Alistare stroked his chin for a second longer, then straightened.
“No point in knowing—he’s only just kicked the bucket.”
Kisatsu didn’t need to hear a name.
Whenever someone looked at him like that, he already knew who they were referencing.
Alistare stepped into the center of the group, then took a deep, measured breath.
“I’ll just give you the gist of what the Reco Team is.
In short, the lot of you are the young knights who’ve got the most potential out of the pack.” His voice rang through the air, gaze flicking between each of them.
“Currently, there’re five of you, with the other two out on a quest at the moment.”
He tossed a pair of Knight licenses lightly toward Kisatsu and Rivulet.
“Easy with those, you two.”
Rivulet caught the card, fumbling as it rebounded against his tremulous hands.
You’re the one who tossed them!
“Whenever you’re looking to take on a quest, the guild receptionist will need to see those for confirmation,” Alistare said.
Kisatsu studied the license, encased in a thin layer of glass, flipping it over as if memorizing its weight.
“If you ever go and break it or lose it, you can ask the Guild’s superintendents to sort you out with another one.
Though, I’d warn you they’re a lot less approachable than I am.” He popped his knuckles and stepped back, nodding for Astafa to come over.
“Right then.
I’ll tell you how this demonstration is going to work.”
Astafa stalked up to him, gait stiff, mechanical, then turned to Rivulet and Kisatsu.
“This lad here is Astafa Kindleton.
He’s another candidate the Team’s only just taken on before you two turned up,” Alistare said, gesturing to the boy.
“Now, his spot here is already sorted—unconditional.
You lot just need to hold your own against him in a proper scrap, and then I’ll have you in.”
Astafa cast a cold, sidelong glance at him.
“That mean I’ve got free rein to go all-out, sir?”
“I’ll leave the evaluation to you.
If you reckon they’ve done enough to match your skills, give me a nod.” Alistare’s voice was low, stern.
“Otherwise, don’t you stop until you’re satisfied.”
He walked back and flumped onto the chair, the plastic creaking precariously beneath his weight as he rested his foot on his lap.
Rivulet gave Kisatsu a knowing nod, signaling he’d go first.
Kisatsu stepped outside their range, a strong gust of wind blowing against him as an aircraft lifted off nearby.
Rivulet stood poised several paces from Astafa, hands raised slightly in a defensive stance.
His violet eyes were fixed on Astafa’s tangerine ones, keen, calculating.
Just from the stance, Kisatsu noticed a shift.
Back when they had battled the puppet, Rivulet had never assumed a posture this wary, let alone this precise.
“Commence!” Alistare’s yell resounded across the field.
The air swept.
Rivulet lost track of Astafa for a beat, eyes darting.
Astafa had glided low, fist driving upward, aiming for the jaw.
Just as he was about to strike, he caught the violet glint from Rivulet’s eyes looking down into him.
Rivulet’s palms were already brought together like a screen, only waiting for the blow to land.
The fist came to a halt an inch from Rivulet’s shielding palms.
Even without contact, the sheer momentum forced Rivulet to recoil, stumbling back a step.
Astafa stood still, unflinching.
“…Why did you stop?” Rivulet asked, eyes frozen with a note of confusion.
A faint smirk tugged at the corners of Astafa’s lips.
He’s more bothered about why I stopped than how I got to him before he could even blink.
His brow arched in quiet amusement.
Or perhaps he doesn’t blink at all?
“I’m satisfied.” His judgement came out clipped.
“You’ll do.” He turned to Alistare and gave a deliberate, enthusiastic nod.
Kisatsu couldn’t help another gulp after the fight—though barely—ended, jaw clamped tight.
He’d watched hopelessly, unsure if he’d even seen anything aside from the quick, unexpected blur that had almost escaped his carefully concentrated attention.
Rivulet plodded over and gave him a firm but friendly nudge forward, his own way of cheering him up silently.
“He’s just a bit faster than that puppet was on the highest training setting.
You’ll be fine.”
Kisatsu turned to him with a slow, baffled motion.
The smile on Rivulet’s face did anything but help.
A bit faster, you say?
That makes it not even a little better!
He glanced toward Astafa, who rolled his arms casually as if the fight with Rivulet were merely a warm-up.
Desperate for any trace of the muscle memory that had helped him beat the manikin, Kisatsu pleaded for it to resurface, stepping forward.
The only reason I won last time was because my one-shot attack hit properly.
His brows knit in uncertainty.
Against someone like this guy, my chances to pull off the same attack will be much lower.
He tried to hold an upright posture, though it stooped the moment his focus slipped.
In this week, I’ve only learned how to channel my Rage faster, but I still can’t sense people by their Rage like Professor Ruvenne did.
He bent his knees instinctively, bringing his hands to his chin.
Alistare observed every shift, an expecting smirk creeping onto his face.
“Commence!”
Kisatsu’s eyes sharpened the moment the word ended, fixed on the spot where Astafa had been standing like a predator in wait.
It was too late.
The next second, he felt a blunt, penetrating force hit his chest—a huge iron fist that bloomed through his sternum.
The strike hurled him immediately to the ground, his body bouncing with a series of dull, heavy thumps.
The sight instantly drew a confounded frown from Alistare.
Astafa lingered, staring down at Kisatsu with a deadpan, clinical gaze, fist still hovering in the air where the blow had landed.
How fragile.
Astafa’s eyes hooded coldly.
It feels like I’ve just punched a kitten.
Kisatsu lay sprawled on the asphalt like a limp soldier, hands clutching tremulously at his chest—at the spot where Astafa had just struck him.
I can’t breathe…
I can’t…
breathe.
His voice dissolved into a red, salt-tasting mist in the back of his throat, a cold radiator coursing frost through his veins—colder than the air he’d been inhaling that morning.
The apron was a blur of grey and yellow lights now—the sky had swapped places with the ground.
The broad facade of the terminal felt as if it might suddenly tilt, a jagged, gray cliff falling toward him.
Every breath he attempted was a knife cutting through his throat.
Rivulet watched from the distance, nails digging into his palms as he restratined the urge to intervene.
He’d left Kisatsu back then—the least he could do now was to feel the weight of his own pity.
Astafa, however, stood unperturbed, expression a mechanical mask, devoid of ruth.
He glanced at his fist, memorizing the fragile weight it had met, then looked back toward Kisatsu.
I didn’t even play dirty.
I honestly thought he’d have the sense to block it.
His hand lowered with a flat, casual shrug.
Hm.
Suppose I expected too much.
If I’d really wanted to be dirty, I’d have gone straight for his neck.
Kisatsu mustered his remaining strength to force air into his lungs until the first breath broke, ragged, erratic.
Alistare peered through the boy, tracing the jitter of the Rage fluctuation beneath the skin.
Hmm.
His Rage seems steady enough—nothing out of the ordinary yet.
I’m just waiting for the lad to show a glimmer of this natural regeneration.
He rubbed his beard patiently, arms crossed.
Is he a Partian?
If he is, he doesn’t seem to have a clue about it.
He closed his eyes, mapping the possibilities.
If it’s a case like Astafa’s, I’ll leave the training with him and be done with it.
If not…
well, it’d seem his regeneration only crops up when he’s properly at death’s door.
Harlan said that stray Partian in Hamburn practically finished him off, and that was the one and only time he used it to save his skin.
His eyes reopened, half-lidded.
Perhaps I ought to ship him off on a few life-threatening quests for a bit of exposure, then?
Kisatsu’s breath came labored, heaving, gaze fixed on the sky above as if it were the only anchor he had against fainting.
For a brief, agonizing second, he saw a faint, unmistakable purple hue thrumming through grey.
It was the same thing he’d seen in the dream.
Astafa sauntered toward him, the temperature dropping with each approaching step.
Kisatsu’s gaze lowered to him, one hand darting from his chest to the concrete to prop himself up.
Nothing special about him to get worked up over, Astafa muttered under his breath, tangerine eyes darkening.
This one’s nothing but a proper neophyte.
His steps were blurred to Kisatsu as he stopped before him, gaze frosty, unreadable.
“What’s the matter?
I didn’t use my Rage to back up that strike.” His voice was low, dripping with venom.
“Is this your first time taking a proper hit?”
Alistare squinted from the distance, sensing something was wrong.
The lad looks like he’s about to go over any second now.
He peered at the spot where Astafa had hit Kisatsu, checking for crimson.
There are no wounds—there wouldn’t be, not from a blunt strike like that.
The closest he’d get to bleeding is coughing it up.
He paused, turning another possibility over.
Did he use natural regeneration to heal himself up on the inside?
If that’s the case, I won’t be able to tell, will I?
He took a step forward, just enough for his call to reach them.
“Astafa, lad.” His eyes narrowed with hesitation.
This might sound a bit ruthless, but I won’t see a thing otherwise.
“Use sharper attacks,” he said, voice steady, uncompromising.
“Make him bleed a bit.
I want to see if he can mend himself.”
Rivulet turned toward him, eyes widening with a mix of surprise and horror.
His hand rose to protest before he stopped midway, pulling it back.
I suppose it’s down on me to decide if he’s got a spot on the Team.
Alistare’s face crinkled as he watched them, gaze stern, focused.
If he can pull off this regeneration, he’s in.
Just need to see it for myself.
It’s fairly clear he can’t keep up with Astafa as he is, so I’ll just have to lower the bar a bit.
Astafa turned toward him, then back to Kisatsu.
He flexed his elbow, a stiff, deliberate snap.
Kisatsu’s eyes followed every movement, breath still uneven, but his focus shifted forward.
The transformation was slow, but more graceful than any movement Astafa had made.
Scales of hunter green embedded in his skin, hand extending and morphing into a sharp dark thorn that swallowed the entire elbow.
A row of barbs sat atop the needle, the shape resembling the ancient animalism of a bee’s stinger.
A mask of terror instantly clouded Kisatsu’s expression, so heavy it seemed to pin him to the ground.
His body shivered—the only movement amid his frozen state.
“Sorry about this, but I’ve been told to draw blood.” Astafa’s voice carried a cold finality.
“The overseer wants a look at what’s inside you.” He lowered his arm, Kisatsu’s eyes following the lethal sharpness of the point.
“Which means I’ll only be stopping once you’ve gone and mended yourself.”
He marched toward Kisatsu with slow, menacing steps.
Kisatsu’s consciousness finally snapped back as he pushed himself up, forcing his legs to hold even as his knees shook.
He retreated with each step Astafa took, desperately maintaining the distance.
“W-Wait!
I still don’t know how I can do that on purpose!” His voice broke, cracked, uneven, palms raised against Astafa in a defensive plea.
“Then I’ll just have to force the issue,” Astafa resonded with the same cold tone, refusing to yield.
“Don’t worry, I needn’t to kill you to get the job done.
Though that makes it a bit of a bore, really—having to pull my punches so you don’t bleed out too quickly.”
Kisatsu didn’t stop walking.
This has to be a nightmare!
It has to be!
I’ve never expected the demonstration is like this!
He glanced toward Rivulet, then back to Astafa, who advanced like an executioner.
And why the hell do I get a different treatment?
Are you mad at me or something?
Did I…
piss you off back then when I looked at you?
He saw Falley’s and Aubrey’s mangled corpses resurface in his mind.
Before he could picture Rasnes’s, he forced the image back down, refusing to see the slickness of the organs that had leaked from the severed torso.
At that moment, part of his resolve began to crumble.