Under Blackwater Mountain, dusk pooled like ink. A ring of FFF Brotherhood held torches, eyes like knives fixed on the ridge-top stockade.

In truth, they should’ve stormed long ago. Night came because of one wraith’s craft.

That sharp wraith was named Tomason. On Sunlit Avenue, he once sweet-talked clueless onlookers like gulls to bread. By Blackwater’s foot, he urged Ouyang and Mapleleaf to rob the robbers. Tonight, he urged a late strike.

“Night. Catch them unready?” Mapleleaf felt the doubt first, then spoke. “No need. Our strength crushes them.”

“Report, General Manager.” Tomason’s tone was butter and blade. “Our creed’s simple: burn all heterosexuals.

“If we strike at night, dogs and lovers will be rutting in their dens. We appear, they flinch.

“First, we catch them in the act—proof they’re hetero. Onto the pyre. Second, the man gets scared witless. His parts won’t stand again.”

Mapleleaf clapped, palms cracking like bamboo. Emotion surged; then words. “Brilliant! A talent!”

The wraiths riding FFF bodies chorused awe. Their admiration rolled like a temple bell.

So they nested at the mountain’s foot, quiet as owls. They waited to raid at night, seize proof, and feed pyres with sinners.

“Burn the heretics, long live the FFF Brotherhood!” The chant rose like smoke, silly and fierce.

Night dropped like a black curtain. Mapleleaf led, torches in fists, black cloaks breathing like crows. In the dark, they were obvious as stars.

No matter. The sentries were Ouyang’s hunt.

Thud. Ouyang’s hands gripped a staff—Youwen shaped into wood. He clubbed a sentry’s skull. The man folded like grass.

Crunch-crunch. A red skull gnawed the corpse, wet and patient.

Another muffled thud. Another sentry slept.

Youwen’s staff, from behind, never failed below godhood. Under a Demigod, you’re down—always. A true Demigod might nap a minute. These sentries? Ten hours, easy.

Deep night. The stockade slept like a beast after feast. With sentries gone, no one sensed the torch-lit fools circling their nest.

“Brothers, listen. Find the pap-pap, anywhere it beats oddly.” Mapleleaf told them to hear, yet he sniffed the air like a hound, hunting heat.

Midnight was a lake of quiet. The torch-bearers weren’t normal men; under flesh, they were wraiths. Their senses pried like cold wind.

They heard it: rhythmic slaps like drumbeats, and moans laced with pain and pleasure.

“Damn it, brothers, contact! Fornicators ahead!” Mapleleaf’s heart jolted, eyes sweeping. Sounds bloomed in many rooms. Not one pair—many.

He snapped a command, voice like a gong. “Groups of ten. Scatter. Grab every adulterous pair!”

Mapleleaf, Ouyang, Tomason, plus seven wraiths on standby, moved for the most lavish house. Gold trimmed its eaves like sunset. The bandit chief’s den, surely.

In their “listening,” that room’s “devil music” hit hardest. Mapleleaf grimaced; feeling first, then plan. “Their…skills are too deep. Plug your ears. Don’t let the magic sway you.”

Step by step, they closed in. The nearer the walls, the clearer the pap-pap and the throaty sighs. Each step turned heavier, like boots in wet clay.

For the FFF Brotherhood’s proud singles, that sound was extinction, a plague wind upon dry grass. Closer meant heavier.

Ouyang watched the clowns posing, quiet as stone. As the Third Persona, he didn’t grasp the ritual. He respected Mapleleaf—and the wraiths—anyway.

Outside the house, they inched forward like crabs under tide.

“Hold, brothers. The source of evil sits inside.” Mapleleaf’s voice trembled, then braced. “Endure the ‘devil music.’ Survivors are warriors. We’ll grow stronger.”

He dropped to the ground, faith first, then limbs. He crawled with all fours, like a soldier under arrows.

The other wraiths copied, bodies flat, inching like lizards across baked earth.

Other squads saw and copied too. The courtyard turned weird, a field of crawling shadows.

Only Ouyang stayed upright, a lone pine under snow. If the weak Second Persona, or the clownish First, held the reins, he might crawl. The Third would not.

“Forward, forward! We’re adapting to the sonic hit. That trick won’t work on Saint Jesters. We’re toughening up.

“Next, we face harsh truth—look with bare eyes upon those wicked bodies. If we don’t harden now, we’ll lose.”

Mapleleaf crawled on, breath ragged like winter reeds.

At last, they reached the door like storm-swept drift.

“Report, General Manager. Do we kick it or sneak?” Tomason whispered, the operation’s deputy in form and fact.

Mapleleaf paused. Then he rose, dusting himself, calm like a lake after wind.

The others stood too, torches up, cloaks patted clean. Their tragic crawl vanished like a burned-out wisp.

“You, you, and you—cut trees. We need pyres. We’ll burn the couples soon.”

Orders flew like arrows. Wraiths ran to fell timber. Other squads mirrored them, men peeling off to build pyres from green wood.

Then Mapleleaf kicked the door. Wood barked like a dog.

Inside, the couple was too lost in tide and storm to hear. Mapleleaf led them in, unseen.

“Quiet now,” he hissed, excitement first, then tactics. “We tiptoe to that room. Then we kick hard. Scare the man useless.”

They advanced, torch-fire licking walls, black cloaks flowing like ink. That door held the source of sin.

“Heads up, brothers. High energy ahead.” Mapleleaf’s face twisted like a knot. “A wicked wave charms the mind. Stay clear. Heresy’s black magic can’t beat us. The God of Singles shields us.”

His hand shook as it neared the latch. He yanked the door open. Torches roared, painting the room with angry suns.

“Ah-ha! Heretics, taste the singles’ wrath!”

They froze, every mouth a blank moon. The scene hit like lightning.

Seconds bled. Then Mapleleaf screamed. “Ahhh! The heretics tossed a flashbang! My eyes—blinded!”

The General Manager howled; the wraiths followed suit. One hand held torches. The other covered eyes. Dog eyes, theatrically “blinded.”

“Burn them! Burn that man and woman! Onto the pyres! They’re guilty!”

And so Ovisen and Daphne were bound by a swarm of clowns, for no reason they could grasp.

Dragged outside, they saw others tied as well. Not just them. Many pairs.

Ovisen’s first thought was attack. Enemy at the gates.

He looked harder. Only man-and-woman pairs were bound. The singles stood ignored, drifting like weeds.

What was this?

While Ovisen stared, the black-cloaked crowd hit a snag.

“Report, General Manager. We’ve got a problem.”

“Speak.”

They shoved four men forward—three hulks and one pretty boy. Under torchlight, the pretty boy wore white smears of something unknown. Face, rump—white streaks everywhere.

“Report, General Manager. They’re…with men. We only oppose heterosexuals. What do we do?”

Everyone gaped—wraiths and captives alike. Daphne’s eyes cracked wider.

She saw Clark with three brutes, tangled and broken. Her already shattered heart crumbled to sand. Her last hope—Clark—snapped.

“Clark, wake up!”

She’d hung limp like a lifeless doll. Seeing Clark, she clawed back a sliver of mind.

“Daphne?” Clark’s voice was weak, wind through reeds. He forced his eyes open, then fury took him whole.

“Damn it, you bitch! I’m tortured by beasts, and you—messing around with other men?”

He saw the white stains on Daphne’s face, her bare body glowing like pale clay. He knew, at once, what had happened.