Mephistopheles's blue eyes began trembling as they locked onto Tiana, with deep, repressed emotion. "Sometimes I wonder what I am living for, why I still even exist," he voiced, his gauntlets gripping the wall as he faced the ground. "I don’t know why the world has cursed me, I don’t understand why." The silent air intensified as he had a hard time swallowing, his eye looking at the roof. "I do know, however, there is one thing I must do."

  Tiana's eyes widened, a deep feeling twisting her stomach. "Mephistopheles, this world is cruel to us all, but if there is something you need to do, that must get done," she said, her face earnest as she looked deeply into his soul. "You're going to need to live till that is completed."

  Mephistopheles' eyes widened in complete shock. Her words touched him just as his dad's words used to. "Well, Tiana, I’m going to need your assistance real bad then."

  The flicker of vulnerability in his gaze vanished, snuffed out by a surge of grim purpose. His voice, though ragged, lost its tremor, becoming a low, urgent command. “I need a sackcloth. A clean one. Please.” His eyes scanned the chaotic kitchen, instantly dismissing the ruined food. They locked onto a roll of coarse, off-white linen, the kind used for straining curds or wrapping dough for proving. He lunged for it, a movement that cost him. A wet, choked gasp escaped his helmet as the motion jarred his shattered ribs. He stumbled, one gauntleted hand slamming down on the table to stay upright, his breath hitching in shallow, painful rasps.

  “Here, let me help you,” Tiana said, her voice tight. She snatched the linen roll and a sharp boning knife from a block. Her hands, though smeared with flour and broth, did not shake as she began slicing the fabric into long, thick strips.

  “My torso has to be first,” he grunted, his words clipped by pain. His fingers, clumsy in their gauntlets, fumbled with the heavy buckles at his side. Each twist of the metal sent a fresh wave of agony radiating from his lower back, the bruise there a deep, sickening bloom of anguish. He snarled, a raw, bestial sound of frustration and suffering, and finally tore the fastenings open. The side of his cuirass hinged loose.

  The sight beneath stole the air from Tiana’s lungs. The armour’s interior was a horror of blackened, fused fabric and cooked skin. A sickening sweet-charred smell mixed with the coppery tang of old blood. With a shuddering heave, Mephistopheles peeled the plate away from his stomach. The sound was a soft, terrible tear of adhesions parting. Fresh, bright blood immediately welled from the wound low in his abdomen where Aham’s katana had found its mark.

  “Wrap it,” he gasped, his voice strangled. “Make it tight. Crushing pressure.”

  Tiana did not hesitate. She passed a strip of linen under his back, her actions efficient, her face a mask of focused horror. Mephistopheles gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles bleaching to bone-white under the gauntlets. As she pulled the bandage taut, cinching it over the grievous wounds in his gut and chest, his entire body went rigid. A deep, guttural moan was torn from him, the sound muffled by his helmet. He saw stars, his vision greying at the edges from the sheer, breathtaking agony of pressure on fractured bone and torn muscle. She wrapped another strip over the first, pulling with all her strength, until he could feel the separate pains in his ribs and abdomen fuse into one solid, throbbing mass of pressure. It was a cage of pain, but it was holding him together.

  Next, his arms. With jerky, frantic movements, he unbuckled his left vambrace and gauntlet, letting them clatter to the floor. The revealed flesh was a grotesque map of his fight with Otaktay. Blisters, some burst and weeping, others taut and shiny, covered his forearm. Angry red lacerations crisscrossed the burns.

  His eyes found a bottle of clear, potent-looking grain spirit on a high shelf. He pointed a trembling finger. “That bottle, please.”

  Tiana grabbed it. Without ceremony, Mephistopheles took the bottle, unstoppered it with his teeth, and upended it over his arm.

  He did not scream. His head snapped back, striking the stone wall behind him with a dull crack. A harsh, strangled hiss, like steam escaping a ruptured pipe, grated from his helmet. Every muscle in his neck and back stood out in stark, corded relief. The liquid fire scoured the wounds, burning with a clean, vicious purity that eclipsed the previous throbbing ache. Tears of pure, physiological response welled in his unseen eyes.

  Before the sensation could fade, he growled, “Honey. The thickest you have.”

  Tiana thrust a whole clay pot at him. He plunged his hand into the sticky golden substance, then smeared it thickly over the cleansed wounds, sealing the cuts and burns under a glistening, antiseptic layer. There was no time for bandages; the honey would have to serve as both salve and barrier.

  As he worked on his other arm, a single, fat trickle of blood escaped from the fractured seam beneath his helmet. It traced a slow, deliberate path down the curve of his cheekplate, a vivid crimson streak against the scored obsidian, and dripped onto the newly wrapped linen over his chest.

  Tiana’s breath caught. Her eyes fixed on that single, telling droplet. The reason for the helmet, the true extent of the damage he was fighting, became terrifyingly clear. This was not just a man patching up wounds; this was a corpse desperately suturing itself back together before it was allowed to rest.

  A heavy, rhythmic thud echoed from the hallway beyond the kitchen. Then another. Not the chaotic sound of more debris falling. The deliberate, measured impact of a heavy, powerful footstep on blood-slicked stone.

  Mephistopheles’s head lifted. The pain and desperation in his posture vanished, replaced by an instant, lethal stillness. He slowly pulled his gauntlet back on, the motion now one of grim finality.

  The footsteps grew louder, closer.

  Simba was coming.

  The molten gold of Simba’s mane snapped like a battle standard as his head turned. His orange-brown eyes, burning with feral intensity, tracked the arc of Mephistopheles’s body as the knight hurled himself backwards through the small, high hopper window. The explosion of glass and splintered wood was a distant, inconsequential sound. The prey had chosen a new den.

  A low, rumbling growl vibrated deep within Simba’s chest, a sound felt more than heard. His powerful legs, thick with tawny fur beneath the light blue denim, coiled. Then, he launched forward.

  He did not run like a man. It was a predator’s sprint, a terrifying fusion of raw human power and bestial grace. His boots, heavy and sure, struck the debris-strewn flagstones not with a clatter, but with deep, resonant thuds that sent vibrations through the castle’s bones. Each stride ate the distance of the grand hallway, his immense shoulders and boulder-like back a blur of black leather and flowing golden mane. The air itself seemed to part for him.

  He hit the junction where the main hall met a narrower service corridor. Without breaking his terrifying momentum, he pivoted. His body leaned into the turn, a powerful shift of weight that was both fluid and brutally efficient. Denim and leather strained over the immense musculature of his thighs and back. Clawed feet scraped grooves into the stone as he carved the left turn and surged into the new pathway.

  This corridor was darker, lined with storage nooks and empty weapon racks. His feral eyes, sharpened in the gloom, fixed on the end of the passage. The world narrowed to the path ahead. The scent of blood and dust was overwhelming here, but beneath it, he could already catch the newer, fainter traces of spilled broth and crushed herbs. The trail was fresh.

  He reached the corridor’s end and threw his weight into another turn, this time to the right. His mane streamed behind him, a river of molten gold in the dim light. This new stretch was a long, straight run, a servant’s artery through the castle’s heart. He accelerated, a golden projectile in the confined space, the sheer force of his passage stirring ancient tapestries on the walls.

  At the far end, the corridor hooked sharply right again. He approached the corner at full tilt, his clawed right hand, a monstrous hybrid of fur and thick, scarred hide, reached out. The curved yellow claws skimmed the stone corner, not to slow him, but to guide his pivot, sending a shower of sparks into the air as he used the wall to slingshot himself around the bend.

  He emerged into a short, dead-end passage. And there it was.

  A single, heavy wooden door, banded with iron. The scents of the kitchen, steam, yeast, herbs, and now the unmistakable coppery tang of fresh blood oozed from the gap beneath it.

  His sprint ended not in a skid, but in a sudden, absolute halt. Boots planted firmly, his immense form settling with a predator’s stillness. The wild flow of his mane settled around his broad shoulders. The only movement was the steady, visible rise and fall of his chest beneath the black T-shirt and leather jacket, and the faint, angry pulse of the deep gash across his abdomen, which still wept blood into his tawny fur.

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  He reached out with his bestial right hand. The furred pillars and curved claws closed over the cold iron of the door handle. He did not pause. He did not hesitate. He simply turned it and pushed.

  The wooden door swung inward on protesting hinges, revealing the carnage within.

  The heavy wooden door swung inward, its groan drowned by the sudden, sharp silence that fell over the bustling kitchen.

  Simba filled the doorway, his immense form blocking the light from the corridor. The low hum of conversation and the clatter of pots ceased instantly. Fifteen pairs of female eyes turned from their stations, from the giant cast iron stoves, the preparation tables laden with vegetables, the bubbling fryers, and fixed on the apparition before them.

  He stood there, a fusion of man and lion sheathed in a pelt of tawny gold, his magnificent mane a wild cascade around a face of sharpened, predatory beauty. The black leather jacket strained across his shoulders; the denim vest and jeans seemed barely contained by the powerful, furred muscle beneath. His bestial right hand, with its grotesque cleft and curved claws, hung at his side, still glistening with Mephistopheles’ blood.

  A pot clattered to the stone floor, the sound startlingly loud.

  “Oh my,” a chef near the stove breathed, her whisk stopping mid-air. “It’s Simba.”

  Her words broke the silence, unleashing a wave of hushed, fervent whispers.

  “He’s so sexy,” another murmured from behind a mountain of dough, her voice a mix of awe and desire.

  “I like Simba,” a third stated simply, wiping her hands on her apron, her gaze unwavering.

  A woman tending a giant stockpot turned, her eyes widening. “Oh my, my,” she stammered, pointing a wooden spoon at him. “He’s in lion form.”

  Simba’s orange-brown eyes, glowing with a feral light, swept over the room. He ignored the translucent plastic strips leading to the smaller alcove, his attention a physical force that scanned the faces before him. The air grew thick with the scent of their sudden adrenaline, their perfume, and the rich aromas of cooking food.

  A slow, deliberate smile touched his lips, revealing the sharp points of his teeth. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the very pots on the shelves.

  “Ladies, ladies.” The endearment was a command, silencing the last of the whispers. Every woman leaned in slightly, captivated. “I am looking for someone.” He paused, letting the anticipation build. “To be my prey.”

  A collective, shuddering sigh went through the room.

  “Ohhh,” a chef with flour-dusted cheeks cooed, fanning herself with her hand. “Simba’s going to make someone his.”

  “I want to be his prey,” another blurted out, then flushed crimson, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “I want to be his,” a third whispered, her declaration barely audible but fervent.

  Simba’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. They continued their cold assessment of the room. And then it happened. His broad nostrils flared. A slight, almost imperceptible twitch. The tempting scents of roasting meat and baking bread were suddenly parted by another, far more compelling aroma. Copper. Salt. Agony. Fresh blood.

  His head tilted a fraction of an inch. The playful, predatory charm evaporated from his expression, replaced by instant, chilling focus. The hunt had just found its trail. His gaze remained forward, but his entire being now oriented toward the bloody promise emanating from behind the translucent plastic strips.

  The cacophony of the main kitchen, the clatter of pots, the sizzle of grease, the fervent whispers, vanished, severed by the heavy, ominous silence that followed Simba’s announcement. In the sudden void, two sounds dominated the alcove, a grim duet.

  The first was a relentless, metronomic drip… drip… drip… of blood striking cold stone from beneath Mephistopheles's armour.

  The second was the slow, deliberate crunch of Simba’s footsteps, each one a little louder than the last, a predator closing the final distance.

  Inside the alcove, Mephistopheles moved with a pained, frantic urgency. He ignored the searing protest from his honey-smeared arms as he slammed the heavy vambraces and gauntlets back into place, the metal sticking unpleasantly to the tacky salve. His fingers, clumsy and adhesive, closed around the hilt of Bloodshed. The sword’s familiar, predatory hum was muffled by the layer of golden honey gumming up his grip.

  A raw, dark chuckle grated from within his helmet. “I’m going to experiment with this motherfucking lion.”

  Tiana, who had been staring at the single drop of blood on his chest plate, flinched at his words. “Wait,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You mean that man? The one who is ranked as Principal Four?”

  Mephistopheles didn’t look at her. His entire being was focused on the translucent strips, waiting for the shadow to fall upon them. “Whoever the lion motherfucker is,” he replied, his tone flat and dead.

  He shifted his weight, his boots grinding on broken crockery. Every movement was a fresh fire in his ribs, a sharp gasp trapped behind his clenched teeth. His body, a tapestry of agony, obeyed. His feet slid apart, planting firmly in the mess of food and glass. Then, with a grimace that was pure will, he raised his arms.

  Bloodshed swept upward, a streak of darkened, hungry steel. He did not merely hold it; he presented it. The sword halted high above his head, its point angled forward like a lightning rod aimed at the doorway. Both hands, sticky with honey and blood, gripped the hilt tightly, his elbows bent inward, framing his fractured helmet. His shoulders screamed at the strain of holding the heavy blade aloft, the posture pulling cruelly at the deep wounds in his back and the fused metal on his chest. It was not a defensive pose. It was the embodiment of a single, brutal intention: to split anything that came through that door from crown to navel in one devastating downward cut. The stance was a promise of pure, unadulterated violence.

  He drew a final, sharp breath. It was a knife-edge of pain against the constricting linen bindings, but it steadied him. His volcanic gaze fixed on the plastic strips, ready to meet the shadow, ready to meet his fate.

  “Hey,” Tiana’s voice was small, a stark contrast to the tension thrumming in the air. “Wait… who are you?”

  Mephistopheles’ helmet tilted a fraction of an inch in her direction, though the deadly angle of his sword never wavered. The words were simple, absolute, and carried the weight of a death sentence.

  “I’m the current Bloodshed user.”

  Tiana’s face went ashen. Her eyes darted from his battered form to the infamous blade held in that terrifying, high guard. Understanding, terror, and disbelief crashed over her. She took four stumbling steps backwards, away from him, her hands coming up to her mouth. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed against a sack of grain, sliding to the floor in a silent heap of shock.

  From the other side of the plastic strips, Simba’s voice cut through the silence again, louder now, resonating with casual, terrifying authority meant for every ear in the main kitchen.

  “Everyone here, pay attention.” The plastic strips shivered, though he had not yet touched them. His shadow fell upon them, large and imposing. “There is a person in black armour romping around this castle right now. And he is in this kitchen.”

  The shadow on the plastic strips deepened, bending the light, as the presence on the other side prepared to enter.

  Tiana’s eyes widened, the whites showing all around her dark irises. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat she felt in her throat. A fine tremor ran through her hands, making the flour dust on her skin dance. “Mephistopheles, that is a monster, not a man!” The words tumbled out, breathless and sharp with panic. Her gaze darted toward the shivering plastic strips as if the thing itself might appear. “He was the very first,” she whispered, the terrifying history weighing down the small room, “person to join Balisarda Sumernor’s army. The very first to become a Principal.”

  From within the battered helmet came a low, grinding chuckle. "Watch me."

  The plastic strips shuddered. A massive, bestial shadow fell across them, bending the light. Then Simba pushed through. Tawny fur, a cascade of molten-gold mane, and those burning orange-brown eyes filled the doorway.

  He took one step into the alcove.

  Mephistopheles was already in motion. Bloodshed, held high in the air, became a blur of falling darkness. It shrieked through the air, a downward arc of pure annihilation aimed at the crown of Simba’s head. Simba’s eyes flared with surprise, his own immense speed betrayed by the sheer, unexpected swiftness of the attack. He twisted, but not enough. The dark edge meant for his skull instead sliced a deep, burning line across his chest.

  Black leather parted like rotted silk. Tawny fur matted instantly with welling crimson. The concussive force of the blow, a power that could shatter stone, slammed into him. Simba’s boots left the ground. He was thrown backwards, crashing through the still-swaying plastic strips to tumble onto his back on the hard kitchen floor.

  Mephistopheles didn’t pause. He exploded from the alcove, a spectre of shattered obsidian and vengeance. Every muscle screamed in protest, his bound ribs a cage of white-hot fire. He used the momentum, planting his right foot and swinging his left leg in a devastating arc. His boot connected with a sickening crack against the side of Simba’s jaw, snapping the lion-man’s head to the side and slamming it back into the floor tiles.

  Mephistopheles landed in a low crouch, his boots slapping the stone precisely beside Simba’s sprawled form. Bloodshed in his sticky grip, its point hovering a hair’s breadth from Simba’s throat.

  “I am the current Bloodshed user, Mephistopheles,” his voice rasped, echoing in the stunned silence of the main kitchen. Fifteen chefs stood frozen, their adoration turned to open-mouthed horror. “And with Bloodshed that I wield, I can cut through absolutely anything.” The dark blade didn’t waver. “Including you.”

  For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of Mephistopheles’ ragged breathing and the drip of Simba’s blood on the floor.

  Then, Simba moved. It wasn’t a scramble. It was uncoiling. He sprang from the floor with a fluid, terrifying grace that defied the blows he’d just taken, landing on his feet with the silence of a cat. He stood to his full, imposing height, the gash on his chest already clotting, his molten mane settling around his shoulders. His orange-brown eyes, glowing with a new, chilling light, locked onto Mephistopheles. A trickle of blood ran from his split lip.

  He offered a slow, deliberate smile, all sharp teeth and chilling civility.

  “I was such a jerk,” Simba said, his voice a low, rumbling purr that carried to every corner of the room. He gave a slight, almost theatrical bow of his head. “I forgot to introduce myself. May you forgive me, Mephistopheles.” The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, predatory focus. “My name is Simba, and I am ranked Principal Four.”

  He raised his bestial right hand, the furred pillars and curved claws flexing. The air around him began to shimmer with heat.

  “However,” he declared, the word landing with the finality of a tombstone. “I do wonder how you're related to the Ultimate Bloodshed user, but regardless, this battle is far from over.”