Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 95: A bond that burns

Chapter 95: A bond that burns

Amari stood now, heart thudding steady, gaze sweeping across the room like a final invitation.

"All of us together... we can handle whatever they throw at us," he said. "You know it. We’ve done the impossible more than once. This time, at least we get paid for it."

But they still sat still. Still unsure. The fire cracked in the center of the room, popping softly—almost like it was filling the silence for them.

Finally, Amari exhaled and stepped toward the door.

"Doesn’t matter," he murmured. "I’ll go alone, like I always have."

His fingers brushed the handle—

"Wait."

Maverick stood.

"If you go solo, you’ll trip over the front gate and botch the whole job before breakfast," he said with a smirk.

Milo chuckled from the couch. "He’s not lying. You forget your boots last time we raided that convoy."

Amari turned, a flash of disbelief in his eyes.

Shylo stepped in with a slight smile. "You’re not getting rid of us that easy. If we go down—we do it loud. Together."

Johnny didn’t speak, but he gave a sharp nod, already rising to his feet.

Four.

All eyes turned to the last.

Kenneth sat, arms folded, eyes locked on the floor. You could almost hear the war in his head.

"Ken," Maverick said, firm. "We’re not walking out without you."

A long silence.

Then Kenneth stood, his usual fire softened—but not dimmed.

"I still think it’s a dumb idea," he muttered. "But if someone’s gonna keep you idiots alive, guess it’ll have to be me."

Relief broke through the tension like daylight.

...

The descent beneath the Dragunov mansion was steep and silent—stone stairs wrapped in echo and cold.

The man who met them at the entrance said nothing. No name. No title. He was tall, broad, dressed in black with a strange silver insignia burned into his collar. His eyes didn’t scan them with interest; they calculated weight.

He led them down past torchlit halls, deeper and deeper until the air grew stale. The underground was built like a maze—iron doors, vaulted chambers, the ceiling low enough to feel intentional.

Each of them was shown to a separate door.

"Inside," the man said, monotone. "Change into the clothes provided. Training begins at first light."

Then he left.

No more words.

Amari stepped inside his room. It was spartan—a metal bed bolted to the ground, a small basin, and folded neatly atop it, a new uniform: dark, precise, almost military. A Dragunov crest sewn over the heart.

He didn’t say anything.

None of them did.

Even as they settled into their rooms and began to change, a sound floated through the corridor—low, choked.

A child crying.

Then another.

From behind one of the iron doors at the far end of the hall. Soft sobs, muffled but constant, like the walls had grown used to it.

No one spoke of it.

But they all heard.

And they all knew.

...

The hallway opened into a chamber carved from black stone—part armory, part museum of war. Racks of weapons stretched along the walls: sleek rifles with glowing cores, serrated blades humming with latent magic, arcane grenades sealed in glass. The room radiated power.

The man turned to them, his posture stiff, voice like iron wrapped in frost.

"My name is Sergei. I am assistant to Lady Dragunov and overseer of your conditioning. You will speak when spoken to. You will fight when commanded. You will survive... or be recycled."

He clapped twice.

From a sealed wall behind him, compartments hissed open one by one, revealing weapons—one per recruit.

Sergei turned to face them individually.

Amari — "The Pulse Daggers" > Twin curved daggers forged from tremorsteel, designed to react to subtle vibrations and mana signatures. Light as a whisper. They hum in sync with heartbeats, letting Amari track pressure shifts and intent. Built for close-range blitz strikes and evasive acrobatics. > Stealth. Speed. Precision. No wasted movement.

Maverick — "The Bastion Blade" > A massive greatsword with a retractable buckler built into the hilt. Too heavy for most, but Maverick’s control allows him to command battlefields. When planted, the blade pulses a resonance that amplifies his Unco’s range. Designed for anchoring and defending, not chasing. > Hold the line. Command the tide.

Milo — "Veil Knives" > A set of throwing blades etched with cloaking runes. When thrown in sequence, they create blind spots that disorient foes and allow his clones to move undetected. When embedded into walls or ground, they emit muffling fields. > Every step hidden. Every strike delayed until it’s too late.

Shylo — "Umbra Spire" > A sleek black spear that bends like shadow itself. Infused with an obsidian crystal that reacts to his Unco. It phases through light, allows him to channel or merge with shadow more seamlessly. The spear’s length shifts with the depth of surrounding shadows. > No light. No sound. Only silence between strikes.

Kenneth — "Breaker Gauntlets" > Iron-reinforced gauntlets bristling with absorption runes. Every impact stores kinetic energy, feeding his Unco. The more he’s hit or hits back, the hotter the gauntlets burn—until they glow. When overloaded, they can punch shockwaves. > Anger becomes power. Bruises become fire.

Johnny — "Echo Spire Blades" > Dual daggers infused with chronite—a rare crystal that resonates with temporal stutters. When Johnny activates his time-freeze, the blades extend into short swords, letting him move with precision before the world catches up. Compact, deadly, and built for flash engagements. > Two seconds. A lifetime of possibilities.

Sergei watched them silently as they each lifted their weapons—some with awe, some with caution, all with understanding.

Maverick stepped forward, arms folded, eyes narrowing at Sergei.

"How do you know so much about us?" he asked.

Sergei was already halfway through locking one of the weapon cases when he paused and turned with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"I know everyone that steps into the House of Dragunov," he said, tapping two fingers against his temple. "It’s part of the job."

Maverick didn’t like that answer. But he didn’t push it either.

"Dismissed," Sergei added, voice slicing through the tension.

One by one, the boys filtered back into the corridor. Their footsteps echoed off the stone, minds heavy with what they’d just touched, what they’d just accepted.

By the time they reached their rooms, food trays had been delivered—still warm, surprisingly rich. Steamed meat, root vegetables, flatbread. Luxury disguised as ration. Comfort served with conditions.

They ate in silence.

Not because they were tired.

But because this place left no room for laughter.

Later, Amari had just folded his uniform and set his dagger hilts near the basin when his door creaked open again.

Sergei stepped inside.

Still crisp. Still cold.

"Tomorrow," he said without ceremony, "you’re leaving. Your first mission starts at dawn."

Amari turned to face him. "Already?"

Sergei nodded. "You’ve seen the mansion. Slept under its stone. That’s more than most recruits ever do."

He stepped closer. "There will be no more rooms. No warm meals brought to the door. No names spoken kindly. Out there, you serve the family. In blood and silence."

Amari didn’t hesitate.

"I understand."

"Good." Sergei paused at the door. "Your brothers have been told. You move as a unit. Fail as one, die as many."

Amari stood there—heart steady, blades ready—knowing tomorrow wasn’t a new beginning.

It was the point of no return.