Red's scream finally cut off, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging over the clearing. Neiva held her ground, scythe ready, muscles coiled. She didn't flinch. Didn't waver.

Nobody was ready for what came next.

Red clutched his stumped shoulder, head down, face hidden in shadow. His shoulders started trembling—not from pain, but something worse. Laughter. When he finally looked up, his grin had gone jagged and wrong, like broken glass catching moonlight.

"Not a bad Jill imitation there. Really, that was almost perfect." His voice danced between playful and predatory. Angelo felt ice crawl down his spine. "But you're missing something crucial. See, when she did it, there was this crazy, unhinged laugh that came out of her. So tell me..." Red tilted his head at an unnatural angle. "Why didn't you laugh?"

Angelo's arm shot forward on instinct, but Blue was faster, materializing beside him in a swirl of azure energy.

"Red, this has gone entirely too far—" Blue's formal tone cracked with genuine concern.

Red whipped around, his face twisting into something ugly and raw. "KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!"

The venom in his voice made even Sol take a step back. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Red turned back to Neiva with deliberate slowness, his body moving in ways that shouldn't be possible—joints bending at wrong angles, spine twisting.

"Maybe you need a proper demonstration."

Crimson energy crawled up his shoulder, forming a new arm where the severed one had been. Then smoke—thick as blood—poured over him like liquid, hardening into those twisted magician's robes. The metallic claws extended with sharp clicks. Finally, he conjured his mask from thin air, holding it up like greeting an old friend before sliding it over his face.

His movements became fluid, dance-like, theatrical.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Crimson energy began swirling beside him, taking shape. "Allow me to present..." The energy solidified into a humanoid figure, complete with its own twisted mask. "The Crimson Puppet of Chaos!"

The puppet bowed. Red bowed. Their movements synchronized perfectly—a nightmarish mirror dance.

"The hell is he doing?" Sol's voice carried an edge of real worry.

"Whatever it is, I despise everything about it." Angelo's tone had gone flat and cold.

Blue stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back in his typical formal stance. "If I might offer an observation—this represents Red's interpretation of 'taking matters seriously.'"

Neiva's knuckles went white around her scythe shaft as she watched the disturbing spectacle.

Puppet and master moved in that sickly-sweet grace, circling each other in perfect unison. Then Red stopped mid-step.

"You wanted a real fight?" He and his puppet struck a finishing pose. "THEN COME AND TAKE IT!"

They rocketed forward.

Neiva's scythe sang through the air. Both Red and his puppet twisted away in perfect synchronization. She pressed harder, faster, but the counterattack came from both sides—claws raking from opposing angles, movements chaotic and impossible to predict.

She had no choice but to defend, blocking and dodging, searching for an opening that never appeared.

But she was holding her own. Barely. Red and his puppet attacked from every direction, always opposite each other, never giving her a moment's rest. Yet Neiva was applying Blue's lessons—her movements stayed precise, purposeful, efficient. Enough to keep those claws from drawing blood.

All the while, Red's manic laughter echoed across the clearing like he'd never had this much fun in his life.

Then both leaped skyward, crimson energy gathering between their palms.

"Crimson BURST! HAHAHA!"

The beam screamed toward her, but Neiva was already moving. She dove forward, her scythe splitting the energy stream in half as she closed the distance toward Red.

His laughter only grew louder. "Hahaha! She did that too! But here's the difference, sweetheart—you're going to fail. Want to know why?"

The answer became obvious as her momentum died. Gravity reasserted itself with a vengeance.

"Because I can fly now!" Red's voice rang with theatrical triumph. "Gravity, do your thing!"

Neiva started falling, the beam still rushing toward her. Without momentum, her scythe couldn't keep splitting it. She thought fast—conjured a metal shield just in time to catch the blast.

Red pushed harder. Thin crimson cracks spiderwebbed across his neck as he poured more power into the beam. It grew larger, brighter, driving her down faster.

Sol can fly. Why can't I?

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Then it clicked.

A small metal platform materialized under her feet, angled to one side. She used it like a springboard, launching herself out of the beam's path. Another platform appeared where she was about to land—she jumped again, changing trajectory mid-air, rocketing straight at Red and his puppet.

Red's grin widened behind his mask as she approached. Just as her scythe was about to connect, he drifted slightly to the left.

"Aww, so close." He snickered. "Bye-bye!"

His fist crashed into her face.

The ground rushed up to meet her. She hit hard.

Before she could recover, the puppet was already there. One clean slash bisected it at the waist—but the upper and lower halves just kept hovering, independent. They struck back. She cut them into smaller pieces. The fragments dissolved into crimson smoke, then reformed completely beside Red.

"Now that wasn't very nice at all." His false innocence couldn't have fooled a child.

He struck a dramatic pose, arms spread wide.

"I believe it's time we conclude this performance!"

Neiva's jaw set. She opened her mouth for the first time since the fight began.

"Bring it."

Those two simple words made Red's laughter return—sharp, unhinged, making everyone's skin crawl.

"Oh, you're going to love this!" He gestured grandly with both arms. "Welcome, dear audience, to my Carnival of Screams!"

What happened next was nothing short of spectacular.

The puppet wasn't alone. Crimson knives materialized from thin air. Energy tethers whipped like angry serpents. Spinning buzzsaws screamed through the darkness. Even disembodied hands appeared, firing bright red lasers from their palms. From every direction. Constantly. Relentlessly.

Neiva became a blur of motion, but there was no way to parry or dodge everything. Yet somehow, through all that chaos, there was a pattern—the puppet fought her up close while the storm of projectiles never once hit it. Perfect coordination.

Angelo and Blue stood frozen, stunned.

"How—how is this even possible?" Angelo's voice came out barely above a whisper. Through Red's eyes, he could see what his brother was processing: rapid-fire images flashing around Neiva, perspective switching dozens of times per second, decisions made and executed instantly. Remote manipulation pushed to its absolute limit.

Sol couldn't stay quiet. "Okay, I get the strategy—overwhelm her with numbers. But wouldn't one massive attack be way more efficient?"

Blue's hand moved to adjust glasses that weren't there. "I'm afraid the mathematics don't support that approach. Red has never possessed exceptional raw power, nor does he match my technical mastery." He watched Neiva take hit after hit, yet somehow she kept fighting. "What you're witnessing appears energy-intensive, but it's actually quite conservative. His solution? Strike a hundred times rather than once. Eventually, the damage accumulates beyond what any defense can handle."

Sol looked at Red with new eyes. "That's... kind of brilliant in a twisted way. He might actually be some sort of evil genius."

"That interpretation certainly has merit." Blue considered the observation thoughtfully.

Angelo wasn't listening. His eyes stayed locked on Neiva, conflict written across every line of his face.

Her movements grew sluggish, telegraphed. More and more attacks slipped past her guard, opening fresh cuts. But she refused to fall. Red's laughter kept echoing off the mountains like a soundtrack to her suffering.

"That's enough."

Angelo's voice cut through everything. His hoodie came up as orange energy exploded around him.

The puppet's claws descended toward Neiva's head. She closed her eyes, accepting what was coming.

The blow never landed.

When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the Angel of Death's back. His hand gripped the puppet's wrist, stopping it cold. The orange halo blazed above his dark Trinergy jacket, casting deep shadows over his face. Only his glowing orange eyes were visible beneath the hood.

"She's not Jill." His command carried absolute authority. "Stand down, Red."

Behind the mask, Red's eyes went wide.

"Wait, what's Angelo doing?" Sol glanced between Blue and the theatrical standoff. "Is all of... this..." He gestured at the whole dramatic scene. "Actually necessary?"

Blue stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I believe it is, actually. It seems to me like a moment of great intuition from Angelo."

"How do you figure?"

Blue's gaze drifted to the confrontation. "At this precise moment, Red exists entirely within his own constructed reality. Attempting to reason with him using conventional logic would prove futile. However, when approached by another character from within that same reality?" He paused meaningfully. "That changes everything."

Sol made a thoughtful sound.

Right on cue, Red played his part perfectly.

"What's this? The great Angel of Death graces us with his presence?" Red's theatrical voice carried across the clearing. "You dare think you can control chaos? FOOL! Chaos is the ultimate law! It bows to no one! It cannot be contained!"

Angelo shook his head slowly. "I'm not playing your little game. You've crossed the line. This match is over."

"The hell it is!"

Both Angelo and Red's heads snapped toward Neiva in surprise.

"Neither of us lost yet!" She struggled to her feet, trembling but determined. "We can't just end it like this!"

Angelo stepped forward and lifted her arm firmly. "What are you talking about? Look at yourself. You're covered in cuts. You're bleeding everywhere."

She stared at her arm like she was seeing it for the first time. The pain hit her all at once—a tidal wave that made her wince and bite her lip. But she didn't make a sound. Refused to admit anything.

"Haha, tough luck, sugar-tits."

Red's aura winked out. All the forged energy around him dissolved into nothing, leaving him with just one arm. His theatrical persona cracked back into his usual grin.

"Guess I win this one."

"WHAT?!"

Neiva's outraged shriek could probably be heard in the next town over. Angelo's evolved form faded as he pulled his hood back down.

"Come on, it's a miracle you're still standing." Red's tone turned almost cheerful. "Most people would've passed out by now."

She scoffed through the pain. "You're one to talk! You literally lost an arm!"

Red's face twisted with genuine anger. "You little—Don't tempt me to actually knock you out."

"I'd like to see you try it!" She took a wobbling step forward.

Angelo and Blue sighed in perfect unison—a rare moment of shared exhaustion.

Sol quickly stepped between them, hands raised. "Alright, alright. I think you both proved something incredible tonight. Maybe we should call it here?"

"Stay out of this!" Red and Neiva shouted together.

"Hey now, don't shoot the messenger." Sol backed up with exaggerated surrender.

Blue cleared his throat diplomatically. "If I might make a suggestion—perhaps you could schedule a proper rematch? The hour grows late, and tomorrow we'll need Red fully functional to pilot the CampShip." He glanced at Red pointedly. "That is the official name now, by the way."

"CampShip? More like Camp-Shit!" Red shot back immediately. "The Redmobile 3000 is objectively superior in every conceivable way!"

The sparring match was instantly forgotten.

Neiva's focus shifted too. "So um... could I get some of that healing water stuff?" She touched one of the deeper cuts gingerly. "Because I'm kinda hurting... a lot. Like, a lot a lot."

And just like that, the tension evaporated. Maybe things were left unsaid. Maybe issues remained unhandled. But the group seemed satisfied to call it a night, spirits surprisingly high despite everything.

That high motivation would serve them well.

Because other obstacles were already making their way toward them—threats they couldn't yet see coming.

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