The Prowler darted forward, leaping between buildings, scaling walls, and vaulting over ledges with effortless grace. Arthur followed closely behind, but he was no match for the guardian's speed. Every time he thought he might close the distance, the Prowler would slip through his grasp, like a shadow that evaded the light.

During the chase, Arthur took in the state of the Undercity. The streets were battered and broken, the buildings crumbling under the weight of neglect. Yet despite the decay, the people appeared content, their faces warm with cheer as if they had found solace in the midst of their ruin. In the distance, the echoes of powerful explosions rippled through the air, distant reminders of battles fought on the city's fringes.

"I wonder if Sir Joseph's alright," Arthur thought, concern briefly clouding his mind.

For half an hour, the two danced through the city, the distance between them shifting like a tide. Sometimes, Arthur felt he was gaining, only for the Prowler to surge ahead with renewed speed.

"He's slowing down," Arthur noted, his breath labored. "He must be tiring too."

At last, they reached a remote area perched on a small hill. The road beneath Arthur's feet was paved in uneven rubble, each stone polished smooth, revealing glimpses of rebar and fragments of plastic within. Ahead, a dark metal archway loomed, its surface rusted and worn by time. Inscribed upon it were the words: "I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep."

Arthur's eyes flicked toward the small stone chapel in the distance. The Prowler had stopped at the gate, turning to face him, his breath measured.

"Looks like you finally decided to concede," Arthur panted, trying to steady his breathing.

"Your endurance is lackluster," the Prowler growled, his voice distorted through his mask. "I was running with my airflow restricted, yet you still struggled to keep up." He tapped his mask, a mocking grin in his voice.

"It won't matter," Arthur retorted, his voice hardening. "You can't best me in combat."

"Let's see if you're right," the Prowler replied with a gleeful chuckle, his excitement palpable.

"I didn't want it to come to this," Arthur sighed. "Soul," he muttered, summoning his greatsword. The weapon erupted from the ground in a molten cascade, the surrounding rock melting from its sheer heat.

Arthur charged, bringing his sword down in a powerful overhead strike aimed at the Prowler's shoulder. But the Prowler sidestepped with ease, delivering a sharp counterblow that sent Arthur stumbling backward.

Arthur stood still for a moment, his mind racing. The sensation of fighting the Prowler felt eerily familiar. It was the same as when he had faced X—like they existed outside the boundaries of normal motion. Every action Arthur made was bound by the laws of common sense, but these two men fought with a freedom that defied logic, as if they danced beyond the constraints of the world.

"Surprised?" the Prowler taunted. "Now that you've felt it, you know you can't win."

"Then why?" Arthur shouted, his voice breaking with frustration. "Why didn't you defend your friends? They were hurt—some died because you weren't there! Why didn't you help them?"

"Friends?" the Prowler laughed, the sound harsh and metallic. "You live in a fantasy. They're not my friends, they're my subordinates. They follow orders, and in return, they receive something. That's all." His tone was cold. "And for your information, I was bored out of my mind sitting on that ceiling, waiting for you to break formation."

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"You were there the whole time?" Arthur gasped, his stomach twisting. "That old man—he died because of you!"

"Because of me?" the Prowler's laughter cut through the air like a blade. "He died because you killed him. You wounded my other subordinate too. But somehow, you pin this on me? Hypocrite."

Without warning, the Prowler lunged forward, gripping Arthur by the throat. "I didn't help them because that wasn't my objective," he hissed, his voice low and menacing.

Arthur swung his sword in desperation, but the Prowler easily dodged, releasing his hold and stepping back.

"My only objective is to capture you," the Prowler said, spreading his arms wide, his excitement simmering beneath the surface.

"Then summon your soul," Arthur challenged, lifting his blade into a defensive stance. "Fight me seriously."

"I can't," the Prowler replied, his voice steady. "But I have something better." He extended his arm. "Desire," he whispered, summoning a black army knife into his hand.

With a sudden burst of speed, the Prowler rushed forward. Arthur braced himself, raising his greatsword to parry the strike. But instead of a direct attack, the Prowler grabbed the blade, stabbing his knife through it like it was made of paper.

"Impossible," Arthur breathed, disbelief freezing his limbs.

In one swift motion, the Prowler slashed, shattering Arthur's sword into hundreds of fragments that dissolved into the air. Before Arthur could react, the Prowler struck him in the face with a knee, sending him reeling backward.

Arthur scrambled to regain his footing, his vision blurring from the impact. With a growl, he charged forward, adopting a boxer's stance, but the Prowler was already moving. He threw his knife with lightning precision, the motion disorienting Arthur. In a single fluid leap, the Prowler flipped over him, landing a vicious kick to the back of Arthur's head.

Arthur collapsed to the ground, blood dripping from a fresh gash across his forehead. He struggled to stay conscious, his body barely responding.

"Well, aren't you useless without your soul?" the Prowler mocked, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him toward the chapel.

Arthur tried to mutter an invocation, but the Prowler clamped a gloved hand over his mouth. "No, no," the Prowler whispered, his voice laced with dark amusement. "We can't have you transforming here."

Inside the chapel, Nolan waited, arms crossed and shades concealing his expression. "I see you had no trouble capturing him," he remarked dryly.

"These knights are overconfident," the Prowler replied, pulling off his mask.

"Let's take him to the throne room," the Prowler said, dragging Arthur across the cold stone floor. "My king!" he called, tossing Arthur at the feet of the Contractor King.

Arthur looked up in terror at the king, a muscular figure with long, white hair and stubble. His crimson eyes gleamed like blood-soaked rubies, peering into Arthur's very soul.

"What do we have here?" the king smiled, his voice a predator's growl.

Arthur panicked, scrambling toward the exit, but chains surged from the ground, entangling him, dragging him into the earth as his desperate screams were swallowed by the abyss.

"Poor bastard," Nolan muttered, turning away from the sight.

***

Meanwhile, at the Gun-Barrel, Dalas charged at Calisto, his greatsword swinging toward her neck. But just as the blade neared her skin, it stopped, suspended in mid-air by an invisible force. No matter how hard he pushed, the sword wouldn't move any closer.

"You cannot harm me," Calisto smiled serenely. "For I do not permit violence in this space."

Dalas backed away, frustration evident on his face. Viktor, standing at a distance, fired round after round from his pistol, but the bullets fell to the floor harmlessly, like pebbles dropping from the sky.

"It's hard for you to understand, isn't it?" Calisto's voice was soft, almost motherly. "But even the wounds of those you harmed are beginning to heal." She gestured toward Hanna, whose blood had stopped pooling on the floor and was now seeping back into her body. "Though, I'm afraid it's too late for poor Bertold," she sighed wistfully.

As she spoke, her hair began to extend, enveloping the entire bar in a dark, slick cocoon. The strands wound tighter and tighter, forming a suffocating shell around everyone inside. Dalas and Viktor screamed as their consciousness slipped away, the world around them fading into nothingness.

When they opened their eyes again, they were back outside Lower Babel, standing at the entrance to the sewer they had entered from.

"What just happened?" Dalas muttered in disbelief.

"I don't know," Viktor replied, his voice shaken. "But whatever it was, it could have killed us without hesitation."

They turned to see Joseph lying unconscious beside them. "Joseph!" they cried, rushing to his side.

Joseph stirred, slowly opening his eyes. "What happened?"

"We faced a demon," Viktor said, swallowing hard. "She was... beyond comprehension."

Joseph stood up, stretching his limbs. "The trickster put up a good fight, but why did they let us live?"

Dalas clenched his fists. "Arthur!" he shouted in panic. "Where's Arthur?"

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