Margalod stormed through the crowded streets, each thunderous step causing civilians to scatter from his path like startled insects. His chainmail clinked roughly against his battered leather, and beneath the crude iron mask, his furious breaths emerged in harsh, ragged bursts. Yet, despite the fire raging within him, Margalod's mind was oddly calm, methodically dissecting what had just happened in Glunko's store.

His arm was still tingling—a faint, throbbing reminder of where that stranger had gripped him. It was like his muscle still refused to believe it had been challenged so casually, let alone successfully stopped mid-swing. But more humiliating than the ache in his arm was the persistent soreness in his chest, the chainmail embedded slightly inward, forming a perfect imprint of that man's palm.

"Who in the damned hell was that?" Margalod growled to himself, his voice low and dangerous, his blistered fingers brushing the dented metal links. No one had ever stopped his scythe like that—not without bleeding out seconds later. Yet this stranger had not only halted his attack but did so without flinching, smiling as though it had been nothing more than a pleasant afternoon exchange.

He ground his teeth, seething with restrained fury. 'Cocky bastard,' Margalod thought bitterly, his mind already rehearsing countless ways he'd tear that confident grin off the stranger's face if they crossed paths again. But even through his anger, a grudging admiration surfaced. 'That man wasn't just strong. He was... precise. And damn near perfect when he moved.'

Behind him, his two assigned "guards" scuttled quickly, their footsteps hurried and fearful. They were supposed to be his backup, Syndicate-appointed muscle to give him the veneer of official legitimacy. In reality, they were just irritants—menial soldiers of the Syndicate, expendable fools tasked with monitoring him, ensuring his destruction remained measured.

"Boss," the smaller one ventured nervously, "You alright there? That shopkeeper sure pulled a fast one, bringing in someone like that, eh?"

Margalod barely heard him, the man's voice a distant buzzing in his ears. He clenched his fists, popping blisters and leaving fresh trails of fluid trickling down his knuckles. The pain helped ground him. He relished it.

The taller guard, with the jagged scar, spat onto the street, shaking his head bitterly. "Disrespectful little rat, talking to us like we were nothing. Next time we should kill them all and their families."

Margalod halted abruptly, causing the two men behind him to collide awkwardly. He spun on his heels, towering above them both, his eyes glowing fiercely beneath the heavy iron mask. His voice emerged slow, low, and menacing, like stone grinding upon stone.

"Next time?" he growled dangerously. "You speak as if you could've changed today's outcome. Tell me, idiots—did either of you even see how he moved?"

The guards exchanged wary glances, uncertain how to respond. The shorter one hesitated, swallowing hard. "W-well, Boss, it all happened too quick. I—I just figured, y'know, numbers... we could've handled—"

Margalod's guttural laughter silenced him instantly. "Numbers? Numbers mean nothing against beasts like that. He held my swing like it was a child's tantrum. Do you know how few people alive can say that?"

Both men stared back blankly, their silence irritating him further. Margalod rubbed his sore arm again, almost thoughtfully now, as he leaned closer to them.

"He wasn't ordinary. The strength required to match me… I haven't felt anything like it since I crossed blades with a damned Titan." He took a deep, calming breath, his voice dropping to a whisper dripping with menace. "And I'm certain he was holding back."

The taller guard's eyes widened, incredulous. "Holding back, Boss? You serious?"

"Yes…" Margalod rasped, eyes narrowing sharply. "That man could have turned that shop into rubble in seconds. And yet he simply smiled. As if all I'd given him was a friendly pat on the back."

The shorter guard shifted nervously, glancing around to make sure no curious ears lingered. "Who do you think he was, then? Some hidden agent of the Seventh Hope?"

Margalod paused, narrowing his gaze at nothing, trying to visualize the stranger clearly in his mind—tall, composed, utterly unreadable, with strength that rivaled his own. Finally, he spoke again, almost reluctantly.

"No, he's something else entirely. A man like that doesn't appear without reason. I'm certain he was a warning."

"A warning from who?" the taller guard asked, visibly uneasy now.

"Maybe Mario Delafriga. Maybe someone even more dangerous. Someone who sees the Syndicate as an obstacle." Margalod's voice was softer now, but colder than ever. "But whoever he is, he just earned my respect, and that's something few can claim."

He straightened up again, looming once more above the two nervous guards, the blistered hand finally falling from his aching chest. "I'll remember that face. Next time, I won't underestimate him. Next time, I'll be ready."

The guards fell silent, shrinking back a bit as Margalod resumed his stride through the streets, each step heavy and purposeful. In his mind, the image of Kaiser burned itself deep into his memory.

Margalod knew their paths would cross again. When they did, he'd be prepared. And next time, the result would be very, very different.

Margalod's steps grew heavier as they moved deeper into the Syndicate's district, his powerful frame casting a monstrous shadow over the narrow alleys. The crowd thinned considerably here—only the desperate or the damned dared linger where the Syndicate held sway.

The shorter guard scratched at his chin nervously, breaking the silence. "You reckon we should tell the higher-ups about that fellow back at the store? If he's dangerous as you say, boss, the Syndicate might wanna know."

Margalod scoffed, dismissive but thoughtful. "And tell them what, exactly? That some smiling stranger stopped my scythe like a feather? That he practically bruised my ribs with a friendly pat?" He turned sharply, glaring down at the guard. "Or perhaps I should mention you two stood there gawking like fish out of water?"

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The guard shrank visibly, eyes darting toward his scarred companion for support, who simply scowled and shook his head.

"No, we don't mention this," Margalod continued, his voice a menacing rumble. "Not yet. Not until we know exactly who we're dealing with. The Syndicate doesn't reward questions."

He paused a moment, letting his words settle, the blistered hand still clutching the damaged chainmail on his chest. His voice lowered to an icy hiss. "And I won't be humiliated twice, by him or by the Syndicate."

The scarred guard spat again, breaking the tense silence. "But boss, what's the play here? If he ain't from the Seventh Hope, who else could send someone that strong? You think Celestine's people are poking around again?"

Margalod's eyes narrowed sharply. "Celestine wouldn't be caught dead defending Glunko that openly. She's got her own problems after that fiasco with Regulus. Whoever he was, he wasn't official. The way he spoke, moved… it felt personal."

The shorter guard rubbed his neck anxiously. "You think it's a new player, then? Someone looking to muscle in on Syndicate turf?"

Margalod growled thoughtfully, deep in his chest. "Possibly. Or maybe just a wildcard that Glunko's managed to rope into his games. Either way, I don't like unknowns. Unknowns make plans go sideways, and sideways means less profit."

He suddenly stopped, turning sharply on his heel and forcing the two guards to nearly collide with each other. His blistered face loomed close to theirs, eyes blazing with barely-contained fury.

"Listen well. You two idiots are going to keep your mouths shut about this encounter. Not a whisper reaches anyone else until I say so. Understood?"

They nodded hastily, voices overlapping in nervous agreement.

Margalod leaned back, letting a long, dangerous breath escape him. "Good. Now, get lost. I have thinking to do, and I can't stand the stink of cowardice clinging to you."

The guards hesitated only briefly, then quickly scattered, vanishing into side alleys. Alone now, Margalod flexed his aching arm again, the muscles slowly regaining their strength. His mind circled back relentlessly to that smiling, infuriatingly confident face.

'Whoever you are,' he thought grimly, feeling the scarred indentation of his chainmail beneath his fingertips, 'You just made yourself an enemy far worse than even the Syndicate. Next time, I won't be caught off guard.'

He resumed his walk, moving deeper into shadowed alleyways, his anger slowly evolving into anticipation. For the first time in years, Margalod felt challenged. And strangely enough, that feeling brought a twisted, hungry smile beneath the iron mask.

Kaiser emerged from Glunko's Emporium with the satisfaction of a man who had just bent the world to his will, or at least to his convenience. This enchanted bag was a ridiculous marvel—five blue Sul, two books, and Aria's multicolored handkerchief all resting inside, the pouch weighing no more than a coin purse and swinging lightly at his hip. He couldn't stop himself from reaching down to tap it, the contents vanishing into its impossible space, as if mocking the limitations of reality he'd grown up with.

Behind him, Ivan lingered near the door, shoulders hunched and face pale, glancing back at the shop's threshold as if expecting Margalod to come stomping out after them, swinging that filthy scythe. Every so often Ivan's hand drifted to his own hip, where his dagger rested, and he'd rub at the spot as if to check it was still there.

Kaiser, by contrast, was in an uncommonly generous mood. He kept his steps measured, allowing himself a rare moment of self-indulgence as he catalogued his purchases: the requested book for Sama, Aria's cherished handwork, and a handful of precious blue Sul orbs, all safely tucked away where not even the keenest pickpocket could find them.

It had also come with some useful insights. The older woman's sharpness with prices, her glib refusal to haggle, her offhand explanation of the Sul currency—all of it confirmed his suspicions about the hierarchy of coin and color in this city, and about the shrewdness required to survive here. Even the feint with the green pill had yielded results: not just the basic exchange rate, but a sense for the merchant class's appetite for profit and their willingness to risk for it.

For a moment, as they strolled through the street, Kaiser's mind flickered to the offers she'd made in passing—potions that could change a person's gender, moving shades like the ones Aria admired. He'd refused them all, not out of principle, but out of pure calculation. In a world ruled by Sol and power, it was clear enough that neither gender nor trivial affections would tip the scales. The only advantage worth pursuing was the one that tilted the battlefield in your favor, and right now, the bag on his hip was just that.

Ivan kept glancing sideways at Kaiser, guilt and nerves fighting for dominance on his face. He finally summoned the courage to speak, his voice a shaky attempt at humor, "Uh, so—how much trouble am I in?"

Kaiser paused mid-step, turning to face him with a practiced, inscrutable expression—a smile that was all warmth on the surface but offered no comfort underneath. "It's all right," he said, his tone deceptively light, almost too casual, like a wolf telling a lamb not to worry about the rustling in the dark.

The reassurance did nothing to put Ivan at ease. If anything, it only made him more nervous. He swallowed, nodding quickly, then stared at his boots as if searching for a trapdoor to fall through.

Kaiser's mind, however, was already running through the calculus of consequence. Ivan had endangered them both with his stunt. In Nebrosa, under his command, insubordination like that might have warranted exile, or worse… But in this moment, all he could do was roll his eyes internally and remind himself that Ivan was his responsibility, for better or worse. Ivan's actions had exposed a liability, yes—but also a truth: the boy would not hesitate to stand up for the innocent, even if it meant throwing himself in the way of a monster. Loyalty, reckless or not, was a quality he could work with.

They made their way through the throng, the crowd swallowing them up with a wave of color, sound, and the smell of a dozen different street foods cooking over open flames. Kaiser let himself relax fractionally, the bag bumping against his leg like a lucky charm. He recalled how the older shopkeeper had offered him the shade that Aria had pined after, back in Orlogolog. Sentimental trinkets, Kaiser thought, shaking his head faintly.

He glanced sideways, watching Ivan try and fail to regain his composure. The boy was obviously replaying the fight in his head, probably waiting for a dressing-down or worse. Instead, Kaiser simply patted him on the shoulder with a brief, faintly amused nod.

"You did well enough, Ivan," he said, voice softer this time, almost fatherly. "Don't dwell. But next time, wait for my signal."

Ivan blinked in surprise, then nodded, relief and anxiety mixing in his eyes. "Y-yeah. Yes, sir. Won't happen again."

As they continued down the bustling avenue, Kaiser noticed a subtle shift in the current of the crowd. People, young and old, were drifting in the same direction, eyes bright with anticipation. The low hum of conversation gave way to excited murmurs and, soon enough, a mounting roar of voices.

Kaiser, ever attuned to the movement of people, angled his path to follow. Ivan fell in step beside him, casting wary glances at the swelling crowd. People grew denser with every step, funneling toward the city's wide plaza until it became impossible to move without brushing shoulders with strangers.

The air was electric with anticipation here. The crowd surged forward, their cheers swelling to a fever pitch. Ivan blanched, a hand pressed to his mouth, his eyes wide with horror. The spectacle, so openly embraced, so joyously savage, turned his stomach.

But Kaiser?

Kaiser's lips curled in a slow, delighted smile. His eyes drank in the pageantry of violence, the spectacle of justice turned to ritual, the raw pulse of authority on display. He felt something inside him ignite.

For the first time since arriving in this world, Kaiser felt utterly at home.

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