There is nothing more dangerous in this world
than two people who have lost everything—
and then begin walking side by side.
The forest was silent again.
Not the peaceful kind of silence,
but the hollow, suffocating quiet that follows slaughter.
Behind them, the river flowed red, carrying corpses downstream like broken offerings.
Blood clung to the leaves.
The air reeked of iron and smoke.
Ajin and Jarot walked away from the massacre without looking back.
They did not speak.
They did not need to.
Ajin walked with a stiff, metallic gait—like a wounded specter forcing its body to move.
Jarot walked like a beast barely held together by rage—every step making the earth vibrate.
Two different storms, moving in the same direction.
Jarot: A Walking Eruption
The giant's fury simmered beneath his skin.
Every few steps, Jarot slammed his fist into a tree trunk, splitting bark and sending birds fleeing.
He breathed through his teeth—
a constant growl, like a volcano choking on its own lava.
His eyes darted around the forest.
Never resting.
Never calm.
Like he was waiting—no, craving—the next enemy.
Ajin: Rage Turned Cold
Ajin did not growl.
He did not look around.
He stared straight ahead with hollow, crimson-rimmed eyes.
Eyes that held both grief and something far darker.
His skin—still cracked from the brutal transformation—reflected faint moonlight like dull iron.
The scorched red scarf around his arm, once Loka's, fluttered with every step.
The scarf was the only softness left in him.
And even that softness hid knives.
They had walked nearly an hour into the dense forest before Jarot finally broke the silence.
"Oi," he rumbled, voice echoing like rolling thunder.
"That thing you used earlier… the trick that makes your body hard as stone."
Ajin did not turn.
He did not slow his steps.
"…It's called Baja Angkara Batin," Ajin answered.
His voice was flat—deadened, as if emotion had been burned out of him.
Jarot tried the words on his tongue.
"Bah-jah… Ang-ka-rah… Bah-teen."
A low whistle escaped him.
"Fitting name. Especially for a corpse that can still walk."
Ajin's steps faltered.
Barely.
Then he resumed walking.
Jarot squinted at him.
"Is that the forbidden scroll of your—"
Ajin stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
His red-tinted eyes locked onto Jarot.
"Do not speak," Ajin said quietly,
"of my sect."
The temperature in the forest dropped.
For the first time,
the giant felt a chill.
Jarot lifted his massive hands in surrender.
"Fine, fine. I get it. Wounds too fresh."
Ajin turned away, resuming his path through the ferns.
Jarot scratched his beard.
"Tsk. Moody bastard. But at least you punch well."
The Forest Changed
The trees grew denser.
The shadows deeper.
And suddenly—
Jarot stopped.
His nostrils flared.
"Cih," he growled.
Ajin stepped beside him and saw it too.
A corpse hung upside down from a tall branch.
Not a soldier.
Not a bandit.
Dressed in black.
Face bruised.
Lips blue.
Branded at the throat with a small black dragon.
Not ink.
A burn mark.
Ajin narrowed his eyes.
"That's not the kingdom's work," he murmured.
Jarot grunted.
"And not the soldiers we killed either."
Ajin knelt, studying the rope fibers, the wound marks, the careful positioning.
"Assassins," he concluded.
"Or spies."
"But not ours," Jarot added.
Both fell silent.
Because Ajin felt it.
That same feeling he felt the night Rogo burned.
The feeling of being watched.
Closely.
He scanned the canopy.
No movement.
But the sensation sharpened.
Like cold fingers trailing the back of his neck.
Jarot, oblivious, tried to break the tension.
"You know, Jin," he said—using the nickname without permission—"you really are like a walking corpse. You should learn to complain. Or yell. Something."
Ajin didn't move.
Didn't blink.
He kept scanning the shadows.
Jarot sighed dramatically.
"Oh great. The silent type. Wonderful. At least you can still hit things."
Ajin suddenly extended an arm—
forcing Jarot to stop mid-step.
"What now?" Jarot snapped.
Ajin pointed down.
The giant looked.
His eyes widened.
A trap.
Not a simple hunting snares.
A royal pressure plate, hidden beneath leaves and soil.
Decorated with faint scorch-marks.
A flame trap.
The kind Dahana's new army used to incinerate fugitives.
Jarot snarled.
"They're tracking us already?"
Ajin shook his head slowly.
"No," he whispered.
"Not us."
He bent down, wiping away more leaves.
Dozens more traps were laid in a wide pattern.
Too many for a simple hunt.
"They're preparing for someone," Ajin continued.
"Or something."
Jarot's jaw tightened.
"Then they'll meet us first."
Ajin straightened.
His eyes narrowed.
"No."
He pointed to a different mark on the ground—small, almost invisible.
A boot print.
Light.
Precise.
Not military.
Not heavy like a soldier's.
Jarot frowned.
"What's that supposed to be?"
Ajin's expression hardened.
"Someone else walked this path. Recently."
They both turned—
instinct pulling their gaze to the treetops.
Wind rustled the leaves, though the air was still.
Something moved above.
Silent. Quick. Watching.
Jarot hefted his makeshift stone axe.
"SHOW YOURSELF!"
The forest didn't answer.
Ajin tightened the scarf on his arm.
"Jarot," he murmured.
Jarot cracked his neck.
"What."
"We're not the only predators here."