Yipsiv, off in some far corner away from the chaos, strolled into a shadowy laboratory, his boots clicking against the cold floor. His face was dark as a thundercloud, his hat tilted low, and his mood darker still—plans gone sideways thanks to the pests scuttling about Bloomsque Hazard.
"Pirates... Marines... a whole mess o' varmints. They all grind my gears somethin' fierce," he drawled, spitting his words like venom. "Ever since they showed their sorry hides, that mist's been dyin' out quicker than a buzzard on a dry spell. Whatever trick they pulled to slip past my poison... I'll see to it they don't pull it twice."
He paused, tipping his hat back just enough to glare at the gnarled roots of the Blooming Tree through the window. "Only piece o' heart left is Celosia… and if she don't put down these crawlin' rats... then I reckon them girls were just dead weight."
Yipsiv raised his earpiece, leaning against the cold steel of the lab's counter, and his sharp voice rang out with a biting twang. "Celosia, darlin', you listen close now," he drawled, his tone dripping with irritation and menace. "Your sisters went n' proved themselves nothin' but a waste o' time and air. They ain't got what it takes, and now it's on you. Get movin'—fast. I ain't sittin' 'round waitin' for a third screw-up, you hear me? So don't you go makin' me regret givin' you this chance. Hunt 'em down like the dogs they are. Tear 'em apart, limb from limb, if you got to. You've got my word—don't leave a single one standin'."
The response came swift, calm, and unwavering from the other side of the line. Deep in the hidden recesses of the Bloomsque Hazard, a woman lounged on a throne-like seat carved from twisted black roots, her form almost melting into the gloom. Her glowing purple eyes flickered to life as she reached for her own communicator, her stoic expression unchanging, as though Yipsiv's words were no more than passing wind.
"Understood," she murmured, her voice carrying a detached authority, cold and sharp as steel.
The shadows around her receded slightly, revealing a striking figure. Her dark hair was tied back in a sleek braid that cascaded over her shoulder, shimmering faintly in the dim light as if woven with threads of midnight. She was clad in battle-worn, traditional armor mixed with modern elements—a polished metallic shoulder guard glinting in the faint light, leather bindings reinforced with steel, and an aura that screamed deadly precision. Purple lightning crackled faintly around her form, a silent testament to the power she held in reserve.
As she rose from her throne, the air around her seemed to shift, thickening with palpable menace. Her blade, slender and wickedly sharp, rested at her side, its hilt gleaming faintly as though it drank in the surrounding darkness. With a single, fluid motion, she swept a pitch-black cloak over her shoulders, its folds swallowing her form whole, leaving only her glowing eyes visible beneath the hood.
"I'll handle it," Celosia said, her voice even but laced with quiet resolve.
Without another word, she moved with predatory grace, her presence vanishing into the consuming shadows like a ghost set loose on the hunt. The faint crackle of her lightning was the only sound left lingering in her wake, a promise of the storm to come.
Yipsiv yanked out a tattered and weathered bounty list, his sharp eyes scanning the words before he read them aloud in his gruff, disdainful tone:
"Celosia, The Death Mask. Wanted Dead or Alive. Bounty: 632,000,000 bolts.
A price carved into legend. Her bounty ain't just for the misdeeds she's done but for the hellfire she drags wherever she roams. Known to leave nothin' but scorched earth and shattered lives behind, her name alone puts the fear of death in the hearts of even the toughest varmints. Six-hundred-thirty-two million bolts—it's not for takin' her alive; it's a warning. A testament to the lives she's wrecked, the storms she's summoned, and the power she commands.
Her signature? A bolt of purple lightning that tears the skies and ends anyone dumb enough to stand in her way. But if she can't handle some measly intruders… then she don't deserve her title, or my time."
He crumpled the paper with a sneer, stuffing it into his coat pocket. "She'll prove her worth… or die tryin'."
Near the Molten Rocks, Kyora pressed on, her feet slipping on the loose, jagged stone beneath her. The searing heat clawed at her skin, making every step feel like she was walking through fire. The ground itself seemed to tremble with a life of its own, shifting and groaning as if in warning. With each step, hope faded, replaced by the realization that their search was leading nowhere. The legends about the Blooming Tree felt more like stories spun to keep fools entertained.
"Damn it, we're wasting time," Kyora muttered, frustration tinged with exhaustion. "If the Blooming Tree's not here, then we need to find—"
Before she could finish, a deep rumble erupted beneath them, sending waves of heat and vibrations coursing through the rock. The sky darkened in an instant, and the air thickened with the charge of unseen energy. A brilliant crack of lightning, blinding and violent, split the sky, striking the ground behind them with a thunderous crash. The impact sent a spray of molten rock flying, scorching the air and lighting up their faces with an orange glow.
The wind that followed was not natural—it roared like a living thing, pressing against them with a force that threatened to knock them off their feet. It howled and surged around them, lifting the heat and smoke and twisting it into a storm of ash and flame.
Elliott, caught off guard, raised an arm to shield his eyes as the dust stung his face and the earth bucked beneath him. When the chaos settled, he looked up and felt a shiver of dread crawl up his spine.
There she stood, suspended in the air as if the storm itself had birthed her. She descended slowly, with an unnatural grace, the violet lightning that surged around her dancing in sync with every movement. Her hair, dark as a raven's wing, whipped wildly in the wind, and her eyes, glowing with an eerie purple light, seemed to pierce through the smoke and flame, locking onto the group with an unsettling focus. The air was so thick with static that the hairs on Kyora's arms stood on end.
The woman's presence was suffocating, her power a tangible force that could be felt, like the weight of a storm before it breaks. She wore a long, tattered cloak that fluttered around her as if alive, its edges crackling with sparks. Beneath the cloak, armor that shimmered darkly in the flickering light hugged her body, metallic plates etched with strange, runic patterns that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. A blade, both elegant and brutal, hung at her side, the edge glistening with a strange, otherworldly light.
When her feet touched the ground, the earth split open beneath her, a deep fissure spreading outwards before sealing itself with a final rumble. The molten rock at her feet hissed and bubbled, unwilling to touch her as though it recognized her as something more than mortal. The storm that had followed her grew, the wind still carrying the crackling charge of her arrival, as if the sky itself had bowed to her.
Joker's eyes widened in disbelief. "It can't be..."
Elliott's voice barely broke through the low growl of the wind. "Who... who is she?"
The woman's lips curled into a cold, predatory smile. "Celosia," Joker whispered, the name heavy with dread. The Death Mask. A legend given form, and now, standing before them. The storm she brought was only the beginning.
To be continued...