Chapter 92: Strength is in the Eye of the Beholder - Boys Side

  While the girls were deep in their own chaotic world of flour-dusted kitchen battles and explosive, high-stakes sparring, the boys were on a 'unique' adventure of their own.

  The cacophony of the sunlit, bustling marketplace—the shouting merchants, the clanging crates, the rich aromas of spices and grilled fish—was gone. In its place was a heavy quiet, broken only by the drip, drip, drip of water from unseen pipes and the distant, metallic creak of a wind vane.

  "Bob... are we lost?" Raito asked, his voice sounding uncomfortably loud in the narrow alleyway.

  The path was no longer paved with the bright, clean stone of the main city. Here, the ground was a patchwork of uneven, moss-slicked cobblestones and damp, packed earth. The towering, elegant architecture of Azul Spira had given way to a maze of rickety, multi-leveled structures built from salvaged wood and rusted metal sheets, all leaning precariously against one another. The air, trapped between the close-set buildings, hung heavy with the smell of mildew, briny-wet wood, and the faint, sour scent of cheap cooking oil. Shadows stretched long and deep, even in the middle of the day.

  "Hmmm...." Bob, the master haggler and man of the markets, looked utterly out of his element. He was holding a large, brightly-colored tourist map of Azul Spira, his brow furrowed as he tried to make it align with the ramshackle surroundings. "We shouldn't be. The place we're looking for should be right... here." He tapped a spot on the map, then scanned his surroundings again, his usual boisterous confidence visibly faltering.

  "Where are we going anyway, Mister Bob?" Jack asked, his voice barely a whisper. He stayed close to Bob's side, his shoulders hunched as he nervously eyed a figure watching them from a shadowed doorway.

  "Yeah, where exactly are we going, Bob?" Raito chimed in, stepping over a puddle of murky water. "When you asked if Jack was good at haggling, I was expecting another shopping trip around the market. This..." He gestured to a line of ragged laundry strung between two balconies, "...is very clearly not a place you'd normally visit."

  "That is true," Bob admitted, finally folding the useless tourist map and tucking it away. He pulled a smaller, hand-written note from his vest pocket. "I was planning to visit an old friend. Another rival merchant, you see. The note from his letter told me he should be waiting somewhere around here." He held the note up, squinting at the cramped handwriting. "Edgar told me there's a secret merchant association meeting being held, but..." Bob lowered the note, his gaze sweeping over the rusted metal and damp, crumbling brickwork. "This place really doesn't look like it."

  "Perhaps a miscommunication, Mister Bob?" Jack offered, his voice still hushed.

  "Can't be," Bob said, shaking his head, his usual jovialty replaced by a stubborn, mule-like focus. "Edgar and I have been in contact, and been rivals, for years." He unfolded the tourist map again, placing the note beside it, his finger tracing a line. "He's tricky, but he's not sloppy."

  "Shuush," Raito suddenly hissed, his body going still. He held up a hand, and the other two froze.

  In the quiet, the sound became clear: footsteps. Not the shuffling of a lone resident, but the heavy, rhythmic tread of several people moving with purpose. They were coming from the alley just ahead of them, echoing off the narrow, damp walls.

  Raito's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, Koenka, his thumb resting on the guard. "Possibly this friend of yours, Bob?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the shadowed corner.

  "No need to be so alert, young Raito, hohoho!" Bob's boisterous laugh suddenly returned, though it sounded jarringly loud in the cramped space. He clapped Raito on the shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "That is probably just people from his merchant group. Let me go greet them!"

  Before Raito could protest, Bob bustled forward, his large frame filling the alley. The footsteps grew louder, and then a group of men rounded the corner, stopping short when they saw Bob.

  There were five of them. They wore dark, heavy leather jackets, scuffed and worn, and their hair was greased back, shining wetly even in the dim light. Their faces were hard, and their eyes, cold and assessing, swept over Bob, then lingered on Raito and Jack.

  Raito's hand tightened on his hilt. Jack took an involuntary step back, his hand gripping the strap of his satchel.

  One of the men, who stood slightly in front of the others, stepped forward. His gaze was sharp, his expression unreadable. "Bob, I presume?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

  "The one and only!" Bob boomed, spreading his arms wide in a grand, welcoming gesture. "And who's asking?"

  For a second, the man's hard expression remained. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, his face broke into a wide, almost dazzlingly gentle and welcoming smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he let out a short, wheezing laugh.

  "Oh, welcome, welcome!" he said, his voice instantly changing to one of a gracious host. He clapped his hands together. "Our boss, Mr. Edgar, has been waiting for you. Come, follow us!" He turned, parting his fellow men with a gesture, and motioned for the three to follow him deeper into the maze.

  "Oh?" Bob's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of disappointment. "I thought he would greet me personally. What happened?" he asked, his booming voice bouncing off the close-set walls.

  The man's smile didn't waver, but it felt practiced, like a mask snapped into place. "Mr. Edgar was... unfortunately preoccupied. A nosy client," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "That's why he sent us. We apologize for the mishaps."

  "Oh, don't worry about that!" Bob's jovialty returned at full force. "Edgar is always so busy and successful, hohoho! And you are, kind sir...?"

  "Uh, yes," the man said, seemingly thrown by the direct question. "You can call me Jetstream."

  "Jetstream, eh?" Bob stroked his beard, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "What a peculiar name! But alright, hohoho!" He gestured grandly. "Lead the way, Mr. Jetstream!"

  As Bob started to follow, Raito put a hand on his arm, pulling him back slightly. "Are you sure, Bob?" he whispered, his eyes never leaving the backs of Jetstream and his men.

  "Yeah, Mister Bob," Jack supported, his voice tight with anxiety. "This... this looks sketchy." He gestured to the dark, narrow alley they were being led into, which smelled strongly of stagnant water.

  "Nonsense, boys!" Bob whispered back, loud enough for everyone to hear. He clapped both of them on their shoulders. "I am sure this is just another bit of Spica-style theatrics! You know, secret meetings, cloaks and daggers... Edgar loves this sort of thing." He said it with such booming, unshakeable confidence that it almost sounded convincing. "Just follow them!"

  Raito and Jack looked at each other, a shared, uneasy glance passing between them. Raito's hand, which had loosened, tightened on Koenka's hilt once more. But Bob was already moving, his large frame confidently following Jetstream.

  With a shared sigh, the two boys fell in step behind him. As soon as they did, the other four men, who had been waiting, filed in behind them. Their heavy boots echoed on the cobblestones, creating a heavy, rhythmic beat in front of them, and an identical one just behind. They were sandwiched.

  Jetstream led them through another two turns, each alleyway seeming narrower and darker than the last, until they stopped in front of a particularly run-down building. This structure looked less like it was standing and more like it was leaning against its neighbors for support. The smell of rot and sea-damp was overpowering here. Most of the ornate marble facade it might have once had was gone, exposing the rotting wooden bones beneath. Water stains ran like dark tears from shattered window frames. It looked as if a small, strong wind would be enough to knock the whole thing down.

  "Just inside," Jetstream said, his welcoming smile still plastered on his face. "Mr. Edgar will be waiting." He stepped up to a warped, swollen wooden door and put his hand on the rusted knob.

  "Sure, sure!" Bob boomed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  Jetstream pulled the door open with a long, groaning creak that set Raito's teeth on edge. The darkness inside was absolute, and a wave of cool, musty air, thick with the smell of decay, washed over them. "After you," Jetstream gestured.

  Raito and Jack exchanged another nervous look. This was wrong. Every instinct screamed at them to run. But Bob, with his unshakeable, beaming confidence, just nodded gratefully at Jetstream and stepped right inside.

  Seeing no other choice, Raito and Jack followed him into the pitch-black room.

  They took three steps inside.

  CLICK.

  The sound was sharp, metallic, and final. The door slammed shut behind them, and the heavy thunk of an external bar dropping into place echoed in the small, dark space.

  "Bob?" Jack's voice was a terrified squeak.

  "Now, now, boys, just part of the..."

  BOOM.

  It wasn't a loud explosion, but a muffled, concussive pop from the center of the room. It was followed by a sharp, hissing sound. A chemical, acrid smell instantly flooded the air, burning their noses and throats.

  "Bob, some kind of gas is coming in!" Raito yelled, his hand flying to cover his mouth. He fumbled for Koenka, but his lungs were already on fire.

  "Hohoho, Edgar, you... you..." Bob's voice was a confused, choked gurgle. A heavy thud sounded as his large frame hit the floor.

  "Mister... Bob...?" Jack gasped, before his own words dissolved into a desperate, rasping cough.

  Raito tried to draw his sword, to find the door, but his limbs felt like lead. The hissing was the only sound in the world. His vision, already useless in the dark, swam with dizzying, gray spots. He felt his knees buckle. He was suffocating.

  Darkness, more complete than the unlit room, rushed in and took them.

  Raito's first sensation was a dull, throbbing ache in his head. His second was the cold, biting chill of metal around his wrists. He stirred, and the sound of a heavy chain scraping against stone echoed in a small, enclosed space.

  He forced his eyes open.

  His vision was blurry, and the darkness was almost total, pierced only by a single, thin line of watery, gray light from under what looked like a heavy door. As his eyes adjusted, the shapes of a small, cramped cell resolved from the gloom. The walls were made of rough, hewn stone, slick with dampness. The air was cold and heavy, thick with the stench of mildew, old sweat, and something else... a faint, coppery tang, like old blood.

  He tried to lift his hands to his face, but they were yanked short. He looked. His hands were bound, his wrists chafed raw and locked in heavy, rusted steel cuffs, which were attached by a short, thick chain to a ring bolt in the wall behind him. A similar, heavier shackle was locked around one of his ankles, attached to a large, metal ball that sat heavy on the damp stone floor.

  His adventurer's clothes were gone. In their place, he wore a simple, sleeveless tunic made of a rough, burlap-like material that scratched at his skin.

  A small, pained groan sounded from beside him.

  Raito twisted, the chains rattling loudly. Next to him, Jack was slumped against the wall, still unconscious, wearing the same pitiful rags. He was chained in the same manner.

  But Bob was missing. The cell was small, and there was nowhere he could be. He was gone.

  "Psst. Jack. Jack, wake up," Raito murmured, his voice a dry croak. He nudged him with his shoulder.

  Jack stirred, his head lolling. "Hmmm... five more minutes..." he mumbled, his voice thick with the dregs of the gas.

  "Jack, wake up!" Raito said, his voice now sharp with urgency. He kicked him with his one unbound leg, his bare foot thudding against Jack's side.

  "I'm up! I'm up!" Jack jolted awake, his eyes flying open in a panic. He gasped, his breath catching as he immediately felt the pull of the chains. "Wha... where...?"

  "Good, you're awake," Raito said, his voice low as he strained to see into the dark corners of the cell. "Now, will you help me find out where we are?"

  "Where are we, Kun?" Jack whimpered. His voice was a small, terrified sound in the damp darkness. His chains rattled as he shivered, the sound echoing sharply off the stone.

  "That's what I'm trying to figure out," Raito said. His voice was calm, analytical. He was pulling at his chains, not with panic, but with a steady, testing pressure, feeling for any weakness in the cuffs or the wall.

  "You... you don't seem to be disturbed by this," Jack stated, his teeth chattering. "We're locked up. We're bound in a dark cell!"

  "Well," Raito said, letting the chain go slack with a metallic clink. "That's what happens when you get used to it. This... is not my first rodeo."

  "Is this a kidnapping?" Jack's voice rose in panic. "Don't tell me we're already far away from Spica. What if we're on a ship? What if—"

  "Nah, we can't be. It's impossible," Raito cut him off. "We're still in Azul Spira. And timeline-wise... it's probably only been an hour or two since we passed out."

  "And you're so confident about that, why?" Jack asked, his panic giving way to confusion.

  "Because," Raito said, and his voice shifted, taking on a clipped, precise tone that was strangely familiar. "First, if we were on a ship or a wagon, we'd be moving. We'd feel the motion. We're in a fixed, cold, damp cell somewhere, probably a basement. Second," he continued, "have you seen the girls we know? Mila? Yukari? master Zhu? They would be on a full-blown rampage if we'd gone missing for any longer than a few hours. The city would already be in chaos."

  Jack stared at Raito's silhouette in the dark. "True," he finally conceded. "Now, the only thing left is... where is Mister Bob?"

  As soon as the words left his mouth, the single slit of light under the door vanished. There was a loud, scraping sound, not of a door, but of heavy, oiled canvas being dragged aside.

  A rectangle of blinding, yellow light flooded the cell, making both boys cry out and squint. Silhouetted in the opening, standing over them, was Jetstream. His welcoming smile was gone, replaced with a cold, app-like sneer. He looked down at them like they were insects.

  "Look who's awake," he said, his voice dripping with mock-surprise. He then turned his head, shouting to someone just out of view in the brighter, larger room beyond. "Boss! I think they're ready!"

  "Great! Now bring them out!" a new voice replied, this one booming and amplified, as if by a speaking trumpet.

  Jetstream nodded, a cruel smirk on his face. He walked into the cell, the sudden light from the opening silhouetting him, and unlocked their chains from the wall rings with a large, iron key. The heavy cuffs, however, remained locked on their wrists, connected by a short, taut chain. "On your feet," he snarled.

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  Before they could react, two of the goons from earlier rushed in, grabbing Raito and Jack by their armpits. They were hauled bodily from the cell, their bare feet scraping on the cold stone, and forced out into the light.

  As their eyes adjusted, they weren't in a simple room, but a small, circular arena. The walls were damp, curving stone, rising up about two stories to a railed walkway, packed with people. The floor of the arena was sand, dark and stained. The air was hot, humid, and thick with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and roasting meat.

  The crowd above them was a sea of masks—gilded, feathered, or plain porcelain—all hiding the faces of the onlookers. But their expensive, gaudy clothing of silks, velvets, and glittering jewels was no disguise at all. They held glasses of wine, smoked cigars, and murmured to each other, their voices a low, excited hum.

  Raito's eyes darted, scanning the place. He saw three "exits" at the arena's floor level. One was the canvas-covered cell opening they'd just come from. The other two, directly opposite, were heavy, iron-barred gates, dark and mysterious.

  "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" the booming voice of an announcer, hidden somewhere in the crowd, echoed. "WELCOME to today's main event at the 'Casa de la Desesperación'!"

  The crowd cheered, stamping their feet.

  "Will these two fresh, little morsels come out on top? Or will they falter to the might of the BEAST?!" The crowd roared again. "Only one way to find out! Place your bets! Place your bets now!"

  "Kun... Kun..." Jack's voice was a choked whisper. He nudged Raito's side, his chained hands shaking as he pointed up. "There..."

  Raito's eyes followed Jack's finger.

  He saw him.

  On a lavish private balcony, the best seat in the house, overlooking the entire arena, sat Bob. He was laughing, a wine glass in one hand, a massive roasted chicken leg in the other. He was seated at a table overflowing with a feast—fruits, cheeses, and steaming platters. And beside him, also laughing, was another man, as old as he was, wearing gaudy, expensive clothes that matched the crowd.

  "Did... did he betray us?" Jack's voice cracked, his breathing quickening into a panic. "He sold us, didn't he? Kun, he sold us!"

  "Let's just see first," Raito said, his voice dangerously quiet. His eyes were locked on Bob.

  As if feeling their gaze, Bob looked down from his feast, his eyes scanning the sand. He spotted them. A huge, beaming smile spread across his face, and he waved.

  "THERE THEY ARE, MY BOYS!" Bob boomed, his voice carrying over the din. He turned to the man beside him. "Glad doing business with you, Edgar! Hohoho!"

  "I knew my eyes didn't betray me!" the man, Edgar, roared back, slapping Bob on the shoulder. "I knew you, of all people, would like things like this, you good ol' Bob!"

  "You really showed me the way, Edgar, old friend!" Bob shouted, taking a huge bite of chicken. "How long ago was something like this... this entertainment... even in style?"

  "Oh, this dingy place?" Edgar said, gesturing to the arena with his wine glass. "Long, long time ago, Bob! This place was built for the elites of Azul Spira to have... 'fun,' hahaha!"

  Bob, still chewing, looked back down at Raito and Jack. His wave turned into a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.

  Raito's face was unreadable. He watched Bob, watched Edgar, and then, after a long, tense moment, he gave a single, sharp nod.

  Jetstream and his goons, their part in the show apparently over, exited through a different doorway, one adjacent to the cell opening. Raito heard the heavy thud of a reinforced door and the snick of a deadbolt. "That one must be the real exit," he muttered to himself.

  As if on cue, a deep, grinding groan echoed from the other side of the arena. The heavy, iron-barred gate directly opposite them began to rise, its ancient mechanism screaming in protest. A wave of stench rolled out—like rotten meat and ammonia—so foul it made Jack gag.

  From the darkness beyond, something slid into the torchlight.

  It was a "Fallen." A rampaging, amorphous beast of a creature, it was a mockery of a living thing. It was part dripping, part melting, a mass of black, tar-like sludge that oozed and bubbled, constantly trying and failing to hold a solid shape. Vague, half-formed limbs writhed from its core before dissolving back into the ooze, and a single, glowing, malevolent red eye swam in the unstable mass. It was a creature so rare, most believed it to be a myth from children's stories. But Raito had met one in Jinlun, and Yukari, as she'd told him, had met two.

  "What... what is that?!" Jack shrieked, his voice cracking as he scrambled backward, only to be brought up short by his chains.

  "A Fallen," Raito said, his voice completely, unnervingly nonchalant.

  "Like in the storybooks? That Fallen?" Jack's eyes were wide with terror.

  "Yeah," Raito said, still flat, still unamused.

  "Then why aren't you more... you know... impressed?! Or scared?!" Jack yelled, shaking. "What did these last two years do to you?!"

  On the balcony, the mood was far lighter. "A Fallen, eh?" Bob said, leaning forward with interest. "I'm impressed, Edgar. You even have something like that here."

  "So you even know that thing? As expected of the great merchant, Bob, hahaha!" Edgar said, taking a deep drink of his wine. "It was a hard time securing that thing here, let me tell you. But the payout! The payout is great. Everyone can't wait to see that creature tear a few limbs."

  "Are you going to give them weapons?" Bob asked, gesturing with his chicken bone down to the boys.

  Edgar let out a bark of laughter. "Weapons? And let them run and escape? Nonsense, Bob! The elites want to see them cornered. They want to see them whimpering, full of despair!"

  "So, where are that boy's weapons?" Bob asked, pointing directly at Raito.

  "That one? The core user, eh?" Edgar's eyes glittered. "Oh, his blade and his core are safely hidden. Locked in a vault just behind Jetstream's door over there."

  "Okay, one last one before I watch the show," Bob said, leaning back and looking very relaxed. "Do you ever regret doing this... this 'underground arena'? And how many have been sacrificed so far?"

  "You ask many questions today, Bob!" Edgar laughed, pouring them both more wine. "But I will answer, since this is your first time here, hahaha! There have probably been... hundreds? I can't remember at this point. Taking people off the streets has been easier than expected. As for regrets? Of course not! Think of the money, Bob! The payout! It is big enough to keep me very, very happy," Edgar said shamelessly, raising his glass in a toast.

  "Good," Bob said. He put his wine glass down.

  Then he stood up, his voice suddenly cutting through the arena's din, clear and powerful.

  "RAITO! IT'S TIME!"

  Raito, who had been waiting for the signal, nodded again.

  "Wha—? Wha—? What is going to happen?" Jack stammered, his head whipping between Bob on the balcony, Raito beside him, and the oozing Fallen that was now beginning to slide across the sand toward them.

  Raito ignored him. He lifted his arms, his chained hands reaching out as if calling for something.

  A split second later—BOOM!

  A muffled, concussive explosion blasted from the direction of Jetstream's fortified exit. The heavy door bulged in its frame, smoke and sparks jetting from the edges.

  "MANAGER!" one of the goons guarding the door screamed, his voice high with panic. "THE VAULT! THE VAULT EXPLODED!"

  "What?!" Jetstream spun around, his face a mask of disbelief.

  He was too late. From the smoking, warped doorway, two objects shot out like comets. Two streak of crimson light. They moved so fast they were just blurs, rocketing past Jetstream's dumbstruck face. They didn't go around the iron gate that led to the arena—they went through it, punching two neat, glowing holes in the metal as if it were paper.

  In the center of the arena, Raito didn't move. He simply closed his hands.

  His right hand grasped the hilt of Koenka, its familiar weight settling into his palm. His left hand closed around his core crystal, which was already humming with a power that thrummed up his arm.

  The entire arena went silent. The crowd, the announcer, even Edgar on his balcony—all were frozen, speechless.

  "What... what is that boy?" one of the masked elites finally shouted, his voice trembling. "A core can't do that!"

  "Yeah! My core can't do that either!" another voice echoed, panicked.

  "Kun...?" Jack whimpered, staring at the suddenly armed Raito.

  "Stand behind me," Raito ordered. His voice was cold, flat, and absolute.

  With a flex of his muscles, the core crystal in his hand flared. An intense, dry heat radiated from him. The steel cuffs around his wrists and the heavy iron ball on his ankle didn't just break—they glowed bright red, then melted like wax, dripping to the sand and hissing.

  Raito stepped forward, free. He focused, planting his feet in the stained sand. He swung Koenka, not at the Fallen, but in a single, vertical arc, pointing straight up.

  He unleashed his power. A massive, roaring pillar of crimson flame erupted from the blade. It shot upwards, striking the stone-domed ceiling of the arena with the force of a battering ram. The entire building shook. Stone cracked, groaned, and then shattered. The pillar of fire tore a massive, gaping hole in the roof, sending tons of rock and debris crashing down into the arena (far from them), and revealing the bright blue sky far above.

  Outside, in a dark alley several streets over, a soldier looked up as the blue sky is split in two by a brilliant, silent column of red light.

  "Captain! That's the signal!"

  A man in the shadows, his face obscured, nodded. "Good. Everyone, move out. You know the targets. Take them all."

  An absolute, stunned silence filled the arena. The masked elites, who had been shouting for blood moments before, were frozen. Even Edgar's jaw hung open.

  The silence was only broken by a wet, gurgling ROAR from the Fallen. The hole in the ceiling was forgotten. Its single, malevolent red eye fixed on Raito, who was now, impossibly, armed. The creature charged, its amorphous body sloshing across the sand with terrifying speed, leaving a trail of black, sizzling slime.

  "Kun... Kun... it's coming!" Jack shrieked, scrambling to hide behind Raito, his hands grabbing the back of Raito's ragged shirt.

  "I know." Raito's voice was a low growl. He didn't flinch. He just braced himself, planting his feet, his knuckles white on Koenka's hilt. The core in his left hand pulsed with a steady, warm beat.

  The monster closed the distance. Ten feet. Five feet. It lunged, its tar-like mass rising up like a wave, a gaping, toothless maw opening to swallow them whole.

  Now.

  The moment the Fallen entered his range, Raito moved. It wasn't a wild swing, but a precise, focused pivot. He grunted with the effort, channeling his energy into the blade.

  He swung.

  For a fraction of a second, the air itself seemed to go cold. The usual, brilliant crimson flame that always wreathed Koenka was gone. In its place, for a flicker, an instant, was a flash of something else. Something void-deep. A deep, unnatural black flame, lightless and hungry, outlined the blade. It made no sound, but to Raito, he felt a sudden, soul-deep chill.

  Most wouldn't even have noticed.

  The black-flamed arc cut the Fallen vertically in half.

  There was no resistance. No spray of ichor. The two halves of the monster just... stopped. They stood frozen for a second before they began to discorporate, dissolving into the air. The black ooze turned to gray smoke, and the glowing red eye sputtered, dimmed, and then winked out of existence. In seconds, there was nothing left but a faint, foul-smelling mist.

  "That was AWESOME, Kun!" Jack shouted, his terror instantly evaporating into hero-worship. He came out from behind Raito, his eyes shining. "You are so strong!"

  But Raito was not happy. He was staring at Koenka, his brow furrowed, as if something is wrong. He turned the blade over in his hand, as if looking for a stain, wondering if the black flame was just an illusion, a trick of the light. A Fallen, as weak as it was, was by no means an easy enemy that he could just cut in one hit. Not like that.

  He turned to Jack. "Hey, Jack... did you see any black flame when I sliced that thing?"

  "No...?" Jack tilted his head, his joyful expression turning to confusion. "It was just... fwoosh! And then it was gone! What do you mean?"

  "No... nevermind," Raito said, his voice quiet. He sheathed Koenka, the mystery settling heavily in his gut.

  On the balcony, Edgar had finally shot to his feet, his wine glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. "Wha... WHAT WAS THAT?!" he shouted, his voice a mixture of rage and disbelief.

  Bob, however, remained seated. He took a calm sip of his own wine, placed the glass back on the table, and beamed. "That," he said proudly, his voice booming across the silent arena, "is my boy, Raito!"

  Before Edgar could even respond to this, the sound of heavy boots and clanking armor echoed from above. Dozens of Azul Spira guards, their blue uniforms stark against the dim stone, began repelling down ropes through the massive hole Raito had torn in the ceiling. Simultaneously, the cell door burst open, not with more prisoners, but with another squad of guards led by a stern-faced captain. The panicked elites, trapped on the balconies, began to scream and shove, their expensive clothes tearing as they scrambled for non-existent exits.

  The captain marched straight for the main balcony, his men already cuffing the shrieking, masked guests. He stopped in front of Edgar, who was frozen in place, his face ashen.

  "You are all under arrest by the authority of the Queen," the captain's voice was cold iron. He then turned his full attention to Edgar. "Demetrius Edgar. You are hereby under arrest for allegations of kidnapping, illegal gambling, and slave trafficking. You are going away for a very long time."

  Edgar finally understood. His head slowly swiveled, his eyes, wide with dawning, horrific realization, landing on Bob. "You..." he seethed, his voice a venomous whisper. "You set me up. We were... we were friends."

  "No." Bob's voice cut him off, and all traces of the jovial, "hohoho" merchant were gone. His gaze was cold, serious, and utterly contemptuous. "You were under the impression I was your friend. I never once acknowledged you as my friend." He stood up, knocking his chair over, and loomed over the now-trembling Edgar. "I wanted to put you away because you are a cancer. You taint the name of all of us, the good merchants. Don't you ever put me on the same level as you."

  "Thank you, Mr. Bob, for the cooperation," the captain said, nodding to Bob as his men hauled a protesting, cursing Edgar to his feet. "That was one hell of a signal, by the way," he added, glancing up at the hole in the roof.

  "No problem, Captain," Bob said, his warm, "hohoho" persona instantly returning as he brushed off his vest. "Anytime!"

  Down on the arena floor, Jack was looking back and forth between the guards, the arrested crowd, and Bob, his mind completely unable to process the last five minutes. "What... what is going on?" he asked, his voice weak.

  Raito, who had already sheathed Koenka, awkwardly clapped his hands together, as if finishing a chore. "Sorry," he said, turning to Jack with an apologetic wince. "We didn't tell you because we wanted you to be more... natural. You know, for the acting."

  Moments later, evening had settled over Azul Spira. The oppressive, coppery smell of the arena was gone, replaced by the cool, clean salt spray of the ocean. The three were in the plaza of the central fountain on the lower level, a massive, tiered structure of white marble and glowing coral. Water danced and splashed under the light of the twin moons, and the chaotic hum of the marketplace had softened to a pleasant evening murmur.

  They were back in their usual clothes, courtesy of the guards, their garments were cleaned and repaired. Pinned prominently to each of their chests was a heavy, gold medal, embossed with the crest of Azul Spira—a courtesy for helping the city's authority eliminate a high-profile black market ring.

  Jack, however, was not admiring his. He was pacing back and forth in front of the fountain, his heavy boots splashing in the puddles. He finally stopped and scrubbed his face with both hands, his voice muffled.

  "So let me get this straight." He looked at Bob, his eyes wide with disbelief. "The captain approached you to help take Edgar down, because you knew him. And for some reason," he whirled on Raito, "you two decided today was the day?" He threw his hands up and let them slap against his legs. "What is wrong with you two? Now I know exactly how Miss Lily feels!"

  "That pretty much sums it up, yeah," Raito said, leaning against the fountain's rim.

  "When did this even start?" Jack demanded.

  Bob sat heavily on the marble ledge, the jovial merchant gone again, replaced by the serious man from the arena. "A few days ago," he said, his voice a low rumble. "The captain had approached me, questioning me about a man named Edgar. I said I knew him, but never got close. My instinct told me he was... dirty." His face darkened. "Turns out I was right. All his allegations... kidnapping, trafficking... it made me sick to my stomach."

  He looked at his hands. "So I asked how I could help. The captain initially said no, too dangerous, and they couldn't find the hideout. But after Mila showed few of her moves….. he agreed we had the muscle."

  Bob continued, "I replied to Edgar's letter. I managed to make Edgar believe that I was his friend, that I was desperate, and that I was willing to... sell him more people for 'entertainment.' I told Yukari and Raito about it, and they agreed to help. We figured with Raito, Yukari, and Mila on call, there would be no issue. So I told the captain the date of the operation. Which was today."

  "But... Miss Yinzi happened," Bob finished, awkwardly laughed.

  "And you can't really cancel this kind of sting operation, you know," Raito said with an apologetic shrug. "So we kinda roped you in. It was perfect, really. You genuinely didn't know anything, which made up for a perfect, natural theatric. And the rest... well, you saw the rest." Raito gave him a bright, unbothered thumbs-up.

  Jack just stared at him, then let out a long, heavy sigh. His massive, muscled frame seemed to slump with exhaustion. "You really have changed, Kun," he said, and it was impossible to tell if it was a compliment or an accusation.

  "Alright!" Bob suddenly clapped his hands together, the loud smack echoing over the plaza. His "hohoho" energy returned in a flash, as if a switch had been flipped. "Now that the terror is over, why don't I introduce you two to the real Spican entertainment?"

  "I'm tired," Jack groaned, slumping even further.

  "It'll be fun!" Raito said, already grinning as he started to push Jack's unmoving back.

  The night rolled around, and the moon shone high over the mansion, casting long, blue shadows in the opulent entrance hall. It was quiet, save for the occasional, furious tapping of a foot on marble.

  The three boys were not having fun. They were sitting in a perfect kowtow position on the cold floor, heads bowed, facing a very, very furious Miss Yinzi. Her arms were crossed, and her face was a mask of thunder.

  "This is midnight," she said, her voice dangerously low, slicing through the silence. "Where have you three been? Huh? Mr. Bob. Care to explain?"

  From the comfort of Lily's ridiculously plush couch, the girls watched the unfolding execution. All of them—Yukari, Lily, Serra, Mila, and even Zhu Lihua—were wearing an assortment of Lily's silk pajamas, looking cozy and amused.

  "We're sorry," the three boys said in a mumbled, unison chorus.

  "We were worried sick!" Miss Yinzi's voice rose in volume, echoing in the cavernous hall. "We thought you three had gone missing! Gone... kidnapped!" she said, with the thickest irony, had she only known how their day actually went. "And where did we find you three? Answer me, Mr. Bob!"

  Bob, the great merchant who had faced down an underground kingpin, was visibly shaking. He flinched, his ear—still bright, painful red—twitching. "Snail... race," he answered in a small, pathetic voice.

  After the arena, Raito and Jack had been introduced by Bob to the 'real Spican' entertainment. The snail race: a massive, tiered, and surprisingly well-lit stadium where you could cheer for various Spican colorful snails, each with a tiny, numbered shell, as they inched their way to a finish line. But the other part, the betting, was the more addicting part.

  "So, gambling," Miss Yinzi barked, her eyes flashing.

  The three had been found—and subsequently dragged by their ears, which were still throbbing—from the other, more 'legal' gambling place, burning money on which snail was better.

  "We are sorry!" the three said, louder this time.

  "And you, Mr. Bob!" Miss Yinzi advanced on him, jabbing a finger toward his face. "As the adult! How could you do this?"

  "But... it's the snail race!" Bob tried, a desperate, last-ditch excuse.

  "It... is... still... GAMBLING." Miss Yinzi stated each word like a judge hammering a gavel. Her logic had no crack.

  "We are sorry," they said once more, in perfect, defeated unison.

  Even with everything they had experienced that day—the kidnapping, the arena, the Fallen—the most terrifying and unyieldingly strong being they knew was, without a doubt, a furious Miss Yinzi.

  "From today," she declared, her authority absolute, "you three will be in charge of cleaning. And cooking. And taking care of the girls. Understand?"

  "Yes, Miss Yinzi! We are sorry!"

  Jack, still bowing with his forehead to the floor, slowly, imperceptibly, turned his head just enough to glance out of the corner of his eye toward the unseen 'camera.'

  "That is why, kids," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "Don't gamble."