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There was a silence. The coyote did not speak. The black orbs watched the other with his unblinking gaze, cold as a snake’s. Onus’ hidden eyes were felt, and the pied brute knew that the silence was filled with the vehement vows of the vigilante. The black orbs sneered at him. He promised that he would receive that which was due. He promised that his daughter would come willingly. He promised that he would wash her body of any male’s touch, that he would not be merciful. That he would leave when he had taken what was due and allow the lands to rot. This single man could not stop it—the Darkness was everywhere, even in the soul of the vigilante. The darkness would rise up and destroy anything it touched, for none would be wise enough to accept its touch, its wisdom. The shadows in the room whispered their laughter.
Then, slowly, Onus placed himself between the girl and the crow wolf. A slight sneer tugged at the corners of those lips. The male’s visage was perfectly still, impassive, cold, dark. That black stare followed the coyote, watching with such an intensity that it seemed as if he could see right through him. “그레. 다음에 또 하자.” The tenor voice was quiet and hollow, dripping with some black intent that carried no emotion, no hint. And yet what was to come was so clear to both enemies that they could practically touch it. The black eyes shifted, finding the girl that hid behind the masked coyote. A black flame flickered in those black pools as he watched her with the same intensity that had beheld the vigilante. And for a moment he lingered, allowing the silence to fall dead between them. With a final glance, the eyes returned to the coyote, holding a promise. Next time would be the last time. Next time both would not be allowed to walk away. It would be the end. Whatever happens, that sinister mind promised, I will persist.
Suddenly he was walking past them, his erect posture held with ease as he strode as if he owned the land upon which he tread. Those ethereal, fluid movements carried him as he had come: with the silence of the shadows, of darkness, of death. The crow wolf turned his back on the coyote, not once looking back nor concerned with the masked man. And then he was gone, a hollow whisper of nightmare.