A small group of people strolled casually past Rivulet and Alistare without glancing their way, as if the two didn’t exist.
Rivulet’s gaze trailed after them, brows furrowing in pure puzzlement as the crowd moved through the space they occupied without a hint of recognition.
His eyes jumped to Alistare, then to Kisatsu and Astafa, before flicking back to the overseer.
“Sir Alistare, are we in a dimension?”
Alistare gave him a sidelong glance, arms folded steadily.
“Sharp of you.
You noticed?”
“N-Not exactly.
It’s just that the people passing by don’t seem to have a look at us, do they?”
Alistare looked toward the distant group of passersby.
“Spot on.
I activated it the moment Kisatsu and Astafa arrived.
It’s not a spatial one, though—you won’t get out just by wandering off far enough.” He turned his gaze forward, voice even.
“I select which people to veil, and we’ll stay invisible to the rest of the world until I decide otherwise.”
The lowest form, eh?
Rivulet couldn’t help but condemn it, though he preferred not to say it aloud lest the overseer turned that gaze on him.
“Which also means any damage or casualties we rack up during the test won’t show in the real world,” Alistare added, gaze fixed ahead.
“The four of us can’t lay a finger on anyone outside this dimension.
We’re in a different plane entirely, essentially.”
Well now.
That does sound a bit of all right.
Rivulet simpered, a quiet, defeated sort of amusement.
Bright crimson splattered against the asphalt, hot liquid dripping from the tip of Astafa’s dark, predatory stinger.
The two stood motionless, their backs to one another.
Kisatsu’s elbows, crossed into a shield for his body, had been slashed thin seconds ago.
The slit was deep enough that the veins were sundered, blood sliding rapidly down his cold skin in copious amounts.
Astafa turned around, slow, deliberate, eyes edged with a cool detachment.
“I’ve done your median cubital, cephalic, and basilic veins—you’ll lose a fair amount of blood from that, you know?” His voice was steady, uniform, the temperature dropping with each syllable.
“To be honest, I could’ve taken the elbows off if I’d gone a bit deeper.
Wouldn’t have been much trouble for me.”
Kisatsu staggered a few steps forward before turning back, elbows pressed firmly against his sides in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
“You’re slow.
Have you ever actually done any training?
Or were you only put forward because you’ve got something most people don’t?” Astafa retracted his stinger, the shape of his hand resurfacing as the scales sank beneath his skin.
Alistare watched silently from the distance, lips tugged by faint amusement.
Clever.
Instead of clawing at the lad repeatedly, he’s gone for the vulnerable bits that’ll turn lethal if they’re left untreated.
Perhaps I was just being a bit more bloodthirsty than I realized.
A quiet chuckle betrayed him, expression softening.
That lad…
he’s softer than he lets on.
Ever since I took him on, he’s always been looking properly cold and glum.
A lad with the eyes of a killer.
His arms unfurled to rest on his hips.
That said, based on what he’s capable of, there’s no reason at all not to reckon him dangerous.
Blood kept gliding down Kisatsu’s elbow with a persistent flux, so much that the fabric from his abdomen down was fully soaked.
His gaze settled on his blood-slicked hands, elbows clamping even deeper into his stomach.
Regenerate!
Regenerate!
His heart hammered loudly against his ribs, a distinct shiver traveling down his spine—one that didn’t come from the cold, but from the inside out.
A sharp, stinging bite throbbed across his elbows, a hot, localized burn.
The concrete beneath him began to feel unreliable, almost as if it were swaying to see him fall.
A suddenlightheadedness crept up as he tottered back.
He closed his eyes and, with a desperate force, tried to channel his Rage into the wound to close it—a clumsy method that had never worked.
“You’ll never regenerate that with your Rage if you haven’t had the proper training,” Astafa remarked, voice clinical.
“That’s not what you’re meant to be doing in this demonstration, anyway.”
Kisatsu stopped and reopened his eyes, staring down at the blood with a hopeless gaze.
No Rage…
But…
I was only able to do it while I was unconscious—how am I supposed to know when I should activate it?
He lifted his gaze, glancing frantically between Astafa and Alistare, and noticed their focus was fixed entirely on him.
If I’m not able to do it, they won’t accept me.
I—I can totally go back to the regulars.
I’ll…
I’ll live a normal life instead.
A beat.
The mere throught he himself had consciously made struck him like a chilly blow, freezing him as Ryurei tore through his mind—the only person who had pushed him this far, away from the horror that had taken his family.
Normal…?
After all that?
I’m still…
looking for a normal life?
He felt a switch suddenly flip inside him, an unmistakable, subconscious click.
Ryurei saved me.
Gave me a chance to escape.
Just for me…
to want a normal life?
His hands slumped to his sides, even as the blood dripped in a wet, rhythmic patter against the asphalt.
He didn’t care.
The irony of the thought clung to him like an animalistic pincer.
Time seemed to stop.
Do I…
even have a choice?
Can I even afford that kind of luxury?
He stood motionless, dead-still, pale violet eyes now staring deep into Astafa’s sharp ones.
And Kisatsu wasn’t aware of it, like a statue that had somehow fixed its gaze on something—only because it was there.
For a heartbeat, Astafa recognized the cold shift in the air.
He stiffened on the spot, senses prodded by a sudden, sharp instinct.
Has he lost consciousness while standing?
Then—Kisatsu’s lips parted, eyes hollow.
“I’m sorry…
that I’m powerless and incapable.
I’m just…
an ordinary guy who happened to…
try joining the Reco Team because he had the opportunity.” His voice barely carried through the air, fragile like glass.
His gaze dipped, shadowed by his pale white bangs.
“I don’t know what you—everyone—sees in me.
And I don’t—I really don’t—know how to perform like how you expected of me.” His fists clenched and trembled, gaze fixed on the asphalt.
“I’m scared.
Of both this…
and failing.”
His voice cracked, a noticeable fracture in his tone.
“But…
I don’t have many choices left.
I want to become strong—but even I’m afraid of that.
It’s too pathetic.”
Quiet and motionless, Astafa’s expression remained a cold mask of confusion.
Has he finally lost his head?
Well, if this is how he chooses to cope, I shan’t comment on it.
A deadpan, flat sigh left him, his visage fixed, unchanging.
“You needn’t apologize for being weak—it only makes you look more pathetic, doesn’t it?
If you’re too afraid to even act, there’s nothing for it.”
His voice carried a cruel, edged finality.
“We only back those who can stand on their own two feet.
We aren’t here to teach a toddler how to walk.”
Kisatsu’s gaze rose to meet his, slow, unreadable.
“Then is there any other way for me to qualify, if I can’t perform regeneration at the moment?”
His words took a moment to settle before Astafa glanced toward Alistare, then back to Kisatsu.
Behind his cold facade was a spark of amusement, betrayed by the faint, almost imperceptible tug at the corners of his lips.
“Fine, then.
“Your resolve is quite amusing.”
Kisatsu mirrored his sneer with an almost hysterical, small smirk of his own.
Resolve, eh?
All I feel right now is desperation.
“If you manage to lay so much as a finger on me, I’ll signal that you’re in.
However, you’ve got less than a minute.” Astafa stood still, stance steady, unyielding, like a steel post challenged by the winter cold.
“Should you go past the limit without touching me, I’ll knock you out cold on the spot.”
Though the bleeding ought to make this a fair bit harder—just another hurdle for him to clear, he thought, eyes thinning into dark, unreadable lines.
Without a word, Kisatsu marched toward him, steps deliberate, predictable.
His eyes had been overshadowed, an inscrutable mask that no longer cared if he were to pass out the next second.
I’m curious, though, how he intends to manage it.
Astafa observed every step, noting the lack of hesitation in Kisatsu’s movements.
If he’s going to charge in blindly, then he’s a lost cause.
Swiftly, Kisatsu swung his arm, spattering blood directly against Astafa’s gaze.
As the warm liquid prickled his skin, Astafa leaped away in a blink—moving exactly where Kisatsu had predicted he would.
Kisatsu’s eyes instantly tracked the movement as he lunged forward once more, plunging his arm toward Astafa.
Does he reckon throwing things counts?
Astafa mused, making another leap back before wiping the blood from his cheeks.
He straightened, gesturing to his own skin with his fingers.
“And when I say ‘lay a finger,’ I mean you’ve got to touch me personally, in the flesh.”
Kisatsu didn’t respond.
As soon as he closed the distance, he thrust his arm once again, aiming for Astafa’s elbow.
This time, Astafa didn’t react immediately.
His eyes pinched, fixated on the lack of a wound on Kisatsu’s arm.
What?
He stepped away, freezing for a moment to confirm what he’d seen, gaze locked on Kisatsu’s overextended arm that had missed him, clouded with a mix of sudden confusion and genuine disbelief.
It hasn’t even been five minutes—the blood ought to still be flowing.
I made sure to leave the gap wide enough so that it wouldn’t clot so soon.
Did he just wipe it away entirely?
Kisatsu sprang forward, legs enhanced with Rage as he swept into Astafa’s unguarded stance.
Astafa didn’t retreat—instead, he caught Kisatsu by the elbows, seemingly uncaring whether the boy touched him or not.
“There—I’ve touched you!” Kisatsu’s voice came out as a desperate call, fingers clutching at Astafa’s skin.
But his focus remained on Kisatsu’sarms as he shoved the boy’s hand aside to check the untreated wounds.
The unmarked skin drew a puzzled frown across Astafa’s visage, his gaze snapping up to Kisatsu’s face.
“You…
healed.” He released Kisatsu’s arms, voice a quiet, hollow murmur.
Kisatsu staggered a step back, gaze tracing the invisible cut across the crook of his elbows, brows tightening in utter bewilderment.
“I…
what?” He looked at Astafa, as if he somehow held the answer.
“You weren’t aware, then?”
“N—No,” he stammered.
Come to think of it—the dizziness from the blood loss had faded a moment ago.
Was it just adrenaline?
He looked back down at the unscathed skin where the blood had begun to dry, searching for a trace of the sharp sting that should’ve been there.
A moment ago, I was trying to use my Rage on it, but Astafa said I can’t do it if I don’t know how.
His eyes shot up to Astafa, the realization hitting like a sharp blow.
“Wait—does that mean I’ve passed?”
Astafa didn’t answer right away.
He glanced toward Alistare, the man’s words—I’ll leave the evaluation to you—echoing like a burbling bell.
After a moment of hesitation, he looked back at Kisatsu, letting out a defeated, resigned sigh.
“Well, seeing you really do have a spot of natural regeneration, it wouldn’t be very bright to leave you out.” His voice was level, still carrying that uncompromising note of finality.
“Sir Alistare just wanted proof if you could make it happen.
But don’t go thinking you’re immortal just because of that.”
He marched past Kisatsu, the cold air brushing against him.
“Do try to stay alive until you’ve actually mastered the thing.”
The words hung in the thick silence long enough to solidify Kisatsu’s resolve, an authoritative, stern command more than a plea.
Ryurei’s severed hand emerged in his mind once again for an agonizing, brief moment.
Does Ryurei have it too?