As Lancelot stepped into the headquarters, his stride steady despite the gash that marred his chest, an arm suddenly hooked across his shoulder. His eyes narrowed, displeasure cutting across his face as he turned to meet the culprit.

Rachel, still carrying Leon's limp body on her back, blinked in surprise. 'I didn't even notice him,' she thought, unsettled by the man's sudden appearance.

"Lance," the man drawled, a lopsided grin plastered across his face, "trying out a new look? Word of advice, scars across the chest went out of fashion a year ago." He threw his head back, laughing at his own joke.

Rachel's lips parted slightly. 'What a weird man.'

Lancelot's hand gripped the arm on his shoulder, shoving it away as his gaze hardened.

"Samuel," he said flatly, his aura flickering around him like the edge of a blade. "Don't put your hand on my shoulder again. I won't warn you next time."

Samuel lifted his palms in mock surrender. "Chill, big fella. No need to get grumpy." His eyes slid to Rachel, lingering with curiosity. "Though I thought you were sent to investigate the cluster disappearance in sector 264."

"I was," Lancelot answered without slowing.

Samuel tilted his head, grin sharpening. "So why the babysitting gig? You trying to piss off the commander?"

Lancelot muttered under his breath, voice barely audible. "You've already got that handled."

"What was that?" Samuel asked, feigning innocence.

Lancelot ignored him. To shut him up, he spoke louder, his tone edged with grim satisfaction. "And as for that cluster, you're looking at the one who destroyed it."

Samuel froze mid-step. His gaze snapped to Rachel, then back to Lancelot. A short, incredulous laugh slipped out. "Didn't know you'd taken up comedy. What's next—you'll tell me the boy with lying unconcious gave you that?" He nodded toward the wound carved across Lancelot's torso.

Lancelot said nothing, but behind his impassive stare his thoughts hissed darkly.

'Fucking bastard.'

He was too frustrated by samuel getting it right with a guess that he didn't bother explaining that it was the boy who had closed the cluster.

The two men continued down the hall until Samuel peeled off, waving lazily as if he had better things to do. Lancelot knew the truth: Samuel was avoiding the commander.

At last, he stood before a heavy door. He hadn't raised his fist when a voice, old but firm, rolled from inside.

"Come in."

Lancelot obeyed, pushing the door open and stepping into the commander's office.

****

Behind the broad oak desk sat an old man with steel-grey hair and a clean-shaven face. His expression was unreadable, but the silent pressure radiating from him was enough to make even seasoned soldiers hesitate. This was Commander Markus, head of the Imperial Guard, a Rank 8 professional whose very presence carried weight.

Lancelot stepped forward, hand pressed lightly against his wounded chest. "I am here to make a report, Commander."

"Report," Markus said, his voice even, though his sharp eyes were fixed not on Lancelot but on the pair behind him. Rachel, tense under the scrutiny, shifted slightly as Leon's unconscious body rested against her back. It was clear that Markus's attention was drawn to the boy.

Lancelot drew in a steady breath before continuing. "After heading to the Tyrant Forest of Sector 264, I encountered a group of Rank 1 professionals engaged in battle within a pseudo cluster against the corrupted."

Markus's eyes narrowed, but he gave no verbal reply. His silence urged Lancelot to go on.

"Among this group, I could sense traces of the anomaly," Lancelot said. His voice grew firmer, weighty with the gravity of his discovery. "But the one who held the closest tie to it was… the clone."

Markus's brow furrowed. "Clone?"

"Yes, Commander," Lancelot replied without hesitation as he gestured at leon. "It was his clone."

For the first time, Markus leaned forward, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin atop them. His posture signaled what every soldier knew: Lancelot had his undivided attention.

So Lancelot spoke.

He explained how the clone, though merely Rank 3, fought with the power of a Rank 5 professional, an impossible disparity that forced even Markus's seasoned composure to slip. A sharp inhale escaped him, almost a gasp, though quickly contained. Still, the flash of shock in his eyes betrayed him.

Lancelot pressed on. He described how, seeing the group's exhaustion mounting, he had sealed the cluster to prevent further risk. His report carried him to the next revelation: tracing the group's origins back to a small city… and finding not just the master of the clone, but the very one who had destroyed the cluster itself.

Leon Kael.

When Lancelot spoke that name, Markus's gaze hardened. Slowly, he shifted his attention back to the unconscious boy slumped on Rachel's back. His eyes lingered on Leon, as though trying to peel back the layers of mystery with a single look. The office grew still, the commander's scrutiny heavy as a blade.

****

Lancelot finished his report, his voice steady despite the faint trace of humiliation clinging to his words.

Markus's eyes never left the unconscious boy. Then, with a tone that cut through the silence like steel, he said, "So… it was the boy that gave you that wound on your chest."

Lancelot's jaw tightened. His pride resisted the admission, but there was no use denying it. "I had underestimated his strength," he said at last, the words pressed out like iron under a hammer.

Markus let the matter rest. He didn't press further, sparing the lieutenant what remained of his dignity. But behind his calm mask, the commander's thoughts churned.

'Possessing power far above one's rank.'

'Wounding a Rank 7 while standing four entire steps below.'

'Destroying a cluster of corruption.'

Each of these feats alone would be enough to mark someone as an anomaly. But all three bound together in the same individual? That was something else entirely.

Fighting above your rank… Markus had seen that countless times. It could be called talent, genius, the spark of brilliance that occasionally flared within the empire. He had lived long enough to watch such flames burn bright and then fade into nothing.

But to wound a Rank 7 professional? That was no mere spark.

Markus's gaze grew sharper. He knew the significance. At Rank 7, a professional achieved the connection between mind and core. It was not a simple increase in strength, not a matter of quality or quantity, it was an elevation of existence itself. Those who stepped into that realm stood apart, like mountains among hills. For a boy four ranks lower to land a wound deep enough to scar? Markus could scarcely imagine it.

Even with all his composure, honed over decades of command, he found his heart pressing harder against his ribs, as though it too strained against the weight of this revelation.

'But even that,' he thought, 'doesn't compare to destroying a cluster….

His eyes fell on Leon again, heavier now, as if the boy's unconscious form carried the weight of a storm not yet unleashed.

For the first time in years, the old commander felt his certainty waver.

****

A/N: I often come up with ideas and jot them down in my notebook, but turning those ideas into a story becomes challenging when it's time to type them out. However, your support is what keeps me going, thank you! (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

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