It began with pressure.

Not noise. Not light. Not heat.

Just... weight.

Not physical. Not gravity.

Value.

The world didn't shake. It recalibrated.

Max felt it first in his teeth – a subtle ache, like the metal in his fillings was trying to hum. Then in his chest – his ribs tightening, lungs dragging for breath, not because there was no air but because he suddenly felt unworthy to breathe it.

A wrongness crawled through the walls of the farmhouse – not like a predator, but like a ledger being balanced around them.

The boards creaked beneath him. Not from his movement, but from remembrance. Like the wood itself recalled the cost of shelter and found him lacking.

He reached for the wall without thinking. Just to steady himself. But the instant his fingers touched it, a chill rippled up his spine.

Not fear.

Appraisal.

Outside, the rain hung in stillness. The sky had gone flat – like someone had paused the world mid-breath. No wind. No birds. Just a tightening quiet.

Something had arrived.

Not crashed. Not torn through.

Stepped in.

Max's thoughts scattered.

Not from panic – from inventory. Each one examined and discarded as though someone else was flipping through his soul, calculating its contents.

The flame behind his heart – the Soulfire – stuttered.

Then recoiled.

It didn't die.

But it hid.

It curled back into itself like a candle sensing a greater light – or a smaller one with a far higher price tag.

Max gasped.

Not a scream. Not a cry.

Just breath.

Like he'd forgotten how expensive it was to be.

Victor stirred nearby – a low, involuntary growl that was closer to a whimper. The big man, still bleeding, still ragged, turned toward the door as if pulled by a magnet made of guilt and instinct.

"What the fuck is that?" Victor murmured.

Max couldn't answer yet.

He was staring through the broken doorway – and beyond the fog – something was stepping into view.

A shape too perfect to be born.

It didn't radiate power.

It radiated ownership.

He felt the chain in his hand heat up again, but the fire refused to rise.

Max clenched his jaw. His head still rang from Kimaris's illusions, and his heart still throbbed from the betrayal of Ethan. His friends were broken. His daughter was unreachable. His power was flickering.

And now, this.

He wasn't ready for another fight.

Victor was still limping. The beast form had receded, but what it left behind was ragged – the man beneath it barely held together. One of his arms hung slightly too low. His eyes were bloodshot. His breaths came short.

And Hawthorne – Max hadn't checked on him in ten minutes. He'd lost too much blood. The flame had cauterized the wound, but not the damage underneath. Max wanted to believe he'd live. He needed to. But he hadn't had time to stop and know.

He desperately wished Dan were here.

He hadn't had time for anything.

Not after Ethan.

The name still stung like an ember caught under the ribs. It pulsed there now — Ethan, Ethan, Etha – like a betrayal echoing down into the pit of his chest. Max had faced demons. Had bled for Liz. Had set the world on fire to save her. But he hadn't seen that coming. He hadn't protected April. He hadn't saved Ethan. And now Liz—

He couldn't lose her too.

Not to this.

The figure in the field was close now.

He hadn't heard him approach. No footsteps. No noise. Just... arrival. The grass bowed under each step – not trampled, but rewritten, yellowing like a debt had been paid in chlorophyll. Rebirthed in gold. Every step he took rippled out through the air like coin tossed into still water.

Max stepped forward, chain coiled tighter around his arm. Victor still beside him – bruised, bloody, but upright. Ready. As always.

The figure stopped ten paces away.

He was... too perfect. Robes like fluid riches. Skin like polished treasure. His face had the unsettling symmetry of someone you were supposed to trust – like a banker's smile stitched onto a wolf.

When he finally spoke, his voice didn't echo. It resonated.

"You killed Kimaris."

Max blinked.

Not a question. Not an accusation.

A statement of fact.

Victor's jaw tightened, shoulders straightening despite the pain. "He tortured me."

Mammon's head tilted slightly. Like he was adjusting a scale.

"He was mine."

The air shifted. Not colder. Not heavier. Just more... precise. Like someone had itemized the space they were standing in.

Victor didn't flinch. "Come collect."

Mammon smiled faintly. Not amused. Satisfied.

"I intend to."

His eyes – golden, depthless – turned toward Max.

And in that moment, Max felt seen. Not in the way a man sees another. Not even the way a demon sees a soul. This was... valuation. Like every part of him had been weighed, priced, measured.

"The soul awakener," Mammon said softly. "The only Contractor in history to give without taking. A bad precedent. But a valuable anomaly."

Max said nothing.

His heartbeat was steady – not from calm, but focus. He was still half in the last fight. The chain had already begun to heat in his palm. The fire behind his ribs was licking at his lungs. But it was the name that snapped him out of it.

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"Stay away from my daughter," he said.

Too fast.

Mammon paused.

He hadn't said anything about Liz.

That slip hit Max like a falling blade.

He clenched his jaw. Too late to hide it.

Mammon's smile widened.

"Ah," he murmured. "So, she's still alive."

He took a step forward – and the field accepted him. Like he belonged here more than they did.

"I can't see her," he said, peering just past Max. "But I feel the distortion. Dormant power. Something old sleeping inside something small."

His head tilted, amused.

"That's not awakening. That's inheritance."

Victor moved – just enough to block his path. He didn't growl. He didn't threaten. He just existed – as a wall between Mammon and Max's worst fear.

Mammon looked at him. Then at Max.

"You misunderstand," he said.

He raised one hand, palm open – not in surrender, but as a merchant offering terms.

"I'm not here for vengeance."

His voice dropped a note.

"I'm here to settle accounts."

…………………

Max felt the chain tighten again, as if his body already knew there'd be no negotiation.

Mammon didn't blink. Didn't move. He simply looked – not at Max, but through him.

Past him.

Toward something far away.

"You said both," Max said finally, voice low but steady. "What do you want with Liz?"

Mammon's head tilted slightly.

"I want what's mine," he said.

Max's jaw clenched. "She's not yours."

Mammon didn't argue.

He didn't even sound offended.

He simply explained – like someone correcting a ledger entry.

"She contains a fragment of Aamon. Not dormant. Not inert. Metabolized. Transferred. Refined."

Max blinked. Metabolized.

"She carries the raw volatility of a dead Demon Lord... adapted to a human soul. Do you know what that is, Max?"

He stepped forward, slow.

"That is leverage."

Max moved to block him – jaw tight, hand clenched.

"She's my daughter."

Mammon's eyes gleamed – not with threat, but appraisal.

"And she's the lockbox holding the final shards of an extinct asset. You think she's safe. You think she's still herself. But Aamon's chaos wasn't destroyed. It was inherited. First by you. Now by her. Folded into her like poison disguised as sugar."

Victor stepped in now — low, growling. "She's fighting it. Still is."

Mammon inclined his head slightly, almost… respectful.

"That's why I want her," he said. "She's not failing. She's adapting. Refining. Holding. She isn't corrupted. She's compatible. She doesn't just carry power. She's becoming it."

"That's why she matters," Mammon continued. "She's not just a vessel. She's an alchemy. A soul that doesn't collapse under pressure but crystallizes."

Max's heart stammered.

The red aura. The way Liz had changed. Not twisted. Evolved.

Mammon continued, voice softer now.

"I want her because what she is becoming has no market precedent. I want her because if I don't own her…"

A pause. A gleam of teeth.

"Someone else will."

He turned his gaze back to Max.

"And you, Max?"

This wasn't threat now.

It was valuation.

"You're a system error. A Contractor who awakens souls without a seal. A human who devoured a Demon Lord and didn't break."

His voice lowered – not in volume, but in tolerance.

"You disrupt value chains. You eliminate scarcity. You give away what should be owned."

Mammon took a step forward.

"I don't hate you for that."

Another.

"I covet you."

Max didn't move.

But the fire in his chest twisted. Not in fear. In warning.

Mammon smiled.

"You're not a threat to the system," he said.

"You're a hostile takeover."

…………………

Max didn't flinch. Not even as Mammon stepped into his space – not with threat, but with entitlement.

The chain around his arm buzzed faintly, eager to strike.

The fire inside his chest whispered now.

But something held him still.

Not fear.

Calculation.

Mammon was watching them the way a jeweller watches uncut stone – estimating yield, not risk.

Victor exhaled slowly beside him. His stance wasn't battle-ready. It was survival-ready – shoulders tight, breath shallow, one knee trembling from strain. But his eyes didn't waver.

"Max," he said, low. "If we fight him..."

"I know," Max murmured.

They wouldn't win.

Not conventionally.

But that didn't mean they'd roll over.

Mammon sighed. It was barely audible – a sound like shifting silk over steel.

"Do you know what I admire about you two?" he said. "You still think this is about strength. About power. About fire and claws and resistance."

He raised his hand, fingers splayed open toward them like a banker offering mercy.

"It's not."

The air bent.

Not with magic – with intent.

Max felt the Soulfield groan. Not rupture. Compress. Like value itself was being redirected toward this moment.

And then the ground shifted.

Not cracked.

Converted.

The dirt beneath their feet changed, subtly at first – flecks of yellow blooming like rot. Then deeper. The grass curled in on itself. The air went dry, sharp. The wood of the house behind them began to hum – like it remembered it was timber, and timber had value.

Mammon took another step. The farmhouse creaked behind Max like a guilty conscience.

"I came here for a transaction," he said.

Max clenched the chain tighter. "Then you're not leaving with a receipt."

A pause.

Then Mammon's voice dropped into something colder.

"I'm not leaving empty-handed."

He moved.

Fast.

Not explosive – inevitable.

One hand reached forward, fingers curling toward Max's chest like he was about to pluck a coin from his sternum.

The chain lashed up – Max swung it in an arc of gold and fire, a whip-crack of soulfire screaming toward Mammon's wrist.

It hit.

There was no flash.

No explosion.

Just a shimmer – like heat warping glass.

And then the chain stopped.

Frozen mid-air, taut and trembling like it had been caught by invisible force. The fire flickered, dimmed.

Mammon didn't look surprised. He looked mildly disappointed.

"Energy without contract," he murmured. "A flame with no ledger."

His fingers snapped.

The chain turned grey. Dull. Unfunded.

Max staggered back – the weapon suddenly dead weight around his wrist.

Victor roared.

The beast inside him surged. He lunged with claws drawn, eyes glowing amber, muscles flexing past broken limits.

Mammon didn't block.

He raised a single hand – and the air around Victor solidified.

Not stone.

Debt.

Invisible, impossible weight folded around him mid-strike – crushing downward like gravity had remembered he owed it something.

Victor hit the ground hard. A crater rippled out beneath him. He gasped, pinned, clawing at the dirt.

Max moved again.

He didn't think.

He just threw everything.

The soulfire burst from his chest – wild, raw, angry. It formed not a blast, but a surge – like a tide of molten resistance, screaming toward Mammon's perfect robes.

This time, Mammon moved.

He stepped through the fire – let it pass over him like wind over glass.

His eyes locked with Max's.

And for the first time – there was irritation.

Not anger.

Expenditure.

"This is beneath both of us," he said. "I offer ownership. And you bring flame."

Max raised his hands again.

Mammon's voice sharpened.

"So be it."

He waved one hand toward the horizon.

Behind him, the air split.

Not torn – priced open.

A golden rift carved itself into reality, a vertical seam glowing with polished light.

And through it—

Max froze.

"What—?"

Mammon didn't speak at first.

He just... listened.

Something in his gaze shifted.

An unseen pulse whispered through the rift – and Mammon tilted his head slightly, his expression sharpening with interest.

"The Mirror is gone," he said quietly.

Victor stirred. "What mirror—"

Mammon cut him off. "Not a thing. A name. A barrier."

He took one step forward.

"I couldn't see her before. Not clearly. Too many safeguards. Too much surveillance. But now…"

He inhaled.

And smiled.

"There you are."

Max's stomach dropped.

Mammon looked over his shoulder.

"Your daughter is exposed."

He looked back at Max and Victor. No longer interested in fighting. He wasn't retreating. He was reallocating.

"Your debts remain," he said.

"But this... this is liquidity."

He stepped toward the rift.

"I will collect her first."

Max flared with fire. "You're not—"

Victor surged to his feet.

"Like hell."

But Mammon was already halfway through.

The golden slit in reality flared wide, heatless and cruel.

Max made a choice.

And lunged.

…………………

The portal rippled.

What had started as a pinhole, now pulsed – open, unstable, and aimed somewhere impossibly distant. Through it, Max saw nothing. Not light. Not shadow. Just intent.

Max realized it at the same time Victor did: this wasn't a retreat. It was a redirection.

"He's going for Liz," Max growled.

Mammon took another step toward the breach, robes unfurling behind him like profit margins made flesh. "This encounter was never meant to be a loss. It was an audit," he murmured. "Now I've found the hidden asset."

Victor moved first – injured, yes, but powered by rage and instinct. His claws slammed down into the soil, triggering a burst of kinetic pressure. The shockwave snapped Mammon's balance just for a moment.

Max was already there – chain wrapped in fire, his hand blazing with blue-edged soulfire. He lashed it forward.

Mammon caught the chain.

Of course he did.

But catching wasn't enough.

The fire surged.

Aamon's essence ignited. The heat wasn't destructive. It was uncooperative. Wild. Unbranded. Untaxed.

Mammon's face flickered – not in pain, but in recalculation.

Victor's shoulder rammed into his side at the same moment, the last of his strength compressing into a single brutal shove.

It took everything he had left. Blood burst from his side. His knees buckled mid-motion. But he didn't stop. He didn't hesitate. If Mammon was going through, it would be because Victor dragged him there by sheer force and fury.

The breach widened.

And all three of them – Mammon, Max, and Victor – were pulled in.

The farmhouse vanished.

So did the world.

…………………

They fell sideways into silence.

Max's boots struck metal. Cold. Seamless. Too clean.

He stumbled.

Victor landed beside him, one knee giving way. He cursed under his breath, clutching his side.

Mammon landed with more grace than either of them, straightening his robe like he'd simply arrived early for a meeting.

And in front of them—

A containment pod.

Humming. Flickering. Rimmed in glyphs that flickered pale red.

Inside, suspended in light and silence—

Liz.

Still comatose. Still floating. Her aura faint but flaring slightly at their arrival – like her soul had sensed them.

Max's breath caught in his throat.

He stepped forward without realizing. His fingers twitched at his sides. A tremor ran through his knees. For a moment, the battlefield, the pain, even Mammon – all of it dropped away.

"Liz…" he whispered, barely audible. "I'm here."

Mammon's head tilted.

Then he smiled.

"Perfect," he said.

And the Grimm Institute began to scream.

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