Runch stood in silence as he waited for a reply that never came. Not even static to signify that the phylactery hadn't made a connection. It didn't matter though. The drone was there, constantly watching. Constantly recording them. The message would be relayed all the same, even if the medium was different. Apart from that, Runch was certain that the girl's brother already knew. He had to. The pirate didn't have a solid reasoning behind why he believed this to be true, but all the same he felt it was as absolute as gravity.

"Time to shove off, Erina," Runch calmly ordered. He was still seething from the ordeal, so much so that he forgot to call her "Miss" Erina. The captain turned his back on Motley Crue and began his journey toward his next opponent, guided by the drone in the air. He wondered what kind of person his next foe would be. Were they also attacked by rogue College agents? Would they believe Runch if he told them? Honorable? Evil? Reasonable? Deranged? It wouldn't matter. At the end of the day, he would still be leaving this city with his ship.

"It wasn't necessary, but she's not gone, you know," Erina added, catching up and walking by Runch's side. "Death isn't the end."

Runch shook his head. 'Maybe not. Your abilities will give philosophers a bigger headache then they've ever experienced, I imagine. But it's not just about the killing itself. It's... Not something I suppose I can explain to someone like you."

"Because I commune with the dead?" she asked, attempting to clarify.

"Because you're immortal." He let that statement hang in the air for a few moments while Erina pondered it. When she opened her mouth to ask for details, he cut her off. "I don't much feel like talking right now. Sorry lass."

---

---

Samuel had decided to stop following the summoner as he crossed the bridge, for he encountered a vastly more interesting sight. Living, moving graffiti? That was a new one, even for him. He followed the creature back into the dilapidated streets of the city, the creature giving no indication it knew he was there, but all the same it felt as though the thing were leading him with a purpose. Very curious. Even the shadowy creatures that had attacked the summoner prior avoided the two of them. Was this out of some sense of respect? Or perhaps it was... Fear? Sweet sweet delicious fear, he was soooo hungry now. Someone needed to pay, someone needed to be punished and feel the terror of the hunt! Swarmed, buried under guilt, torn to shreds, murder murder murder murder SHUTUP!

Samuel took a second to recompose himself, to reel in his Horror. Sometimes it felt like he and his soul were two completely separate entities, with his rational thoughts and its primal instinct at odds. He forced it to be quiet as he took in his surroundings: some sort of market district. The graffiti beast had taken residence on a wall nearby and hadn't moved since he arrived. Apart from it there was only one other thing to note: the filthy looking shopkeep. Tipping his hat down over he eyes, Sam approached cautiously. This whole thing was quite strange. Monsters lurked in the alleys and just off the street, no living people in sight, and here was this strange man as though he were out at prime time shopping hour? He took in the man's form to determine if this merchant were some sort of supernatural creature himself, before gazing down on the wares of the merchant. Pity his senses couldn't identify magical items as they could living things.

"Why are you out here?" he asked after a short pause, eyeing the statuette of a bird. It reminded him of himself, and that made him want to smash it. "You have no customers, and it's dangerous to walk these streets with the creatures lurking nearby. One is nearby as we speak." He gestured in the direction of the graffiti thing using only his eyes.

The wall ceded so readily against the push of her magic that Pithy started when the tiles slammed back against the floor, leaving the way unimpeded. In hindsight, it was easy to see the purpose to this less than lethal experiment, something that became even clearer when the voice chimed in with the conclusions it had drawn.

Had the voice’s tests all been such simple explorations of its own power’s nature, the sorceress might have even inclined to participate of her own will.

It is a shame then, that this one has seen fit to test me as well. That I will not welcome, much less at the risk of my life. She strode forward at that, once again seeking her objective.

There. That must be the entrance Nero spoke of.

“That's one of my last questions answered,” the source of her grievances continued, prompting Pithy to hasten her pace. She had a good idea where this one-sided conversation would lead. “I suppose all that's left is a proper send-off: a brute-force test for both you and me. Let's see now...”

She had barely reached the center of the kitchen when the cooking implements that had formed the sides of the wall suddenly came to life again, spinning outwards to bar her way. Other objects lifted off from nearby tables and stoves, including the knives and cutting boards with their assembled ingredients. Pithy hesitated as even the pots she had used to lower the wall were lifted from the opposite end of the room to join the swirling cocoon of metal that hovered around her.

Her eye narrowed as the metallic instruments clattered against each other. There were only so many ways the situation could develop. Please do not let a spark ignite the gas yet…

The lone icicle she had held back until then sped outwards, crashing against the wall of steel. A pan broke, handle snapping off against the blow. The pieces rejoined the wall in the following moment, but Pithy had already moved on to her next spell. A blast of frigid wind crashed against the steel in front of her, sending the debris flying backward, but the hole quickly filled in again.

She could jump through, she thought. If she timed it well enough, she could blast an opening and make a beeline for the exit. Only I’ll find it locked, with a wall of metal at my back because I would not play the game set before me.

The debris suddenly halted in the air. It sped towards her. Her stomach lurched.

The spell that formed in her mind was as much conscious thought as it was panicked reaction, as a powerful vortex blasted outwards in all directions. The discs of ice she had held aloft until that moment slipped her sorcerous grasp, the blast pushing them away as it did the surrounding avalanche. While the ice simply clattered out of sight, however, the metal simply slowed, as though they were objects reaching an arc in their flight before they fell back to the earth.

Pithy knelt, one hand reflexively reaching for the rose-shaped clasp of her robe.

I need a barrier. But could she form a strong enough shield before all this weight fell over her? Her magic had been bleeding enough cold into the air that the spell would come readily, but if she misjudged the pressure, if her hasty construction faltered before she could fortify it—

The cocoon began to converge once again, and Pithy realized the argument was mute. The barrier would not be complete if she began now. Another blast, then? No—

She fell to her knees as she curled up, hood falling over her head. In the back of her mind she wondered if the owner of the voice could see her figure under the deluge of cooking implements, as if prostrating herself in the face of that assault.

How insulting, she thought, shamefully. Those were the last words that passed through her mind before every light from the outside was blocked by the avalanche.

The clatter of crashing metal drowned out the quiet click of her hood’s clasp, and just as quickly swallowed the light coming from her rapier’s sigils.

The cocoon contracted, swallowing the woman inside. The objects pressed together, the presence of the one underneath it outlined by a small, circular hill.

One could imagine the curled figure underneath if they but looked at it, back bent, shoulders drooping under the pressure. Yet if that was the shape it hid, perhaps the incline was too circular for that.

The metal shifted, implements clattering against one another as the hill began to rise. Or expand, rather. As the metal spread out, the vibrant blue of the elf’s fabric peeked from under the steel. It was soon followed by the reflective light of frozen crystal as the dome expanded. The wall of ice continued to grow, the hexagonal plates that formed it growing even as they pushed outwards, steadily rising against the pressure exerted by the entity possessing the metal.

In but seconds, the structure had grown large enough for someone to stand inside it.

At that moment, it shuddered, the plates shivering in place. Rather than crumple, however, they rose outwards like an umbrella being blown inside out, the crystal suddenly rising and enveloping the debris that had until then single-mindedly pressed against it, trapping it against the ceiling. There was a crackling noise as the ice touching the ceiling thickened at its base, and the seams between the plates fused together, fixing the shape of the structure.

Pithy glared at the inverted barrier from below, one hand raised high as if to touch the ice. After a moment of this, her hand lowered. She let out a long breath, willing her trembling fingers to still themselves. The headache that came from the constant pressure against her barrier, she ignored, though her rapier’s guard continued to glow in her other hand.

That armor she had prepared under her robe had come into play rather differently from how she had expected.

Perhaps if she had not been as hesitant to unveil her magic, her cloak, along with the rose-shaped brooch that adorned the clasp, would not had been trapped inside the dome. She almost felt naked without it, the harness with the six-shooter, as well as the knives and phylactery strapped to her belt, exposed for all to see. It gave her the inexplicable sensation that she was displaying something unsightly.

Will I be able to return for it?

“For your sake, I pray your lectures are not as aggravating,” she commented dryly, affecting calm. “Am I free to fetch that idiot?”

She gave the kitchen — now oddly bare — a cursory glance, stopping as she found the exit she had sought.

She found it unlikely at this point, but if Nero and the voice were indeed collaborating, this would be a good time to spring a trap on her. Not that the voice could not have done that earlier, had it not been as obvious with its attempts at attacking her as it had been so far.

It was a chilling thought. So far, she had been warned and given the chance to react to most every threat. Had the voice’s owner wanted nothing from me, I would have likely met my end at the doorstep. If his efforts truly shifted towards killing her, she was not certain she could defend herself.

She hesitated, then approached the opening.

Though they felt far longer in the head of the moment, Pithy had solved in a span of a couple dozen seconds a critical situation that would have spelled death for any less of a genius, any less of a sorceress, any less of a contender.

“Hm.” The voice came in the silence that followed his test subject's wry comment and visible hesitation, tinged with a sort of allowance. “...Impressive. It seems that to make proper use of this power, I must be more creative.” A loud crack resounded throughout the restaurant, heralding the appearance of a large, stark white fissure in Pithy's inverted ice umbrella. Though in nature such a sound typically precluded the breakdown of a whole glacier, nothing else followed this crack except a snicker from the disembodied voice. “Hmhmhm. Perhaps the adage is true: it's how you use it that counts. I will keep my end of the bargain, Pithy.”

In front of her, the door swung open. At the back of the utility room, with his back to a couple of pipes, was Nero. A tight black band, one of the restaurant's napkins, wound tightly around his head to cover his eyes, and upon closer inspection his hands proved to be tied behind his back to a pipe that disappeared into the floor. He stiffened when the cold air streaming in fell across his skin, mouth twitching into a weak smile. “You made it, huh? My hero...I can't help but feel as if I've been thrust into a deeper hell, all of a sudden.”

Around the two, a new change began to spread over the walls. They began to rot, growing thin and neglected, with holes suddenly appearing like tears in stretched-out cloth. Behind Pithy, the door fell off its hinges and rusted away to nothing; a loud and startling smashing noise rang out as her icy barrier hit the ground, scattering its degenerating pots and pans everywhere. Through the growing gaps all around, Pithy could see the entire restaurant wasting away. “Hmhmhm. Have fun with the woman you tortured, traitor. If you survive, cherish the time you have left. As for you,” he addressed Pithy, his tone lightening a touch. “Though I'm a professor, I daresay I learned more during this experience. There's no particular reason we'd meet again, but if we do, I hope it will be without confrontation. If you try to interfere with our business, though, I won't pull my punches. Perhaps you got a sense that I wasn't being too serious. As for Nero, I hope you treat him exactly as he deserves. Goodbye.”

The voice faded just as the restaurant wasted away in its entirety. When the transformation was complete, all that remained where the premier establishment Moscow Caliber once stood was a condemned, derelict ruin most of the way through the process of being dismantled. Gone also was the omnidirectional pressure of some unidentifiable yet supernatural presence. The restaurant itself might have as well been a mere dream, but as Pithy's bruises told her, it was all too real. Whatever had inhabited this wreck had not just projected illusions, but altered it physically, violating any number of universal laws in the process. All in all, the abilities and properties of the unknown untity made for a difficult-to-comprehend scenario.

Of course, the loss of walls meant Pithy could see outside again, and that both Mountain Dew and Bonesword could see her. Though remarkable to look at to say the least, Bonesword harbored one feature of special implication: a drone hovering around him, oriented exactly in Pithy's direction and reorienting itself whenever she moved.



Runch's uneventful journey, made in morose quiet, took him out of the flooded portion of the historical district and into a region identifiable from the streetsigns as 'oldtown.' He passed by buildings of many different periods, distinct in design if not distinguishable by era to someone knew to this particular world. Patiently his drone reoriented itself as he detoured around buildings, guiding him ever closer to the next step on the way to his dream. Every step of the way, however, plagued him with the harrowing memory of what he witnessed; the minutes marching on had yet to deaden the disturbing image his ally's actions. Behind him, nagged by the question of what she was fighting for, trailed Erina. No longer was this any sort of enjoyable competition, especially since she disliked fighting from the first. Though together, the pair of Runch and Erina could feel the pang of loneliness—of being lost somewhere they still didn't understand, unable to do anything about it except to continue walking forward.

Their dogged continuance in putting one foot in front of the other brought them to a plaza just as the sun's retreat behind the horizon turned the heavens orange and pink. Bordered on all sides by various buildings, this place might have been a hub for tourist activity when -or perhaps if- the City of Echoes sustained a populace, but now its cobblestoned expanse lay close to empty. In the quadrant of the place to the arrivals' right, however, a couple of people could be seen from the moment they entered. Both defied understanding at a first glance, requiring a keen eye to make out anything more from the outset than that one appeared to be a female martial artist and the other a male knight. Clad in armor and sporting what looked like a screw through his head, the latter could be seen drilling melee techniques under the guidance of the former, who featured two different metal boots and just one arm.

Even if Runch and Erina attempted to hide, their drone had already gone forward enough to give their approximate position away. Furthermore, the two strangers across the way possessed a drone of their own, which -having exhibited a number of adjustments in the span of a short time previously- zeroed in on their location. Both the knight and the martial artist ceased their activities at once, watching the direction indicated by their drone with intent. The same conclusion had befallen both parties: that their next opponents were nearby.

Keeping an eye out, the knight strode over to where a few weapons lay upon the ground, stooped, and picked up both an impressive halberd and a unique shield. The deftness with which he handled both betrayed expertise in the field of arms, and the stance of his companion -even though casual- suggested a readiness to spring into action at the drop of a hat. Given their current position, a surprise attack without the use of accurate, long-range attacks was implausible, so they held their ground and waited to see what their new acquaintances would do.



When Crue's former allies disappeared from his sight, he stood alone once again in the City of Echoes' Historical District, with only his Stand for company. Upon his return to the inn, he found it vacant as always. Behind the few locked doors lay possessions without owners, mildewed and dusty. Piles of black rubbish marked the places where abandoned bits of food rotted some time ago, their smell as lost as their shape. In the kitchen freezers, savable victuals remained for consumption, though nothing that would satisfy the specific palette of a vampire. Though the inn provided a good avenue for rest and relaxation, and a decent place to spend time, it was lacking in many respects, yet suitable for a man who lacked much also. Now, most of all, Crue lacked a purpose, and this place secreted away none to provide. With his soul trapped in a device that could render him barely able to fight with its holder, he could not win the tournament to gain his one wish, and if there existed a way back to his home, he would not find it in the Historical District. If anything presented a solution, it was -maybe ironically- the Inquisitional College on their island across the city. The city itself, of course, wasn't an issue so long as the great chasm that divided Uptown from Downtown remained, as witnessed by the vampire the night before. On the other hand, a man of learning might wish to wrinkle out the secrets of this extraordinary city, for how could there be a more magical or mysterious place?

Though the inn served as little more than a comfortable dead end by itself, it lay at a proverbial fork between many roads that lay before the man known as Motley Crue. If a selection was to be made, it demanded rumination.



Still sporting a wide, toothy grin, the fat man replied with what must have been intended to be a disarming laugh, had he any semblance of charm. “Bahahah! Might not look it now, but I have plenty of customers! Over three dozen, whether they know it or not! They just have to find me. I've got something everyone needs. You, my friend, are a lucky man” As the shopkeeper continued to speak, his accent became more apparent, though that wasn't to say that Samuel could figure it out. It was a bizarre thing, possessed of a couple different inflections -Chinese, Russian, Japanese, Italian, even German- all combined into one strange, bassy dialect only describable as 'ambiguously foreign.' When Samuel indicated the animate art monster, the man followed his gaze, then waved a hand at it dismissively. “Naaah! They're not here for me. Everything with its purpose, yes?”

He chuckled again, then swept his hand over his wares before crossing his arms. “So, anything look good? You strike me...er, rather, I mean I have a knack for telling things about people, and you strike me...as a troubled man, mister! Something painful deep inside.” A look of sympathy passed over his face, and he strode out from behind his stall to stand next to his visitor, like a family member trying to help him find a sale. “Right? I am sure of it. One of my fine treasures here can bring you peace. For you, my friend, I'll make a bargain!” Grinning once again, he clapped Samuel on the shoulder.

Lily didn't let any expression show on her face as her request for a different oath was turned down. Nor did she betray any thoughts as to Emile's wish. Truth be told, she had expected his wish to be something less selfish. The return of his two deceased friends, perhaps? That was a Wish she could have gotten behind, and would have supported herself. This, however, was something else entirely. It didn't just sound villainous, it was villainous. That he felt the need to stress that he was 'Good for it,' certainly did not give her any more confidence that he was not a treasonous, back-stabbing piece of filth. Quite the contrary.

So yes, he was completely right that Lily did not trust him. That he had not been antagonistic from the start told her only that he was not her immediate enemy, but that was far from the same as giving her a reason to trust him. It was a credit to himself that he had, at least, admitted that he had every intention to betray her the second things were no longer convenient for him. The words may not have been spoken, but she was not a Trickster for nothing. He would only ever risk losing some of his power if he broke the oath, and even then only if it worked on him. And that was a very big If.

But that still left the question of what she would do without him and his crew. Which carried the greater risk: Having people like Emile on her side, who might betray her the second allying with her was no longer convenient for them, and thus risking a betrayal at the most inopportune moments. Or turn them down for fear of said betrayal, and risk them allying with one of the other contestants? She allowed herself to blink, using the moment of darkness to decide.

She had to take them on their word. Emile was incredibly quick, even by her standards, which would make him very difficult, if not impossible, to defeat if he turned on her. However, she knew two things that still tipped things in her favour. One among them was how the Tournament was designed, and how a Wish was attained, and the other was that Emile, however fast he may be, still moved at a snail's pace when confronted with lightning. At worst she employ her illusions and break his mind.

A betrayal she could predict and work to prevent, or make sure to turn the tables on them instead. But if they allied with her enemies, then she was simply up against foes she did not expect to be able to win without extreme caution and effort.

"Very well," she said slowly. "So you won't swear your aid to me, then. Consider this a request, then: Will you swear to not attempt to kill me? I should let you know that you have nothing to lose with this particular promise," she added, and began to slowly take out the phylactery from under her shirt without looking away from him, holding it up for Emile to see. "I expect you're able to see the differences between my Phylactery and the ones you carry from your deceased friends. Yours are dun, so if you kill me, the Souls I carry will be lost, and the Wish can never be granted."

She put the phylactery back where it pressed against her heart, and held her hand over it for a moment. She allowed a wistful expression to fall over her. "I came here to bring someone dear to me back. Even if I fail, I don't want to leave my fiancée wondering why I never came home again." She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back a tear she had not expected to appear. The very thought of not returning brought physical pain. She breathed in deeply and let it out slowly, looking back up at Emile with as steadfast a stare as she could muster, balling her hand into a fist against her chest. "I accept your proposal and your aid in the coming battles. And I swear on my power, that I will ask for my wish and yours, to be granted upon my victory in the tournament, aided by you and your companions."

She let her hand fall to her side, and waited.

A whole lot of nothing eventful happened during the intermission between Dew and Bonesword's first meeting until now, aside from Charlie eating the nearby bird in one massive gulp. Honestly, even saying the word "eat" was a stretch. Bonesword knew Charlie didn't need to eat, so him eating something was rare at best, though it wasn't unheard of. It made Bonesword think every time his pet actually ate something, and that was definitely something that was able to pass the time if he was waiting around.

Then, something actually interesting happened, as the walls around the building in front of Bonesword simply disappeared, his "enemy" and a captive standing where the building once was. Additionally, his "enemy" seemed covered in all sorts of bruises and injuries. Something went down in there, for sure, and while it looked like an illusion at first, he knew that something else was awry in the world. In the Nexus, shit like that happened all the time, so this wasn't any sort of odd situation for the skeleton. At least, it wasn't any sort of situation he wasn't used to, anyway.

Charlie released a low growl at the Lady in White before Bonesword patted him on the snout, calming the beast down. "Shh Charlie, she's not a problem right now," Bonesword said before stepping forward himself to address the Lady in White. "Miss, are you participating in this tournament? If you are, I'd just like to talk for a few minutes, if that's alright with you."

Pithy stumbled in her step, a sudden feeling of nausea assaulting her at the same time a crackling sound rent through the building. She glanced back at the inverted dome to see the large fissure that had formed along its surface. The disconcerting sensation left her just as soon as it had arrived. With an effort of will and a pulse of light from her focus, the broken ice bridged itself together again, but it did little to calm her thumping heart.

The memory of the sudden breach was still there, and the voice’s laughter only served to rattle her further. She gave her surroundings a hateful glare, but with nothing to focus her frustration on, she had no choice but to swallow it.

Instead, she strode through the open door.

It was there that she found her quarry. Not lying in ambush as she had feared, nor watched over by some other member of the College, Nero sat alone, bound and blinded.

I would have put more priority on a gag, came the distant thought.

The man stirred at her approach, sending a smile in her direction. Pithy answered it with a grimace.

“You made it, huh? My hero...I can't help but feel as if I've been thrust into a deeper hell, all of a sudden.”

“How droll. My thoughts ran in a similar direction.”

She was debating whether she should move to free him when she noticed a change in the walls around her. Pithy gripped her rapier tightly in expectation of another assault. It occurred to her that now that she had reached the hostage mage, the voice would bury them both under the building. Rather than collapse, however, the structure steadily began to disappear around her, along with the blindfold and pipes behind the mage.

Pithy bit her tongue as the voice spoke again, addressing both Nero and her in turn. She disliked the idea of leaving matters as such, whatever victory she had achieved feeling void and meaningless, but she had little choice in the matter. If the voice spoke truly and their business was unrelated to hers, surviving the ordeal would have to be its own reward.

As whatever had inhabited that space retreated, Pithy felt as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding, the runes of her weapon finally dimming. The retreat of the energizing cold filling her mind left her feeling sore and lightheaded, to the point that the only thing keeping her alert was the memory of the humiliation the man bound nearby had put her through only a handful of hours ago.

Her gaze strayed from the room she was in, noting how it was now possible to see outside the lot from her position. It did not take long for her to catch sight of something that made her body tense once again.

She turned slightly, her cold regard falling over the new figures outside the building’s threshold. A monstrous, snarling snake and an undead warrior were not things to inspire confidence in the best of times, but the drone hovering in the air nearby all but confirmed her fears.

“So you did give a guide to everyone else,” she muttered crossly to the hostage. He opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, then closed it with a light sigh.

When she had seen the location of her next foe in the tower’s machines she had thought she would have enough time to finish her business with Nero before they arrived, but it was clear she had been too optimistic.

However, before she could think of a way to approach this new threat, the skeleton halted the plant. She picked up the rustle of whispered words before the being stepped forward.

"Miss, are you participating in this tournament?” came a male voice from the skeletal figure. “If you are, I'd just like to talk for a few minutes, if that's alright with you."

How polite. A welcome change. Now if only your timing was as fortuitous. Pithy narrowed her eye. “Where is the loud one?”

The man in question emerged from one of the nearby streets, lightly jogging past the skeleton as if its presence was entirely natural. “Yo, what was that?” He asked once he was close enough. Gesturing at Nero with his weapon, he added, “did he do that to the restaurant?”

Pithy shook her head, still looking past him towards the skeleton.

“No. Something else possessed the... memory of this place. It is difficult to explain, and I’m likely wrong in any case.” She nodded past him. “Is that the reason you fired?”

“Yep.”

She broke eye contact with the undead to give Dew a weary look.

“What?” he asked innocently.

You know well what I want to ask, you ass. Instead of giving voice to that thought, she grunted. “Make sure Nero doesn’t try anything.”

Seeing Dew stiffen, Pithy turned, skipping over debris on her way to the bowl of ice resting over what used to be a kitchen. A wave of her hand made the crystal splinter and fall away, leaving what remained of the kitchenware to spill over the cracked tiles. Pithy trudged to the center of the pile and picked out her cloak, taking a moment to shake off grit from the decaying pans.

The sorceress paused in her inspection for a moment. The point of her rapier rose and stabbed through the cloth. She eyed the protruding silver before nodding, momentarily satisfied by her inspection. The voice had not decided to leave any surprises on the cloth, at least.

She withdrew the weapon and slung the familiar robe over her shoulders before giving the waiting skeleton a pensive look.

It was a peculiar specimen. The skeleton clearly belonged to a human, and it still wore the vestments of one. The pair of swords at its back gave an obvious hint as to the thing’s capabilities. The mushroom sitting atop its head was suspicious as well. Intuition told her that it was somehow related to the plant monster writhing behind it. The nearby stump and plants certainly had not been there when she had first arrived.

No matter the words it spoke, as long as it held a phylactery, a confrontation was unavoidable. That said, she wished to deal with Nero as soon as possible, and even if she survived the fight, there was no guarantee the mage would not use the distraction to flee.

“We may speak, as long as you and that monster keep your distance. But not in this ruin. This place may still be dangerous. Wait further down the street, and we will join you.” Her tone took on a touch of resentment. “You waited patiently for me to deal with this place, did you not? Ever since that warning shot. One more minute should not be an issue.”

”It won’t be,” the skeleton calmly stated as he climbed onto his pet and rode it down the street a fair distance away. Dismounting, he looked back at the two individuals he left behind, watching them carefully in case any hostility arose.

For her part, Pithy waited for the monstrous pair to stop moving before she returned to Nero and Dew. She looked down to the former announcer. “Rope and cloth. Why did you not free yourself?” she asked.

A quizzical but brief look struck her first, as if the young man expected a different topic of conversation. “...To put it simply, I couldn’t. I’m guessing magic is pretty general in your world, but in mine pretty much every wizard is hyper-specialized, with just one type. Mine’s curses. That’s it.” He went quiet for a moment before a memory struck him, and with a wistful look he added. “Oh, and Blackneedle. Either way, even if I tried, Kno One could attack me with anything. That cloth coulda squeezed my skull in, for instance.”

Yet you had little trouble using your curses on my ice. That thing must have scared you a lot more than I did. Was that confidence that I would not go that far, or that you could deal with me if I tried?

“The owner of that voice. He was long gone by the time I arrived, wasn’t he.” It was not a question. Pithy sighed, sheathing her rapier. She moved behind the mage and knelt to examine his restraints. She clicked her tongue when she confirmed the knot would hold to a struggle, then ran a hand under Nero’s shoulder.

Dew frowned from where he stood. “We’re bringing him with after what happened last time? I thought you said you were going to kill him.”

“Circumstances have changed some.” Pithy let out a grunt as she hefted Nero up to his feet. “Besides, I would rather not kill someone I risked my life to save, even if I had no choice in the matter.”

She glanced at the man in time to see his mocking smile. “You know, you keep saying those things and not doing them, people might stop taking you at your word.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“You gonna do any of the other things you mentioned? Poke his eyes out? Cut off his hands and tongue?”

“Having a conversation after that would be difficult,” she commented dryly. “Better to choose one. What would you rather do without, Nero? Your hands, your eyes, or your tongue? If I was asked I would personally choose the tongue. Few people seem to have an interest in what I have to say, after all.”

Dew quirked an eyebrow, sensing the barb thrown his way. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘drama queen’ instead of ‘ice queen.’”

Pithy’s wry smile had a touch of irony to it.

For a few moments, meanwhile, Nero remained dead quiet, trying to contain an aghast look and avoid sputtering. Not wanting to think Pithy was serious, perhaps, he replied with nothing.

Pithy gave him a light shove from behind. “Come now, we are off to meet the next being with a vested interest in taking my head. I expect it will want to hear about this last blunder of yours.” With another shove, Pithy set the man to a walk, setting out towards the waiting figures at the edge of the street.

Dew stood back, expression twisted into slight grimace. After a moment, he asked, “does it smell like rotten eggs to you?”

For the entire duration of their journey, Runch was uncharacteristically quiet. So was Erina, in fact. She had taken an extreme offense to his final comment about her immortality, and as such was giving him the cold shoulder. As long as he didn't address her first, which he did not, she wasn't planning on speaking to him. For so long she lived in constant motion, meeting new people so she never formed permanent attachments, all too aware of the ravages of time. That frightened her, perhaps more than anything else. Becoming attached to things that were so fleeting. It would break her, so she simply chose not to take the chance. This stewed in the kitsune's mind as she bottled it all up. Even Bend knew not to speak to her for the time being, recognizing how infuriated she was.

The pirate wasn't in a much better state of mind. He had taken in and trusted the vampire, Motley Crue, as an associate. Legends spoke of vampires having no souls, or warped evil souls, but this one could walk in daylight and expressed some manner of empathy before. Runch let his trusting, naive nature get the better of him. Motley was truly no better than the soulless abominations spoken of in legend. No. No that wasn't true. He knew it wasn't true. Motley Crue had chosen to do what he had done. Which meant he was in fact capable of great humanity. But humanity was also capable of the greatest evils...

Suddenly the turmoil in the captain's mind melted away as two figures came into sight: one an armored man carrying some sort of polearm, and the other a woman with a single arm. The way the drone was behaving, and the other drone hovering above those two, signified that they were his next opponents. That is, if they were even still fighting in this tournament. The two appeared apprehensive, nothing Runch could blame them for. For all they knew he'd launch some kind of death strike the second he laid eyes on them. He hoped they would be amiable, and so put on his best smile as he approached, one hand out in the open and one hand flipping open two new pages in the Journal...

"Why are you-" Erina cut herself off before finishing her warning. If Runch was going to approach without any tactics or defensive plan, that was his concern, not hers. She was out of the tournament now.

"Going back on your agreement to help him?" Bend asked.

"I'm sure he's got a plan," she lied dismissively. "After all, he ended up beating me and Motley together." The warrior ghost said nothing more on the matter, but didn't buy into her story for a second.

"Ahoy!" Runch called out to the duo. "Allow me to introduce myself! Cap'n Batholomew K. Runch. In my world I am known as the 'Cereal Killer,' with a bounty of 33 million berries!" Erina facepalmed. Seriously? He was walking right up to some guy who looked like a knight, and the first thing he does is loudly proclaim his bounty as a wanted criminal?

"Before we get down to business, I was hoping we could have a civil conversation? Maybe get to know one another? A lot has happened since this contest began, and I was hoping we could compare notes."

---

---

Samuel found himself off put by this man. He seemed to be entirely aware of the graffiti creature, or at least that it was something greater than it appeared to be, but wasn't concerned by it. And what was this he said about having three dozen customers? This wasn't sitting right for him. More concerning was how the man had touched Sam's shoulder without any consent. Still, he wouldn't let an opportunity like this pass itself up. Since the man was in such close proximity, he took it upon himself to snake a hand into the closest pocket and lift whatever object was closest to the surface, whatever was easiest to pull out. A little sleight of hand while the salesman was distracted looking at Sam's face.

"I see. What sort of bargain do you have in mind? I do not even know where I am, much less if the American dollar is a currency you take."

The trio of the elf, the sniper, and the bound announcer stopped some distance away from the skeleton and its mascot. The woman in the blue robe, placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, keeping him from moving any closer.

The elf moved forward, drawing attention towards her. “Does someone speak through you, undead?” she asked, abruptly beginning their exchange.

”No ma’am. I speak as my own being,” the skeleton bluntly said as a stump rose up from underneath him, putting him in a sitting position. ”Call me Bonesword. You?”

“So you hold onto your own soul at death’s door. A rare feat. One that often comes at a cost. I am Pithy.” She gestured at the sniper Bonesword had already spoken with. “This one is Mountain Dew. Disregard anything he said prior to now.”

“Wow.” The man shot the elf a sullen look. “Rude.”

”Don’t worry. I already did.” Bonesword put his arm onto his knee as he looked at Pithy. ”What’s the deal with the other man that’s with you right now?”

Before the man in question could answer, Pithy cut him off. “This is Oren, the Crucible’s announcer. Or Nero,” she amended, giving him a sidelong glance. The enmity in her expression was unmistakable. “As he introduced himself to me when I visited him in his tower. A mage from another world posing as a member of the College and seeking to put a stop to this ritual before it is complete.”

”Ritual? What sort of ritual?” Bonesword inquired as he thought about his idea of allegiance. Maybe it wasn’t so far off now that this new information had come into light.

“Just call it a tournament,” Dew chimed in. “I know you’re doing the wizard schtick, but you don’t need to make everything sound mystical.”

“Tournament, ritual.” Pithy clicked her tongue, frowning at the irreverent comment. “Should the Crucible be thought of in terms of defeating opponents to earn a prize, or in terms of collecting souls to power a wish-granting device? You would have to be terribly naive to hold to the former view after what we have seen.”

”... At least I gave Silverlocke her wish,” Bonesword thought as he paused a second to collect his thoughts. It all made sense to him now. Nothing comes without a price, and why would the College want for this low-life skeleton to win a free wish anyhow? ”I guess either of us killing the other would simply mean that we further the goal of the college even more.”

“You may be able to think of it that way. That is, if you make the assumption that its members share a common goal.” Pithy gave the bound mage a knowing glance, crossing her arms under her cloak. “Is this the case, Nero?”

“Erm…” Narrowed eyebrows over squinted eyes made his expression of consternation a bit hammy. “It’s tough to say. Before the Crucible started, the given goal was to explore the City and learn about everything they could, especially the Artifacts. A bunch of ‘em didn’t even think that there a wishing machine would work. Some of ‘em, like the director, were pretty sincere about holding the tournament properly to see if the machine did what it was supposed to, with the wish as compensation for the winner. I know for a fact that a good few—maybe even a majority—didn’t think it was a good idea to risk some bozo making a dangerous wish, since if the Artifacts worked, why shouldn’t the machine? Anyway, they went with the plan of getting people like you all from different worlds because I don’t think they wanted to sacrifice any of their own. Anyway, Barnaby and his bunch supposedly want to stop any wish from happening, but that man… he’s clever, and ambitious. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he wanted to get the souls to make a wish himself.”

Nero’s face took on a darker tone. “Since I’m spilling the beans, though, there’s something you should know. None of this would be possible—at least, probably not—without help. In the College building there’s a Ledger with names on it: the names and titles of everyone in the tournament. All of us who used a lantern to find a competitor had to look at it to be able to go to you.”

Pithy sucked a breath, making a hissing sound. “You did not mention that before, when I asked you how they knew to find us. In fact, I recall you saying you did not know.”

For the first time in several minutes, the shadow of a smile reappeared on Nero’s face. “I mighta… withheld information. I was working, trying to get you off my back so you didn’t blow my cover. And, well ‘cause you pissed me off. But now I’ve got no other option. So let me finish what I was going to say: I learned a little more about the Ledger. The information on it was given by an outside source. ‘The Ghost Writer’—that’s what Hallow let slip. So what I’m thinkin’ is, a layer beneath all the different motivations and stuff in the College, there’s someone else pullin’ strings. Or something else.” Nero fell quiet at last, his lengthy explanation over with.

Pithy’s contemplative gaze rested on him for some time before she aimed it back at the skeleton. “So you see. This is why I agreed to speak with you, even as an enemy. As untrustworthy as I find this one to be, what he has to say concerns all of the participants, and this meeting gives me the chance to corroborate. What do you think, Bonesword? Have you had any contact with the College since they let us loose on this city? Have you heard anything that could support his claims?”

”I think I made contact once with them, where I discussed the zombie clowns roaming around in that circus ship.” Bonesword paused for a second as his eye lights darkened, before appearing once again as he talked, walking forward slowly as he did so. ”I agreed to this tournament in order to save the love of my life and resurrect her. If what you said is true, and this College is using us as a means to achieve some form of omnipotence… well, they’ve fucked with the wrong swordsman.”

”My home is a world of eternal battle and war, where death is meaningless and where I’ve met someone who can create literal black holes. I’ve managed to run through that world dying only once, as you can see from…” Bonesword waved a hand in front of his face. ”... this. So if this College wants to try and ruin that world, they’ve got another thing coming. It seems we share a common enemy, Pithy, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”” Bonesword was standing an arms length away from Pithy at this point as he extended a hand towards her, as if trying to shake hands.

”Shall we take down this College together?”

Bonesword had been hopeful, but there was little acceptance in the woman’s furrowed expression. “I did not give you permission to approach. Do so again and this conversation is through.” Pithy took a step back, and he could tell by her posture that one of her hands was resting at her waist, likely gripping a weapon under her robes. Likely she had reached for it when he had moved closer. “I do not know what you just heard that implies that the College itself is trying to attain omnipotence, or interested in influencing worlds other than this one, if at all—”

“Sounds pretty hard to ruin a world of ‘eternal war’ anyway.”

“Quiet, Dew,” she snapped, though her attention remained trained on the warrior. “Is this why you reached out to me in the first place?”

”For allegiance? Yes. Also, I hold no ill intent towards you, Pithy.” Bonesword noticed her hand reaching below for a weapon. ”... I also wouldn’t dare have tried to fight you without the battle being as honorable as it could be. I gave that respect to Saria Silverlocke, and I’ll be more than happy to give that same respect to you. All I ask is for an alliance, at least until we can drive the College off this path of wishing and make this tournament as fair as it should be to the victor, whether it’s you or me.”

“Drive them off, you say.” She gave him a mirthless smile. It was doubtful she realized how weary it made her look. “And pray tell, how do you intend to do this? Will you find any and all involved with this Crucible and kill them in turn, until only the participants are left? I am afraid intimidation may not be enough. Not anymore, at least.”

”That’s not what I intended.” Bonesword’s tone changed significantly as if he was starting to get annoyed. ”I actually intended on getting the contestants together. If there are people who come from crazier worlds, we can all stand together and take the fight to the College.”

It was clear from the crease on her brow that Pithy was also growing irritated by the conversation. “Not only does that not answer my question, it makes me wonder whether you are mocking me. It is so baffling to me that you could expect such an allegiance to last long enough to ‘take the fight’ anywhere, that if I were to give an answer this very moment, we would have to end this conversation.”

There was a tense pause at that.

Pithy grumbled something under her breath. “So I won’t. Not without time to think it through.” Her eye shifted slightly away from the skeleton towards where Nero still stood. “There are two matters I still wish to discuss with this one, at least one of which would directly affect any move you make against the college. If you have any questions for him, this will be the time to ask them as well. Is that acceptable?”

”I have no questions.” Bonesword was calm as he sprouted a small bush over to the side, walking over to it and away from Pithy. ”In any case, I’m not gonna fight you until you’re healed a small bit. I want a fair fight. You’re free to sit by the fire with me as well.”

Bonesword took his seat beside the bush as he took two pieces of wood out of his bag, rubbing them together until the bush caught on fire. He was done talking for now, as any more conversation would increase tensions. He didn’t need that. He needed an ally in this world.

“Is that willful ignorance and way of thinking a byproduct of your current state, I wonder.” He found Pithy’s gaze had taken on a curious glint. “Can you feel the heat?”

”Nope.”

The elf let out a soft hum. She turned to Nero. “Well then, I did not mean to dance around the topic for so long. What did you do after we parted ways? How did it result in you being captured, and what was that thing I encountered?”

Nero, having been watching the exchange between Bonesword and Pithy like a hawk with closed eyes, reclined once again as he answered. “I took the arrow to Barnaby’s group.”

Pithy’s expression turned confused for a moment, as if she did not know what he was talking about, before recognition flitted through her features. Her jaw tensed and she looked away tightly, but Nero did not seem to care about her distress.

“We went over a few things, before he let on that he knew I was a double agent. I knew I couldn’t curse them all at once, so I went quietly, and Barnaby’s wife put me to sleep with some weird liquid-filled device. Next thing I knew, I was inside that restaurant. ‘Cause of this I didn’t get the chance to see exactly what happened, but I know that whatever that power is, it came from the arrow, and all of them were planning to use it, even little Emilia.” He shifted himself, uncomfortable. “I figure you’re gonna ask, but I don’t know where the arrow is.”

“Of course not,” she groused. She forced herself to face him. “I believe you when you claim they did not possess this power before you met with them. That voice, Barnaby, I assume, certainly treated it as something he had recently obtained. There must be something you can tell me about that power, however.”

Dew had leaned in closer, his expression betraying an interest that had not been present before. “Thought you said the college had been trying to get at something in that gallery for a bit.”

“Is this true?” Pithy seized on the comment, whirling on the sniper so suddenly he flinched.

“Uh… I think so?”

Pithy drew back, her brow creasing in thought. “So they were seeking it specifically? Could they have known what to expect from it before even obtaining it?” The question seemed almost rhetorical, but the way her eye focused on Nero after a moment made it clear she expected answers from him.

“They wanted it specifically, yeah. The reason we had an idea about its capabilities was because of Motley Crue, the Book Keeper. Another contestant. He’s got a ton of abilities, but most notably, he can directly control an entity he calls ‘Heavy Fuel’ just like Barnaby now does with Kno One, but the powers are totally different. I’m sure the arrow can awaken a power in someone, depending on the person. The only things I can say about the power, though admittedly this is mostly guessing based on what we’ve seen, is that it’s not like any kind of magic I’ve ever seen or heard of, that it’s different per person, and that it comes from within. It’s not like a summon, indepdendent spirit, or extraplanar being.” Nero’s teetering over the fence of rambling suggested his stores of information were beginning to bottom out.

“But how could they know the arrow… is there something you want to say, Dew?”

Halfway through her query, the man had let off a quiet snigger. “Eh? Nah, not really. It’s just ‘Heavy Fuel’ and ‘Kno One’ are song titles where I’m from. I just thought the two must have similar tastes.”

Pithy frowned in contemplation, but she must have thought it little more than a coincidence as she sighed and shrugged a moment later.

“If Barnaby’s aim was to stop the Crucible, it was in his power to do so. He held you as bait because he had caught wind that I was after you, but in the end he retreated with only a token effort to kill me.” Pithy grunted, giving Nero a frustrated look. “You were playing gofer for these people, Nero. You must have an idea what they were trying to do with this power.”

He shrugged. “Well, if he did kill ya, wouldn’t the souls in your phylactery be lost? Maybe he wants to drain ‘em later with another one’s needle. Maybe he’s playing the long game for the wish. Or maybe he thinks he’ll have a better chance to kill you later, if he really wants to stop any wish. Maybe he already has the power he wants and he was having fun with his experiment.”

“And the rest? You said ‘group’, Nero. Would they stand for one of their own to take a wish at the others’ expense? Or are they just seeking power for power’s sake?”

“Probably not that first one, though the second...maybe for a few. Some of them were not at all bad people. Barnaby might have convinced them that he wanted to stop the tournament for real. The twins, Emilia, Raleigh… they probably want to do the ‘right thing,’ though that means keeping you all from winning. But Hallow, Margaret, and Noseless strike me as being on board with whatever Barnaby has in mind. Hell, one of the first two might even be the actual brains behind the operation. Beats me.”

“So there may well be others on the loose, accosting the competitors as we speak.” Pithy brought a hand to her temple, balled it into a fist. “If you are wrong and Barnaby did not have plans beyond stopping the Crucible… if I was not removed despite being caught at such a disadvantage because…”

She did not have to finish her thought. The words hanged over the gathering as vividly as if they had been given voice.

Because it was no longer necessary.

Would any of them know?

If the circle that had bound them together as foes had already been broken, would they know that all their efforts had been rendered futile? For the two that remained embroiled in the conflict, the only answer was the heartbeat of a fake heart. It would have to be enough.

“That was the first matter I wanted to discuss with you,” the elf said, quietly. The hand she had been holding to her head fell to her side. “The second, was that I wished to ask about your intentions once again. What would you do now, if we were to release you?”

Unusually withdrawn himself, Nero replied in a low tone, “Probably head to the College to try and figure stuff out. Now that the jig’s up, I don’t have to pretend I’m normal anymore. I’ll grill Wernicke and the others for all they’re worth. Maybe try and find a way home.” He chuckled, a grim smile on his face. “Well, to the world I’m from. Don’t really have a home.”

“Wernicke. Is that the director?” Some of the steel returned to Pithy’s voice. “Be careful around her. I do not believe someone in her position would be reckless enough to gift a wish to characters as dubious as ourselves without good reason.” The corner of her lips twisted into a wry, self-mocking smile. “That willingness may well hint she knows something the others do not.”

Judging by the slight relaxation of postures and the easing of his eyebrows, Nero did not miss the suggestion Pithy’s reply conveyed. “...Y’aren’t half bad. Guess I was wrong earlier.”

“I somehow doubt that.” Pithy snaked behind the man, a knife appearing in her hand. An almost-comical expression of annoyance betook him.

“Don’t squirm.” The rope binding Nero’s wrists fell away with a sigh. The elf stood back, the blade disappearing under her robes once again. “Go then. You’ve given me enough headaches as it is, might even have doomed me. Leave before my good sense returns.”

Standing, the mage straightened his clothes before walking off in silence, his gaze fixed on the sunset horizon.

The elf watched him go for a time, until a sound from nearby drew her attention. Pithy glanced at the conspicuously coughing Dew, “What is it?”

“Just wondering, really. You’re not gonna ask me to follow him and shoot him when he’s not looking, are ya?”

She gave him a half-lidded stare, then turned away, not bothering to respond. With her business concluded, her focus finally returned to the one who, silent as a grave, had watched the exchange from the sidelines.

“I’ve kept you waiting.”

The skeleton’s head flicked to Pithy and Dew before returning to watching the fire. ”Well, I’m not moving. I’m not going to fight, either, until we reach some form of understanding.” Bonesword took his swords and pushed them aside, still seated by the fire. ”Rest. I’m not fighting a weary warrior in any case.”

“Spare me that nonsense.” She huffed with stung pride. “You must have gone without a proper body for long indeed if you think a few bruises are enough to keep me from battle. I would not be able to lower my guard to such a degree while you are near, in any case, and I am ready to give you an answer.”

Bonesword waited a few seconds before dropping the one question he really had. ”Do you think I’m a bad man?” As out of the blue as it sounded, he wanted to know how Pithy felt about him. It’d allow for him to judge her merit and honor better than a fight.

Dew made a quizzical expression from behind Pithy, mouthing the word ‘Man’ as though he found it strange.

She, of course, did not see it. “Have I insulted your honor, Bonesword? I suppose I have.” The woman paused, clearly considering whether answering the question was even worth the effort. For all of that, she never reached for a weapon. “I should not have to explain this. The truth is that your moral character does not matter to me. Good men will kill as readily for what they want as evil men. The only difference lies in just what they want. Just as you came to this place with a wish and, If you mean to attain it, will have to point your blades at me eventually. So you see, I cannot trust someone on their word alone and, quite frankly, neither should you.”

”I never said I trusted you,” Bonesword said as he gazed into the fire, pulling a bottle of alcohol out of his bag as he sat there. ”I don’t trust people that quickly anymore. Not since Rhine.” Bonesword clenched his hand as a single green rose emerged from the ground, the skeleton picking it up and sighing. ”What was your wish going to be?”

“Was?” Pithy glowered, giving Bonesword ample time to review the wording of his last question. “Why, I see now. It was not a willingness to trust that allowed you to so readily speak of alliances, but an appalling overconfidence that you would be able to overpower me if I were to move against you. I throw the question back at you. What point is there in sharing another’s wish with one who thinks in those terms? Better to let it die unsaid than have it weigh on your conscience.”

”I didn’t mean it like that.” Bonesword corrected the woman before he told her his wish. ”I was going to revive the love of my life with my wish, for your information. Though, since there’s this new information about the College, I had my doubts that we were going to get any wishes. That was why I said was.”

“She says she’s dying,” supplied Dew, prompting Pithy to throw an outraged glare his way. He gave her a bored look in turn. Perhaps he was of a mind that proceedings had begun to drag on. “Got a terminal illness or whatever since she was little. Says she wants to cure it.”

”Damn.” Boneword poured the alcohol down his gullet before he put the bottle down. ”My sincerest apologies.”

“...for what? If you are apologizing because you would still choose to stand in my way, I would much rather you remain silent. I am done talking about this.” Pithy turned to regard the skeleton, frustration clearly visible in her sharp features. It seemed whatever despond had gripped her after hearing the former announcer’s news had turned to irritation in her short exchange with Bonesword. “There is still the matter of an alliance. As I said before, I cannot trust one who would directly benefit from slaying me. However…”

”However…?”

“That is only if words of assurance are the only thing they can offer.”

”I assure you Pithy, my swordsmanship and plant manipulation are top notch.” Bonesword confidently said.

Pithy opened her mouth to answer, then faltered. “Are you mocking me?” She shook her head. “You misunderstand me, in any case. Such skills can easily be used to my detriment. What I am suggesting is creating a situation where one of us turning on the other is impossible, or at the very least, heavily discouraged. Which leads me to ask, do you know what happens when a participant’s phylactery is destroyed?”

”I assume they move on into nonexistence. At least, that’s what happened to any shred of Saria Silverlocke’s soul when she met her fate…” Bonesword looked at the torn fabric of his shirt, staring at his blackened arm. He was still bringing Saria along for the ride, it seemed.

“Nonexistence? What is the point of that? Phylacteries store souls, including those of our fallen foes. We were told this at the start.” Pithy’s eye narrowed slightly. “But the phylactery itself is not as important as the souls stored within. What would happen to them if their vessel was destroyed? Would they be absorbed into another phylactery? Would the owner drop dead from the shock? Or would the souls be lost to the ether, making it impossible to complete the Crucible? We can only assume we need our phylacteries to remain intact, but we cannot know what would happen if they were harmed. Not until too late.”

A light clinking of metal came from under Pithy’s robes, and in the next moment the phylactery that had been tied at her belt was drawn out, held from its chain like a pendulum. The subtle grinding of the gears spinning at its center played at the edge of hearing.

Dew shivered slightly as the device was produced.

“That kind of uncertainty makes them useful in this case. My proposal is thus, Bonesword. Let us trade phylacteries. Betrayal should not occur if we hold the other’s wish in our hands. That is my condition if you desire my cooperation.”

Bonesword pulled his phylactery out as he stared at it. ”This… this is the one thing keeping me alive. It contains my soul, it’s all I have left...” the skeleton clenched his tightly in his hand as he felt his soul within it move. ”... if you dare use it to kill me…” Bonesword stopped himself before he made matters worse. ”... are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I have the same misgivings, so do not ask that of me. Whether you are more willing to kill another than to accept this trade is something you should decide for yourself.” Pithy’s adamant gaze bore into the skull’s pits. “Because that is what things will come to if you refuse. Given no reason to believe an alliance would last, the one truth I can guarantee is that only one of us would walk away from these streets.”

”... treat it with care, Pithy.” Bonesword held out his phylactery in his hand as he held the other out empty. ”Put yours in my other hand. We’ll let go of ours on three.””

Pithy took a deep breath, stepping closer. Her visible eye flitted to his nearby blades, and then to the large form of Charlie behind him, as though expecting him to renege on his word. She had said she had doubts of her own, after all. Nonetheless, she reached out to the proffered object, even as she placed the one she held on Bonesword’s waiting grasp.

Her gaze returned the skeleton’s own. “One.”

”Two.”

”Thr”ee,” the two said in unison. Like that, the hearts switched hands.

Bonesword stepped back after taking Pithy’s phylactery, feeling the beating within it. After a few seconds, he had to chuckle. ”Heh, you know, I never actually stopped to hold these things. They’re incredibly weird.”

“Indeed.” Pithy stepped back as well, her free hand going up to her neck. Perhaps a gesture of relie—

The thought was interrupted as she produced another phylactery from under her shirt. A look at the phylactery Bonesword held in his hand now revealed an inert sculpture, its beating now gone, the gears within still and silent. Moreover, the drone that had guided him there still pointed in Pithy’s direction even then. “I might have gotten it wrong.”

The needle on the new phylactery sunk into Bonesword’s.

”FUCK N-” Charlie leapt forward and swung his tail directly at Pithy as Bonesword keeled over in pain. ”GRAAAAAAAAGH! YOU FUCKING BITCH! WHERE IS YOUR HONOR?!” The lights in Bonesword’s eyes began to flicker as the skeleton curled up into the fetal position. ”I HAVE NOTHING! THAT’S MY TRUE SOUL!”

Before Charlie could land the hit, he stopped on the ground and turned back towards his master.

The empty sockets in Bonesword’s eyes meant only one thing.

The snake slithered back to his master and began to roar as he nudged the bones and skull, trying to get them to come back together. He tried, tried, and tried again, but it was ineffective as the body of the master simply laid there lifeless. Try as he might, Charlie couldn’t bring the skeleton back to life again.

He was dead.

Charlie curled up around the remains of his master as the fire behind him went out, the mighty beast closing his eyes and simply remaining there sulking.

“... treat it with care, Pithy.” Bonesword held out his phylactery in his hand as he held the other out empty. “Put yours in my other hand. We’ll let go of ours on three.”

Pithy took a deep breath, stepping closer. Her mind raced. The phylactery she had produced had belonged to her first opponent, overlaid with a simply illusion to prevent the undead from realizing it had long ceased functioning. True to what he had told her, the cold that had come with the use of her power seemed to have gone unnoticed by him, but she remained wary.

Will the illusion continue to fool him once he holds the phylactery in his heart? Will he even allow things to go that far? It had become increasingly apparent from the company Bonesword kept and the way he spoke that he had yet to realize fighting his opponent was not the only way forward in the Crucible. If he was playing along merely to have her move within reach, she might well be at his mercy. Her gaze strayed to the swords by the fire—out of reach—then to the large snake beast studying her from behind the bone man. She did not know how fast that thing could move if provoked, nor Bonesword’s capabilities even if unarmed. Some skeletal undead might break apart with a sudden shove, but such beings did not wear armor or wield three blades in the first place.

She held the bitter knowledge that she would have to trust that glimmer of honor Bonesword had shown her—if she wished to betray it.

All too soon she stood before him, and she forced the torrent of thoughts to still. She reached out to the proffered phylactery, even as she placed the one she held on Bonesword’s waiting grasp.

Her gaze returned the skeleton’s own. She was committed. “One.”

The pause felt eternal, and Pithy searched those glowing orbs for a hint that she might be attacked, even if she doubted she could see such a thing coming. Grins were all a skull could offer her and reading such an expression was an exercise in futility. Bonesword, however, did not move against her.

”Two.”

She felt pity, then, for this creature chosen to believe her. Not enough to dissuade her from her course, however. She had already gone too far to turn back, and this trick was preferable to the alternative in any case.

”Three,” the two said in unison. Like that, the hearts switched hands.

Bonesword stepped back after taking Pithy’s phylactery. He stared at the object for a few seconds before he let out a chuckle. ”Heh, you know, I never actually stopped to hold these things. They’re incredibly weird.”

“Indeed.” Pithy stepped back as well, her free hand reaching up for the chain around her neck. The trap had been sprung and, simple as it was, Bonesword had been caught in it.

She pulled out the phylactery she had been wearing as a necklace, hidden under her shirt and robe. This time, Pithy thought she could see the thoughts forming inside the creature’s skull. As the skeleton’s head tilted, the shining wisps of its eyes angling first towards the dead heart it held in its hand, and then to the metal familiar still aiming at her, she could point at the budding confusion, the shock of realization, and the flare of outrage, all in but a moment. He had seen this all in Mountain Dew’s face that very same day, and much like that time, the result of the encounter had already been decided.

“I might have gotten it wrong,” she agreed. Just as she sunk the needle of her phylactery into Bonesword’s.

”FUCK N—” The skeleton’s exclamation twisted into a pained scream. ”GRAAAAAAAAGH! YOU FUCKING BITCH! WHERE IS YOUR HONOR?!”

Pithy’s attention focused to the snake beast as it finally moved against her. As the monster twisted to lash out with its tail, Pithy threw herself back, turning to land on her side, phylacteries held protectively in her arms. She found the beginnings of a spell starting to take form, when the pitch of Bonesword’s screams changed.

The snake paused in its approach, paralyzed by the desperation in those wails, and Pithy found her magic dissipating as she failed to give it form.

The lights in Bonesword’s eyes began to flicker as the skeleton curled up into the fetal position. ”I HAVE NOTHING! THAT’S MY TRUE SOUL!”

With that last proclamation, the screaming ceased. The snake turned back towards its master, slithering closer to the skeleton, and Pithy heaved a great sigh of relief. She glanced at her own phylactery, noting the new lights that had appeared on its side. Removing her phylactery from Bonesword’s, she pulled it over her neck, once again hiding it under her shirt.

The deed was done.

She heard Dew’s tentative approach, and she lifted her head to face him. He, however, was not facing her. His gaze was fixed on the snake and its skeletal master, a shaken grimace twisting his pallid features. Pithy needed no mirror to know she wore the same expression.

“Was that…” he swallowed, recovering his voice. “When did you switch the phylacteries?”

“I didn’t. I gave him the dead one at the start. Kept his eyes on it.” She found the explanation came quickly and readily, her adrenaline finding ways to work its way out of her system even without the expected battle.

“But that one was working. I heard the gears inside.”

“An illusion,” she stated, her gaze turning back towards the snake. She frowned as she saw the way it nudged Bonesword’s body.

Dew’s eyes finally turned away from the skeleton to give her an annoyed glare. “Illusions now? Are you just going to keep popping up with new powers out of nowhere whenever you’re stumped? That’s the mark of shitty writing I tell ya.”

“A good mage never reveals all her cards,” she answered impassively. The brunt of her attention still rested over the skeleton resting some distance away. The snake had curled around the body, hiding it from view. Something… something is wrong, is it not? “It is hardly my specialty, in any case. It worked this time, since the illusion was fairly close to reality and Bonesword confirmed he could not feel heat.”

“Then that cold breeze…”

“There was no breeze. What you felt was power leaking from the spell.” She stood suddenly. “You were not out for this long. He should have recovered by now.”

She approached the stump, only for the humungous snake to raise its head, hissing menacingly at her. Pithy’s fear flared along with her irritation. She took a step back, a hand going to the rapier at her waist.

“Let me through!” she roared. “Your master should be unharmed!”

She had not expected anything out of the outburst. Which was why she was surprised when, after giving her a slow, surly growl, the plant monster uncoiled from around the body, slithering back in such a way that she had a clear path towards it. It twisted in place on itself, its head angled watchfully towards her.

Pithy carefully studied its posture. “Can you understand words?”

The beast did not give a clear indication that it had heard her. Instead, its head angled towards the skeleton before turning to point at her. One did not need to be particularly perceptive to understand the intent of the gesture.

She glanced at Dew behind her. He had his longshooter aimed at the snake, but shrugged when he noticed her look.

Pithy swallowed with a dry throat and carefully moved forward, mindful of the beast studying her every move. Only once she stood a step away from the skeleton did she look down.

The skeleton she saw was much the same as the one that only moments ago had stood before her, but now the wisps of light inhabiting its eye-sockets had vanished. The invisible links that had seemed to hold the bones together under its clothing seemed to have disappeared as well, and the bones simply rested over the ground, unconnected.

Pithy kneeled over it and closed her eye, questing outwards with sorcerous senses.

A kind of magic had animated Bonesword’s body. Magic strong and complex enough to contain, or at the very least imitate, a soul, and give it fine control over an incomplete vessel. Even if its specifics were largely unrecognizable to her as a result of its otherworldly origin, such magic would have to leave traces she could find.

She nodded to herself. And it indeed left traces, but that is all I feel. Remains. Much like the corpse wasting away in front of me.

Pithy opened her eye. For a long moment, she stared mutely at the corpse’s grinning skull.

“He is gone,” she stated.

As if to crush any doubts regarding its comprehension, the plant snake rose its head to the sky and let out a keening, grieving wail. After a time, the cry died down, and the beast coiled into itself, spent, and seemingly uncaring of the pair’s presence.

“Hang on,” Dew said, approaching her. “What do you mean he’s gone? Gone like, dead? Dead, dead? You did that same thing to me and I’m here,” he paused for a moment, then scowled. “Don’t tell me you could have killed me when you pulled that shit at the gallery!”

“Perhaps,” Pithy said, before her mind caught up to her mouth. Before Dew could latch onto that, she quickly amended. “No. I did not know what would happen at the time, but I do not think it could have killed you. Bonesword, however, was different. The only thing linking him to this world was his soul, and whatever magic held it in place within his vessel. When one of those was disturbed…” Pithy closed her eye, then shook her head. “It would be simpler to say that the strength of your existence was greater than his.”

Opening her eye, she found her gaze being drawn to the phylactery clutched amidst the remains, the one she had taken from her first opponent in this ritual. The bones in the skeleton’s hands had scattered around it now that no magic held them together, leaving only hints that at one point it had been held protectively to the skeleton’s chest as though it would somehow soothe the pain.

Pithy delicately brushed some fingerbones away before reclaiming the dead heart. She returned it to its place at her belt.

“I did not intend for this to happen.” She was not sure if she was speaking for Dew’s benefit, the snake’s, or even her own. “The cooperation I envisioned was not the one he did, but this was not what I hoped for.”

Pithy searched herself to identify the emotion that now filled her.

Not regret. If her ploy did not work, she had every intention of killing Bonesword to obtain his soul. With that in mind, the events that had unfolded meant she had accomplished her objective without the need of a protracted battle, like her first two encounters with contestants in the Crucible. While she had been deprived of an ally, she could not say she could regret the outcome. While there was anger at that thought, frustration was not what moved her to speak.

It was shame that burned her. The fact that she had betrayed the naïve undead, taken advantage of his notions of honor and trust to make him submit, and could even then continue to think with the cold, calculating notions of benefits and costs when examining the taking of his life.

Or what remained of it.

Pithy smiled sadly. “I intended to tell him, after this. About his wish. How it angered me when I heard it.”

“Only you’d be angry at someone trying to revive the love of their life. Or maybe it bothers you that people have reasons to get in your way at all.” Dew let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, I’ll bite. What about it bothered you?”

“How generous of you,” Pithy responded, dryly. Gingerly, she wrapped her hands around Bonesword’s skull, holding it such that it faced her, as though she wished to have a conversation. “By itself it was not a bad wish. Why, it is straight out of a fairytail. A gallant knight braving impossible dangers to bring the one he loves more dearly than life itself back from the grip of death. Minstrels in the human towns I have visited love that kind of material. What I questioned was not his desire, so much as his involvement in this tournament.”

“I think I know where you’re going with this,” Dew said, sourly. “It’s about his world, right? Where ‘death is meaningless.’” Pithy looked up at him, wide-eyed, and Dew grimaced. “Come on, you don’t have to look so shocked. I was paying some attention.”

The elf nodded. “You are right, however. That inconsistency made me think he might be lying about his purpose.”

“Didn’t seem the kind to do that, though. Hell, if he was he probably wouldn’t have gotten bumped off like that.”

“Indeed. However, that makes his presence here even more galling.” She looked at the skull in her hands. “The dead have nothing but time. All the time he could ever want. He could have waited for another opportunity, sought another way. Instead, he accepted the College’s offer. Deemed the death of thirty other competitors an acceptable sacrifice, and set out to reap their souls. Never mind what this lover of his would think once she learned the price of her life.”

“You’re not much better, Pithy.”

“Neither are you,” she retorted, easily. “But we do not have a dead man’s time. Time is the one thing I lack, in fact. In the end, if there was a failing to this one, it was not his trust, nor the way he sought to behave with honor. It was that he chose the wrong battles—and sought the wrong peace.”

Dew chewed on her words for a few seconds, before letting out a huff. “Damn. I’m sure not letting you write my elegy.”

“Eulogy, Dew. I’m not a lyricist. You writing mine is more likely regardless, and isn’t that a terrifying notion.” She gently returned the skull to its resting place, before she began to methodically rifle through the objects that remained on the skeleton.

The armor she left alone, noting it would not fit her, but her eyes fell over a large, bracelet-like object that clashed with the rest of the warrior’s attire.

Perhaps something he found in this realm? Without Bonesword to answer, she could only guess. Nonetheless, it was small enough to take with her. “Dew, do you know what this is?” she asked, raising the device.

“Lemme look.” He said, bringing it close to his face. “Hm… not sure. Looks like a bit like a bulky-ass watch, but it doesn’t show the time.” He paused, then returned it to her. “The face looks like a big button, actually. Feels kinda familiar.”

Pithy took it, holding it pensively for a moment before she fastened it onto her belt, unwilling to wear it without any knowledge as to its function. With the body dealt with, Pithy approached the weapons Bonesword had set aside.

“Doesn’t look like we can see the stats,” Dew commented. “Damn, we might need someone to appraise them. I hate that kind of loot system.”

Most of the time, Dew seemed focused on the world around him, but occasionally he would suddenly begin spouting nonsense. It was worrying in that she was not certain if the man was afflicted by some kind of madness or if he was referring to something specific to his own realm. Choosing to ignore his rambling, Pithy knelt before the three swords.

She reached an arm out to touch one, and found herself shivering. “These blades are thirsty,” she observed.

“For blood? What, like they’re cursed?” Dew said with uncharacteristic interest. It seemed the idea of robbing Bonesword’s corpse had lifted his spirits.

Pithy grimaced. It was an overly simplistic way of describing it, but it was not entirely wrong. “In a manner of speaking, though I do not believe this was an enchantment placed by a mage. Rather, it is writ on their histories.”

“I get it. So they’re old.”

Pithy sighed. “Yes, Dew. Old.” She forced her hand forward and gripped the cutlass. The weapon felt heavy inside its sheath, and Pithy drew it to examine its edge. Once satisfied, she sheathed it and stood, still gripping the weapon. “Store the other two. It would be irresponsible to leave them here.”

“Oh boy!” he said giddily. “Does that mean I get a katana?”

“If you refer to the curved one, I don’t see an issue with you keeping it. Do not play with the black one, however. It may be properly cursed.”

“Oh. And you still want me to carry it.” The man paused, as if deep in thought, then shrugged. “Yeah, sure, what’s the worst that could happen at this point? The katana is clearly the better of the three anyway.”

As he went to claim them, Pithy was alerted to motion off the corner of her eye. When she went to look, she caught sight of the snake monster looming over its master’s body. It nudged its skull, rolling it towards Pithy and Dew, gently repeating the process until it was all but presented to the elf.

Pithy bent and, warily eyeing the beast, took it in her free hand. “What about this skull?” She doubted the snake was demanding a burial. Such a thing would hold no meaning for an animal.

At her query, the beast lowered its head. Pithy had to force herself not to drop the skull to draw out the cutlass from its scabbard as it moved closer. With the tip of its nose, it forcefully nudged the skull, making her stumble back a step.

“You’re way too calm around that thing. You got its owner killed. It might just gobble you up when you’re not looking.”

“I’m aware. Deeply aware.” Yet, if the monster still wished them harm, it had had ample opportunity to attack them. Had it been cowed by the death of its previous master? She looked down to the skull she cradled, then back at the snake. “Did Bonesword bring you here from his world?”

The beast shook its head side to side. Pithy was taken aback by the clear response. Just how intelligent is this thing? Yet the answer brought another question to mind. If Bonesword had not brought the snake along, why was it so attached to him? She doubted a stray monster would form such a bond in the two days the competitors had spent in this realm.

“Did he find you here?”

A pause. Then another shake. No.

“Did he make you?”

Vigorous nodding, enough to convince her the beast understood exactly what she was asking of it.

Bonesword did mention control over plants. Yet for this construct to continue to act as such with its creator gone... could he have placed a piece of his soul within it? It was a possibility worth exploring. If that was the case, the same constraints that applied to Dew might well apply to it.

“Dew, we are taking the skull with us. I’ll leave it in your care.”

“That’s creepy,” he commented, rising from his place near the burnt bush. The two swords she had left in his care were nowhere to be seen. He took the skull when she offered it, and it vanished into his pocket.

Pithy ignored him, glancing towards the nearby drone. “That machine may point us to the next enemy, but nighttime is approaching. I’d rather avoid navigating this city in the dark without good cause.” She gave the surrounding buildings an appraising look. “Our business here is concluded. Let’s find shelter.”

With that, she set off. Dew followed, and, to her satisfaction, so did Bonesword’s monster.

Having placed his hands in his pockets, Emile listened with rapt attention as his new acquaintance made her reply. The edge to her voice told him that she did not appreciate his refusal to swear by her binding oath, although to think that possible would have constituted an error in judgment. For her to expect someone in his position to willingly give a stranger with her own agenda power over him, though, was as naive a hypothesis. No doubt suspicion riddled her, which Emile couldn't blame her for given the myriad reasons why trusting him would be unwise, but what choice did she have? Lily seemed to know it, too, and in the end offered him a different arrangement in which he had nothing to lose.

Though prepared to answer, he kept his silence as the kitsune continued, particularly when she revealed her phylactery. Its light and movement caught Emile's eye, and a certain notion popped into his head—one that would make things so simple. For a few moments the urge throbbed within him, but in the end a wry smile appeared beneath his helmet, and he did not move. Instead, he bore quiet witness as visible emotion wracked the woman before him, new and poignant details of her past laid bare. When Lily ceased her explanation, he removed his hands and held them palm-forward, at an angle away from his body. “From the sound of it, it would be utter foolishness for me to inflict any harm upon you. I'm not at all afraid, then, to give you my word that I will not try to kill you. Having felt myself the pain of living without my friends and family for years, I sympathize with your plight, though that's not to say my woes compare to yours. Hopefully, our cooperation will be a fruitful endeavor for us both.”

From his back, a green-blue light began to shine, and at once twin streams of magical energy burst forth to take the shape of wings. Emile stepped from the top of the pillar and floated down toward where Lily and Brucie stood, his wings of aether shining in a slow dance reminiscent of aurora borealis. When his boots touched stone, the wings disappeared, and the owl stood eye-to-eye with the fox. He half-turned to the left, reaching out a hand toward where the curved swords lay against the stone. From nowhere a rush of wind, visible in the form of a greenish-white eddy, sent the weapons flying into his hand. In a casual manner he held the two by the middles of their scabbards by his side, and with his other hand he indicated the great raven not too far away. “Let's head over, then. Food, lodging, armament, whatever you require. I'm anxious to introduce you to my friends: my Armada, the lasting legacy of the others who left me too long ago. Although, some are my own.” He glanced back toward them. “Oh. I should have mentioned, but while Emile is my original name, it cannot be said to be my true name anymore. I'm better known as Carreau, the Skydiving Prince of the Air.” With pep in his step started off in the direction of the colossal bird, back turned to his new comrades. “I'll thank you to use that name,” he spoke on, “And to forget about my past. Who I am now is all that matters: the last remaining Great One of Air Rave.”

Lily gave a curt nod and followed, stopping only briefly to pick up the dog her arms where he huddled contentedly. Her expression changed little during the walk, and she said even less. She seemed either unwilling to talk, or had nothing she deemed important enough to say.

The animalistic quartet approached giant blackbird over rough terrain, angling toward where its tailfeathers touched the ground. As they grew closer, a prodigous stone staircase became visible along the central plumes, and upon reaching it Carreau began to climb without delay. A good few dozen steps later, the grand gateway into the citadel loomed over them, and Carreau took a moment to mutter something seemingly to himself.

“Mask Presence, off.”

Though difficult to discern in what light the bright windows of the great structure provided, the air around Carreau flickered. Before anything else could be gleaned from the strange shimmer, something hit Lily and her friends in the whole of their beings. Not quite a wind, or any visible power, it struck them as a purely mental pressure radiating from the masked man before them. Suddenly he did not at all seem like some game-playing shmuck in an overcoat, playing with unearned power. Now he gave off the impression of a ruler--no, a warlord, with immense power and malice kept at bay only by incomprehensible wisdom and mercy. He bore an unmistakable, unignorable authority, one that might be describable only as the aura of a higher being, as he set his armored boot upon the final step and sauntered toward the open gate. And yet Lily barely even twitched, looking about looking more bored than impressed.

To either side of the doorway, standing guard, was a sentinel in heavy, white armor, each bearing an intricate bident and a tower shield formed of interlocking wings. Between them, just slightly to the left, a woman stood at attention. She wore clothes somewhat reminiscent of a formal dress mixed with a kunoichi’s garb, white and black in coloration, albeit with a blue-to-red gradient on the scarf that replaced what might have been a fancy collar on more traditional formal wear. The feathered throwing daggers on her belt gleamed in the glow of the interior’s crystal lamps, just as did the single black eye that glanced Lily’s way from beneath a crown of white hair tied in a ponytail save for the leafy bang that covered the other. Her look severe, she bowed to Carreau before straightening up and clasping her hands behind her back. “Lord Carreau,” she said, her soft voice in sharp contrast to the hardness of her stare as her gaze returned to the kitsune. “I take it your treaty was a success.” Lily answered her glare with a casual smile.

Carreau waved his free hand. “At ease, Penning.” Even his voice had changed somewhat, from fairly normal to a flinty tone with a deeper, English inflection. “You are correct. Lily here, as well as her dog and her friend Brucie, are to be treated as guests. Please spread the word.”

Penning nodded. “At once.” Though her tone gave a clear indication she had more to say, she grew quiet with an inquisitive look at Carreau following a glance at Lily. After he gave a succinct nod, she continued. “During your absence, Lord, Mister Screed returned. He and Frolic found Verrine and revived her. They await you in the atrium.”

Perking up a touch at the mention of the name, Carreau crossed his arms. Beside him, the released swords floated upon a cushion of air. “Excellent!” The word seemed to inspire relief in Penning, whose tension -visible until this moment- ebbed.

“Also, Clotho’s network reports an end to the fight in the Park and what appears to be another battle about to begin in the inner city.”

Carreau snatched the swords once more and began to walk. Penning pivoted to the side to let him pass, then with a final glance at Lily turned to walk beside him. “Good. The details can come later. For now, let us welcome your sister back to the world of the living.” Half-turning back, he beckoned to Lily’s group. “Come along. If you’re going to be working with us, it will pay to know every face.”

“It will,” Lily replied slowly, her ears and eyes never at rest as she took in her surroundings. She still carried the dog, holding him close to her chest. She followed him for a while before she spoke up, asking, “a question has been bothering me for a while. You evidently already have the ability to revive the dead. What more power could you possibly attain, than overturning the one constant in existence? I know you’ve said you want to be able to be the equivalent of a game master in your video game world — yes, I figured it out, you didn’t really make it difficult — but short of deleting other players, what power could you gain that you do not already have?”

The odd group’s stroll down the pristine, cathedral-esque corridor paused for just a moment as Carreau stopped walking. A knuckle held against his chin signified his consideration for the question. “I must confess I do not know what you reference with the word ‘game’, but if you are curious about my goals, my desire is the return of my fellow Great Beings. Once that is achieved -and perhaps a few other things, such as removing the limiter that prevents any future growth from me- I need the wish no longer. Even at our strength, Air Rave faces an uncertain yet exciting future, and I would not cheapen our struggle.” He resumed his walk, Penning alongside him. The angle of her head suggested that she paid her master’s words rapt attention.

Not far ahead stood an ornate door. Carreau held out a hand, and a gust of wind pushed it open to reveal a huge, stunning room with a domed glass roof. For the most part it was empty, save some decoration here and there, and the presence of a handful of figures around the central fountain. Penning and Carreau headed straight for them, and as the distance was closed, the strange shapes of those waiting became more clear. One appeared to be a mummified cowboy, complete with six-shooter, poncho, and wide-brimmed hat. Beside him stood a curvaceous woman of rose-pink slime clad in an apothecary’s robe. Opposite her, lounging on a stone bench, sat a woman in hide brawler’s armor beneath a red priestess cloak, her blue hair poking out from beneath the hood. Right beside her, a broad, squat, mustached man with ashy gray skin and a smart-looking pinstripe suit only a few shades darker smoked a cigar, ruby-red eyes peering out from beneath his fedora.

“Umm… Boss, do I still need to wear these?” The voice was the Shark’s, directed towards Lily. He had one one of his metal legs lifted, and pointed at the mushroom-filled skirt and shirt that tied them to his feet. “We’re not really sneaky anymore.”

Lily seemed to consider it a few moments, idly scratching the dog behind one ear. “Alright, take them off. Stuff the clothes in the bag somewhere not filled with pastries. I might be able to repair them when I get home.” She then directed her attention to the crew of individuals before her, taking a step and a half to the side, as if to not get blocked by Carreau. She betrayed no reaction as she looked slowly from one to the other, merely giving each a shallow nod of acknowledgement, and greeting.

Before anyone could say anything, the slime woman threw herself at Carreau, almost bowling him over and causing Lily to take a step back. Everyone else present winced to varying degrees, embarrassed on the apothecary’s behalf. She embraced him in a sloppy hug, rose-red tears welling up around her eyes. “Carreau!” she bawled, “I’m sooo sorry! Instead of trying to find you...I went off and got killed fighting for some stupid wish, I-I brought shame on Air Rave, on you, on everyone! I thought you’d hate me, I’d never see you agaahaaain!”

Stiff with mortification, Carreau laid a hand on her head and patted her shoulder with the other. “Agh! Don’t...uh, do not worry, Verrine. All is forgiven. You’re back with us, that’s all that matters.“

Verrine fell silent, still shaking. The uncomfortable atmosphere lingered until the gunslinger let out a cough. “Well!” he rasped in a gruff voice as dry as his bandages, “That’s mighty kind o’ ya, Lord. An’ mighty nice to see the bunch reunited.” He crossed his arms, turning slitted yellow eyes on Lily and Brucie. “So who’re these folks? Ah, where’re mah manners.” Removing his hat, he revealed a bandage-wrapped, spike-crowned head that most certainly was never human. Holding it across his chest, he performed a slight bow and introduced himself. “Mah name is Screed. If yer a guest o’ Lord Carreau’s, yer a friend o’ mine.” After replacing his hat and straightening out, he joined the others in affixing the newcomers with an expectant stare.

Lily met his gaze and dipped her chin, never taking her eyes off of him. “I appreciate it, Screed. My name’s Lily, this is Brucie,” she waved a hand at the mechanically enhanced shark, then at the dog still in her arms “and this is Mouse. As for why we’re here, Carreau and I have made an arrangement, of sorts. I will leave it up to him to relay the details, but suffice to say it is... mutually beneficial.”

Behind her Brucie nodded, seemingly agreeing with all she had to say, but then spoke himself, “also, is anyone here an engineer? If’n we are gonna work together, I’d like if someone could look at my water cannon and see if they could maybe repair it? Hardly better ‘n a hose as it is now.”

Penning bristled. Though she held her tongue, perhaps anticipating what Carreau might say, her annoyance indicated that Brucie and Lily both had broken some sort of rule of conduct, even in the short time they’d been present. Mr. Screed, however, replaced the hat on his head and shrugged. “None o’ us here. Maybe Serval could help ya. Our artificer. Or, maybe he could whip ya up somethin’ new to replace it. Reckon this weapon of yours shoots water? Shouldn’t be too hard to replace.” His arms disappeared beneath his poncho, and his eyes shifted to the squat, suit-wearing cigar smoker as he hopped down from his bench.

Taking out his cigar, he released a cloud of black smoke in the newcomers’ direction, then turned to Carreau. Instead of craning his neck to look up at his master, the mustached man pulled a ledger from his coat pocket and tapped it with his knuckles. “Sir. Early report on the ancient city. Lots of soul energy, see?” He released the pad, which floated up to land on Verrine’s head. Having calmed down but not yet relinquished her grip on Carreau, she opened her eyes in surprise, but the ledger had stuck fast. A quick look around made her realize the embarrassing situation she’d put herself in, and with a nervous laugh she detached herself and stepped back. With a shluck she pulled the report free, straightened up, then handed it to Carreau.

A turn of the owlman’s hand created a swirling eddy told hold the item in the air beside him, One by one he spoke to those present who had yet to state their business. First, he faced Screed. “Was there anything else you needed?”

The deadshot shook his head, unleashing a minuscule cloud of dust. “No, sir. Jus’ wanted to see y’all together an’ meet the newcomers, really.”

Next came the priestess. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Finished the assignment.” Contrary to her stately robe, the maiden’s voice was rough and growly. “Shock absorption’s good, but basically no resistance to cuttin’ or piercin’.”

“Ah. I’ll go over the genetic blueprints with Clotho later.” Everything taken care of, Carreau addressed Lily and Brucie. “We got off on a little tangent there, but I will go ahead and conclude these less-than-formal introductions. You’ve met Mr. Screed now. My retainers are Verrine, Penning, and Margot.” From where she’d slouched this whole time, the red-cloaked woman gave a casual wave. Carreau then indicated the short, ashy man. “And this is Egon Baratta.”

“The pleasure is all yours.” Ego gave a terribly slight bow of his own before turning to walk away. After only a few steps, he dissolved into a stream of ash that shot across the atrium and through an open door.

Evidently thinking such an exit standard fare, Carreau continued. “What would you like to do, then? I can summon a servant to guide you to Serval’s workshop, or to a guest room, or you may join Verrine and I for a meal.” The slime woman’s eyes practically lit up at the mention of food, just as Carreau anticipated.

Lily, on the other hand, frowned at the proposals, her lips pressed into a thin line seemingly in deep thought. She shot a glance towards Brucie, her eyes flickering from his right arm, to the pack he carried on his back.

Brucie - the shark - was difficult to read on most occasions, given his inhuman features, but the way he kept not-so-subtly shaking his right arm, and glancing down at it, his preferred option was easily foreseen.

It seemed that Lily had the same thoughts as Brucie, since she gestured briefly to him, then said, “I think we’ll take you up on your offer regarding the workshop. The more weapons Brucie has, the more help me will be to me.”

Brucie’s attempt to stealthily pump his arm at the small victory, ended up about as subtle as one might imagine from a piece of moving metal on a shark.

If not for his mask, Carreau’s smile would have been as apparent as Brucie’s joy. “Certainly.” He raised and clapped his hands, From the nearest of the glyphs embellishing the atrium’s vast floor, an ethereal creature formed from a sudden surge of dark energy. Resembling a bizarre cross between a bird and ray, it floated in the air with a single, glowing red eye facing its summoner. In a clear voice, the owlman told it, “Lead the way to the Workshop at a leisurely pace.” He replaced his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure you’re not affected by the Umbra’s Stare at all, but they’re nothing more than sentries with knowledge of Deadbeat Sky. It’ll guide you right to the workshop. Say hello to Serval for me. Nobody should give you any trouble on the way; an alarm would have been raised for an intruder, after all. Verrine and I will proceed to dinner in the meantime.” Around him, the group had already dispersed, with only Screed remaining. With a final wave, Carreau proceeded across the atrium, Screed and Verrine in his wake.

---

The blustering was becoming tedious. Was touching a door to open it, or using his vocal chords to call upon his servants too much? One would think someone of Emile’s—or Carreau’s—power would bear a quiet confidence, rather than show it off like some prizewinning pony. Was he really that insecure in his own strength? Did it perhaps hint at a weakness he did not want her to discover? It would make sense if he was, in truth, her inferior, and made such a show of some grand power to cover up for it; to keep her believing that they were powerful enough to handle themselves.

...No. As much as she would like to believe so, the speed with which Emile had moved earlier was the genuine article. Even Tsuki could not move that fast, and her kind was the fastest of the Shifters. Carreau was as powerful as he made himself out to be, and she knew she would be unlikely to defeat him were he to get violent. At the very least he had sworn not to kill her, but she wasn’t so naive as to put absolute trust into an oath made by a stranger. It was all too easy to weasel his way out of such a promise, even were it binding on pain of death.

She suppressed a sigh and thanked Carreau, making certain to let none of her exasperation bleed into her voice. She then turned to the Umbra, as he had called it. Brucie as its gaze passed over them, but neither Lily nor Mouse reacted.

“Lead the way,” she said, and followed when it finally started towards wherever this workshop was. Brucie followed immediately, as did Lily. Only a handful of steps in, however, she faded into nothing, and the real Lily became visible once more, exactly one and a half step beside the copy: Mouse, still held in her arms, was looking around curiously, sniffing the air.

“Wha—Boss?” Brucie exclaimed, looking from Lily to where her copy had been moments before. “How? When… Why?”

”Precautions,” the Shark heard an echo of Lily’s voice say.

“Don’t trust them?” He asked, to which she shot him a glance.

”The Slime Girl, remember her? She was a contestant, but she mentioned dying, yet is here alive. These people, whoever they are, have power almost on par with some individuals from my world. I would be a fool to trust them blindly, when they so clearly outmatch me. To them I am nothing but a convenient tool, but one this ‘Carreau’ needs. Now stay silent, the less you say about this, the less likely they are to decide I am not to be trusted either, binding oath or not.” Throughout all of this, Lily betrayed no sign of anything going on save keeping an eye on the Umbra ahead of them; neither a flick of any tail or ear.

Brucie, wisely, said nothing further, instead choosing to silently follow this Umbra as it made its way to what was, presumably, Serval’s workshop.

A subtle change could be gleaned from the knight in particular as Runch approached. Though he appeared just as guarded, the outright hostility that haunted his features before waned when the captain presented himself openly. Perhaps the vanguard did not lessen his suspicion of an attack, but rather he seemed to respect Runch being up-front with his intentions, whatever they might be. Silence came as the pirate's reply after his introduction, continuing until his request had been extended across the timeworn cobblestone. Eyes still dull, the knight glanced at his comrade, who gave a noncommittal shrug in reply.

Removing a hand from his polearm, the knight reached up to the screw that protruded from his head, and began to finagle it in a casual manner. “Might as well,” he drawled. “Cyril. A vanguard in service of the city Malingurd.” He paused to allow Juniper to introduce herself if she wanted, but she shook her head. Though he'd been the one to reply, Cyril seemed to share her disillusionment with any niceties, evidenced by the almost sleepy, resigned look his affixed to Runch. “Awful carefree for someone who's made it this far in this bloody tournament,” he remarked, “Don't tell me you're enjoying this, pirate?” A detectable undercurrent of bitter scorn affected his voice as he asked, not really caring one way or another if the ridiculous man answered answered.

Beside him, Juniper put a hand on her hip. “Not much use chatting if someone's going to die in a few minutes. Unless you don't actually want to fight?”

“Hah. Nobody's backing out this far in. But you knew that.” Cyril gave a shrug of his own before frowning at the captain. “No need to beat around the bush, pirate. You could surrender your heart to me and join us, but you won't. So whatever we say, we'll end up fighting, and either you'll kill me or I'll kill you.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Maybe the winner will even be the one to survive, get a wish, and realize it wasn't worth it.” Disconsolate, he leaned against his halberd for support, locking eyes with his fellow mustached man. “Make it quick, pirate.”

By this time, two new pages had filled into Runch's journal.

Cyril Boniface
Vanguard knight
Formidable, calculating, relentless, resourceful
Aggressive yet skillful fighting style using everything he and his environment have to offer. Able to give himself a burst of unhindered speed in any direction. Possessed of incredible precision and clarity of thought should the screw in his head be adjusted just right

Juniper
Brawling shrine maiden
Uncompromising, brutal, confident, manipulative
Extreme physical ability that can be even further enhanced in short bursts. Massive prowess as a hand-to-hand fighter. Able to use ritualistic magics to cleanse evil and harness local spirits. Can create and use projected items. Her boots, crafted from the souls of defeated foes, can be used to generate and launch bombs, and to inflict curses that drain life and amplify damage taken, respectively



True to Pithy's hypothesis, the drone which had been fighting to maintain a respectful but constant distance from Bonesword now reoriented itself with respect to Pithy. It pointed the way toward the towering highrises and colossal glass monoliths of the downtown city center, their peaks of steel and concrete silhouetted against a sky tinted by setting sun. In the immediate vicinity, however, a number of smaller buildings lined both sides of the street, which itself split into a four-way intersection only a short distance away. With nothing to worry about in regards to trespassing, the small and strange party could pick freely from any option. A row of small apartment buildings, each one a vertical slice of its own style and design, awaited just next to where the space the phantom restaurant Moscow Caliber had occupied, but the ones across the road were nicer. Nestled here and there were a laundromat, a liquor store called Byway Brews, a sit-down pizza joint by the name of Tempting Mister's, a multi-floor book shop with a uniquely creative architecture, and a parking garage. In the direction Bonesword came from, more stark business buildings formed the bulk of the facilities, though a large sign way down the road indicated the presence of a zoo. Across the intersection, one corner was dominated by a gas station -its lot the most open space in the area one could get aside from the roads themselves-, the strange pumping devices of which were new to Pithy. The other corner featured a hair salon and an office, nestled together.



Singlemindedly, the Umbra led Lily and Brucie through hallways, up and down stairs, and across various rooms. Many of them, the rooms in particular, harbored all kinds of traps and sported various themes, but anything that might have obstructed a passerby's path looked to be in an inactive state. Only floor and wall glyphs responded to the kitsune's approach, divulging the occasional Umbra to stare as the could-be intruders strode past. Though the route could not be said to be anything but intricate, the journey did not last overlong, and when Lily's guide dove into a floor glyph and disappeared, it was on the threshold of a fascinating door. Embedded in the otherwise normal citadel wall was what could have easily been the jagged, uneven stone surface of a tunnel side deep underground, its angular chunks of obsidian dotted with spikes of metal. Recessed into this misplaced outcrop and at the top of a few steps was the door, a simple if appealing and heavy wrought-iron affair that would take a concerted effort to push open if the lever beside it was not pulled, causing a hidden mechanism to crank open the door using a track in the floor.

The workshop's interior stood out as unsettling yet beautiful. It was as if the inside of a cavern, or perhaps the cavity of some leviathan, had been converted into metal and the floor smoothed out. Strangely organic structures of metal, arranged intriguingly alien forms, constituted the walls and furnishings. Tools, various materials and half-finished projects -principally weapons- littered the place. Of special note was the one weapon laid with care against a wall: a weighty brutalizer resembling a pickaxe, though more properly described as a pile bunker on a shaft. The entire room sported a rough Y-shape, with the entrance at one prong. From the right side of the fork came the searing light and heat of a furnace, and the machines preceding it appeared to deal more with the processing and manipulation of raw materials. The fork's other side utilized the entire spectrum, a stunning arcane lightshow emanating from the chamber at its end. Its chaotic, random energies, barely contained behind a magic field whirled and crackled in a tempest of power, and inside that storm a silhouette could be seen. Bipedal, it seemed to be working at some task, but after a few moments it turned to head back toward the workshop proper. As it grew closer, its silhouette became more distinct, taking on the rigid and craggy shape of a golem. Yet, that same inhuman form also appeared to be shrinking, its spikes and disfigurations lessening. In particular, its oblong, three-eyes head rapidly became more ordinary, until the approaching being crossed through the barrier and into the workshop's more normal illumination.

The entity still resembled a golem, albeit one with the texture of gleaming stone, but the material on its head and torso had almost fully dissolved. As Lily watched the last of it faded away, leaving a distinctly human male torso and head. With limbs still of metallic stone, he was clad in nothing more than a wrap around his waist and a belt to keep it in place, if one didn't count the 'S'-embellished eyepatch beneath his rich honey-blond hair, which extended to the small of his back in a thick braid. The complex contraption, with a sparking core of magic, hummed in his left hand as he smiled Lily's way. “So you're the ones,” he murmured before giving a deep, extravagant bow, holding the device to his muscular chest. “Welcome to my home sweet home, sir and madam. My name is Serval, here to serve your every need.” He straightened up, and in an offhanded way chucked his gizmo onto a nearby table. It narrowly missed a pile of similar, more stable-looking ones, and rolled off onto the floor. Serval laughed lightly. “But who am I to stand on ceremony? Just tell me what you need, and I will get to work.”



Sam's fingers, snuck like snakes into the pocket of the odd merchant, encountered a pile of coins with an audible clink. If their owner took any notice, however, he gave no indication, save perhaps a quiet smirk; his attention didn't deviate one inch from the potential customer before him. “Aha! My friend, it is an excellent bargain for us both. You see, what I want from you in payment is something I believe you want to be rid of. Eheh...it might not have occurred to you, but you carry it with you even now.” Pulling away a short distance, and returning to the back of his stand with a flourish, the merchant held out his hand. “Just slip those sticky fingers into your own pocket and pull it out. I can tell you are no man to be afraid of yucky things, but even so, do not be surprised by its strange shape, nor its stomach-churning writhe. In exchange, any one item of mine is free for the taking.”

Lily remained wary of the golem as it approached, keeping her tails moving behind her should anything happen and she needed to unleash hell.

Brucie seemed more intrigued than cautious, looking every time something sparked, glinted, or made a sound, and it was only with the utmost self-control, and—Lily suspected—the knowledge that she would be more than a little sour if he started picking things up, that he refrained from poking around at the nearest oddity.

Luckily for her and her companions, the Golem shed its skin, as it were, leaving behind something that resembled a human. His arms were still stone, and he wore an odd eyepatch. She kept her expression carefully neutral, her only response to him was a small incline of her head, by way of greeting and answer to his question. In a way, she appreciated the way he discarded the usual niceties, instead going straight to business.

She looked at Brucie expectantly, and the Shark stepped forward and extended his right arm, displaying the broken water cannon. “Would like to see if you could repair this,” he said. “Got broken yesterday, ain’t better than a kitchen tap now.”

On instinct Serval reached up toward the defunct weapon, but his stony chrome fingers stopped a few inches short. His one eye’s gaze turned inquiring as he hesitated. “Does it detach? If so, may I take it?”

The hammerhead gave a nod, and with the curled metal talons of his other hand reached over and began to tinker with the arm casing into which his cannon was slotted. In a few seconds he had opened part of the panel, and after unscrewing both the power cable and the hose Brucie handed the apparatus over.

Gingerly Serval took hold of the object, making sure to pluck it from Brucie’s grip rather than touch his mechanical hand. Once secure, the cannon was brought up before the smith’s eye, and for a couple moments he scrutinized it in great detail. Only the hum of magic and machinery keeping the scene from complete quiet as Serval pored over the weapon, but his face did not deviate from a mellow half-smile until he held his other hand over it and cast some spell, loosening the screws via some near-invisible force until he could see inside. It was then that Serval raised his eyebrows with a contemplative frown, looking over the cannon’s inner workings until he parted his lips with a hooh. Lowering the device, he hung his head in unhappiness. “I am ashamed to admit before honored guests of the Great One that I am unfamiliar with the intricacies of this armament. As such, I would need some time to be able to repair it.” His demeanor now very serious, though tinged by melancholy, Serval raised his head and looked between Brucie and Lily. “I dare not ask you to settle for less, but if it would be at all helpful in the meantime, I can construct a facsimile that operates on magic, able to generate and expel water at high pressure. That would take only a few moments.” With furrowed brows Serval placed the broken cannon on a nearby table. “I can say with absolute certainty that any weapon made under the authority of Air Rave will serve you exceptionally well. So, may I oblige you in this regard?” He clasped his huge, stone fingers together in front of his bare chest, as though begging to be given the opportunity to make up for his shortcoming.

Lily opted for silence still, letting Brucie choose. She didn’t know if the original weapon had much, if any, sentimental value, or if there was some intricacy to his mechanical appendages, that required the cannon to remain attached to his arm. She arched an eyebrow at him, as if to say ”Well?”

Brucie met her eyes briefly and seemed uncertain, if she were to be a judge. Still, he wasn’t human, and his expressions were always difficult to read. He shrugged a few moments later and addressed Serval. “Sure,” he said. “If it works just as well as the last one, and doesn’t run dry, no complaints. Could you make it so it can also send water bombs, too? The other one could do that. It worked, like—” he mimed the firing of a bubble of water, that then exploded “—this, basically. Big ball of water goes boom when fired away from me.”

A grave nod came in reply, though when Serval came up, he was smiling. “Understood. You may wish to stand back, though of course I will be ensuring that nothing hits you, regardless. I hope that my workmanship satisfies.” He pulled apart his hands, and clenched his fingers. In an instant that amount of static electricity in the air shot through the roof, but before anything else could happen, Serval released the energy he stored.

A wave of electromagnetic power surged outward from Serval, filling the entire workshop in no time flat. As they were touched by the energy, compartments in the walls opened up, revealing racks of materials of all sorts. Unbidden, pieces of metal sprang from their resting places, lifting toward Serval like schools of fish homing in on some tasty prize. Parts reached their master and began to fit together or orbit his person. Eye blazing with the same hollow light seen in the golem before, Serval orchestrated the assembly of his project with a conductor’s precision and grace. The cloud of smaller components constructed a couple, larger parts, each analogous to the elements of Brucie’s cannon, which hovered loosely in the air between Serval’s hands. From a colorful rack of metal-housed crystals beside the magic chamber, a handful of pulsing blue gems darted over, taking up a spot in the center of the array. Once they clustered together into a diamond, its combined power stronger than any of the originals stones’, a pronged capsule formed around it that resembled a maw, which closed with a snap around the cluster. With that done, the other pieces converged on the newly-made core one after another, until the final few pieces slotted into place to finish the sleek contraption that made a slow descent into Serval’s outstretched mitt.

With an extravagant bow the smith held it forward. An oblong shape with a clear barrel at the front, it resembled a polished river pebble with a gargoyle face on the front. A lengthwise divide separated its outer shell into an upper and lower half. “Here you are,” Serval said. “It requires no outside attachment, and should socket into your vambrace nicely. Its jet should have no trouble carving through rock at close range. To fire normally, clench your fist. The sensory system was originally made for a living being’s arm muscles, but I attuned it to Mechanica instead, so it will pick up. To fire a bomb, place your opposite hand on top and push down. The bomb will build for as long as the top is compressed, becoming larger but slower. The crystal core will generate water for a long time, but when it does eventually run out, simply find a water source and place the barrel inside. The extractor doubles as an injector, you see. It will infuse and store water just as I believe the original did with electricity.” Serval held his hands behind his back. “My apologies for such a boring explanation. Even if it is a trinket that is unworthy of the Great Ones, I hope you’ll forgive me for excess of pride in my work. Even that artifice is leagues beyond anything a human artificer could dream of, after all. Please utilize it to the utmost, and let me know if I can provide any other help.” Around the three, the infused atmosphere faded, and under the burden of their own weight the various compartment doors throughout the shop fell shut, their troves hidden once again.

Lily hummed and looked over the contraption, clicking her tongue at it. She might not have cared about fashion once, but she had picked up a few opinions of her own over the last decade; just enough that she thought the gargoyle-like mouth of the cannon was tasteless. Or perhaps just needlessly intricate. However much she wanted to, even she couldn’t deny that the work had been accomplished far quicker than she had anticipated. She had expected at least an hour, not a mere minute, if not less. In truth, she was glad that Brucie now had another weapon, as it would make him that much more powerful.

She had witnessed firsthand how powerful that thing could be—and if this Serval’s claims were to be trusted—it now had the power to cut through rock. She did not want to experience what it would do to flesh. The blatant show of power was as exasperating as when Carreau had done it, but she could not argue with results. At least, not until she had a chance to witness it with her own eyes.

She cast a glance at Brucie, one eyebrow raised. “Well? What do you think?” She asked.

“It’s good, I think,” he said, and stopped himself halfway from clenching his fist. He let his metallic fingers relax and instead poked and prodded it with his other hand. Then, in a remarkable display of forethought and intelligence, asked, “You said that the water supply can run out. Any clue how long that’ll take? Say, how many seconds or minutes would it last, if I fired it non-stop?”

Holding one hand up to his mouth, Serval tapped his chin with the knuckle. “Hmm...those were medium-grade crystals, so only about an hour, I’m afraid. Perhaps an hour ten? Medium is the highest grade I’m permitted to use casually, considering all the different types.” His eye widened a touch as he seemed to infer what his guests might be meaning. “I can request access to higher grade if you find the duration, power, or so forth are insufficient. It will only take more time, which I had assumed was of the essence since you decided against repairs.”

Lily looked up from the new weapon, a slight look of perplexion visible on her way. “‘Decided against repairs’? I was under the impression that this new cannon would be a temporary solution until the original had been repaired.” She pressed her lips together into a thin line, and looked at Brucie. “Or was I mistaken?” She asked hesitantly.

Brucie looked away from his arm and down at her. “Now that you mention it… Ya think that’d be possible, Serval? I don’t, and I don’t think Boss-Lady here does so either, mean to take advantage of the… generosity you’ve shown us.”

Lily quietly thanked Brucie, and agreed with him. She didn’t trust the people in Air Rave, and so staying on their good side was imperative. Being thankful, and mindful to not be greedy when offered a gift, was more important than ever before. She nodded along to his words.

Serval, meanwhile, looked appalled. “I must have misinterpreted your response!” he told Brucie, clapping a hand to his head in self-chastisement. “Please forgive me! I’ll study the weapon night and day until I understand how it works, and can fix it. Of course, new understanding is for the good of Air Rave, too. But my presumptuousness is inexcusable. Oh, I must be casting such a pall on our honor...” He shook his head, and gave a final bow before heading toward the table where he’d placed the broken cannon.

“On the contrary,” Lily said slowly, choosing her words carefully and recalling the tone and intonations so often used by Sylphide, who was known for both her kindness and regality, “your willingness to apologize and make amends, does you and Air Rave credit.” She drummed her fingers against Mouse’s head, causing his ears to flick in mild annoyance. Why was it so damnably hard to be diplomatic? Think. Think. Don’t insult. Accept his apology, but remain in power…?

She caught Brucie’s eyes and he, whether noticing her silent struggle to be cordial, or simple luck, gave her a quick nod before he continued where she had left off. “Like what Lily said, I don’t think it’s bad. Just a misunderstand, is all. Fuzz-Boss—” Lily’s eye twitched “—and I didn’t make ourselves clear, and we also misent… misinterpreted what you said.”

At this point, Lily took over again, old lessons resurfacing. She stood tall, ears forward and tails calm. “And we don’t want to look a gift-horse in the mouth, as it were, but if you would be willing to also repair the old weapon, we would be much obliged. We do not, however, require or demand that you sacrifice your own health to accomplish the task within an unreasonable time-frame… So we—I—apologize for any distress we caused you.”

Throughout the joint effort at placation Serval had been attentive, having turned from his retreat to listen. His tense nerves grew relaxed toward the end, and by the time Lily finished his remarkable distress could scarcely be seen. He took a deep breath, and gave the pair a grateful smile. “Not at all! It is a relief to hear that I’ve not erred too greatly. I am interested in the weapon, so I will devote some time to studying it, but I’ll not go overboard.” He rested a gleaming hand on the nearby table, leaning a little. “And thank you. For your concern. But now, I’m certain I’ve wasted too much of your time. If there is any other way I may service you, please do not hesitate to tell.” He proceeded to seat himself, evidently offering his final statement as farewell if Lily and Brucie had any other business to attend to.

Brucie gave him a grateful, if clumsy, bow, and Lily did her best to mimic it, albeit far more gracefully, pressing her palms together in front of her before doing so—or as well as she could with Mouse still in her arms. “I don’t think there’s anything else,” she said, righting herself. “Although… You don’t happen to have a leash, do you?” She asked, and hefted Mouse so as to emphasize who it was for. “I’d rather have one for him so he doesn’t run off in a place I am unfamiliar with.”

For a brief moment Serval looked confused, though he put two and two together in short order. “A leash…? Ah, for your pet. I don’t have much leather, but I’m sure I have some.” He practically jumped to his feet, his metal legs creating a resounding boom that he ignored, and he jogged over to a large cubbyhole near the entrance. When he opened it, this time by hand, he set to rummaging through the hides and fabrics that filled it until he turned up a harness. With speed and accuracy he pulled bits of it apart, until all that remained was an adjustable loop and a length of hide off it. “A task devoid of my usual flair, unfortunately,” he mourned as he returned to Lily and offered the leash to her. His eye lingered on the little dog’s furry face for a moment. “Delightful creature,” he murmured. The next moment he regained his composure, and hurried back to the cannon. “If I’ve done all I can, then I bid you goodbye.”

Lily accepted the leash with a grateful smile, albeit a small one; only slightly more than the corners turned up. “Thank you,” she said and set Mouse down, fastening it around his neck until it was secure, but loose enough that he wouldn’t be choked. She might have been imagining things, but he gave her a look of what was almost betrayal, but otherwise cooperated. She’d need to bribe him with treats later.

“What now?” Brucie asked, looking up from his new arm-cannon for all of a moment, before returning to poking at it excitedly.

“He offered a dinner earlier. I wonder if the offer is still valid,” she said while adjusting the length of the leash to give Mouse a little freedom, but still keeping him close to her side. “Speaking of Carreau, however,” she said a few moments later, almost as an afterthought. She turned to Serval. “He asked me to say ‘Hello’ on his behalf.” She inclined her head and turned to leave, Brucie at her heels and Mouse at her side.

Back the way we came. It was… This way. Should be able to find our way to Carreau from there.

Runch couldn't help but give out a hearty laugh at how utterly serious his competition was. It really was just his lot in this tournament to be constantly pitted up against pessimists and the scorned, wasn't it? "OMNOMNOMNOMNOM!" His mustache wiggled and twitched in time with his laughter. The pirate closed the journal, and pocketed it once again. Cyril had no idea that by engaging in the conversation, he'd already given Runch a huge advantage. "I do not want to fight if I can avoid it, no, and I do not enjoy the situation we share at this time. I am a humble cereal chef who wants only to live life freely, and to provide for my loyal crew."

At this point Runch completely let his guard down by taking a seat, cross-leg style, leaning on his spoon-saber which had dug into the earth. In a way, he was testing Cyril. The journal described him as relentless, but also tactical. Would the knight, or perhaps the shrine maiden, take advantage of this incredibly poor maneuver? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Erina stood nearby, still aghast at the poor decisions Runch had been making, wondering to herself if his victory over both her and Motley hadn't been a complete fluke. A stroke of extreme luck.

"If you don't have any intention of backing down now, then I can't argue you out of it. It isn't the place of a man to change another man's mind anyway. I just want to see more smiles as I continue my journey. But I'm not convinced you're entirely convicted in your goals here, Mr. Boniface. You just said yourself it's not all worth it. So tell me, has the College broken the terms of their own rules and attacked you too?"

---

---

Samuel's eyebrows rose up for a second before returning to their normal place. The bizarre man had to have sensed that he had taken some coin from his pocket. Why else would he have described Sam as having "sticky fingers?" Finding someone who could watch his hands so closely was a rarity indeed. That just meant that Samuel was even more wary than before. Trust issues were so difficult to put aside, especially when one wakes up in a new and dangerous world without explanation.

Cautiously his fingers moved toward his own pocket, curious as to what this thing was that the man said he already carried with him. Samuel had a number of things in his pockets. Coins, cards, knives, clothes, and numerous other props to aid in his illusions at any given time, but there wasn't a single thing he would have described as "yucky" or having "stomach-churning writhe." Then, just before the tips of his fingers dipped below the pocket line, he remembered something else the odd man had said, and stopped. "You said that you had over three dozen customers and implied they were unaware. What did you mean by that? Is this associated with that contest I've heard from the kitsune?" The longer he delayed, the more his horror cried out to be satisfied. To be fed. To terrorize this man and devour his delicious fear. Run him off, let him know it is wrong to toy with others, lies by omission are still lies and are wrong! Rip and tear his flesh, make him cry out and feed feed feed NO! ... Maybe later.

A pointed look of suppressed rage greeted the Cereal Killer's laughter, and it only intensified as the man seated himself. Perhaps stunned by the sheer boldness of the display, Cyril held his tongue until Runch finished speaking. Instead of moving to attack, however, the vanguard stamped his polearm's butt into the ground and ignored the most recent question to give his own two cents. “You're a cocky one, huh? It takes balls to whip out a book in your enemies' faces, and to drop your guard like that.” Though she said nothing, Juniper's killer glare echoes his sentiments. “Since it utterly doesn't matter, I might as well tell you we were attacked,” Cyril continued. “But it's all just sewage circling the drain. You spit in my face, then talk nonsense. Of course I'm convicted enough. We both are. We're standing here, aren't we?” He snorted, then in dry humor corrected, “Well, one one of us is. Point is, even if it isn't worth it, even if we're in the wrong and this Crucible makes monsters out of us, we're not going to stop. That's why we were chosen, isn't it?”

With the hand of the arm to which his shield was attached, he reached back up to resume adjusting the screw. “Though you're pretty rude, not to mention hypocritical,” Cyril drawled, “I can see you're a half-decent fellow. I'll try not to kill you.”

Juniper winced. “Don't let that fool you into thinking he'll take it easy.” She gestured to her legs without taking her eyes off her soon-to-be opponent. Her face held a cold smirk. “Eugh...I almost feel sorry for you. Against us.”

As one, the pair split apart. Cyril circled right and Juniper circled left. Their coordination belied preparation and planning, though Runch could only guess how long. The two gave him a wide berth, and while combat-ready, did not make an initial move to attack. Silence reigned, interrupted only by the wind and the muted tick-tick-tick of the vanguard turning his screw, restlessly working at it to try and make it feel right once again.

“Whenever you're ready, pirate,” Knight Sylvestre spoke after a moment. “Stand, and deliver.”



Stepping into the dining hall, especially after crossing the vast atrium, made for quite the transition.

In contrast to the spacious, cathedral-esque design of the rooms and even hallways seen thus far, the dining room would not have looked out of place as a mess hall in the average fortress. Of course, the dark wood of the table was immaculate, its polished surface given a luster by the radiant sconce crystals, and every other furnishing appeared to be of comparable quality, but by far this place stood out as the most ordinary and homey of the chambers in Deadbeat Sky.

At the far end of the hall, the rectangular table splayed out into a bell shape, and eight distinctive seats marked its long, curved edge. Of the lot, only one was occupied: the second to the left. Carreau himself sat there, his helmet nowhere to be seen, paused to watch Lily and Brucie come in. Before him sat a plain china dish laden with stew, as well as a goblet full of water. Verrine, the only other being in the room prior to the entrance of Lily's group, sat a short distance away along the side of the bell. Between the owl and the slime, an intricate tureen lay with its lid removed and set aside, a ladle peering from the top.

“Ah, there you are. That didn't take long at all.” Carreau's golden eyes fell upon Brucie's new armament. “Just as I'd expect from our prized artificer.” His gaze turned wistful as he glance to his side, focusing on the second-to-right chair. “I'm sure Highroller would be proud, were he here, and had he cared more for his 'children.'”

Caught with a spoon in her mouth, Verrine took pains to extricate it stealthily and sneak it back onto the napkin beside her dish. She looked Lily's way and waved. “Hiya! Come on over. Stew's great!”

Carreau clasped his hands together. “It is a breach of etiquette from a lord, but I'm afraid that we have no servants to attend to menial tasks like setting places or serving food. I was going to do it myself, but Verrine here insisted that she do it--that it would be an honor”

He glanced at the slime woman, who struck up a vigorous nodding, her face comically serious. “Of course! To have a Great One doling out plates and ladling stew? It's unconscionable!”

Shaking his head, Carreau addressed Lily and Brucie. “Perhaps because I am her creator, she refuses to listen to me when I suggest that I am unworthy of such lavishness. Humility is a virtue I must come to better terms with, after all...”

Stuck in the logical conundrum of wanting to heed her creator's wishes and wanting to treat him with proper respect, Verrine said nothing, and decided to go for another mouthful of food instead. The moment the meat, potato, and vegetable entered her system, it dissolved into nonexistence. Carreau meanwhile, indicated with a hand that Lily and Brucie should sit. The places prepared for them lay at Verrine's left side, placing them approximately across from their host.



Having watched with eager eyes Samuel's fingers descending toward his pocket, only to be stymied, the merchant affixed him with an annoyed glance. Before the Murder even finished his question, the ugly man was waving his hands in placation, as though trying to brush aside the interruption. “Yes, yes, tournament competitors. Who else do you expect? Nobodies from the College? Hah. Except for splinter group, they are uninteresting, unmotivated. I care about people with a goal: something that they must do, that the whole nature revolves around. Like you! Interesting, understandable, motivated. People like that, I can help.” A wide, ghoulish grin had overtaken the vendor, who'd crossed his arms. “So! Will you let me take it off your hands, or not?”

Runch listened intently with a smile on his face, but the smile faltered as his opponent hurled insults and accusations at him. It seemed he had utterly failed to get his point across in the way he had intended to, and ended up insulting the knight. That wouldn't do any good. Not at all. "I apologize for offending your senses, sir knight," he began. "I meant no insult. It is just curious why you would continue onward when you believe this entire tournament to be futile. But if we really must fight..." The captain breathed a heavy sigh, showing his discontent with the turn of events. Erina still held her position near the pirate, preparing herself for combat. She gripped Bend's blade tightly, preparing to unsheathe it at a moment's notice. She had already taken the ghost into herself.

"There is one thing you've said I cannot help but voice my disagreement with though, Sir Boniface." Runch took a moment to pop the joints in his neck, then kept his eyes glued to the knight's, following him as the pair circled around him. "A man chooses to be a monster. This crucible, as you called it, is merely a situation that we men have been placed in. I know my choices. I choose to sail with freedom at my back so that I may bring smiles to the faces of children across the world. You don't seem like the kind to choose to be a monster either." He placed his free hand on the grip of his pistol, already loaded with a special berry shot. Then he moved so he was back to back with Erina, allowing them each to keep a better look out of their opponents.

"The knight is a fierce berserker, but strategic and calculating. You have more to fear from the woman. She shares your power over the dead. Do not allow her to influence Bend." He gave the advice to his companion at a whisper, holding his spoonsaber in such a way that he intended to block his mouth from view. Hopefully Cyril's head screw wouldn't have been properly adjusted just yet and it would be enough to give them the early game advantage needed. Then he addressed the opponents one last time.

"Since you're already circling like sharks I doubt you'll change your mind, but I had hoped this could be an honorable duel. One on one. I don't want others to get hurt as I pursue my dreams and I hope you'll agree with such sentiment." Not even Runch believed it would have done any good. Knight or not, something told him that this knight had a stronger relationship with victory than he did with honor. After all, what was right and what actually works usually deviates. Not to mention the general attitude of the man had been quite... Nihilistic. The cap'n braced himself for an attack. The next round was now.

---

---

The freakish man was interesting. He spouted off tidbits of information that Samuel found most interesting indeed, and wanted to be expounded. The College had a splinter group? Then whatever this tournament was all about was going to get very complex. Not that Samuel knew he'd ever have any hand in it, and he doubted the man would elaborate further. He opted not to press his luck on the issue, and placed his hand in his pocket to pull out...

In quick succession, looks of anger and annoyance overtook Cyril's features. Though still bearing his weapon at the ready, he ceased his threatening circumnavigation for a moment to narrow his eyes and think. His tense nerves stood ready to spring into action at any moment, but if he guessed right the good captain would not attempt a preemptive strike, lest he dissolve any chance at the mutual sportsmanship his request for single combat required. He glanced at Juniper, whose knowing look and matching smirk told him she realized it too. It was the martial artist who spoke first. “He's a clever one, huh? A ploy to make you choose between sacrificing honor and sacrificing a good shot at victory. Or maybe he has really gotten to think highly of you over these thirty-something seconds. I wonder what you're thinking?”

Cyril did not allow his gaze to deviate any further, so his reply came as though he were speaking through his potential opposition. “Like you, I'm remembering what I said in that market. I guess that means you know what I'm thinking.” Beneath his dark mustache, his lips curled into the slightest of wry smiles as he met Runch's eyes. This time, he addressed the pirate. “A knight's honor is for storybooks, but a long time ago, that was what I dreamed of. Maybe that's why I didn't throw it away before, and I won't become a hypocrite by throwing it away now.” Idly, he windmilled the point of his halberd around in a little circle. “Forgive me if I don't throw down my gauntlet, but it looks as though we're going to be having a duel.”

For once, the pirate did not burst into pleased laughter, but instead returned a smile of his own from beneath his prominent whiskers—a grin as pure and full-bodied as a bowl of whole wheat flakes. “That's good to hear, Sir Boniface. When this is over, I hope I'll be able to treat you a bowl of my best.”

The vanguard's eyebrows narrowed. “Excuse me?”

A single, scarred arm waved in the air. “Hey, what about us?” Juniper questioned, flicking her index finger between herself and Erina.

Cyril shrugged as he rolled his neck and prepared his stance. “Whatever you like, just keep her from interfering. Maybe you'd like a nice chat.” With his off hand he flicked his visor down, covering his face as the mask of metal slotted into place. “Or a good brawl, your own one-on-one.”

Adjusting his spoonsaber and still determined to let his opponent make the first move, Runch bristled. ”Omnom...not quite what I had in mind. Am I wanting for an 'en guarde', sir?”

“Don't bother.” A brilliant light occluded Cyril as he shot forward, fast as a fired cannonball. Adrenaline tore through Runch's veins, allowing him to swing his shining weapon with enough force to crack a mast and meet the dark steel of Cyril's horizontal strike in a deafening keeng! The clashing weapons slid a few inches across one another as the two men tested their strength, each pushing with everything they cared to spare. The spoonsaber's serrated edge caught and grated against the halberd's smooth one, sending painful vibrations into the vanguard's hands just like a flamberge would. Cyril recognized the situation, but his helmet betrayed no disquiet. From beneath it, in a low tone, came the words, “I'm ready any time.”

Pivoting to the side, Cyril relented wholesale, allowing Runch's push to proceed and force both weapons by him. As he pivoted, Cyril span around to deliver an armored shoulder check into the pirate's body. Barely phased by a blow that would have stunned if not cracked a lesser man, Runch retracted his arm to the left as he stepped back and came about in a sideswipe. Cyril brought up his halberd's hilt to deflect the spoonsaber's oversized head before throwing out the butt of that shaft as a jab for to the diaphram. A downward slap from the spoon rendered that blow harmless, given the short distance it had to start moving, and the next moment it lashed out in an overhead swipe. Rather than attempt to block with his halberd again, Cyril twisted his upper body to let the shield on his left upper arm take the hit. A split second passed, both mustached men's eyes locked together again, before Cyril activated his Sheen once again to blast straight forward in a shield charge that bowled Runch over and left him lying on his back. Having passed overhead, the vanguard spun about as he slid to a stop, kicking up a bit of dust. Nary a scratch worse for wear, Runch rolled to his feet, chuckling, and the fighters faced one another about fifteen feet apart.

”That's no small skill with a polearm, even in close quarters. But now the table's set, allow me to serve the first dish, omnomnom!” In a flash, his pistol was raised and cocked. ”Bori Bori Cracklepop: Mush Mellow Recipe!”



Having relaxed her stance once it became clear she would not have to fight -at least for the moment- Erine watched with inquisitive eyes the brief but furious melee exchange between her friend and the morose knight. At the point where Runch unveiled his Devil Fruit powers, however, she was obliged to return her focus to the other woman, who know approached. Every instinct told the young kitsune to be on her guard, for Juniper -from her missing arm and countless scars to her bold swagger and brusque smile- cut an imposing figure.

“So, you're a shrine maiden, too?” The martial artist questioned, taking a closer -and rather judgmental- look at Erina's clothing. After a moment, she gave a light snort. “Or some sort of spiritualist. I can sense the kami swirling around you. One in particular...though, there is nothing divine about it. A very...dark...soul.” Had she two arms, Juniper might have crossed them, but instead she placed her hand on her bare hip. “Would you like me to remove it for you?”

For a moment, the glib girl was taken aback. “A-as if! I'll have you know this soul is the Remnant of Emperor, an ancient sovereign chosen by the gods themselves, summoned to this plane by yours truly!” She turned up her nose, scoffing. “If you find yourself unable to detect a whiff of the divine about it, you must be a very poor shaman! And remove him? Ohoho! You're quite the dreamer, my friend!”

A moment of silence -save the ringing of weapons and attack-calling in the background- passed before Juniper gave a laugh. “Heheh. A liar and a chuuni. So much for a nice chat.” She pretended to wipe a tear of laughter from her eye. “Don't worry, missie, I know my trade. I'll have that ghost out of you before you know it.” Placing her fist against her head, she cracked her knuckle and assumed a fighting stance. “I should warn you it's a tricky ritual. If you resist, the results could be...painful.”

Erina jumped, the back of her cloak flicking back and forth. “Hold on, you're not wanting to fight, are you? We really don't need to.” She held her hands up in placation, though by remarkable coincidence her right managed to end up a few inches from the hilt of her katana.

The dark eyes of Juniper missed nothing. Giving a derisive smile, she relied, “Well, I can't just let some evil spirit linger, can I? Besides, I've been itching to beat the tar out of something. Pent-up frustration, perhaps. Keeping all that inside is unhealthy, don't you think?”

Erina's hand closed around her blade's hilt. She closed her eyes as she drew it, and as the shrine maiden watched the decimated blade reconstituted itself, becoming razor sharp and attaining a mirror sheen as though time had been turned back to an era long ago. When Erina opened her eyes, they held a strange sort of depth, and an visage knowing, cold, and keen. “Far more healthy than picking a fight with me. You're not tearing us apart.”

“Ah, there you are. Aren't you the scary one.” After a moment of perusing Erina's eyes, Juniper let hers dance across the blade. “That's a nice sword.” She held out her hand, and a shimmer of light appeared. It took on the exact shape of Bend's katana, and Juniper rested it on her shoulder. “Show me what it can do, spirit.” The clash inevitable, Erina replied with a grim frown and stepped forward. Sparks flew as steel bit into solid magic, and the second one-on-one began.



The moment Cyril felt the spread blast of gooey white hit his shield and armor, he regretted not using Sheen to boost out of the way. They didn't hit hard, for they were slow, but they were heavy--heavy enough to weigh the vanguard down once they stuck like barnacles to his metal gear. A quick initial test of moving limbs confirmed that he was officially impeded until he could spend some time to pry the sticky stuff off, which would of course leave him wide open to attack. Cyril gave a sigh with a roll of his eyes, though his exasperation did not extend into anger since, even if it were bothersome, it was a learning experience. This pirate was a matter manipulator -or at least, matter creator- and, more importantly, he called his attacks. He did it in a manner as hammy as it was cheesy, with a total lack of self-awareness that led Cyril to assume such a thing was convention where he came from.

The next moment Cyril wondered why his foe didn't seem to be capitalizing on his debilitation, but Runch appeared to be laughing. “Omnomnomnom! One of my newer recipes, a sweet treat for kids, but I'll wager it leaves a sour taste in the mouth of an armored individual like you, sir.” He clicked his tongue as Cyril charged forward, noting that it took a bit more effort for him to close the distance. With a flourish of his spoonblade he stepped forward, chopping with the girthiest portion of its metal length at Cyril's unprotected right shoulder.

Without much in the way of an overdraw on strength, Cyril parted ways with the ground, bringing up his back leg as a counterbalance before lashing out with his front in a snap kick. His armored shoe popped the spoonblade upward and, loathe to release his precious weapon, the captain held fast his grip and leveraged his strength to stall the spoonblade and reverse its flight. Before that could be accomplished, Cyril's halberd had already been driven in a shallow thrust into Runch's ribs. Without much room to start moving, it did not do much but snag in his snazzy waistcoat, but the followup push delivered enough push to force him back, puncturing the skin in the most cursory manner, though a less durable man would have had to rely on his ribs catching the steel before it hit his lung.

Surprised, but filled with new vigor, Runch changed plans. His attempt to return his spoonblade to normal position seamlessly transformed into an overhead strike, with enough weight behind the edge to put a real dent in his foe's caplike helmet. The vanguard, however, witnessed and reacted. Already withdrawing his weapon after the thrust, Cyril twisted its shaft counterclockwise, not just to catch the spoonblade but to strike it. The impact helped kickstart Cyril swiveling the glaive in the opposite direction, and in the span of another instant Runch took a blow across his other side's ribs from the flat of the axeblade. Though Runch already had an inkling, the brief exchange cemented one fact in the pirate's mind: this man knew better than he the art of armed combat.

With nowhere to go but a paradigm shift, Runch threw caution to the wind and tried, in the spirit of a desperate boxer's haymaker, a diagonal crushing blow. His weapon met nothing but air as Cyril swept through with his clockwise motion to bring his left leg around into a side chamber before extended a straight kick to the gut. The air blown from his lungs, even if for just a moment, Runch stumbled backward. He decided to go with it and threw himself in a backward flip to gain distance, shouting as he did, “Bori Bori Pillar!”

Cyril watched as his foe ascended skyward atop a tower of tightly-packed cereal that surged into shape from his hands. Runch's face, although still one of unworried enjoyment, betrayed a bit of bemusement. For the moment up until the pirate's mounting altitude rendered his peepers inscrutable, the vanguard felt sure that Runch was staring not at his eyes but above and to the left of them—at the screw in his head. It was a look that gave the vague suggestion of its that powerful?. In an instant Cyril's mind was ablaze. Does he know about the screw? ...He could have asked the handler about his next opponent's equipment, maybe. If he's wondering if I'm beating him in close quarters because of its effect, he's in trouble. Two brief but furious exchanges had drilled the same conclusion into Cyril as it had his foe: though Runch was by no means a slouch with his unconventional weapon, Cyril's formal training, constant practice, and aggressively practical style gave him a substantial edge in melee combat. With that in mind, there was but one conceivable road to take.

I'll just have to keep him from getting in, then. Since he has no method of ranged attack, I can batter him from afar until he tires out.

He's going to start relying on those strange, food-related powers. Unless I can figure them out quickly, he'll wear me down until I'm out of juice.

Through the cross-shaped slit in his helmet Cyril stared up at Runch atop his pillar, yanking a marshmellow off his arm to deposit on the pillar's receptive surface. With a certain theatricality Runch stabbed his spoonblade into the cereal by his feet, then held out both hands, wiggling the fingers. In reply, perhaps even taking his opponent's overracting for granted or just wanting to get on with it, Cyril reached up to start adjusting his screw. A twinge of annoyance quivered the pirate's mustache, prompting him to call, “Bori Bori Grapeshot!”

In an instant, a deluge of rock-hard spheres fell upon Cyril. The first few clattered against his armor, leaving dents where its curvature allowed them to, and they prompted the vanguard to growl as he crouched and raised his shield. Despite their small size, the pellets hurt. The man might have just as well been commanding a brigade of superhuman slingers to pelt him with stones. After a moment the first volley ended, but a second followed on its proverbial heels, convincing Cyril that he could not stand and take it. With an angry grunt he stepped forward and swung his halberd in a great cleave, lodging it several inches deep in the cereal column, where it came to an abrupt stop. A tremendous heave pried it out, accompanied by a spray of cereal, but Runch had already stepped toward his perch's edge to stretch his palm out toward the knight once again.

This time Cyril dodged the grapeshot with the aid of a short boost. Putting his poleaxe to a woodsman's mundane purposes, he rounded the tower until he could make the weapon bite into another side with a second swing, and once again he barely managed to twitch out of the way in time to avoid another brutal barrage of breakfast. By this time Runch knew both what his foe was up to and what he could do in lieu of his less-effective grapeshot. From above, Cyril heard the captain cry, “Bori Bori Firehose!” and he looked up in time to see an entire stream of pellets barreling down on him. With wide eyes he attempted to finish his readied chop -the last needed to send Runch hurtling down from his high horse- but before his halberd could cut deep enough the cascade hit him. It bowled him over, battering every inch of his body with its constant bombardment, until it finally rolled him out of effective range. More bruised than a seaman's anti-scurvy fruit supply, he brought himself to his feet about twenty feet from the tower in time to hear Runch announce, “Hellberry Blast!”

Cyril raised his shield to block, but his enemy's shot was not aimed at his shield. The rough orb burst apart against the ground between Cyril's feet. In the next split second, dragged on into what seemed like forever thanks to his adrenaline, the vanguard could see all too clearly the plume of flame unfurling beneath him.

“Gaaaaaaagh!” The explosion blew Cyril off his feet, throwing his smoking form up and back. He landed heavily on his side, burned as well as bruised, and only found the strength to starting dragging himself up into a stooped stance after a full second had passed. When he looked up, he saw the tower teetering, and thought with a grim smile that for all the pain he felt his mission had been a success. Then he noticed the smile on Runch's face, and that the cereal pillar teetered toward him.

Gritting his teeth, Cyril dove sideways, and the pillar crashed onto the cobblestone where he'd struggled seconds before. A still bitterer frown took hold of the vanguard as he noticed that Runch did not appear to have fallen with it. When he glanced the way from which the tower toppled, he spotted the pirate atop a second emplacement, newly arisen mere inches to the left of the base of the old. The sight, one of frustrating futility, caused Cyril's grip on his weapon to tighten as he stared up at the pirate's grin.

Even though I'm the better fighter, this is going to be hard. The hardest I've ever faced. He swung his glaive around into a ready position, and began to move.

The situation kept Cyril at a tremendous disadvantage, and he knew it. It appeared that his opponent had no limit as to how much of that material he could generate, or at the very least his upper limit was so great that he needn’t worry about approaching it in this fight. That Runch had simply sidestepped to a new pillar as easily as a single skip along the street after all the effort Cyril had to throw into taking that first tower down, then to have the pirate look down on him with that smile, Runch was mocking him. He had to keep up the pressure, get in close. Then he’d have the advantage again.

The vanguard lodged the business end of his glaive into this new pillar. Then he mustered all his mighty strength, muscles tightening with tension, and pulled himself upward in the strongest pull up he’d ever performed in his life. Even that wouldn’t have allowed him a full ascension of course, and so he called upon his sheen ability once more to propel like a rocket, his weapon dislodging from the pillar in the same motion. Cereal pellets rained down on him, striking off his armor or bouncing away from his shield, like an annoying storm he’d have to weather through. At the apex of his jump Cyril swung his weapon with the intent to hook the head around his foe, and yet the pirate was ready for him.

“Omnomnom!” came Runch’s laughter as the two met eyes. Runch held his pistol in one hand, leveled right for the knight’s face. Bang! The gunshot echoed across the area as the weapon unloaded its ammunition true. Splat! The shot didn’t hit with great force, it caused no injury, but instead splattered across the vanguard’s helm. He could no longer see the fruits of his labor, a most frustrating turn of events, but he could at least feel. Though his balance had been destroyed, he still sensed his glaive hook into his opponent, and even heard the Cereal Killer’s grunt of pain.

A split second later both combatants were falling: Cyril on bottom, dragging Runch down slightly above him. Though he had been pierced in the back, Runch fought through the pain and thought quickly, his eyes narrowing upon the rapidly approaching ground in a steely gaze. He could survive such an impact with only superficial injuries, but could his opponent? If the amount of armor worn was any indicator, well, best not to think too deeply into things. ”Bori bori whoopie!” he called out, his hand outstretched. A large sphere of grain generated from his palm, like a deformed balloon, stretching past Cyril. It soon collided with the earth below, sinking downward a bit, and immediately afterward both fighters hit the surface of the cereal balloon. Each man’s grunts were drowned out in a shower of cereal pellets exploding outward in every direction, the “balloon” letting out a noise that distinctly sounded like, well, like someone had a very poor breakfast indeed.

Runch was the first to rise, looking around for his pistol that had been dropped in the fall, but to no avail. It had been lost somewhere in the hill-sized cereal mound. He slid down, tumbled really, to the bottom and recovered his footing. Cyril attempted to stand, but with his vision blocked he was unaware of his footing. Expecting somewhat solid ground beneath him, his leg slipped and the knight tumbled down the opposite end of the mound. Inwardly he cursed at being made to look such a fool.

Once able to rise, Sir Boniface used his left hand in an attempt to clear his helmet’s visor of the gunk, to liberate his vision once more. As soon as the fingers swept across, they stopped moving, held in place. Cyril’s lip curled in anger and he pulled his hand back hard as he could, but it made no difference: his gauntlet had become stuck to the visor as though it were welded! Not wanting to waste anymore time, he slipped his hand free from the confines of its gauntlet and pulled the helmet off as well. A cursory observation confirmed what he had felt; the two pieces of armor had indeed been stuck together by some sort of dark brown substance, a powerful adhesive unlike any he’d experienced before. However, the situation was not as critical as initially feared, for his foe could not be seen in the immediate vicinity. Quickly he worked to adjust the screw in his head for the boon it could provide.

Meanwhile Runch looked quizzically to his left, and then to his right. His opponent was nowhere to be seen. His head cocked as he thought that maybe Cyril had been buried in the cereal mound? Oh dear, that wouldn’t be ideal. Ah, but of course! “A few strands short of a full wheat bale today, Runch!” he joked to himself with a little tap on the head. Naturally the other fighter had to have landed on the other side of the hill he had made. Some days common sense just didn’t feel all that common.

“Fair warning, I’m coming now! Omnomnom! Bori bori jet!” The cereal man propelled forward with a stream of grain constantly ejecting from the back of his feet. Skillfully he skated up the mound, figuring Cyril would have expected him to be coming around the side. Spoonsaber in hand he launched from the tip of the cereal hill, and immediately spotted his armored foe. “Bori bori grapeshot!” he called, flinging a scattered assault of nearly a hundred cereal pellets down toward Cyril, each with the density and weight of a proper cannonball.

The Knight Sylvestre turned to meet his foe’s attack head on, eyes squinted in determination. Calculations rushed through his mind at speeds the knight never knew possible before this day. The pellets moved toward him in slow motion, allowing him to account for each one, all ninety-seven. The angles, trajectory, if he did not take action he would be struck by thirty-one. Twenty-nine of them would hit his armor with enough force to bowl him over, while two would strike his head. Chances of survival if this were allowed to take place were forty-eight percent. Chances of incapacitation were ninety-six. The screw gave him the calculations he needed. With one hand he brought up his shield to guard his left shoulder. With the other his polearm swung up, striking the first of the cereal spheres on the back of the weapon’s head. Next he twisted his weapon forty-six degree counterclockwise, hitting more of the projectiles with just enough force to throw off their course.

The passage of time returned to normal, and the vanguard witnessed the fruits of his calculations. Each pellet that had been struck changed course ever so slightly and like a collection of billiard balls collided together, which struck another, and another, throwing nearly all of the projectiles off course. Some missed the mark completely while others flew threw the knight’s hair. A single pellet collided with his shield, which he braced for, and fell to the ground. His movements had been so subdued, so subtle, and yet perfectly calculated for this exact outcome.

“... Huh…” Runch barely breathed as he landed a little distance away, his mouth hanging open. He then burst out into laughter. “Omnomnomnom! Suffering strawberries, that was amazing! I really underestimated that screw! Omnomnom!”

Cyril wasted no time, unlike the fool before him. Deftly he hurled his shield straight for Runch, analyzing and calculating the trajectory. “Woah!” Runch ducked down low, and Cyril shot forth with his sheen, glaive outstretched and ready to pierce his enemy’s body. However the pirate was ready for such a tactic. Thanks to the foreknowledge of the journal, and the reduction in speed from his earlier trap, Runch caught the polearm against his spoonsaber, the serrated edges locking the axehead in place. The pirate smirked and held out his hand. “Bori bori cannonb-urk!”

Thwang! The knight’s shield struck the Cereal Killer in the back of the head on a return trip. If he were the type to celebrate before victory had been assured, Cyril would’ve congratulated himself on measuring the angles of his toss, ensuring his shield would ricochet back. Thankfully his foe had stood ground instead of dodging the charge. Taking advantage of the captain’s disorientation, Cyril dislodged his weapon and slashed across Runch’s chest. Blood spattered out from the wound, but he wasn’t done yet.

Runch attempted to step back, but Cyril knew he couldn’t let his foe gain any distance. Every move he made was nuanced and calculated, his strategy focused by the screw in his head. With the tip of his weapon down low, he twisted the shaft in order to hook Runch by the ankle. The pirate fell over like an untreated sack of grain. Next was the thrust; Cyril aimed to slice the pirate’s calves and immobilize him, the same as he had done to Juniper.

His weapon never made contact with his foe’s leg. Instead a layer of cereal rapidly grew outward from where his glaive struck, sinking in a good two inches, but failing to break any skin. “Bori bori greaves. And! Power kick!”

The cap’n kicked upward with his other leg, which had also grown leg armor, and shot off that armor straight for Cyril’s unprotected face. Backing off, the vanguard gave himself the room he needed to parry the attack, intending to sheen back into position before Runch could gain any more ground. He was wrong.

“Bori bori eruption: Sparklepop Recipe!” From every pore on his body, every square inch of skin, burst forth an uncountable, insurmountable wave of cereal pellets. The wave was harmless to one of Cyril’s strength and fortitude, but it still kept him back. Yet that was hardly the most impressive aspect of this maneuver. The cereal pellets shone a bright light, each one different. Some purple, some red, some yellow and green, it was a rainbow assault of the eyes, like a hundred thousands multi-colored torches forced right in his face. For the second time in this battle, Sir Boniface had been temporarily blinded.

The Knight Sylvestre cursed the cowardly tactics of the Cereal Killer, rubbing his eyes as his mustache twitched in agitation. The sentiment only intensified as soon as he recovered his visual acuity. Rather than take the opportunity to strike him blind, Runch had used his recovery time to… Create a ton of clones of himself?!

Surrounded on all sides, Cyril attempted to count them all, but found he couldn’t keep track. At some point his screw had lost adjustment, leaving him to his own senses. By his best guess there were about three dozen Runch’s surrounding him, all in different poses, each one completely immobile. Statues?

“Omnomnomnomnom!” echoed the voice of K. Runch throughout the battlefield. “How do you like my bori bori mascot surprise?” Cyril spun about on his heel, keeping a watch out for his backside. “Just one of these replicas contains the nutrition you’d need for a whole month! Omnomnomnom!”

Cyril’s ears twitched as he attempted to work out what direction the voice had come from. Damn, he couldn’t tell. A hand slowly drifted up to the screw, but then retracted. No, that’s when the pirate would strike.

“So much berry goodness all around you, omnomnom! But only one with a soul. So which one is your chef?”

---

Metal and energy clashed as two swords struck together. It was clear from the moment they crossed blades the first time that the shrine maiden was the stronger of the two, despite having but one arm. However what Erina lacked in raw strength she made up for with the experience of a master class assassin. When it was clear she would be overpowered, the fox girl stepped to the side and let Juniper take her ground, overswinging the blade of hard energy. Erina took advantage in this break of her opponent’s form to quickly throw a knife into the ground between them, nary an inch from Juniper’s toes. A message of sorts.

“It seems I have underestimated the spirit within you,” began the shrine maiden. “But he is still far from a divine emperor.” She took stance, readying a thrust.

Erina backed away, but kept her posture ready to fight. At the same moment she summoned three wisps of ethereal fire. “We don’t need to fight,” she uttered simply.

“I know.” Juniper’s reply was curt as she thrust her sword forward. Erina swiftly parried to the side and maneuvered her wisps around the other woman’s head.

“Stand down or I will incinerate your brain!” she lied, drawing upon Bend’s confidence to make it more believable. Despite that, her opponent hardly looked convinced.

“I sense no danger from your parlor trick, little one.” She dispelled a flame with the tip of her blade.

Little one?! I am older than you by thousands of years, child!

“You seem to have forgotten that I hold sway over the spirits and the dead as well. Did you believe I would be fooled? A shrine acolyte wouldn’t have been as gullible.” With a wave of her hand, the maiden dissipated the remaining two flames, and charged with a small battle cry. She swung her blade down, fast and with great strength.

Erina barely had the opportunity to react. Though she had Bend’s expertise, her body still wasn’t the most conditioned for combat purposes. Thankfully the instincts kicked in, and the kitsune managed to roll off to the side, simultaneously creating an illusion of herself to mirror her dodge in the opposite direction. Each one stood up and held her katana to Juniper, the steel reflecting in her eyes.

“Curious. Illusions now?” Juniper smirked.

“I want to talk,” spoke Erina in stereo.

The shrine maiden rested her eyes on the real Erina, though it wasn’t clear if she did so out of luck, or if she had figured it out. “Curious. About what?”

Erina read Juniper’s body language, read her eyes. The killer instincts she had borrowed told her there was no immediate danger. She had to take a risk. The katana’s shine and durability faded to rust, and she sheathed it, the illusion duplicate following the same actions.

You should never give your opponent the opening they need, chided Bend.

Hopefully, if this gesture of good will works, she won’t be my opponent anymore.

“We are both out of the tournament,” began the exorcist. “And so we have no stake in battle any longer, but that doesn’t mean we cannot work toward our wishes. Our dreams.”

Juniper raised an eyebrow. Though she dismissed the blade of energy, she did not relax. “Go on.”

“We should, uh, trade notes?” Erina awkwardly rubbed the back of her head. “Exchange tips and such? Two masters such as we, there’s a great many things we could learn from one another, don’t you agree?”

Juniper chuckled slightly, finally relaxing her fighting posture. She brought a hand up to cover her laughter like a proper lady of the shrine. “I suppose we could. I have been frustrated with the proceedings of this event, and needed to take out that frustration in a fight. Do not worry about your ghost ally; it was never my intention to seal him, just to encourage your battle spirit. But I see you have none, and so I see no reason we cannot collaborate.”

Brucie fiddled with the new water cannon he had been gifted, prodding and poking it with his index-claw, ooh-ing and aah-ing at every other moment. Lily had a hard time not picturing him, as some sort of child adoring its Christmas present. He had little in the way of facial expressions, but his humming and poking was enough to clue her in on the fact, that he very much enjoyed his new toy. Not that she could blame him, she had found that her guilty pleasure was clothes, once she had gotten money for the first time. Picking out clothes from one day to the other was a luxury she'd never had before she enlisted into the Academy.

"This thing is pretty neat, innit?" He asked her, looking up for the first time in a while. She'd had to almost guide him to avoid him walking straight into walls.

"It is," she replied automatically. "Do you remember his instructions on how it works?"

Brucie nodded sharply. "Clench my fist to fire a normal jet. Press my hand on top, then fire, to make a water bomb."

Lily glanced back at him, eyebrow arced. He had actually remembered. "Good," she said and face forward again. She could see the entrance to the dining hall ahead of them. "Make sure you remember."

Brucie did a mock salute and chuckled, but otherwise did not comment further, as they were at the entrance to the dining hall. Lily pushed it open and walked inside, immediately noting the stark difference in decour. Where the rest of the castle seemed extravagant in its design, the dining hall was spartan by comparison. A single, bell-shaped table dominated the room, but it offered little else bit that and the chairs in terms of furniture and decoration. That being said, the table seemed of incredible quality. She was by no means a connoisseur on matters such as those, but even she could recognise when something was well made.

She dipped her chin towards Carreau, the minimal sign of respect required and the most she was willing the offer, acknowleding his presence and silently thanking him for allowing her to dine with them. She was thankful for not having to utter the words, as she was sure they would have made her gag.

One comment in particular, however, struck a chord within her, and she had to dig her nails into the chair was she currently pulling out for herself, to avoid laughing or making a comment. Humility was a term he must come to better terms with, was it? She forced herself to relax and sat down, uttering a quiet "thank you," as the slime girl—Verrine, was it?—poured some stew for both her and Brucie. For once she agreed with Carreau. He certainly needed to get better acquainted with humility, for as it was he was one of the most pompous and arrogant people she had ever had the displeasure to meet. Alas, their goals were similar enough that they worked together, so insofar as he did not become overbearing and started to truly embody the sin of pride, she could keep her opinions in check.

Brucie was quick to start eating and Lily was not far behind, though she managed to keep her appetite in check until he had eaten some first. When he didn't immediately get sick she felt it safe to take the first bite as well, and it was better than she had expected. A far cry from Tsukiko's cooking, but still good. She ate in contemplative silence, one ear turned towards Carreau at all times. Partially a safety precaution to pick up the sound of any sudden movements.

When she finally pushed her plate away, signifying she was done, she turned her attention fully towards Carreau. She crossed her arms and chewed on her lips, tails restless behind her. "You spoke of helping me win the tournament," she began, speaking slowly and clearly. "How do you intend to do that, exactly?" The question was perhaps an obvious one, but if she had learned anything in her years of being a soldier amongst angels, demons and monsters, it was that you had to know as much as possible, for there were things you could scarcely imagine waiting out there for you.