As for Cyn, the matter was not truly difficult.
Ramon could provide him with additional information—but what was there, really, that needed to be known? Tristan was already there to handle such matters. The only real difference lay in strength.
Ramon was strong.
Ramon did not want to die, yet he knew the man standing before him wanted him dead—one way or another. Even if it ant killing him over sothing as trivial as a personal grudge. At least, that was what Ramon believed.
He thought he was going to die simply because he failed to please Cyn.
Perhaps because of his appearance?
Cyn slightly lifted the bucket, grabbing the rat before it could escape. He approached Ramon with an indifferent expression, as though he were about to perform an utterly mundane act.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ramon breathed heavily, struggling for air. His end was approaching, and thoughts of resistance began to surface.
Am I really going to die like this?
He should resist. Do sothing.
Yet, at so point, he abandoned everything.
mories began to surface like a reel in the darkness—a reel of his life. He wanted to cry. Everything pointed toward an inevitable end.
But he would have ti to cry soon enough.
"W-what are you doing—?"
In a faint voice forced from deep within his throat, Ramon questioned Cyn's actions. He felt a strange tickling sensation on his abdon.
Cyn held the rat and brought it close to Ramon's stomach.
He placed the rat on his abdon, then covered it again with the bucket, trapping it inside.
Ramon felt the rat moving against his belly—confined within the bucket, surrounded from all sides, scurrying back and forth, tickling him.
But Ramon knew there was more to it.
Cyn leaned on the bucket with his foot, subtly pressing it down onto Ramon's stomach, ensuring it stayed firmly in place.
Soft groans of pain slipped from Ramon's lips.
"Ugh… ah…!"
Cyn picked up the torch, its light faintly reflecting off his face. He spoke with a trace of curiosity.
"My curiosity toward this type of work died long ago—back in a ti that does not belong here. But now, I'm starting to feel curious again. Your body… or the rat—who will give in first?"
Ramon did not understand Cyn's intent, nor the aning behind his words.
But the mont Cyn lowered the torch, his expression vanished into darkness.
Ramon's eyes widened in horror—and despair—as he finally understood what Cyn ant by "this type of work."
"Hey! Stop—don't do it! Please, stop!"
Cyn placed the torch against the bucket.
Ramon stared in helpless panic, trying to free himself, trying to move—but it was utterly futile.
His survival instincts had faded long ago, and the last remnants of his strength had been exhausted in his fight with Miguel.
Now, he was powerless.
Only a spectator.
The tal bucket began to emit faint crackling sounds as the heat built up. The fla licking the base of the overturned bucket slowly blackened the area exposed to the fire.
Cyn smiled, speaking casually.
"Thermal oxidation."
Ramon did not understand what Cyn ant—but he could feel the rising heat.
Along with the frantic movent on his stomach.
Inside the bucket, the rat desperately searched for an escape from the increasing heat—but to no avail.
Its only escape route was downward.
Scratch—scratch—scratch!
"AAAAAH—! Stop! Stop! Move the torch! Aaaah—please, please—!"
Ramon's screams echoed as he felt the rat gnawing through his outer flesh, desperately trying to escape the relentless heat before being cooked alive.
The pain was unbearable.
Cyn paid no attention to the screams.
Instead, he offered Ramon sothing else.
Hope.
"Hmmm… I an, my curiosity lies with your body, Ramon. Your tamorphosis—or whatever you call it. So perhaps this is your ticket out… and to survival.
A large rat versus a small rat.
Whichever of you wins… walks out alive."
Cyn smiled.
"And to ensure fairness between you both, I had to give the rat a push—so it would use its strength in the proper direction.
That's the ga.
If your body is sturdier than the rat's instinct for survival—and those claws—then you'll live.
And if not…"
He paused.
"You know what that ans."
Despite his screams, Ramon listened carefully to the mad ramblings of the monster standing over him.
A sick beast who refused to grant him a rciful death.
Yet at the sa ti… offered him hope.
Hope to live.
He had to endure.
Groans of pain mixed with the frantic squeals and scratching of the rat beneath the bucket. Ramon's abdon began to bleed from the edges of the tal container. Tears clung to his eyes.
His face was pitiful.
Broken by agony.
When it was finally over, Cyn approached with the torch to observe the scene.
The edges of the bucket had left severe burns across Ramon's stomach. A deep cavity tore through his entrails—flesh shredded in a horrific, cursed sight, like a carcass devoured by stray dogs.
Inside that cavity rested a rat, soaked in blood.
Two rats, in fact.
That was what caught Cyn's attention.
The rat was dead.
As for Ramon—
His chest was still rising.
He was breathing.
A miracle.
Cyn kicked the bucket aside.
"You stink, Ramon."
Ramon did not speak. Only groans and whimpers escaped him, as though he were begging for rcy.
In the end, he had endured.
Which ant he would not die.
But was that truly what he wanted?
Cyn smiled in the darkness. The torch in his hand flickered, then gradually died out.
A choking gasp echoed through the corridor.
"Ghk!"
"I delivered what you wanted. I guess you can't live anymore."
So ti later, another violent collision echoed—rubble collapsing once more, like an earthquake.
BANG! BAM! BAM!
Cyn was clearing the path so he could pass through the corridor he himself had blocked earlier.
Two corpses were being dragged along the ground by his hands. He did not bother carrying them—only dragging them behind him.
The first was Miguel.
The second was Ramon's lifeless body.
As for Ramon, despite his death, Cyn still intended to study him—perhaps dissect him—in his laboratory, if possible.
A voice echoed in his mind—the Scar.
"Oi. You're not asking questions. Don't you want to know why there was a filthy rat inside another filthy rat?"
Cyn replied with a question of his own.
"Should I?"
The Scar of Pride answered in a drawn-out tone.
"Of course not. Hahahaha! But just so you know—because I'm generous—you didn't kill him yet. He's still alive."
Cyn rely smiled.
He knew it had sothing to do with the other rat he had found inside Ramon's entrails.
He wondered silently.
Since when did rats abandon the sewers… and start nesting inside organs?
The Scar of Pride replied mockingly.
"Just get out of here before you start nesting here too."
Cyn dragged Miguel forward, blood trailing across the floor. The sa went for Ramon—so of his entrails spilling from the cavity in his abdon, yet the rat within seed strangely attached.
Cyn felt as though he had forgotten sothing.
"Hmmm… I can't rember."
Kassal and the others had been forgotten.
He approached the intersecting hall, uncertain which path to take.
That was his concern now.
The route he had co from was already sealed. Even if he cleared the rubble, the knights would be waiting on the other side—mbers of the Blue Rose branch of the Raging Floods.
After all the bloodshed and chaos that had erupted in an instant, such a response was inevitable.
Now he had to find another exit—before he was stopped here in the underworld for his actions.
But only then—
As he stepped into the Cross hall, countless papers and posters suddenly flew toward him from every direction—like a storm of sheets and notices swirling through the air.
Frrrr—scratch—rustle—
A sense of impending doom filled the air.
Cyn released Miguel and Ramon, bracing himself.
The storm of papers ceased.
He looked around.
The floor of the corridor was covered in posters.
Wanted posters.
Many of them.
One poster drifted toward him from beyond the hall—floating calmly, as though guided by so unseen force, until it reached its destination.
Between Cyn's fingers.
The mont he looked at it, surprise—and shock—washed over him.
Those emotions translated into a spontaneous smile.
One that carried a hint of challenge.
At the top were the words:
"WANTED — DEAD OR ALIVE"
Below them, the bounty.
One hundred thousand Grad gold coins.
A fortune—enough to support five consecutive generations of a single family.
That was the price they were willing to pay for this individual.
An individual?
There was no portrait on the poster.
Only a flower.
A blue rose—ticulously drawn.
Its stem a dark, crimson red.
Despite the doubts, Cyn knew.
The poster was referring to him.
The blue rose.
Everything pointed toward the second phase of his Scar.
CYANIC THORNS
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