—Scar-face—hadn't moved during the frenzy. He'd watched it all with the detached calm of someone who'd seen death enough times to be bored by it. Now he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, a long, curved blade already drawn.
Ragna tried to turn, tried to raise his knife—but his body betrayed him. Exhaustion, blood loss, shock. Too slow.
The boss struck like a viper.
The first stab punched into Ragna's stomach just below the ribs—hot, searing, a bloom of fire that stole his breath. He gasped, a wet gurgle through his torn mouth.
The second followed before he could react—higher, twisting. Ragna's knees buckled.
The third was almost casual—straight through the same wound, deeper, grinding against bone. Ragna's knife slipped from numb fingers, clattering to the ground.
He fell.
Hard.
The permacrete rushed up to meet him. Pain detonated everywhere at once—stomach, arm, mouth, lungs screaming for air that wouldn't come. Blood pooled warm beneath him, spreading outward in a dark halo.
"Sheesh," Scar-face sighed, wiping his blade on Ragna's cloak like it was nothing more than dirt. "Dumb losers, getting themselves killed by some kid. Just when I thought they wouldn't fall any lower. Hah."
"Boss," the woman called, still holding a thrashing Mimi. "Shouldn't we finish him off?"
"Nah." Scar-face glanced down at Ragna's twitching form, lips curling. "Let him die slowly. More poetic that way."
They turned, dragging Mimi with them. Her screams grew fainter as they disappeared into the crimson haze.
"Ragna! Ragna!!!"
The sound tore at him worse than any blade.
*Move. Move. Move. Move. Move.*
The word hammered in his skull, frantic, animal. His good hand clawed at the ground, nails scraping permacrete, trying to drag his ruined body forward. Blood slicked his palm, his vision tunneled to black at the edges.
*Mimi…*
Darkness rolled in like a tide, thick and final.
His last conscious thought was not pain, not fear.
It was rage—pure, white-hot, bottomless.
And somewhere deep beneath the earth, in the places where the crimson harbingers had burrowed, something answered.
A faint pulse—low, rhythmic, like a second heartbeat stirring in his veins.
Then nothing.
Only black.