A/N:

Kuroh Busujima: Thank you so much for your kind words. It really means a lot to know that this story brings you joy, especially when you're feeling down. Glad to be back—and even more glad to know you're still reading! Thanks for sticking with me. We've still got a long way to go. I truly appreciate your support and encouragement—and I absolutely intend to finish it. More to come soon!

AmeliaCarson: Thank you for the thoughtful feedback! I'm honored you enjoy the storytelling and worldbuilding. Your idea of turning the story into a comic sounds exciting—I'll definitely keep it in mind.

MyyGottMitUns: Your comment was a joy to read—thank you for such deep engagement with the material! I'm really glad you're enjoying the fights, character dynamics, and world mechanics. There's definitely more intrigue and intensity to come. Appreciate your support and I'm looking forward to your thoughts on future chapters!

Islam Linarez: I'm so happy to hear you're enjoying the story and the character interactions! Thank you for the warm words and for reading along—your enthusiasm is always appreciated.

AkameGaKillGuy: Thanks a ton! I'm thrilled you enjoyed the chapter. I'm working hard to keep up the pace and momentum. Stay tuned!

Mr. Starman:Thank you so much for your loyalty and continued interest in both this story and the first one! I really enjoy exploring Tatsumi and Esdeath's dynamic, and there's definitely more in store for them—and everyone else. As for other pairings or franchises? Who knows what the future holds! I appreciate your support, truly.

Without further ado boys and girls, let us continue!

[ . . . she was a strange one . . . ]

Dorothea continued to gaze upward into Tatsumi's eyes, her expression one of whimsical, child-like curiosity and fascination. Slowly and methodically, she circled around him, gently rubbing her chin as she scanned him thoroughly from head to toe, her intense gaze lingering on every subtle detail.

Tatsumi watched her with confusion clearly evident on his face, finally breaking the silence with a cautious smile. "Um...can I help you?"

She gave no immediate response, continuing her intrigued examination. Just then, the quiet, unmistakable rumble of her stomach filled the air between them. Tatsumi's eyes lit up with understanding, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

"Ah, that's it," he muttered gently, tearing his pastry carefully in half before offering her a portion. "Here, you must be hungry."

Dorothea paused in surprise, her eyes widening slightly as she stared at the pastry in his outstretched hand. Slowly, an expression of pleasant curiosity filled her features, and she nodded gratefully, reaching out to accept the offering.

Together, they walked to a nearby bench and sat down, Dorothea taking a careful bite of her strawberry pastry and savoring its sweetness. Tatsumi glanced over at her thoughtfully.

"So, what's your name?" he asked gently, taking a bite of his own pastry.

Dorothea smiled softly, deciding it wise not to reveal her true identity. "Dorothy," she answered, her voice quiet and pleasant, convincingly innocent.

Taking another delighted bite, she sighed happily. "Mmm, this is delicious. Most people around these parts wouldn't be kind enough to share something like this with me."

Tatsumi offered her a warm, reassuring smile. "Well, I'm not most people."

She gazed fondly at Tatsumi for a quiet moment, as if silently memorizing his kindness, before turning back to her pastry. "So tell me," she asked after a short silence, her tone conversational and curious, "what brings a nice young man like you all the way up here to Bestimmung, Hertz of all places?"

Tatsumi blinked, briefly caught off guard at being called a "young man" by someone who looked younger than himself, but decided not to dwell on it. "Well," he began, somewhat sheepishly, "I'm hoping to participate in the Steel Festival. Problem is, I haven't found anyone who's willing to take me as their retainer."

Dorothea let out a small sigh, absently brushing crumbs off her turquoise dress. "Well, Einny doesn't let just anyone participate in his silly little games."

Tatsumi raised an eyebrow curiously, leaning forward slightly. "Einny? Do you mean Chancellor Eisen?"

Dorothea waved off his question dismissively, smiling softly. "Never mind that. I'm sure someone will invite you sooner or later."

"You really think so?" Tatsumi asked earnestly, a spark of hope and curiosity brightening his expression.

Dorothea nodded confidently, finishing off her pastry. "Definitely."

As Tatsumi quietly continued enjoying his pastry, Dorothea suddenly glanced toward him again, her eyes wide with an innocent inquisitiveness. "Say, do you have a mother?"

He paused, taken aback by the unusual nature of her question, but decided to humor her curiosity anyway. "Actually, no," he admitted gently, scratching the back of his head. "I'm an orphan. Why do you ask?"

Dorothea giggled innocently, reaching out to gently pat his head as if comforting a child. Her smile was sweet, almost maternal, yet carried an unsettling undertone. "Good to know."

Without further explanation, Dorothea stood gracefully, performing an elegant curtsy. "Thank you for the pastry and indulging me with our little chat."

Tatsumi gave a slightly bewildered nod. "Uh... sure. No problem."

He watched quietly as the petite girl walked off into the crowd, disappearing quickly into the bustling streets. Shrugging to himself, Tatsumi shook off his confusion, noting silently that the girl had certainly been a strange one. Still, his thoughts quickly returned to the more pressing matter at hand—finding someone willing to allow him into the Steel Festival.

Meanwhile, several blocks away, Dorothea walked leisurely down the street, an oddly fond and contented expression lingering on her face as she hummed a playful tune. Her carefree steps eventually brought her to a dimly lit back alley, where Syura was leaning impatiently against a brick wall, his expression clearly annoyed.

Spotting her approaching, Syura immediately pushed off from the wall, folding his arms sternly. "Dorothea, got any updates yet? Your little device showed Esdeath and Tatsumi arriving recently in this damned city."

Dorothea met his gaze with an impassive, deadpan expression. "Nope," she replied simply, not even bothering to feign interest. "Haven't seen them anywhere."

Syura scowled, visibly frustrated by her casual dismissal. "You've got to be kidding me. Keep your eyes open, Dorothea. The second you so much as sniff out Esdeath or that little bastard of hers, you let me know immediately."

She yawned softly, turning as if preparing to leave. "I'm tired. I'm going to find myself a hotel room and take a nap."

Annoyed by her indifference, Syura impulsively reached out, grabbing her firmly by the shoulder. "Hey—I'm not done talking!"

In an instant, Dorothea slowly turned her head, fixing Syura with a calm, yet terrifyingly intense gaze. A subtle smile remained on her lips, yet her eyes radiated pure, murderous intent—overwhelming, demonic, and chillingly absolute.

"Syura," she asked quietly, voice dripping with lethal calm, "did you just put your hands on me?"

Syura recoiled instinctively, immediately releasing his grip and stepping back, an unmistakable flicker of fear flashing briefly across his expression. He quickly composed himself, clearing his throat and looking away. "Whatever. I've got business to tend to. Remember, the others will be gathering here at 7:00 PM sharp. Don't be late."

Dorothea didn't acknowledge his words, simply continuing down the street without a backward glance. Syura watched her retreating form uneasily, muttering quietly to himself.

"That girl seriously gives me the creeps."

[ . . . the Neo Partas Clan's dilemma . . . ]

Elsewhere, amidst the bustling dockets of Hertz, the resonant horn of a luxurious cruise ship echoed throughout the bustling port, signaling its arrival. Passengers could be seen descending from the vessel via a towering mobile staircase wheeled up to the dock, each of them eager to finally step ashore after their long journey. Among them was Rokugou E. Wolfgang, casually carrying a single bag of luggage slung effortlessly over his shoulder, his confident stride reflecting a casual ease despite the chill in the air.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Rokugou's lips curled into a smug smile upon noticing Leone. She leaned nonchalantly against a large cargo crate nearby, her arms crossed beneath the rich, velvet brown winter coat draped over her elegant evening attire. Her amber eyes narrowed slightly in his direction, face carefully neutral, betraying neither warmth nor hostility.

Chuckling softly at her expression, Rokugou adjusted his bag and walked over, his voice playful and teasing. "Well, well. I take it you're accepting my gracious offer?"

Before she could reply, a horse-drawn stagecoach pulled smoothly up to their position, halting gracefully. The driver quickly hopped down, bowing respectfully upon noticing Rokugou. He was clad in a neat, formal uniform complete with a hat emblazoned prominently with the Neo Partas Clan insignia. With practiced professionalism, he quickly stepped forward, bowing deeper and greeting Rokugou with notable reverence. "Welcome back, Lord Rokugou."

Without waiting for instruction, the driver took Rokugou's luggage, carefully placing it in the coach's trunk. He then moved to open the door to the coach, bowing again while gesturing deferentially for Rokugou to step inside.

The red haired gambler, however, turned casually toward Leone, gesturing her forward. "The lady is with me," he instructed with a calm voice, a faint smirk still on his lips.

The driver hesitated briefly, surprised by Rokugou's implied command, but quickly nodded, opening an additional door and politely offering Leone entry. She silently stepped inside, followed closely by Rokugou, who settled comfortably beside her as the driver resumed his position and began steering the coach forward.

Once inside, Leone decided to feign surprise and ignorance, carefully maintaining her cover. "You know, I didn't realize you were such a big deal around here."

Rokugou chuckled softly, turning toward the stagecoach window and gazing idly at the picturesque view of Hertz's bustling port streets. "Being the head of the Neo Partas Clan's southern Bestimmung division certainly has its perks."

Recalling Run's earlier briefing about the powerful mercenary guild, Leone rested her chin thoughtfully upon her hand, her tone subtly playful yet probing. "Huh. I didn't exactly picture you as a big shot in some famous mercenary organization."

He smiled dryly at her remark, shaking his head in mild amusement. "I'm not sure 'big shot' is quite the right term anymore. Truth be told, the Neo Partas Clan has seen far better days."

She raised an eyebrow, her tone turning lightly teasing. "Ah, so that's why you spent so much time gambling away your nights in the cruise casino?"

Rokugou rolled his eyes dramatically, chuckling softly despite himself. "That's a low blow, Leone. It's true our coffers aren't as full as they once were—but that's mostly due to dwindling danger beast contracts. Less beasts means fewer jobs, and fewer jobs means our relevance in Bestimmung is waning."

Leone looked genuinely puzzled, curiosity flickering across her features. "Really? I thought danger beasts were a big problem everywhere. Is Bestimmung just that good at dealing with them?"

A glint of pride flashed momentarily in Rokugou's eyes, his voice tinged with both confidence and respect. "Well, the Neo Partas Clan is certainly thorough. But no matter how capable we are, even we couldn't eradicate danger beasts to the point that they are hard to find."

Leone's eyes brightened subtly with intrigue, sensing an opportunity to press deeper without betraying her true identity. "If danger beasts are becoming scarce here, why not seek work down south in the Grand Empire? They're still rampant there, aren't they?"

Rokugou shrugged, lighting a cigarette he'd retrieved from his shirt pocket. He rolled down the carriage window just enough to vent smoke as he took a deep, contemplative drag. "That's precisely what I'd arranged with Prime Minister Honest before his... abrupt ousting. After Najenda became Prime Minister, I tried to maintain the arrangement—but was quickly snubbed."

Internally, Leone couldn't help but chuckle at the mention of Najenda's ruthless efficiency, knowing firsthand how sharply her former boss handled any remnants of Honest's regime. Clearly, Emperor Makoto had been advised against honoring his uncle's prior arrangements, especially those as dubious as dealings with mercenary clans. Still, she maintained a carefully neutral expression, allowing Rokugou to continue uninterrupted.

He shook his head, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "The Neo Partas Clan has hit an all-time low, and unfortunately, some of our members have begun engaging in conduct that one might consider . . . dishonorable."

Leone's interest sharpened significantly, recalling Run's espionage-related instructions. She leaned forward slightly, eyes wide with feigned innocence. "Maybe having fewer Danger Beasts around isn't such a bad thing. Perhaps it's time your clan finds a new line of work."

Rokugou took another long drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke gently toward the cracked window. He smiled cryptically, voice taking on a philosophical edge. "Good and bad are merely perspectives, Leone. Perhaps the declining Danger Beast population isn't as fortunate as it seems. Historically, their constant presence has forced Bestimmung's people to evolve, adapt, and become stronger. Survival of the fittest and all that."

Leone snorted in a dismissive fashion, arms crossed. "Bullshit. You're just worried about your clan's bottom line."

Rokugou shrugged, taking another drag. "I won't deny there's some truth in that. But..." His eyes glinted mysteriously as he looked at her, his expression cryptic. "The unprecedented rapid disappearance of Danger Beasts up here isn't as simple or natural as you think. I'm convinced it's no coincidence."

She studied him skeptically, suspicion evident. "You're saying you know why they're disappearing?"

Rokugou leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking with hers, the carriage momentarily silent. He spoke quietly, a hint of dark amusement dancing behind his eyes. "Have you ever heard the tale of Hastur, the king in the yellow or as some call it . . . the omega-class danger beast?"

[ . . . Besttimung culture as expected . . . ]

In another section of the city, Tatsumi found himself tirelessly wandering from shop to shop, restaurant to restaurant, hoping for some shred of information about the Steel Festival and any potential participant who might welcome him as a retainer. Despite maneuvering his way through crowded streets and busy shops, his efforts seemed to be in vain; his earnest inquiries were met time and time again with scornful laughter, dismissive shrugs, or outright derision. No matter how much he would like to believe otherwise, it seemed that common courtesy was truly antithetical to the culture in Bestimmung. Even worse, the Incursio wielder was rapidly learning just how elusive invitations to this prestigious festival truly were—and how selective its participants could be.

After yet another unsuccessful attempt, Tatsumi sighed with weary resignation, deciding to enter one of the city's seaside taverns. The moment he stepped through its wooden doorway, a wall of pungent smoke and alcohol fumes struck him, almost nauseating in their intensity. Blinking away the acrid haze, he looked around in a wary fashion, taking stock of the tavern's patrons. Each customer was visibly armed, their hips and backs adorned with an assortment of blades, firearms, and other dangerous implements. Their cold eyes and guarded expressions left no doubt—this place was by no means friendly territory.

Remaining undettered, however, Tatsumi approached a barmaid as she strolled past with an armful of ale mugs. He raised his voice to cut through the ceaseless surrounding chatter, "Excuse me, do you know if anyone here is participating in the Steel Festival?"

The barmaid shot him a venomous glare, annoyance etched clearly on her tired face. "Buzz off, brat! Can't you see I'm busy?"

Before Tatsumi could reply, a sharp whistle drew his attention. At a nearby table, a burly, middle-aged man with braided brown hair and a thick, weathered mustache raised a hand, beckoning him over. His powerful frame was encased in tough leather armor, and his eyes held an amused, calculating gleam.

Approaching cautiously, Tatsumi met the stranger's gaze. "Did I hear right, kid?" the man asked, sizing him up with unabashed scrutiny, his eyes lingering briefly on the sword at Tatsumi's hip. "You looking to find someone participating in the Steel Festival?"

Tatsumi nodded eagerly, a hopeful glint brightening his expression. "Yes, exactly! I'm hoping someone might select me as their retainer."

The tavern erupted in laughter as the burly man let out a deep, mocking chuckle. Leaning forward, his eyes narrowed condescendingly, "I'd rather lick an ice wolf's balls for the rest of my days than let a wet-behind-the-ears punk like you on my team." His sneer widened as the other patrons jeered. "Now get the hell outta here before you embarrass yourself any further!"

More laughter filled the tavern, coarse and derisive, as Tatsumi rolled his eyes and turned away. He could easily imagine how Esdeath might have reacted—likely with a swift and decisive demonstration of her dominance and general aptitude towards needless mayhem—but Tatsumi himself felt no urge to prove anything to these brutes. Still, he couldn't help but briefly entertain Esdeath's repeated suggestion to simply bypass the festival and confront Chancellor Eisen directly. Yet he quickly shook off that reckless thought.

Stepping outside, Tatsumi could still hear the tavern patrons' loud, mocking laughter echoing after him. Seeking solitude to clear his mind, he wandered toward a nearby pier, the gentle lapping of waves providing a peaceful counterpoint to the lingering irritation of his recent experience.

As he reached the pier's end, the former assassin noticed a man stretched leisurely across its weathered boards, reclining comfortably on a large sack of wheat like a makeshift pillow. He appeared to be middle-aged, with short blond hair, a neatly trimmed small beard, and a wide-brimmed, western-style hat tilted slightly to shade his eyes. Beside him, a fishing rod had been securely wedged into place between some sturdy widgets, its line already cast into the water below.

Hesitant to disturb the man's nap, Tatsumi began turning away quietly. But before he could take more than a step, the man spoke casually, eyes still closed beneath the rim of his hat, "You sure know how to liven up a place, don't you, kid?"

Tatsumi paused, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. The laughter from the tavern was still faintly audible, drifting over the nearby waves. "Yeah, I guess a foreigner asking for help in this city probably passes for comedy around here."

The stranger chuckled, gently tipping the front of his hat up slightly without opening his eyes. "Comedy . . . or perhaps an excuse to earn you a dagger in your back while you sleep."

To which Tatsumi let out a soft laugh while shaking his head. "I take it you're not from around here either?"

The man smirked lazily. "Just a drifter passing through."

Before the Incursio wielder could respond further, the fishing rod suddenly shuddered, bending sharply as its line tightened violently. He jumped in surprise, urgently turning toward the stranger. "Hey! You've got a bite!"

Yet the man showed no reaction, remaining utterly relaxed on his makeshift pillow. Tatsumi stared in disbelief, anxiety rising as he shouted again, "Aren't you going to reel it in? You'll lose the fish!"

Receiving no acknowledgment from the seemingly indifferent stranger, Tatsumi lunged forward, seizing the fishing rod himself. His muscles tightened as he began winding in the catch, trying to maintain tension on the taut line without any delay. "What the hell are you doing, just laying there?"

The stranger shrugged slightly, a dumbfounded, almost innocent expression crossing his features as he remained supine, hat shading his eyes. "Fishing, obviously."

To which Tatsumi shot him a baffled glare, struggling to reel in the fighting catch. "How can you fish if you're just sleeping while letting the fish get away?!"

The stranger merely continued to rest with nonchalance and disinterest, silently watching with one eye peeked slightly open as Tatsumi continued his dexterous attempts to secure the struggling fish, the quiet lapping of waves and distant laughter of the tavern echoing gently across the tranquil pier.

After several strenuous moments of intense pulling and winding, the former assassin finally managed to reel in what was otherwise a feisty catch. With a final, powerful tug, he hurled the large fish up from the water, sending it sailing through the air before landing heavily upon the wooden boards of the pier behind them.

The stranger, still lounging lazily atop his sack-of-wheat pillow, tipped up the brim of his wide-brimmed hat just enough to glance over his shoulder. With a faintly amused smile, he observed the large fish as it flipped and flopped energetically, its silvery scales glistening under the morning sunlight.

"Well, I'll be damned," the man remarked casually, impressed yet calm. "That's a swordfish, around a hundred pounds or so. Not bad at all."

Visibly irritated by the stranger's laid-back attitude, Tatsumi crossed his arms and glared in annoyance. "If it's so impressive, why didn't you reel it in yourself?"

Chuckling softly, the stranger adjusted his hat lazily and sighed melodramatically. "My old and dusty bones just aren't what they used to be." He shot Tatsumi an amused, playful look. "Luckily for me, a young, strapping lad happened along at just the right moment."

Rolling his eyes with exaggerated dismissal, Tatsumi waved him off, grumbling quietly, "Yeah, yeah, whatever…" Turning on his heel, he started walking briskly away, eager to leave this puzzling encounter behind.

But before he had gone more than a few paces, the stranger's voice called out again, calm but clear enough to catch the Incursio wielder's attention. "By the way, kid," the man drawled, stretching out comfortably once more, "if you're serious about getting into the Steel Festival, Jean Durellione might just be your best shot."

Tatsumi stopped abruptly, turning back with surprise and suspicion. Had this man overheard his inquiries at the tavern earlier? "Jean… Durellione?" Tatsumi echoed, confusion evident on his face. He could almost swear that he had heard that name somewhere before.

The stranger yawned leisurely, still not rising from his comfortable position. "That's right. Last night, I overheard Durellione bellyaching that one of his retainers had quit on him suddenly. Sounds to me like he might need someone to fill in."

Tatsumi stared at the stranger in stunned silence for a brief moment, hardly believing his luck. "Do you know where I can find him?"

The man paused thoughtfully, tilting his hat slightly as if recalling some distant memory. "Yeah. You should check Leopold's Sky Cafe, just off 48th street. I noticed him and his entourage walking in a little while ago."

Tatsumi's eyes widened in grateful disbelief. He swiftly bowed in earnest appreciation, voice sincere and respectful, "Thank you very much, sir!"

"Don't mention it," the stranger replied casually, waving a dismissive hand. But Tatsumi was already dashing away, sprinting eagerly in the direction opposite the pier, renewed hope clearly fueling his steps.

As Tatsumi's footsteps faded into the distance, the stranger calmly tipped his hat back down over his eyes, turning his attention again to the still-flopping swordfish behind him. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he murmured softly to himself, "Now then… what sort of seasoning pairs best with swordfish?"

[ . . . the gap between them . . . ]

The forest beyond Hertz lay quiet beneath its silvery-white blanket, trees bent gracefully beneath the weight of freshly fallen snow. Sunlight pierced the icy mist hanging among the branches, scattering delicate rays onto the pristine ground, where Wave stood alone, breathing rhythmic puffs of vapor into the still air.

Sweat had yet to touch his brow, though hours had passed since he began his work. The sizeable axe, handle polished from constant use, rested in his calloused hands as naturally as a familiar weapon. Before him stood a vast mound of neatly split logs—an organized testament to a morning well spent. Nearby, discarded carelessly atop a wide tree stump, rested his dark jacket alongside Grand Chariot, dormant yet gleaming faintly in the gentle sunlight.

He paused for a moment, shoulders relaxing, and wiped a rough palm against his trousers, briefly glancing downward at the cast firmly wrapped around his broken leg. A thin crack traced its way up the plaster, evidence of his ceaseless stubbornness despite his injury. His face betrayed no hint of discomfort; instead, it bore the hardened resolve born of countless battles and relentless trials. He flexed his gloved fingers around the axe handle, its reassuring weight lending him confidence.

As he readied himself once more, another log placed securely before him, a sudden crunching of snow from somewhere behind pierced the silence. He turned swiftly, axe lowered but not entirely relaxed, his eyes sharp and alert.

Through the trees emerged a familiar, imposing figure. A mane of ice-blue hair cascaded around an elegant face, piercing blue eyes glinting with undisguised amusement as she approached. Esdeath strode across the untouched snow, her long navy-blue coat swaying gently with every confident step. Her tall boots left shallow impressions in the snow, her movements precise, authoritative—radiating an effortless sense of power.

Wave straightened his posture instinctively, chin raised, muscles unconsciously tensing in her presence. Despite all that had transpired, old habits still held strong.

"Good morning, Commander," Wave greeted, voice steady and respectful, echoes of past loyalty lingering beneath his words.

Esdeath regarded the impressive pile of firewood, an approving smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She tilted her head slightly, sapphire eyes flicking thoughtfully toward his leg. "That's quite the stockpile you've gathered so soon after sunrise. I admire the effort, Wave, but tell me—exactly how do you plan to carry all this firewood back by yourself?"

Wave's expression shifted, embarrassment flushing briefly across his cheeks. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes drifting sheepishly toward the massive heap. "Huh. To be honest, I hadn't given that much thought yet. Figured I'd just make multiple trips. Call it exercise."

She tilted her head again, gaze pointedly settling on his cast-covered leg, the subtle crack in its surface starkly visible. "You know better than that, Wave. Too much strain on that injury won't help—it will delay recovery even further."

He sighed softly, eyes briefly falling to the snow beneath his boots. "Yeah, well, Dr. Stylish gave me some strange injection that's supposed to speed things up. I figured collecting firewood would be the least I could do to repay him."

Esdeath's eyes narrowed slightly, a brief flicker of surprise passing swiftly across her face at the name he mentioned. Her gaze sharpened. "Dr. Stylish?"

Wave quickly shook his head, understanding the sudden tension in her voice. "It's not the one we knew. Apparently, there's another person with the same surname. He's connected to Professor Kastigar."

Her expression shifted again, lip curling in distaste as she murmured bitterly, "Ah, yes… that old hag."

He watched her quietly, noticing the faint frustration that briefly clouded her expression. Then she sighed, turning partially away to gaze back in the direction of Hertz, eyes distant. "If only Tatsumi listened to reason and stopped wasting our time with that silly festival."

Wave leaned slightly forward, intrigue capturing his attention. "Commander, have you found another way into the cavern—past that strange door?"

She turned slowly back to face him, eyes glittering with quiet intensity, mouth pulling into a dangerous, confident smile. "Of course. All we need to do is walk straight into Chancellor Eisen's palace, demand answers directly, and crush anyone foolish enough to interfere."

Wave stumbled backward involuntarily, legs giving out as he landed roughly in the snow. He stared up at her, incredulity plain on his face. "C-Commander…?"

She regarded him with faint amusement, a single eyebrow raised elegantly. "Is there a problem?"

He hastily scrambled to his feet, dusting snow from his clothes. He opened his mouth, paused uncertainly, then finally shook his head. "No. Not at all."

"She hasn't changed anywhere near as much as I thought", the Grand Chariot wielder noted to himself inwardly. He could not help but wonder if it was perhaps Tatsumi's influence that was keeping her more extreme impulses at bay.

Desiring to shift away from that unsettling topic, Wave changed the subject. "Speaking of Tatsumi, where is he, anyway? I didn't expect you to be out here without him."

Esdeath shrugged lightly, brushing back a stray strand of blue hair behind one ear. "He's still at the hotel, presumably."

Wave gave her a questioning look, memories of yesterday's affectionate display fresh in his mind. "You seemed rather… attached yesterday. I'm surprised you'd wander off alone."

A faint smirk crossed her lips, and she stepped closer, patting Wave atop his head in a gentle yet seemingly condescending gesture. "You have far more pressing matters than concerning yourself with my whereabouts."

Without further words, she turned away, departing back into the snowy forest, the navy of her coat quickly disappearing amid white-draped trees.

Wave stood silent and taciturn, staring at the spot where she'd vanished, keenly aware of the vast gulf separating them—not merely physical, but something far deeper. His gentleman nature notwithstanding, he was a warrior at heart through and through. Something-perhaps pride- suddenly stirred within him, its impulse too powerful to ignore. Before he realized what he was doing, words escaped his mouth unbidden.

"Commander!" he called sharply, heart racing with an impulsive challenge. "Will you spar with me?"

Esdeath halted instantly, every muscle visibly tensed beneath the fabric of her coat. The air thickened around her, charged with lethal anticipation, an aura radiating off her in tangible waves. Wave swallowed, frozen beneath the intensity, breath catching sharply in his chest. His eyes darted quickly toward Grand Chariot on the stump, calculating desperately what manner of athletics he would have to employ to reach his prized weapon before she struck.

Yet, rather than move, Esdeath exhaled softly, the dangerous energy dissolving as quickly as it appeared. Slowly, she glanced back, a regretful yet amused smile softening her features. "My apologies, Wave. Without Tatsumi's permission, I can't indulge such urges anymore."

Relief surged through him, tension dissipating from his body, though pride prevented him from fully admitting that fact. He nodded silently, managing a smile. "Maybe next time."

Esdeath nodded gently, stepping back into the snowy expanse, disappearing from view.

Once she was gone, Wave set his axe down carefully, curiosity overpowering his hesitation.

With cautious footsteps, he moved deeper into the trees from the direction Esdeath first appeared, boots crunching gently upon untouched snow.

After minutes of slow walking, he emerged at a clearing—and froze instantly, breath hitching sharply in astonishment.

Before him stretched an immense crater, vast and circular, its rim perfectly rounded as if sculpted by divine force. Layers of gleaming ice encased every inch, refracting the sunlight into a blinding kaleidoscope of frozen brilliance. The chasm was colossal—easily the width of multiple city blocks—and impossibly deep, the bottom shrouded completely by shadow and impenetrable ice.

Wave staggered backward, knees buckling as he collapsed numbly onto the snow-covered ground, eyes wide in disbelief. His pulse roared in his ears, heart hammering fiercely within his chest.

"Did… did I truly just challenge someone capable of this?" he whispered, voice faint and trembling beneath the enormity of what he saw.

He sat there, stunned, snow soaking through his trousers, the silence of the crater all-consuming.

In that chilling moment, Wave understood clearly—Esdeath had lost none of her legendary but deadly prowess. In his mind, it wasn't just the gap between him and Esdeath that had increased, but the one between him and Tatsumi as well. There was only one suitable word to describe the two of them. "Monsters."

He quickly shook his head, not wanting to be weighed down with such thoughts when he knew he had a number of other assignments to complete at the moment. The Grand Chariot wielder stood up from where had had collapsed and dusted himself off.

Yet, before he could take another step toward the path from which he had come, a shrill, careless whistle pierced the crisp winter air, slicing through the silence. Wave immediately turned, muscles instinctively tense, as his eyes fixed warily on the approaching stranger.

Through a thin mist of falling snow strode a tall, lanky man whose appearance immediately put Wave on edge. The newcomer walked with casual arrogance, unhurried despite the biting cold. His long black hair cascaded behind him in a neat ponytail, swaying slightly with each leisurely step. Two distinct sideburns framed a sharp-featured face, pale skin contrasting starkly with deep crimson eyes set within unnervingly dark sclera.

He wore a grey kimono with a crisp white collar beneath a loosely fitting olive-green yukata, the fabric rustling faintly in the breeze. Wooden sandals crunched softly upon snow-covered earth, and the hilt of a long katana protruded from his belt, partially concealed by the folds of his clothing. A small twig, held loosely between his lips, moved idly back and forth, further underscoring the casual indifference that radiated from his every gesture.

Wave knew nothing of this stranger's true identity—that he faced none other than Izou, the eccentric samurai of The Wild Hunt—but a sudden chill gripped him, entirely unrelated to the icy surroundings. Instinct alone warned him: this man was dangerous.

Izou paused mere feet from Wave, crimson eyes sweeping over the massive, ice-coated crater stretching before them. His gaze drifted over the devastation thoughtfully, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth, deceptively soft, yet laced with a quiet menace.

"Well, well," Izou mused aloud, the twig bobbing slightly as he spoke, "thought I caught the scent of a beast nearby… But I didn't expect to stumble across such magnificent devastation." His red eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced around the area, nodding in appreciation of the carnage. "From the looks of things, it hasn't been long since this monster went on a rampage."

Wave's expression hardened instantly, his instincts warning him not to let his guard down even slightly. He straightened himself, shoulders squared defensively, eyes locked intently on the strange swordsman. Without bothering to hide the hostility in his voice, he addressed Izou directly, tone firm and blunt: "If you're hunting danger beasts out here, you're wasting your time. Danger beasts have become scarce around these parts lately."

Izou tilted his head curiously, eyes studying Wave with detached interest. After a thoughtful pause, he reached into his kimono, removing a tightly rolled piece of parchment. With a slow, deliberate motion, Izou unfurled it, shaking his head gently in disagreement.

"Ah," Izou said casually, presenting the paper to Wave, "I'd say you're mistaken. I reckon this particular beast was quite recently in the vicinity."

Wave's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he cautiously took in the image displayed prominently upon the wanted poster. The parchment showed a strikingly familiar figure, clad in unmistakable white military attire, ice-blue hair cascading down over a confident smirk. The bold, printed text beneath her portrait announced a staggering bounty: Five billion gold pieces—Dead. Ten billion gold pieces—Alive.

Esdeath.

Wave's heart nearly stopped as he absorbed the details of the poster, disbelief momentarily clouding his vision. His thoughts raced frantically. No way...!

Izou, catching the stunned look on Wave's face, grinned knowingly, a dark gleam lighting his crimson eyes. "Ah, so you recognize her after all."

Wave recovered swiftly, schooling his features into a mask of careful neutrality. He folded his arms across his chest, his voice unwaveringly steady as he responded flatly, "Never seen her before."

Izou's smirk only deepened, amusement dancing dangerously in his gaze. Without breaking eye contact with Wave, he slowly drew his katana—sheathed blade and all—from its resting place on his belt. He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially against the weapon's dark lacquered sheath, as though conversing privately with an old friend. His voice was a low murmur, words unintelligible yet strangely intimate.

After a moment, Izou straightened, eyes glinting maliciously, and spoke once more with calm certainty: "Kousetsu tells me you're lying."

Wave stared coldly back at the man, jaw tightening, body subtly shifting into a more defensive stance. "Believe whatever you want," he replied tersely, voice edged with steel, "but I have nothing more to say to you."

Izou chuckled quietly, unconcerned, a predatory smile spreading slowly across his lips. With a graceful, almost casual gesture, he drew the gleaming blade smoothly from its sheath, the metal glistening menacingly under the diffuse winter sun. The katana's razor-sharp edge whispered softly through the crisp air, the sound itself a warning of lethal intent.

"That's fine," Izou replied lightly, crimson eyes burning with dangerous anticipation, "I suppose you can continue our conversation with Kousetsu instead."

In a single heartbeat, the tension between them sharpened dramatically. Wave's pulse quickened, heart pounding rhythmically within his chest. His right hand closed firmly around Grand Chariot's hilt, pulling it swiftly from its scabbard. His fingers tightened, muscles coiling in readiness, as adrenaline surged through his veins.

His gaze met Izou's evenly, neither wavering nor retreating. The forest around them grew eerily silent, snowflakes dancing in the stillness between the two men, suspended in the electric atmosphere.

The Grand Chariot wielder took a single, controlled breath and stepped forward to meet the deadly gaze of the samurai head-on.

. . . Hastur the King in Yellow . . .

Rokugou leaned his elbow against the small window frame of the horse-drawn stagecoach, fingers loosely holding a cigarette between them. A trail of smoke curled lazily upward, briefly catching the sunlight before vanishing into the cool air that slipped through the gaps in the frame. His eyes, half-lidded and distant, traced the silhouettes of the buildings they passed. Narrow streets wound through Bestimmung's old quarter like veins, flanked by tall stone houses with chimney tops exhaling plumes of smoke that vanished into the winter-gray sky.

He didn't bother to look at Leone as he spoke.

"Danger beasts," he began, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with fatigue and something just slightly amused, "they're the kind of thing that keeps even the most dedicated scholars up at night. Hundreds of years of research, and no one's managed to pin them down."

Leone sat opposite him, arms folded across her chest as she leaned into the corner of the carriage. The glass pane beside her fogged faintly from her breath. Her golden eyes, usually sharp and vibrant, stared blankly out of the window with all the enthusiasm of a cat watching rain. Her boots tapped against the wood floor of the coach in idle rhythm, and she let out a slow sigh, lips curling downward with undisguised disinterest.

"So what, you're a scientist now?" she muttered, not turning to face him.

Rokugou chuckled—a dry sound more out of habit than genuine amusement. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly before answering.

"No," he said, "just a man who makes his living off 'em. I run an outfit that hunts the bastards. That's it. But when you spend your life killing something, you start to wonder where the hell it even came from."

The coach bumped slightly over a stone in the road, making the old suspension groan. Rokugou adjusted his coat collar and kept talking.

"They've got no fossil record. No evolutionary ancestry. Nothing to suggest they ever fit into the grand web of life. They're not part of any natural order. They're aberrations. Monsters born for no reason but to destroy."

Leone turned her head just enough to cast him a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth twitching in sardonic amusement.

"Then them disappearing's a good thing, right? Less freaks running around, tearing people apart. I'm not hearing the tragedy."

Rokugou didn't respond right away. He simply kept his gaze fixed on the city passing them by, eyes narrowed now, the distant warmth of memory or sentiment nowhere to be seen. He exhaled, let the cigarette burn low, and finally continued.

"When kids in Bestimmung ask about danger beasts," he said, "we don't hand them research papers or biological speculation. We tell them a story."

Leone rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it might cause injury. "Of course you do."

He ignored her.

"A long time ago—before empires, before nations—humanity lived scattered across the world in tribes. No cities. No armies. Just small groups trying to survive against everything nature threw at them. And back then, danger beasts weren't rare—they were everywhere. Roaming the earth, nesting in the mountains, lurking beneath the oceans. And they weren't just wild animals either. They were organized. Coordinated. Acting as if they had a common mind guiding them."

He let the final word hang there a moment, then continued, his voice dropping slightly in pitch.

"They say that mind belonged to a creature known only as Hastur—the King in Yellow. A danger beast unlike any other. Cloaked in tattered gold, eyes like empty voids, and a presence that drove men mad just by looking at him. He didn't just command the beasts. He was their god. Their ruler."

Leone arched an eyebrow, her lips quirking in bemused disdain. "Cute. Real original. What's next, a magic sword and a chosen one?"

Rokugou pressed on as if he hadn't heard her.

"With humanity on the brink of extinction, four heroes emerged—each from different corners of the world. Warriors, scientists, scholars, assassins. No one agrees on who they really were. Only that they came together, each carrying a shard of hope, and challenged the danger beasts head-on."

He flicked the spent stub of his cigarette out the window and immediately reached for another.

"The battle was a massacre. The beasts overwhelmed them. Even united, they couldn't match Hastur's power. But then—somehow—they discovered a way to take what gave the beasts their strength and turn it against them. To forge weapons not of steel or flame, but of pure, distilled monster essence."

Rokugou lit his new cigarette with a brass lighter that clicked sharply in the otherwise quiet cabin.

"Those weapons turned the tide. Hastur was wounded—driven back into whatever abyss he came from—and the danger beasts were forced into hiding. Buried in forgotten places. Some say they sleep. Others think they're waiting. Either way, the heroes saved the world. And the strongest among them… he didn't just fade into legend. He founded a nation."

Leone shifted slightly, staring at him now with something between irritation and incredulity.

"Let me guess. The Grand Empire?"

He nodded.

"They say he knew the threat would return. So he forged forty-eight relics—imperial arms—each carrying the essence of a danger beast. Weapons to ensure humanity would always have the means to fight back."

Leone stared at him in silence for several seconds, blinking slowly. Then she burst out laughing. It wasn't forced or mocking—more the laughter of someone caught between disbelief and amusement.

"For all the talk about Bestimmung being this cultured, disciplined place," she said between giggles, "I didn't expect their bedtime stories to sound like rejected comic book scripts."

Rokugou smirked, unbothered. "Maybe. But stories survive for a reason. And tall tale or not, I've got reasons to believe something's been stirring the pot lately. Something that's spooking the beasts into hiding."

Before Leone could press further, the stagecoach came to a gradual halt, the sudden stillness jarring after the long, rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. The driver, a stocky man in a short coat, stepped down from his perch and opened the carriage door with a small bow.

"We're here," he said.

Rokugou and Leone stepped out onto the cobbled walkway in front of a tall, Victorian-style townhouse that loomed over the quiet residential street. Warm light glowed through the upper windows, and the faint scent of tobacco and aged wood lingered on the air.

The gambler reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a well-worn brass key, and unlocked the front door with the fluid ease of someone who'd done it thousands of times. He gestured politely for Leone to enter first.

"Home sweet home," he said with a grin.

Inside, the house exuded a warm, lived-in elegance. Velvet drapes hung beside polished windows, and the walls were lined with shelves brimming with books, old weaponry, and strange mementos. The floor creaked faintly beneath their boots as Rokugou led her toward a small bar tucked into the far corner of the parlor.

Without asking, he uncorked a bottle and began pouring amber liquid into two crystal glasses. The rich scent of scotch filled the air instantly—smoky, earthy, irresistible.

Leone's throat dried, and she unconsciously licked her lips. But she quickly caught herself, remembering Run's ironclad instruction from the start of this mission: no drinking.

Rokugou slid one of the glasses toward her with an inviting smirk. "Scotch?"

She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes flicked from the drink to his face, then to the nearest window, scanning the street beyond.

She bit her lip. If he only knew. But the street was empty. Run was nowhere to be seen. Her conscience wavered.

Rokugou leaned a little closer. "You're looking tense, Leone. Might do you some good to loosen up."

She let out a short breath, one corner of her mouth tugging upward. "Don't mind if I do."

She reached out to take the glass from his hand, but before her fingers could close around it, a sudden, mechanical whirring—loud, grinding, almost metallic—erupted from beneath the floorboards. It sounded like a buzz saw chewing through steel. The floor vibrated faintly under their feet, and Leone instinctively flinched, her body snapping to attention.

Her hand jerked mid-motion, and the glass tipped in her grasp. Scotch spilled down her fingers, dripping to the floor.

"Shit," she muttered, shaking her hand off.

Rokugou sighed and looked toward the source of the sound—downward.

"Guess we shouldn't get too sidetracked," he said.

He set his own glass aside and started toward the narrow staircase leading into the basement. Behind him, Leone followed reluctantly, casting one last, mournful glance at the untouched bottle glistening behind the bar.

Her boots thudded heavily on the wood as they descended into the unknown below.

The underground laboratory was a veritable nest of controlled chaos and humming tension. Pipes snaked across the vaulted ceiling like metallic vines, leaking the occasional hiss of steam. Glass containers filled with preserved organs, mutant tissue samples, and glowing serums lined the steel shelves. A dozen mechanical arms attached to the ceiling hovered menacingly, some clicking with sharp surgical precision as they sliced the air idly. On one wall, a giant control panel blinked with erratic patterns of red and green light, while a large cylindrical containment chamber loomed in the back, pulsating softly with a heartbeat-like rhythm. The sterile tang of antiseptic mixed with the faint, unsettling odor of something once organic and long dead.

As Leone's eyes adjusted to the cold light of the lab, her suspicion deepened.

Rokugou casually turned to one of the lab-coated men, his cigarette dancing between his fingers.

"Any updates on the specimen?" he asked.

The scientist, young and pale, replied with a nervous glance at a nearby console, "Still sedated, sir."

"Tch." Rokugou clicked his tongue in annoyance. "I was really hoping we could've brought Dr. Stylish under our fold by now."

That name rang loud alarm bells in Leone's head. She tensed—but hid it beneath a thin smile, keeping her expression neutral. Stylish had been a twisted genius, and one of the more deranged enemies Night Raid had ever faced.

"You're saying that freak could've helped you?" she asked, one brow raised, her voice feigning curiosity.

Rokugou shrugged with a smirk. "He had a mind that saw opportunity where others saw chaos. That kind of madness, when refined, could produce results most men only dreamed of."

He waved a hand, and one of the scientists nodded in acknowledgment before disappearing into a side corridor. A moment later, a mobile surgical cart rattled in, its wheels squeaking as it rolled across the tile. Something—someone—lay beneath a thick white surgical sheet, its shape humanoid, but motionless.

Rokugou moved toward it slowly, almost reverently.

"Before the Prime Minister fell from grace," he said with a nostalgic drawl, "we had a few mutually beneficial arrangements. One of them just happened to involve this… particular treasure. A final gift, you could say."

Leone scoffed. "You and Honest were real close, huh? Funny, most people I knew who were close to that bloated bastard turned out to be trash themselves."

Rokugou chuckled, unbothered. "Are you calling me trash, Leone?"

Before she could answer, he yanked the surgical sheet off with a dramatic flourish.

Underneath lay a heavily scarred, sedated humanoid figure—its flesh sewn in places, patches of unnatural scale dotting its arms and neck, and strange metallic nodules embedded along its spine. It wasn't fully human, nor entirely danger beast—something in between. Something grotesque… wrong.

Leone's eyes locked onto the abomination—and all humor evaporated from her face.

Her pupils dilated, lips curling into a snarl.

She knew that face.

In a flash, her imperial arm activated. Her limbs bulked with power, her claws extended. She lunged across the room, seized Rokugou by the throat, and slammed him against the wall, hard enough to crack the reinforced paneling behind him.

Gasps erupted from the scientists, several reaching for panic buttons—but Rokugou raised a single hand, motioning for calm, even as he dangled in Leone's iron grip.

Veins pulsed across Leone's arms, her eyes wild with fury and her teeth gnashing. "What the fuck is this?! Who the fuck are you?!"

But Rokugou—still smirking, unbothered—croaked out coolly, "Just a gambler… trying his luck."

Her grip tightened.

He didn't flinch.

"An imperial arm," he said with a raspy chuckle. "Interesting."

The would-be gambler, still pinned to the wall by the throat, let out a hoarse, amused chuckle. His pale blue eyes gleamed with a mix of admiration and analytical curiosity as they bore into Leone's golden, beast-like gaze.

"Your will is incredible," he breathed, his voice gritty from the pressure on his windpipe but entirely void of fear. "It's refreshing… finally meeting the real Leone."

"Shut the hell up!" she growled, her voice edged with pure rage as she slammed his body harder into the reinforced wall. The metal groaned and buckled behind him with a deep clang, dust shaking from the seams of the ceiling. Sparks spat out from an overhead conduit. Yet Rokugou still didn't panic—his smirk, if anything, widened. He gazed down at her like a scientist observing a magnificent specimen through reinforced glass.

Leone didn't notice the twitch in his fingers. Her anger was all-consuming.

She jerked her chin toward the distorted figure still lying exposed on the surgical table. "How the hell did you get your hands on . . . that?!" she snarled, venom dripping from every word.

Rokugou exhaled slowly, as though disappointed she would even ask.

"I already told you," he said with a shrug, his voice level despite the steel fingers still around his throat. "A final memento. Parting gift from my dear old friend… Honest."

Leone's teeth gritted, her upper lip curling into something animalistic. She fought the rising bile in her throat, suppressing the tremor of fury running through her frame. Her eyes narrowed, golden irises pulsing.

"You bastard… I swear I'll—"

But her threat cut off midsentence.

Her breath caught. Her pupils flickered.

A strange, cold sensation began to creep across her abdomen like a shadowed tide. Her muscles, once tight with rage, began to loosen—not by will, but by force. Her heart pounded once, hard—and then her limbs began to grow heavy.

"What… the hell…?"

Her voice slurred slightly, confusion bleeding into her expression. She looked down—and what she saw made her blood run colder than any chill she had ever known.

A gleaming dagger hilt protruded from her lower torso, embedded just beneath the ribs—angled perfectly to pierce into a major artery without rupturing vital organs. Rokugou's hand was still on it—his fingers curled around the grip with surgical precision.

The skin around the wound already tinged an unnatural shade of blue-gray, and her body's natural healing response—usually near-instantaneous under Lionel's effects—wasn't triggering. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

Rokugou's voice cut through the numbing haze, cool and detached. "Your Imperial Arm is extraordinary. Resilient. Adaptive. But even that beast's power can't fight off this type of anesthetic."

He leaned in closer, eyes alight with predatory fascination.

"Not when it's already circulating through your bloodstream."

Her grip on his throat finally gave way. Her hand fell limp, her claws retracting, scraping faintly against the floor as she collapsed forward like a toppled statue.

The impact of her knees hitting the steel plating echoed through the lab like a death knell. Her body slumped onto her side, trembling. Her breaths grew shallow.

The feral assassin fought to stay conscious. Her vision swam. Her limbs betrayed her.

When? she asked herself. How?

She had been faster than him—stronger, dominant—yet somehow, Rokugou had anticipated the strike. Positioned his hand. Hid the blade. Injected the compound. It was almost as if he had known the exact moment she would lose control and lash out.

Her golden eyes, now dulled with sedation, flickered open one last time. Rokugou stood above her, brushing dust from his jacket, rolling his neck with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Secure her," he told his assistants, gesturing lazily toward her fallen form as though asking someone to pick up a coat.

Multiple white-coated figures rushed toward her, shadows swallowing her vision.

Damn you… she tried to whisper, but it was no use.

[ . . . manufactured madness . . . ]

As the snow-laden forest shook with the sound of steel and fury, snow could deafeningly be heard cracking beneath Wave's feet as he braced himself. Izou didn't wait for an opening—he manufactured madness and charged headfirst, a chaotic tempest of steel and hunger in human form.

The katana shrieked through the air with no form, no logic. Izou's swing was a wild diagonal, arcing high, not with the finesse of a trained swordsman, but with the raw violence of someone who treated a blade like a limb and not a tool. Wave barely parried in time, staggering back as the impact vibrated through his forearm like a bell struck with a hammer.

Before Wave could reposition, Izou pivoted. Not a clean footwork transition—more like a stumble that turned into an impromptu lunge. He fell sideways into his next attack like he was tripping into murder.

Kousetsu scraped low.

Wave jumped back on instinct—his bad leg flaring with white-hot agony as his boot crunched through brittle snow.

Another swing. Then another. Then three more.

The crazed samurai slashed in an erratic chain: horizontal, reverse grip, backhand, underhand. No pattern. No consistency. He was all reaction, no repetition, like fighting a drunken killer bee with a sword fetish.

Wave's breath caught as he blocked a vicious rising slash, twisting his hips to deliver a counter-kick.

Izou dipped under it—not with grace, but like a scarecrow falling apart at the seams. "Missed me," he chuckled, popping back up with a slash aimed at Wave's face.

The former jaeger ducked. The blade kissed a lock of hair from his scalp.

Steel met steel again as Wave managed a proper parry, and for the first time, locked eyes with Izou at close range.

There was no focus there. No strategy. Just unfiltered glee and a thirst that couldn't be slaked.

Wave tried to retreat, but Izou pressed in tighter. His next move was impossible to predict—a feint that looked like a vertical slash, but turned into a sudden wrist flick that redirected the blade into a horizontal swipe aimed for Wave's ribs.

Wave leaned back. The blade grazed his shirt and jacket covering his midsection. If he hadn't moved just then…

Crack!

The snow erupted as Wave countered with a forward thrust, using his momentum to create space.

Izou didn't bother dodging. He twisted into the blow, letting it slide past his side as he jammed the pommel of Kousetsu into the bridge between Wave's eyes.

A flash of white. Then red.

Wave's ears rang. He staggered, stars blotting his vision.

Pain erupted above his brow. A shallow gash opened, spilling warmth down his face that steamed in the frigid air.

Izou danced back—not smoothly, but like a marionette on tangled strings, half stumble, half skip, his blade now propped lazily against his shoulder.

"You're slow," he said, chewing casually on a twig like he was watching the snow fall, not trying to murder someone.

"And . . . Kousetsu says you're boring."

His tone was so blunted, so casually apathetic, it almost didn't register as an insult—until the smirk followed.

Wave inhaled sharply, blood dripping from his temple. He ignored the pain. Ignored the humiliation. Taunts were nothing. He'd trained in the navy. Fought danger beasts. Fought professional assassins. He wasn't going to let a lunatic with bed hair and a bloodthirsty katana unnerve him.

But he couldn't lie to himself. Not completely.

He was getting overwhelmed.

Every time he blocked, Izou's stance shifted into something nonsensical. Every time he tried to land a hit, Izou wasn't there anymore, like he was somehow falling in and out of his own body. The man fought like he didn't care whether he lived or died—and that was dangerous.

Wave couldn't commit to any offense with his broken leg. His movements were measured, deliberate. He was calculating every step.

Izou? He wasn't calculating anything.

He was just attacking.

Relentlessly.

Endlessly.

Like a swarm of hornets, every strike unpredictable, every movement venomous and wrong.

Wave's hand tightened around the hilt of his dormant Imperial Arm. His knuckles went white beneath the bandages, his leg throbbing in protest with every shift of weight. The pain was constant—sharp, gnawing—but he forced it down. He couldn't afford restraint. Not against someone like this.

With a burst of resolve, Wave called upon Grand Chariot.

A surge of incandescent light flashed outward from his body, briefly illuminating the falling snow in radiant blue. Arcane glyphs spiraled around his limbs and torso as the sleek black and sapphire armor forged itself piece by piece onto his body—starting from the chestplate, sliding over his limbs, and locking into place with a resonant chime. The helmet sealed over his face last, leaving only the dull, threatening glow of his eyes visible behind the visor.

Izou cocked his head to the side as the last of the glyphs faded. A crooked smile crept across his lips.

"Well, well… now we're playing for keeps, huh?" he muttered, the twig in his mouth bobbing up and down lazily as he adjusted his stance.

Wave didn't respond. Instead, he launched forward, his armor-enhanced speed converting the snow beneath him into a misty blast of powder. The distance between them vanished in the blink of an eye.

Izou barely had time to raise Kousetsu before Wave's gauntleted fist drove toward his face with meteoric force.

But the mad samurai was faster than he looked.

He twisted, letting the punch whistle past his ear by inches. The wind off the blow was enough to scatter his hair and snap the twig clean out of his mouth. He retaliated immediately, slashing the air behind Wave's neck with a one-handed backward arc. Sparks erupted as Kousetsu's blade scraped harmlessly across Grand Chariot's armor.

Wave spun to face him. No words—just another lunge, a savage right hook aimed for Izou's ribs.

Again, Izou ducked under the strike, twisting his body like a serpent. His sword lashed out with erratic, almost thoughtless flourishes. Each movement lacked discipline but bristled with primal instinct. A wild upward slash. A spinning diagonal cut. A sudden, jerky horizontal swipe, like he was trying to catch Wave mid-breath.

None of them landed.

Grand Chariot absorbed the hits without so much as a scratch.

Wave pressed the offensive, using his superior defense to plow through Izou's chaotic form. He feinted a left jab, then pivoted into a brutal backhand that caught the edge of Izou's blade and sent it recoiling. Izou stumbled back three paces, but rather than look concerned, his smile widened. His eyes gleamed with perverse excitement.

"Ahhh…" he purred, slinging Kousetsu over one shoulder. "Now this? This is breakfast and a show."

Wave exhaled through gritted teeth. He prepared to charge again, but that's when he felt it.

A faint dizziness.

Just a whisper of light-headedness—but wrong. Sudden. Unnatural.

He paused mid-stride, blinking beneath the visor.

A glimmer of red floated past his eye-line.

At first, he thought it was snow catching the sunrise—until he focused. It wasn't a reflection. It was liquid. It was—

Blood.

And it wasn't dripping—it was floating.

Small globules of crimson hovered lazily in the air, drifting away from his armored body… toward Kousetsu. Toward Izou.

"What the hell…?" the former Jaeger murmured.

Behind his grin, Izou's eyes flashed with mischief.

"Oops," he said with mock embarrassment. "Where are my manners?"

He patted the side of Kousetsu like one might a faithful pet. "She's a little peckish this morning. I thought I'd let her feed."

Wave's breath caught. He turned his gaze down, and sure enough—between the seams of Grand Chariot's plates, from the creases at his shoulders, beneath the breastplate, between the joints—tiny rivulets of blood were seeping free. Flowing against gravity. Not pouring, but drawn—as if by magnetic force—toward Kousetsu's shimmering blade.

"It's feeding off me…" Wave muttered.

He didn't need confirmation. It was an imperial arm. It had to be. Some kind of vampiric weapon from the look of things.

Izou laughed softly and gave the blade a long, theatrical lick across the flat. "Kousetsu's picky. She likes her meals armored. Makes it more of a challenge."

Wave's fists clenched. "You're insane."

"And you're bleeding. Careful now. Would be a shame if you bled out before we were finished."

With that, Izou struck.

He moved like a storm—wild, reckless, completely without pattern. His strikes came in staggered bursts, like claps of thunder with no rhythm. A triple slash high-to-low followed by a low stab and a reverse grip sweep. One second he was above Wave, leaping off a tree branch with a spinning aerial slash. The next he was at his flank, aiming a jab at his knee joint.

Wave's response was brute, efficient.

He threw a piston punch into the ground where Izou had landed, sending snow and dirt flying like shrapnel. The impact cratered the earth, but Izou was already gone, dancing sideways with a mocking whistle.

Another series of swipes. More sparks. Grand Chariot held firm.

Wave kicked out suddenly—his leg sweeping in a wide arc. Izou vaulted over it and tried to land behind him.

But Wave spun, elbow first, and caught the swordsman with a glancing blow to the jaw. The force sent Izou skidding sideways through the snow, but he flipped onto his feet mid-slide, grinning like a wolf.

The two clashed again.

Wave roared forward, leading with a vicious uppercut. Izou sidestepped and tried to counter with a cross-body slice. It skidded off the armor uselessly.

Yet still, the blood flowed.

Drip by drip, it was accumulating in the air. Following that damn sword like iron to a lodestone.

Wave felt the wooziness creep in deeper. His limbs felt heavier now—not in motion, but in recovery. Every action cost more. His heart pounded faster to compensate for the loss.

He was still intact.

But he was not winning. This was quickly becoming a battle of attrition.

He needed to end this. Fast.

As the crazed samurai prepared another charge, Kousetsu humming like a tuning fork, Wave bent his knees—then launched himself high into the air.

The snow swirled around him in spiraling gusts.

From above, he twisted mid-air, armor glinting, and shouted: "GRAND FALL!"

His leg—powered by every ounce of Grand Chariot's enhanced might—came crashing down like a meteor toward Izou's skull.

Izou's expression lit with exhilaration. "Yes! That's it!"

But he didn't block.

He evaded—barely.

He twisted and rolled sideways, Kousetsu trailing a red arc in the air, even as the blade failed to pierce Wave's descending form.

Wave's boot slammed into the earth with the fury of a collapsing mountain.

And the ground gave way.

The very moment his strike landed, the crust of the snow-covered terrain fractured like thin glass. Unfortunately, he'd struck near the edge of the massive crater left behind by Esdeath earlier. The sheer force of the impact proved too much for the weakened ground.

A thunderous rumble echoed as the terrain crumbled beneath him.

The icy shelf collapsed, and Wave, mid-recovery, lost all footing.

"No—!"

But gravity had already claimed him.

He plummeted into the abyss below, vanishing from sight in an instant, the loose rubble and snow caving in after him like a maw swallowing its prey.

Silence returned to the forest. Only the soft whisper of snowfall remained.

Izou stood at the edge, eyes narrowed into the crater's dark depths.

He waited a few seconds.

No movement.

No sound.

Just stillness.

He exhaled through his nose with a disappointed sigh, shoulders slumping.

"Well, damn," he muttered. "That was just getting fun."

With a shrug, he sheathed Kousetsu, patting the blade once more.

"Guess breakfast's over."

He turned and walked off, his footprints already being devoured by the falling snow.

Unbeknownst to the would-be samurai now whistling his way through the snow-covered trees above, Wave had indeed fallen—fallen hard and far, like a stone hurled by cruel gods into the belly of the earth.

The wind screamed past him during the descent, each foot of freefall compressing the air around his armored form. The fractured walls of the chasm blurred on either side, jagged and obsidian-black, streaked with veins of glistening ice. Snow flurries followed him downward in a swirling funnel, slow and mocking.

Then, without ceremony or warning—

CRACK.

He hit bottom.

The collision echoed like a gunshot through the vast hollow. The ground was not kind. Solid bedrock—raw, uneven, and unforgiving—rose up to greet him with all the gentleness of a hammer to the ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of his lungs so violently he didn't even make a sound—just a sharp exhale, like a balloon punctured by a nail.

For several seconds, Wave simply lay there, splayed across the cold stone like a broken marionette. But for the shock absorbing inner padding of Grand Chariot's armor, the former Jaeger surely would have met his demise in an instant. Yet even so, his limbs trembled faintly, the aftershocks of pain rippling outward from every joint and nerve ending. Beneath the armor, his chest rose in shallow gasps. His mouth hung open, lips dry and pale, every breath scraping past his throat like sandpaper.

The blood loss was worse than he realized.

Each heartbeat was sluggish now—muted and distant. The cold that surrounded him wasn't just the chill of the chasm—it was internal, crawling from his bones outward.

Still conscious… barely.

The HUD inside the helmet flickered once—then failed. A soft whirring sound echoed through the armor's seams as the blue glow faded.

And then, with a sharp metallic hiss, Grand Chariot deactivated.

The armor disassembled itself piece by piece, like a machine surrendering to gravity. Plates lifted from his body in shimmering fragments, breaking apart mid-air and vanishing into ether. All that remained in its wake was the dormant short sword lying at his side, glinting faintly beneath a shaft of pale light filtering from the world above.

His body gave a slight convulsion as the protection disappeared. He was left exposed—no longer encased in his sleek second skin. Just a man again. Vulnerable. Bleeding. Broken.

He turned his head with monumental effort, wincing as his vision swam. His leg burned with each twitch—still fractured, possibly worse now. The nerves screamed with every slight motion. His breath steamed faintly in the frozen air, and he could taste copper in his mouth. His fingers curled weakly in the dirt, as if trying to dig his way back to life.

A shallow moan escaped his throat. Not out of fear. Not pain. Not even frustration.

It was fatigue. The weight of it all—the fight, the fall, the blood, the failure—crushing him under an invisible slab. He wanted to move. He wanted to rise. But the muscles didn't answer. His mind willed it, and his body refused.

Seconds stretched into minutes.

Above, the sky was just a distant sliver, pale and gray. Snowflakes tumbled down like feathers. They collected on his forehead. Melted on contact. The stone beneath him sucked away his warmth like a greedy parasite.

He was alone. Truly alone.

His breathing grew shallower still. Fingers twitching. Vision flickering.

Yet somewhere inside, buried beneath layers of pain and exhaustion, a small flicker of something remained. Not hope. Not resolve. Just the dull, stubborn heartbeat of someone too angry to die lying down.

His lips parted. He coughed once—wet and weak. A tiny stream of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

Flashes of recent events beamed through his mind. Tatsumi effortlessly defeating Jason Wolfgang. The intimidation he felt from Esdeath earlier before walked away. And now the current predicament he had gotten himself into as a result of his inability this crazed samurai. For reasons he could not comprehend, his heart bubbled with frustration.

Not at Tatsumi.

Not at Esdeath.

. . . and certainly not at this crazed Samurai.

But at himself . . .

Still, he reached out—fingers trembling—toward the dormant Grand Chariot beside him.

As his fingers trembled, a sudden shift softened Wave's eyes as a distant, buried memory surfaced within him, vivid as though carved from crystal.

Sunlight danced gently across the surface of the sea out near the countryside in the western section of the Grand Empire many years ago, rippling reflections painting a pier's weathered planks. There, amid shadows cast by tall dockside cranes, sat a young boy, knees drawn close, tattered clothing hanging loosely from his thin, trembling frame. His hair was tousled, dirt-streaked, his arms wrapped protectively around himself in a desperate attempt at comfort. Tears traced silent trails down bruised cheeks as his body shook with muted sobs.

Approaching footsteps disturbed the pier's tranquil silence, heavy boots scraping roughly against the wood, mocking laughter echoing harshly behind each step. A group of older boys encircled the child, grins twisted with cruel amusement, eyes glittering with malice. Their hands clenched into fists, knuckles white with intent. The smallest boy shrank further into himself, unable even to cry out.

Yet before the first blow could land, another presence entered silently, swiftly. Sturdy leather boots moved purposefully between the frightened child and his tormentors. Broad shoulders straightened, back turned firmly toward the huddled boy in an unmistakable shield of protection.

The bullies froze mid-step, their confidence fading, expressions turning to uncertainty and fear as they recognized the newcomer. One by one, they shrank away, scattering like startled rats, disappearing rapidly into nearby alleyways and streets.

Slowly, carefully, the child lifted his head, tear-filled eyes widening with surprise, then awe, as he took in the imposing figure standing tall before him—a sturdy, older man with silver-streaked hair and gentle, reassuring strength in every line of his body. The sunlight illuminated the weathered lines upon his face, each wrinkle telling silent stories of battles endured and victories won.

As the man turned toward him, his expression softened, eyes warm and reassuring. His lips curved into a quiet, comforting smile as he reached out a large, calloused hand toward the frightened boy. An offer. An invitation. A promise of safety.

Hesitantly at first, then with newfound trust, the child reached back, placing his small, shaking hand into the man's steady grasp. The warmth from that simple gesture radiated through him, filling the emptiness of fear with something brighter, something stronger—hope.

In the present, the former Jaeger managed to grab onto the dormant Grand Chariot-quiet determination settled into his eyes as he whispered softly to himself, conviction evident in every syllable: "No matter what . . . no matter what comes my way, I have to be strong. That's all there is to it."

[ . . . the illustrious Durellione . . . ]

Back in the city portion of Hertz, amidst the mosaic sprawl of modernity and neoclassical charm, Tatsumi had jogged his way over to 48th Street—at least, that's what the enamel-coated sign read when he paused to confirm.

The Incursio wielder wiped the sweat from his brow and turned a corner, his crimson eyes scanning the towers until they locked onto a particular structure. A massive building stood across the way, easily fifteen stories tall, its gleaming windows catching the late afternoon sunlight. What caught his eye wasn't just the size—it was the unmistakable glow of stylized copper letters curving around the facade: LEOPOLD'S SKY CAFE. His gaze climbed the structure: the first ten floors looked to be alive with motion, while the tenth floor boasted a massive outdoor lounge suspended over the street on a glass-and-bronze balcony.

Nodding to himself, he crossed the street and pushed open the revolving door into a sudden, warm swell of clinking glassware, murmured conversation, and faint orchestral jazz playing from an unseen speaker system.

The interior was a masterclass in opulent excess. The grand foyer opened up into an expansive, marbled lobby that split into multiple corridors and lounges, each humming with activity. Mahogany-paneled walls were lit by golden chandeliers fashioned like blooming sunflowers, and velvet curtains the color of midnight rippled at every window. To the right, a bar lined with emerald-backed stools served cocktails in glassware so delicate it seemed woven from frost. To the left, a stage featured a live string quartet accompanied by a pianist playing a rendition of "Danse des Sylphes." Waitstaff in tailored waistcoats moved like a ballet of efficiency, weaving through finely dressed patrons with silver trays of espresso, champagne, and plated delicacies.

Deeper inside, a spiral staircase of blackened steel and ivory trim led up to several floors—some marked as "Private Gaming Parlors," others labeled "Theater Boxes," and at least one reading "Members Only Reading Lounge." The clientele ranged from oil barons to high-tech merchant guilders, from ladies in Victorian-gothic dresses to scholars hunched over crystal tablets.

Tatsumi wandered deeper through the decadent labyrinth, struggling at times to move as shoulder-to-shoulder patrons clogged the passageways. He weaved past a pair of men arguing over stock prices in Galvanis, then ducked around a waiter carrying a roasted duck glazed in brandy-orange reduction. As he ascended the staircase to the tenth-floor outdoor lounge, he wondered silently how in the world he was supposed to find someone like Jean Durellione in this absolute jungle of opulence.

The moment he stepped onto the outdoor balcony, the air changed. A soft breeze swept across the patio, ruffling tablecloths and carrying with it the scents of saffron, sea salt, and aged whiskey. The view was panoramic—the entire skyline of Hertz unfurled like a tapestry, golden spires jutting upward beside archaic clock towers and neon-lit billboards. Tables were arranged beneath pergolas wrapped in flowering vines, and an artificial waterfall trickled gently into a koi pond below the railing.

Then a voice cut through the serene air like an off-key violin: "This is... this is abominable! Utterly revolting! You dare bring this... asymmetrical tragedy to my table and call it cuisine!?"

Tatsumi glanced toward the outburst and spotted the source immediately: a young man in his twenties with perfectly symmetrical blonde hair cut in a stiff, bowl-like fashion, sitting with one leg crossed at a corner table draped in silk. The plate before him was meticulously arranged save for a half-inch misalignment of caviar, which had clearly driven him into a righteous fury.

The waitress, flustered and red-faced, bowed repeatedly. "I-I'm so sorry, Sir Durellione! I'll tell the chef at once. He'll fix it right away, I swear—"

"You'll tell the chef?" Jean Durellione sniffed dramatically and pointed his butter knife at her like a judge's gavel. "My dear, you will tell the chef nothing, because if he's the type to butcher plating this badly, he clearly doesn't speak the language of refinement! I should report this to the Culinarian Guild! Or perhaps have you dismissed! I could ruin you, madam!"

The waitress bowed again, nearly in tears. "Please, Sir Durellione, just one more chance. I'll personally ensure the presentation is perfect next time!"

Tatsumi's eyes flickered with recognition at the name. Durellione. His gaze sharpened, and he slowly approached the table, noting the young noble's silk-trimmed navy wool tunic, the tailored breeches, and—more notably—the ornate rapier fastened at his hip. This was him. No doubt about it. The arrogance practically radiated from the man like heat from a forge.

Tatsumi walked up as the waitress fled. Jean looked up and narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a sneer. "And who in blue blazes are you supposed to be?"

Tatsumi gave a polite bow. "Tatsumi. I heard one of your retainers for the Steel Festival quit last night."

Durellione snorted and leaned back in his chair, examining Tatsumi from head to toe with a curled lip. "Hmph. You reek of mediocre peasantry. Get thee hence, gutter-born."

Tatsumi blinked, taken aback—not so much by the rejection, but by the word itself. Peasant? That was a first. He rubbed his chin absently, a flicker of contemplation in his eyes as he mused on whether or not he technically qualified as one.

Jean noticed. His lips twisted into something like amusement. "Ah. A peasant who can think. Wonders never cease."

Before the banter could continue, another voice—female this time—interrupted, cutting through the noise with a casual confidence. "With all due respect, Sir Durellione… we can't always judge a book by its cover."

Both men turned. Tatsumi's eyes widened slightly. "Chelsea?"

The woman approaching grinned, her voice lilting with mirth. "Once again, that's Helen. Helen Patricia Lovercraft. Do me a favor and don't confuse me with my big sister again, kay?"

Tatsumi gave a small bow. "Sorry."

Jean gave an exasperated sigh and massaged his temple. "What in the name of the Seven Isles are you doing back here, Helen? I specifically told you to find someone suitable for the festival."

The Chelsea lookalike ignored his tone and casually gestured at Tatsumi. "You're looking at him."

Jean stared at her as though she'd suggested training a dog to paint frescoes. "This low-class peasant? This commoner? He's not fit to clean my boots, much less enter the Steel Festival under my name!"

Helen just shrugged, folding her arms and smirking. "Can't you tell? This one might not look like it, but his will is positively incredible."

The word will made Jean hesitate. He slowly turned to face her fully, concern shadowing his usually smug expression. He leaned in and whispered, "Are you sure? My family's name… our reputation… everything's riding on this. If I don't win this year, I might as well join the clergy and never come home again."

Helen gave him a confident nod. "Trust me. This one's golden."

Jean took a deep breath, then stood. With dramatic flair, he drew his rapier and gestured downward. "Kneel, then."

Tatsumi looked to Helen, who gave him a subtle nod. With a sigh, he knelt.

Jean twirled the rapier in his wrist like a theatrical maestro, then tapped each of Tatsumi's shoulders with the blade. "I hereby deem you my retainer for this year's Steel Festival. See to it that your peasant urges do not interfere with your performance."

Tatsumi glanced up at him and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I won't let you down."

"Ah. There you are, Tatsumi." The voice—cool, feminine, and unmistakably commanding—drifted through the lounge like silk dragged across glass.

Tatsumi didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. "Morning, Esd-er I mean Captain Gehrman."

She was striding toward them with that familiar confidence, hips swaying, long blue hair tied in a pony tail and cascading down her back like a river of frost. Clad in her pirate outfit, crisp, blue, and accented with dark navy trim—she radiated a presence that couldn't be ignored even if one tried.

Esdeath's eyes flicked from Jean Durellione to Helen Lovecraft and back to Tatsumi, and then she tilted her head in mock curiosity. "You know," she mused, placing a finger on her lip, "I'm starting to think I need to start putting a leash on you. Just to keep track of where you keep wandering off to . . . and maybe other reasons once we're behind closed doors. "

Tatsumi shot her a flat, annoyed look, and for a moment, Esdeath paused mid-step. Then she chuckled, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. "Right, right, right. Don't embarrass you in public. See? I do pay attention."

He exhaled slowly and shook his head. "Moving on. I got us an invite into the Steel Festival."

That made Jean Durellione squint in confusion. He adjusted his collar with exaggerated finesse and frowned. "Pardon me, but there is no 'us,' peasant. I've agreed to let you compete as my retainer—not your . . . ."

"His captain and girlfriend." Esdeath stifled a yawn with the back of her gloved hand, drawing it out dramatically before replying. "And relax. Something as meaningless as the Steel Festival would be a complete waste of my time anyway."

"Captain?", Sir Durellione asked with a look of contempt on his face. "I see. A peasant and a pirate. Pitiful."

Tatsumi looked to Helen, who was already grinning like a cat with a belly full of songbirds. "Who else is participating as Sir Durellione's retainers?" he asked.

Helen laughed lightly and pointed across the terrace. "Well, you're looking at them. The great and noble Sir Durellione's three champions are: myself, you, and Colonel Darcy—over there." She gestured toward a stone-faced soldier seated at a table near the koi pond. The man wore a Grand Empire uniform similar to the one Esdeath used to wear, but less ceremonial—more practical. His gloved hand delicately cradled a teacup as he sipped, unbothered by the bustle around him. A long, ornately carved spear leaned against the back of his chair, its shaft carved with imperial runes.

The former assassin glanced over towards the colonel with some hint of intrigue in his eyes. "Colonel Darcy?"

To which Sir Durellione smirked with pride. "Colonel Darcy is an elite warrior in a class of his own. He's fought countless battles without so much as even being grazed, has never known defeat; enemies on the battlefield flee in terror at the mere utterance of his name. You could say he is truly invincible."

Tatsumi rubbed his chin with curiosity. "He's that good?"

The pompous noble's grin only grew wider. "Lets just say that if General Esdeath were still around, she'd be forced to bend a knee and give up her title as the Grand Empire's strongest."

"Oh really?", Esdeath replied with a sadistic grin on her lips.

Immediately sensing the need to dowse the direction this conversation was going, Tatsumi elbowed his battle crazy girlfriend in a sheepish fashion before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to Chelsea's twin. "So . . . you're participating too?"

Helen's response was to saunter closer, a glint of mischief in her eyes. She slid one arm around Tatsumi's shoulder, then the other around his waist. "Of course. The Steel Festival isn't just about brute force, y'know. Some of the events require… finesse. Grace. Style." She leaned closer. "Which just so happens to be my specialty."

Tatsumi stiffened slightly, but it wasn't his reaction Helen noticed—it was the sudden air temperature near her.

Esdeath's glare was glacial—an irony not lost on anyone. Her expression didn't contort or shift. She didn't speak. But steam all but rose from the tiles beneath her boots, and her icy stare burned holes into Helen's spine. The air crackled around her, subtle enough that most patrons didn't notice—except Helen, who promptly let go of Tatsumi like she'd accidentally leaned against a hot stove.

"Right," Helen muttered, stepping away and smoothing her skirt. "Boundaries. Got it."

Esdeath turned her attention to Durellione, her voice calm and void of even the faintest inflection. "I've changed my mind. I will be participating in the Steel Festival after all."

Jean's eye twitched, annoyed that he was being contradicted by someone who ought to have known she was addressing one of her betters "Absolutely not," he said quickly. "I already have three retainers. The rules are quite clear. There's no room for—"

Esdeath tapped her foot once. The sound echoed like a drumbeat. Instantly, a transparent hair-thin trail of frost zipped across the floor with such unnatural speed that the average human eye would not even begin to notice. It curved elegantly around tables and chairs before stopping beneath Colonel Darcy's feet.

Then—CRACK—a jagged spike of ice erupted upward in a straight pillar, launching both the chair and Darcy straight into the air. Gasps rippled across the terrace as the Colonel shot like a missile through the balcony ceiling.

SMASH.

His head burst through the ornate tile and vanished from view, leaving a gaping hole in the roof and a rain of plaster snowing down on his now-vacated table.

The entire patio went still and no one but Tatsumi appeared to have realized the exact nature of what just transpired. Needless to say, all he could do was sigh in exasperation.

Esdeath turned her gaze back to Jean without missing a beat. "It would seem one of your retainers has recently suffered a debilitating concussion. I don't think he'll recover in time for the festival."

Jean's mouth opened and closed several times. He stared at the shattered ceiling, then at the trembling staff rushing to Darcy's aid, then finally back to Esdeath. He couldn't quite tell whether she had in fact been one to perform the seemingly black magic just now, but the rising hair on the back of his neck just now made him completely uninterested in finding out. His lips quivered like a man on the verge of tears.

"Fine," he croaked. "Fine! You're in!"

Unlike with Tatsumi, Jean didn't even ask her to kneel. He simply drew his rapier and held it forward with two fingers, his hand visibly trembling as he christened her into the role with all the energy of a wet paper towel. "You are now… one of my… fine, excellent… valiant retainers."

Esdeath grinned ear to ear, then promptly threw her arms around Tatsumi, spinning him once. "See?! Now we both get to be in the Steel Festival!"

To which the former assassin rolled his eyes. "This from the person who has spent the last 24 hours telling me that the Steel Festival is a stupid idea."

. . . Clandestine meeting of maniacs . . .

Hours slipped by as the sun sank below the copper rooftops of Bestimmung, casting long, barbed shadows through the alleyways like fingers reaching from the underworld. By the time the sun dipped beneath Bestimmung's jagged skyline, the city's industrial haze had turned gold to rust. The lamps sputtered to life along cracked cobblestone alleys, casting pools of flickering amber across graffiti-smeared brick walls and rat-scattered gutters. The clock tower in the merchant district groaned a hollow bell—seven sharp.

Syura—ashen-haired, deranged, and swaggering with the self-confidence of a man who thought himself invincible—strode down a narrow, grime-slick alley with both hands buried in his pockets. His boots clicked sharply against cobblestones, the sound crisp in the otherwise hushed space. A crooked grin tugged at his lips as his mismatched eyes flicked left and right, surveying his subordinates with casual disinterest.

Izou was the first to be spotted—seated on the ground with his back resting against the mossy brick wall, Kousetsu laid across his lap in a relaxed but unmistakably ready posture. His head tilted slightly as Syura approached, eyes half-lidded and chewing on a fresh twig like it was a fine cigar. There was no tension in his body, but a closer look at the scuffed stones around him would betray the truth—he'd been waiting like a coiled serpent.

A few paces down, Champ leaned with one broad shoulder against the alley's opposite wall, shuffling a full deck of cards in his meaty hands with mechanical precision. The sound of riffling paper echoed like whispers, punctuated by the occasional snap as he cut and re-shuffled. He didn't look up, didn't say a word—just kept cycling the deck with a low, ominous rhythm that might have driven a lesser man insane.

Standing tall near a battered dumpster, arms crossed neatly over her chest, was Cosmina. She perked up at Syura's approach, offering him a military-straight posture and a smile that never quite reached her violet eyes.

But one person wasn't here.

Syura stopped just short of Izou, gaze sweeping the gathering with the faintest twitch of irritation in the corner of his eye. "Where the hell is Dorothea?"

Cosmina raised a hand, her voice dry and clipped as she reported, "She checked into a hotel about three hours ago. Left a message. Said not to bother her with our 'stupid meeting.' Claimed she needed beauty sleep."

Syura rolled his eyes and exhaled dramatically, dragging a hand down his face in mock despair. "Figures. That little witch comes and goes like we're her damn cab service."

He turned slightly, facing the group more fully now as the grin returned to his face. "Anyone got anything to report that doesn't involve flaking out on me?"

Izou's eyes flicked up with faint amusement, the twig shifting slightly in his mouth as he spoke. "Had a run-in this morning in the woods west of here. Pretty sure your old flame's sniffing around."

Syura blinked once, his curiosity piqued. "You saw Esdeath?"

Izou shrugged, brushing his thumb along the curve of Kousetsu's sheath. "Didn't see her directly. But I saw what she left behind. Forest's got a crater now—big one. Frozen solid, too. The air was still brittle when I found it. Didn't take a genius to guess. Ran into somebody who didn't wanna tell me anything about her too."

Syura's grin widened with manic glee as he took a step forward. "Oh?

Izou smirked faintly, his eyes distant like he was recalling the memory with a sense of nostalgic amusement. "Kid was fast. Wore a blue suit of armor. Strong, too—real strong. We clashed a few times before the ground gave out. He fell into the chasm before we could finish. Shame. I was just starting to have fun."

Syura snapped his fingers. "Wave. That had to be him. Imperial arm called Grand Chariot. One of Esdeath's Jaegers."

The name practically hissed from his mouth like a curse. Syura's eyes danced with excitement now, fingers twitching slightly as though itching to carve something open.

"Well, if Wave is here…" he trailed off, thoughts visibly connecting in his head like hooks digging into soft flesh. "Maybe she brought the rest of her little snowflake brigade with her."

Izou's hand slowly drifted toward Kousetsu. With the flick of a thumb, he barely nudged the katana in its sheath. The metal gave a soft, chilling click as it shifted. His tone didn't change, but the air around him did.

"If Esdeath's here…" he said, voice as calm as falling snow, "...maybe we deal with her first."

The katana gleamed slightly in the moonlight, even in its scabbard. A low wind stirred through the alley like a held breath waiting to exhale. The words weren't emotional. Not aggressive. Just a statement of inevitability.

But Syura shook his head, that devil-may-care grin still stamped across his face like a brand. "Patience, Izou. You know better than anyone—Esdeath's not the kind of bitch you just ambush in an alley and hope it works out. That's suicide."

He began to pace, hands still buried in his pants' pockets, head tilting back as he spoke like an actor on a stage. "You don't fight Esdeath. You trap her. You lay the bait, you build the box, and then you slam the door shut once she steps inside. Anything less, and we're just lining up to die."

[ . . . in there way too long . . . ]

Elsewhere in the city, as darkness draped itself over the rooftops and shadows pooled beneath every eave, Run stood silently at the edge of a massive clocktower, its minute hand ticking just past the hour. The wind was sharp and restless, threading through his dark coat and tugging it like a child seeking attention. Above him, the moon had begun its climb, casting pale silver light over the streets below. In his hands, he held a pair of military-grade binoculars, polished and silent.

His gaze was fixed on a modest, nondescript house nestled between two merchant buildings several blocks away—the one Rokugou and Leone had entered earlier that day. He adjusted the lenses minutely, narrowing in on the front door, the windows, the flickering candlelight from within.

"That idiot," he muttered under his breath, more exasperated than angry. "She's been in there way too long…"

The silence stretched between tick and tock. Run's brow furrowed with a twinge of concern. For all Leone's strength, her impulsive nature often turned routine assignments into precarious gambles. He chewed the inside of his cheek before exhaling hard, his breath forming a visible mist.

"I suppose I'm left with little choice."

He straightened up, stepped back from the ledge, and raised his hand in a fluid, practiced motion. The air shimmered around his shoulders as his imperial arm activated, a faint, pure glow emerging. In the blink of an eye, a pair of majestic, feathered wings—pristine and white as untouched snow—unfurled from his back.

Without a sound, he leapt into the void, wings sweeping downward once, twice, propelling him silently off the tower's apex and into the chilled night air. The wind rushed past his face as he dove, banking gracefully toward his target. Within seconds, he slowed his descent and landed without a sound behind a small copse of trees lining the house's side yard.

From this vantage point, Run scanned the porch again. His heart beat steadily, calm but alert. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he murmured to himself.

"It's now or never."

He stepped forward, intent on making his way to the front door—but then froze.

His eyes widened with sudden surprise as he caught sight of the door creaking open.

Leone.

She stepped out with her usual swagger, blonde hair glistening under the moonlight and arms stretching lazily over her head. She was humming something tuneless, as if walking out of a spa, not an enemy operative's home.

As she descended the porch steps, Run emerged from the shadows, wings vanishing in a burst of ethereal light behind him. His boots crunched softly against the gravel path as he walked toward her, posture rigid.

Leone's golden eyes lit up at the sight of him. She gave a sheepish wave and grinned. "Hi, boss!"

Run's expression was half glare, half exasperation. "What the heck happened to reporting back? You were supposed to contact me hours ago."

Leone shrugged with zero shame. "I got a little carried away."

Run rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, the tension crawling back into his jaw. "Did you at least learn anything useful?"

She sighed dramatically, scratching the back of her head. "Depends on what you call useful. The guy spent hours trying to seduce me. Like… relentless. Dude even made dinner. Twice."

Run's eyes briefly drifted toward the house, then away again. He folded his arms and exhaled. "I see."

There was a pause, but he didn't push further. Instead, he shifted gears. "Any headway on the Steel Festival?"

Leone's ears perked up at that. "Yup!" she chirped, grinning wide. "Talked him into letting me—and anyone I pick—enter on his behalf. Total win."

At that, a small, approving smile broke through Run's otherwise tired expression. "That's good news at least."

The two began walking side by side, their boots tapping lightly on the cobbled road as they moved away from the house and into the quiet street. The moon lit their path, and for a few moments, neither of them spoke. It was a comfortable silence.

After a block or two, Run finally said, "That's enough Night Watch business for one day. We're heading back to the hotel."

Leone's ears visibly twitched at the word hotel. "Ooooh—hotel, huh?" she said with a suggestive grin, elbowing him playfully. "We celebrating?"

But before she could say anything else, Run cut her off with a sigh. "I already told the vendor to revoke your access to the second-floor bar."

Leone stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropping. "What? Boss! That's—this is cruel and unusual punishment!"

Run kept walking, hands in his coat pockets. "It's your own fault for your complete lack of self control.'"

Leone caught up with a dramatic huff, crossing her arms. "You're lucky I'm a professional, or I'd totally rebel right now."

Run smirked slightly but didn't respond. The two disappeared into the night, their conversation fading into the breeze as Bestimmung's lamps flickered above them like watching eyes.

[ . . . The Steel Festival . . . ]

Weeks rolled by in the city of Hertz, like pages falling from an ancient tome, each day written with growing anticipation. The Steel Festival loomed closer, its gravitational pull drawing excitement, nerves, and ambition from every corner of Bestimmung and the world beyond.

As the festival approached, the once-calm streets transformed into veins of energy and motion. Shopkeepers hung banners of steel-blue and gold from their eaves, their storefronts gleaming with polished wares and imported delights. Inns were booked weeks in advance, restaurants stayed open until the early hours, and blacksmiths hammered tirelessly through the nights, their sparks flickering like fireflies across the rooftops.

Civic engineers and artists collaborated to redesign public squares with intricate archways, ornamental fountains, and reinforced stone roads to handle the foot traffic. Streamers waved from the windows of clocktowers, and massive mechanical effigies of mythical beasts and famous warriors were constructed in key plazas for the celebratory parades.

Training grounds across the city echoed with the clashing of steel and grunts of exertion as participants honed their skills and prepared for the grandeur and violence that awaited. The Steel Festival wasn't just spectacle—it was legacy. Victory meant status, power, and a whisper of immortality in Bestimmung's history.

And then, at long last, the day arrived.

BOOM!

The early morning sky lit up with the thunder of fireworks, bursts of crimson, azure, and white igniting above the city skyline like a storm of fire-painted stars. The sun hadn't even reached its zenith before waves of tourists flooded the streets, their faces brimming with awe.

Every district had something to offer. Carnival games and towering rides, adorned in glimmering lights, rose like cathedrals of joy. Street vendors and food stalls stretched from boulevard to boulevard, the scent of sizzling meat, roasted almonds, and exotic spices wafting in the air like an intoxicating perfume. Foreign dignitaries in lavish robes, mercenaries in travel-worn gear, nobles in gilded carriages, and bright-eyed children—all walked the same roads.

Jugglers, fire-breathers, sword-swallowers, and circus troupes performed on every corner, while technology exhibitions showcased new inventions and startling findings. In quieter corners of the city, rare treasures were being auctioned to the highest bidder.

But all of this paled in comparison to the main event.

Above it all, massive banners of steel gray and royal blue waved from the tallest towers, each stitched with the sigil of Bestimmung: an eagle clutching a broken sword.

And at the center of it all—the eye of the hurricane—was the amphitheater, a grand coliseum made of polished stone and reinforced iron supports. Fountains flanked the stage, spilling clear water down terraces of engraved marble depicting scenes of great warriors past. It could hold thousands—but today, it had been reserved for a select elite.

Eight hundred warriors, nobles, tacticians, and their retainers stood packed near the stage, forming a tapestry of color, armor, and whispering voices. The air hummed with tension. Swords gleamed in the sunlight. Enchanted weapons radiated faint pulses of power, and even the stone beneath their feet seemed to vibrate with contained excitement.

Among them stood Sir Durellione, pompous as ever, draped in a tailored gambeson embroidered with his family crest. A buckler of ornately engraved brass was strapped to his back, polished to a shine. His nose was upturned as though the very air might offend his noble senses.

At his side stood his chosen trio of retainers—Esdeath, Tatsumi, and Helen. Oddly, the ice queen had made a deliberate decision to insert herself between Tatsumi and Helen, and Tatsumi could not help but scratch his head in response.

"Remember," Durellione scolded, his gloved hand wagging condescendingly, "no foolishness. No rash actions. This is a sacred event, and I will not tolerate embarrassment to my family's good name. Not in front of the Chancellor."

Tatsumi, either distracted or simply uninterested in the noble's bluster much to his annoyance; the Incursio wielder blinked up at the marble columns and remarked, "The chancellor invited… this many people?"

"Mm," Esdeath muttered, arms crossed. "He invited a sea of mediocrity. I'd wager most of this this gathering is deadweight . . . at least 25% of our immediate circle included."

Sir Durellione's smug grin bloomed like a weed. He looked at Tatsumi with thinly veiled contempt. "How sad. Even your own captain thinks you're peasant trash."

Tatsumi blinked. "Wait—"

But before any rebuttal could be given, a voice echoed out, loud and regal, through well hidden speakers throughout the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen—participants and patrons alike—" boomed the voice, rich with grandeur. "Please turn your attention to the stage! Presenting now… the ruler of all Bestimmung... the esteemed, the indomitable—CHANCELLOR EISEN!"

Silence fell like a hammer.

Even Esdeath, ever-dominant and ever-imperious, straightened at once. Her gloved fingers flexed, and her icy eyes turned toward the stage. She could feel it—a pressure in the air, like static before a lightning strike. Tatsumi notably felt it too. Every muscle in his body stiffened. This wasn't just another pompous politician overinflated with self-importance. This was someone who radiated power—presence. Command.

From behind the drawn velvet curtains emerged a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose very walk was a statement of elegance and steel-tempered will.

He wore a perfectly tailored midnight-black tailcoat, a double-breasted dove-gray waistcoat, and a crisp high-collared linen shirt fastened with a neatly tied neckcloth. His black breeches were clean and fitted, his polished boots gleaming in the overhead sun. White linen gloves covered his hands, and the only decoration upon his chest was a single steel medallion bearing Bestimmung's sigil.

His hair was white as powdered snow, swept back with precision. But his face—his face was regal, commanding, carved from stone. Not youthful, but not decrepit either. It bore only the most distinguished signs of age—lines that spoke of wisdom, scars that whispered of battle.

But his eyes—his eyes were what silenced a crowd of eight hundred.

They were a shade of steely blue, like tempered ice, scanning the gathered elite with absolute, unshakable calculation. Every glance seemed to dissect those it landed on. Measuring. Weighing. Judging.

Every step he took was practiced. Measured. Deliberate. There was no waste in his movement, no extravagance, but every inch of his bearing screamed nobility and strength—an apex predator wearing the skin of a diplomat.

This was Chancellor Eisen. The man who ruled Bestimmung not with fear, but with flawless precision. He needed no crown. He was the state.

A/N: And so, with the enigmatic Chancellor Eisen now standing center stage—a man whose very gaze could bend kingdoms and break egos—the curtain rises on the true beginning of the Steel Festival. But just what does Chancellor Eisen have in store for the competitors? What secrets lie beneath the polished stone and staged grandeur of Hertz? And when fists fly and blades clash, who will rise… and who will be left in the dirt?

Tune in next time folks as for Hunt the Steel Festival - Part One