Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 98: Mercy later

Chapter 98: Mercy later

The village had gone full storm.

Shadows sprinted between flames, steel flashed in streetlight. The team moved with practiced chaos—tight formations breaking apart and snapping back together like a dance they’d rehearsed for years.

Johnny blocked a blade with his dagger and spun to cover Shylo’s blind side. Milo’s clone backed up Kenneth, setting distractions so he could land clean hits with his blazing gauntlets.

The villagers fought to protect her. But they weren’t trained. Some were barely armed. Farmers. Fathers.

And still—blood hit the walls all the same.

Maverick pushed forward, the princess slung over his shoulder. She fought like a wildcat, kicking, squirming, biting—but he didn’t let go. His arm locked around her waist like steel, and he still managed to parry every strike that came their way.

Then the ground shifted.

Fast.

Like the dirt itself twisted beneath them.

"Shit—!" Johnny slipped sideways, barely landing on his feet.

From across the burning square, a man stepped out—gravel swirling up around his boots like a living storm. Pebbles floated mid-air, spinning tight circles in his palm.

His Unco: Gravel Grip.

He launched a pulse of stone, and it slammed into Kenneth’s legs. Not enough to take him down—but enough to piss him off.

The man didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. Just raised his hand again—and the ground answered.

"Keep going," Amari said suddenly, stepping forward.

Maverick glanced back. "What?"

"I’ve got him. You keep moving."

"You sure?"

Amari nodded, mask catching firelight. "Mission first."

Maverick stared at him for a beat, then turned and bolted.

"Let’s move!" he shouted to the others.

The team peeled off fast—Johnny throwing a flash flare over his shoulder to keep the enemy blind for a few seconds.

Amari stood still, watching as the earth curled and cracked beneath the other man’s feet.

The village burned behind him—smoke curling into the moonlight—but Amari didn’t look back. His focus stayed locked on the man in front of him.

The villager wasn’t a trained soldier, but his stance told Amari everything he needed: he’d fought before, and he wasn’t planning to die easy.

The ground around him shifted—crumbling gravel spiraling upward like a living creature. Bits of stone hovered at his sides, rotating in slow, angry loops.

Amari exhaled and loosened his shoulders, twin Pulse Daggers humming gently in his hands. His sixth sense buzzed—mana coiling in the air like static. This man wasn’t as strong as Maverick or Johnny, but dense. Tough. The earth pulsed with him.

They circled.

Then the man struck first.

He stomped hard and swept his hand forward—pebbles burst from the dirt like a shotgun blast. Amari rolled under the volley, sharp stone scraping across his shoulder as he moved. Before his feet even hit the ground, he launched forward—fast.

Too fast.

He slid low and slashed—

But the ground shifted beneath him.

The man clenched his fist and the gravel near Amari’s feet erupted, throwing him slightly off balance. The blade barely missed flesh, slicing cloth instead. The villager pivoted and swung his arm like a whip, slamming Amari’s ribs with a concentrated arc of jagged stones.

Amari coughed, spun backward—and vanished behind a shed.

The man chased him, circling carefully.

The shed’s shadow trembled.

Then Amari was behind him—silent and fast.

He slashed for the knees.

The man spun just in time, a barrier of rubble bursting up defensively, deflecting the hit with a crack. A counter-blast of sand hit Amari’s eyes—but he was ready.

Eyes closed.

Instinct wide open.

Amari used the vibration—heartbeats in the dust. He lunged forward, blindly, his blade kissing the man’s arm—drawing a shallow cut. The man yelled and crushed the ground beneath them both.

Sharp earth exploded upward.

Amari disappeared again.

This time, when he reappeared, he was above—leaping off a broken clothesline post, dagger spun backward. He twisted midair and landed on the man’s shoulders, drove one blade into the floating gravel ring circling the man’s chest—disrupting the control field.

Gravel fell like dead birds.

The man stumbled.

Amari didn’t give him a second.

One swift move—his dagger tracing the neck in a clean line.

He caught the body as it dropped, lowering it gently. Breathing hard. Bleeding slightly. Covered in dust.

The gravel went still.

Amari moved fast.

The screams were distant now—buried behind smoke and flame, echoing somewhere in the back of his head. His body ached, a streak of blood ran down his arm from the gravel strike, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The woods were ahead, and so were the others.

He broke through the tree line, breath sharp.

They were there—Johnny, Milo, Shylo, Kenneth, and Maverick—just beyond the ridge where the trees started to thicken. The girl was still tied, sitting against a tree, breathing hard but silent. The glow from the fire behind them lit everyone in dim orange.

Maverick looked up as Amari stepped into view.

"Thought we’d have to come drag your corpse," he muttered, smirking but not quite joking.

"I handle my own," Amari said, brushing gravel dust off his neck.

Johnny nodded toward the village. "Clean?"

"Clean enough," Amari replied. "But one of them gave me trouble."

Milo raised an eyebrow. "The dirt guy?"

Amari nodded once.

Kenneth cracked his knuckles. "Wish I got that one."

"You’d have knocked over a schoolhouse chasing him," Shylo muttered.

That got a small laugh from Milo—and even a smirk out of Amari.

Then quiet fell again.

They all glanced at the girl. Her eyes were red, face smeared with ash and grief—but she didn’t scream. She didn’t plead. Just stared at Amari like she’d already read what kind of person he was now.

Maverick stood. "Safehouse is a few miles east. We move now. No stopping."

Everyone understood.

The door slammed shut behind them, thick iron sliding into place with a weight that echoed through the safehouse basement. The girl hit the cold floor, hands still bound, face streaked with dried tears and soot. She didn’t look at them—not anymore. Just curled against the stone wall, the soft sound of her sobs curling up into the stale air.

No one said a word as they walked out of the cell room.

Maverick was the first to pull his mask off. He exhaled slow, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes tired.

Johnny followed, dropping his skull-painted mask onto the wooden bench with a loud thunk.

Milo peeled his off without a word. Shylo didn’t even look up when his hit the table. Kenneth muttered something under his breath and walked to the other side of the room.

Amari held his mask a little longer—fingers still tight around the edges. Then he set it down gently.

That was it.

The mission was over.