The sun made remarkable progress in little over an hour, staining the dimming blue heavens yellow and orange as it slid down toward the horizon. With restoration begun on Cyril's armor, the Vanguard and the God Hand took it easy for the sake of their wounds. They had worked together to retrieve their surviving attacker from where she'd been laid out cold and install her in one of the restaurant's booths, and now sat as they waited for her to awaken.

Ever patient, Cyril nevertheless allowed his mind to wander. It helped to not concentrate on the aches and pains that filled him, even as they grew steadily less prominent. Though neither he nor Juniper felt like being talkative, they had agreed that since they were to work together, they should figure out to do it. With a pretty intimate knowledge of each others' basic capabilities due to their fight, they discovered to their mutual surprise a great deal of depth neither would have guessed. To know and to understand were, after all, two different things. Cyril found himself intrigued by Juniper's summoning and ritualistic sealing, neither of which came out during their duel earlier in the day. Once she learned the mechanics of Sheen, Juniper came to respect Cyril's creative and pragmatic usage of the simple power to boost and redirect momentum. The two confirmed that both could throw or boost the other, and resolved to do so for a surprise attack when the situation called. Not long after Juniper suggested that she could project a rope to snare and retrieve Cyril's shield should he throw it, or to create a deadly saw-flail. In turn, the Vanguard guessed that he could transfer his momentum boost to her if he activated it while holding her. That one, the two tentatively took to the plaza to test, and after a few failed attempts and other experiments they returned to the restaurant confident in their shared ability. If a finishing blow was called for, he could rocket her into position to deal a God Unleash: Strength with monumental force. Neither knew what to expect from their next opponent, but the thought was exciting.

Another half hour passed before the stand user woke up. She twitched, blinking, before sitting upright in her booth. When her bleary vision cleared, she could see Cyril and Juniper seated opposite her, and she adopted a grim look. They said nothing to begin with, so a couple more seconds passed before the woman noticed something and addressed them. “Howell?”

Cyril's frown did not change. “If you mean the man you came here with, he's dead.”

The woman stared at the napkin dispenser on the table. “...Ah...”

Her response left Juniper incredulous. “You look shocked,” she remarked in a sharp tone. “You attacked us. Assaulted us with something we didn't understand or know how to fight against, backed us into a corner. Kill or be killed.” Cyril nodded, being close to saying something similar.

“I'm guessing you didn't kill me because you wanted information, then.” The woman's gaze flashed between the two competitors. “Well, I don't want to die. What do you want to know?”

“Cooperative, huh?” the Vanguard sneered. He glanced at his ally to see if she felt like grilling their former foe, but she shrugged, so he continued. “Let's start with your name.”

“Raleigh Barnaby.”

“You're with the college?” Raleigh nodded. “We didn't find any Artifacts on you. What was that power you two used?”

Taking a deep breath, the woman started to explain. “They're called Stands. As best we know, they are ghostlike projections of one's spirit, or soul. They are mostly invisible to normal people, and they can't be hurt by anything other than another Stand, either. But there's some inconsistency, like whatever came up with them forgot to follow its own rules. Each one has one unique power.”

“Well?”

Still bearing a dark expression, Raleigh kept her voice icy. “They aren't totally in tune with us, but for the most part we give them commands, so we came up with names to use. My 'Humbling River' pours out a torrent of water from its jug, which makes an impenetrable barrier. At least, that's what we thought after testing earlier today. You got inside it...somehow.” Her resentment came thinly veiled. “Howell named his 'Journey.' It didn't manifest like the rest, but stretched down from a point in the sky whenever he called it to attack. Looks like a giant alien, sort of.”

“You said 'we',” Cyril prodded. “There are more of you?”

Raleigh looked as though she were seated on hot coals. “...Yes.”

“You know, it's pretty nice of us to not be conducting this interview by chopping off your fingers or something. Tell us all about whatever I ask, if you please, starting with the others and these 'Stands' of theirs.”

To steady her breath, Raleigh focused for a minute, then continued. “Aralynn and Davian Thule, with Heatseeker and Boys of Summer. Margaret Fontain and her Manic Drive. Emilia Redsmith and Wild Nothing. Pieter LeGroning has Weird Autumn, and Jaroslava has Pure Imagination. My husband, Edward Barnaby, has Kno One.”

Cyril's eyes narrowed. “No-one?”

“That's its name.”

“Okay.” He crossed his arms. “I take it you weren't born with this stuff, so where did you get them?”

A hand ran through Raleigh's hair. “A man named Nero found an arrow that can give one to whoever it stabs, as long as that person has the aptitude.”

Juniper and Cyril shared a glance. After a moment, the latter's voice came again, low and urgent. “Where is the arrow now?”

“Downtown, which you cannot get to, in the hands of Fontain, whom you cannot hope to defeat. I don't understand her power, but it's terrifying.”

“Why can't we get there?”

“Because of the giant chasm south of here.”

“So how did you get here?”

The slightest flinch crossed Raleigh's countenance as she answered. “Dropped off by helicopter. Those are the black things you've seen flying over the city today, with what look like saws on top of them.”

The interrogation did not last much longer. It provided little that Juniper and Cyril could act on, but a lot of valuable information nonetheless. If what Raleigh said was true, an object existed in the City of Echoes that could confer a monstrous advantage to whoever possessed it. That was dangerous, especially given the College's new mission as stated by Raleigh to stop the tournament, but it was also an opportunity to help make Cyril's wish reality. For now, however, they would have to wait in anticipation of their next battle. After some consideration, the pair locked Raleigh up in one of the restaurant's back rooms, then resumed their collaboration.



“Of course,” came the resonance, assailing Pithy from all sides. “This place might as well be me, after all. As for Nero, I think it would be in your best interests to think about yourself first.” Midway on the sorceress's trip to the unmarked door, a number of two-inch-diameter pipes appeared beneath her. They stretched up from the floor -no, phased through it- and attempted to lash around her limbs, bending like pool noodles with a hideous wrenching sound despite appearing to be made from metal. To either side of her, a table began to move. Their legs moving them like animals', the two heavy wooden tables rushed toward her from opposite sides, aiming to crush her while the pipes prevented her from getting out of the way.



“Hm?” Screed paused for a moment, his voice indicating bemusement. “A ride...on yer plant monster?” Good-natured as Bonesword's request had been, neither the mummy nor the slime seemed to think of it as anything more than weird. “Oh, to where we're 'eaded. Heheh, 'fraid Ah'm gonna have to decline. We got our own way back—instant one-way ticket 'ome.” Holding up his hand, Screed showed off the signet ring on his own finger. Taking told of it with the index finger and thumb on his other hand, he began to twist the emblem, which made an audible clicking noise as it began to light up with a white glow. Before whatever adjustment he was making could complete, however, he let go, and the emblem snapped back into its original position.

Adopting a thinking pose with one hand on her chin and the other crossed beneath her chest for the first other elbow to rest on, Verrine glanced at Bonesword. “So you're not from this world, either?” Her eyes widened, and she turned to Screed with balled fists upheld in excitement. “The tournament might be gathering people from across dimensions! If we can figure out what's causing the shift, we can not only go home, but maybe even find the 'home dimension' that the other Great Beings returned to!” Eyes watering, she turned her gaze toward the ground, clasping her hands. “We could all be together again, just like the way things used to be. You'd see your creator again, and the others...Carreau would be so happy...if I won, my wish would have been to find a way, but maybe we can make it real anyway!”

A moment of quiet passed before Screed coughed. “Er...yer quick on the uptake, missy, but while ye were...uh, dead, the rest of us kinda came t'the same conclusion.” He cracked his neck, glancing at Bonesword a moment before continuing. His next words held what some might term 'classified information,' but this skeleton-man seemed alright, and not much of a threat. “Deadbeat Sky's gone underground. Boss thinks the important stuff's 'idden somewhere thereabouts, and Ah ain't fixin' to disagree.” Screed's eyes lingered on Bonesword. “Ah ain't sentimental, either, but it's always nice t'meet a fellow undead. Good luck in the proceedin's, pardner. See ya 'round.”

Screed made a half-turn so that he, Frolic, and Verrine formed a rough triangle. “Let's boogie.” All three began to fiddle with their rings, preparing to warp away.



A number of muted explosions sounded out across the watery expanse, their percussion accompanied by blasts of water from beneath the surface. Thanks to a combination of debris and Heavy Fuel's remnants, not a single one of Aralynn's underwater missiles hit their mark. Once the waves died down and the echoes ceased, a moment of comparative quiet took hold. No sound came from inside the building to suggest a struggle between Runch and Davian, allowing Motley a chance to perceive his surroundings. The water proved too murky to see through, but it wasn't long before his opponent made herself known once more.

A pained gasp for air broke the silence as Aralynn hauled herself up onto a sloped section of street about three hundred feet away. She dragged herself up from the water, but could barely get a few inches before flopping down face-first onto the pavement. As the dirty water dripped away, it gave way to blood. A great many lacerations covered the woman head-to-toe, some still bearing the pieces of debris that caused them, stick in her clothes or skin. Her ears bled profusely, their damage owing to the shockwave with which Crue bombarded the lake. Her arms and face appeared blackened, as if burned or corroded by some virulent substance, which more than likely meant that Aralynn had been hit with a bit of Heavy Fuel's body. For a few moments she seemed alone, but in short order some Boys of Summer approached from different directions to take up positions around her. From their lack of other activity it seemed that they could not negate harm already inflicted, but instead prevent harm from happening. Her shaking told Crue that despite her great injury she remained alive.

The trip went without issue. The mushrooms she had used to soften Brucie's steps still worked, albeit much less effectively than before, having been trampled down by the shark in the last few hours. Mouse, on the other hand, proved worthy of his name and followed near soundlessly, only his claws making the occasional 'clack' against the rocky ground.

While Brucie's sight might be severely inhibited in this darkness, Lily had no such issues, and kept her eyes trained mostly on the enormous crow, perching in the city ahead. She could thank it for making access to the city easier, but what was its purpose here? More to the point, what was that castle on its back? Was it no mere beast, but a companion or mount? A flying island, seems to be a more fitting description. Whatever it was, someone was likely in control of it, though how escaped her. It was also not a thing she wanted to have to fight. Alone the crow would likely prove a challenge on par with a Titan, and that was not even mentioning the figures skitting across its back, in and out of the castle. The best bet was to avoid it altogether, but keep track of it. Unless, of course, it proved core to whatever task it was Oren wanted her to accomplish down here. She kept her ears alert for anything else.

She tapped Brucie's shoulder and pointed towards where a small crevasse allowed for climbing between two of the knocked-down pillars. Lily went first, easily coming out on top, then waited for Brucie and Mouse to make their way up. Coming down the other side proved much easier, with the rubble providing plenty of footholds. Brucie didn't even stumble on the way down.

"That's a big bird," Brucie murmured, eyeing the gigantic avian. "Reckon' it'll attack us?"

Lily briefly shook her head. "Don't think so. See the figures on it's back?"

"Nope. Too bloody dark."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Anyway. Several people are on its back, including that castle there. Yes, a castle. Just because you're a shark doesn't mean I don't recognise a judgemental look. It's a mount, Brucie, or something similar." She stopped, taking hold of his arm to make him do so as well. She pointed to various parts of the bird, keeping as close to him as she could in hopes that he could see. "It has no armour, no weapons except its own talons. Were it a warbeast it would have those in all likelihood, and in a fight it would risk the castle falling off its back, or at least its inhabitants getting shaken needlessly around inside of it."

"So... It's like a giant, flying car. Except it's a bird. With wings... And a bloody castle on its back?"

Lily didn't need to hear the incredulousness in Brucie's voice to realise how ridiculous it sounded, so she settled for a simple, "Yes. Yes it is."

Ahead of them was a wall surrounding the city, something neither of them had foreseen. And in the air above, shadows flitted to and fly. None large enough to give significant pause, but still not something Lily wanted to dismiss. When she herself could summon the power of a storm, however briefly, she dared not let size alone determine whether something was a threat. She let her hand fall to the pommel of the sword she carried, finding the cold metal reassuring. She prided herself on not needing weapons, and for all that it was true, she knew well how useful a weapon could be, especially in the hands of someone who could use it.

And to think I lamented Ikari forcing me to learn how to handle one. She smiled wryly at that, and not for the first time. She had used swords before. They had saved her life before.

They continued forward, keeping an eye out for the crow, and staying as close to the shadows as possible. Better to not be the worm that the early crow decided to get. Their trip was uneventful for the most of it, the occasional tumbling rock or sudden splash of a water droplet falling from the stalactites in the ceiling. Mouse kept his nose to the ground, sniffing for anything while Lily had her eyes and ears peeled. And yet, somehow, they missed something that should have been obvious.

While passing through the shadow of a ruin-like pillar—ancient even when she city in front of them was new, Lily suspected—an unfamiliar voice called out to them.

"Evening."

Lily whirled, steel flashed, and faster than a human could blink she had the tip of the sword mere inches from the stranger's neck. Brucie, too, had his rifle pointed towards the newcomer. Mouse let out a low growl.

The stranger, however, simply sat down slowly, mentioning that he came in peace.

"I find that hard to believe," Lily commented, the hostility in her voice badly hidden, if at all. She had lowered her sword, but kept it unsheathed—the sudden lantern light reflecting on its surface.

"Shoot him?" Brucie asked. Requested, almost.

Lily listened with half an ear, shifting her head slightly from side to side, one of her tails coming forward to gently press down on his rifle, indicating that he shouldn't shoot. That she didn't force it all the way down was the asterisk: Not yet, anyway.

The rest of her attention was squarely upon the, at this point, rather odd stranger. His initial greeting might have been what one expected from someone who genuinely did not want conflict, or at least pretended not to want it. What came after was... perplexing. The revelation that the person had an owl head had made Lily do a double-take, not immediately recalling any such creature in her homeworld. At the very least it explained how he could have seen them, although his insinuation that it was the only reason he even found them, was something she found hard to believe. Brucie was hardly silent, in spite of her best efforts. And owls were notorious for having incredible hearing, on top of their near unmatched eyesight.

The longer his monologue continued, to more Lily felt her hostility evaporating. She simply couldn't see this guy as an enemy. Not to mention that the drone had not yet indicated any new opponent, and—she gave him a once-over—and he didn't appear to have any phylactery upon him, and thus he was not a contender. Brucie, she noticed near the end of the stranger's speech, fared no better on the confusion part. Or maybe he was just deep in thought. It was sometimes difficult to tell with that shark.

"So... Emile," Lily said slowly, tapping the sword against her thigh, "you've been keeping an eye on us. I assume you have a reason, so I'll cut to the chase. What do you want? And why have you been following us?"

Beside her, Brucie perked up, and spoke confidently. "I think you should've gone for mysterious and noble. Fits your whole—" he waved a metallic arm at Emile "—thing."

To Lily's chagrin, Mouse seemed to be in agreement, and gave a quick bark.

One of her tails twitched, disrupting the wave-like motion they were usually in. Traitorous dog.

"Alright. I'll hopefully see you guys around," Bonesword said as he jumped up onto Charlie's back. With a wave towards his newfound acquaintances, Bonesword turned and began riding off towards the only place his next target could be heading for. The ominous building in the distance. Hopefully nothing went wrong on his way.

Meanwhile, on the back of Charlie, Bonesword gripped his own phylactery as he made a request into it. "Hey, whoever is running this tournament? Can I get a hotline to my next opponent, please?" Bonesword has no other choice. He needed to find his opponent as quickly as he could if he was to try to earn their trust. Given the place he was in, this could be a bit of a struggle to convince who they were to cooperate for the long run. Especially if they had made any team members on their path to victory.

Bonesword could only hope they didn't.

As the skeleton waved, the mummy shrugged. “Huh. Guess 'e didn't want nothin', after all. Coulda sworn 'e was anglin' for some kinda 'elp.” The next moment, a rush of enchanted wind blasted forth from his ring, enveloping him completely. Beside him, the other strangers' rings rendered them similarly surrounded. As one the speed and noise of the little storms intensified, until in a flash of light all three vanished without a trace.

When Bonesword queried his phylactery, no reply whatsoever came through to him. Not even an acknowledgment of his request made itself known. All that remained to him in terms of guidance was the drone floating nearby, its angle pointing him in the direction of a restaurant a couple blocks down the road. Judging by Oren's prerecorded message, delivered to Bonesword just minutes prior, his next opponent lay thataways.



Emile grinned again. “You got it.” On went the crested helmet, the lenses in its visor flickering dully with magic, and the owlman crossed his arms. He also crossed a leg, but other than that made no more delays before he started speaking. “I wanted to talk to you, and to get some information. I picked you because you seemed reasonably sane, and interesting. I'm glad to tell you more, but it's a lengthy explanation so please hold any remarks until the end.”

Uncrossing his arms, he clasped his hands in his lap. “My friends and I arm from a world called Yggdrasil. From what we've gathered through observation over the course of the last day or so, pretty much all the competitors brought here are from different worlds, which struck me as very interesting. I don't know anything about your world, so forgive me if anything I say seems trivial or obvious, but I'll tell you about this place. This planet is called Earth, and this continent called Europe. To go further, I have to get something out of the way first.”

“You see, when I say we're from Yggdrasil, that's not the whole story. I'm a little different.” He leaned forward just a touch, his hands sliding out to rest on his knees as he straightened them out. From behind his back came a faint scraping sound like metal on stone. “I came here from Yggdrasil, but that's not my origin. I'm from this world.” Emile leaned back. “Or a world a lot like this, at least. Everything is the same except one thing: this city, the City of Echoes. In my world, a city called Rome occupies this area. The critical point I'm making is this: the world of Yggdrasil isn't real. I don't know if you know what video games or movies are, but suffice to say they're technological forms of entertainment, and Yggdrasil is a video game that I played with my friends. This isn't my real body, but the avatar I used in that game. Everyone else in Deadbeat Sky -that crow and its citadel- is a non-player character in that world. Weird, huh?”

“But here's the thing. I noticed a few things while watching you fight. That vial of healing liquid you use is just like something called an Estus Flask from a game called Dark Souls. And the globe you pocketed is from Treasure Planet, a movie made by a company called Disney. I wouldn't say you should...ah, think about it too much, but it's still very strange to me. And I bet it sounds insane to you. So, now that's over with, I was wondering if you could tell me anything about your world, or anything you've learned about the nature of this tournament.” His speech concluded, Emile slipped his hands into his pockets and crossed his legs again.

This place is them? Is that meant literally? Pithy pondered. Then where did this ‘know one’, understudy fit in the scheme of things? Was the voice simply making up lies as she went along? Some part of her still held onto the suspicion that the situation she found herself in had somehow been orchestrated by the announcer, but she could not imagine why he would set up this scenario to toy with her like this. Having another player leap into the stage like this made things complicated, placing her in a position where she would need to take things at face value until she was able to make judgements about what she had seen and heard.

She felt the rumble underneath her before she heard the grinding noise. Pithy stepped back out of reflex, the trained motion all that kept her legs from being entangled as metal pipes suddenly phased through the floorboards below her. Pithy grimaced, uncertain about the strength that twisted the pipes. If it could bend metal like that, having a single one wrap around her could result in broken bones. That was not the kind of wound she was willing to chance.

Pithy drew away as two of the tubes snaked towards her feet. Two of her icicles thrusted downwards, failing to pierce through the metal but banging it off course. Nearby pipes swarmed around the ice, wrapping around it and adding the sound of cracking crystal to the cacophony of groaning metal.

She almost didn’t notice the cutlery trembling above the nearby tables until one of its wooden legs bent and it shifted, as if testing its weight. The mage gave a panicked glance around her as the two closest tables suddenly loped – there was hardly a more accurate word to describe their motion – towards her, knives, forks and plates scattering over the floor with the jerking motion.

Pithy made a split-second decision and sucked in a breath before jumping towards one of the tables. Her back hit the flat surface, knocking away the last few knickknacks that remained atop it as she began to roll with the motion. She pulled her robe closer with a panicked flick of her left arm, bringing the cloth above over the edge of the table just before the two crashed into each other. The impact made the table tilt dangerously, the sudden impulse sending her flying out of her roll.

Pithy angled herself to land even as she heard a groaning sound below her, the pipes nearby seeming to rattle with excitement. More tubes suddenly rose out of the ground, raising to catch her. They crashed against the disk of ice she had made instead. Pithy landed atop it, almost slipping as the metal pipes carried her and her platform upwards, and, seeing a chance to escape, she threw herself forwards.

A pained grunt escaped Pithy as she landed, the strain on her shoulders making itself known as she rolled with the fall and brought herself to her feet. The blade of her rapier stroked downwards with the motion, giving life to a bluish spark where the point touched the ground.

Ice spread out from it like a wave, smoothly covering the floorboards and even creeping up the closest wall. It swept over the floor, past the writhing pipes, ice rising and clinging to where it touched them as though to hold them, doing the same to the legs of nearby tables.

So far, the voice had only exerted control over things within the building. Things that did not originally belong had been left untouched, those being herself and her ice. If she was correct in her assessment that those could not be affected by this haunt-like magic directly, barriers of ice could at least prevent the pipes and other objects from moving through walls.

Pithy scowled, air gusting heavily through her nose. She would have to keep her eyes on the ceiling from then on as well.

She had expected more plates, but it was clear that the owner of the voice was less interested in gathering data than they were in flexing their muscles. So much for ‘experiment’.

It was beginning to dawn on her just how precarious the situation she was in was. Had she been only slightly less alert or agile, she would have been smashed between the tables. She had thought at first that the voice’s curiosity would ensure a measure of safety for their perceived guinea pig, but now she began to suspect she was only there to entertain for as long as she lasted. Which meant she either had to find Nero and get out first – and pray to all Lords that this one keeps their word – or to find a way to stop the owner of the voice themselves.

The sorceress recalled the disk of ice and her one remaining icicle before she moved at a brisk pace towards her initial target. The runes of her rapier glowed brightly as she made the ice covering the floor spread below her, and Pithy ignored the low droning of wind she could hear under the screeching noise of writhing metal.

“Nero!” Pithy yelled out as she reached towards the door, hoping against hope that the voice did not decide to use it for their next surprise. “You had best shout back if you’re still alive!”

Jin raised an eyebrow as they both waited in silence for whatever the not poison was supposed to do. He coughed as he looked at the arm and watched it slowly turn white. An entire layer of skin peeled off to reveal the layer below the epidermis, the dermis. The contact with the air stung, but it was nothing life threatening. Pieter began laughing as the skin joined the leaves, becoming a part of the deadly swarm. “Feeling it now? Get used to it, dickweed! Weird Autumn's gonna take you apart, layer by layer!” He looked quite pleased with himself, it's like he thought he was going to win or something.

Jin chuckled and tensed up as his blades began to glow brighter and brighter, laughing harder as lances of leaves formed above him. "This was the big reveal? You're gonna peel off a little skin? What a fucking joke!" In a sudden burst of speed he dashed forward, swinging both of his blades in the direction of the tree Pieter was perched atop of. "NOW LET ME CUT OFF THE REST OF YOUR FACE TOO!" Two bursts of razor sharp energy flew from Jin's beam katanas, slicing through everything in their path with no mercy.

The drone had pointed to this location. A restaurant by the looks of things. A... "Russian" one at that. Russia was a thing that had been destroyed last time Bonesword checked. Or it was the land of opposite day considering how much shit there was about it and how it was like "bear tame you" and what-not. It certainly didn't exist in the Nexus, that's for damn sure.

Bonesword climbed off Charlie and walked up to the door, the basil-isk standing watch behind his master. Of course, the building was closed up tight, preventing Bonesword from coming in, but in reality this place seemed a bit too... too... unreal. Magical. It wasn't anything Bonesword had felt before, but he needed to find a way into this place. If his next opponent was going to ever be his ally, they were separated by what seemed to be just a wall. Ok, maybe it wasn't just a wall, but the very faint shattering of what sounded like plates on the inside had to mean something akin to a scuffle.

Bonesword turned around to look at Charlie. "What're you thinking buddy?" The basilisk let out a soft roar before he slithered up to the wall nearby and began to bash at it, trying to get in that way. Bonesword shook his head. Sure Abigail might've caused the basilisks to have sentience, but in the end they weren't really that smart. "Charlie that's going to take us a few hours at least," Bonesword said incredulously. Charlie responded by looking at Bonesword and doing something... odd. The plants that made up Charlie's figure began to ruffle and pop out, as if they were causing Charlie to grow visibly.

"What're you trying to say? Do you want me to grow plants in the walls?" A soft nod from Charlie was the only answer to the question. A small crack had formed in the wall where Charlie bashed, allowing Bonesword to stick a finger in and begin to grow a plant on the inside.

The skeleton backed away from the wall with his fist clenched, before raising it up and expanding it as his grip loosened and his hand spread out. It would be fast and it would be destructive if it worked, hopefully enough to get through the wall...

... but it didn't work. Great. There went that idea.

Bonesword stood there in front of the building, Charlie standing watch of anything that might attack the skeleton.

Runch suddenly stopped in his tracks, ceasing the pursuit of the young college representative. That icy chill, the sensation that made his hair stand on end, it was back. Not that he needed to rely on gut instinct to realize his critical mistake. The new manifestations of the stand were making their presence quite clear, throwing open doors and windows to enter. He briefly wondered why they bothered, since his experience with stands and the journal indicated that they could pass harmlessly through physical objects. Then the boy spoke to him in such a dramatic manner, and Runch understood. It was showmanship. The kid was making sure Runch knew that he was surrounded again. It was sort of like a friendly gesture in a way, if you thought about it from the right point of view. The kid was making up for his lack of a sixth sense to see these supernatural beings. The words that followed explained to him exactly why he needed Runch to know he was surrounded by the Boys of Summer.

"Omnomnomnom!" the pirate laughed, brimming with confidence. He narrowed his eyes in the direction he assumed one of the shadowy ghosts could possibly be, judging by the doorways. "Not a scumbag indeed! Just a young one concerned for his sister. Be glad that I see through your tough guy ruse, and that I'm easy to let threats slide off. Had you chosen another pirate from my world... Well, the smiles of children are what motivate me more than anything else. Just tell the rest of your splinter faction that I will win, and they have nothing to fear from my wish."

The pirate turned toward the nearest window, seeing it as an easier and quicker exit than the stairs down to the first floor. He took three steps, likely causing one of the Boys of Summer to narrowly avoid touching him, when he turned sharply back around to address the same location he had been speaking to previously. "And please, don't interrupt any of my fights in the tournament. I like the bouts to be fair and square." With that final warning, cap'n K. Runch threw himself out the window, falling back down toward the outside battle scene.

From his palm he projected a pile of cereal to cushion his fall, even if he could have landed without injury, and took a moment to observe his surroundings. Motley Crue had taken up position near the water and had his eyes on the girl. She looked quite worse for wear, covered in cuts, bruises, and bleeding more than a little. Thankfully he could tell that she was alive. Runch could only imagine the retaliation they would face if Motley had killed her, but more importantly that meant one more smile would be extinguished from this world.

"Mister Crue! Break off from your engagement!" he cried out in as authoritative a voice as he could muster. His next action would be a bit of a gamble. There was no reason to doubt that the Boys of Summer had surrounded the girl in order to neutralize any attacks thrown her way, but he just had to trust in the information the journal provided. They should only step in to interfere in the face of misfortune. The captain wound up his hand like a baseball pitcher, then swung her way as hard as he could. " Bori bori cannon: Bloodberry recipe!"

A large blood red cereal pellet shot forth from his hand, the size of a large cannonball. It streaked toward her at great speed, but there was little to no force behind the throw, for the cereal had been made soft and mushy. Even if it struck her square in the face, it should only splatter into a slurry-like consistency. Assuming the stand of her brother didn't intercept, he'd go on to explain. "That's my special bloodberry recipe, delicious as it is nutritious! It'll stimulate your healing process and restore your stamina in record time! Omnomnomnomnom! Your brother retreated, so you should go catch up to him, lassy."

Through it all Runch spoke with a goofy, pleased smile, like he was quite proud of himself.

Splinters flew as the two tables slammed together with a thunderous crack, but no bifurcated body went flying along with them. With Pithy escaped from the vice, the furniture seemed to lose all will to continue, and both slumped down into a shared pile of debris with the utensils, shattered glassware, and fractures plates that adorned them seconds before. Though whatever animated them appeared to have departed, it lost no interest in Pithy, even as her magicked frost surged over the restaurant's interior. Paintings and other items floated off their hooks and wall-shelves, pausing just long enough to turn sideways and gather speed before hurtling themselves as well. One by one they met with Pithy's evasion or defense. While the frozen pipes, still half-phased through the floor, shook as though trying to free themselves from winter's clutches, no more rose from the ground to bind Pithy as she neared the unmarked door.

When she reached for the knob, the brass handle bent out of the way before lashing out in a curt slap at the sorceress's hand. The nasty sound of rent metal burst through the hallway from the direction of the kitchen as a fan ripped itself loose from the ceiling. Blades spinning with wild abandon, it whirred in Pithy's direction.

Despite the commotion, the lack of active machinery left the scene rather quiet. Over the groan of leftover wind the Lady in White could hear a haggard shout from inside the room. “Can't get in that way, window in kitchen! Don't relax for one instant Pithy, Kno One is this entire building!”

As the fan bore down on Pithy, a laugh echoed from the foundation to the roof, seeping through every wall. “Heheh. Looks like he's banking on you not killing him, if you get out of here. Maybe his warning has helped you realize, but you've walked into a deathtrap.” At that moment, the connection became easy to make. The psychological pressure, the portentous feeling of wrongness that made every fiber of one's being ache for escape...though far more powerful, it resembled the sensation one felt when dipping one's hand in a lake filled with piranhas, or of placing one's head in the wrenched-open maw of a crocodile. It was the doom of being in the belly of the beast.



Laughter. Pieter's face wasted no time in beginning to twist in umbrage. Ever since that fateful day in his childhood he'd heard it, and never had it failed to piss him off. This jackass just didn't seem able to understand the situation he was in, or perhaps he was just that committed to ruining Pieter's day. “You'll get the idea when your muscle peels off your bones,” he muttered, contempt dripping through his voice. Over the cacophonous swish of leaves and Jin's own derisive laughter, though, the noseless man doubted his opponent could hear it. His leaves were in position to pierce Jin's hide, delivering a fatal dose of the poison straight to the center of his circulatory system. From there, all Pieter would need to do would be to wait for the brat to fall to pieces--!

He jolted in surprise, an involuntary cry escaping him, as Jin lunged forward. Attuned to their master's will, the leaf-lances zeroed in on the assassin's position to hurl themselves into his body, but not a single one hit its mark. They sprouted from the ground in his wake, like the shoots of a young forest, as he barreled ahead. A brutal light gleamed from his swords, leaving the steel behind to fly through open air and shear through Pieter's tree as thought it had already been made into paper. The tree's upper half shook, forcing the College man to strengthen his grip and grit his teeth. Every instinct on him cried out as the tree began to topple, everything happening so fast that Pieter couldn't even breathlessly vocalize his shock. The tree fell backward, pushed by the residual force Jin's blade beams left behind, and in another second its rider would be crushed beneath it. Adrenaline pumped through Pieter, however, as he realized that his doom drew near, and he managed to find his voice. “Autumn!”

Like a swarm of hornets converging on a target, the leaves responded in an instant. They shot toward him, plastering themselves around the man as he fell and pulling him free of the hefty trunk that threatened to pulverize him. Buoying him up with the considerable combined mass of its leaves, Weird Autumn lofted Pieter skyward. As it ascended, its shapeless shoal coalesced into the form of an enormous bird, sans legs but up two additional pairs of wings. As though the assumed body gained a life of its own, Weird Autumn beat those half-dozen wings in rhythm as it began to circle around, Pieter atop its back. Still on edge, and not totally confident in his Stand's ability to keep him out of harm's way, he peered over the edge of its back at the assassin below. The sight of Jin washed away his fear and replaced it with smoldering anger—enough to make it clear that the time for jibes and games had departed. Pieter mimed a slash with his fingers at Jin, and Weird Autumn reeled back before letting fly a volley of leaf-feathers.

Innumerable as stars in the sky, the pinions bombarded Jin's position. Up above, the extraordinary bird beat its wings to keep up the pressure, sending salvo after salvo, but remaining almost stationary as it did. Pieter's glare could be seen even from the ground as he poked his head out, too eager to see the annoying assassin ripped apart.

Ice whirled as Pithy made her retreat, shards of ceramic and glass crowding the floor as dishes, drinking glasses and even wall decorations were flung her way.

It seemed the layer of ice covering the floor had left the assailing pipes stuck in place and prevented new ones from rising below her, but her narrowed eye now flicked towards the numerous shards that cluttered her retreat. So far the entity had failed to make use of them, hinting at the possibility that it might have been unable to make use of objects in the building once they had been broken, but if this was simply a mere lapse in judgement, she was not eager to deal with swarms of smaller, sharper projectiles being thrown her way.

Finally, she reached the door she had been aiming for, only for the knob to come to life at the last moment, giving her fingers a chastising slap. Pithy stifled a frustrated snarl, giving her hand a pained shake.

I am being mocked. Again.

Pithy slammed the pommel of her rapier against the lock, more out of anger than any desire to smash it open, but like with the window, the spike on her guard did not so much as scratch the metal.

The sound of the long-shooter echoed from outside. What is it now? she thought, letting out a hissing breath through clenched teeth. She could only hope whatever her ally outside had seen was not related to what she was already dealing with. Her position was precarious enough as it was without bringing in her aggressor’s allies.

A painting flying towards her head interrupted her introspection, and Pithy ducked her head, dashing away from the hostile furniture towards a corridor off to the side.

The respite from the raining projectiles lasted only a moment. A sound like rending metal froze her in her tracks. The appearance of a large turbine suddenly tumbling into the hallway and spinning her way saw her backpedaling back to the previous room. Pithy threw herself bodily to the side as the ceiling fan spun past her, crashing into a group of tables.

Once again, random objects began to fly at her. The sorceress brought her floating ice to bear, but a few objects slipped past. Pithy covered her head just in time for a painting frame to slam against her arm. A sharp impact from a metal candle holder drew a hiss from her lips, and Pithy rose to her knees, twisting as she swept an arm towards the incoming projectiles. An uncontrolled gale swept over the room, throwing the floating cutlery, decorations, and even a few nearby tables aside. Before she had something more painful to look forward to than a new set of angry welts in the morning, the mage took the chance to scramble back into the hallway.

In the silence that followed this latest attempt in her life, a voice she recognized came from the locked room. It seemed Nero was close enough to hear.

“Can't get in that way, window in kitchen! Don't relax for one instant Pithy, Kno One is this entire building!”

A trembling sigh escaped Pithy, one she was not certain was borne of relief or frustration. Certainly, a part of her mind screamed out that this could be yet another trap. Some haunts could very easily create sounds or cause hallucinations for people inside their territories. However, the truth of the matter was that it did not matter if this was a trap. The door refusing to open, leaving her with only one choice of direction made it clear that she was being herded. She would not be able to deviate from the voice’s chosen route for her unless she found a way to divide its attention.

As Nero’s voice receded, her captor’s voice returned. The laughter that seeped from the building’s foundations made her features darken, the pleasure in the voice fueling her irritation at this upstart.

He speaks as though I’m unfamiliar with the threat of death. Stay calm. I have had a sword hanging over my head for far longer, that terrifies me far more than anything this fool can concoct. If there is a thought I should latch onto, this is it. “I am aware of my position. It is unsightly for a ‘man of learning’ to be so proud in stating the obvious,” she added contemptuously as she began to walk towards the kitchens.

What would find her there?

Fire and knives, I would expect. Why, the kitchen is just another battlefield, she replied drolly to her own thoughts. The exercise helped steel her nerves.

“Yet I am curious. A good learner’s value is diminished if they cannot teach. If this is truly an experiment, share your observations. From what I’ve seen so far, this understudy of yours behaves much like a particularly violent poltergeist, but there is more to it, is there not?”

For example, a common poltergeist would not be able to make objects harder to destroy. There was also the matter of both the voice’s and Nero’s confusing statements. The voice was the building and so was this ‘Kno One’, which would mean that the voice and the other entity were one and the same, and yet they were treated as separate by the voice. At least if she took all that had been said at face value. The whole mess screamed of possession, but possession could only go in so many directions.

Her rapier glowed, forming yet another disk of ice to follow her as a shield. Surreptitiously under this spell, she began to create smaller, hexagonal sheets of ice beneath her robe.

---

Mountain Dew had barely found a place in a nearby alleyway that had a good view towards the restaurant’s entrance and side, when he caught quite the peculiar sight approaching from one of the adjacent streets. Or rather, two peculiar sights.

The most outlandish of the two, a large, writhing snake following in the wake of a gaunt, skeletal figure wearing domed hat. A look through his rifle as the pair drew nearer only served to confuse Dew further. What he had at first taken to be green scales were in fact a varied assortment of vines and greenery, revealing that the snake was made entirely of plants, and the gaunt man approaching the restaurant was not simply skeletal – he was looking at a proper skeleton man wearing a mushroom over his head. Furthermore, where the snake dutifully followed its master like a trained pet, the skeleton was following one of Nero’s drones.

Dew drew back, smiling ironically at his new boss’s luck. At first, he’d wondered if Nero had been lying about sending drones to the competitors, if only to keep them in place waiting for the machines to come, but it was clear now that only Pithy had been spared the luxury of seeking out her own enemies. It was the price for being a bitch, he supposed. He felt a sudden itch on his trigger finger, and he scowled, taking it off from his weapon.

After waiting for a few moments, Dew chanced another look around the corner.

The spooky scary skeleton had stopped at the side of the building, the snake hovering idly beside it and the drone hovering literally at his side.

Sharp sounds of cracking glass and ceramic had begun to filter from the entrance, evidence of a struggle inside, but he had yet to hear the rapport of Pithy’s revolver. The itch on his finger spread to the rest of his hand as he recalled the instructions he had been left with.

Think she was mostly thinking of people running out of the restaurant without her knowing, but yeah. I suppose this qualifies as ‘something wrong’.

The sound of his rifle firing over his head thundered over the street corner. Belatedly, he realized that he had just announced his presence to everyone in the block, and wondered if Pithy’s actual intention had been for him to play the role of distraction for whatever crept up outside. Something told him that kind of ploy would be right up her alley.

Still got to deal with the skeleton sitting right there, he reminded himself. Dew forced himself to walk out of cover, forcing an easy smile onto his lips. His rifle cradled in a relaxed grip as he walked out of the alley and onto the streets.

“Heeellllo there, Mr. Bones. That little drone back there tells me you’re looking for someone. You the next one up in the Crucible?” he asked cheerily. After a heartbeat, he frowned, smile slipping. “Ehrm, you can speak back, right? I get that might be a bit hard without lungs but I can’t believe the College would manage to get a brainless corpse running for the tourney. I mean, figuratively brainless. I’m not sure if you’d be a skeleton or a zombie if you happened to have only your brain.”

@Gardevoiran

Something about this owl-man was... odd. Not only his appearance which defied even Lily's understanding, but also the things he were saying, and his mannerism. The way he claimed to be from a different world, yet not in his own body. She didn't know how long he had been here, but judging by his words she did not expect him, to have been here for longer than she had—And certainly not to have become so comfortable in an alien body so quickly. It had taken her weeks to not be surprised by her own tails, when she had first become a kitsune, and that was not to mention the extremely odd sensation of her ears no longer being human. There was more to him than met the eyes, of that she was certain.

And what was that sound of metal scraping behind him?

She glanced at Brucie who gave a shallow nod, then started edging towards the side so that he flanked Emile, and was able to see what was behind him, and act accordingly should the owl try anything.

It wasn't long before Emile finished his monologue, and she could safely say that, assuming he was telling the truth, she had expected absolutely none of it. She knew of Rome and Disney: One was a sprawling metropolis, the other an animation studio, and she told him as much.

"Aside from those, I don't know of Dark Souls, but I have heard of the Treasure Planet. An archaic movie some five hundred years old. A Disney classic, they call it." She clicked her tongue, and sighed. "Never could get behind the ridiculous notion that planets were spherical." She sheathed her sword and crossed her arms, her eyes never leaving Emile. "But let me get this straight. You're claiming that this entire thing, island, city and all, is comprised of video game and movie objects? Bloody hell it's like a fucking Isekai anime," she said, rubbing her own temples in sheer frustration. "This whole thing just got a whole lot more obnoxious."

"What's an 'isekai', Boss?" Brucie suddenly asked, shifting his attention to her from Emile for a moment. "Ain't ever heard of it."

Sighing again, Lily sat down on a roughly stool-sized rock, folding her hands in her lap. "Basically some normal guy or girl is transported to a magical fantasy land. Don't ask me how it's still a popular genre centuries after real magic became a thing." Looking to Emile, then, she pressed her lips into a thin line, brows furrowed. His helmet prevented her from reading his expression, but he had yet to do anything to invite hostility, and had been rather amicable all things considered. It didn't make her like him more, but, "You have been rather... forthcoming with information, so I suppose I owe it to you. My name is Lily, and I'm what you'd call a Kitsune, or Nine-tailed Fox. I was a human once, some twelve-thirteen years ago, before a war between the four Discs started. A Disc is what you'd call a... planet, albeit nearly flat with only a slight downward curve towards the edges. Each is carried upon the backs of creatures called Dawn Drakes."

At this point Brucie had completely abandoned paying attention to Emile, instead listening with rapt attention to Lily's recounts. She hand't devulged this much information before.

"People like me—Shifters—came about to combat the enemy, those being the Endolans from the Discs, Endola. By using a sort of genetic splicing coupled with magic, and no I'm not going to explain how because I hardly even know myself, compatible humans were transformed into hybrids like me. Only, the time we stay Hybrids is limited, as the Essence we got from our patrons changes what we are. Thus, I'm now more Kitsune than human, with more powers awakening year after year." She paused, letting the information sink in. Nothing she had said so far was too valuable, but he had asked her to tell him about who and what she was.

"If your world is as similar to mine as I expect, then you should have heard of the creatures inhabiting my world: Dragons, phoenixes, naga, giants, lamias, Sídhe, pixies and more. As for this tournament: All I know is that the winner is promised to be granted one Wish, and I get the sense that there are no limitations to said Wish — that even the very fabric of reality could be altered to suit the demands of the Winner. There are two ways to win a match," she thumbed back to where she, Brucie and Mouse had come from, "you either kill your opponent. Or you make them a companion."

Brucie, evidently thinking this a perfect time to elaborate, said, "it's because of these ph--Yargh! Hey, don't zap me!"

Lily lowered her hand, errant sparks still crackling along her fingers. She gave Brucie a pointed glance before she once more addressed Emile. "And no, I am not going to tell you how you make someone a companion. And as I'm sure you have more questions, I would like one answered of my own." She then pulled out the red-golden feather from under her t-shirt. "You seem to know a lot about the things in this world. So tell me, what is this, what does it do? And more importantly, how does it work?"

Well, Now...

Frankly, that plan had gone far, far better than he’d anticipated. Not only had he reached the shoreline at last, landing in a perhaps-stereotypical fashion as the ground cracked under him, but he’d also seriously injured his enemy, drained some of her energy and likely deafened her to boot. She was in a bad state.

However, being in a bad state did not mean a foe was defeated. Not when it came to Stand users. And if he knew Stand users, it was that they frequently came up with their most ingenious solutions when backed against a wall. In other words, this girl was still dangerous, even with the damage she’d sustained. That said, it appeared that the Boys of Summer had yet to dissipate - if anything, there were even more of them than before, and their danger lay in how easily they could prolong a fight until a lethal solution could be found.

Even so, he had his lethal solution still brewing inside him. He began to pressurise his gut, preparing for-
And never mind. Apparently, Runch was calling off the fight. You know, like that was at all feasible in this case. He even launched some of his Bloodberry recipe at their foe, apparently an effort to help make amends. How adorably foolish.

'With all due respect, Captain, I highly suggest you stop trying to interfere,' Motley suggested disapprovingly, his voice unnervingly cold. 'Whilst your sentiment is perhaps a rare and appreciable trait in your world, it’s a death sentence in mine. Think about it - this girl and her brother came after us, unprovoked, with the intent all along to slay us, and it is simply our luck that their Stands were insufficient for the task despite our group’s relative lack thereof. If they are allowed to leave, as I imagine you’ve allowed the brother to, they’ll simply come back for more later, and will likely return with greater preparation against us.

'They can’t reasonably be allowed to live. I, for one, am going to finish this girl off, whether or not she’s the more dangerous of the duo.' As he spoke these last two sentences, Motley began to run in the target’s direction, taking a leap into the air at around two hundred meters from her to give himself the height he needed to enact his ultimate plan - though, bearing in mind her nature as a Stand user, prepared himself to dodge midair if she managed to fire yet more rockets at him from an unexpected angle. Perhaps he’d sacrifice a shoe to launch a nail harpoon from his toes toward the ground as a way of forcibly pulling himself downward should a set of rockets barrel toward him. If he needed to, that was.

His stomach began to churn, compress, contract; bile rose in his throat, all his teeth retracted into his gums simultaneously, and with a vile and disturbing retch, he produced a wave of projectile vomit aimed directly at Aralynn. Stomach acid, functionally, was hydrochloric acid, dilute enough not to burn a hole in the stomach’s lining as it recovered itself; with a boost from his Black Ripple and his own vampiric regeneration, the glands producing the acid could effectively be supercharged without risk to himself, allowing a far more concentrated and deadly acid to be produced with enough time. With similar compression tactics as he’d just used in his eyeballs, indeed practically the same mechanisms as vomiting usually required, that acid could then be launched a great distance toward an opponent with decent accuracy. He imagined some practice might let him focus the acid blast into a sort of lethal cannonball; for now, the focus needed was a bit beyond him, but the acid itself would dissolve her body with ease if it made contact.

But he wasn’t done yet. It was painfully clear that the single burst would be absorbed by the brother’s Stand if he just left it be… and so, he needed to increase how many shots he’d actually fired. And wouldn’t you know, he had exactly what he needed to do just that: aiming his fingers at the stomach blast, he fired out ten beams of blood simultaneously, directing them to pass through the stomach acid and shred the singular attack into an oversized cloud of discrete acidic shots - each of which, he hoped, would require one bodyguard to absorb to ensure they were stopped, plus extra guards for the ten blood beams aimed at Aralynn herself to boot. And if not enough guards were left, well, that would just be a darn shame for his target, wouldn’t it?

@Lugubrious@ProPro

Bonesword turned towards the sniper before yelling over at him with his hands raised. ”I can talk, and that’s what I want to do,” the swordsman stated calmly and collectively, his pet behind him staring at Mountain cautiously. ”I just want to talk.”

“I’m so sorry, skeleton, I must’ve misunderstood.” The man whistled, his eyebrows rose in a patently insincere expression of shock. “Maybe you just want to socialize, but the last two like you came looking for a fight.”

”This place is a deathtrap,” Bonesword bluntly said as he looked into the skies to see the Big Top in the far distance. ”I came looking for answers as to why that is, but I can’t get those without some help.” Bonesword took a second to analyze Mountain’s figure before coming to a conclusion. ”I’m guessing you’re not my intended opponent, either.”

“That offends me!” The clown proclaimed loudly, in a tone that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying himself. “We can’t all be bone and steel and fungus, but what part of me doesn’t look like deathmatch tournament material?”

”Well…” Bonesword said as he sheathed his sword, summoning a stump from the ground to sit on as he looked at Mountain Dew. The man, for his part, merely shifted his weight to another foot, still not so much as pointing the rifle in his arms at the undead. ”I can’t see a phylactery on you.” A moment passed before Bonesword had a bit of clever idea. A bit of some special herbs grew behind him, recognizable to Mountain as evident by the wry smile that crossed his features. Bonesword kept talking to the sniper. ”Plus, why fight when we can make peace? At least to crush the rest of our enemies before we duel each other.”

“Heh, my dealer probably wouldn’t appreciate that.”

”I can make as much of this stuff as I want,” Bonesword nonchalantly said.

“You make a persuasive argument, my dude, but you caught me in a bit of a bind. You see…” He glanced around him conspiratorially. “I don’t have my phylactery with me,” he confided, conveniently ignoring the fact that the skeletal warrior had pointed out this fact but moments earlier. “That drone seems to have a pretty solid bead on it, though.”

Indeed, even as Bonesword had turned to address the sniper, the drone continued to insistently point towards the nearby restaurant. Not his next opponent, but his next opponent’s phylactery, perhaps.

Bonesword looked back towards the restaurant. ”What’s going on with you and your ‘friend’ anyway? I figure you two must be in the same bind as I am since I’m not being killed right now.”

“Friend? What friend?” It was at this time that the screeching grind of wrenching metal began to seep out from inside the building. The man blinked at the traitorous sound of struggle, unapologetic expression never drifting from his face. “Definitely not a friend of mine in there. More like a minion, like those yellow things you see everywhere these days, and just as annoying. She does have my phylactery, though. Gave it to her for safekeeping, you know.”

”... sure. Let’s go with that.” Bonesword felt that Mountain was lying about that last statement, but it’s probably for the best if he played along for the time being. He’d get a real answer later probably.

“Let’s,” Dew agreed.

”What’re you and… whoever’s in there, doing anyway?”

“Adventuring,” came the immediate answer, the clown clearly eager to move the conversation his own way. “We were adventuring the restaurant. Or, well, we split up just in case, so only one of us was. Thing is, we had a signal in place if things went sideways and I needed to come in for support, right? Well, something’s clearly wrong in there, but I’m not getting any signals.” The man gasped theatrically as though a great idea had just occurred to him. “Actually, you coming along is convenient as hell! What say you go in there and fetch me my phylactery?”

”Well, I would, but I tried to get in there by busting the wall down and it didn’t work.”

“Silly skeleton, that’s not what walls are for. You go into buildings through doors,” the man said chidingly, loosening his grip on the sniper’s barrel to wag a finger at Bonesword. “Maybe windows if you’re robbing the place. Either way, you’ll probably have to find a way in. You said you wanted answers, right?”

”The door was locked… and what do you mean exactly…?”

“It just so happens our friendly neighborhood announcer Nero might be in there,” he said, smile turning sly.
”What do you mean by Nero…?” Bonesword asked before he came to a realization. ”Oren backwards. Got it.” Bonesword stood there in silence for a few moments before he looked back at Dew expecting some kind of answer. ”So…?”

“So, find your way in, and you get your chance at answers. Fetch me my phylactery, and we may just be able to talk about a partnership.”
”There’s a problem with that,” Bonesword said before simply looking at the building. ”The place isn’t opening up.”

Dew clicked his tongue, his expression turning irritated for the first time. “You turned out to be a real nay-sayer, dude, giving up at the first closed door.” He shrugged, stepping away from the skeleton. “Well then, if you’re fine just sitting out there on your stump waiting for something to happen, I’m just gonna head back to my alley.”

”You don’t have to. Stick around and smoke some herb,” Bonesword said as he patted Charlie on the snout, the beast purring affectionately.

Dew hesitated, giving the skeleton an ironic look. “Tempting as it is, I can picture a dozen ways getting high right now could get me killed, and funnily enough, it’s not you who’s doing the killing in half of them.” With that said, the man vanished into the alleyway.
He had left for the time being, but if he indeed had a stake on whatever was happening within the nearby restaurant, he would no doubt be keeping an eye out. That, however, left Bonesword in the open, with a drone silently pointing towards the closed-off restaurant, and a man armed with a sniper purporting to be his next enemy hovering just out of sight.

It didn’t worry Bonesword, though. Charlie slithered between the sniper and the swordsman to act as a mediator for the situation, the skeleton being obstructed as he waited for his potential ally to escape the building. However long it would take, Bonesword didn’t mind. He was immortal, he could wait.

Another chuckle resonated through the restaurant in reply to Pithy's barb. “Forgive me. I won't bore you with any more details.” The sensation of predatory eyes, peering from every shadow and every surface, bored into Pithy as she drew near the kitchen. For now, the hallway had turned silent; perhaps her evasion of the lethal fanblades sufficed to demonstrate her mastery over this area. Far from content to keep that quiet intact, however, the Lady in White addressed her omnipresent adversary once again.

“And here I thought we weren't stating the obvious,” the voice chided. Without any obstacle on the way, Pithy could enter the kitchen freely. When she did, she could see that the checker-tiled floor proceeded normally about halfway down the room's length, then promptly turned upward. Appearance-wise, the floor looked like it had been lifted up like a sheet of paper and the end attached to the ceiling. Various facets of cooking equipment kept the fringes of the floor anchored to the ground, but in the openings left but such a phenomenon, hard-packed walls of miscellaneous kitchen items barred the way around. No other mode of entry or exit could be glimpsed in the area that Pithy could access, save the doorway she came in by. The way, it seemed, was shut. “Of course! Though since this is not a lecture, you'll have to figure things out for yourself. Feel free to think of Kno One as an ordinary ghost, if it helps you understand that you cannot harm or interact with it. Now, take a look at this. You've figured out the building itself is invincible, but does that still apply to parts of it I've moved? The tile was part of the floor, after all.” The nearest stoves, which were on, bore pots of water whose bubbles were audible. After the voice grew silent, their lids floated off, and from their sputtering contents stands of pasta began to rise. They slithered through the air like sea snakes through the ocean, moving about in great numbers but in an aimless fashion.



Content to be patient with the pair's cautiousness, Emile waited with relaxed posture and wide-open ears on the chance that Lily elected to respond. When she started speaking, he listened with bated breath. Even with his face masked, he seemed visibly surprised when the kitsune admitted a knowledge of Disney—as taken aback as Lily had been moments before. His shock shifted to a shaking with laughter that he worked hard to suppress when she gave voice to disbelief in the idea that planets could be round. Just before he started to twitch, the faintest whisper of ”Flat earth!” escaped his feathery lips only to be buried beneath his acquaintance's speech. Her next few statements, however, dispelled whatever mirth possessed him in the blink of an eye. Emile sat bolt-upright at the mention of 'isekai', sitting stock-still as though he'd been discovered doing something wrong. After she sighed, seated herself, and explained what isekai was, the owlman gave a nervous laugh. “Heheh...sounds like some super cliché trash, good thing I don't know anything about anything like that...” When it became clear Lily was studying him, he sobered up hastily.

Still focused despite the less-than-concealed emotional roller-coaster Lily put him through, he remained attentive as she gave her own story. At the motion of disks, one of his arms moved into a thinker's position, its elbow resting on the other while its fist lay across the section of his helmet that occluded his mouth. Nothing that she told of rang any bells for him. During her pause, he vocalized what little he could come up with. “Hmm. I've heard of something called Discworld, but I don't know anything about it. Probably not what you're talking about. I'd assumed you were from the past, but you're actually from the future, huh?”

Afterward she proceeded into answering the critical part of his inquiry: the workings of the tournament, of which he harbored only a basic knowledge. He mulled over the information as it was presented, turning his head to gaze off into the middle ground. When Brucie began to speak, however, he glanced his way just in time to watch Lily silence him with a jolt of lightning. With as many beans spilled as she deemed appropriate, then, she posed him another question. Flashy as the fiery feather was, the gears racing in his mind occupied him for another few moments. Only after another “hmm...” did he allow his attention, once eagerly given, return to her.

“I cannot be sure, but the most well-known fictional feather in my homeworld is called 'Phoenix Down'. I believe it revives a near-death ally it is used on.” Something in his tone had changed, growing more serious and a touch slower. Contractions disappeared, and his slouch gave way to proper, straight-backed posture. “Let us rewind for a moment, however. Were you about to say 'phylactery', hammerhead?” Holding his right hand up and open for a moment to make it clear he was going to use it, Emile reached into his pocket and withdrew a palm-sized object. Dark red, or perhaps black, in color, it resembled a heart drained of all life. He span it on one finger, a sudden current of air keeping it aloft and rotating. “When the scouting party found the corpse of my friend Clotho, this was on her. Afterward, she told us what little she knew about it, and the tournament. If we find where poor Verrine died, I'm guessing she will have one of these, too.” Sighing, Emile let the inert phylactery fall into his palm before stashing it in his pocket. When his eyes reopened, they locked with Lily's. “As you might have gathered, two of my friends were brought to this tournament to fight, and both were killed. It has left me hurt, but it is not healthy to dwell on such pain.” He placed his hands by his legs, their palms on his stone seat. “Not that I blame you two. Unless you have traveled a very long way, there is no reason to believe either of you were the killers.”

As if trying looking for some sort of help from above, he tilted his head back and stared into the darkness between him and the cavern roof. “So, the winner of this tournament gets one wish. Maybe it is a blessing that Clotho dropped out, heh. She is an ambitious one. I dread what Verrine might have wished for...” He shivered, then shook his head with a chuckle. His composure seemed to relax, suggesting that something in the back of his mind that had been needling him had been resolved. His manner of speaking, not unlike rambling meant to fill time, returned to normal. “Hmph, what am I talking about? Knowing her, she would've wanted me to be happy. Anyway!” Emile clapped his hands together, looking between Brucie and Lily. “From my calculations, you're ready for the semifinals. Eight souls under your belt, is it? That's one-fourth of a wish. A heavy burden to bear. And when the load gets heavy, it's a good idea to have a lot of friends.”

Emile disappeared.

His practically-instant displacement sent a blast of wind in the direction of Lily and Brucie. It lasted only a split second, but it was blistering in its speed and power. More a screech than a howl, it blew into them and faded away almost as suddenly as its maker, who now stood on top of the pillar with arms crossed. Though the whole thing happened so fast as to leave pretty much anyone flustered if not tumbling, what happened could be pieces together: though Emile's departure was invisible to the human eye, he had not teleported. Instead, it was his physical movement from a sitting position to his current pillar-top perch that created the surprise gale—unintentionally, a mere byproduct of natural locomotion, like the wake of a boat that might sweep away of school of minnows. In the alcove where he sat previously, two intricate sabers lay against the wall, unused and abandoned by the man they had been hidden behind throughout the whole exchange. When the owlman spoke, his voice came louder and stronger than before. “On behalf of the guild Air Rave, I offer you our services.” He indicated the citadel-backed raven with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “With our help, you can win the tournament no problem. All I ask in exchange is what we work together to amend your wish, whatever it is, to help us out, too. After all, the wish has no limits. There's no reason we can't all get what we want.” To punctuate his words, he held up his left hand. On the appropriate finger a ring began to glow bright white, the crest of interlocking wings on its face visible in the radiance.



Evan as Motley launched himself into the air, preparing a final attack to ensure its fatality, Aralynn gave no sign of being aware of it. For a brief moment her struggle grew more feverish, but the pain that even the slightest movement brought upon her stung her back into stillness, wherein she could get as close as possible to relief. Around her the Boys of Summer stood, noiseless and resolute as frontline soldiers before a cavalry charge.

It wasn't long before the vampire's chemical assault, carefully articulated, blasted forth. A deluge of caustic stomach acid accompanied piercing spurts of pressurized blood, all fixated on the sitting duck at water's edge. Her brother's small army of grim specters went to work, dutifully sliding in front of each incoming blast one after another. The vile liquids' speed necessitated the Boys of Summer to cluster together to prevent any getting through, and for a brief instant the onslaught hung in the air, thick enough to make the sunlight dapple; then, the first target made contact with the first projectile. Together the pair fizzled out of existence, more speedy and anticlimactic than the feed on a turned-off television. After that, the interceptions came hard and fast. When the blood beams vanished, they left behind a trace of negation that continued to erase any blood that followed, which could be said to count as the same attack by whatever bizarre and ephemeral rules governed Boys of Summer's usage. With one beam gone after another, the acid shower began to coalesce, but well in advance of the entire acid attack's negation, the silent protectorate was depleted. Faint, strangled gasps of true agony could heard over the sound of melting flesh. For a few, fleeting moments, a mechanical shape could be seen to be hovering over Aralynn's body, but it soon faded away into vapor along with the aura that surrounded her. After forty seconds, only a smoldering ooze and acid-scarred bones gave evidence that she ever existed.

Runch wasn't exactly certain of what he was seeing. He had given a direct order to Motley not to further engage the girl, someone that had already been completely incapacitated. Defenseless. The vampire began to show his darker side when he decided to lecture Runch before unleashing an attack utilizing that tremendous body control he possessed. The pirate captain reacted, but too slowly. Maybe Motley was just too fast. Maybe Runch was still a bit banged up from the last few encounters. Maybe he thought that Motley wouldn't actually go through with it, or maybe he even felt confident in the defensive power of the Boys of Summer. Regardless, the defensive wall of cereal he fired out from his hands failed to block the spray of lethal acid and blood lasers. In nearly an instant the young girl that already barely clung to life, had that same life snuffed out. "NO!"

The Cereal Killer rushed toward her remains, throwing all caution to the wind and disregarding the water. He kept himself balanced on two mats of buoyant cereal produced beneath his feet. Bones. All that remained was bones. Anger began to roil up within the older man, just like the acid in Motley's stomach. It threatened to explode outward in every direction. With a single, heavy sigh of ten straight seconds, Runch maintained his composure. Then the pirate turned to face Motley Crue. For the very first time since they had met, the vampire would not see any joy, warmth, or fun on the pirate's face. Anger. A rage as powerful as a volcano, yet tranquil as the Summer breeze. All the emotion focused in his eyes, while his pointed mustache looked sharp enough to actually cut.

"The world doesn't matter. The man is what matters. That was a young girl, passionate as she was naive. A child, for all her worldly experience. A defenseless child! She was already beaten! Couldn't fight back! And you killed her without the slightest hint of hesitation or remorse! No threat to you now, and never would have been a threat again which you would have known if you had listened to me!" Runch held up his pistol, aimed right for Motley's face. "Know this, Mr. Crue, if nothing else. I am a forgiving man. I believe in people. I avoid needless death. But do not take me for a blind fool. I am Bartholomew K. Runch. The 'Cereal Killer,' and I earned that epithet in my world for a reason."

He then holstered the pistol once more, but kept his hand on the grip, ready to pull it out once more at a single moment's notice. "The only reason I don't kill you right now is because our phylacteries make you incapable of fighting back, and that would be the ultimate dishonor. You are dismissed from my crew, my presence, and my sight." He spat those final words with incredible vitriol. Next Runch took hold of his phylactery and brought it up to his face, squeezing it the way he had been instructed previously in order to contact Oren. The entire time the captain's eyes never removed themselves from Motley.

"Oren. I cannot imagine that you are not in on this splinter faction that has begun attacking us, unless they were so short sighted that they thought surviving contestants wouldn't contact you. I forgave this attack, but if another comes, I will retaliate appropriately. That young man, the one with the Boys of Summer..." Runch had to fight back a tear before continuing. "I don't know if he's aware, but tell him... I couldn't save his sister in time. Her remains are at my exact coordinates, so someone can come lay her to rest in peace. As for the vampire, Motley Crue-" Whether Motley was still present or had begun making his departure by now, Runch narrowed his glare. "I've dismissed him from my company. Do with him whatever you will. I just want the perfect ship for my crew."

He waited for whatever Oren might have said in response, then shut off the connection from his side. He glanced around, looking for Erina. She had been tasked with going around the long way to flank the twin stand users, but everything ended so quickly that the fox woman didn't even get the opportunity to be involved. Spotting her, he waived his arms. "Erina! Time to get going!" There was one less smile in the world. When one smile was gone, all those closest inevitably followed.

Easy Come, Easy Go

The target died with shocking ease, he pondered as he fell to the ground and landed lightly on his toes. He’d expected a bit more resistance, honestly… from Runch, if not from anybody else. Speaking of whom, he appeared to be utterly livid with what he’d done, judging by his expression as he spoke.

And frankly, whilst he wasn’t surprised to hear himself being dismissed, he was disappointed with Runch’s lack of pragmatism. He held Runch’s gaze coolly with but a tilt of his head as the pirate captain spoke to Oren through the phylactery, before ultimately calling Erina to follow on after him. She seemed a bit upset herself, to say the least.

Motley waited until Runch had turned away before he began to speak. ‘If it matters,’ he stated bluntly, ‘I extend my respects to her for not begging at the end. However, she had decided we were enemies before we even knew she existed; if you believe she’d extend your brand of mercy to us with the situation reversed, or indeed that she could not have fought back at all in her circumstances or known what would result if she failed, you are the naive one.’

He’d meant to leave at this point, but turned to find Erina’s sword at his neck, blazing with purple flames. When did she… and was Bend still possessing her there? For a moment, it seemed he was; but a moment later, the sword began to quake, the flame dissipated to reveal a rusted blade, and the girl sheathed her weapon angrily.

'There's reasonable and unreasonable killing. What sort of prestige did you hope to get out of this?'

To anyone else, the question might have been a piercing blow. Motley’s response was far more calculated: ‘Ask her. Or better yet, ask Bend. He gets it.’ If she read between the lines, she’d understand that he meant his words very literally. She could see and speak to spectres, could she not?

Nonetheless, he’d been asked to leave, and hadn’t even been attacked as a result of his actions. Perhaps that was the best option he could hope for here. Even so, as he wandered past the fox girl and away from the irate pirate, moving back into the inn, it stuck in his mind that he’d effectively be made a target for killing one of the staff running the tournament. And now he had nobody to back him up if he needed it, which was… concerning, perhaps.

But, it had a potential resolution. He pressed it as appropriate to try and call Oren, if he still could. If his phylactery no longer worked as intended, so be it; he’d try and find another of Oren’s drones to talk to. If it did function, however, he would utter the following words into it, and release it before any reply could be given:

‘You’re on thin ice, the lot of you. Should the girl’s brother come after me on his own perogative, for vengeance or otherwise, then that’s his fight to resolve. If anyone else is sent after me by your organisation, you will all be on my kill list. I don’t like having enemies who haven’t been dealt with, and I’m sure you don’t either. Consider this your only warning.’

“It became obvious the moment the door locked behind me and the dishware attacked,” the elf muttered quietly as she walked, too absorbed on her magic to take note of the scolding tone the voice had taken towards her. It also helped her ignore the ever-present sensation of menace that now filled this new enemy’s territory, sinking into her limbs like tiny pinpricks. The effort made it easier to keep herself from trembling.

And when I do tremble? Certainly not in fear. It is simply cold.

The lattice of crystal forming under her robes ceased expanding as the magic ran its course, allowing Pithy to merely hold it in her sorcerous grasp. It hovered as a single object, rigid under her cloak in a way that was sure to give away its presence if she moved carelessly, but she expected such a hidden layer of armor would be of use. The runes on her rapier’s guard continued to glow brilliantly even as the ice formation spell came to an end, her focus still divided between carrying her shields, her one remaining icicle, and in maintaining the freezing magic that even then continued expanding the sheet of ice layering the floor under her.

The voice seemed eager to talk as she moved, readily agreeing to her request. “Of course! Though since this is not a lecture, you'll have to figure things out for yourself. Feel free to think of Kno One as an ordinary ghost, if it helps you understand that you cannot harm or interact with it.”

For a brief moment, Pithy was sorely tempted to correct the speaker on his assumption regarding ghosts. There were entire schools of magic devoted to the study and use of incorporeal entities in her realm, and whether this Kno One was incorporeal at present was debatable, but she was under no obligation to say as much. She was more interested in keeping the voice talking on the off-chance that he might be distracted enough for some kind of opportunity to present itself to her.

What kind of lapse she might be looking for, she did not know. So far, the all too pleased way the voice spoke in only served to grate on her.

As she followed the passageway into the next room, Pithy paused, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. A moment later, her features morphed into an irritated scowl.

Along the walls she could see a variety of tables, one with a pipe running up and down in an arch, which she assumed would deliver water, most others either empty, or laden with kitchen implements and cutting boards. Some of them had ingredients over them, as if placed there by someone and then promptly forgotten.

Alongside these there were also large metallic boxes, reaching almost to her waist. Metal pots simmered over them, bluish flames feeding heat to the bubbling water inside them.

It was cleaner than she was used to, so much so that a part of her had trouble thinking of the room as a kitchen. The fact that half of the room had been fashioned into a wall, starting with the tiled floor and ending with a patchwork of steel and cast iron, had not helped her confusion.

“Now, take a look at this. You've figured out the building itself is invincible, but does that still apply to parts of it I've moved? The tile was part of the floor, after all.”

As the voice receded, movement came from the nearby pots. Pithy started, a vision of boiling oil being poured over her flashing in her mind, but instead of that, she saw strands of what she assumed to be dough beginning to rise from the pots to hover in the air.

Suddenly wary of the rapidly increasing amount of food floating in the air, Pithy allowed more of the cold power to pour out of her and muttered an unintelligible word under her breath.

A frosty breeze suddenly spread out from her position, sweeping over the cooking pots. The flames under them suddenly vanished, as did the sound of bubbling liquid. For the barest of seconds, the dough snakes continued to rise from their burrows until, with a crackling sound echoed from every pot, the water inside froze. The strings at the pot’s mouth still stretched outwards, as though attempting to free themselves.

In that time, the strands of dough that Pithy had originally thought to be a threat simply continued to float lazily through the air, seemingly uncaring of the intruder in their midst.

Pithy shook her head, failing to find a reason for this particular act of levitation. What did the voice expect to do with these? Scald her? Strangle her? Or were they meant to distract her from something else? Perhaps it would have been more apparent had she allowed all of them to rise.

Her eye turned towards the box the pot had been sitting on, noting the ring of holes where the fire had once been. If she listened intently enough, she thought she could pick out a soft, hissing sound over the phantom howl of faraway wind in her mind.

She was not entirely familiar with the cooking apparatus, but she thought she recognized an echo of this technology. The City of the Blue Flame. She recalled a human city, known for its beauty and technological acumen. A city of inventors, it was said, that had been built over a humongous cavern of flammable gas. In that city, massive tunnels had been dug out for the networks of pipes that delivered fuel to the street lamps that lined all the main roads, coloring the city with the blue pallor that had earned the it its title.

I also recall it being funneled to smithies and alchemical labs. I recall stories of great fires caused by carelessness. I recall tales of invading armies besieging the city only to stand down and retreat when the lunatic ruler of the time threatened to send the city and army sky-high if hostilities continued. A popular fable, often accompanied with the jest that it was called a free city for a reason.

A thought occurred to her.

Would a gas explosion have any effect on this place?

Perhaps not, but if the owner of the voice was within the building, it might well air them out. All she needed to do was ignore the leak.

It was a dangerous gambit—one that might quite literally blow up in my face at that—but if she could finish her business inside before the gas became dense enough to be a danger, or at least before an explosion was triggered, something could come out of it. She would have to trust in her magic, otherwise.

Pithy let out a long breath through her nose, looking back to the checkered wall and hoping that if the voice could indeed see her, it had not noticed her gaze lingering on the stove. Or worse, that the voice noticed the leak and used it for its own purposes. Choosing not to block off the gas slowly pumping into the room from the multiple stoves meant she had a time limit, and so she focused on the newest obstacle.

Nero had spoken of a window in the kitchen, but the only opening she could see in that room was the entrance she had used, and there had been no other open passageways before that. If such a window existed, it was on the other side of this wall.

It seemed she would have to play the voice’s game.

Pithy pointed her arm forward. Her remaining icicle sped towards the wall, slamming against the center of a floor tile. Pithy grunted as the ceramic remained intact.

She levitated the icicle back to the air, pondering the problem. She had seen plates and tables break in the first room, so the qualification for this extraordinary durability was clearly not the spook’s control.

I cannot harm it. I cannot interact with it. It is this building. That was what she had been told, and it seemed to hold true. However, the distinction between what was and was not a part of the edifice seemed arbitrary to her.

There is a possibility that the distinction comes entirely from the user’s perception of what is a proper part of this place, she mused. If so, it was not a hypothesis she could voice readily. If it so much as approached the truth, this haunt would become even more dangerous.

Another thing of note was the fact that to bring the tiles up in such a manner, the mortar connecting tiles to the floor would have had to be detached. Did this mean that the mortar connecting the tiles was not considered to be a part of the building?

Her icicle floated forward, parting through the floating dough. Even now it did nothing to deter her, simply floating dumbly through the air, and so she continued to ignore it. Once the bladed ice had come close enough to the wall, Pithy pressed the ice into the gap between two floor tiles. After a few seconds spent mounting on the pressure, she realized the adhesive would not break. She would have heard a crack already had that not been the case.

Pithy recalled her blade, glaring at the obstacle in front of her. It was when she looked up, to the place the makeshift wall connected with the ceiling, that a change became apparent to her. It was slight enough to make her doubt her memory, but she could swear that the wall, once rigidly upright, had taken on an incline. However, the tile and mortar at the bottom, where the floor bent at an incline to raise the wall, remained unharmed regardless of the shift in position. That makes no sense. Had it moved, something should have broken, unless…

The pipes that had attacked her suddenly sprang to mind. “I see. That would allow one to twist metal freely,” Pithy spoke in a low voice mostly aimed at herself. “Then, the way these tiles were moved…”

The mortar indeed seemed to be considered a part of the building. That which had been broken had been broken under the haunt’s own power. The rest, however, had been altered for malleability.

What was more, it seemed like this alteration allowed her to interact with the wall to a certain degree, deviating from what the voice had said earlier.

She glanced back to the two discs hovering behind her, then frowned. Not these. Might need a shield soon. Looking past them, her eye alighted over the pots.

Pithy snapped the fingers of her left hand. The three pots nearest her suddenly trembled before rising in the air, the ice stuck to their interior forcing the metal up with it. The three moved in unison towards the upper end of the wall and turned sideways, their bottoms pressing against the ceramic.

The sorceress breathed, feeling the strands of spellwork drawing their life from the torrent of power at her core. She isolated the spells grasping the ice in the pots and, as if diverting water from a stream, bled the strength of that current into them. The pots pressed against the wall with tremendous force, seeking to push the floor tiles back to their original position.

Lily did note the way Emile both reacted and spoke when she mentioned Isekai. On its own she might not have found it especially odd, maybe just a sign of surprise by someone who hadn't quite thought of it yet. But he had previously mentioned his current body — that of the humanoid owl — not being his own, but being from the video game Yggdrasil. She was familiar with the name, as it was what some believed the Weave to be, much like in old Norse Mythology, but any game with said name was unknown to her. Knowing that his body was not his own, and that he looked like he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, made Lily suspect something.

She briefly glanced down at Mouse, placed a hand on his head, and turned her attention back to Emile, only to see a blur of movement and a rush of wind. She jerked her head upwards, following the movement, seeing the owl-man standing atop the broken pillar, arms crossed and lording over her.

"What the hell?!" Brucie exclaimed beside her, looking around briefly before finally finding Emile.

Mouse let out a whimper and pressed himself closer to Lily.

Lily felt her eyes widen as a feeling of awe went over her, one she hadn't felt since she had first witnessed the feats of the mythical creatures up close. This man, whoever and whatever he was, was in a league beyond her. If he could move so fast as to be blurry to her, then she had no chance whatsoever at beating him. She fought to bring her expression back under control, putting back the usual mask of unflappability.

However proud she was. However certain she was that she could defeat anyone on her own. This time, she had to admit that there were someone in this alien world, that was her superior. His words from moments earlier came back to her; "...And when the load gets heavy, it's a good idea to have a lot of friends.” She was forced to agree. And the words that followed, that he would swear to her the aid of the entire guild, giant raven included, so long as she amended her wish to include theirs as well, whatever it was.

She rose slowly, ignoring Brucie's impressed mutterings beside her. She never let her eyes leave Emile, however much good it would do her if he decided to attack. "I appreciate your offer, but before I accept or decline, you asked a question." She pulled out the phylactery from beneath her shirt, showing the heart-like creation, the gears behind the single window slowly turning. This one was also still vividly red, as opposed to Emile's greyed and dun one. "This is an active phylactery. As you said earlier, containing eight souls. What you have are inert ones, no longer functional for its purposes. Notice the gears no longer turning? Long and short of it, the ones you carry aren't more than a piece of rubber." She stuffed it back underneath her shirt, eyes never leaving the stranger.

"As for your aid, I would like you to Swear it," she said, "Swear it on your Power, and I will swear to word my wish so that what you want also comes to pass." She silently hoped that his kind were completely beholden to such a vow, much like the Sídhe of her own world. Luckily, she, as a Kitsune, was not beholden to such a promise, and would not risk the lessening or complete loss of her magic, should she break it. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't honour it. But... Just in case their wish contradicts mine. "Are those acceptable terms? I'll need to know what your Wish is, though."

"I think it's acceptable," Brucue said, stepping up beside Lily, now no longer needed to guard Emile's flank. "You seen that bird? It's enormous. And he's quicker than I've ever seen you move—" the glare she gave him could have curdled milk "—so if the rest of his crew is anything close to that... Yeah, I reckon they'll be a good help. By the way, you gonna take those swords?" He asked, pointing.

Following Brucie's finger, and for the first time saw the two sabres leaning against the pillar. "Probably," she said, then looked back up at Emile. "But first, your answer, please? Your ring may be fancy, but I would prefer if you also use my world's Oath." She paused, brows furrowing.

A brief moment passed of silence, with Emile ruminating on her demand. "My Power?" he repeated after a moment. "...I take it there's some significance to this oath where you're from?"

Lily nodded. "There is. In my world, if someone swears to their power, they are bound to the promise, and risk the weakening of their powers if they break that promise. At worst they might lose them after repeated offenses." She pursed her lips. "I doubt it will even work for you, being from a different world, but at least humor me. If nothing else it will show me that you mean to uphold your end of the bargain."

An abrupt clatter resounded throughout the kitchen as Pithy's levitated pots shoved against the pulled-up tile floor, causing the anomalous surface to bend downward like the curled-up edge of a scroll. With only the barest resistance it was smoothed back toward its original shape, not even threatening to spring back into place should the pots be removed as curled paper would. With the entire section of floor cleared out of the way, the sorceress's route to the door leading out of the kitchen lay free for traversal. A noise of ponderment permeated the restaurant as the pots were laid down on the corners of the restored tile. “Hmm! So since I changed it, it lost its status as part of the structural integrity. There are limits to what it can manipulate, after all.”

Anticipating his test subject to head to the door to Nero without delay, the speaker continued. “That's one of my last questions answered. I suppose all that's left is a proper send-off: a brute-force test for both you and me. Let's see now...”

A deafening series of cracks sounded out as frozen bits of kitchenware broke free from the clutches of ice to float into the air. Alongside them, the various implements that formed the boundary walls on either side of the spot where the floor had become a barrier broke formation. Every available object began to orbit Pithy as part of a tumultuous cyclone of metal, pasta, and ice. One second passed amid the constant clamor of objects smacking into one another, then two, then three. After the third moment the entire assortment of cookery rerouted to make a beeline for the center—Pithy herself. A crushing omnidirectional wall assailed her, its force not quite overwhelming, but certainly significant. More worrisome, perhaps, was the makeshift cocoon's resistance to being pushed away. Though individual objects would react to outward force accordingly, they slammed back toward the center like bolts pulled off from a magnet and then released, seemingly singleminded in their collective instinct to squeeze Pithy's life from her body.



Questions swirled in Emile's mind, though none that Lily could answer. First and foremost was the ultimate: would this arrangement hold sway in this interrim world as it did in hers? Given that everything about his own guild worked the same as it did before despite no longer existing in a game world-made-real, he couldn't afford to assume it didn't. Could he swear this oath, and risk losing his power--the power he'd spent so long achieving in Yggdrasil, then truly earning in the new world? He Made as if to speak, stretching out a hand in assurance, but his voice caught in his throat and his fingers curled up. As much as he would have liked to, he couldn't trust this Lily. He'd never planned on trusting her, feeling sure that if at any time his goal was in any jeopardy he could simply power his way through. The decision to strike a deal had been borne out of his latent goodwill, and the lack of enjoyment he got from malicious acts, but his goals were the same as ever. They were the ideals of an overlord, the role he'd chosen for himself and grown to fit into: to maintain hold of the power he'd miraculously possessed to protect the fantasy he cared more deeply about than the reality he left behind, to protect the beings who gave him the respect and adoration few ever had in the real world. Without that power, he feared he could not have that life. Maybe the guild NPCs he'd become the master of would maintain their loyalty if he lost his power, including the Sigil of Sovereignty...but maybe they would not. They might turn on him. Even if they did not, he wouldn't be anything like what he once was. Emile knew he could never go back to being a mere man, especially in a fantasy world of magic and monsters.

After a painfully long time, Emile turned up his head, his eyes bright and narrow. "My path is clear. Everything I do is for the sake of my guild—my friends, my family. I won't risk sacrificing a single thing. Your suggestion of this oath implies you don't trust me. Yet, you'll have to trust me if you want my help. As a gesture of good faith, however, I'll tell you my wish. I desire one ability, which I call Dev Mode. It'd be a limited form of reality manipulation, albeit strong enough to protect all I care about and do certain things like reunite me with my old friends. I'm sure it sounds a bit villainous to want the power comparable to a minor god's, but I'm good for it, really.”



Thick as pea soup, the tension between the three contenders standing at the water's edge did not go unnoticed. A few dozen dark eyes bore witness to the death -no, obliteration- of Aralynn Thule, and though the one who watched through them could not bring himself to utter a word, he could find it in himself to make a promise. Erina, to whom he was hardly introduced, need not hear of it. Despite his status as both an honorable foe and the temporary host for Boys of Summer, Runch would not catch wind of his resolution, either. Not even his sister's callous murderer deserved to know. A job was one thing, and a conviction something else, but family something altogether different. He hadn't been oblivious to the risk in this endeavor; he and his sister both knew it. Yet, that did not mean that Motley Crue would escape paying the price for his brutality. Davian would not forget his vow.

Equally responsive was Runch's phylactery, as well as Crue's own, neither of which exhibited any semblance of intelligent response to what either said, including suggesting that Oren was listening in. In Crue's case the dead stiffness of his own heart device implied instead that it was out of order for good.

A few moments passed before it became apparent that to Runch's misfortune, his sincere words fell on no ears but his own, Erina's, and the vampire's. The only indication of any kind given to him came in the form of the drone assigned to him, however nearby with an eye devoid of light. As he moved, it reoriented itself around him to always be facing a certain direction: that which would take him to his next opponent. No other road lay before him on the journey to the pirate's perfect ship, and the sorrow nipping at his heels urged him on his way. However, Crue's final words to the pair did linger after his departure, much like something else that could very well remain close nearby, albeit out of sight to everyday eyes.



After spending a few moments studying the map in front of him, Samuel's target moved on, rounding the corner to cross the bridge and enter the Village. At the same time, however, something happened with the graffiti beast. For a few seconds the strange shifting appearance around it could be attributed to a change of the light or a momentary blur of the eye, but after that it could scarcely be denied that the street art was moving. Moving as if being repainted frame by frame, it inched along the firehouse wall, its stance growing lower as it did. The next time Samuel blinked, it disappeared, only to be spotted again on a wall a little further down the street. It continued to relocate, bit by bit, until it slipped around a corner and out of sight.

Pursuit of the graffiti beast back into the run-down district would take Samuel on a winding path. Though his supernatural senses made tracking a non-issue, even tracking a nonliving target, the eerie two-dimensional entity never seemed to be making an effort to escape him. It led him through sidestreets and alleyways, some of them bristling with dark shapes in the shadows, but as if warded off by some protective incense they curled away from him at every turn. Not even two minutes into the 'chase' the beast ceased its movement on the side of a run-down shop in a street mall—a roadway converted into sidewalk for pedestrian use alone, its sides lined with storefronts of all kinds. Running down the street mall's center, an assortment of public works like statues and fountains could be seen, but no people...save one.

An old-fashioned merchant's cart stood just in front of a flowerbed, and behind it stood a fat, ugly man. With bristling whiskers, surprisingly well-kept hair, upturned nose, and a larger-than-average mouth, he might have easily been some hooligan from a Saturday-morning cartoon if not for his expensive, gaudy manner of dress. Being a magician, Samuel could recognize the garb of a showman, even one dressed this classily. This fellow seemed absorbed in his wares until Samuel approached, at which he clasped his hands together and gave a nod of welcome. “Good evening, sir!” the man greeted in an amicable though guttural voice. “See anything you like, let me know. I'll get you what you need!”

He waved a hand over his inventory. Beneath the glass in his cart was a variety of items. There appeared to be a notebook, well worn, alongside a crystal ball, a few varieties of lamp, an ornate box, the severed hand of some ape resting upon a cushion, a green mask made of a wood, a statuette of a bird of prey, a hand mirror, and a collection of coins.