Kisatsu had remained slumped against the wall, eyes stripped of their earlier spark, replaced by the gloomy weight of self-deprecation.
His arms curled around his knees, head buried to hide himself away from the rest of the world.
He didn’t even look toward the corpses of Farnz and Aubrey.
He just stayed there, small, drained, hollow.
Why…
did it just ignore me?
The candlelight flickered with a faint rustle beside him, yet the light didn’t quite reach his dim, violet eyes.
Was I so weak it didn’t even notice I was there?
He lifted his head, finally forcing himself to look at the corpses in the shadows.
Makes sense.
Those two didn’t even stand a chance, but they still went up against something I couldn’t touch.
It’s a joke.
He tried to stand, legs pushing him slowly off the ground.
Man…
I’m not even in their league.
Each step was slow, heavy, barely holding him together—the weight of shock more than exhaustion.
He stopped before the bodies, scanning them with a useless, detached gaze.
The sight should’ve given him the urge to vomit, but in that moment, all he could think about was how useless he was against a monster like that.
Nothing had changed.
Not even since he’d saved Thanduin.
He bit his lower lip until he tasted copper.
Why then?
His fists clenched, nails biting into his palm.
Why is it always the weak ones like me who get through, and the strong ones don’t?
I’m not even smart enough to make up for being this useless.
Anyone could just walk in here and beat me to death, easily.
He turned toward the staircase and began the climb.
He stalked past Rasnes’s torn cadaver, eyes catching the shape of it but refusing to linger as he took the stairs with slow, measured steps.
***
“Oi—are you quite alright?
You look a bit peaky.” Ichett stood before Ruvenne, brow furrowed.
“Is the core doing something funny?”
Ruvenne forced himself to look up and managed a thin, strained smile.
“I’m fine.” His eyes returned to the core as he sealed it within a small, transparent box that glowed with a yellow hue, finally severing the connection with his own Rage.
“I’m hanging onto this for now—still need to suss out where this Rage came from.”
And why it’s here.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully before meeting Ichett’s gaze.
“When the puppet was nicked, was the core already charged?”
“Doubt it.
Highly unlikely.
These manikins haven’t been in use for an age.
The last time one was deployed was years ago—even if there’d been leftover Rage in the cell, it would’ve leaked away until it was bone-dry by now.” Ichett’s voice remained steady, arms folded.
“Given how much was left—and how long it spent on the rampage—it’s definitely been primed recently.
By the thieves themselves.” He turned his gaze toward the cloister.
“Before I got here, I ran into the suspect myself.
Tried to put a stop to him, but that bloody manikin was right in his wake.”
Did they have Xavior’s Rage prepared, then?
Even so, how did they get their hands on it?
Ruvenne’s blue eyes narrowed.
“I’d like to look into the thief and the lot involved in this business.”
Ichett looked back.
“Ah…
well, I’d wager only the main thief is still standing, in that case.” He paused, arms unfurling to rest on his hips.
“The fact that the manikin made it to the surface—from God knows where—means it must’ve already done for the other suspects.”
His eyes flicked to the core, then back to Ruvenne as he shrugged.
“Still, what’s the plan once we’ve nabbed the one that’s left?”
“I have a certain question to ask,” Ruvenne said, voice dropping an octave.
“The manikin may be sorted, but we’ve got far bigger problems on our hands.”
“Such as?” Ichett’s head tilted slightly to the side, gaze sharpening.
“What are you getting at, Ruvenne?”
“The Rage in this cell…
it’s a match for Xavior Ashira’s.”
The familiarity was too sharp to doubt.
“Xavior, you say?
That…
that doesn’t add up.
Why would it be his?
That man was dead and buried before the manikin was even nicked.”
He took a step closer, voice losing its evenness.
“Do you…
have any clue about this?
Those suspects—how the hell did they get access to it?”
Ruvenne didn’t offer an immediate answer.
He stared at the core held behind the transparent, glowing barrier, eyes clouded with sheer disbelief.
Leftover Rage from the battle nineteen years back?
No…
they’re up to something else entirely if they’ve gone to the trouble of using Xavior’s signature to pilot this thing.
A spatter of blood hit the barrier.
Ruvenne’s gaze snapped to Ichett’s stunned, frozen expression, then down to his chest.
A sharp, blood-slicked claw had jutted through his ribs, bursting from behind.
Ruvenne leaped away, face stretched with horror.
Ichett was hoisted into the air, lifted by the manikin looming in his shadow as he coughed up a spray of crimson.
“Ichett!” Ruvenne’s voice pierced the air, a useless, desperate call.
How…
how in God’s name…
is this monster still going?
Ichett writhed on the puppet’s outstretched arm, hands clawing at the greasy wooden surface.
Ruvenne didn’t hesitate.
A silver trident plummeted from the sky, severing the manikin’s arm clean off with a sharp, mechanical creak.
Ichett collapsed to the ground, thudding heavily against the dirt.
“Tch!
I let my guard down—but how?!” Ruvenne’s voice cracked through the air.
“The battery’s already out!
How is it still moving?!”
The puppet leaped back, another trident skewering its torso.
Ichett shuffled against the grit, one hand hovering uselessly over the severed claws still buried in his chest.
This…
this is impossible.
How…
how can this happening?
His gaze darted back to the puppet, breath sawing in shaky, shallow pants.
The manikin tore the trident from its chest, the wood splintering with a sharp, dry crack.
Ruvenne watched the violent hum of the Rage coursing through the puppet’s frame.
The Rage hasn’t spent itself—the thing is running on nothing else.
Of course.
Xavior’s Rage is radioactive—it won’t be absorbed.
Is this thing meant to just…
keep going?
He brought his palms together, aiming at the manikin.
He inhaled a deep, steadying breath, charging the attack.
“Bipolar Penance!”
Two lobes emerged—one before his hand, the other on the far end, behind the manikin.
Blue energy erupted, surging until the two points connected, scouring everything in its path.
The burst took a lenticular shape—a focused gamma ray—tapering at the ends.
At the very center, the blast is at its strongest.
Anything outside the lobes’ path remains untouched, provided they’re clear of the core.
Maximized damage, minimal mess.
At this range, the manikin shouldn’t have a prayer of standing up to it.
The puppet jerked aside a heartbeat before the violent blue reached it.
The catch, naturally…
is the wind-up.
I could’ve pinned it with the lasso, but I can’t hold both threads at once.
A single burst of this costs as much as a hundred casts of the rope.
The instant the burst connected, it vanished, leaving only half the machine’s torso intact.
Ruvenne let out a heavy breath, shoulders dropping as the light faded.
Just a second…
The puppet stumbled backward, wood grinding as it tried to regain its balance.
Ruvenne watched every movement, eyes keen, poised to strike at any moment.
“Still…
standing?” Ichett’s voice shook with palpable disbelief.
“After all that?
Even without the battery?” He tried to stand, legs wavering, drawing Ruvenne’s attention.
“Stay where you are,” Ruvenne commanded, fingers splayed against him.
“You’re in a bad way—”
“I know!” Ichett snapped, turning toward the crippled effigy.
“But while that thing’s still on its feet, I don’t have the right to sit this one out.”
“Can you do anything for that wound?
I’ve got this.” Ruvenne glanced at the claw in Ichett’s chest, then toward the puppet.
“The manikin is on its last legs anyway.
Just stay put and hold the bleeding.”
A beat.
The manikin’s hollow gaze toward the stairwell.
Ichett and Ruvenne followed the look, their own eyes flickering with puzzlement.
A boy’s silhouette had risen, slouched against the stone wall, hand clutching his flank as if vulnerable.
Kisatsu stopped mid-motion, fingers twitching on the railing.
Ichett moved—then broke into a dash toward Kisatsu without thinking.
But his pace faltered, each step heavier than the last, something unseen dragging at him.
The puppet closed the distance first.
“Wait!” His voice cut through the air, a desperate plea.
He’d seen a student die—he wouldn’t let it happen again.
Shit!
I need the lasso again, but there’s no time!
Ruvenne stiffened, looking down at his hands, fingers hooking so hard his knuckles turned white before he gazed back toward the stairwell.
I’m not going to make it!
Ichett raised his hand toward the manikin, a frantic gesture.
Time seemed to stall.
Just the one word.
I’ve always made the incantation as short as I possibly could.
My Rage ability involves an invisible beast that won’t move without the call.
It’s the quickest strike I have—but even then, I don’t think I’ll beat it to the boy.
His lips parted, a wild crease forming at the sides of his mouth.
“Sp—”
Kisatsu didn’t move.
His eyes were wide circles, frozen as if the world had come to a stop.
The priest flashed before him, followed by the deafening roar of the white dragon submerging into the thick silence of the standstill.
The puppet loomed like the Partian from Hamburn City, an incident that hadn’t left his body since he’d stood to shield Thanduin.
The familiar, violet heat from his dream smeared across his body again—but this time, he was wide awake.
A moment where he could finally remember it.
The same noise thrummed through his ears, yet his feet remained heavy, rooted to the spot.
The sound of compression.
The effigy’s wooden frame groaned under a sudden, impossible pressure before it could even lunge.
A split-second later, only a tiny shard of flattened wood—all that remained of the manikin—hovered in the air.
Kisatsu stumbled back, hitting the edge of the stairwell’s topmost tread.
His eyes stayed fixed on the scrap as it dropped to the flagstones, a faint clack echoing in the cloister.
What…
What was that just now?
His breath caught, lips shuddering.
Is it…
Is it over already?
“—urn!” Ichett finished, eyes focused on the space where the manikin had been whole.
But the attack never came, stolen by a soft gust of wind brushing against his palm.
What?
The effect didn’t feel like his own.
All he could do was repel a target, not crush it.
He came to a halt, feet skidding against the grass.
His gaze shifted to the boy, then back to the wooden shard on the flagstones.
Pressure?
That wasn’t me.