It was built to break men.
The layout was a labyrinth—winding paths, no symmetry, no sanctuary. The floor was soft moss and volcanic gravel.
Moonlight slipped through the glass ceiling in long, broken beams, catching on steam, sweat, and something worse.
Bodies lay bound to the forest itself—arms lashed behind backs, chests strapped to the thickest stalks. My men had tied them and then let the bamboo grow through their bodies.
It pierced abdomens, thighs, throats—slow, green spears pushing through flesh over the course of days.
Sometimes weeks.
The lucky ones bled out quickly.
The unlucky ones remained alive in torture for days, becoming part of the forest.
Some of the bodies had rotted and been stripped to bone. Others were halfway consumed by pests, organs dangling between shoots like jungle fruit. A few still had their faces. Wide-eyed. Agape. Staring at nothing.
The scent was always the same—death and chlorophyll.
“We should split up,” Hiro said.
“But we won’t.”
His gaze snapped to me. “Now who’s being overly protective?”
“Me. And I’m fine with it.”
“If I need you, I’ll yell for you.”
“We remain next to each other.”
Hiro let out a long breath, but he didn’t argue again. He knew I wouldn’t bend when it came to his safety. Not here. Not in my forest of ghosts.
I turned to my ten personal guards still stationed near the threshold—my sharpest blades outside the Claws.
“We need more menhere,” I told them. “Guard the door. No one leaves without my word. And signal the rest—any remaining loyal on this island should be converging here now. We can’t risk chaos breaking out while we’re in there hunting.”
I turned my attention to the Claws—Hiro’s men that he’d bled beside, punished, trained, and trusted in ways even Reo and I had never fully understood.
Kaede moved first, adjusting his gloves with a flick of his fingers. Then, with precise efficiency, he put his guns up and drew a collapsible bone saw from another holster along his spine. It unfolded with a click too soft to be anything but threatening. That weapon had taken more men apart than most rifles.
Daisuke was behind Hiro, almost invisible until he moved. In one smooth motion, he pulled a silenced pistol from his chestharness and checked the chamber with a flick of his thumb. Two throwing blades slid from his sleeves next.
He rotated them once in his palms, then let them vanish again.
Smoke and steel.
That was Daisuke.
Toma let out a low whistle—too cheerful, too feral—and reached back to grab his sawed-off shotgun from the harness strapped across his back.
He loaded it with a casual, practiced snap and slung a weighted chain from his belt, letting it coil around his wrist like a serpent.
The chain’s steel fangs gleamed.
Toma grinned.
That usually meant someone was about to scream.
